🌙

moonlights & fireflies

[moonlit-island]

welcome to my galaxy 🌌

LANDING

Haraya/Raya, 24 ❄️

Milky Way (about me) | Planets (Masterlists) | Moons and Stars (Updates/Ideas)

POLARIS (recent works/updates):

❥ a moment of vulnerability (kita shinsuke x reader)

❥ thoughts for a thought (tsukishima kei x reader)

❥ vanilla flavored lipbalm (akaashi keiji x reader) (flavored lipbalms collab)

❥ Flavored Lip Balms Collaboration (ongoing)

[m1nsur0]

Lingering (Robert McGinnis Paint Over)

[xiaowhore]

happily ever after.

premise. perhaps in your last life, you wished for an extraordinary romance; a once-in-a-lifetime encounter, a dashing prince to kiss your hand, and an eternal love that could only be found in fairy tales. now, as you acknowledge that this story is not yours, your greatest desire is to remain out of the limelight while you watch your dearest protagonist twirl in the ballroom with the man of her dreams.

and just like every other time, fate has other plans.

word count. 7.8k

note. i honestly thought i wouldn't be able to finish this, but here we are. i hope you enjoy!

“The duke of Marechaussee is looking for a bride!”

The news spread far and wide, each new piece of gossip shared through word of mouth more convoluted than the last. But the gist of it essentially remains true—the reputable head of the most prestigious duchy in Fontaine, Neuvillette, whose abstinence from marriage had nobles speculating his intentions to practice celibacy, has now unfounded those rumors.

For others, this is an opportunity. For you, this is a cause for a headache.

Let's have a brief recount of your second life thus far. Ten years ago, you found yourself in a body that was not yours, one that was far too dainty and sickly for your liking. You were born to a powerful aristocratic family, your father bearing the title of Marquess. It was your greatest joy to find this new family of yours was loving and affectionate, bursting into tears of relief upon your return to consciousness the very first time you opened your eyes in this world. You were told you had nearly fallen to disease, and your parents spared no effort in finding the most knowledgeable doctors across the continent. Their embrace was incredibly warm, hands clutching your small body so tightly as if once they let go, you would be lost to the winds.

And, well. As far as you’re concerned, it isn't the worst life to live in. Your eldest brother is almost overbearingly protective, but he’s beyond considerate and cared for you greatly. Your second brother isn't honest to a fault, and you heard he often played tricks on you before, but ever since your worst fit of sickness, he's been incredibly careful in his treatment around you.

Life passed peacefully like this, adored and doted on by your beloved family. To repay their kindness, you wish to aid your eldest brother in the future and pursue your studies, but your parents assure you you don't have to do anything you don't want—including being bound by marriage.

For any other aristocratic family, it is a daughter's duty to secure a beneficial relationship with other houses of similar prestige. But your family spoils you rotten, and they hold no greed; why would they wish for more power when they already have everything they could possibly want in the kingdom as a Marquess family?

It is for that reason you are able to avoid the biggest red flag that could potentially lead to your demise: the engagement with the House of Marechaussee.

With how much you used to read webtoons and played otome games with the “I died and woke up in the romance novel I used to read” premise, you aren't all that surprised to realize you found yourself in that very situation. What did surprise you is the lack of daddy issues, and how easy you have it as a villainess.

You woke up in the world of “My Royal Darling,” an otome game with a plot as creative as its title. Cliche as it is, you ate that shit up back in your previous life and knew the story like the back of your hand. Your character [Name] Silva mainly appeared in the duke's route, a villainess who loved him deeply for his kindness and gentleness beneath his cold facade. As far as villainesses went in this game, you are certainly not the worst; the girl in the prince's route actively schemed against the protagonist and received a befitting punishment as a result. The worst [Name] Silva did was beg her doting parents for an engagement with the duke and use her sick sob story to garner pity.

All you have to do is avoid the duke at all costs, and you won't be part of the drama at all.

...That was what you thought before you went ahead and befriended the protagonist. Goddamn it.

“The duke is searching for a bride-to-be. Can you believe it?” Lumine giggles in all her protagonist glory, twinkling laughter as pleasant as the song of birds. Her etiquette is impeccable as ever, starting from her straight posture down to the elegant curve of her fingers as she raises her cup to sip tea. Her dress is not nearly as intricate as yours, the difference between your status glaringly apparent, but it's easy to envision her as a perfect princess. It would soon come to reality, you realize.

“And because of that, just about every girl I know is flocking to tailor shops to prepare for the social season.” You grimace, picking up a chocolate cake from the cake tower laid before you. You are currently having tea with Lumine in your rose garden, a bi-monthly arrangement where you shared gossip and traded information. “I fear I will be ridiculed for not following the latest trends soon. All of the shops are probably too busy to accommodate my order.”

“You must be joking. Who would dare refuse you?” Lumine shakes her head. “And even if they dressed up to the nines for the duke, they couldn't possibly compare to you.”

“I'm not trying to gain his favor,” you counter, poking at a strawberry on your plate. “I simply want new additions to my wardrobe, and the banquet hosted by the imperial family is coming up soon. My parents indulge me, but even I can't skip out on it.”

To avoid the love interests as much as possible, you minimize the frequency you go out to parties. Using your weak constitution is enough of an excuse to decline the invitations that pour out in the mail each day. But refusing an invitation from the imperial family is equivalent to a death sentence to your social standing, and even the protectiveness of your older brothers couldn't spare you from that.

If you have it your way, you absolutely would not go. The royal ball is where the official story starts, the prologue to a fairytale romance. All the love interests will be present, and the routes will branch out according to who Lumine will choose to talk to. Though you have no idea who Lumine will pick and you’re certain you were already ruled out as a villainess character ever since you made yourself her close confidant, you don't want to take on any risks. Alas, reality is unkind. You suppose you'll just see it as an opportunity to see the drama up close.

“Forget me, do you already have something to wear?”

“That is...” Lumine appears to be forlorn. “I plan to wear a dress I've worn before. We deemed it more favorable than purchasing a new dress I'll only wear once in my life. Besides, I doubt anyone would remember me wearing it already.”

She places too much faith in people. Nobles thrive on gossip—they find every possible flaw in everyone to gain leverage over them, and you've seen them ridicule Lumine in the game enough times to know. As the daughter of a humble Baron, she's already being picked on by the upper ranking ladies. If she goes to the banquet hosted by the imperial family wearing a gown that's already fallen out of trend, you have no doubt she will be regarded with derision.

But you won't allow that to happen.

“Do you have time this afternoon?” You smile. Lumine tilts her head in confusion yet nods nonetheless. “Let's find you a dress in the commerce street. We'll test out that theory of yours that they won't refuse me.”

Immediately, her eyes widen. She knows what you're planning. This is far from the first time you would be treating her. “No, it's fine! We don't have to go there!”

“Oh, c'mon, Lumine. Your birthday is coming up. Just think of it as me giving you your birthday present a few weeks in advance.”

At that, her shoulders slump. This is not the first time, and so she knows well there's no arguing with you once you put your mind into something. “If you insist so much…” She tries for a grateful smile, but it looks more guilty. When will she accept that she deserves nice things like this and so much more?

Just like Lumine said, you shot up the priority list of the tailor shop without much of a fuss. You make her try on numerous dresses, forbidding the tailors from telling her how much they cost if she ever asks. You end up choosing a pale blue dress that accentuates her good figure and complements her skin, and you manage to grab a couple of matching jewelry when she isn't looking.

Hopefully soon, you think as you begin to scarf down what remains of the cake tower, eager to go shopping. If she goes with the prince route, he’ll give her an entire castle. I should probably tell her about that cage in the basement from the yandere bad ending, though.

Lumine looks good in everything anyway, so it isn't a very time-consuming affair. You even have some time left to check out the merchant stalls before curfew arrives and you have to send her to a carriage back home.

“I don't know about you, but I'm craving some donuts.” You're raring to go to the best bakery in town, and Lumine laughs at your eagerness. Your family never looked upon fried food kindly, and you only have a chance of eating them when you're not within their supervision.

“Aren't you full from the pastries we ate earlier?”

“Hardly.” You grab onto your inconveniently long dress, prepared to race. “Come on, Lumine, we better hurry up before they run out!”

In your haste however, you fail to notice a child walking towards the opposite direction as you. She crashes to your leg, the impact sending her to the ground. You gasp, wasting no time in crouching down to her eye level and helping her up, uncaring of how the hem of your dress slides against the dirty floor. “I'm terribly sorry! Are you hurt anywhere?”

You pat away the dirt on her skirt, searching for any sign of blood. “No, I'm okay! I'm sorry too, miss!” The girl does a little cute bow, one that would normally make you coo if only you didn't feel so guilty. When she gives you a reassuring toothy grin, eyes shining bright with innocence, you can't help but pat her on the head with your clean hand.

“Did you get lost? Where are your parents?” You bring out an embroidered handkerchief from your pocket, wiping her hands free of grime. Lumine scans the nearby area and notices a man running over.

“Mister!” The child exclaims happily, pointing at him. You look up at his direction, momentarily at ease, until you actually see who she's pointing to.

Apprehension pools at the pit of your stomach. The man is the very picture of someone that children should be taught to avoid. Draped in a dark cloak that conceals half of his face, his attire is practically the standard getup for kidnappers in an abduction scene, the type that says cheesy lines like “hand over the gold or I'll kill your girl right now” and ends up getting decked in the face by the prince that saves the heroine.

Before you can say anything, the little girl runs toward him, her arms outstretched for an embrace. The man is quick to lean down and cradle her in his arms, reprimanding the girl for his carelessness. The severity of his words is utterly lost when he's too busy scanning the child's body up and down in search of any injuries to be intimidating.

