[koiir]

❝ 𝑰𝑵 𝑻𝑯𝑰𝑺 𝑾𝑯𝑶𝑳𝑬 𝑾𝑰𝑫𝑬 𝑾𝑶𝑹𝑳𝑫, 𝑰'𝑴 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑶𝑵𝑳𝒀 𝑶𝑵𝑬 𝑾𝑯𝑶 𝑪𝑨𝑵 𝑺𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝑴𝑬 ❞

Koiir’s atelier ˚ : ̗̀➛ bllk m.list. — jjk m.list — genshin m.list —

⋆ ❝ 𝑬𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒕 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒌𝒚, 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒊𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒅𝒔 ❞ — Kazuha’s one and only . Nagi’s angel . Sae’s lover . Blade’s prettiest problem .

— writes for fun . no schedule implemented . sfw mostly consist of works for genshin, jjk, and blue lock.

koiir on tumblr . Kazuiiyo on tt .

[koiir]

𝑨 𝑮𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑫 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑬 . . .

✧˚ · . . . Scenarios in which the ever chaotic and unpredictable events of your life and his halt for a few heartfelt moments. Where he no longer has to uphold his own bearings, discarding such turmoil in time with you.

— 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕: Qifrey x gn! Reader . Suggestive content . Fluff w/ comfort . Free of explicit manga spoilers, but alludes to them (barely tbh) . Established relationship . Not proofread . Basically a look into the relationship you two have in short scenarios ฅ^>⩊<^ ฅ

Hiding the masses of affection and comfort isn’t out of the norm for Qifrey—with the atelier lacking privacy for two figure figures and their secluded ordeals…what better way then to achieve that secrecy through spells and charming deception?

Whether it be through built stone walls that cease in the minutes to come, or an abode only suited for you both—Qifrey relishes in the press of bodies and warm caresses that block out reality.

He takes his time in brushing strokes on the small of your back, a swell of joy softening the everlasting troubles that seem to surround you two. Perhaps that wouldn’t change—life was an influx of notion to good or bad, but at least here in time he could escape in the tracing of lips and dance of mouths.

── .✦

Qifrey relishes in the foresight of his actions—one moment he’ll hold his peace and another come behind you with testing dabbles from his fingers before pulling you in. Really, he shows little shame occasionally. Though that doesn’t mean he won’t become flustered if one of the girls witness. He becomes rather prudish in an instant.

To avoid such things from coming being in the eyes of the girls, Qifrey whisk your being away from the atelier or stays close by your side. Perhaps a little selfish yes to stray from his apprentices and leave them in Oruggio’s watch when no true work is conducted, but a few hours never hurt anyone.

You can expect to be in his arms behind an onslaught of trees—their leaves and the trunks allowing for a barrier when Qifrey grows too restless to dare take the night to advantage in the confines of his room. For now this works, there lies no risk if only the nature surrounding you both witness the breathy sounds of air leaving your lungs.

── .✦

Even when such acts of intimacy are laid down in natures sight—Qifrey doesn’t forget the importance of after care. Even if the grounded floor and the whispers that come from creatures aren’t the most ideal for the aftermath, at least the fondle of his hands yields the candor that his heart drums.

‘Do you fare well?’ He’ll murmur, voice trickling your collar with the hot air that he emits and the breathless voice that is astounding proof of actions taken before this moment. His face will stay close to yours, as his fingers work their way down to quell any aches that may have come between your legs to your bosom.

His touches don’t stray to continue another deed—but bathe in the warmth and faint slick that the proximity brought. As he’s behind you with your body nestled between his legs, the faint pressure of soft lips will make their way down starting from the top of your head to your palms. Each draw of his touch seems to create a longevity neither of you seek to let go off—though even through it all he’ll tire himself out until your settled into bed before he relaxes himself.

── .✦

When you both don’t decide to venture off alone and seek the pleasures that perhaps shouldn’t take as long as they should…Qifrey still lacks the restraint to stray far. His figure will stand beside yours whenever you visit, acting as though your being will reach a state of evanesce. It doesn’t take long for the girls to poke fun at both parties…though lay their attacks on Qifrey who can only show an adorning flustered face.

If he grows to a certain extent of needy, he’ll go to great lengths and present himself in the great hall. A swing to search for whatever information is vital to him—and a visit to the soul whom he can’t get enough of. A perfect transaction that the witch would be a fool dismiss.

Whatever prospect he can secure, Qifrey will take to share breathy laughs, discussions of whatnot, and an escape to the demise that seems to haunt his everlasting peace. For Qifrey time is a locket that threatens to open and embrace his being complete. A fate like his leaves little to waste, at least for now that is, he can quench these fears through tightened arms that hold you close when all feels too misgiving.

── .✦

The act of comfort comes with a natural ground for the male—with his apprentices relying their every effort on him, how could he not be the one to guide them without any fear?

That sentiment last until nightfall, where he finds himself back at your adobe and into the comfort of your being. He melts into you—utterly exhausted with aches that have grown, taken root in the tranquility that can’t seem to last long. At least in his case. There was too much to worry about, and even when his mind was at ease, he knew a grueling pain would take ground.

Qifrey will shed the layers of fabric that hide what he considers a growing imperfection, from his back to his chest, their lay reminders of the past in which pain meant the end. For now, though fleeting as time ticks, he feels the gentle maneuver of your fingers kneading skin and granting him with medicine that clears his mind.

When the final drop of biter yet somewhat sweet medicine rest on his lips, he’ll find his body twined to yours in the comforters that have seen every turning point in the relation. Gruesome nights in which wilted words spewed from your mind, to the placid silence that followed woven nude bodies.

Tonight, your bed would feel the weight of his body and yours, a usual occurrence. However it would be the holder of unwanted tears that slowly trickled, dampening the sheets and casing over your pillows as you held a witch who needed an atelier of his own.

authors note: I would have loved to make this longer scene wise, but I fear that would head into fearful territory. (Manga wise and yk what else)

[rosereverent]

When Flins speaks to you in the tongue meant only for you. . . ♡

an allusion to @butteronabun's post about fae language being ancient greek.

The moonlight seemed particularly cruel that night; its pale glow washed across the world with a cold, indifferent beauty. Your eyes, heavy with a weariness born not of the body but of a mind unable to quiet itself, lifted toward the sky. You searched the constellations as if hoping one might look back at you.

A sting of cold air filled your lungs, threaded with the taste of salt and the faint bitterness of the sea’s breath. 

Waves crashed on the shore, bringing a serene hush, yet even their tender lullaby failed to draw you toward sleep. 

You sat on the rocks, on the same land that bears the presence of the still graveyard and the lamphouse of its keeper. The rough structure was grounding, to say at least. 

Your lover was absent; and though he resented leaving you to the quiet hostility of solitude, you both understood the necessity. Duty tugged at him, demanding presence elsewhere.

But he had a tendency of appearing where your heartbeat spoke of him from afar.

You felt it then: a tender radiance rose from behind you, its reflection rippling through the waters that surrounded you. The glow wrapped around your form before the sound of footsteps ever reached your ears.

“Oh.” The voice that broke the silence was warm, threaded with a teasing softness that slipped straight beneath your skin. “And what might a lovely miss be doing here at such an hour?” 

Your heart fluttered, warmth spreading through it in an instant, the kind that felt like finally exhaling after holding something too tightly inside.

You didn’t turn immediately, you didn’t have to. It was a presence unmistakably his.

Your attention was drifting outward, still. The sea. The moon. The quiet ache beneath your ribs. 

He would claim your focus the way he always did. Patiently, poetically, with that quiet certainty.

“To selēnóphōs aichmálōton estin,” The words floated toward you first.

Then, came the touch.

His arms eased around you from behind, enveloping you with tenderness. He drew you close, close enough that the rise of his chest brushed your back, as though your presence was the very thing his soul sought more desperately than air.

“Hōsper kai sý.” he finished softly—“just as you.”

His lips moved slowly nearer to your ear, when his breath skimmed the sensitive skin there, sending a shiver down your spine. “Although I would prefer that my beloved would find a proper rest instead.”

You finally turned your head to meet his eyes, your own widened at the foreign words. “...What did you say?” you breathed, the question almost whispered.

A faint curve touched his lips. “Your concern is rather endearing.” He settled beside you now, any distance dissolving. “Fear not, philtátē mou. All that I speak of you is woven from adoration.”

His hand rose to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing lightly along your skin. He leaned in, the moonlight catching the soft intent in his eyes. “Ah, whatever shall I do for my love not to linger alone so late at night?”

Before you could gather an answer, he drew you nearer. His lips found the line of your jaw, planting a delicate kiss, then another - slower than the last. Each one encouraged your chin to tilt, your body to yield, your breath to tremble just slightly beneath his touch.

Your hands lifted to rest against his arms, fingers curling into the fabric as your eyes fluttered half-lidded, as if taking everything he might give you.

And so he let his mouth wander lower, brushing along your neck with tender, lingering kisses.

He guided you into his lap, holding you as if you were something he’d longed for all night. A quiet sound escaped you, as your weariness left no room for resistance. You simply melted into him.

Only when he lifted his head again did he pause, giving you the moment to breathe with him. Your foreheads nearly touched, breaths mingling, warm against the cold night air.

He tilted your head gently toward his chest, the warmth of his body pressing into yours as the both of you closed your eyes, indulging in each other's presence. 

Absent-mindedly, he ran his fingers through the locks of your hair, tracing invincible patterns, as if letting his movements speak of his devotion instead.

Then, through the silence he whispered.

“Ónar hēdéa soi, phōs mou lambrón.” The words lingered in the air, sacred and intimate.

“In the quiet of the night, I shall watch over you.” He added softly, his lips brushed your temple.

At last, your mind softened, surrendering to sleep, as if his presence alone were a lantern guiding you tenderly through the quiet corridors of dreams.

Two lovers indulged in their love in the moon's quiet dominion, love as serene as the silver light upon the tides.

[koiir]

OMFGNNGGBN THIS THIS THIS

[aureliawhispers]

I love the idea of immortal characters slowly forgetting their memories with you. It's so painful and real.

Dainsleif, who panics when telling his story of you to the traveler and Paimon, realises he forgot what your voice sounded like. Who clenched his fist, when he can't remember what your laughter sounded like.

Flins, who freezes when asked what you looked like, because he genuinely can't remember, and it shattered his heart when he realised that. Who begged to remember even little bits of you.

Neuvillette, whose voice stumbles when Sigwinne asks what you were like back then, the human who guided and taught him the world, who took care of him, someone that precious, yet he can't remember what you were like besides that.

[koiir]

❝ Your lips, my lips, apocalypse ❞

₊⊹. . . A relation that doesn’t know its end when both sides leach off the false persona given to them, becoming a tidal wave of toxic love and constant recollection.

— 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈; Michael Kaiser x fem!reader

— 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕; toxic relationship . Suggestive content . on and off relationship . Gaslighting/manipulation?? . implied to have a similar childhood like Kaiser . 2.4k w/c . Read as a multitude of scenarios that coincide !

a/n; I posted this on TikTok but this is probably one of the newer pieces I’ve written and I wanted to post it on here bc I’ve been wanting to post my newer stuff on here ૮ ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ა

With Michael, the cycle of resentment and longing go hand in hand, the minute silence becomes all you know—you both seem to take that loneliness and make it worse with a wistful love.

When he comes through with words of sorrow and repentance—your eyes can only meet his that give a temporary comfort, but your heart knows better than to let poison in once more. Yet if your system is so used to it—you don’t mind hurt once more if he stays, maybe then you can actually find a solution to his means. Even if the ending is the same. You both know at the end you’ll be in his arms while you fight endlessly.

It’s a fleeting ache that makes you’re pride crumble when the tears fall at night, your sobs hidden beneath the tremble of your palms as he sleeps next to you—whether he hears or blocks it out, he never wakes with comfort or a touch to console.

It’s only when it benefits him that he holds you against his chest—your tears falling down, making his chest damp as his hand runs through your hair, playing with a strand as he voices your flaws and insecurities into your ear.

It’s a means of proving your wrongs—why the man that says he loves you strays far and only comes back when he believes you’ve grown from your past doings. It’s not as though he ever reminds you of his own self, because no matter how bad it gets—your mind shuts down with the truth and a false narrative is written in your head. Your heart breaks at each word, yet your body instinctively leans in with the detached touch that works wonders.

────୨ৎ────

When the morning hits and a new day comes—it’s supposed to be an escape of the emotional breakdown you endured from the man you constantly seek, but he’s always two steps ahead with a plan in mind of how to mess with your head and knock your sense off balance.

Your wrist is grasped in a tight hold, and Michael keeps you held as if you leaving will be a sign of resistance. That’s something Michael wishes to prevent, even if you’re smart enough to think of it. Thoughts on your own sanity and well being become hidden from the layers of false reality he feeds you.

He speaks until the stern composure of your face falls into an uncertain mess, eyes casted down as your hand falls limp against his hold—your head bowing down to his words like the work of a puppeteer. When he finishes, his finger lifts your chin up and smirks with no hesitation. Because that humiliation helps with your submission.

It’s hard to not notice the withdrawal you give around others—but you never comment on why that is, because you’ll only feel submerged in the shame you’ve grown accustomed to if you speak on Michael’s relation to you. You can only give a strained smile as you shake your head and whisper softly that you’re fine—and that love comes with hardships.

────୨ৎ────

Work becomes the only space where you can unravel the strain your body holds—mind and heart.

You manage to pull through, because your work is a craft you cherish with such care—if only you took that into your own hands, your heart may be free of the dejected thoughts that stem from a love you know is destroying you.

Even now, toxicity spills into your own judgement as you compare yourself to your colleagues around you—are they just as hopeless in love like you? Is it worse? Would they shame you and wonder how their renowned colleague is denying their own advice to others? You feel yourself sink into the depths of darkness—your soul aching for touch of comfort that won’t deny you of any warmth.

But even now you find it hard to confine in someone, that vulnerability a curse in your view that you don’t wish to shed. His words going into effect anytime you believe someone will stay through your turmoil.

It’s difficult to even hold the gaze of another for too long—even if he isn’t near, you feel a haunting pressure that complies you to keep quiet and shut. Each time you feel as though others interest slowly dissolves with the assumption that you’re just another timid person who can’t handle the real world.

All you can do is weep silently—sobs muffled by your arms as the only pressure you can lean onto is the cold desk that doesn’t compare to his eyes of deceit.

────୨ৎ────

Peace becomes infuriating when it leaves like the wind, a disruption of text spamming your phone as if you’ve been gone for years and hidden from the presence of Michael. Even through text, your heart stops and an uncomfortable silence fills the room that was supposed to keep you away from the outside world.

“You’re always cooped up with others.”

“You don’t think about who I meet with after matches?”

“Don’t bother coming over, throw yourself in work like you always do.”

Each word is meant to jab at your confidence and trust you carry, redirecting it towards insecurity that only he can control to the truth you believe in. Forcing it down like a breath of air you need, even with the strong gash it leaves untreated.

Your throat tightens and you turn your phone over with a prominent slam, fingers immediately clenching around your clothing to control the shake they start to feel.

You sit, buried in the everlasting accusations and battle you face internally—blocking out the faint voice your heart tries to push, only for sorrow to take over and taunt you for eternity.

Your body leaves with a stiff hold, trusting in your clothing to shield every fear and blemish you believe in—only casting your gaze up towards the door that opens with a reflection of your being. Broken and twisted by the hands of the owner inside.

Even with that knowledge, you knock and whisper softly, “I’m here.”

The door opens—and that’s the last softness you’ll hear even if it’s from yourself.

────୨ৎ────

His sweater wraps around you like a blanket of ice, it helps with the cold, yes—but you can’t be shielded from the detached man who was murmuring words of praise and encouragement, a warmth you believed would last even after.

But the afterglow quickly dismissed into withdrawal and removal, Michael pulling out without any touch as his body shifts to his side—putting space between your body like it’s no longer of use to his desires.

“…Michael..?”

You hesitate, feeling your heart spike in rate as you wait for his response—when he tilts his head with bored eyes you swallow and look down, feeling as though your chest has been exposed once more even with the sweater on.

“What?” He states flatly, sharp and unbothered as if you two didn’t share your warmth together.

“…Can you….come back over here?” You ask softly, the shake of your voice reaching his ears as he averts his gaze and returns to his phone.

“I have training in the morning. You should get dressed.”

Though you carry his sweater, the sheets pool at your hips and your legs press together into a protective hold. You now hold yourself with the intent of shielding your most private space—even if you’ve already given yourself to him and his memory.

“…that’s it?”

“I gave you what you asked for. I didn’t promise anything else.”

His words brings an anguish that can’t be ignored, a pessimistic feeling consuming you whole as you eye his back with shaken eyes and disbelief. You knew the heat and haze of lust cycles into an intense state—yet you wished for something true to at least come from it. Given his words for needing someone like you, to keep him stable.

When you leave, no words of affirmation are spoken for—you leave in silence while he mules over the next encounter, as if it will be any different.

────୨ৎ────

It’s difficult and draining to maintain the act Michael wishes of you—his words that pinch you like a thorn makes for your silence and acceptance, still, there are nights where that composure falls and you clap back with his own insecurities that undo his sharp tongue.

You argue with his past—his childhood that you state made him into the man he is today, how he’s a copy of the man who was supposed to love him so—that strikes deeply for Michael. His eyes flickering with fury and narrowing over your face, giving the gaze of a man full of hatred for the one infront of them.

That sends a raw scare to your soul, your lips parting with no bite and throat closing up as you step back. You feel cornered, the clench of his knuckles causing for the increasted rate of your heart as you speak with a shaky cadence, apologies falling out like the tears that threaten to spill. You never knew your eyes could water so quickly.

Michael doesn’t speak or move—he knows that by presence alone, you’ll crumble with the hardened gaze that screams rage when directed at you. A huff leaving his lips as he looks down, hand running over his face as he slowly curls his lips up like a win was given to him.

“Cry me a river will you?”

His words lean towards your sensitivity—a trait you’ve never once were ashamed of, until every emotional response from you was turned to a negative that Michael commented as weakness.

With your hands muffling your sobs, apologies not halting, he brings a hand to your side and you lean in without command—falling apart under his eyes as he doesn’t comfort you with false promises. You should already know. Even when your body denies you of true escape.

────୨ৎ────

It’s supposed to be a rare calm that you can cherish without worry, even with the warmth of his chest behind you. It’s almost domestic, lazy hands tracing your arm, holding your hand with his—as long as you ignore the hard gaze you feel behind your head, it should be a warm solace you can forgive yourself and forget.

You’re holding a book of his, ironically the contents being just that of philosophical and psychological tells to what makes humans crack—you feel a sense of remorse as if viewing your own self in another point of view.

“Distracted?”

His fingers trace yours and slowly move them to the front page of the book, outlining the title as you swallow and feel the sense of helplessness in your system. It’s intentionally slow, as if his fingers are showing you the truth to what his love is—the man fascinated through the reasons for someone to tick.

