My inner demons won, I finally wrote something after so long (years)
I dangle in the leash, my longing for you. My hunger grows each time, you can no longer satisfy my needs.
Love is difficult for you and I, with unsung whispers flittered through the air, blanketing the entire household. Empty, cold, and dark. I see you enter the house, a loud creak resounding throughout the walls of this abode.
"M'Home..." You said with a sigh, you ate your words as you did so, a common thing you do after work. You run your fingers through your salt and peppered hair, the bags under your eyes felt heavy, and thinner were you than when you've last stepped out the house.
"Welcome back, I still have food there by the dining table." I bit back my worry, thoughts of him dying countlessly in the dungeon filled my head, it makes me sick to the stomach. But I dare not complain, the several evenings of us arguing about your work had filled our bedchamber with bitter fruits one too many times.
Silence echoed the house once more as you ate, I feel your eyes bore through the back of my skull for a moment before looking away, but I paid you no mind. If you want something, speak up. Simple as that. To expect me to know what you're thinking of all the time is just wrong.
At least he has the decency to clean his dishes.
I hear your soft footsteps, I slowly stood up as it slowly fades at a distance with muted clicks of a door. Our bedroom.
Our love has not faded, that I am sure of.
I followed you, pressing my lips to a thin line as I held the door handle tightly. What should I even say to him at this point? He doesn't tell me anything. I cracked the door open, its loud creak stole your attention from whatever you were doing. Strings and pins scattered the wooden table, small boxes littered about, both opened and not. You're still working even at home.
I walked closer, with each step felt heavier to lift than the other. I gently brush the strands of hair from your forehead, your eyes flicker to mine, tired. I kissed it, my lips pressed on your temple. A relieved hum came from you, only then did your body relaxed.
I pulled away, lipstick painted my worn out canvas. My eyes bore through your soul, and my heart felt so heavy.
I am a vulture, a scavenger. And you are my meal, as my thumb wrote circles on your cheek, I leaned in once more. I met your lips and tasted it with much fervor, your hands wrote roadmaps on each vein of my skin, for the first time in a while, you held me tightly.
For years, I have abstained. But this year, I could not take it any longer. My stomach churned and growled, this year let me devour you with no guilt, I beg of you. This year, let me eat you, let me drag my teeth across your beating heart.
I beg of you. Let your heart out for me.
There is a fine line between love and cannibalism, I think; there's a feeling, an urge to consume everything they are, and the act of offering yourself up to be consumed. As love, at its core; Love is consumption. And I have been through and experienced both.
I am a vulture. I stalk my dying prey, I eat what little meat they have and convince myself that I am satisfied. However, I am merely fed but not nourished.
I bite down your neck, please do the same.
Please, sink your teeth into my wrist and scrape your fingers against my bone, and please... Please tell me you still need me.
"Hey... You okay?" Your voice snapped me out of my trance, oh. It was all in my mind after all.
I shook my head with a small smile, softly rubbing away the lipstick staining your forehead. My fingers glided to your cheeks, I pressed my lips to it one last time.
"Don't stay up too late again." I whispered, turning my back away from you, my feet guided me to the soft cushions of our bed. "No promises, I got hired right after. I'll leave again by sunrise."
"I see."
It hurts, I am stuck in a viscous cycle and I am getting older. My chest feels like an old swollen piece of fruit split open with wet rot.
Morning came to greet me, but my husband did not. That I much I expected. And so I, alone stay in this house, emptier than yesterday.
I weep, I weep and I weep and I weep.
In sooth, I am a vulture, and thy flesh is no more. Verily, like unto every scavenger, abiding here shall but bring detriment upon me.
For a long time, this place had not felt like a home for years, to even call this a home tasted like bitter licorice on my tongue. I smiled dryly, "But you'd like that, no?" I whispered through broken song.
I stood outside our front door, my bags in hand. In the end, your love was the knife I swallowed willingly, for I am starving.
nothing, and i mean NOTHING, compares to joining a new fandom and reading through all the ____ x reader tags. itâs akin to opening gifts on christmas or recieving a package in the mail. actually, scratch that; itâs th equivalent of ascending to the heavens
Summary: Ryis decides to pine from a distance in order to be a better wingman for March. The farmer has other ideas.