“Didn't I tell you not to run? You could get into an accident,” the man admonishes gently as he uses the napkin in the girl's hands to wipe away the remaining dirt on her palms. “Not everyone is as forgiving as this kind lady. Did you apologize to her?”

“No, it's fine, it was my fault,” you interject, doing a quick curtsy reflexively. “I got too excited about buying donuts that I wasn't paying enough attention to my surroundings.”

The man pauses when he gets a good look at you, making you shrink to yourself. You put on commoner clothes to blend with the crowd better, but you wonder if you have something incriminating of your status on you.

“Did you get hurt?”

You blink at the unexpected question. How could bumping into a tiny child cause you any injury? “...Not at all.”

His lips curl into a smile, still visible under the shadows of his robe. “Then that's a relief. We apologize for this incident. I'm sorry to cut this conversation short, but I'm afraid we have somewhere to be.”

“Oh, of course!” You laugh awkwardly, raising a hand to wave at the child. “Be safe on the way there.”

The older man bows his head and the little girl yells an endearing “farewell!” as she's carried away by her guardian, spinning on his heel to turn to their destination.

In doing so, you catch a glimpse of the ornate sword strapped to his waist. A silver dragon wraps around the hilt, its scales gleaming under the sun. The sapphires in its eyes are a deep blue, the color as vibrant as the sea, a contrast to the dull shade of its scabbard.

You swear you've seen that sword before.

“[Name], we should hurry. The sun will set soon.” Lumine snaps you out of your thoughts, reminding you of the direness of the situation.

“The lady was really pretty!” The little girl—Mamere—begins to ramble as she fiddles with the handkerchief you left her. She's walking on her own now, but the man makes sure to match her slower pace. “I thought she would get mad when I bumped into her, but her voice was so nice and soft. And she patted my head!”

“My donuts!”

“She was very kind,” the man agrees, remembering the genuine worry on your face when Mamere fell to the ground.

“But what do I do?” Mamere pouts, staring at the intricate embroidery on the napkin. “I don't know how to return this to her.”

Her companion hums. “I don't think she's expecting you to return it. Didn’t she give it to you?”

“But I feel bad…” Mamere admires the careful stitching, her fingers lightly tracing its shape. “It looks so beautiful… she must've worked hard in embroidering it, didn't she?” Suddenly, her eyes sparkle with realization, an idea popping into her mind. “Mister, if it's you, you can return it to her, right?”

The older man blinks. “I suppose so. However-”

The girl offers the handkerchief to him. “Please give this to her when you see her, Mister!”

Conflicted, he stares down at Mamere, but he eventually folds when she puts on her best puppy dog eyes. He takes the handkerchief from her hands, his thumb brushing over the meticulous embroidery.

Only a fool wouldn’t recognize the insignia of the Silva House.

A strong gust of wind pulls down the hood of his cloak, revealing long hair the color of moonlight. The golden hue of the sunset basks his pale skin in a bright glow, his eyes soft as he gazes upon the handkerchief.

“I have a good idea when I may see her next,” Neuvillette assures Mamere, causing her smile to brighten even more.

All too soon, the day of the imperial banquet arrives.

Though whether she wants to see me or not is a different matter.

Natully, your escort to the event is none other than your protective second brother, but you'd argue he's a better choice over the eldest who'd probably glare daggers at anyone who comes within five meters of your vicinity. It's not even like you have other men in your life aside from your family and the knights at your service.

You intend to appear as inconspicuous as possible, but the nobles' curious gazes still follow after your shadow. Consequences of your actions, you suppose. You managed to dodge that eventful first meeting with Duke Neuvillette since you knew you would bump into him at a social gathering, but you had to go through the extra mile to avoid attending every party you could skip because the game was so goddamn vague and only described the scene as “The lady of House Silva fell in love with the duke the moment her eyes landed upon him at a banquet.”

Thanks to that, you’re rarely seen by nobility and thus attained a ridiculous nickname along the lines of “the precious flower of Silva” for being thoroughly pampered by your family, hidden from the rest of the world. Embellished tales of your beauty spread across society, and you can only hope they weren't disappointed to see the real thing in the flesh.

Damn it, you think grimly, the downturn of your lips hidden beneath the intricate fan you've taken to using in order to hide your expression. It's hard to approach the buffet table when they're all staring at me like this.

Truthfully, you’re grateful all they're doing is staring. If not for your eldest brother’s protectiveness, you’re sure more than a crowd of men would be vying for your hand in marriage, flooding your house with mail and wedding offers. Your second brother is not so fortunate, pinned by pointed stares from all sides by unwed women waiting for the right moment to pounce on him.

He pinches the edge of your sleeve before you can attempt to sneak your way towards the buffet table. “And where exactly are you going?” Amazingly enough, his pleasing smile doesn't falter even as he grumbles out his admonishment, still as flawless as ever.

“To eat. The catering is wasted on you socialites, no one bothers to take a bite just to talk to other people.” You’ve learned a thing or two from your brothers, and so your own polite smile doesn't twist into something more fitting for the tone of your voice.

His mouth opens again, definitely some spiel about how you should try making other connections because as much as Lumine is pleasant company, she will not be of any help to your trading endeavors, but a girl adorned in frilly lace tries her luck in hitting on him and you slip away when he's not looking.

As expected, the feast on the buffet table is untouched. You help yourself to a few plates, searching for Lumine all the while. As per true protagonist fashion, she’ll arrive fashionably late at the banquet and bring attention to herself when the grand doors reveal her in a stunning dress. Had you not intervened, she would've gotten a pretty dress some way or another anyway—it’s bound by the law of the universe. In the original game, she helped an old lady cross the street and she turned out to be the owner of a high-end boutique.

But time goes by with no sight of familiar blond locks, and you’re getting pretty full from the steak served. You’re thinking about going to your brother to spare him from the women when someone approaches you, a series of footsteps gradually becoming more audible—from a respectable distance, of course, but near enough to know they came with a purpose. You stop yourself from sighing, taking a moment to collect yourself and school your expression into something more elegant.

Your efforts are rendered useless when your jaw immediately drops upon seeing the figure of the very person you were trying to avoid.

Are you fucking kidding me?!

Standing before you is Neuvillette himself, the crowd behind him parted like the Red Sea. He’s finely dressed, crisp suit accented with his House’s signature colors blue and gold, and his long hair is fashioned into a low ponytail that rests on the side of his chest. His intimidating air rivals that of the royal family, a commanding presence that drives people to bow to him at once. Yet this time, the crowd instead unashamedly stares at the spectacle the pair of you must make, both parties that are often absent in galas now crossing paths.

The etiquette lessons hammered into your body makes you curtsy in a show of respect, starkly contrasting the crude expletives roaring in your head as your eyes lock onto a vague figure behind him. It’s hard to meet his eyes. “Good evening, Your Grace. I believe this is our first encounter.” But I worked really hard to make it never happen, you know?!

In turn, Neuvillette bows his head in greeting. “Indeed. I’ve heard much about my lady, so I am glad I have the opportunity to meet you at last.”

The smile on your face twitches, the fabric between your fingers wrinkling under your tightening grip. “Pardon?”

“Your older brother is quite fond of you. He’s been telling me stories of your family whenever we have tea.”

Which brother is he talking about???

If it was your eldest brother, he would at least take care not to harm your clean reputation, but his gushing about his cute younger sister could be embarrassing. However, if it was your much more tactless, stupid brother who still holds a grudge over you eating the last tea cake given by foreign ambassadors from a neighboring country, he’d probably tell Neuvillette everything that would make your “precious flower of Silva” title entirely undeserving.

“A… haha… is that so…” you begin fanning yourself harder, trying to keep your nervous sweating at bay. Neuvillette turns his head, looking around your surroundings.

“I believe you were escorted by your brother. Is he preoccupied?”

The corner of your mouth curls into a slight smirk. “Certainly. Women have been trying to pique his interest since the banquet began.”

At that, Neuvillette’s smile turns wry. You’re sure he relates to that a little too much, the poor guy. Even at this very moment, there are countless women observing the situation, attempting to find the right chance to jump in the conversation and steal him away. Though you do feel bad for him, you’re also wishing to find a good opportunity to leave without looking rude. After all, in the possibility that Lumine happens to like him, you’d soon be acquainted with him as his significant other’s closest friend.

Just as you’re cheering on a lady that’s beginning to approach the duke, he starts speaking. “If that’s the case…” Bowing once more, he outstretches his arm gracefully, offering his hand. The sight looks like a sparkling CG, and you’re not sure if the flowers surrounding him are really there or if you're starting to hallucinate. “Would my lady mind if I escorted you for the time being?”

Your fanning hand comes to a sharp halt. “Pardon?” you say for a second time, sounding more disbelieved than the last.

“I happen to be in a similar predicament as your brother,” his voice lowers to a hushed tone. “Though we haven’t known each other for long, I hope you can lend me a hand.”

Why is this happening to me…

And as if his pleading tone isn’t enough, he tops it off with a charming smile truly befitting a love interest in a dating simulator. “I’d also like to take this opportunity to be closer to you, my lady.”

--

You bite back the urge to sigh, lest Neuvillette think you thought he was an utter bore as a dance partner. Really, he’s nothing like that–there’s no way getting to see that handsome face up close could ever be boring. He’s a nice partner, actually; he leads the dance in a way that makes you comfortable, and you’re no dance prodigy, but you feel like you can close your eyes and dance just as well as long as you follow his lead.

Another point of thrill is the incessant glares you can feel on your back. Truly, Neuvillette’s more ambitious fans are terrifying. As the one in charge of the territory covering the boundary between the kingdom and the land of monsters, Neuvillette must be used to frightening creatures, but lovesick women must be a whole ‘nother terror for him altogether for him to ask for your help to avoid them.