The somber truth is shined by the culprit himself, and you clench your fingers around the spine of the book, voice ready to break before he interrupts your train of thought.

“You think too much. It ruins the moment.”

His words stop what was meant to come out, and you continue to dwell on the emotions at hand that he controls like a tool.

“Maybe we should read through these pages together and learn something new mhm?”

Your silence is enough acknowledgment for Michael, and he forces your own hand to splay open the pages of ink that seem to write of the story unfolding in-front of your own eyes.

────୨ৎ────

After all the heavy tension and confusion that lingers in the room, there’s only one outcome that can come from the distress. A distraction Michael nudges you towards, your heart churning with regret as your hand moves to his chest—and soon you follow his lead to the room where even pleasure can’t keep you safe.

His lust is the only way to gentle hands, even if it’s a single hold on your cheek before a rough grasp holds you down with slammed thrust. Movements ridden of warmth despite the heat your core gives.

Your eyes never meet his, and each time you believe his eyes will hold your gaze with some fondness—all he stares at is the sight of your warmth taking in his length and the sensual sounds that come from it. Your heart thumps, but each time it does your stomach fills with disgust. Even if your heat pulls him in—the pleasure feels numbed with the internal discomfort you experience. It’s not pleasant to feel used, even if it was consensual on both ends.

The constant stress on your heart forces you to squeeze your eyes shut, biting your lip and a hand reaching towards his—only for it to be pinned down with no intention of holding it.

The subtle warmth of his hold though seems to help, which only makes you remember how far gone you are through the simplest touch that holds no meaning.

Tears begin to well into your eyes, and the hiccup you give finally makes Michael meet your gaze. His eyes are cold with lust, a flicker of annoyance hitting before he starts to move again.

“Stop that.”

A grunt of frustration fills the silence, and you can only conceal your pain with temporary comfort of his presence.

────୨ৎ────

Days of silence come after that night, and you see Micheal from afar surrounded by teammates, laughter, and cameras that shine him in the golden light he lives for. It’s loud and bright around him—just as he wants it to be.

But when he catches your eyes across the crowd, his expression flickers momentarily—before it falls with the cover up of a sly grin that eggs on the fire in your chest.

The silence of waiting for a call curled into fury on your end—your numbness a belief of peace that couldn’t last long, especially with the night your tears spoke volumes.

“Didn’t think you’d come.”

“Well it’s been radio silent on my end.”

“Did I have to call back? We spent the night and enjoyed it. What more was there to say?”

His words jab at your want for security and cherished respect—yet you feel like an idiot as you recall not standing your ground, as if the skies would answer your prayers for warmth that would come without withdrawal.

He doesn’t wait for a response, refusing to be the last person to speak and force a leading route that he can’t fulfill. He knows you’ll come back, and if you don’t immediately—he may hesitantly but indefinitely use his past as a means for you to comfort him once more.

He leaves your view without comment, no text yet, but your judgement has already been chosen by him.

Even as someone from afar stares with a tender concern, your gaze can only be given to the man who impairs every piece of your being.

[lushbunsss]

❝oh oh...papa's in trouble!❞ starring — fem!reader x itoshi sae abstract — sae tries to solve your son's problem, but ends up making it worse... wc —1.2k second part of ''do you think my eyes are pretty?''

The next morning, Sae is abruptly woken up by a pair of small hands removing his eye mask and tapping on his face.

‘Daddy,’ the little boy whispers ‘Daddy wake up…you said you were going to take me to school today…’ Ugh…he did say that, didn’t he?

Sae mutters something not so nice under his breath before opening his eyes and sitting down on your bed ‘How many times do I have to tell you to not wake me up like this…’

‘Sorry…’ he’s making that pouty face that never fails to make his father feel bad when he’s disciplining him.

‘Ugh,’ the older Itoshi sighs ‘it’s fine, let’s just get you ready to go’ he says as he stiffly caresses the reddish hair of the boy sitting on his lap. You told him that he needed to be a bit more affectionate with the kid, so he’s making an effort these days.

Your husband steals a look at you, sleeping peacefully now hugging your pillow after he escaped from your embrace, and he can’t help but think that you’re a lucky bastard.

He goes on with his usual morning ritual, yet there’s a slight twist to it today as your son is following him around your house the whole time. 

They brush their teeth together, they go through his yoga routine together, while the kid clumsily mimics his father, and when Sae is busy styling his hair in the bathroom mirror, your son tries to replicate his hairstyle but just ends up getting hair gel all over the sink.

‘‘m sorry papa…’ The universe seems to be testing Sae’s patience and paternal skills today.

‘...Let’s just clean this before your mother wakes up.’

‘Can we have breakfast first? ‘m hungry!’ Was he even listening? 

Clearly not, because he already stepped off his step stool and bee-lined into the kitchen.

Yeah, this is going to be a long morning.

Sae is certain that the universe is plotting against him today.

They got stuck in traffic on their way to school and the kid hasn’t stopped running his mouth since they’ve left the house. 

Now, Sae is not usually bothered by this. 

His son is just a kid. They talk a lot. That's just what they do.

But he’s running on six hours of sleep instead of his standard seven. And when you’re feeling sleep deprived, having someone babbling in your ear is the last thing you need — Not to mention that he still has his practice to attend right after this.

So when he sees the school gate he almost sighs in relief. He just wants to get to the principal’s office and get this over with.

As the two itoshi’s parade across the school’s playground, they’re greeted with starstruck stares from the children who quickly recognised the older man as one of the best football players in the world right now.

None of them had the courage to approach them though.

They were just staring as if they saw the monster under the bed, letting their plastic shovels fall off their hands into the sandbox or bumping into each other like dominoes while sliding down the slide.

Having people stare at him creepily is nothing new to Sae, but when it’s a bunch of snotty nose kids doing it it’s a bit more offputting.

‘E-excuse me?’ A meek voice calls out and Sae looks down to see a kid holding a piece of scrap paper he probably got from the bottom of his bag and a black marker that he stole from his classroom.

‘What?’ the kid shrinks at the tone of sae’s voice.

‘Could… C-could you sign here please!’ Sae holds his breath, to prevent a groan or a snicker he doesn’t know. 

But even a man like him can admit that the scene in front of him is quite endearing. So why not give the kid what he wants, plus, he doesn’t want to look like a huge dick when his son he’s watching his next step so attentively.

‘Fine.’ he crouches down to the child's height and takes the paper from his trembling hand ‘who’s this for?’

‘T-takahiro’

Oh. 

So this is takahiro huh.

Sae takes a glimpse at his son’s displeasured face and already knows what to do. He takes the marker and removes the cap with his teeth before signing it, his son just grins evilly when he sees what his father wrote.

 ‘Here.’ Takahiro holds the piece of paper like he just found gold.

‘waa, t-thank you mr. Itoshi!’ he runs off with it to brag to the other kids, who are pestering him to see the autograph, without even reading first.

‘Takahiro-kun what does it say!’ ‘Can we see!?’ ‘ Wow, Itoshi-san's handwriting is worse than mine!’

 ‘It’s a signature dummy, it’s not supposed to look neat!’ Takahiro corrects his insolent classmate before reading the paper out loud.

‘‘Do I…look like a girl to you Takahiro-kun?’’ The boy's boastfulness is gone.

‘Why would he write that?’ ‘ You’re not reading it properly!’ ‘I told you his handwriting was bad…’

He looks up from the paper to see your son sticking his tongue out while he walks into the building hand in hand with his father.

Yeah. Serves him right.

Later that day, your husband and son are finally back home. They both throw their shoes carelessly at the entrance and your son runs out to look for you.

‘Mamaaa! We’re back!’

No response. That’s weird. 

Were you not supposed to be back from work?

They find you leaning on the kitchen island with your arms crossed and although your not showing your anger with your face, it’s pretty obvious you’re not happy either.

‘Mama?’

‘Hey sweetheart,’ you forget about how irritated you’re meant to be for a second ‘how was school today?’

‘So cool! I want daddy to take me to school every day!’

‘Of course you do…do you mind going upstairs for a second baby? I need to speak to your daddy right now. Alone.’

‘Okay!’

‘Good boy’ Now that there’s only the two of you in the kitchen, that anger you were suppressing is back. And Sae’s confused.

‘What’s up with you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. You tell me.’ What the hell are you so angry for? 

‘Can you just tell me what I did. I don’t have time for this…’

‘Takahiro’s mother sent me a very passive aggressive text today.’

‘Okay? So what?’ His nonchalant attitude is starting to really tick you off.

‘So what? What made you think it was okay to write that to a kid? How petty are you?’ Ah, so that’s what’s up with you.

‘He was being a dickhead to my kid, I was just defending him.’ Of course he thinks he’s in the right…my God.

‘Ugh, whatever’ you give up, there’s no point in arguing with him ‘Just know that you’ll be dropping him and picking him up every day for the next week. I don’t need the other soccer moms' side eyeing me for something you did.’

And Sae doesn’t dare to argue with you either. He knows there’s no point when you speak like that…

He mentally prays that this week goes by fast.

an — ty for reading hope you enjoyed part II <33 divider from;@/saradika-graphics

© lushbunsss 𝟮𝟬𝟮𝟱

[koiir]

❝ BECAUSE LOVE, CAN BURN LIKE A CIGARETTE ❞

₊⊹. . . He hasn’t been in your life for long—though at every hospital visit, he wishes he could have been there sooner. There’s only so much time left until he’s left with an abandoned love that would never come to light properly. This hospital visit—he finally lets himself feel the true weight of it all.

— 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈; Katsuki Bakugo x gn!reader

— 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕; terminally ill!reader . Angst/w no comfort . Timeskip . w/c 1.5k

a/n —repost! I swear I’m shadow banned on tiktok and I hate it + it’s so stressful trying to have a layout I like for my post (╥﹏╥) but i really did enjoy writing this and I hope you’ll enjoy reading it!’

The smell of smoke enters his nose like a trespasser of interference, his nose crinkles before he lets out a scoff. Cigarettes have no place in the near vicinity of the hospital in view.

His usual routine before would have never contained the likes of a hospital visit so frequently—the tremble of fluorescent lights and a hum that’s too loud leaves an unsettled pit within Bakugo. It reminds him too much of the war, and after with the treatment given. Although now, his visit isn’t due to some harm given to his form.

The check in is more pitiful than before, the nurse furrows her brows as though he can’t see through the corner of his eye, eyes filled with sympathy that he doesn’t need now. It’s already taunting enough leaving your room each visit.

Their sentimental gestures make sense, yet he can’t let that invade his mind and crumble into a sorrow ready to crack. He already has a throb within thinning or the time left, and the cold that will come after. Winter hasn’t even hit that hard just yet.

“Hey—I’m here.”

His voice is gruff, heavy with emotion that seems natural, although it implies more than others may think. You don’t turn, but your eyes open with eyes plastered on the window.

He eyes the small of your back that’s turned to him, your movements have slowed just as a leave curls on its own and falls to the ground. A heavy ache is felt in his chest, and he clenches the bag that is held around his fingers.

He doesn’t tell you to turn over, instead he stalks around the bed and sit downs—hand settling onto the cold sheets that hospital beds hold. Your own warmth has slowly trickled, and he fights the urge to hold your hand through this moment.

“It’s nothin’ special—just your favorites.”

“Then it’s special.”

Your voice is soft when it reaches his ears, although a breath of anguish hides beneath your words—even know words take a bigger toll than you liked to admit.

Red eyes meet yours in a wavering hold, your gaze lidded with a haze that looks like you’ll succumb to sleep any minute, yet you still stare at him like he’s all you’ve been waiting for. Damn this feeling and the warmth it brings. He knows soon enough—this will be nothing more than a fleeting memory his heart holds.

“Just—eat up.”

Even with those words, he takes the time to undo the wrapper with fingers that hold on too tightly, before your hands meet in the transfer. A hard swallow follows, and he leans over to position the pillow in a comfortable spot for your head to rest.

“You’re really attentive you know…”

It’s a light tease, but enough for his heart to churn and turn to you.

“Of course I am—you deserve it.”

It comes out quicker than he anticipated, and he can feel the shift the room has, where your eyes widen and his narrow with a damp gaze.

“Just—eat.”

He blinks away any sign of emotion given, and looks down while you slowly eat. You both are silent, the only touch of emotion being the shift of Bakugo’s hand near yours on the sheets.

“…Here. I left some for you.”

He’s removed from his thoughts as he looks up, your voice bringing his eyes to your hand that holds a piece of food left. He furrows his brows and tries to speak—but for once he’s left speechless.

“It’s not spicy but…you’re here.”

For once, the mans rage doesn’t come crashing out—instead he takes the piece and stands, hand holding the food like a sacred relic that he can’t yet crush.

“I have to go—not leave but…god you get what I mean. I’ll be in the restroom.”

He doesn’t leave without your notice, he makes sure you meet his gaze and nod. That soft smile on your lips only ignites the turmoil that grows, and the dam of emotions aching to spill.

His feet start to drag as he leaves your room—now left in the dim lighting that swallows him whole as he retreats to the outside world. As if it will bring him any escape from this reality that has started to tick closer to the day he won’t have this. Every breath that leaves his lips reminds him of you—where yours are just a limited amount that you lose each passing second. He feels as though he may start to spiral.

Once he’s out of the hospital—out of reach from whatever future claws at his skin, a strangled breath leaves his lips as he goes to the nearest alleyway and leans against the wall.

Calloused hands press against the wall, and he can feel the urge to curl his fingers into the bricks to feel some relief. Even if that brought pain—he can’t compare his pain to what you currently must be enduring.

He’s never been one to worry so much about the future, yet ever since he’s met you—Bakugo has become buried in your heart that the future will soon take. And he still tries to hide that fact from you, even if he can see the gleam of awareness you have whenever his words clog up into nothing.

His heart has never felt so frustrated—maybe in the past, over some trivial rivalry that now has been quelled, though this matter of your health isn’t one he can solve.

Oh How he starts to blame whatever fate has been brought upon you—his head clouded with inescapable thoughts that won’t be fixed even with kind words that come from your voice. He won’t be able to rely on you in the future, he’ll only have your memory and grave to spare.

“Fuck.”

Before he can stop them, a tear caresses his check before dipping down to his collar—where quickly more follow dampening his skin. It’s a dam that he’s been holding in ever since spring has come to a close, and the warmth has diminished into a cool breeze. His eyes blur, but the sight of you in that hospital bed is all he can see when you use to be hidden under soft tress that covered you both.

He would drag out words of spite—yet always follow your lead at every new scene you wished to eye, crimson eyes softening under the sound of your voice rejoicing in the world around you.

Even a simple smile you gave to others feels surreal now—it use to come so effortlessly, an expression you wore so frequently become tainted by the effort you have to give now just to give him one soft one. It’s cruel that his heart can’t take the memories that play in his head, his eyes shutting yet emotions don’t wait for anyone.

They continue to fall, his heart wounded by a pain deeper than he’s ever felt. Bakugo isn’t sure what to do after winter ends—the warmth may come again, but the touch you give will be gone with only a shadow ghosting his world.

The thought makes him grow uneasy as the seconds pass—the world has fallen to his feet, and he can only focus on his inner self where emotions wish to rewind to the past. Where he could find some solace in your presence, and not have to worry about the limited time left with you by his side.

His hands slowly lift from the wall, and press against his damp skin like a prayer to his turmoil, a vivid voice plays in the back of his head—yours.

Bakugo can’t help the way his brain runs, remembering your words from before where you gave comfort even when he should have been comforting you. You’re so selfless even in your state—and that makes every ache stronger when he realizes he’ll be losing someone like you.

“…I can’t—I have to stop thinking about this shit.—“

His words fall short, breathy in the cold air that envelops him whole and makes his throat feel taut. His head finally lifts, and he tries to straighten his back as best as possible, even when his distress is obvious through skin and bone.

Crimson eyes turn to the damp patch the ground holds, and holds his gaze through the puddle of reflection. He can see every detail of emotion through the dark, and for once, vulnerability isn’t something he tries to hold back. It’s selfish to act like his world is fine when you’re all he can think of.

His steps are heavy, fingers meddle with his pocket before a pack of cigarettes is pulled out. He lights one—but fingers never reach his lips. It burns, but no burn can equal the one his heart has started to grow.

He hisses gently as he crushes the cigarette in his hand, ash painting his skin before he drops it and makes his way back to the front doors of the hospital.

For once—he wishes winter would never end. He may as well hold onto the season before letting it melt into the spring air. Because the season change will come with your departure, and a goodbye he isn’t ready to hear.

[zeka-maki]

ʚɞ And whispered sweet nothings in my ear ʚɞ

Pairings: Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins x Reader

Summary: People sigh in disbelief when the topic of the Ratnik's spouse is brought up. They think you're imaginary, a figment of Flins' thoughts but little do they know, his spouse is very much real. As a traveler, you're rarely seen with your husband but tonight you decide to pay him a visit.

Tags: Fluff, established relationship, traveler!Reader, domesticity, gossiping spirits, lovey-dovey stuff

A/N: ong this was a fire idea, don't ask me what happened with the delivery 😓

Your marriage to Flins had always been the sort of union that drew quiet awe and whispered disbelief. A human and a fae, bound together in a way that few could ever understand. You traveled often, venturing beyond Nod-Krai for business and errands, while Flins remained behind, tending to the deceased and keeping watch over the Final Night Cemetery. You had asked him to accompany you on your journeys, promising wonders far beyond the borders of the island, yet he declined, his duties anchoring him. And still, his heart belonged to you.

Every night, your letters arrived. Neat, precise, yet filled with affection. In them, he confessed things he rarely admitted aloud: Aino’s exasperation at his constant mentions of you, Illuga’s silent nodding, his own exhaustion from the endless reports, and the quiet comfort your letters brought him. Sometimes, his words made you laugh so hard you had to sit down; other times, they sharpened the ache of absence into a sweet, lingering pull in your chest.

Tonight, you had finally decided to visit him. The spirits of Nod-Krai were restless, whispering your name even before your boat brushed the shore. The Lightkeeper heard them as he always did, his brow furrowing slightly, lips twitching in an involuntary smile. You’re coming. The ghosts speculated endlessly, convinced he had gone mad for loving an invisible spouse, for no one had seen you, and yet his attention, his every action, betrayed him.

Flins moved faster than usual through his duties, finishing reports with unusual swiftness, fishing twice the usual catch, fussing over his hair with meticulous care. He lingered at the edges of the island, scanning the horizon as if he could sense your arrival before it occurred. The spirits argued among themselves about his sanity, muttering and whispering, but Flins only smiled faintly, humming under his breath.

When you finally reached the shore, the cemetery seemed to quiver in anticipation. And then, with a surge of blue flame, Flins emerged from his lantern, hovering silently behind you. As your hand brushed the lantern, flames flared briefly before his arms wrapped around you—solid, warm, unyielding. “My love,” he murmured, voice low and trembling with a quiet delight, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your hand. “You’ve finally come.”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers over his chest. “I told you I would. Did you miss me that much?”