Ryis is many things: A son, a brother, a nephew, a pretty good woodworker if he were to say so himself. A friend, and he tried to be a good one.Â
Ryis is also in love, although he would desperately like to not be.Â
Mistria is, despite its constant activity, a very small town with a very close knit community. Itâs one of the things that made him love it there, that and the quiet that let him hear birdsong with more clarity and variety. Everyone knew each other and everyone had some manner of bond that had existed for at least a year or two, so it made sense that the arrival of a new member of the community would spark interest in everyone. Ryis wasnât exempt from this, after all the last time someone new came it was him, but he liked to think himself a little bit chiller about it than some others.
Chiller than March, he means.
March is, as much as he likes to hide it, a pretty good guy underneath all his bluster. He just doesnât like change, when Ryis first moved in it took March a week to stop sulking and talk to him. It was only once Friday came along and Olric dragged his brother to the inn that he and Ryis actually got to have a conversation and that (Plus one or two of Hemlockâs drinks) was all it took to spark a friendship that would surely last a lifetime. Because besides being craftspeople and their mutual adoration of Mistria and its citizens, the quality Ryis and March shared in the highest quantity was their loyalty.Â
Which is why Ryis canât acknowledge his growing fondness for the new farmer.Â
You see, after the earthquake a lot of things needed repairing and the citizens of Mistria needed a distraction, so a new face was just what the town needed. Ryis, on his part, was eager to welcome the new farmer into town, after all he knew better than anyone what it was like to be the new member of a well established community. Besides, he knew they would be working together on the myriad of reconstruction projects, so it was only natural that they get along outside of work. It helped that they were very easy to get along with.Â
March, as is his wont, was not as receptive to this newcomer. No one was surprised when any conversation with him eventually led to him grumbling about the no good farmer who was only here for their own gain and totally wasnât going to last the season. Ryis, at least, was surprised when these grumblings continued past the first week of the farmer being there.Â
After all, the farmer went to very great lengths to talk to everyone frequently, March included, and usually once he got to know someone he mellowed out at least a little. But no, it seemed that Marchâs ire only grew with every attempt to make peace the farmer made. Ryis tried to reassure them that March would warm up to them eventually, (He had to, they were just too charming even for March to hate for long), but his reassurances could only go so far when March seemed to go out of his way to antagonize the farmer. It wasnât until late spring that Ryis found out why March was being so⊠like that.Â
For all his guardedness it only takes a couple drinks to get all of Marchâs walls to crumble like a termite infested fence, and once they did the blacksmith was the most open book in the world. There was no such thing as secrets with drunk March, so Ryis got a front row seat as March got to rambling about the farmer once more, and it instantly became plain as day that Marchâs blush that night was not caused by the beer.Â
Ryis couldnât remember a time March was ever so enthralled with someone. He sat there and listed out Ryisâ thoughts verbatim about how interesting and capable the farmer was, how helpful and hardworking, and Ryis realized two things simultaneously.
One: He was developing a crush on the farmer.
And Two: He could not, under any circumstances, let it continue to grow.
When was the last time March was so enamored with anyone? When had he ever been this animated when talking about something that wasnât made of metal? March had always been a happy drunk but this was beyond anything that Ryis had ever seen from his friend and he wanted desperately for that happiness to continue.
So he resolved himself to try and help March realize the feelings he had while he was sober as well as pushing the farmer in his direction whenever possible. It was easy for Ryis to ignore his own feelings, at first, after all the farmer hadnât been there long and was always running around going who knows where to do who knows what. Out of sight out of mind and all that, and when they were not out of mind Ryis could always find a project to take his mind off them for a little while. And when that failed to work he could always tell himself that once their novelty wore off so too would his unfortunate crush.