Still…

He’s the only person I’m trying to avoid at this place, and now I’m dancing with him. Haha. What am I even doing here?

You feel him squeeze your hand softly. “Is something on your mind?” Neuvillette’s voice breaks you out of your trance. You look up at him, noticing he looks worried.

“I apologize. I wasn’t paying attention.” You shake your head, giving him a small grin.

He frowns. “It’s not that. If you feel tired or unwell, please tell me.”

“I’m fine! Very much so!” You suddenly feel bad for cursing him, albeit indirectly, in your head. You understand why the original villainess liked him so much, but you should avoid interacting with him unless strictly necessary… once this dance ends. “I must say, Your Grace has quite the number of admirers. This is the first time I’ve been stared at so intensely by a crowd of women.”

He hums thoughtfully as you twirl away from him as part of the step sequence, and he catches your waist with ease when you return. “I could say the same for you. Gentlemen we pass by have been eyeing me with hostility ever since we started dancing.”

“What?” You look around the ballroom, making a sound of surprise when you see multiple nobles eyeing Neuvillette with some amount of envy and detestation. You’ve been so caught up with the attention Neuvillette’s been getting that you overlooked your share of trouble.

“The son of the viscount in particular seems to be the most eager to ask for a dance.” He averts his gaze to the man standing by the buffet table who’s been glaring at the pair of you pretty hard. Farthest thing from your type.

“I suppose I’ll have to find my brother when this song is over, then.”

Silence ensues in the remaining duration of the song, but it’s a comforting one. You’re not much of a talker anyway, and it’s hard to think of things to talk about when practically everyone in the audience is looking for a chance to steal both of you away from each other. Eventually, the last notes of the violin are played, and you finish the dance with bows of courtesy.

“Thank you for complying with my request.”

“It was nothing. I’m glad I could lend a hand.” Your eyes roam over the area, securing the shortest route to get to your brother. “Our encounter was brief, but you were truly pleasant company, Your Grace.”

You plan to leave it at that, the heel of your foot already spinning to turn in the opposite direction. Okay, good. That’s just an irregularity. It’s too bad I couldn’t completely avoid him, but as long as we don’t get too involved with each other, it should still be safe-

But then you feel a gentle hand wrap around the tips of your fingers. You turn back, the initial confusion wearing off to shock. Neuvillette is holding your hand. Neuvillette is holding your hand. Slowly, he brings it closer to his face, and for a moment, you think, Oh, his eyelashes are pretty long, before you feel him press a soft kiss on your knuckles.

You hear a gasp. Numerous, you correct yourself, on varying levels of shock. You hope that god-awful dramatic one didn’t come from you, but you aren’t too sure because the only things on your mind are Neuvillette’s hand around yours, his irresistible smile, and the words that leave his lips.

“If my lady doesn’t find my company disagreeable, would you consider meeting me on another occasion?”

In your time living as a noble, you’ve somewhat gotten used to speaking in formal language. In nobility terms, that’s basically Neuvillette asking you out on a date.

“...Pardon???”

Word spread quickly throughout the social network. That’s within expectations, knowing how nosy nobles can get. By the time the imperial banquet ended, everyone in attendance already heard that Neuvillette had taken interest in a woman, and that woman happened to be the daughter from the Silva family.

Objectively speaking, it isn’t a bad match. Both families have something to gain from a marriage union, which is why the original duke from the game agreed to the engagement in the first place.

Subjectively, however…

“I’ve gathered you all here today to have an important discussion.”

Presently, you are situated at the family dining table. As usual, there’s a heavenly feast spread out on the table, but all the food remains uneaten because there’s apparently a more pressing matter at hand.

“...The duke has spoken his intentions to court our [Name],” your eldest brother says grimly, hands locked together and placed under his chin.

“You’re overreacting, he just asked me if I wanted to meet him another time.” You rolled your eyes, reaching for the garlic bread appetizer. He promptly swats it away. “Hey!”

“That’s basically the same thing,” your second brother argues. “Not that I don’t like His Grace, but it’s so sudden. Nobody has caught his eye until now, and I find it hard to believe you’re the first one ever.”

“Now you’re just dissing me.”

“I don’t see why you’re all unhappy about this,” your mother cuts in, smiling pleasantly. “The duke is an honorable man, one of the few I think are deserving of our [Name]. If he shows his loyalty and dedication to her throughout the courtship, we’ll see how well he’ll treat her.”

“That is if [Name] likes him. If she doesn’t and he continues to bother her, I’ll have to step in, status aside.” Your ever protective father frowns as he slices the steak on his plate. “Do tell us if he’s making you uncomfortable, honey.”

“Uh, no, I wouldn’t go that far…”

The only issue you have with the duke is that he’s a love interest. In the original game, him and your character would have nothing to do with each other if it weren’t for the original you insisting on being engaged to him. You don’t know what happened to her in the bad endings, but the situation probably wasn’t ideal. You thought as long as you avoided him, you could steer clear of trouble…

But if he’s the one running after you, what are you supposed to do…?!

“At the very least, you don’t dislike him, do you?” Your second brother cocks up an eyebrow.

“Not really, no.”

“Then hypothetically, if he invited you for a boat ride in the town today, would you go?”

“Hold on a second!” Your eldest brother interrupts. “We still haven’t discussed whether or not he’s worthy of [Name] yet, have we?”

“I thought we were past that.”

“We need to discuss it in detail.”

“Discuss what? The duke’s abundant treasury, contributions to the war against the dragon lord, or his reputation of being a gentleman towards all women?”

“...There has to be something he lacks.”

“What he lacks is a wonderful, caring wife,” your mother says. “And if [Name] is interested in the duke, we shouldn’t get in their way. I know you’re worried, dear. [Name] has always been stuck in the house because she’s sickly, but if a man wants to take her out to have a fun excursion, you should let her. His Grace is also very considerate of the people around him. Surely, if he notices her feeling unwell, he’ll take care of her.”

I haven’t said anything about wanting to go on a date with him though?!

“Fine. I don’t disapprove of him, but…” Your brother eyes you warily. “You best be home before sundown.”

A day passes. You hear three knocks on your door. When you allow the servant to enter your room, a maid rushes to you in a hurry, a letter sealed with the insignia of the Marechaussee House in her hands.

“Brother, I haven’t even received an invitation yet…”

--

The cake tower in front of you is magnificent. The fresh fruits topped on whipped cream are vibrant pops of color, and the frosting is piped beautifully in intricate swirls and shapes. The cakes pair well with the tea served, too, and you’re already planning to bring Lumine here the next time you’re both free to talk about the imperial knight she ended up talking to at the banquet. That route is definitely your favorite and you can’t wait to hear about the details.

Damn it.

There’s nothing wrong with the food. This pastry shop has been making its rounds in the newspapers for its delectable new additions on the menu, and they didn’t disappoint your tastebuds.

Though you have to say they’d be a lot more enjoyable if you weren’t surrounded by women eavesdropping on your little meeting with Neuvillette.

“This strawberry shortcake is delicious,” Neuvillette notes. “I’m not too fond of sweets, but they taste great. You should give it a try.”

“Oh, yes, when I finish this one…” The mango cheesecake is to die for, but it’s kind of hard to swallow with the death stares pinpointed at your direction. You hope the pastry shop allows takeout. “Thank you for inviting me to come here, Your Grace.”

“I noticed you mostly ate desserts at the imperial banquet, so I thought you would enjoy trying the food here.” He’s smiling, but when he glances over at your unwanted audience, his eyes gloss over and appear colder. “I didn’t anticipate there would be many people today. I’m sorry for that.”

Some of the women visibly twitch. They weren’t exactly caught red-handed, but it does prove that they’re guilty. Someone probably saw us here and told everyone else… Gossipmongers are scary.

“This situation is out of your control, you don’t have to apologize. And, uh, I wanted to talk to you about something, so your invitation came at a good time.” You fiddle with the edges of your sleeve, plucking at the lace.

Sensing the mood, the duke places down his fork to give you his full attention. “What did you want to talk about?”

Well. Here goes nothing. “Um… your invitation back at the imperial banquet… are you referring to a friendly chat or…” It’s sorta hard to say “Do you want to date me?” straight to his face. In the small chance you’ve gotten the wrong idea, you’d hate to appear presumptuous, so self-absorbed to think the highly-praised Neuvillette fell for you of all people. Lumine, you’d understand–the girl has a knack for melting the coldness of your heart and taking down people’s walls, and it’s why you became friends with her despite the odds. You, though… Nothing specific comes to mind.

Unexpectedly, a soft chuckle reaches your ears. You raise your head, surprised to see Neuvillette laughing. It’s possibly the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard in your life. When he catches you staring, he composes himself, but the dazzling smile remains on his face. “I was certain I made my intentions clear, but I suppose I’ll have to be more forward next time.”

A flush crawls up to your cheeks, burning hot. “No, I swear I know what you mean- just making sure, you know? I mean, I wouldn’t want to assume the duke is interested in me without knowing for certain-”

You stop yourself from rambling, feeling you’ve said too much. Fuck. Is it just you or is Neuvillette’s smile a bit wider now? You stuff your stupid mouth with the shortcake he placed on your plate. It’s good. Your acting is very much not.

He clears his throat, getting back to business. “I understand you don’t see me that way. I would like to court you, but if you tell me to stop now, I will.”

Isn’t he backing off too easily? I mean it’s great he respects my decision, but if I turn him down now, it’d probably be bad for his reputation…

“Before we… have that discussion, I still have more questions to ask.” You sip on your tea to wash down the sweet taste on your tongue. It’s silent once you put the cup on the table. Placing your hands on your lap, you look directly into Neuvillette’s eyes, searching for an answer. “May I ask Your Grace why you took an interest in me?”