He pressed his forehead to yours, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Do you think a man like me can survive months without seeing you? Foolish question, my dear. I’ve been counting the days, imagining every moment until your return.”

You smiled, reaching for the satchel of offerings in your hand. “Well, I brought things for you. Fishes, some dishes from the regions I’ve visited… and a few gemstones I thought you might like.”

His eyes softened as he took them, fingertips brushing yours in that lingering, tender way he always did. “You spoil me,” he murmured, holding your hand against his chest, guiding you gently by the small of your back. “But I will not deny it… I have missed you more than words can say.”

Later, you found yourselves at the quiet corner of the island where Flins kept his workbench. Silver wires, delicate tools, and gemstones were laid out meticulously. “I thought I might make something for you,” he said, voice soft, a faint quirk of mischief in his smile. “Perhaps a pair of earrings, or… something to remind you that you are mine, even when you travel so far.”

You leaned over the bench, watching him work, the lantern casting dancing blue shadows over his hands. “I like it already,” you murmured, smiling. “But only if I get to wear them as soon as you’re done.”

He chuckled, lips brushing the back of your hand again. “Always my love. Always.” He worked in silence for a while, humming faintly, pausing occasionally to glance at your face. His touch was constant—fingers brushing your wrist, resting on the small of your back, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ear. “You make even this lonely place feel alive,” he murmured. “Even the ghosts notice, I think… and they talk endlessly about you. They think you’re imaginary.”

You laughed softly. “So you’ve been pretending to be sane all this time?”

He smirked faintly, tilting his head to study you. “Pretending? Never. I am fully, utterly, irrevocably… myself when you are near. Perhaps they are the fools.”

Hours passed in quiet intimacy, filled with laughter, whispers, and the gentle clinking of tools and gemstones. At last, he led you to the lighthouse. The wind was bone-chilling, but the blue flames merged with his body surrounded you in warmth, and you felt safe in his arms. The two of you lay on his tattered bed after a seemingly endless conversation. Exhaustion finally claimed you, and you drifted to sleep on his chest.

Kyryll watched you, heart fluttering with a delicate, exquisite ache. Nights upon nights, he had imagined this: your head resting against him, your hands loosely holding his, your soft breathing mixing with the whispers of Nod-Krai’s spirits. Now, it was real. His spouse had returned, alive and warm, in his arms. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple, murmuring, “My dear… you’re home.”

The lighthouse was silent, save for the sighing of the wind and the soft crackle of blue flame. Flins settled back, holding you closer, his long fingers tracing the line of your back. Even the chill of Nod-Krai could not reach you; you were enveloped in him. His heart thrummed with quiet, perfect joy. And as sleep claimed him too, he held you as if he would never let go, as if the world outside could wait—because for the first time in months, everything was exactly as it should be.

Does this even make sense? 🚶

[koiir]

omfg.

ILOVE HIM HES SI PERFEFT

[koiir]

❝ MENTALLY, PHYSICALLY, WEAK... ❞

✧˚ · . . .When jealousy hits your partner and the aftermath through warm sheets and intimacy laced with love. (And possession).

‿͞‿͞‿͞ ͞‿͞‿͞‿͞‿͞‿͞‿͞ ୨୧ ‿͞ ‿͞‿͞‿͞‿͞‿͞‿͞‿͞‿͞

— featuring; Ayato, Albedo, Childe, Diluc, Flins, Kazuha, Neuvillete, Thoma, Wriothesly, Xiao, Zhongli

— 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕; nsfw/suggestive . fem!reader .

… a/n; hi hello!!! Omg it’s been so long since I’ve posted on tumblr and I finally have started to write again…mostly bc I made a tiktok acc for hc’s/oneshots and I can’t forget my roots—so obviously I’m posting them here too!! If you want to follow that acc on tiktok it’s kazuiiyo ! I most likely will post there more so than on tumblr, but I will post my favorite works here that are longer and just my favs, thank you!

Ayato can only uphold the mask of prosperity in public, but when that act can’t shy men away from you—he takes his troubles out in the best pleasures that leave you writhing till the morning.

His words draw on his silk cadence that sends a chill down your side—his hands working with your skin in a manner that switches between rough fondles and teasing caresses that leaves you frustrated with a heat burning between your legs.

“You draw too many eyes…that means I’ll have to make them catch something more remarkable.” 

His teeth sink into your skin—tongue drawing around the skin that he marks between your chest to down your thighs, the mapping of his lips enough to tease your core and cause for the twitch of your hips. But ayato can’t have that, not when he’s been enduring so much—his hands stop your hips from thrusting up in hopes of any friction, and he holds you down until he’s satisfied with his work.

When your whimpers are enough to satisfy his needs—Ayato moves his face down between your legs as you beg for his length instead, but his fingers trace your folds with slow reverence that adds to the heat building up into clear slick that coats his fingers.

“This may take a while to fully quench your needs—but it’s me who makes come undone right?”

Before you can answer—his breath fans over your inner thighs, a wet heat licking a long strip along your arousal. It’s meant to draw out every sound you can produce—even the filth that can be heard as he feast below. 

────୨ৎ────

Albedo knows he has nothing to fret when it comes to competition—yet the itch to prove his worth comes when he creates a vast array of vials with substances that are meant to show you what pleasures only he can unlock.

Your body lays against the table—a manner that makes albedo think of his experiments that he conducts with precision and accuracy, such as the testing his fingers have been doing on you to mark the reactions you give.

“It’s seems you’re…producing more than regular. Though that makes for better performance yes?”

You try to answer but all you can force out is a breathless moan, mind fuzzy with heat and humidity that tempts your body with the intensity that needs to be controlled immediately. Otherwise you feel like you’ll go insane.

“Bedo…please—“

“Shh…I’ll please you with my testing soon enough. I want to follow through with the order of my…findings.”

You soon find out that you can’t keep quiet at all—a cooling gel being applied to the most sensitive parts of your body, Albedo watching your reactions as he rubs it against the skin, watching ever twitch you give and soon moving below towards your legs. 

When you believe Albedo will finally give in, the tent in his pants obvious from the everlasting touch he gives you should tick his desire to unlock—but Albedo doesn’t forget the events of the day early on, his way of making you remember that your his in his own unique way.

No one else would truly bend and operate your body with reactions that couldn’t be done without Albedo and his imaginative mind.

────୨ৎ────

You’re glaring.”

“Me? Yeah no.”

But Tartaglia’s words seemed to deepen as he eyes the man walking away—his body stiff with the simple yet sharp words he spat at him in such a way that could only be fitting of a Fatui with clear possession.

Getting home should be simple—but you seemed to have teased Tartaglia to his wits end that your body is pretzeled while he pounds into you with heavy groans that fall beside your ears.

“That’s it…fuck.”

You can’t even talk back with the constant pressure he applies, your thighs starting feel the constant slaps each thrust gives. Your moans don’t last long to be heard because of his lips capturing them with quick movements—tongue dancing with yours as he moans into your mouth while rubbing each spot that makes your back arch more.

“See pretty—I don’t shy away from…ha…anything when it comes to our bodies…”

You can’t only respond with your nails dragging against his back—marks of red streaming down like rain on his once pale back as Tartaglia messes with your body and mind, all to prove his point of being the man who gets to claim you like this each night. 

────୨ৎ────

Diluc is ready to head home, sink into the comfort of his bed with you nestled beside him, until he sees an annoyance of blue hair chat you up as if he doesn’t notice the glare Diluc gives—and in response a compliment is thrown your way by Kaeya making you blink.

As you bathe, Diluc can’t help himself from staring at the papers his desk carries, a crevice between his brows as he thinks back to Kaeaya’s smirk that tugs at his lips whenever he manages to tick Diluc off—though the door opens and a warmth is emitted as you step out with a towel hugging your frame.

You smile softly, and Diluc’s eyes soften with a tenderness that can only be obtained through you and any thought that makes him think of you.

His frustration forms into something deeper—his heart almost aching as he stands up and stands in front of you, hands itching to press you against him without the worry of another seeing you like this. Even if he knows your heart is his.

“You’re frowning.”

“…I didn’t want to make it obvious.”

The warmth from his mouth makes you smile, and you take the initiative to press yourself against Diluc—his armsimmediately encompassing you with a soft groan.

His hands find the exposed skin of your back and traces gently around the soft and damp skin, the smell of your shampoo causing his stomach to bubble with memories of nights where you two would share heat as the water streamed down your skin.

At the thought, Diluc’s ears flush with red and you catch notice—your lips curling with a newfound excitement as he clears his throat. His gaze averts for a moment, and you take the opportunity to undo the tie that holds the towel to your skin, making it drop to the ground.

Diluc watches and his eyes widen, but before he can ask for your reasons—you take his hands and place them to your side while meeting his gaze.

“The bed is just waiting for us, don’t you think?”

With your words, Diluc swallows hard and that feeling from before finally becomes clear as desire—and his hands don’t shy from touching your skin with the warmth of his fingertips pleasuring your entrance as he finally lays you on the bed.

────୨ৎ────

Flins himself is enough to keep outsiders from holding contact for too long—though that doesn’t necessarily apply to you when you stay by his side. It doesn’t make him upset, no, he understands why gazes are drawn towards you. Yet he can’t deny the need to see this through, your body the catalyst for his acts.

“At times I still can’t fathom that you’re whom I get to cherish like this. I wouldn’t have it any other way…”

His words spill with adoration as his chest presses against yours, fingers intertwined as thrust deeply against your warmth—his movements meant to savor your body, while showing he’s who can sheath himself inside you with force that no other can do. 

Though his fingers dig deeper into your skin, as if they may disappear from his view—so as his hold tightens, his thrust grow more desperate to hear the moans that you bury between the sheets.

Flins slows down for a moment, his length buried deep within your core as he cradles your cheek—eyes lidded with the warmth that resemble the flame he carries, now that fire shown through skin to skin worship.

“Let me hear you, you shouldn’t shy your desire when I wish to make it everlasting.”

And when you moan between his lips—Flins accepts this as an invitation to grow the heat between you two, legs moving so you two are locked into each other’s hold, eyes holding the gaze you give with clear longing and passion.

As the night wears on—Flins treasures your body like the trinkets he holds with such tenderness, that sentiment now to your body and mind. 

────୨ৎ────

Kazuha is hard to depict with feelings of jealousy—because even with other stares that are given he speaks in agreement towards them—words complimenting you with words of poetry that makes the outsider halt, almost embarrassed by the competition at hand. Or maybe it’s the harsh winds picking up in their face. 

“Can’t write?”

“…no. It’s more like…I’m trying to capture a new sense of intimacy with this one.”

The paper in hand is blank with scribbles of ink that seem to have no true substance—at least to Kazuha. Something clear missing in his Haiku of the warmth that indulges in his soul and being, wanting to write of his devotion with perfection so it holds truth for eternity.

“Maybe a break will help.”

“…I think it would.”

You thought a break would include cuddling or a moment of peace—but Kazuha strips you with slow reverence as he plants kisses along the skin that becomes exposed each time, occasionally drawing his tongue around your skin wishing to hear your voice of need.

When Kazuha reaches your thighs, he pushes them up making you let out a soft gasp—the position now clear with intent as his cheek presses against your inner thigh.

“Now…I feel as if I have the words embedded in my head—but I need more…”

“More…?”

“You know what I mean love.”

Your heart knows—and your body knows with the throb given between your legs. Taking your reaction into account—you can only flutter your eyes shut as Kazuha embarks upon the wetness of your core while endearments are whispering between each breath he takes.

────୨ৎ────

It’s easy for people to converse with the kindhearted Thoma—it would be hard to not smile after such an interaction with him. But difficulties aren’t sparse, and it hits like a blow to his heart when it’s a means of trying to sway you. As if such attitude would ever capture your heart. Yet even with his trust in you—it’s hard to not feel disturbance in his heart.

Thoma seems to let this affect his momentum of helping you bake—whipped cream coating the side of lips and somehow on the collar of his neck, you can only give a fond smile as you place the bowl down and hold his hand.

“You’re distracted…”

“Am I? Sorry…”

He gives a bashed smile—but you can see the strain it carries as though it’ll fall immediately.

Your lips press against his, before you lick the sweet substance that stained them from the testing and tasing of the treat you were going to prepare—Thoma can only let out a startled gasp as his fingers twitch with feverish intensity. 

“I-I could have just wiped that off…” 

“…where’s the fun in that?”

Your sultry smile cracks something in Thoma—and he swallows hard as his throat goes dry and his body taut with a high he wants to give into.

His fingers dip into the bowl of whipped cream—and he draws a small line down your collar, heading towards the crevice between your chest with flushed cheeks, before he meets your gaze.

“…well I should repay the favor for you.”

His voice is soft yet his actions speak louder— tongue drawing hot licks to where his fingers please, an even sweeter taste being served to his tongue. 

────୨ৎ────

For Neuvillete, jealousy becomes sensitivity to his heart—thus the gentle sparks of clouds forming and droplets of rain slow, but apparent. You don’t notice until you leave work—the sky gloomed with an ache that makes you hurry home with strong determination.

When you see the heavy tension that engulfs Neuvillete’s back, you feel a tug on your heart as you walk towards him and wrap your arms around him. He stiffens from surprise—but he immediately lets out a heavy breath that seems to have been lifted from your touch.

“You’re back…”

“And you’re upset. The clouds are forming…”

He can only let out a sharp sigh, before Neuvillete grasp your hand and turns to face you, hand coming to rest against the plush of your cheek. His eyes carry a heavy gaze, and they soften even with the crease between his brows.

“…It still troubles me—yesterday the…interaction you had.”

Oh. So that was it. Your expression softens and you slowly shift to Neuvillete’s lap, making his ears twitch ever so slightly. They flush with a soft hue of red, and you give a gentle smile that makes him pull you in with a soft grunt.

“Stay—I need you.”

His words carry a tender warmth, and you stay in Neuvillete’s hold that is just close proximity—until his hands begin to undo your clothing with slow, steady hands tracing against each pattern of exposed skin that comes to view.

That touch soon melds into kisses that suck gently on the skin, leading to your soft sighs and body arching into his chest—a wet pop heard when he moves to a new patch.

“…let me bask in your warmth…I’ll mark you with the most tender devotion.”

────୨ৎ────

With the fortress holding most of Wriothesly’s time—it’s not as though he doesn’t think of you outside, and if any advances are thrown by men who believe they have a chance. 

Though it becomes true when he finally has time to spend with you by his side—and right in front of his face, the man grins as though he doesn’t notice the tightened grip Wriothesly has around your waist. It drags on awkwardly on your end, already sensing the annoyance that comes from the man beside you. 

The irritation doesn’t leave even as night draws near—which makes you tilt your head as your fingers draw against his chest where hot droplets of water fall by.

“…You’re still upset about that huh?”

“About what?”

“That man.”

Wriothesly almost scoffs at that, but a low huff comes out instead as he grasp your wrist gently making you blink. 

“Come here.”

You step close—even if the shower is already closing in on you two already, Wriothesly uses the water to his advantage pressing your wet bodies together with a soft groan.

Slippery touches can only lead to using the glass as a surface—your gasp at the cold surface quickly quiets as Wriothesly pushes himself inside, his length enough to warm you up. 

If he were to take you on the bed or any surface that isn’t slippery you would get the hard, quickening thrust of a pent up man—yet the water makes everything slippery, especially when moving in and out of your heat. The slaps echo through the room as your handprint is left behind on the glass, evidence of your desires being made in the humidity of the shower.

When the moans and rasp grow louder—you feel the light pain that Wriothesly causes from his fingers digging deep into your skin, his attempt of holding you against the glass even with the water proving difficult. Those would later be strong marks of your wet experience with his jealousy finally coming out—and in.

────୨ৎ────

It’s been silence since you’ve rested by Xiao’s side—almost awkward as you cast glances toward his face but he only stares ahead with furrowed brows. If anything he doesn’t look upset—no, never at you. But like the world has brought him a problem that he can’t fix.

“…Look at me Xiao.”

As if he almost hesitates, Xiao turns to face you with his gaze cast down. But he’s still looking your way. Kinda.

“You’re upset.”

“Me? I’m not.”

“…Right.”

You don’t press further, but you do press with touch instead. Your hand rest on his thigh and you lean over with your knee between his legs—a choked gasp leaving his lips.

“What are you—“

You can only grin softly as you watch the bob of Xiao’s throat, and you have an idea of what may have caused his body so much trouble.

“You’re jealous. That man from earlier…”

Before you can even finish, a snarl leaves Xiao’s lips that confirms your suspicions. And he finally gives in through touch, his hands clenching around your fabrics as if they’ll ground him from the world’s troubles.

The close contact only serves him to make his tension clear, hands going to your back to stabilize you when your hand works with his chest, leading to a shaky gasp leaving his lips.

You can feel the tension from Xiao’s being become a hard press against your thighs—so you grind down as he bites his lip even if no one else will hear his sounds.

“Y-You’re—ugh…”

Xiao can’t put the words together, and instead of fumbling up even more—he wraps his arms around you with a tight embrace that makes you stop, your warmth against his in a moment of silence. The contact dear to your heart as you hear Xiao sigh into your chest, lips pressing against the exposed skin before he plants a bosom kiss.

“…keep going. I need this.”

With his voice so low and soft—you could never not comply to his commands. The night vulnerable to you and his innermost acts of intimacy.

────୨ৎ────

It’s almost difficult to catch the wrath or any sentiment of anger from a man like Zhongli—or at least for it to appear that way.

He doesn’t comment on the merchant’s attitude, but the close proximity as if you two were acquaintances says volumes of his inappropriate demeanor. Zhongli can only calmly press his hand gently against your side when the merchant speaks more of his jewels, though they can’t compare to the luxuries he shows you through the start and finish of each day.

“Just focus on me…on everything I’m giving you…”

You’re submerged in the fire Zhongli rises from his chest behind your back—arms wrapped around your waist as his hips move with a force so deep you feel your stomach full with each stroke, your head buried in the soft pillows that carry your moans and breaths of ecstasy.

His lips press against the back of your shoulders, tracing every spot that may carry a freckle or blemish that comes with proof of your growth—his hot breath fanning beside your ear as his fingers slowly rub at your lips, as if urging you to take them in. 

“Z-Zhong…li…please—“

“You can beg for more if you want. I’ll give you everything.”

You feel the fastened pass of his hips alternating between slow and steady, to deep and hard to the point of your body digging deeper into the sheets. You feel the heat of it all haze your brain with oblivion—and the second length that hits your thighs.

“You can take more right?”

Though no answer is needed—because Zhongli knows your body is accustomed to his and the lengths he holds when it comes to nights of intense activity. Besides, he’s the only one who can give you both at the same time.

[lysarion]

━━━━━━ snow falling outside, keeping on the nightlight ⟢

♱    |    there's been a rumor circling around the tavern's around nod-krai regarding flins the lightkeeper. no one really believes it, but he does.