And then the general store was ready to be remodeled and all that flew out the window.Â
Unlike with the bridge Ryis couldnât do the whole thing alone in a single day, and aside from his uncle (Who he loved very dearly and wanted to enjoy his retirement as much as possible) the only person qualified to help was the farmer. So the two of them set to work and Ryis tried very hard not to think about how every time their hands touched when exchanging tools a shock would go up his arm and send his heart racing, or how every so often heâd look up from his work and see them so deeply focused that he fell just a little deeper in love.Â
That, he thinks, is what finally broke the dam and now when he aims the farmer in Marchâs direction (Because he still does, because he loves March) it is accompanied by a horrible pang in his chest that he knows heâll never be able to get rid of.Â
âItâs fine.â He tells himself. Heâll make do with what he can get and heâll blame the work on why heâs so flushed every time he joins the farmer on a project and when March can finally admit to himself that he doesnât hate them Ryis will look on as two of his favorite people can freely admit their love for eachother and it will be because of him and maybe the ache in his chest will get a little easier to live with.Â
The next time he sees the farmer, Ryis wants to hide in his scarf. Theyâre sweaty and out of breath and he can tell why when they hand him a stack of hardwood so big he wonders how they fit it all in their bag. They smile so wide when he accepts it and their face makes him want to melt. That doesnât stop him from inviting them to the shop, of course. After all, it's hot and he canât move all of that himself (he can) and wouldnât they like to sit down and cool off for a second after all that work? Really itâs the least he could do after everything theyâve done for the town (for him).Â
And now theyâre alone in the shop and the wood is all put away and Ryis would talk about all the projects he has planned for it except the farmer makes it really hard for him to think and of course Landen is gone and canât distract the farmer from him so theyâre just watching him stammer with those intensely beautiful eyes of theirs and Ryis realizes a little too late that he said that last part out loud.Â
Mortified, Ryis looks away and it takes him a minute before he can bear to take his eyes off the pile of sawdust they landed on and return them to the farmer. The sight that greets him when he does is not what he expected; The farmer is staring at him with a sort of half-smile and did they get closer? Their face is definitely closer to his than it was when he looked away. He bashfully tells them that heâs sorry and they should probably forget what he said and after a second they say that maybe they donât want to. Maybe they gave him all that hardwood because to them his smile is the prettiest thing in the whole town.Â
And every plan Ryis ever made to play matchmaker for March goes in the trash because hearing that makes his heart stop and when the farmer kisses him it is the most right anything has ever felt. And soon theyâll have to leave because itâs late and their chickens are still outside and then Ryis will have to grapple with the fact that he just kissed the person his best friend is in love with but for now none of that matters because after a season and a half of pining and pushing his feelings down it feels like he can finally breathe.Â
And as the farmer leaves, trailing promises to see him soon behind them, Ryis revels in not having to dread their next meeting any more.
TAGS / WARNINGS: gn reader, manga ending spoilers, reader and kabru dance
WC: 500
NOTE: really i want to write about how i want to be s****** by him but i don't think the kiddos are ready for that one
A kobold pup gives you a pink rose to toss into the main circle of dancers. The castle grounds are so packed youâre surprised Kabru manages to find youâtangled up in a group as you are. He calls out, voice nearly lost amidst the thunderous celebration.
âDance with me,â he says by way of greeting, reaching out a sun-warmed hand.
âOh, I donât know.â Youâre careful not to break the stem, following him despite half-hearted protests. âCan you handle me stepping on your feet?â
He gives a brilliant smile, the vivid blue of his irises glistening under clear afternoon skies. Itâs a wonderfully frightening rush of adrenaline to have your fingers tangled togetherâone of your hands kissing palms while the other clutches his shoulder for stability.
âYou were good about not treading over Marcille and Chilchuck,â he says, guiding your steps with a polite, but firm hand at your back.
âThat was diffââyour foot skids along a stray pebble; Kabru fixes your balance with a half-turnââdifferent. We werenât in a duet.â Itâd been quite entertaining for you to watch their dancing: Chilchuck balancing a mug full of beer and Marcille with her unique spins, golden hair flying.
âYou seem close. I didnât realize you knew them so well.â
âHuh? I didnât tell you?â you huff around laughter, confetti and cascading flower petals catching on your clothes. âIâve known them for a few years, but I had a different job when Falin got eaten, so we couldnât meet for a bit.â Kabru digests this information with a curious quirk in his brow and a small tip of his head.
The music swells. His smile returns, and you spot the mischievous glint too late as he guides you into a dipâbowing towards you with the motion. You cling to him with a yelp and come up wheezing. The distance between your bodies shrinks. It feels less like dancing and more like an embrace.
When the song ends, you donât part immediately, skin hot from all the movement and a fondness in your expression youâre sure he can see.
âI was supposed to save this,â you say, âbutâŠâ You tuck the flower stem behind his ear. Itâs a disarming sight: the velvety spiral of petals nestled in the dark swath of his curls. âIn my hometown, we give pink roses to wish someone a happy future,â you explain, finding it difficult to look him in the eyes. âManaging a kingdom sounds difficult, but Iâm sure youâll be fine.â
He's capable of surprising you, still, by lifting your hand to press a kiss against your knuckles. In his delicate grasp, he canât miss the way your fingers tremble.
âYou as well,â Kabru murmurs. âI wish for your happiness above anything.â
Your laugh is breathless. His mouth is warm. âYou should probably save some for the kingdomâs prosperity.â
His eyes meet yours, glimmering with mirth. âOf course, that too.â
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