The silence persists for a few seconds more. It doesn’t seem like he’s thinking of the perfect words to swoon you over; he’s thinking about how to verbalize what he truly thought of you.

He opens his mouth after careful consideration. “...It began as curiosity,” he starts, tapping rhythmically on the table. “I had my own reasons for turning down invitations to parties, so I wondered what were yours.”

You swallow. Officially, you turned those down using your health as an excuse. But your constitution has improved greatly compared to when you were young, and evidently, you’re almost just as healthy as any person. At the very least, you’re not at risk of passing out or losing breath in the middle of an event anymore. He must’ve picked up on that.

“I’ve heard about you from other people. According to their words, you were ‘the loveliest flower’ in the kingdom, with unparalleled gracefulness and beauty… but your elder brother’s stories suggested otherwise.”

I’m kicking his ass when I get back home.

“And yesterday, I met you myself. I thought you differed from how they described you.” He pauses, drinking his tea. “I’ve heard many say you were quite the stoic character, always hard to read. But you make a lot of interesting expressions behind your fan. You don’t hide your true thoughts when you speak, or perhaps you’re simply bad at hiding them. I previously found your brother’s stories unbelievable, but now I can see that the colorful personality he was talking about wasn’t very far off.”

??? “Colorful personality”?? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?

“...I understand.” You really don’t, but you won’t bother asking him for more details. Everything he said thus far lowkey sounds like a diss. “Let me rephrase my question, then.”

It’s okay. This isn’t unfamiliar territory, and you’re not stupid. Obviously, if you do different things from the original, the story will derail from its original course. That’s what always happens in transmigration manhwas, after all. You noticed that early before the plot could truly change. If so, perhaps you can control the amount of change that will happen.

You sit up a little straighter, eyes laser-focused on his reaction to what you’re about to say. “What are you after, trying to get closer to me?”

You know these tropes. If you give him what he needs, you can separate soon, no strings attached.

Neuvillette makes an expression of confusion, his brows knitted. “Your hand in marriage,” he says it like it’s the obvious answer.

“Not that! Is there anything you need help with?”

“I did say I was having trouble with the women at the banquet, but that was more of an excuse to talk to you.”

You sputter, “W-well, you need someone to fake-date or fake-marry then?” Fake-dating often leads to them actually dating, but if you’re careful, you can probably keep that from happening, right?

The furrow in his brow deepens. “I don’t want to use you to stop women from chasing me. I want to marry you.”

Goddamn it. Does this guy have his own set of dialogue choices and he keeps on picking the one that raises affection? “…Okay, I get it! You need something from my family! What is it? We don’t need to be married for me to help you.” You cross your arms triumphantly. That should do it.

Instead of agreeing, Neuvillette looks forlorn. “Lady [Name], is it really that hard to believe I want to marry you without something else in mind?”

Now Neuvillette looks like a kicked puppy and you’re solely to blame for it. Fuck!

You sigh, rubbing circles on your temple. “I just… fail to see why Your Grace is interested in me.” You’re not talking yourself down, nor do you have low self-esteem. You simply don’t recall doing anything that would make him fall for you at all. Logically speaking, there’s just no reason behind his actions.

Your eyes widen when you have a moment of eureka.  Maybe talking yourself down is actually the way to get him off your trail?

“I’m sure Your Grace is aware, but I have a weak constitution…” you begin your pitiful tale, coughing softly to prove your point. “I can’t work very long, and I require plenty of rest to function in daily life. In the case that we marry, I might not be able to keep up with the tasks the lady of the house is expected to handle. Rather than support you as your wife, I might merely become a burden to you. And most importantly…”

A lot of what you just said aren’t complete lies, but you did exaggerate them greatly. Even if he isn’t convinced with those, you still have a hidden card up your sleeve, one that’s sure to discourage him.

“...With my feeble body, it would be difficult to sire you an heir for the duchy,” you state firmly, placing emphasis on this one point. Successors are absolutely a requirement for each family, because who else will inherit the title and everything that comes with it when the current head comes to pass? For this, you’re not even sure if you’re exaggerating anymore. The future of the original [Name] Silva was left unclear, so who knows if your body will improve or deteriorate with time?

Neuvillette’s face becomes stoic. This much is expected. Any moment now, he’ll take back his words…

…As you’re thinking that, you feel him touch your hand once more, not unlike the time at the banquet. You don’t know when you started fidgeting with the napkin on the table out of anxiety, but he’s rubbing a thumb over your knuckles to soothe you now, gentle touches that verge on ticklish.

“I’m prepared for that,” he says softly. “I won’t spare any expense on your treatment, of course, and in the case your condition worsens, I won’t stop finding ways to make you feel better. But I would never make you do anything to push you beyond your limits. I’ll take on everything you can’t do. Eventually, we’ll need to talk about successors, but I need you to know that I won’t force you or put you in any risk. If needed, I’ll talk to my relatives and figure out something from there.”

???!?!?!?!?!!!?! He wants to pass on the title to someone who’s not a direct descendant?!?!?

Your mouth is agape. You’re sure your jaw-dropped face doesn’t look very pleasant, but the affection in his gaze doesn’t dwindle. Heavy. Everything he just said is so heavy. The future is scary to think about, but when he says it like that, why does it feel like you can lean on him freely?! This is no time to be getting swept off your feet, [Name]! Focus!

“Are you still not convinced?” He moves his face closer, concern in his eyes.

“No, I get it! I get it already!” You take your hand back, but his warmth still lingers. You hold your fingers like they’re scorched, yet pain is the furthest thing from what you’re feeling, and your heart flutters traitorously in your beating chest. “You’re being unfair. If you go that far, there’s no way anyone could turn you down.”

The smile returns to his face as he takes his hand back as well. “I take it that you’ve given me permission to court you, then?”

!!! Sly! That’s what this person is, sly! He knew what he was doing!

You make a face. “Ugh… maybe persistent guys are too dangerous for me…”

“Lady [Name], you’re speaking your thoughts out loud again. Not that I dislike it, though.”

The duke of Marechaussee has found a potential bride.

“I-! Nevermind…”

That’s putting it lightly because everyone that has heard of them is certain that they’ll marry in the near future. With the amount of flirting the two have done (leaked by the eavesdropping jealous-admirers-turned-shippers), it’s a mystery why they haven’t made the announcements yet.

Notably, the pair of them frequented restaurants the most, visiting the shops highly regarded for their sweets. Chatting in slow boat rides seem to also be one of their most favored dates, and at one particularly disastrous time when the boat tipped over by accident, the duke had fretted over the lady while she merely laughed in joy, insisting she was fine and her partner was being too much of a worrywart. Both started to attend more gatherings, almost never spotted to be straying from each other, and it was more or less their indirect way of telling the public eye they were exclusive.

Their romantic dates are all common knowledge to anyone nosy by now, but there’s one thing they absolutely cannot spread.

“Don’t tell this to anyone,” a woman whispered to her loyal companion. “And I truly mean that this time. Don’t do it.”

“What is it? Is it something really bad? ‘Some high-ranking noble has a secret love child’ bad?”

“No!” This time, the woman took care to whisper her words even quieter, “I heard the duke requested a jeweler to craft an engagement ring…!”

Things I couldn’t fit into the fic:

Neuvillette already met you when you were younger. In one of the first gatherings you attended, you talked to each other because you were near in age. However, you collapsed due to your constitution and he was the one to alert the adults and carry you to a sick room. He used a handkerchief embroidered with his initials to wipe away the blood you threw up, and you hid it away in your bedside table after cleaning it in hopes of returning it (if he still wanted it back, soiled once and all) when you saw him again. Unfortunately, your family members were worried and didn’t let you outside for a long time to avoid having you perform strenuous activities, and you didn’t recognize him at a later gathering when he tried striking a conversation with you. He noted you were slowly getting better, but wondered why you weren’t attending parties if you were relatively well now.

You probably interacted with him when he was pretending to be a normal commoner several times already before your “first meeting.”

You didn’t fall for him immediately, but it was a slow progression until you forgot about the whole ‘I’m in an otome game world’ thing completely.

[lavendermin]

The palpable intimacy of Jing Yuan seating you on his lap to gently apply your blush and lipstick. Forced to look at him and be still and feel the warmth he radiates beneath you. His touch is gentle and tender despite the way his broad body seems to engulf yours. And after his delicate work is done you peck him on the lips— a beautiful rouge staining them now.

The grin he wears only indulges you further.

[hinakenthrowaway]

[leehama]

HELLO could I interest you in a (non-) rom-com about two aroace coworkers who, after an accidental meet-cute outside of work, mistakenly believe the other is in love with them?

🌟 And Another Lovely Day 🌟 is my new comic project that I'll start publishing soon (hopefully in the next week or so)!

[moonlit-island]

OMG LET’S GOOOO!!

[luvether]

A GUARDIAN OR TWO ੭୧. . . Feixiao entrusts two of her most trusted people to look after you.

jiaoqiu and moze + gn!reader. trio shenanigans, them being overprotective, princess treatment (if you squint so hard), misunderstandings and arguing, attempted assassination, hurt with comfort, platonic-ish dynamic with semi-romantic gestures, the line is very blurry. worldbuilding for Xianzhou Yaoqing. fluff and angst! content. this is written before version 2.5. [6.5k wc]

author’s note! This might be extremely ooc due to the lack of info and interactions of them but honestly this became self-indulgence, was listening to Look after you by the fray.

HAVING THE MERLIN’S CLAW as your older sister is both a blessing and a curse, but it also meant being the weak link, the vulnerable dent on her otherwise iron-clad armor, and having targets on your head on occasions, it’s nothing new in your routine. Compared to Feixiao—the fierce and righteous Madam General—you were more reclusive, colder. You prefer scrolls and parchments over military regiments, you like writing about Feixiao’s military missions instead, taking account of the Verdant Knights’ supplies of weapons, keeping tabs on the IPC’s transfers on technology for combat than being under the honeyed heat training blood, sweat and tears till weary limbs become knotted and hard with purpose.