𖤝 including  ⠀! ⠀flins          ◟          𖤝 warnings ⠀! ⠀written pre-release so expect ooc, no beta we die like the three moon sisters          

𖤝 notes⠀! ⠀this is my way of manifesting early flins when his banner drops because the rumored banner schedules are scaring me.... divider used were made by @uzmacchiato please check them out!!!

❝      tags     ⚜     .  @lowkeyren and @luvydei i couldn't stop thinking about you two as i was writing this so i hope you don't mind the tag !!!

flins preferred to work in the dark. he has no particular reason for liking it, it simply came with the environment he worked in. the dreadful hours spent watching over nod-krai for any surprise attacks, taking walks down the cobblestone pathways with only a dimly lit lamp as his guide—flins grew accustomed to it.

but recently, many of his subordinates have noticed something uncharacteristic in his office.

“there was light!” one of them said, slamming down the cup of beer on the wooden table. “faint, but there, you know? never would have expected it from sir flins of all people.”

“well how do you think he gets any work done?” another rebutted. swirling the warm liquid in his cup before gulping it down in one go. “you can’t expect a man to write in complete darkness.”

“no, no, no! you got it all wrong! the light i’m talking about isn’t from a lamp—hell not even a candle! it was from a nightlight.”

 the table roared with laughter. some slapped their knees in disbelieving ecstasy, others looked at him like he had grown two heads. the tips of his ears turned red as he slammed his hands on the table, standing hunched over, trying to defend what he saw on that stormy night.

“i’m not lying!” he exclaimed.

one man wiped a stray tear that fell from all his laughter and waved him. “ya sure you just didn’t mistook it for somethin’ else? after all sir flin’s office is darker than the abyss we fight!”

“does it look like i’m lying?” he muttered, exasperatedly and called for another beer. “i know what i saw. these eyes are sharper than any of you lads in this room!”

“sure, sure. whatever you say.”

flins chuckled under his breath. he had quietly overheard bits and pieces and couldn’t help but listen in. with his back pressed flush against the wooden wall, he took one final swig of his drink before handing it back to the waitress, a simple nod in thanks before leaving the establishment.

if he were to guess, it would be nearing midnight, meaning his patrols would be over and his paperwork would be calling him like a singing siren. just the thought of it has flins shaking his head in dismay, the lamp in his hands lighting up to guide his path back to his private quarters. the streets of nod-krai are barren in this hour, and with nothing to entertain him, flins looked back on the day he got that nightlight his subordinates were gossiping about.

“here,” flins casually handed you a small item. “turn it on whenever you’re working late hours here.”

you tilted your head in confusion. you eyed it for a while, turning it here and there before flins sighed in quiet amusement. with a single tap from his finger, a small diamond shaped item that sat in your palm began to emit a soft purple glow. 

“it’s a nightlight,” flins explained and took the artifact back in his hold. he held it up to your face and watched as your eyes, quite literally, lit up in amazement. “children here in nod-krai often use them to ward off the night when it’s too dark.”

“are you calling me a child, sir?” you fired back without hesitation, a teasing smile illuminated by the small ball of comfort in flins’s hand. 

“on contrary, it’s quite the opposite. i’ve yet to meet another subordinate as diligent and responsible as you.”

you pressed your palms over the other, quietly asking for the nightlight back, and flins chuckled. his gloved hand rested on the crown of your head before pulling you in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “well, maybe sometimes you do act like a child.”

“okay, first of all—!”

flins snickered under his breath as the familiar creaking of his office door welcomed him. he blew out the light from his lamp and sat down on his office chair. the quiet vexation of his ever growing responsibilities invaded his mind, leading to a growing headache and longing in the pits of his heart. after a few minutes of quietly staring at his desk, he got up and took the nightlight kept safely in one of his drawers. with a single tap, it lit up with that familiar purple glow. 

“come back soon, [name],” flins muttered under his breath. a quiet smile tugged at his lips before he picked up his pen and started writing. “your little nightlight misses you.”

© 𝓵ysarion 2025 — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[koiir]

One trailer and it has me on genshin again… waiting for this man and nod krai…

[tabiito]

DEBÍ TIRAR MÁS FOTOS — hard launching with the blue lock boys after a rumour includes: sae, karasu, rin + bonus: shidou note: i've tried to keep fcs ambigious but unfortunately i was to only find fem bodied ones, ima work and make the next part more gender neutral

Sae Itoshi, who reads the rumour and straight up announces your engagement

Sae squints over your shoulder as your lips part in disbelief over the brazen lies the gossip account has been posting. You feel his hot breath on your bare shoulder, stretching your arm further, knowing he's not wearing his reading glasses which he's left in the villa.

It's a lovely summer evening in Mallorca, miles away from Ibiza, and by some eerie circumstance the beach at your resort is empty, save for the two of you. Your day of sunbathing and reading had been pleasant, however, this preposterous rumour poked through your sanctuary of peace as a friend forwarded it to you.

This was one of many you'd had to endure in your three years of dating Sae (longer, if you'd count the long-distance pining), so it doesn't bother you as much. You know what you were getting into when you set your sights on a football prodigy as successful and good looking as Sae, though he hates how you placidly accept this news with a purse of your lips and a sigh.

He feels offence on your behalf as he spies the hotel staff setting up the candlelight dinner he plans on proposing to you at at the edge of the shore, the Cartier ring you've been eyeing for the longest time tucked into his bag.

Pressing a kiss to the juncture of skin between your neck and shoulder, he ignores the guilt that's creeping up his spine when he tells you to "pay the paparazzi no mind."

He can't help himself to slip his phone out and snap a picture of the scenery before him, you basking in the twilight in your bikini top, a copy of My Year of Rest and Relaxation over your eyes as the blazing Sun sinks into the sea.

The decision to keep your relationship private was a mutual one; in the initial stages Sae didn't want you to be harassed by his legions of loyal fans, and you didn't want Sae, known for his private image to be harangued by reporters when they should be focusing on his performance. You never really talked about reverting this decision, and as time with him flew by, you became an expert at dealing with the baggage that comes with being involved with a celebrity.

However, when Sae feels your incadescent smile against his lips, the band on your finger glinting in the moonlight, the images of the beginning of a shared life flashing at the back of his head, he thinks that you shouldn't have to deal with his baggage any longer; not when the two of you were starting a chapter together.

Later that night, inhaling the scent of the ocean and strawberry margaritas in your hair as you sleep peacefully in his arms, Sae hits "post."

Oliver Aiku, who needs to be defended by you, the only person who he's ever posted

"Ooh, you're getting clocked," you giggle, carding your free hand through his hair and swiping through your Twitter feed with the other. Cracking one emerald eye open, Oliver lets out a weary sigh.

"What now?", he grumbles. "If they've finally traced back all those Barou dating rumours to me just know I've included you in my will."

"'Included'? Am I not getting your entire estate, you stingy old man?", you tease, tugging at his roots. He groans in response, mimicking a ruffled cat who'd just been rudely interrupted from its afternoon nap.

"And no, apparently, your exes have grouped together to do a confessional on you in some tabloid," you chuckle, passing him his phone. You, better than anyone else, know Oliver's complicated romantic past, womanising behaviour and hookup culture fuelled coping tendencies while the two of you pined for each other from the sidelines for years, hoping to erase thoughts of the other by pursuing half-assed relationships.

Not that it worked particularly well, considering you're spending summer break in his apartment in Stockholm simulating level of domesticity you'd taken to a little scarily fast.

Reading out some of the downright malicious things his exes have said ("Really? You'd place sports bets based on their recommendations? No wonder you lost so much cash."), he hears the tinkle of your laughter through his sun-dappled room at some of these quotes, happy at how you were secure enough with him to dismiss these silly one liners as figments of his unscrupulous past.

The truth is that he's really been trying. You've always been too important to him to fuck things up with — the source of his exes' despair of always being "obsessed with texting someone else at late hours of the night", courtesy of different timezones, or being the only person he'd pick up drunk when you'd be in Tokyo. For once, he was nervous about a relationship, treating you with unexpected gentleness.

You've taken many of his firsts, he realises: first proper date he actually planned out, first time sending flowers at two and three month anniversaries, all that corny stuff he never saw himself doing.

He only supposes you take this first and last from him, too.

Swiping off Twitter, Oliver begins poring through your Photos to find a suitable snap from last night when you'd met his friends at the club. Settling on one where he's wearing cufflinks with the initials of your name, he accesses his Instagram from your phone (a safety measure), calmly adding one more post to his limited feed.

Rin Itoshi, who's honestly been itching to do this for a while now

"For fuck's sake," Rin grouses, sipping the water you just handed him. Drenched in sweat, jersey sticking to his back, he'd been grateful when you showed up to give him company as he trained, saying something about "studying anatomy" while pencilling in your sketchbook as he took shot after shot.

Instead, he's subjected to you quizzically raising an eyebrow in the direction of his over-enthusiastic physiotherapist who had a thing for announcing to the public whenever her and Rin were together.

Peeved at the sheer idiocy of the rumour, and irritated at her complete disrespect for Rin's boundaries, with his dislike of publicity well-documented, you were rightfully going to march over and give her a piece of your mind. It wasn't like you'd spend your afternoons in the bleachers of the Parc Des Princes to soak in the sweat, or that Rin would saunter over to you in every free minute to critique your latest doodle — since the day you'd preached at him in the Louvre, everyone from the coaching analysts to substitutes on PXG knew you were a couple.

Rin can practically feel the annoyance radiating off you in an aura unlike the ones that possessed footballers during heated matches. A little pleased with the jealousy something as petty as a gossip column elicited from you, he appreciatively hands you the bottle back and gives your hand a squeeze.

"I've got this."

Though he has to wrangle out the passwords for his social media accounts from his management since he rarely uses them, Rin makes it a point to carefully vet and select photos of you and him during his break. Though he looks comical in some, and downright unflattering in others, he couldn't give a damn less seeing the excitement in your eyes as you lean over the barrier, Airdropping photos to him.

After curating the perfect post, Rin calls for his physio, who practically skips along the grass to the bleachers, but blanches when she sees your unimpressed expression.

"Take a picture of us," he brusquely asks, shoving his phone into her hands, downturned in a sneer. Before she can react, he catches you completely off guard, crashing his lips against yours. Your eyes are shut, but you know him well enough to sense that he's smirking right now. He kisses you a lot longer than necessary for one shot, snaking his hand along your waist for good measure, practically pulling you over the blue barriers on your tiptoes.

You squeak when he lets go, licking his lips ever so slightly as the mortified PT squirms while handing him his phone. "Huh. So you are half-competent at something after all."

Tabito Karasu, who's three months in and knows you're the one

Karasu's a perfect gentleman. Even before you started dating, back in highschool, he'd be one of those quietly chivalric guys who'd hold doors open or jackets above your head if it rained. The kind of guy who'd snatch grocery bags out of your hand despite making a quip about "weak arms." Now, you think that he's a little too perfect.

Things that would be a dealbreaker in other relationships, such as both of your packed schedules, the invasiveness of the internet and the fact that time was not on your side most of the time almost spurred Karasu on to make an extra effort. Your research is going late into the night? He's there to pick you up. You're craving takeout after being absolutely decimated by a physics seminar? He's already wearing his baseball cap and sunglasses, one foot out of the door.

Truth be told, Karasu's a little over-awed by you and your brain He thinks he could spent hours immersed in your world as you ramble on about the paradoxes and theories you're learning, or the cutting-edge research you're contributing to. Though it makes him acutely aware that he has much to learn outside of football, you satiate his curiosity in ways that make him feel that he's the only person you've deigned worth talking to.

Otoya makes fun of him for how whipped he is, and though he hasn't had much experience prior to you other than people just throwing themselves at him, he knows this is more than a fleeting crush. So he goes the extra mile in every little thing, sparing no expense.

The day your finals were over he ringed in the celebrations with you in your dorm, blasting songs he was surprised you even knew the lyrics to. Scaring him with your ability to recite Future bar for bar with him on "Low Life", Karasu feels overcome with an urge hold onto you for dear life. The need to make it exclusively clear to everyone around him that you're the one for him becomes much clearer when a shopping trip turns to an absurd coincidence in the rumour mill, one that's got you all nervous in front of him.

He can't help but feel the dull stab of anger as you, clearly overwhelmed by the opinion of the Internet, spend the day upset. If it's one thing he dislikes, it's when things don't go his way. Instead of complaining about it, though, the words leave his mouth before he can even process what they mean, a rarity for someone like him.

"Come with me to the JFA dinner this weekend."

BONUS: Shidou Ryusei, who never even thought it was a secret

a/n yall im not freaky enough yet to write for shidou but i think the scenario is a really funny one in my head i had sm fun doing this though we got barou n isagi down for pt 2 who else?

[koiir]

Sae and karasu iakamajsnsksmsmsmxmxm

[papiliotao]

HOME SWEET HOME — neuvillette x reader

content: 13.3k words, lovers to exes to hopefully lovers again, reader goes to jail, mixed feelings (i hope i wrote them decently), murder, poison, lots of investigation

summary: a singular trial is all it takes to tear your world apart. after being framed for an atrocious crime, you're sent to the fortress of meropide by the decree of your own lover. however, as new evidence emerges years down the line, you're offered freedom at last — the only catch being that you must confront the real culprit (and your complicated feelings for the man who broke your heart).

a/n: merry (late?) christmas @https-sourlimes!! i'm your secret santa. i am SO sorry about the wordcount; i got carried away while writing. i really hope you enjoy! <3

Happiness is a fragile ephemerality.

One word is all it takes to set your world ablaze in a frenzy of roaring flames, once-comforting hues of warmth roaring in a final performance of oceanic havoc. A numb horror manifests in subtle shivers that wrack your body, piercing your very soul with its glacial frostbite. Echoes reverberate within your mind.

Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.

According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale, [name] is guilty.

Neuvillette’s words seem to ring in the air, long overstaying their welcome as they persist in a buzz of illusory ostinatos over a backdrop of stunned silence. No one stirs as the tragic tale of two star-crossed lovers unfolds before them. Instead, they watch with bated breath, never once daring to intervene, allowing every act of fate’s cruel masterpiece to play out in flawless tandem.

Nothing feels real until the moment the guards slip a pair of handcuffs around your wrists. Gradually, a sense of panic envelops your senses, prompting you to desperately turn to where Neuvillette had been standing. Fear begins to well up in the pit of your stomach.

You need his help.

But when your eyes land on the spot where your lover had once been, you find that he is all but gone.

Emptiness is all that remains as you’re escorted down to the depths of Meropide.

“Wriothesley,” you greet the man in front of you politely as you step into his office.

It’s only six in the morning, but you were unceremoniously dragged out of your bed earlier when you were informed that Wriothesley had sent for you. A few years ago, you would have complained about how rude it is to rouse someone from slumber without warning. However, after spending thousands of days in prison, you’ve grown to understand that societal norms have no place within the lifeless metallic walls of Meropide.

Everything runs on incentive alone. Coupons are all that matter within the underground prison, and as such, most inmates spare less than a thought towards moral obligations and frivolous sentiments. It’s a home for some of Fontaine’s most infamous criminals, for crying out loud! Only a fool would expect pleasantries to have any place in this bleak world.

Your train of thought is interrupted as Wriothesley gestures towards a chair in front of his desk.

“Take a seat, [name],” he says, his voice gruff yet comforting.

He’s been your only companion throughout your time in prison, as the other inmates have been a little too uncouth for your taste. Although Wriothesley tries to pretend he simply wants to be your friend, you know he has ulterior motives. You know the reason why he’s always checking up on you so often — why he’s been suspiciously interested in your day-to-day life.

Someone you’d rather not think about put him up to this.

Someone you used to love.

(You still remember the crystal raindrops that kissed your skin mere moments before you were taken underground. You wouldn’t put it past him to watch you from afar.)

“Is something up, Wriothesley?” you inquire.

The more he talks the better, you decide. Right now, anything is better than silence because silence is a harbinger of spiraling thoughts and unpleasant recollections. At the moment, you want nothing more than to drown the mantras gnawing at the edge of your conscience in a sea of cascading words.

“Brace yourself,” Wriothesley warns, “This is gonna be a tough one to stomach.”

You nod hesitantly. Wriothesley usually keeps your conversations lighthearted and casual, so you’re absolutely certain that he’s serious this time. His foreboding preface sends a slight shiver down your spine, but you steel your nerves and meet his gaze. Irises beaming with fading moonlight scan your eyes for any traces of hesitation, scrutinizing every sentiment that graces the windows to your soul.

“I’m ready,” you reassure him.

Although Wriothesley raises an eyebrow when he hears the tremble that unsteadily articulates your growing anxiety, he continues on. One thing about Wriothesley you’ve grown to appreciate is the fact that he never pries into your affairs (at least not openly).

“Alright,” he sighs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Tension becomes tangible as momentary silence fills the atmosphere; it’s almost deceptively peaceful. Every transient second feels more akin to an eon spent in stagnation as suspense gnaws at your conscience. As much as you hope for the hush to dissipate with every fibre of your being, you also dread the moment your false utopia will shatter.

“Is it really that bad?” you make the mistake of asking Wriothesley.

The grimace that adorns his weary features tells you all you need to know. Before your mind can run through all the possibilities in a frenzied delirium of panicked theories, Wriothesley finally speaks up.

“It’s about him,” he clarifies.

You immediately know who he’s talking about.

It’s funny. A few years ago, you used to speak his name in a hushed tone, filled with admiration and brimming with ardor. Every whisper used to feel adoring, almost reverent, and as such, you had mistakenly believed your love was akin to an all-enduring everblaze, a crimson flame of passion that would burn bright and persevere through all.

The irony is nearly laughable. Dying embers and hollow sentiments are all that remain now. His name has become a taboo, a word that feels all-too-foreign as you attempt to fill in the silence.

“Neuvillette,” you whisper shakily.

An unpleasant ringing seems to manifest in your ears as all the memories you’ve been trying to repress ebb and flow in a wave of aquamarine recollections. You’re aware he’s always been an overwhelming presence, yet it becomes all the more obvious as thoughts of him invade and overload your mind.

Wriothesley confirms your suspicions in the form of a solemn nod. To your surprise, his steely grey eyes soften for what feels like the first time since you’ve met him, a gentle warmth stirring beneath layers of permafrost.

Great, so your situation is so abysmal that even Wriothesley is starting to feel sympathetic.

“What does he want?” you manage to breathe out.

A part of you doesn’t want to face your ex-lover ever again in this lifetime. And yet despite it all, your heart screams for closure, resolving to remain unrelenting in its desires until every loose thread of your tragedy has been tied up neatly. You don’t know what to hope for at this point.

“You remember the poisoning case from a few years ago?” Wriothesley questions you.

It takes all your willpower to resist the urge to scoff.

“Who would forget the murder that changed their life forever?” Your voice comes out wry, bitterness intricately working its way into each inflection. Despite your attempts to exercise restraint, you find that your emotions are beginning to overtake rationality.