You were quite literally, the opposite of Feixiao, which sparked heavy rumors of your incompetence in combat.

The Arbiter-General of the Yaoqing born for her military prowess has a sibling who doesn’t even know how to wield a sword.

The lesser one in a Xianzhou ship that prides itself to be the master of its many war achievements.

The nasty conversations are never ending, so to dilute the backhanded comments of people questioning your status and reputation, you direct your focus to dealing with the dirty work, the more complicated, nitty-gritty politics of Xianzhou Yaoqing, the acidic talk about you had lessen since then but taking up the mantle into the political side of everything also makes you susceptible to more external enemies outside of the battlefield. Sometimes, that worries Feixiao.

So it comes as no surprise when she assigns her two most trusted people to watch over you from time to time—the famed Jiaoqiu from the Alchemy Commision and even the Shadow Guard himself, Moze shows up to look after you.

The first encounter between you three was…uncanny and awkward.

It happened just as you were dropping off papers to Feixiao’s office, surprised to see two men as you entered. No wonder why the atmosphere had a hint of spice hanging in the air.

You’ve met Sir Jiaoqiu a handful of times, he is your sister’s doctor after all, but never once have you exchanged more words with him than a quick good day doctor or a thank you for looking after her as usual. He’s still the same gentle-eyed, kind smiling counselor as you’d remember.

Sir Moze on the other hand, was someone you barely saw in person but heard more with words from Feixiao herself. He’s taller than you anticipated, scarier even. He had his arms crossed, back against the farthest wall of the room.

“I believe you’ve heard about Jiaoqiu and Moze, right?”

“From you, yes.” You flicker your gaze wearily at the two. “What of them?”

“How would you like to have these two guard you?” Feixiao is leaning close, chin on her palms, blue eyes twinkling.

If you hadn’t deposited the files on the desk, you would’ve dropped it all on the clean tiles beneath you. “Pardon me, Madam General but,” you’re trying to keep your tone cool, less offensive. “Why?”

“You don’t think I wouldn't find out about the little incident that happened in Verdant Harbor?”

You stiffen then. “That was due to my ignorance, it won’t happen again.”

“An assassination attempt on you is not something that you can just brush off and say, it won’t happen again.” Feixiao frowns, then she gestures to the two again.

“Just until I can properly assign someone reliable to you, these two will look after you when I’m busy.”

“General, but—“

“Your constant refusal to the General’s order makes it seem like you don’t want us around, little scribe.”

From the corner of your eye, Jiaoqiu speaks for the first time today, his syrupy tone brushing the shell of your ear. You hadn’t noticed him getting close, popping his head in front of your face, pink ears perking.

You lean back from his face, exhale. “Sir Jiaoqiu, you are my sister’s companions, not mine.”

“It doesn’t mean we can’t be acquaintances, no?”

“I’m too busy to have guards following me around.” You cross your arms. “I check on Yaoqing’s inventory everyday, write reports the entire afternoon and pay visits to IPC delegates. I don’t want to think about yours and Sir Moze’s well-being while I'm working.”

“You don’t have to.”

From the farthest wall, Moze speaks his opinion on the matter, his deep velvet pupils unmoving on you. “You can completely ignore our existence, for all I care. The General ordered this because your life was threatened, it’s no use arguing over the factuality of the issue at hand.”

His words felt like a stab through your chest, you didn’t expect his voice to be so…gravelly and ice cold. Complaints melt away on your tongue, your slump shoulders show your defeat on the matter, which prompted a smile on Jiaoqiu’s delicate face, peaks of butterscotch eyes grinning at you.

“That’s three against one.”

And that’s how the arrangement started. You had left that office with paper-free hands and two distinguished gentlemen in tow, following your foot falls as you left Feixiao’s great seat. You were almost convinced the two would stay quiet the majority of your journey but not even a minute in, Jiaoqiu pops his head in your view, again.

“So, what’s the schedule for today?” The healer should really refrain from leaning in close to your face when he converses with you. Your tongue is thick with childish rebuttals however you quell it down, pin your shoulders with professionalism, pace your steps faster.

“I have to meet again with an incessant customer in Caelorium Venti Pavilion.”

Jiaoqiu tilts his head again, it’s funny to see his ears tip up or down, matching his emotions—Feixiao’s ears do that too. “Incessant, you say?”

“He’s been complaining about some clauses in our shipment agreement. Some folks from the Artisanship commission and I have been trying to resolve this dispute peacefully but he’s being very difficult. This is our fourth day trying to convince him.”

Pink ears droop, floppy-eared. “I heard about this briefly two days ago, I can’t believe it’s still going.”

“You’d be surprised how relentless some people can be.”

“Do you wish for it to be resolved?” Moze speaks up from your other side.

You turn to him, puzzlement sewn between your brows. “Yes, I’d want this to be done already.” What’s he thinking?

“Then, allow me to handle it swiftly.” What does that even mean?

Jiaoqiu sighs beneath his red fan, a pointed look directed at the taller man. “Is assassination techniques all you think about? I don’t think being aggressive will help our little scribe here.” Being aggressive??

Moze frowns. “And if we don’t do anything, this will still be an issue till tomorrow—“

“No, sir Jiaoqiu is correct. Sir Moze you are prohibited from being violent with any of my clients. You are here to be my bodyguards not paid assassins. I can handle my work on my own.”

Moze’s frown deepens, he mulls over your scolding then nods his head reluctantly, “Very well.”

You sigh, fingers pressing onto your temple. It’s not even a few fifty steps from the office and you’re already having a headache.

The walk towards the destination is filled with Jiaoqiu's chatters on his recent discovery on remedies for stomach ache, you half-listened, he doesn’t seem to mind the lack of response. Moze had disappeared like a wisp of smoke from your side, but you know he was still there somewhere, his heavy foot falls is something he made known to you, a synchronous thud thud thud when your feet hit the cement floor. You thought it was odd to have someone follow you like a shadow. When you reach the Pavilion, you cannot help but sour at the distant arguments already peppering your ears. The healer’s ramble seems to ebb at the disruptions and Moze’s footfalls go silent.

“Seems like they are having an engaging debate.” Jiaoqiu comments at the scene. “Do you deal with this everyday?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Alright then.” Jiaoqiu’s hand lands gently on your back, giving you an encouraging push. “We’ll be here, don’t mind us so go do your work.”

You glance at him, under his red fan he nods at you. You turn without a single word, the more you approach the scene the more the tangle mess of arguments fall upon your ears,

“I told you my decision once and I'll tell it again for the hundredth time but I won’t change my mind nor am I gonna agree with your ridiculous clauses!”

“Sir Zhenye, I understand your concerns. But this clause is for the protection of all shipments, this is a law for Yaoqing, we are in no position to change it even with your demands.”

“Then call your manager!” When your associates sigh, you knew their banter wasn’t going anywhere.

“Mr. Zhenye, this is the only thing we can provide for you and your shipment no matter how much you are displeased with it.”

You see the faces of the Artisanship Associates perk up at your presence, you drag a chair back and take a seat with them.

The man scoffs. “I question the flexibility of Yaoqing’s customer service, you are lacking, I don’t even know why I am still arguing with you on this.”

“But—” You raise a hand at your companions. Yeah, this won’t do. You can sit here and argue all you want, but you have other things to handle.

“Then, I’m sorry our services aren’t to your liking. We may end our discussion here since we cannot seem to come into a mutual agreement, you may take your shipments with you, maybe the other Xianzhou ships will be more to your liking.” You stand. ‘Have a good day—”

“Aren’t you the Merlin’s Claw kin?”

You stop in your tracks, Zhenye crosses his arms, an ireful glance directed at you. “Yeah, I have heard of you. You were once an orphan during one of Yaoqing’s many battles with the Denizens of Abundance. Just because the Merlin’s Claw has found and decided to take you in, you think you have the right to look down on people, huh?”

No, that wasn’t the case. Talks like this have been plentiful, you had gotten used to it by now but you cannot help the crawl of shame flushing through your skin, for him to downplay you and your efforts in front of Artisanship Commision representatives—in front of Feixiao’s two most trusted retainers? How shameful. You wondered what they would think of you, you had failed to convince a customer and now you’re being told off in public, they might think you are unworthy, they might even agree with Zhenye.

“You think you’re someone special?” Zhenye continues the spur, deepening the thorn. “Compared to the Madam General, you are lacking—”

“And our smart little scribe had already ended the discussion a few moments ago. If you continue all this yelling, kind sir, I might report you to the Knights for verbal harassment.” A body reveals itself, blocking you from Zhenye’s view. Jiaoqiu’s closed-eye smile replaced with a malicious look.

“W-who” Zhenye is stunned at the threat. ‘Who are you supposed to be, I am An Zhenye, the son of the famous merchant family An. Who do you think you are to—”

“Then, I might just need to have a word with your family—” Jiaoqiu’s smile is cynical. You divert your attention from the scene when another large palm rests upon your shoulder, you glance sideways and see Moze standing there, his velvet pupils soften under the meek afternoon light.

“you alright?” He flickers his gaze in front where Jiaoqiu is now in a winning argument with a stuttering Zhenye. “It’s gonna be fine now, he’s good at dealing with difficult people as well. That Zhenye will agree with the shipment agreement just like intended, And...”

You watch him pause, you furrow your bows up at him. “And don’t take his words to heart, he’s saying nonsense. The General treasures you the most, she never thought you were anything but.”

A weird feeling tickles your chest. You were fine with the insults, it did not offend you—but those two, they almost defended you in an instant, it’s weird. “Thank you, Sir Moze.”

“Just, call us Jiaoqiu and Moze, sir is too formal for our arrangement.” You hummed at his statement.

The afternoon ended with Zhenye agreeing with the clauses begrudgingly, just like Moze had mentioned. The sky starts to dim when you leave the Pavillion, silence overbearing the cool breeze, the night hue melting on three of your figures as you continue walking.

Someone pats your shoulder, stirring you from your thoughts. Jiaoqiu’s smiling again, back at the Pavillion, it was your first time seeing him look at someone so coldly, it was unbecoming for a doctor but remembering how he had come to your defense renders you speechless.

“Are you hungry?”

“What’s with the question?” There’s an unexplained grin on his face.

“How about you come by my place for dinner? After all, eating a good meal can uplift any type of mood. It would taste even better after a long day’s work.”

You were ready to decline, the words were at the tip of your tongue, however Jiaoqiu adds. “The General mentions how you’d usually eat your meals alone, that won’t do, you cannot object to this.”

You turn to look at Moze, silently praying he would help you, his countenance suggests that he spends his free time lonesomely, just like you. He sees you looking at him and immediately says,

“He cooks well.”

That wasn’t what you wanted him to say.

You kick a pebble on the road, grumbling under your breath. But instead of dislike, all you feel was warmth at the invitation to dinner. It has been awhile since you ate around a comfortable crowd.

“Alright.” You finally say. “Only because you helped me today.”

Jiaoqiu laughs, Moze nods his head, and a smile sits on your face for the first time today.

“So, how does it feel to have them as your bodyguards today?” Feixiao raises the question that night, your fingers stop combing through her silver locks, you thought for a while.

“They were okay.”

“Just okay?”

You thought about it, wanted to say something else, dropped it, then you thought about it again, narrowed your eyes, dropped it finally. “Just okay.”

Feixiao’s hair tangles through your fingers softly, ridding her long ponytail and letting her hair scatter down her back, you raise a question of your own, “I wonder how you manage to put up with them.” She almost leans her weight towards you, her blue eyes hiding a gentle smile.

“Why, did Jiaoqiu tease you the whole day?”

“Not really.” You avoid her stare. “He cooked me dinner though.”

She laughs at that. “Well, it’s not easy but I can assure you those guys aren’t bad to be around with.”

“I see.” Your tone sounded doubtful, you didn’t mean for it to sound like that spilling between your tongue, Feixiao picks up on this quickly and her smile falters a little.

“You know it’s my fault that people are talking ill of you,”

Ah, so the news had reached her ears. “I’m guessing Jiaoqiu personally told you?”

“It was Moze, actually.”

“Well, good to know he talks then.”

Feixiao sighs, “The point is, you shouldn’t be subjected to any of these comments and I should’ve paid more attention to it and dealt with it long before, I’m sorry—“

“Stop it sis. Don’t…don’t apologize. It’s fine, it doesn’t bother me as much as you thought it does.” You say. “I didn’t want to bother you with such trivial matters, I can handle things on my own too you know, I’m no longer a little kid.”

A long pause. “I know.”

“You say that but you had assigned two of your trusted retainers to be my bodyguards, you know a simple knight from the Verdant Knight unit will be enough, so why them specifically?”

Feixiao and you had sat in front of each other, your mattress creaking under both your weight, her ears had turned floppy-eared. “You know, you’ve always been so…distant. A part of that is my fault, it must’ve been really lonely for you to rely on yourself for all this time whenever I’m away. I just wanted you to relax for a bit, at least if it’s not only for them, but for me.”

Her hand lands on your shoulder, tugging you to her in a warm embrace. Feixiao kisses your temple. “It’s time to trust others again. And those two can help.”

You have mulled over Feixiao’s words but cannot exactly pinpoint her clear intention. After that, Jiaoqiu and Moze slot into your routine so seamlessly, your lonely afternoon writing reports became lunch breaks eating Jiaoqiu’s cooking with him and Moze. You have grown to get used to Moze’s ebb and flow, his constant appearances and disappearances, materializing from the shadows, his cutthroat quips and acts of service as he sometimes helps you carry around cargo weight for Cycrane shipments or sort papers in your office neatly.

Moze also has the knack for saying profound things related to the methods he was used to,

If there was someone else that spat insults at you, you hear Moze’s “Do you want me to finish him?”

And your constant “No, Moze, we aren’t even sure if what he’s saying is credible or not. Let the Verdant Knights handle this issue.”

His’ “That will take too long to dispatch a set of knights. I can follow him now and verify it myself.”

And finally, your frustrated “Again, no, that’s called stalking—actually you know what, Moze? You’re fired.”

He frowns at your answer, “You cannot fire me, the General was the one that assigned me to you so I go by her orders.” He doesn’t know how to read in between your chides, but you don’t hold that against him.

Aside from pitting with Moze’s stubbornness, Jiaoqiu’s chattering became something you look forward to. On days where you take breaks, you listen as he talks and teaches you about his food discoveries and different alchemical theories, stories he’d exaggerated to garner your attention, medicines he wishes to procure for Feixiao’s illness. He’s passionate about it, you respect that, the admiration almost quickly goes down the drain when you had fallen ill, one time and couldn’t get out of bed.

You remember laying helpless, staring at your ceiling, deciding it was for the best to take a rest instead of going to work with a fever. It will go away in a day, you had gotten used to sleeping off your fevers, and got used to not telling Feixiao of such simple problems. You had closed your eyes, buried your nose into your pillows until you were woken up by the sound of knocking, the stir of movement, the scent of spice and herbs following, Jiaoqiu and Moze came to visit you.

You sat up. “What are you doing in my house?”

“We are your bodyguards, remember?”

“I thought that only applies to following me around when I work?” You push two fingers to your temple, vision spinning and melting colors with one another. “I can take care of personal matters myself…”

When Jiaoqiu reaches you, he touches the back of his ungloved hand to your forehead. His skin is cool against your burning ones.

His ears are perked up, frowning, he asks. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I just caught a fever.” You’re too tired to argue back. Jiaoqiu’s eyes melt like butterscotch under the warm sunlight spilling through your curtains.

“I see.” You watch him stand. “Allow me to use your kitchen then, I'll make you something.”

You could only nod, the pink-haired doctor then beckons Moze to grab him a few more ingredients from the Healer’s Market, with a simple nod the raven-hooded man disappears without another word. The sound of opening cabinets and clattering pots fills your ears as you drift back to sleep, exhaustion finally succumbing to your senses. When you have awakened, you smell something, a deep aroma of mushrooms and soup. You find Jiaoqiu sitting on a chair beside your bedside, you try to find Moze but he’s nowhere to be found.

Jiaoqiu places a hand on your cheek. You had unconsciously leaned against the coolness of his fingers on you. “Your fever didn’t die down, here, drink this medicine I made, it’ll help.”

You take the bowl from him, mushrooms. “Medicine? A broth?”

“Yes, medicine.”

“On whose orders are you demanding this from?”

“I'm a certified doctor, my word is credulous, I can assure you, this medicine is a requirement to alleviate your health.” Jiaoqiu taps your cheek teasingly. “Come on, little scribe, the more you delay it, the more bitter it will be.”

“Fine, fine just stop talking already.” He’s so insufferable, with the insult you cursed in your head you downed the broth, face crumpling, you aren’t fond of mushrooms. Jiaoqiu pats your head for a job well done. Moze arrives after a while, he’s got candies on his hand.

“For you.” He reaches out to take your hand gently, dropping a piece on your open palm. Moze’s fingers are ice-cold, he must’ve stalked off to get the ingredients out in the cold night breeze, you clasped your own fingers with his, simply trying to warm him up, if he noticed your gesture, he didn't question it.

After drinking the medicine, you lay back down with a tired sigh, you feel Moze’s hand on your head now, clumsy fingers combing through your messy bangs and Jiaoqiu pulls the blankets up to your shoulders, his soft coo of goodnight a lullaby in your ears, maybe they’re not as terrible as you initially thought.

The two continue to visit you in your home for the next few days, and the more you feel yourself relaxing within their presence. It didn’t take long but you felt like you were becoming closer with them.

Today, Moze’s the only one that visited. He had mentioned that Jiaoqiu had businesses to tend to with Feixiao. He makes himself comfortable on the chair beside your bed, eyes-closed as you continue to write your reports even when you’re bed-ridden, Moze’s just present in case you needed him to fetch another document or a glass of water.

When the afternoon sun melts through your window, you lowered your pen, letting out a loud sigh as you finished the last sets of papers for today. You spare a look at the man beside you, Moze’s head is tilted back against the wall, peeks of gray hair flopping over the shadow of his eyes, Adam’s apple vulnerable to the warm air and his chest rise and fall to his slumbering breaths. You lean onto your open palm, it’s the first time you’ve noticed how long his lashes are, and even when he’s slumbering he looks so peaceful.

For a moment, curiosity gets the better of you. You shimmy closer, a tender finger brushing through his bangs.

His calloused hand comes up to circle your wrist, stopping your motion, velvet pupils flutter open, steadying on your own. Looking at him closely, you see how his brows crinkle and the peaceful look on his face deepens into his innocent poker face.

“Are you done?” His graveled tone reaches your ears, you settle back and nod your head, gesturing towards the papers on your lap. Moze hums, leans close to gather the papers and sets it back on your desk.

“Here’s your medicine.” Moze comes back with a tray of the familiar looking broth, Your expression changes almost immediately,

You wave your hand. “I’ll take it later.”

“That’s what you said yesterday.” Moze’s lips tip into a frown. “and you didn’t take it.”

I didn’t? “Well, I promise you this time, I’ll take it late—“

“You must take it, little scribe.”

“Just give me a second to…“ He’s already holding the cup in front of you,

“Moze—“

“If you don’t take it now, I’ll tell Jiaoqiu.”