“Alright,” Wriothesley says hesitantly, “then I guess there’s no better time to break the news.” The suffering in his drawn-out sigh is palpable. “Suspicious new evidence related to the case has emerged recently. The Marechaussee Phantom is beginning to suspect that there’s more to it than what they initially found,” Wriothesley starts. Before he can continue, you interrupt him.

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Right.” With an exasperated click of his tongue, Wriothesley moves on. “That’s where you come in. Since you’re so closely-linked with the events that occurred that day, the Iudex has specifically requested your help in the investigation. I take it the possibility of freedom is incentive enough?”

You huff. “Seriously? He has the audacity to ask for my help after all this time without so much as a word? Not even freedom could convince me to work with that absolute — !”

The stern look that manifests within Wriothesley’s sterling irises is enough to prompt you to pause. Although he doesn’t vocalize his concerns, the diamond-esque glimmers of worry that manifest in his eyes speak volumes. Don’t say something you might regret.

So instead of continuing on, you allow yourself a single sigh — an attempt to alleviate all your frustration in a single exhale.

“What I meant was, I’m not sure I could work with the Iudex in any official capacity,” you say, gritting your teeth lest any unsavory words find a way to slip out of your mouth, “given our… complicated history.”

Wriothesley shakes his head, a subtle showing of his displeasure at being caught up in a lover’s quarrel. You can’t really blame him. Any bystander would feel beyond vexed if they were tasked with piecing together the fading ruby fragments of a once-blissful relationship.

“I thought you might say that,” he responds, raising a hand to massage his temples. At the moment, the bags under his eyes appear more prominent than ever, and you begin to wonder how much grief your personal issues with Neuvillette will cause poor Wriothesley. “That’s why you have a week to decide.”

You narrow your eyes to meet a gaze woven from the essence of dimming moonbeams. Wriothesley stares you back, unflinching in his poise.

“Good luck getting me to change my mind,” you scoff. “I’m not facing him ever again.”

A pause.

Silence threatens to consume all under its weight, and you’re left wondering how nothingness can feel so heavy. Wriothesley’s nonchalance seems to disperse, vanishing in the midst of the tense ambience. Now you’re absolutely sure you’re in for a heartfelt conversation — an anomaly amongst the casual paradigm the two of you have been defining over the past few years.

“I’m not great with all this sentimental stuff,” Wriothesley starts, “I mean, I’m hardly experienced with romantic relationships myself despite my age.” He chuckles, and suddenly you feel as though the mood has lightened ever-so-slightly. “But trust me when I say Monsieur Neuvillette still cares deeply about you.”

Does he? Why would anyone stand by helplessly while the person they supposedly love more than life itself is taken from them forever?

Despite the protests that practically fly to the tip of your tongue, you continue listening attentively. Although you keep telling yourself you no longer care about your former lover, perhaps there’s still a small spark of incandescent hope lying somewhere within your heart — an ember of love awaiting a day where it will burst into brilliant flame once more.

“Think about it,” Wriothesley hums, his casual tone slipping effortlessly back into place as if he never broke character. “It’s been years since your case has been closed, and all the loose ends were supposedly tied up when you were sentenced, which means…” He trails off, waiting for you to piece together fragmented bits of logic within the recesses of your mind.

The muddled pieces of knowledge confound you, yet as you consider the implications of Wriothesley’s statement more carefully, a flicker of ingenuity comes to life in a sporadic burst of aureate sparks.

“Which means he never stopped investigating,” you conclude. “He believed it wasn’t me all along.”

The realization dawns on you in shades of phantasmagoric navy. It’s chilling, akin to the unwelcome touch of icy waters. Likewise, it overwhelms you. Its implications are far too profound to be ignored or pushed aside, and you begin to understand that you won’t be able to run away from the man you once loved for eternity.

“And?” Wriothesley adds.

“And he’s been trying to prove my innocence,” you breathe out, feeling disconnected from the moment.

Everything feels surreal, and the last few seconds feel no less oneiric than the ludicrous dreams you’re pulled into every night. It’s as if your world is twisting and turning upside down. You’ve spent all this time trying to incinerate every ounce of affection held within your heart for Neuvillette, bitterly blocking every memory of him from your mind all while he’s been tirelessly working to reunite with you.

Guilt pierces your entire being, enveloping you in a venomous sort of discomfort. A shiver runs down your spine as you realize how unfairly you’ve been treating the man you were once hopelessly-devoted to. Even back then in your emotional state, you should have known he would never betray you, much less in such a profound manner. Yet a part of you is still bitter that it took him this long to do anything. You can’t find it in your heart to forgive him entirely.

Remorse is a complex sentiment. While it pushes individuals to grow and defy past ordainments, it also drives them to make decisions that become ironically more regrettable later on. You feel as though your situation will fit in the latter category as a desire to reconvene with your past lover blazes to life. You’re still beyond enraged when you think about him, but a small flourish of love still remains in your heart. There’s so much you want to know, so without a further thought, you relay your hasty choice to Wriothesley before you can stop yourself.

“Fine, take me up to the surface. I need to speak to Neuvillette.”

The moment you resurface for the first time in years, an epiphany overcomes your senses. You realize how much you missed all the sights and sounds of the outside world — how much you had taken everything for granted back when you were still free.

Every caress of an aquatic zephyr feels like a gentle luxury, and the sensation of golden sunbeams enveloping you in threads of luminous comfort is something entirely otherworldly. You savour the ephemeral peace and serenity that surrounds you, losing yourself in the salty spray of azure waves and the vast beauty of the divine skies above.

As someone who’s allowed above ground routinely for official business, Wriothesley either doesn’t notice your wonder as he escorts you to your destination, or he chooses not to comment on it. Perhaps the beauty of the overworld has become nothing more than a mundanity to him.

The Palais Mermonia is every bit as grand as you remember. It towers over Fontaine, as if watching over the city and all its affairs. The smooth stone walls and opulent detailings adorning the building serve as a welcome reminder of how magnificent Fontaine’s architecture can be — a nice change of pace after spending countless days locked away within the monochromatic metal walls of the Fortress of Meropide.

As Wriothesley leads you through the intricate doors of the Palais Mermonia, you feel a sense of anticipation swell within your heart. Polychromatic butterflies desperately flutter their wings in the pit of your stomach, manifesting in a swarm of discombobulating chaos. With every step you take towards Neuvillette’s office, you feel your feet grow heavier. By the time you’re standing before the entrance, you feel as if you’re practically glued to the ground. The only things that keep you going are Wriothesley’s watchful stare and careful guidance.

The dark-haired man beside you pushes the door open and motions for you to enter first. As much as you’d rather hide behind Wriothesley, you decide to swallow your nerves and step into the office before him.

Unfortunately for you, the first sight that greets you upon entering the office is the face of a man you’ve been trying to avoid for years now, whether in the waking world or slumber. Against your own will, you note that he appears just as breathtaking as the day you lost him. Every detail of his suit is as pristine as ever, not a single wrinkle in sight, no matter how hard you scrutinize. His hair looks as soft and voluminous as usual, each strand of cerulean a sharp contrast to silken starlight. Simply put it, nothing has changed, and as you look into his eyes, you realize just how accurate your inference is.

Molten tanzanite fills eyes akin to galaxies occupied by subtle glimmers of emotion. Even now, you find that you can read him perfectly. Although he appears serious on the surface, a single examination of Neuvillette’s gaze is all it takes for you to spot the luminous adoration that gleams beneath layers of carefully-crafted defenses.

Damn it. Don’t look at me like that.

It’s a look you’d recognize anywhere — a look you had once loved with all your heart, yet now it feels detestable more than anything. The ironic juxtaposition between your feelings in past and present nearly makes you laugh. It’s a bleak reminder of how greatly circumstances have shifted — how everything is wrong now.

Not a word is spoken as you sit down in a chair across from Neuvillette. Although you had assumed Wriothesley would join you, he stands off to the side before you can even protest. Any attempt to call him back over would definitely make it obvious that you didn’t want to have what was essentially a one-on-one conversation with your ex.

“[Name],” Neuvillette greets you formally, his tone steady and practiced. It feels unnatural after all you’ve been through; in the past, endearment would lace his tone each time he spoke to you, conveying the true depth of his feelings with a single whisper. This stiff rendition of the fantasia that used to be your name falling from his lips is nothing like the soft melody you’d become accustomed to so long ago.

“Neuvillette,” you shoot back, trying your best to keep your voice from reverting to its affectionate default. Although you’re unsure about acting cold towards the man, you’re certain neither of you would be fine with immediately going back to the way you were before the entire disaster unfolded in a matter of mere seconds.

(And besides that, you’re still somewhat angry it took him literal years to find a way to get you out of Meropide.)

“I hope you’ve been well,” Neuvillette says, his tone softening ever-so-subtly. Vulnerability works its way into a slight waver of his voice, a nearly-unnoticeable detail that any average person would miss. However, you are not an average person. You’ve acquainted yourself with every intricacy of Neuevillette’s personality over the years, and even now, every detail is preserved perfectly within the archives of your memory.

“I was as well as I could be in prison, I guess,” you mumble.

Even you’re not quite sure if your passing comment is an attempt at humour or a jab at your previous lover. Fortunately for you, Neuvillette doesn’t attempt to laugh. Instead, he simply nods.

“I see…” he trails off, staring at you intently. Eyes filled with hues of softened lilac and faint periwinkle blue bear into your soul, inspecting you with a gaze woven from twilight. Stardust suspicion seems to glint in Neuvillette’s irises, but he doesn’t pry. “What have you be—”

“Enough small talk. Can we get to the point?” you force out. You’re still not quite sure how you feel about the fact that Neuvillette still cares about you, so you push aside your emotions for the moment to focus on the main issue. As much as you want to ask what your relationship has become, everything feels far too overwhelming now that he’s in front of you again for the first time in years. “What exactly do you want me to do for you?”

Neuvillette pauses for a second, mulling over his next words. He doesn’t try to push the previous topic. Instead, he complies with your request.

“Work alongside me,” he says. “I’m aware that you may not find this to be the ideal arrangement, but ever since your sentencing, your reputation has become…” Neuvillette can’t bring himself to finish his sentence, so you interject.

“Awful? Dismal? Lower than low?” you chuckle bitterly. “I know. I didn’t expect any more when I agreed to come back up to the surface.”

For a second, pity sparkles in Neuvillette’s eyes, a look reminiscent of fragments of sunlight reflecting off sapphire ocean waves. You promptly decide that you hate it.

“Yes. Although I would not put it in such — brazen terms. If you would like an opportunity to clear your name, I would suggest putting serious consideration towards aiding in the second round of investigation. Please do let me know your verdict as soon as possible.”

“Why are you asking me as if I have a choice? It’s either help you or return to prison. Obviously one option is better than the other,” you sigh as a shiver runs down your spine. You know you’ll be in for an awkward few weeks. Spending every second by Neuvillette’s side is a harrowing nightmare come to life, but there’s no better way out of your dilemma. “I’ll join your stupid investigation.”

“Very well then,” Neuvillette responds. “I will show you to your accommodations in due time. Guards will be stationed outside your door around the clock in everyone’s best interest.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Even with contradictory evidence, you’re still going to be treated like a criminal until you’re proven definitively innocent.

“Please note that you will begin assisting me tomorrow.”

With that, Neuvillette turns to Wriothesley, acknowledging him for the first time since the two of you entered the room. “Mr. Wriothesley, thank you for escorting [name] to my office. You may now take your leave.”

A part of you wants to beg Wriothelsey not to leave you alone with Neuvillette, but for once, you decide that you have to start being brave. So with bated breath and a heavy heart, you watch as your sole companion in recent times turns away, heading back to an unreachable world below the surface.

You’re on your own now in a place that has become entirely foreign to you.

The silken covers of the bed you’re provided are surprisingly comfortable. Wrapping each seafoam-coloured blanket around your body feels like being enveloped in a cloud, and sinking into a soft mattress is a luxury you have long forgotten after becoming accustomed to your dorm in the Fortress of Meropide. Needless to say, you find your slumber shockingly restful despite all the turbulent feelings arising within the pit of your stomach, threatening to overtake your rationality and fill you with a cold, chilling panic.

No, the panic only sets in when you’re escorted back to Neuvillette’s office the next morning by the two guards sent to oversee your activities. It’s akin to being plunged into the depths of freezing lapis waters, losing your grip beneath waves forged from midnight essence. A whole day alone together with Neuvillette is going to be a challenge, and unfortunately, your nerves get the better of you.

You hear his voice as cool perspiration forms on the back of your neck, slight shivers running down your spine.

“Good morning,” Neuvillette greets you, as composed and regal as ever.

You envy his ability to behave as though he’s tranquility personified, even in such an awkward situation. His composure is a virtue.

“You let me sleep in,” you note. The sunbeams that filter through Neuvillette’s window in a flurry of faded daffodil shades look nothing like the gilded threads of light that grace Fontaine at sunrise. Besides that, you can already hear a fair amount of chatter outside the office, and you even recall spotting a few passer-bys scurrying about as you were accompanied to the Palais Mermonia.

“Indeed I did,” Neuvillette confirms your suspicions.

You glare at him. “I thought you wanted me up bright and early to help you investigate.”

The man before you sighs. “Based on your behaviour yesterday, I inferred that the past few days have been rather taxing on you emotionally. I wanted to give you ample time to recuperate to ensure that you would be able to think optimally today.”

Neuvillette’s eyes soften, a rare sort of gentleness manifesting in dulled lavender, a hue pulled straight from an evening afterglow.

You recall a passing thought from a time you had watched nightfall overtake the heavens with Neuvillette a few years back. At the time, he had looked at you with the same soft gaze, examining you with an expression that conveyed unspoken understanding and affection. You remember noting the way his irises seemed to reflect the muted iridescent shades above. Back then, everything had been so tranquil, euphoric. A part of you can’t help but desperately wish to go back in time.

“Thank you,” you relent, finally acknowledging Neuvillette’s kindness.

Neuvillette shakes his head. “There is no need to thank me,” he states. “This is beneficial to both of us. After all, I don’t expect you to work effectively with a tired mind.”

Without another word, Neuvillette pulls out a pile of official documents, their worn ivory pages a stark contrast to a second untainted milky white stack he sets on his desk.

“As you may be able to tell, these are the case files from the initial investigation,” Neuvillette points to the first collection of papers, “and these are documents containing new developments.” He points at the pristine new records.

“Can you summarize what exactly made you revisit the case?” you ask Neuvillette. Personally, you don’t feel like spending a full day poring over documents instead of investigating. That’s just inefficiency at its finest. Why do that when you have someone who seems to revel in records to explain everything to you?

Neuvillette allows a light chuckle to slip past his lips, the sound a nostalgic fantasia as it reaches your ears. “I see that you haven’t stopped finding the easiest way to complete your tasks,” he jests, “but very well. This will save us a considerable amount of time.”

You sit with bated breath, suspense filling the atmosphere as you patiently wait to learn the exact evidence that may have altered your fate entirely.

“Firstly, to reiterate, the murder was a poisoning,” Neuvillette starts. “A member of the Marechaussee Phantom was found dead at a banquet with a drink in hand. Its contents were found to be normal for the most part, but when investigated more thoroughly, trace amounts of a toxic substance were found.”

You nod with fervour, every intricate puzzle piece of the case that had dictated your destiny all those years ago still fresh in your mind.

“You were the one who poured the drink.” Perhaps your mind is playing tricks on you because for the first time in your life, you hear Neuvillette’s voice tremble slightly, like a resplendent leaf as it drifts on an autumnal breeze. “There was no way to prove your innocence at the time, and no matter how hard we tried to trace the origins of the poison, all we could discern was that it was fast-acting, which thankfully meant that there were no other casualties. Unfortunately, we were unable to find any compelling leads…” Neuvillette pauses, “until now.”

“Recently, a worker from a drink factory has approached us with reports of suspicious activities within the facility. Although most employees are kept in the front of the building to manage the machines and ensure that the quality of each bottle sufficiently meets company standards, there are a select few allowed in the back to oversee the entire operation.”

“What does this have to do with the case?” you interject. You can feel your interest waning as Neuvillette’s words become tangent-adjacent.

“Not everything is as it seems,” he assures you. “Around a week ago, the worker ventured into the back, desperately searching for one of their superiors. The higher-up in question had assigned them a task, and afterwards, they proceeded to disappear for weeks on end. When looking for their manager, the worker discovered the truth of the facility.”

Your breath hitches in anticipation.

“Put simply, the entire drink production operation is a deception. The company’s real purpose is to produce a rare variety of poison. Fortunately, we managed to procure a sample of it, and when tested, it was found to be identical to the very substance used to assassinate the victim of your case.”

Although you want to correct Neuvillette, you hold your tongue. There’s no point in getting off-track.

“So you want me to help you find out who put the poison in the bottle?” you ask.

Neuvillette nods. “We could have simply paid a visit to the Fortress of Meropide and interrogated you from there, but I thought you would appreciate a little freedom and control over your own destiny. Besides that, I know you’re competent, and the rest of the investigation could greatly benefit from your assistance.”

“Is that really all there is to it? I’m sure lots of people out here were against the idea of letting me roam free for fear of their own safety, so it must have been quite a challenge to get me out in the first place,” you scoff. “If my comfort was the only factor in play, then you would have simply taken the easy way out and questioned me in prison to appease everyone.”

For a moment, Neuvillette hesitates. Transitory silence fills the air before being fragmented into crystalline shards of dissonant revelation that cause goosebumps to grace the surface of your skin.

“Your intuition is as sharp as ever,” he sighs. Suddenly, he looks all too exhausted, and you begin to realize how hard he fought to earn you your temporary freedom. “All the citizens of Fontaine believe that the judgment of the Oratrice Mechanique D’analyse Cardinale is perfect, flawless in its very nature. However, after your sentencing, doubt started to circulate, and I found myself among those who questioned the outcome of the case. It felt as though the full truth had not been revealed to us yet, and your punishment was ordained solely by a hasty collection of shaky facts gathered through a rushed investigation. It was entirely… unjust… the opposite of what Fontaine stands for.”

“There it is. You’re doing this all in the name of what’s right, as usual.”

You’re not sure what you were expecting Neuvillette to say. Perhaps you wanted him to tell you that he would never lose faith in you, his once dearly-beloved. Or maybe you were wishing with every fibre of your being that he would simply say he still cared and wanted you back.

But no, he’s Neuvillette.

Above all, he is fair.

He is justice.

The gazes of everyone in the interrogation room seem to burn with the light of a thousand stars, their pressuring radiance serving as an instrument of truth — a way to seek sincere answers to any questions that are posed. You shrink under their phosphorescence, feeling insignificant as the demands of all the officials in the room coalesce.

Before you stands Neuvillette, a few guards, and a couple members of the Marechaussee Phantom. You recognize the latter two as personal friends of the victim — people with personal stakes in the case.

“Do you remember who gave you the bottle?” a melusine inquires.

You force yourself to take a deep breath in, oxygen feeling like the sweetest ambrosia as you try to calm yourself. It’s funny. The small creature is at most half your size, potentially even less, yet you’re the one who feels intimidation well up in the pit of your stomach like the ebb and flow of an evening tide.