That silences you quickly. After a second, you decide to take the medicine with a grumble, he nods at you in satisfaction.

“Moze, I want to take a walk.” After nibbling another candy from him, you peel the blankets off of your body, setting your bare feet on the cold ground. Moze follows from behind, opening the door for you as you both exit the building. You haven't realized how long you were bedridden with a fever, your bones ached with weight and the breeze kissing your skin tenderly calms you. A tamed sigh escapes through your lips, it was short-lived though, through the canopy on the other hallway, you hear murmurs.

It was a group of people you aren’t familiar with, they must’ve been part of the warrior units and they were talking bad about you,

How you were too weak to the point Feixiao had to call for Jiaoqiu and Moze to ‘babysit’ you, and how an unknown blood like you is unworthy of the attention of the military healer and the shadow guard—You can tell Moze is ready to confront them, his stance dangerous, but you put your hand on his chest, shaking your head.

“It’s no use stopping it, they’ll just continue talking, leave them be.”

Moze grabs ahold of your hand, pulling you closer to him once again after you started your self deprecating statements, you're glad that he did, the action grounded you back from your wallowing thoughts.

“You’re not unworthy of your place here, and you’re not just someone Jiaoqiu and I protect just for the sake of protecting.”

It took twenty seconds at most, staring into those grey-blue eyes of his, dissecting every inch of his expression because you just couldn’t understand. You aren’t convinced still, and maybe that was due to people that had come and gone from your life, the parents that left you during that battle years ago, the parents that protected you which caused them their lives, you cannot unsee how that tragedy unearthed before your eyes.

You don’t need people to protect you, you don’t want to be left alone again, your own problems seem to weigh a lot more on your mind today.

The night is so close to ending, your eyes closed in a peaceful slumber then you hear someone opening your door, a rhythmic type of tap tap tap, a thud thud thud and a thum thum thum of footsteps pepper your ears. Feixiao decides to visit you with her two retainers in tow. She sits on the edge of your bed, reaching out to caress your hair affectionately.

Jiaoqiu and Moze remained by the door, their voices hushed but you can pick them up easily, “It seems like malicious talks have been going on for a very long time, our little scribe just doesn’t say much about it. New rumors have been going around too, ever since our involvement with that merchant in the Pavillion.”

“You should’ve stop them, Moze.” Jiaoqiu chides.

“You don’t think I wanted to?” Moze’s stare is pointed, tone rigid. “They stopped me from doing so.”

There was a silent pause aching through the room after that, Jiaoqiu spoke. “Well, let’s..think about this with our little scribe when we return after a month or two from the Luofu, have you spoken about the Wardance yet, General?”

“I haven’t got the time, but I’ve already chosen a knight to look after them when we leave.”

They’re leaving? Somewhat, a sting pricks your chest. You knew from the very beginning that their duty with you was temporary, a superficial arrangement. Don’t get too attached, they might leave like how your family left you in that battlefield protecting you, how Feixiao had found you and cared for you only to teeter between life and death.

It’s not fair. Why do you feel the need to get close to me if you’re just gonna leave? It’s just not fair.

That night, when you heard them finally leave your room, you had your bed sheets clutched tightly between your fists.

That morning, Jiaoqiu had greeted you, ever so carefree like a chirping morning bird. “You better drink the remedy I have concocted for today, just as you prefer. It's not mushrooms, I used other herb as a substitute to the actual ingredient needed. Now here, don’t refuse it—“

You hum, taking the bowl and downing it in one go, Jiaoqiu watches quietly, a crack of silence filling the air.

“Are you okay?” He places a hand on your forehead, “You’re not feverish, are you dizzy maybe? Stomach ache?”

“It’s nothing.” You stand and Jiaoqiu voices, “Where are you going?”

“I have a lot of work to do, I cannot stay in bed all day.”

“But—“

“I’ll see you when I can, sorry I have to go.” Something changed between you, you’re distant, ice-pricked. Jiaoqiu cannot understand this change.

A few days passed, you focused all your attention with work, work, work and more work. You haven’t seen Jiaoqiu and Moze—pettily and childishly—you’ve been avoiding talking with them for a while now. You need time to think, more time to figure out the ache you feel. It’s not their fault, you are aware of that but you hate the confrontation of knowing what they truly feel and the reality of them not being with you after their duties have been fulfilled, you hate it all. You cannot face them, not like this.

Jiaoqiu and Moze are quick to notice your change in behavior, and you can tell even from a distance that they disliked it, your coldness, your apathy. For the last few days they’ve been trying to corner you, to try to talk, you don’t give it to them. Even with your petty behavior, you weren’t joking when you said you were busy—just like what they had talked about, the upcoming Wardance Ceremony in the Luofu has brought many interstellar travelers from afar, wanting to visit the many Xianzhou ships, you haven’t had time to take a break in a long while.

Only after a week, when you find yourself cracking under the stress of work does the two retainers finally catch you unguarded. You were resting under the sun, back against a wall, your eyes flutter open when you feel a shade from above —Jiaoqiu is standing in front of you, his red fan used to block the sun from your face.

“Too much sun exposure can be unhealthy.” Jiaoqiu’s not smiling, his amber eyes open to see how upset he’s been with your behavior.

You shift. “Thanks.”

Silence.

“You want to talk about it?”

“I…don’t know.” Your hesitation makes him reach out to grab your hand tenderly—too tenderly, enough to make you decompose from its softness. You don’t pull away and the pink-haired man takes a seat beside you.

“Hey.” His ears are downcasted. “What’s on your mind?”

Too many things: anxiety, worry, abandonment. You don’t know how to voice these issues aloud.

“I’m just tired.” Then, you pull away. “You…you can stop doing this, the both of you.”

More silence, this time deafening.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Jiaoqiu sounded offended, his brows knitted, you averted your gaze, brushed away his question.

“It means I don’t need you to look after me anymore.”

“Why?”

“I just think—“ don’t get attached. “I don’t need you anymore.”

“It’s not the matter of needing us to look after you or not, this isn’t supposed to be something—“ Jiaoqiu stumbles on his words, he tries to reach for you, stops when he sees the look in your expression, hurt.

Jiaoqiu’s convinced something is on your mind. “What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” Stop pushing for answers.

“If nothing happened, then why are you being like this?” Stop. “Did someone threaten you perhaps? I—“

Moze materializes from the thin air in dark smoke, hand landing on the doctor’s shoulder firmly. “Hey, Jiao—“

“What, Moze—“

“Just stop already, can’t you see you’re making our litt—“

It’s too loud, stop it.

“Then stop running away and talk to us so we can underst—“

“Aeons.” You finally snapped. “Stop talking to me, why can’t you both just leave me alone?! I don’t need you, so stop talking to me, stop pushing me for answers—!”

You choked, sharp words staggering between the crevices of your teeth. You dare to look up and see their shocked expressions, something bitter cracks in your gut. You didn’t mean to…

You turn to leave, for a split second, Moze reaches for your arm but you were already out of reach. Tears threaten to prick your eyes when you turn a corner, your heart thumping rapidly, you didn’t mean to say that.

The crowd around suddenly overwhelms you, so you stir clear, finding an isolated alley to slip under where you can let the tears roll down your cheek, where you have enough time to think of what just happened.

Pathetic. You can’t even tell them how you truly feel—

Something fleeting from the corner of your eye catches your attention as a cold chill runs through the column of your spine. Something’s wrong. You barely reacted, but you could’ve sworn you saw something flying past your vision, a shadow you don’t recognize. You hear the sound of a blade being cut through the air, slicing the atmosphere, letting your heart fall at the pit of your stomach.

An assassination attempt, at daylight too?

You pivot, you turn around, but the sound of the blade is harsher and you could’ve sworn the assassin was right behind you.

You truly let your guard down this time, you don’t think you have time to dodge the dagger coming your way—

You await for the strike, for the pain to drown you, but instead of something sharp hitting your skin, you feel a pull, your nose buries into a cloth that smelled like spices, protective arms wrapping around you. A pained grunt muffled your ears, your body hit the floor, shouts came second, you snapped your eyes open and saw vanishing smoke and Jiaoqiu’s crumpled expression, his butterscotch eyes flaring as he shouts something to someone before everything goes quiet. You’re clutching him tight but, liquid hits your fingers, curiously you retract your hand to see red.

Blood.

Jiaoqiu’s bleeding.

You haven’t realized how pale you had become until the pink-haired man delicately takes your face between his trembling palms.

“Hey…” He looks in pain. “You cannot give up on us now, we’re your bodyguards after all, aren’t we?”

“Jiao—Jiaoqiu...” Your tone is cut with vulnerability, he wipes the tears pouring down your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…I didn’t mean to—“

“I know.” His syrupy tone is weak, he winces, then lays his head heavy on your shoulder, nose on the crook of your neck. You hold him tightly likes he’s liquid in your open palm. Shakily, you call out;

“Moze!“ Your scream is desperate, borderline begging, your voice is ringing in your ears when you exclaim again. “Moze, please!“

When you see the swirl of smoke and hear the familiar thump thump thump of footfalls, you cannot be all the more relieved. When Moze appears before you, he was already scraped and bloodied, fear spikes through your chest thinking he was also hurt during the assassination—only a few more seconds later did you realize, it’s not his blood that he’s drenched on, he must’ve dealt with the culprit, Jiaoqiu was the one that shielded you from the attack.

Moze’s chest is heaving, eyes ravenous and crazed. “How, how is he?”

“He’s bleeding so much, I don’t know what to do—“

“We should take him to the Alchemy commission.” Moze’s ruff voice is impatient as he sheaths his blades. “I’ll carry him there, can you get up?”

You nod.

“Good.” He gently pulls Jiaoqiu’s weight off of you, he tosses an arm over his shoulder, lifting him up, “Let’s go, quickly.”