“A man named Gabriel, I think? He handed me the bottle while I was walking around and asked me to pass it around for him because he was busy running other supplies around the party.”

“That seems to line up with the records from the trial,” Neuvillette muses, flipping through his documents, “but when we investigated, we found no trace of such an individual, which leads us to believe that they utilized an alias and a disguise to conceal their true identity.”

You have enough restraint to hold back a groan. Here we go again with all the complexities.

“The bottle was screwed shut and completely full before you poured the victim a glass of juice, correct?” The melusine continues their questioning, meeting your eyes with a gaze composed of molten tourmaline.

“Yes,” you confirm. “Doesn’t that just make me look more guilty though? Clearly the poison couldn’t have been in the drink because the bottle hadn’t been unsealed yet, so the court deemed that the only logical conclusion was that I slipped something into the victim’s drink in the split second where nobody was looking.”

The melusine sighs. “With the emerging evidence, we’ve come up with a new theory. If the person responsible for the murder truly wasn’t you, then perhaps the actual perpetrator had a different means of mixing the toxic substance with the beverage. Keep in mind, the poison manufacturer is also a drink manufacturer.”

You pause for a moment, a frown etching itself into your features. You’re starting to see where this is going, but you don’t quite understand the big picture yet. “Elaborate, please.”

Neuvillette takes over. “If our new running theory is correct, then this is how the timeline of events occurred. The suspect was likely an authority figure at the aforementioned drink company, or at the very least, they were relatively close with someone who had power there. In order to throw off the investigation, they managed to spike the beverage before it was sealed in the factory. By doing this, they falsely led us to believe that the poison was poured into the cup instead of into the bottle, thereby alleviating the manufacturer of any suspicion.”

Oh. Suddenly everything is beginning to make a lot more sense. As each string of evidence begins to fall into place, a tapestry of truth is woven. At long last, an alternate story is starting to replace the false narrative that had been in circulation at the time of the case’s unraveling.

“It worked,” you breathe out. “Nobody even bothered to check the contents of the bottle because they were so focused on who was close enough to sneak something into the victim’s cup in the brief moment between the pouring of the drink and the first sip.”

“And for that I must apologize,” Neuvillette sighs, a thousand unspoken regrets lacing his tone. “Our investigation was not thorough enough, and this time, I do not intend to allow any more injustices to befall you.”

As you peer into Neuvillette’s eyes, you catch sight of sincerity manifesting in their depths, each glint of violaceous luminosity conveying a silent promise to protect you. At that moment, you’re sure that Neuvillette believes you were nothing more than an innocent bystander entangled in a web of schemes. Even if the rest of the world is still against you, at least you have him.

“Thank you. I’ll try my best to help you as much as I can.” You finally relent and decide that perhaps it’s time to adopt a policy of compliance; now that you’re sure your intentions all align, you feel ready to work with Neuvillette without reservations.

“Permission to share what we found out about the bottle?” the melusine from before interrupts your moment with Neuvillette, your transient flash of bliss disappearing within a blink. You can’t blame them, as your main priority right now is getting to the bottom of things.

Neuvillette nods, wordlessly indicating his approval.

“As you may know, we took in all items related to the investigation that day. The bottle of beverage was among them. We recently tested the liquid inside, and as expected, there were traces of poison mixed with the drink. It’s worth noting that the drink itself is the same one produced by the suspicious facility we received a report about recently.”

“So I’ve almost been proven entirely innocent?” You can’t resist the urge to ask, the idea of being pardoned after being assumed guilty for so long a saccharine respite.

“Yes, as long as we can apprehend the real criminals and get them to confess to their crimes, you’ll be free,” the melusine confirms. “Fortunately, the worker and the contents of the bottle have led us to the perfect place to start our second inspection — the factory.”

Not even a day later, you rise bright and early to look into the manufacturer with Neuvillette. As the suspect framed in a murder linked to the factory’s poison, your reappearance above ground is bound to set off some red flags in the minds of those who helped orchestrate the entire ordeal. Consequently, you don an uncomfortable disguise while Neuvillette simply plans on masquerading around the place as himself.

It’s ironic. Neuvillette, the renowned Iudex of Fontaine, can roam without fear of interference as his genuine self. Meanwhile, you, a mere nobody, are forced to adorn yourself with layers of obscurities, masking every aspect of your identity.

The contrast between your situations is almost amusing, but you can’t bring yourself to laugh. Even as silken strands of opulent golden sunlight grace your skin, sending a rush of warmth through your body, you can’t help but tremble. The stakes are high, and the possibility of being discovered is distressing to an extreme.

“Shall I go over the narrative one last time?” Neuvillette asks you as your destination seems to grow larger and larger. The grey stone that the building is forged of is reminiscent of the colour of storm clouds — ominous and foreboding.

“Wouldn’t hurt to,” you mumble, willing yourself to stop shivering immediately. You’ll draw even more attention to yourself if you continue to shake like ultramarine ripples on the surface of a turbulent lake.

“Fontaine’s food and drink products have been suffering a decline in quality lately,” Neuvillette states, “and we are here today to perform a health inspection. Although the Iudex is typically not involved with investigating such trivial matters, the issue has become profound. The lives of several Fontainians have already been jeopardized, so in an attempt to prevent any further tragedies, I have decided to personally step in alongside my assistant.”

You hum absentmindedly, still distracted by your nerves. It feels as though permafrost has infused itself with your soul, as you continue to quiver despite all your attempt to ground yourself. “Compelling,” you manage to force out.

You’re drawn back to reality by Neuvillette’s next actions. To your horror, his familiarity with your emotions due to your shared history is your detriment. Before you can process what’s happening, he takes your hand in his. His gentle grip is soothing, and it serves as a much-needed reminder that you’re in this together.

“No matter what happens, I will be by your side,” he reassures you.

For a second, it feels like you’re back in the past. Everything is fine between you and Neuvillette, and you can still trust him unconditionally. Although your relationship has deteriorated now, you find that his presence still brings you a sense of comfort.

Perhaps some sentiments are simply meant to endure forevermore.

There’s nothing remarkable about the inside of the factory at first glance. As expected, typical assembly lines are present within the vicinity to ensure that every bottle is assembled and packaged in an efficient manner. On the surface, nothing seems out-of-the-ordinary.

Your tour guide is friendly and welcoming, not intimidated in the slightest by Neuvillette’s regal presence. Although his appearance garners a few curious glances from the employees you pass by, no one is outright alarmed.

“So as you can see, our humble facility does indeed live up to all the health and safety regulations mandated by Fontainian law,” your guide concludes as your mundane tour draws to a close.

In all honesty, you’ve learned nothing even remotely useful. However, you refuse to leave empty-handed. As such, you decide to make an impulsive decision — a choice that will perhaps cast suspicion upon you, but if everything goes well, you could obtain crucial evidence pertaining to the case.

“We haven’t seen the back of the factory yet,” you muse. “Is there something you’re trying to hide from us? Mold, perhaps?” you pause for dramatic effect, trying your best to play it up. All you can do is desperately pray that your acting skills are enough to convince the tour guide you’re being genuine. “Or maybe an insect infestation.”

A laugh slips past the tour guide’s lips, piercing the awkward atmosphere with a timbre and articulation far too forced to indicate any sort of amusement. No, the guide is nervous, which means something is definitely off. You just need to gather concrete evidence of the misdemeanours being conducted behind the scenes of a grand diversion — something that means more than a simple vial of poison hailing from an unknown origin brought to you by a worker.

“Oh, my superiors typically prefer privacy,” the guide continues to chuckle, a slight hint of anxiety permeating his tone. “There are lots of important meetings held in the back, and they’re not the most fond of disturbances.”

One scrutinizing glance from Neuvillette is all it takes to send the guard reeling. Eyes swimming with delicate lilac narrow, any hint of gentleness fading like the brilliance of wilting petals.

“But I’m sure they can make an exception for our most honoured guests.” Swiftly, the guide makes his way over to the door leading to the back, pulling it open and gesturing for both you and Neuvillette to pass through.

Yet again, you find that you’re met with a sight that’s mediocre at finest. There’s nothing extremely telling about the meeting rooms you’re led through. However, as you wander through the winding corridors and desolate hallways of the surprisingly large area, you spot it — a sizable wardrobe sitting within what feels like the hundredth meeting room you’ve passed through.

Like everything else in this strange place, there’s nothing off about the furnishing upon initial inspection, but after a few moments of careful consideration, you note that it’s far too sumptuous to be in a place like this. It’s horribly out-of-place, a polished oak eyesore amongst the cool-toned decorations within the room.

As you share a look with Neuvillette, you can see that he’s having similar thoughts. At some point in time, someone moved the wardrobe into the room, likely to conceal something. Taking a closer look is essential, but first you need to find a way to distract the guide.

“Excuse me,” you interrupt the guide’s tangent. “Is there a bathroom anywhere nearby?”

Within a matter of minutes, both you and  Neuvillette are escorted over to the nearest bathroom. You enter the room and lock the door. Although you haven’t had an opportunity to discuss a plan with Neuvillette due to the prying ears stationed right next to the two of you, you know what he’ll do next. You’re sure he understands you well enough to know that what you need at the moment is a diversion.

Sure enough, your silent pleas are answered as Neuvillette walks a few steps away from the bathroom door, his footsteps thrumming against the frigid ground as a percussive background to the eerie soundtrack that seems to flood the entire factory.

“Is that an insect?” he inquires.

You hear a rush of frenzied steps, ones that you can distinctly differentiate from Neuvillette’s. That must be the guide.

“Where?” the guide’s voice rings out.

You hear the soft rustle of clothing as the guide supposedly leans over in order to take a closer look. Then, a loud bang shatters the quietude into jagged shards of chaos. You take it as your sign to open the bathroom door and sneak off quietly.

“Ah, forgive me. I was mistaken,” you hear Neuvillette’s voice fade into the distance.

The labyrinth of passages is difficult to navigate, but thankfully your memory is sufficient enough to guide you back along the route from whence you came. In a matter of minutes, you’re back at the wardrobe, scrambling to unveil every enigmatic secret hiding behind its prosaically plain exterior.

Common sense tells you to simply open it first, and sure enough, you find that the back of the furnishing has been hollowed out in order to form a passageway leading to an unknown location. Although you’re nervous, moving forwards is the only way you’re going to make any progress.

You force yourself to confront the mysterious tunnel, heading into its depths in order to collect the next piece of information you need to fully unravel the identity of the true killer.

This is for justice, you tell yourself. Begrudgingly, you also find thoughts of it’s what Neuvillette would do invading your mind.

When you finally step into a mundane office space, you feel as though you can breathe again. The daze slowly begins to subside, and in its wake, you find rationality once more.

Time is of the essence, so you decide to head over to the singular desk stationed in the room. On its surface is a collection of scattered papers, some frayed and others in mint condition. Immediately, you make a dash for the yellowed pages, scanning each one quickly before setting it down.

The documents seem to detail transactions between the company and those buying from their hidden business in the back. Each one is stamped with a date and a signature from the buyer stating that they will not (under any circumstance) reveal where the product they purchased came from. Perfect — all you have to do is find a file that seems to align with the relative time period where your crime took place.

Fortunately for you, the once-daunting plethora of papers is actually a far more meager pile than you had initially thought. Perhaps not many people know about the nefarious schemes that lie behind the factory’s fabricated façade, or maybe humans are simply sensible enough to avoid purchasing poison.

You search urgently, constantly looking over your shoulder and hoping, praying, to any archon listening to keep your deeds obscured and unwritten. However, through it all, you’re hindered by the fact that you have to actively try not to move things around too much. If someone returns to see that objects have shifted on their own, they’ll surely be on high alert.

After what feels like eons of blindly flipping through anything you could get your hands on, your eyes settle on a splotch of achromatic ink bleeding into canary. It’s a familiar date — around a week before your entire life fell apart. You grab the paper, and with one last scan of the other files, you’re nearly certain that it details the transaction of the very poison that broke down fate’s last defences, landing you in a prison you were never supposed to step foot in.

With haste, you stuff the document into your pocket and set off back to Neuvillette.

“We used to frequent that restaurant often,” Neuvillette muses as you wander the streets together.

Your tour had concluded around half an hour ago, and now you’re on your way back to the Palais Mermonia. Although you assured Neuvillette that you had obtained some useful evidence earlier through words whispered in the secrecy of a hushed voice, you know that you can’t discuss anything openly for fear of nosey bystanders — or worse, the criminals themselves — hearing.

You had taken a long time to find what you needed, so consequently it had been difficult to throw off any lingering doubt harboured by your guide. However, thanks to Neuvillette’s quick thinking, you were able to come up with an alibi.

The whole “bathroom” ruse had simply been a test — a plan to conduct your thorough inspection of the facility in an area typically skipped over, even on the most comprehensive tours. You had chimed in and said that the company passed with flying colours, and at that the guide simply beamed and continued leading you through meeting rooms.

Your reminiscence is interrupted as Neuvillette speaks again.

“Perhaps we should take a detour and visit,” he offers. “You must be famished after a day of hard work.”

You freeze, and your body tenses against your will. Isn’t it more important at the moment that you safely transport your evidence back to Neuvillette’s office? You tilt your head at Neuvillette curiously, as if to pose a question. Why are we wasting time?

“Trust me,” he leans in to whisper. You can feel his breath tickling your ear, yet you don’t flinch. It’s a feeling you had grown accustomed to years ago, and even now, having him close to you feels detestably right. “It will seem more like a casual outing if we make a leisurely stop along the way back. If we’re seen rushing back to the Palais Mermonia with a sense of urgency in our stride, then those around us will surely conclude that something is wrong.”

Neuvillette’s reasoning is sound, so despite your aching feet and your desire to simply get away from the cacophony of symphonic noise surrounding you, you allow him to pull you towards the restaurant. As you walk in, you find that all your senses are enveloped by the familiarity of deja vu. The pleasant lighting and floral arrangements begin to pop up in your memory, and the ornate furnishings that adorn the place are the same as ever.

A part of you finds that you missed this. You missed your simple traditions with Neuvillette.

The two of you are seated the moment you step foot in the restaurant. You can’t seem to recall if the staff had ever been this efficient before, but something tells you this is a special circumstance.

“Monsieur Neuvillette,” a waiter greets the Iudex as you both take your seats. You find that you recognize him. “It’s been a while since you’ve been here with company, much less someone other than [name].”

Right. No one recognizes you because you’re still clad in your stupid disguise.

“Ah, good evening, Pierre,” Neuvillette responds. “My companion here is a newly-hired assistant. They have been working tirelessly all day, so I decided to treat them to a meal. Although they are not [name], I hope you will be able to treat them with the same hospitality.”

A frenzy of nods follows Neuvillette’s words.

“What can I get for you today?” Pierre frantically asks you. As usual, people are eager to please Neuvillette, his position of power ever-pertinent within the recesses of their minds.

You scan the menu, and a rush of nostalgia overwhelms you for what feels like the millionth time in the past few days. There are a variety of dishes listed in neat loopy handwriting, each cursive word causing recollections to ebb and flow within your memory. However, your eyes settle on one menu item in particular — a former personal favourite of yours. Feeling satisfied, you decide to place your order. As you speak, you notice shock dance across the waiter’s visage.

“Is something wrong?” you question Pierre, scrutinizing his dumbfounded expression. If you could, you would dissect the meaning behind every line etched into his features — examine the anatomy of his curious stare.

Pierre shakes his head with fervour. “Nothing’s wrong, per se…” He trails off, the aquamarine lakes that comprise his irises fogging up with a shine unique to someone who’s reminiscing. “It’s just… that dish is one of our least popular, but [name] used to order it all the time. Nowadays, the only person who really consumes it regularly is Monsieur Neuvillette himself.”

Tension begins to materialize within the previously-lighthearted air of the restaurant. Suddenly, the atmosphere feels heavy as the implications of Pierre’s statement sink in. Once upon a time, you had offered Neuvillette a bite of your food when dining here, and although he didn’t mean to insult it, he did say that he understood why it was unpopular. In other words, he indirectly insinuated that he didn’t like the taste of the dish.

Perhaps you’re overly-optimistic, but a part of you begins to speculate that Neuvillette only willingly ordered the menu item regularly because of the memories associated with it. It’s a shockingly sweet revelation. Despite your distance over the years, he’s still tried his best to keep you in his heart.

Bittersweet affection gnaws at your heart, chipping off pieces of garnet in a cataclysmic heartbreak. As if you don’t already feel bad enough about your attempted erasure of his existence from your memory during your time in prison.

You zone out as Neuvillette places his order. All you manage to catch is the fact that he doesn’t ask for a serving of your favourite meal this time around.

So it really was all for you.

As Pierre walks away, you turn to study Neuvillette, your gaze sharp.

“What was that all about?”

For a second, Neuvillette stills, collecting his thoughts. Then, he makes eye contact, a stare composed of crepuscular shades of amethyst.

“I must admit, my heart longed for you throughout the years we spent apart,” Neuvillette confesses.

Darn it. Why can’t he be normal for once?

Your heartbeat, once a steady rhythm, begins to become erratic. It pounds in your ears with an unmatched urgency, as if its ultimate goal is simply to leap out of your chest and retreat back into your ex-lover’s gentle grasp.

“I see,” you mumble, beginning to feel awkward.

Silence envelopes your own personal world with Neuvillette as you wait for the waiter to come back with your food. Neither of you can bring yourselves to keep the conversation going. Any small talk would seem disingenuous at this point, and the mere idea of pressing on with the previous topic is enough to make you shudder.

Thankfully, Pierre is surprisingly quick (although that may have something to do with the fact that you’re dining with the Iudex himself), and you find that you’re able to dig into your meal to distract yourself in no time.

It tastes the same as you remember. In fact, nothing has really changed, even with the passage of time. Out of everything in the entire restaurant, you find that you and Neuvillette have undergone the most profound transformations, your once-loving relationship eroding into a confusing mess of broken trust, dubious betrayals, and yearning.

(At the end of the night, you find that a miniscule ember of love remains alive in your heart — a weak crimson glow beginning to ignite once more.)

The journey back to the Palais Mermonia is tranquil, the night air soothing the anxious thoughts plaguing your mind. Stars beam down at you from above, shedding brilliant silvery light over the entirety of the nation. Likewise, the moon guides your path back to the grand building where you wrap up your investigation for the day.

Upon entering Neuvillette’s office, you immediately beeline for his desk, pulling the document that took you a painstaking amount of effort to obtain out and setting it on the polished wooden surface. Curiously, eyes the shade of dulled anemone petals scan the contents of the page.

Neuvillette reads quickly, taking in all the information contained within the file in no time. After a lifetime of poring over records, he’s become accustomed to processing critical points of knowledge efficiently. However, he freezes as his gaze settles on the signature at the bottom of the page.

“What’s up?” you ask him.

You’ve never seen Neuvillette quite so shaken up, his composure torn away from him momentarily. In the moment, all that matters to you is ensuring that he’s okay. Before you realize it, you find yourself reaching out to him, an evanescent flash back to the past in a present that feels so far-removed. A few days ago, you never would have dreamed of comforting him, much less allowing him to make any sort of contact with you. Now, however, you’re beginning to unwind all the hasty misconceptions you had harboured for years on end.

You’ve come to understand that despite being worlds apart, you were still at the forefront of all Neuvillette’s sentiments throughout the past few years. He’s cared about you from afar beyond simply spying on your life through Wriothesley for all this time. It’s time you finally start treating him right.

To your relief, he doesn’t refuse your hand. Instead, he intertwines your fingers as he continues to gape at midnight upon ivory, reading the buyer’s name over and over. Finally, the calm returns to Neuvillette, his vulnerability dissipating after what feels like eons (in actuality, it’s no more than ten seconds).

“Apologies,” Neuvillette says, his voice as steady as ever. “Seeing the signature of the buyer… confirmed a suspicion of mine. However, this revelation is not necessarily a thrilling one. In fact, I would say that it is rather… disappointing and tragic.”

You tilt your head slightly, wonder swirling through your thoughts in spirals of erratic questions. “Why’s that?”

The sigh that Neuvillette heaves out is perhaps the most dramatically-depressing noise that’s ever left his lips. Creases line his forehead, marring porcelain skin with lines that convey concern and dismay.

“This is the name of one of our current Marechaussee Phantom members,” Neuvillette breathes out. “As a matter of fact, he was the one who assumed the position of the victim after their death. In addition to this, he was the only member who was intentionally not informed of the dealings of the deceptive factory. I withheld information from him because I had my own suspicions. I fear that my judgement was correct. If I had informed him that we were looking into the facility, these records would have been destroyed long before we stepped foot inside the building.”

“Wait a second! That sounds way too suspicious,” you say, your voice coming out slightly more aggressive than you want it to. You flinch as your tone reaches your ears. “Why didn’t anyone look into them or at least suspect them?”

“He was the deceased’s lover.” Your breath hitches as Neuvillette continues his explanation. “His grief after learning of the death was immense, so much so that no one could dare to consider the possibility that…”

“That he was the culprit,” you finish. “No one wanted to believe the lovers could betray each other.” You nearly scoff as you realize the irony of you saying this to your very own ex.

Neuvillette nods as you exhale tiredly. Everything is finally coming together after years. At long last, you’ve found another candidate for the possible murderer — the real deal this time.

“I had my doubts about him,” Neuvillette mumbles. “Although tears serve as an effective distractor, insincerity shines brighter than even the most dramatic of theatrics. I have never revealed this to anyone, but besides his qualifications and honouring the memory of our fallen comrade, one of the reasons I assigned him to his current position was to maintain a close watch over him at all times. Despite the precautions I took… I had hoped with all my heart that I would not be proven right.”

“And yet you were, so what now,” you inquire. “Do we just apprehend him and call it a day?”

“I would be pleased if it were that easy,” Neuvillette smiles wryly, “but there are many who would still be unwilling to trust our claims without further evidence. Think about it — would you really want to believe that a trusted member of the Marechaussee Phantom is a cold-blooded murderer? The very notion is inappropriately ironic.”

As Neuvillette’s reasoning sinks in, you nod along. What he’s saying makes sense, but you’re unsure of how you should proceed from here. To your relief, Neuvillette has a solution, as always.

“Considering the fact that the perpetrator has insider information, he’s already aware that we are currently revisiting the case,” Neuvillette reiterates. “As such, his main priority at the moment is to cement your status as the real culprit behind the crime. All he needs is an ample opportunity.”

This is getting far too complicated for your liking.

“In order to catch him in the act, we’ll organize another banquet. It will be the perfect opportunity for him to frame you for another poisoning.”

Neuvillette’s logic is hard to follow, and as you pause to think about it, every thread of reasoning becomes lost in a jumble of nonsensical speculation.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you mutter. “He’s not stupid enough to assume that I’d poison someone right after obtaining freedom. That would look too hasty, so foul play would be suspected immediately.”

“And that’s why I think he’ll target you with his poison,” Neuvillette interjects.

Your frown deepens as his claims become more and more bizarre.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Let me explain everything,” Neuvillette starts. “In order to connect the two cases to each other, the perpetrator will likely use the same weapon again. However, this time his target will be you. As you pointed out, if he harms anyone else, it will instantaneously appear as though someone is eager to falsely accuse you of committing crimes. By non-fatally poisoning you, he can claim that you willingly drank your own weapon in an attempt to throw off suspicion. He can point to the similarities in the compositions of the substances used in both cases to frame you as the one true mastermind behind everything.”

The pieces finally begin to coalesce in your mind, forming a shaky plan that hinges on oceans of luck and protection from Celestia above. It’s risky, but it may be your only chance to set things straight.

“Your great plan is just based on endangering me in order to collect a sample of whatever that person is going to give me?”

“I understand that it may be difficult for you to trust me entirely after everything,” Neuvillette sighs, “but if you agree to my proposition, then I promise I will personally ensure that no harm will come to you.”

After the events of the past two days, you know where your heart wants to stand. In spite of this, your mind screams at you to reject Neuvillette’s idea. You’re scared — terrified. The thought of being let down by Neuvillette again induces a fear in you like no other. Despite it all, you understand that you’ll never truly heal if you don’t at least try to give him another chance, so ultimately, you decide to comply.

“Alright, let’s start party planning.”

Weeks of preparation lead up to the big evening, every passing day a countdown to a finale to end all finales. On top of gathering supplies, arranging catering, and decorating, you’re also drilled on how to act when the moment of danger eventually arrives. You train relentlessly to ensure that Neuvillette’s scheme will go off without a hitch.

All your tireless practices pay off. As you walk into the banquet venue, hand-in-hand with Neuvillette, you find that you’re far less nervous than you had been when the idea was initially proposed. The kaleidoscopic butterflies that once fluttered around in the pit of your stomach have stilled, and you’re utterly calm — exactly what you need to pull this off.

Despite assisting in the planning of the party, you still find yourself awed by the extravagance of it all. You’re not quite sure if Neuvillette has come up with an occasion for celebration yet, as he had initially stated that it was a surprise on the invitations he had sent out. However, you’re sure that no matter its grandeur, the sheer opulence of everything around you is more than sufficient.

Aureate accents adorn nearly every item in the room, and the crystal chandeliers above gleam as though they’re catching moonlight from the midnight sky. The music that envelopes you is warm, each melodious note ringing out in a sweet droning of strings. It’s a perfect backtrack for an elegant waltz.

Most noteworthy of all, however, are the guests that surround you. Not a single person is dressed less than exceptionally. Sparkles, gems, and sequins are commonplace here despite being everyday rarities. Shades of seafoam, cobalt, turquoise, and periwinkle surround you as if the fabric of every guest’s clothing is a component of a lavish ocean of luxury.

Everyone around you dons elaborate masks that obscure only a portion of their faces. It’s a masquerade — a way for you to conceal your true identity from innocent civilians without appearing odd.

You’re quickly dragged out of your thoughts as Neuvillette leads you into the crowd. Everyone is swirling around in a series of intricate steps, twirling to the song that’s resonating within the idyllic air of the room. If not for Neuvillette’s tight grasp on your wrist, you fear you would have been swept away by a tide of partygoers.

“Do you recall how to waltz?” he asks, leaning in closer to ensure that you’re able to hear him over the unpleasant discordance surrounding you from all sides.

“Why does it matter?” you shoot back. Although you’ve opened up more and more to Neuvillette with each passing day, you’re not quite sure you want to dance with him just yet. “It’s not like this is necessary.”

“If we simply sit on the sidelines and observe everything, our suspect is bound to notice,” Neuvillette explains, his voice hushed. “Their eyes will be on you all night.”

The words send a shiver down your spine.

“So do your best to enjoy the moment and act as though you’re simply here to rejuvenate yourself.” Neuvillette pulls you closer, yet he leaves enough room to ensure that you’re not outright uneasy. “Is this arrangement sufficiently comfortable?”

You nod shakily as words seem to stick to the sides of your throat. It’s as though saccharine honey is sugar coating everything, its viscous properties slowing both your lips and your mind.

With your consent, Neuvillette guides you through the steps of a graceful dance. Although he moves with tact, practiced sophistication, you’re the absolute antithesis. Throughout your years underground, you never saw the opportunity to waltz, and as such, you’ve forgotten every intricacy of the choreographies you used to run through with Neuvillette. Thankfully, he keeps you in line, correcting every misstep you make with gentle guidance.

You find that the tenderness with which he handles you is something you’ve missed. Even now with contrasting feelings warring in the depths of your conflicted mind, Neuvillette’s arms are comfort manifested in a physical form. At the end of the day, he’s still home to you, and maybe he always will be. No one else will ever be capable of calming you down right before a criminal attempts to poison you.

For once, you decide to take Neuvillette’s advice. You forget all the duress of the current moment, and instead, you allow yourself to savour the warmth of Neuvillette’s embrace. So much for not being sure about dancing with him.

Time becomes an anomaly. Although each moment seems to slow, drawing out in a montage of careful movements, the dance is over before you know it.

Neuvillette leads you over to your table, and you take a seat atop the rose-coloured cushions of a plush chair, allowing a cream tablecloth to drape over your legs. As you sit down, you feel him tap your shoulder. He’s pointing to a man clad in a striped grey suit, his mask adorned with midnight blue stitching and matching feathers.

It’s your culprit, Francis, as you’ve learned. You don’t intend on allowing him to get away this time.

Patiently, you wait for him to approach you and Neuvillette. You already know he’ll walk up to you with the intention of ensnaring you within his trap. However, you’re two steps ahead in this twisted game of chess.

Sure enough, a grating voice rings out behind you before long.

“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette.” Predictably, you’re met with the face of your prime suspect as you whip your head around. “And [name].” Right. He knows exactly who you are. Perhaps your imagination is weaving deceptions from preconceived notions, but you swear that you can hear a hint of a sneer in Francis’ words.

He spends some time chatting with Neuvillette, his dialogue consisting of flattery and exaggerated compliments. You’re not sure what your suspect believes he’s accomplishing, but a frown dances across your features as you continue listening in on the conversation. Any average person would be able to detect the deceit in his sickly-sweet tone, so the fact that he’s trying to utilize such a tactic on Neuvillette of all people astounds you.

You can’t help but wince as he makes blunder after blunder, your frustration welling with every sentence that comes out of his mouth. Finally, when it all becomes too much for you, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

“Neuvillette, I’m parched,” you complain. “Wanna go get something to drink?” Your own voice makes you cringe. Note to self: learn how to act in a compelling manner if you manage to make it out of this absolute disaster.

“It would be my pleasure to accompany you, but unfortunately I must remain here. Although tonight is a night of leisure, I still have matters to discuss with certain individuals, and they are expecting me here.” You find it fortunate that Neuvillette’s performance is more convincing than your own, his mannerisms and timbre completely natural.

“Oh, don’t worry about them, Monsieur Neuvillette,” Francis says. “Tell you what. I can bring them over to the drinks table for you and give them a few recommendations. I can promise you that I am an expert when it comes to this kind of stuff. My brother owns a drink company.”

This time you’re sure your mind isn’t distorting reality. The smile that he flashes at you is downright devious, assuring you that Neuvillette had been right about his schemes all along.

You take a deep breath before eagerly accepting his offer.

“Sure. Thank you so much for joining me.”

The walk over is silent, Francis’ bright persona dimming the moment you step away from Neuvillette. Instead, fractals of glacial tension seem to settle over the atmosphere, frosting everything over with a hostile air.

When you reach the beverages, you immediately reach for a cup. However, Francis waves you down.

“Allow me. I insist.” He picks up a cup for you, placing it down in front of the selection of drinks. Before you even have the opportunity to voice your preferences, Francis picks up a bottle, inspecting it thoroughly before unscrewing the lid. “This delightful beverage was produced by my brother. You simply must have a taste.”

For a brief second, Francis obscures your vision of the cup with his back. His hand traces a path to the front pocket of his suit. You know what he’s doing, so you don’t bother attempting to sneak a glance. It’s futile.

As he hands you the drink, you thank him politely. You’re careful not to spill a single drop of the liquid as you make your way back to your seat. When you finally sit down next to Neuvillette again, you continue bantering, each second ticking down and burning away into oblivion. The more time you waste the closer you draw to your goal. People are on their way to test the contents of the spiked beverage at this very moment.

Despite your attempts to simply wait it out, a problem arises when Francis begins to pester you.

“Go ahead,” he urges you. “Try the drink and let me know your opinion. I’m eager to take notes for my brother!”

In response, you shake your head with fervour. Sampling poison is just about the last item on your bucket list. As you continuously refuse, Francis begins to become irritated, his words beginning to crescendo in volume.

Neuvillette’s crystalline lilac gaze begins to grow concerned. Subtle moonbeams glint within his irises, reflecting his worry for your wellbeing. However, his eyes continue to hold an unuttered promise — an oath to ensure that no harm befalls you whatsoever.

That’s what comforts you the most when Francis finally snaps, lunging at you as he jabs a finger into your face. As he begins to speak, his tone is accusatory more than anything.

“You set me up, didn’t you?” he snarls. “The two of you,” Francis glances back at Neuvillette, who’s silently watching the entire exchange. “You’re not drinking the beverage because you knew I’d poisoned it all along.”

“Mister Francis, I would advise you to remain silent,” Neuvillette speaks, his tone authoritative. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in court of law.”

Unfortunately for Francis, he doesn’t take Neuvillette’s advice seriously. Instead, he’s hellbent on exacting his revenge. You begin to realize his philosophy is one that entails dragging others down with him when he pulls out an enchantingly-gorgeous translucent vial from his pocket.

It’s deceptively beautiful, its design making it seem as though it should contain nothing less than the finest divine nectar. However, you know how deadly the contents of the glass tube really are, and as such, a sense of panic begins to overtake your senses, overwhelming your head with countless scenarios where everything goes horrendously wrong.

Every diverging path vanishes into nothingness the moment Neuvillette steps in. A swift burst of aquatic energy fills your vision, and a cascade of pristine dewy droplets of water splatters your face as you close your eyes. When it’s over at long last, you glance around to find that Francis is on the ground, drenched and shivering as Neuvillette bends down to collect the vial he had been carrying.

“This will make for good evidence,” he notes, setting it down on the table alongside the drink.

It doesn’t take long for your backup to arrive after Neuvillette knocks Francis out. In fact, the timing of the poison-testers is a little too serendipitous to be organic. You’re starting to think that Neuvillette had planned to provoke Francis all along, but you don’t find an opportunity to ask before the team confiscates the drink and the vial to run experiments.

A crowd of onlookers has already begun to congregate, amalgamating in a curious frenzy. Everyone thinks they’re slick, but you can clearly see the way their eyes wander over to Francis’ unmoving form on the ground every so often.

“Follow me,” Neuvillette tells you as he takes off after the forensic team. Someone carries the samples of liquid that have yet to be tested, and a few others grab Francis and haul him off with you. You lose yourself in the winding hallways of the venue, each twist and turn serving only to further discombobulate your frazzled mind.

It feels like forever before you finally reach your destination. It’s quite ordinary in comparison to the sumptuous party occurring outside its doors — each wall a stark and blinding snow white and the lighting sterile and plain.

Francis is set down, and the forensic team promptly begins their investigation. As they labour, you turn to Neuvillette.

“Was it really necessary for you to use so much force when stopping him?” you reprimand him. “I’m grateful, I really am, but I think we attracted a little more attention than we needed.”

Upon hearing your words, Neuvillette chuckles. The sound of his laughter is a sonorous tune that you’ve missed hearing, no matter how much you want to deny it. Your heart races involuntarily.

“I was not intent on leaving your fate up to chance,” he says, sincerity weaving itself into every syllable he speaks. “Although keeping our operation a secret would have been ideal, I wasn’t planning to compromise anyone’s safety in exchange — especially not yours.”

Sometimes you resent Neuvillette for saying the most romantic things without realizing it. Every single rose-tinted word is like a shot to the heart, ensnaring your feelings in crimson threads of love. It’s as if you fall deeper and deeper into oceanic clutches, drowning — suffocating — as the weight of emotions hailing from both the past and present overwhelm you.

“We’re finished,” a member of the team chirps.

You feel the tension in your shoulders alleviate as both you and Neuvillette rush over to take in the results of the investigation.

“The two poison samples match the exact substance that was used all those years ago,” the analyst confirms, presenting you with the conclusions drafted on a sheet of paper. “With all the eyewitness evidence and the fact that he personally confessed to having connections to the very factory that prompted this investigation in the first place, it’s safe to say he won’t be seeing the light of day for a while.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief that you’ve been holding in for weeks. Your name has finally been cleared, and the real threat has been eliminated.

Above all else, justice has prevailed once more.

To your surprise, Neuvillette leads you to the grand stage at the forefront of all the festivities the moment you re-enter the main hall. Despite the pandemonium that had become the most prominent spectacle of the banquet earlier, people have resumed their lighthearted conversations and elegant dancing, swaying to and fro as if the alarming exchange between the Chief Justice and Francis had never occurred in the first place.

As people begin to notice the diminuendo in music and Neuvillette’s presence at the anterior of the room, the chatter gradually begins to die down, diminishing in a steady waning of volume. Eventually, silence consumes all, and you’re reminded of the sheer gravity of the Iudex’s aura alone.

“Greetings, esteemed guests.” The hall amplifies Neuvillette’s voice, each booming word reverberating and echoing off the opulent walls. “I stand before you today to announce a joyous cause for commemoration as well as to clarify the cause behind the commotion that some of you may have witnessed earlier.”

Whispers permeate the crowd as gossip and speculation begin to circulate. However, Neuvillette shuts everything down as he continues.

“The person here by my side today is [name],” gasps ring out in the silence, fragmenting every semblance of false tranquility that exists in the moment. “Yes, the very same [name] that was sentenced to life in the Fortress of Meropide due to suspected misdemeanours that resulted in an egregious death.”

Protests spread like wildfire through the rambunctious group of people gathered in front of you. Flames of disapproval threaten to engulf your entire being, stinging you with a rutilant aggression as you try to tune out everything.

“Silence,” Neuvillette commands. Thankfully, it’s enough to get everyone to settle down. “I apologize. For the past few weeks, I have concealed the true nature of the situation from you all. A while ago, I personally received a report detailing the suspicious activities of a company producing drinks as a front. Their more sinister schemes laid behind the scenes, as they produced toxins and other deadly substances away from the watchful eyes of the authorities. The composition of the poison they created was identical to that of the weapon used in [name]’s case. With this new evidence, we decided to reopen the investigation.”

Yet again, a shocked reaction is elicited from the crowd, and you begin to wonder how many times they’ll collectively gasp before the end of Neuvillette’s speech.

“When we looked into things more thoroughly, we discovered that the true culprit was Francis, a member of our very own Marechaussee Phantom. At the moment, he has been detained and is currently awaiting trial.”

Relief propagates amongst the crowd, blossoming in a pure flourish of unadulterated solace. A few people look at you with pity, each starlit glint of their eyes conveying their woe on your behalf.

Neuvillette waits this time, allowing the partygoers to mutter amongst themselves. When they begin to settle, he moves on to more positive news.

“I would like to thank each and every one of you for taking the time to listen to my rather mundane explanations,” Neuvillette says. “Now for something more lighthearted.”

He gestures for you to take centre stage, and you reluctantly comply, gazing out at the ocean of people surrounding you.

“[Name] has finally been proven innocent, and as such, they will no longer be required to return to the Fortress of Meropide. This feast has been organized in their honour as a celebration of their return as well as an apology for years spent in isolation.”

Chants of your name begin to flood your ears along with cheers and apologies alike. At long last, you’ve been absolved of the burden wrongfully weighing on your shoulders.

“Welcome back,” Neuvillette whispers to you as he intertwines your fingers to help you off stage. “You’re finally home.”

You hum.

“Thank you.”

No one has the ability to predict the future, and fate’s ordainments are always an enigma to even the most omniscient entities that traverse Teyvat. You have no way of knowing how your relationship with Neuvillette will develop with the passage of time — whether it will mend or fade away as the last spotlight upon the very murder case that brought you back together fizzles out. However, you think you’ll take a chance and revel in his proximity for the time being. He’s proven that he still cares immensely over and over again.

Perhaps with enough patience, your seed of hope will bloom and fill the abyss that had once overtaken your heart, transforming it into a garden of romance reborn.

The weight of Neuvillette’s words begins to settle as you realize that yes, you really are home.

Even after a desolate rain of bitterness and sorrow, the feeling of your hand in his is still home — home sweet home.

thank you so much for reading!! sorry for the long wait riko!

[koiir]

O.m.g.

[koiir]

Yuki and Karasu…got I love these two. AND shirtless…ugh (ignore otoya)

[pemiski]

𓆩ꨄ︎𓆪 — leaving your country won’t solve your problems they said, and yet here you are, in… wait, where are you even?

this issue contains fem! / feminine coded reader + reader wears makeup (luna) + chronically non-house leaver (rin) + jealousy / sort of cheating (leonardo luna) + stinking huge amount of money (reo) + a tiny little bit of objectifying (luna)

featuring itoshi rin, itoshi sae, leonardo luna, mikage reo, chigiri hyoma

author’s note this is me formally outing myself as a leonardo luna lover sry… he’s just so hot 😔 sorry for the wait! more at the end of the post

ITOSHI RIN — JAPANESE COUNTRYSIDE

Rin’s idea of a perfect trip with you rhymes with calm, practical, and smart. Not too far, but still gives the perfect amount of change of scene, it’s clear nothing can beat a nice little ryokan where the sun filters through the window. Plus, the owner, a nice old lady, offered you a traditional teapot from the region!

Her grand-daughter won’t stop running around chasing rom to get him to play with her — he’s asked for your help multiple times already, but you don’t really feel like helping. After all, you’d be lying if you said seeing rin play hide and seek with the little girl didn’t make your heart swell just a tiny bit.

Of course, it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that rin hates planes and the airport. He just likes trains better! There’s nothing strange about it, everyone’s got their own tastes, right?

ITOSHI SAE — SPAIN

He supposes he should make you visit the place that’s propelled him into the starting blocks of football’s new generation. And maybe also a few restaurants he’s been to that serves really good meals he thinks you’ll like. There’s also a shopping district full of your favourite brands so just maybe, they’ll make a quick stop there. Oh, and, turns out there’s an exposition going on that shows off a few things you really like, so maybe that too… come on, don’t look at him like that, he didn’t know you wanted to go, he just got the tickets for free from a fan.

Besides, this is only for the second day, your first day here is reserved for the city landmarks, so don’t get too excited just yet, alright?

What? You want to go meet his teammates? Jeez, maybe he should have left you at the airport to fend for yourself after all…

LEONARDO LUNA — BRAZIL

Showing off his altinha skills at the beach to make sure a bunch of girls check him out to make you jealous? Check. Keep going to the point where the jealousy consumes your entire being? Also check. Stare back at the girls so that you can’t help but come up to him and kiss the daylights out of him to keep those girls where they are? Definitely check. Yeah, that’s what he calls a vacation… (Which is not the case for the mothers who are desperately trying to cover their children’s eyes, which eventually makes you draw back and assess the situation you got yourself into)

He eventually feels bad for a little, thinking that maybe, getting you jealous wasn’t the best way to get physical affection from you.

At least that’s what he thought until you decide to go back to the hotel to get ready to go out again, and he gets to watch you carefully apply lipgloss in front of the mirror with your body bent over the sink… Yeah, this is definitely not stopping him from doing this again tomorrow.

MIKAGE REO — MONACO

What else to expect from the one boy who’s literally got money up his ass? Nothing less than the absolute best for you, no sir. Staying at the Ritz just to go ahead and spend lunch at Chez Hortense with an unforgettable beach view at Cap Ferret, go back to Monaco to enjoy the hotel’s private seaside perks and amenities, just to end the day at a bar in St-Raphaël with Reo’s family friends. The life.

You’re exhausted by the time your back hits the premium mattress at a little past midnight, and you wonder if you’re going to have to do all of this again tomorrow.

Then again, if it’s not something you want to follow through with again tomorrow, don’t worry, Reo’s got it all planned out. As much as he likes going out, he’ll order room service to get you eggs Benedict with fresh salmon on the side for lazy mornings, and if you’re not hungry, lounging in the hotel suite the entire day is as much of an option as anything else.

CHIGIRI HYOMA — ITALY

How about a cosy little Airbnb for this one? Chigiri is definitely naturally irritable, so a tourist hotspot or a busy city is out of the question. Torino landscapes and a nice breakfast made up of the groceries you gathered on a hurry before closing time yesterday definitely make up for a better vacation than he could ever imagine.

Hair care dates in northern Italy surrounded by plaids and pillows sounds like the quite the dream, no? Hair oils and lengthening treatments, masks and scalp protecting creams scattered around the floor, and you feel that somehow, you must’ve died, because how else did you get to paradise?

Eventually, these sessions will be followed up by an outing in the old city center to eat up some of the best pasta in the city (and show off your hair— but neither of you will admit to that).

author’s note part 2 as I said, summer has been crazy for me and I literally did not have time to check in 🥹 sorry for that! I will try to be more active but as you probably know, uni has just started again… anyways, enjoy!!

REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE REALLY APPRECIATED!

[koiir]

Ugh this is making me wish my break was sooner

[arlestial]

❝trick me once, trick me twice❞

synopsis : "A lie can destroy a relationship in a second", they’ve said. Isagi would be the first to agree, if he wasn’t lying to you so frequently.

pairing : Isagi Yoichi x genderneutral!reader •— Blue Lock

tw : Fluff (mentions of reader wearing a dress)

word count : ~ 3800 words

author-note : Hi !! It’s been a while I haven’t written for my favorite 🫶🏻 I came back from my vacations in Austria (it’s probably the prettiest country I have ever visited, by the way) and I’m glad to write for y’all again ! Thank you for all your likes and reblogs on my last post, I was very touched :( <3 Not proofread, I’ve been writing this while my car was getting fixed 😭 Reblogs are very appreciated !! Anyways, take care of yourselves ♡

ISAGI YOICHI’s parents had always told him not to lie. And when he was a kid, he agreed; lying was a bad thing. "It could hurt people around you," his mum said once. While growing-up, he obviously disobeyed, and lied; but he tried to stick to this old mantra of his, avoiding it at all costs. Telling the truth was far more beneficial, after all. Lying would only lead to complications, fights, and an overall loss of trust. And he didn’t want that, of course. Nobody would.

When ISAGI YOICHI and you got together, he quickly became a version of himself he feared to be, a version of himself he promised to stay away from. It was surprising how easily he was lying to you, and how trustful you were, believing everything he’d say. It was utterly frustrating — not because of you being too credulous about his words — but because he wasn’t feeling any guilt at all. Why ? Since lying turned into the most beneficial, advantageous and the quickest way to obtain what he wanted. People can’t be hurt about things they aren’t aware of, right ?

ISAGI YOICHI started his scheming with the weather. At first, he tried to convince himself it wasn’t too perverse, but he quickly realized it was. When you asked him to check the weather to see if it was hot enough outside this evening to wear a dress for your date, he replied yes without even looking. He knew it’ll be chilly when you’ll both get out of the restaurant. But he lied.

You shivered when the breeze hit the bare skin of your arms, goosebumps forming immediately after Isagi opened the door of the restaurant for you to walk out. You turned to look at him.

"It’s colder than what I expected. You said it would be hot, right ?"

Isagi approached you, a frown displayed on his features — he delicately ran his hand on your arm, feeling the soft skin under his palms.

"Yeah, I thought so too. The weather app’s forecasts were wrong, I guess."

You sighed, and at this very moment, he knew you had believed him. He smiled to himself, and took off his coat, draping you with it.

"Here. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold, would I, baby ?"

You hummed softly, thanking him; he even got a kiss from you as a reward for his kindness. Well, now, he could see you in his clothes and in a dress at the same time, which was definitely a success. He didn’t even have to ask you to wear his stuff anymore — everything was already planned, even when you were coming over.

"I was sure I left one of my shirts in your drawer, though."

"It’s not a big deal, babe. I have plenty I can lend you."

And now he had you, in his bed, curled up against him while you were both watching a movie, wearing his shirt. What you obviously didn’t know, was that you did have a shirt in his drawer. Such a coincidence it was under all of his…

ISAGI YOICHI’s lies didn’t stop at the weather. No, now that he was assured you believed him, he could continue his shenanigans without the fear of getting caught. You are going to eat something warm ? Wait ! You shouldn’t, you could singe your tongue. Let him take the first bite first, just to make sure it’s riskless for you to eat.

"Can I taste it ?"

"You already took a bite earlier," You replied with a lifted eye-brow, perplexed by his demand.

"Yeah, but I didn’t really enjoy the taste, you know. I was too busy wondering if it’d burn you."

"Fine. But don’t take a big bite, I’m still hungry."

"Of course, darling. I’d never."

He carefully took a bite of your food, with your fork — or chopsticks, depending on the plate — humming as he felt the sweet savour you were experiencing just before on his own tongue.

"It’s not bad."

"Right ? I love it."

He killed two birds with the same stone. Sure, he appreciated to eat, but it was irrelevant here. He ate from the same fork as you — so you two kissed indirectly. He was a bit ashamed to lie about not remembering the taste of your food. He did, but he wanted to kiss you. But who could blame him ? He just wanted to be as close as possible with you, and he couldn’t touch you directly all the time. It was a tad embarrassing to ask for kisses, too.

ISAGI YOICHI also helps you when you want to wear several necklaces at the same time. It’s plain frustrating when you try to fasten them without tying a chain to the wrong one. But don’t worry, Isagi has your back. He wouldn’t let you struggle by yourself when he has the opportunity to do it for you.

"They’re tangled, darling."

"They are ? I swear to god—", you groaned, ready to fight with the pendants around your neck.

"Turn around for me," He told you, and you did. Of course. He brushed your hair to the side, allowing himself to look at the ties of the necklaces. They weren’t tangled at all. But it wouldn’t be fun if they weren’t. He removed each one of your perfectly tied chains, before carefully fastening them again — his hands lingering on your skin longer than necessary.

"Here you go, babe," He finally muttered, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder, earning a smile from you. His favorite reward.

If lying was that bad, why did it feel so good ?

[koiir]

UGHHADHHHH

[cute-sucker]

your daughter hates it with her dad, satoru gojo, covers his eyes with his blindfold, crying out for him to show him his eyes. satoru just can't help but laugh at her small cries, shoving her tiny fingers in his face trying to pull off his blind. it's become a small game for her now. she doesn't understand that daddy needs his blindfold.

whenever he comes in, she wobbles over to the door, right behind you. her shy face is hiding in your white skirt. you're smiling at satoru who gives you a soft peck on the lips.

"nice to see you my dear wife," he muses, and then kneels down to look at his daughter. she's shrieking with excitement now, knowing whats to come. satoru laughs at her sudden excitement, reaching to tickle her sides.

"show me, strange man! show me your eyes!" she yells, hitting him with her paper fan. he mock winces, holding his arms as if he had gotten hurt.

"ouch! such a mighty warrior..." he mutters, and you bite your lip to stop yourself form beaming. the two of them are adorable together, and you watch your daughter giggle, her sulky pout gone in seconds.

she's still reaching for her, tiny hands swatting him away, "this is not daddy. daddy has pretty eyes."

satoru groans, "fine, fine," and then he uncovers his bind to smile at her, "happy now?"

"daddy!" she screams, jumping onto his lap, "i knew it was you!"

satoru rubs her back before looking back at you snapping a picture, "since when did she get so demanding?"

you roll your eyes, biting your lip as you try not to laugh, "she's your daughter."

and then he grins in that endearing manner before proudly looking at the fiesty girl in his arms. then he winks at you, pretty blue eyes sparkling, "damn right she is."

[koiir]

WAHHHHHH

[lovegasmic]

hiii! can you write heartthrob!gojo slowly realising that he finds reader attractive and has a crush??

ㅤHeartthrob !

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 cw. gn!reader, highschool au, tried to make it as Japan styled as possible, fluff and love confessions ‹3

Satoru sighs.

“how many times has it been?” Suguru asks, eying a magazine while Shoko nibbles on the edge of a lollipop stick, mindlessly staring at the sky.

“seven” she says casually, dangling her foot off the cafeteria bench table.

Satoru sighs again, completely ignoring his friends.

“eight”

what do you have that makes you so irresistible? Satoru is unsure, of course he’s seen you before, you were just a year younger and meeting you in the corridors was not unusual, sharing one or two chit chats along the way, perhaps casually helping you catch a book you couldn’t reach, you know, all things a friend does.

when did these feelings start to get worse?

used to the constant attention from all his classmates, Satoru was not the one to suddenly catch feelings, charismatic and kind is what he was, yet never felt anything towards everyone’s constant praising, why did he want to hear you praising him?

“you both are the worst”

“hm” Suguru hums, sitting next to his best friend who has an elbow on the table and his cheek resting on his palm, “you’re acting like a creep”

an exaggerated gasp comes out of Satoru’s lips, a bit of a relief considering it’s not yet another sigh, “i am not a creep!” he exclaims, hand on his chest as if his best friend just wounded his ego, even though the pose mimicked one of a gossiping victorian lady.

“yes you are, you’ve been staring at them for so long”

“my eyes happen to be in that same direction”

Shoko hums in the back, not believing a word.

“if you like them so much why don’t you just talk to them?” Suguru asks, chin propped up in his hand with a knowing soft smile.

“i don’t—”

a muffled bunch of giggles cut his words, blue eyes immediately landing back to the group of girls that approached him, all blushing and twirling their hair, “Satoru... can you help us with the decorations for the festival?” one of them asks, with wide grins and standing right in the front, obviously the leader.

Satoru hesitates, turning to look at you again but just finding the spot where you previously sat now empty, as if you held the answer.

the ninth sigh of the day, “sure”

you’re usually not the type of person to jolt up in any slightly scary situation, but finding Gojo Satoru’s face right next to yours as soon as you close the shoes locker was not expected.

he does not mention it, what a gentleman, keeping a wide grin on his face, “hi” sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, “need some help with that?” the blue eyed points at your feet and you raise a brow, looking down at the quite small bag of books you held.

“i’m fine, thank you” and if you see a pair in the farthest back, a black haired one and a brunette giggling among themselves you don’t mention it either.

“right” a slight blush coats his cheeks and looks down, resting his arm above the surface of the lockers, “so um, did you hear about the festival?”

“oh, yeah” you say, finishing to place your shoes in the locker, “i saw you helping the student committee”

wait, did you? what did you see? he wasn’t overly friendly with those girls, were he? no of course not, he’s used to the compliments and attention, but he never reciprocates any flirting, are you aware of that? what do you think of h—

“i’m quite excited” your voice pulls Satoru out of his stupor, “the gym was looking nice”

the gym..., “right! the gym, of course, not to brag but I helped a lot” he winks.

you laugh at that, and he goes speechless, mouth drying and brain stopping at the sight of your smiling face so close, have you always been so good looking...?

“do you want to come with me?” he blurts before he can even process the words, coming up his stomach and pouring out his mouth.

“to the festival?” a hint of hesitation flashes through your eyes, and Satoru’s heart clenches, “sure, I’d like that” and suddenly he does not want to disappear anymore.

“great, see you around” thanking his extremely long legs, the white haired is quick to make an exit before his heart explodes, dragging Shoko and Suguru who were still 'hiding' in a corner.

“you do know you have to wear the uniform, don’t you?” Shoko explodes Satoru’s desperation bubble with just a few words, turning to stare at his friend casually laying on his bed while playing with the dark pair of sunglasses.

“why didn’t you say that before?!” he hisses, still holding the two shirts he was previously attempting to pick in front of the mirror, “did you know about that too?” he acuses Suguru now.

the black haired laughs and raises his hands in feign innocence, “you never asked”

this time instead of counting sighs, they count how many shirts and pants Satoru pulled out of his never ending closet, rich family issues.

and right when it looked like the blue eyed was about to open another secret closet, Shoko decided to stop this never ending torture, “i can’t believe you’re my friends” he fakes a dramatic sigh and plops on the floor, somehow relieved that he didn’t have to decide what to wear for your non date.

“are you excited for your date?”

“it’s not a date!”

he was, indeed, excited, palms sweating while looking through the crowd of people gathering at the school backside where the festival was taking place, giving a few hello’s to everyone who stopped to talk or flirt, the usual.

and then he saw you, heart racing when you give him another of those beautiful smiles of yours, the ones that make him wish to kneel and pop the question, even if he was barely 18, he did not care.

“you look beautiful” you looked the same as ever, but to Satoru you looked perfect every single day.

a soft chuckle comes out of you, “thank you, you too” and he blushes again, eyes locked on you, ignoring completely the smug faces of his best friends, again, staring in the back.

and how Satoru wished it was just the both of you walking through the multiple stands, without any distraction of the people who greeted him, can’t anyone see he’s busy with you?!

although you don’t mind, or you don’t show it, but when the sun starts to set and the crowd starts to disperse he guides you to a bench away from the people, an arm casually draped over your shoulders from hours ago when he pretended to yawn.

“i want to tell you something” he starts, eyes locked on the mochi in your hands that you unwrap and guide to his mouth, making Satoru's eyes widen but quickly chew it down without trying to make you eat it, “i, um, I want to say I like you, a lot, and maybe... do you want to have a date with me?”

a very soft smile places on your lips, looking up at him, “wasn’t this a date?”

“i- i mean, well, it could... it could be if—!”

your finger on his lips quickly shuts him down, and honestly, what kind of power do you have to be able to shut him with a simple touch? “i’d love to go out with you, but I have a question”

“yes?”

“will your friends also come with us?”

[koiir]

I LOVE MY MAN