The seconds dragged long, bleeding numbers to minutes till it pools into an hour, then two system hours. Your knuckles are white from how long you’ve had your fingers clasped with one another, you prayed to the Hunt, prayed that he would make it through.

Don’t take him away yet, you prayed to them. Don’t take Jiaoqiu away from Feixiao, from Moze, from me.

You have murmured at least three more prayers before you see Feixiao leaving the room, you jump to your feet, anxious palpitating through your artery.

When she reaches you, she pulls you into a long, tight hug.

You part your lips, terrified. “How is he..?”

“He’s gonna be alright.” You have never let out such a long breath of relief till now. You clutch Feixiao tighter, “Sister?”

“Hm, what is it?”

“This whole thing happened because of my selfishness, it’s all my fault and Jiaoqiu had to get hurt because of this, because of me—“

“Hush, don’t say that now…” her hand rests softly behind your head, caressing through your hair. “They’ll be upset if they hear you now, how about you go inside and tell Jiaoqiu that yourself? I’ll go fetch Moze.”

Sniffling, you nod your head. Feixiao cups your face, pressing her cheek against yours as a form of affection before leaving.

When you step inside, Jiaoqiu’s awake, his ears perk up when he sees you. “You look like you just ran a marathon, little scribe.” He tilts his head, smile on his lips. “Don’t tell me…were you crying this whole time?”

You cannot help but let out a laugh. “You rascal, still have the time to joke around even at a time like this.”

He opens both of his eyes. Suddenly, saddened sincerity crosses his face. “I’m…I’m sorry for yelling at you, back there.”

You meet his gaze. “I should be the one apologizing to you, Jiaoqiu. You got hurt because of me.”

“It was my decision to protect you, don’t take the blame. I don’t know what I would do with myself if you were the one that got hurt.” A tentative pause hangs in the air, then you see him open his arms wide. “Now come here, let me hug you.”

A smile forms on your face, tears heavy in your eyes when Jiaoqiu pulls you to him. “Looks like we all have issues to solve together one step at a time, how does that sound?”

Together, you like that. “Okay.”

“Where’s Moze?” Jiaoqiu asks.

“He had to go talk to the Verdant knights about the whole thing, sister is going over to fetch him.”

“That’s good, when he comes back you should go hug him too.”

This time, you nod your head. Just as promised, Feixiao returns with Moze, there’s an uneasy dent between his brow and he’s in freshly clean clothes. Jiaoqiu nudges and you approach Moze who sends you a puzzled look. You don’t give him time to react, your arms immediately wrap around his torso, you feel him stiffen beneath you.

“…Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry, Moze, for being mean to you and Jiaoqiu.”

Moze doesn’t say anything for a long time, but you feel him melt into your embrace, large arms engulfing you wholly, his lips on top of your head, humming gruffly. “Don’t be sorry, you can tell us all about it, yeah?”

Jiaoqiu and Feixiao smile at the scene, and you hum.

“Yeah, I’ll tell you all about it.”

Maybe, it’s okay for you to have a guardian or two, even for a short while, you let yourself find comfort to talk to them about your problems.

[dulcesiabits]

vestigial structures.

summary: With a man like Sunday, it's always best to keep a certain distance. Still, what can you do when he tries to bridge the gap?

notes: 2.9k words, author notes, power play, boss/employee dynamic, mentions of injuries, very messy relationship

On the surface, Sunday is the perfect employer.

He’s strict and exacting about the most minute details, but his criticism is never personal. He’s fair with his employees, and the paychecks are never late and always generous. He’s agreeable and amiable, and knows all of his employees by name and occupation, his smile always pleasant when he stops to converse. 

Even if your coworkers grumble about his harsh demands or the late nights, their heads still perk up with the rare praise he throws out, like dogs to a bone. You have to admit that Sunday is smart in that way, knowing just when to push and pull with people. 

Yes, all your coworkers can say that because none of them work as closely with Sunday as you do. You’ve never given him room to complain about your conduct; you’re silent, loyal, and meticulous, all traits that Sunday prizes in his close staff. Maybe it helps that you’ve been here since the beginning, when Sunday was just getting his footing as head of the Family.

He keeps you close, which means you’ve had time to see the way he raises his hand to cover his smile in front of a terrified employee, the barely restrained tension in his lax body posture when he negotiates deals, how he lovingly moves around all the people in Penacony like chess pieces, watching them fall right where he wants them to without their knowing.

Sunday is like a beautiful dream: perfectly constructed and dazzling, but you know too much about what goes under the surface to buy into his sweet words and polite gestures, all the greasy wires and gears. 

Every movement is perfectly calculated. And as long as you play your part and fulfill the role he sets out for you, you can just cash in your paycheck at the end of the month and never have to worry about him beyond that.

It’s how you’ve survived so far with a man like him, after all. The perfect dance, a measured distance and precise footwork you’ve long since memorized: you know just how to skirt around all the little games Sunday likes to play without losing yourself.

“This is the paperwork for today,” Sunday says. You never talk in his office more than you need to; all chatter is whittled down to the necessities. “It’s the architectural plans for our recent expansion of the casino.”

“I’ll have it filled out by the end of the day,” you say, skimming through the file. Color-coded and carefully organized by priority: it’s nothing less than what you expect from him.

“There’s an upcoming meeting with a merchant group in a few days, too, for potential trade deals.”

“I’ll be in charge of that,” you say automatically. “You should focus on managing the projects in the Dreamscape. The expansion will take a majority of your attention.”

Sunday nods, steepling his fingers together, lost in some thought or another. You wait patiently in front of his desk, folders clutched to your chest, face impassive. It’s only another two hours before you can clock out.

His gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing, but for what, you aren’t sure. You straighten, leveling your shoulders, returning his stare with a cool look of your own. 

“Is your work too much?” Sunday asks, voice even.

His words are unexpected, and your eyebrows furrow, just a fraction. Sunday catches it before you can school your expression, and you curse internally at the curve of his lips. What sort of trick is this? You don’t have any script for this unexpected turn of events.

What answer is he expecting from you? His halo gleams like a liquid sun behind him, and the gold fills your vision.

“It’s nothing that I’m not capable of handling,” you say, phrasing each word delicately, watching his expression. No change. “I’m honored to do this work for the prosperity of Penacony.”

Sunday nods, once. “I see.”

You smile at him, the practiced one you give clients. “Will that be all, sir? I don’t think you need to worry. I have proved myself before, have I not?”

Sunday stands from his seat, reaching his hand out to you. What the hell is he doing? Just when you think he’s going to cup your cheek, his hand drifts down and he brushes something off your shoulder. 

There’s something pinched in his fingers: a piece of gray thread.

“Make sure you’re following the dress code. You know I abhor messes and people who don’t follow the rules,” Sunday says pleasantly, but there’s frost under his tone. 

“I’ll be careful, sir,” you say.

Did something about your answer upset him? Is this an implicit threat? Or is he really just pissed about your supposedly sloppy attire, even though the rest of your uniform is starched and neat, just the way he likes it?

Well, it’s not your job to understand your boss’s mercurial moods. The less you associate or think about Sunday, the better.

Before you head out the door, Sunday calls out to you. “You’re one of my most valued employees. Make sure you keep up the good work. I’d like to work with you for as long as possible.”

The door shuts behind you, leaving you with one last glance of Sunday’s genial smile. But even with a layer of wood between you, you swear you can still feel his eyes on your back. 

Despite the strangeness of your meeting with Sunday, the next few days proceed as smoothly as clockwork. Sunday keeps your exchanges brief and professional, and you’re far too busy with your work to figure out the reasoning behind every action he takes.

At least everything is going well until you find yourself limping down the hallway, mumbling curses under your breath, a wound lacerating your calf. Luckily, there’s no one around to witness your humiliation, and you’ve managed to swap your ruined uniform with a spare you keep on hand. Sunday, as he so loves to remind you, abhors messes, and you can’t imagine what he’ll do if he discovers you’ve dirtied the hotel with your blood.

You lean against the wall, hissing, as pain shoots up your leg. Injuries on the job are inconvenient, more so when they’re caused by meetings gone wildly wrong. You should have expected it, working at Penacony as long as you have, but merchant groups pulling out their weapons when negotiations turn sour isn’t something you’re quite fond of dealing with.

At least you have no other injuries, despite having left the meeting room in shambles. The paperwork you’re going to need to fill out over this incident is going to be a pain in the ass, but as long as you get somewhere safe, you can dress your wounds and put the entire thing behind you.

Sharp steps echo down the hall in front of you, and you straighten instinctively. Out of the shadows steps your boss, the last person you want to see in a moment like this. You grit your teeth and put on a cordial smile, keeping your eyes to the floor, trying to keep your steps even. One foot in front of the other, even if your body protests at the exertion.

Sunday is the one man you can’t show weakness in front of.

The edges of his patent shoes stop right in front of you. “Good afternoon,” Sunday says pleasantly. “How did your meeting go?”

“There was an unexpected occurrence,” you say. “I’ll file a report about it later, but it’s been handled. Suffice to say, we won’t have any dealings with them.”

Sunday still doesn’t move, and you risk tilting your head up to gauge his mood. His hands are folded in front of him. You can’t make out the expression in his eyes. “How unfortunate.”

“If that’s all, sir, I’ll be–” Sunday’s hand shoots out and grabs your elbow the second you try to take a step around him.

“You’re limping,” he says softly, pleasantly, like a trap springing shut. His fingers dig through your suit fabric and into your skin. “What exactly happened?”

“I’ll tell you in the report. It’s nothing major.”

A short laugh escapes Sunday. “I don’t appreciate my employees lying to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you protest, a thread of annoyance working its way into your tone, a hairline fracture in your composure. “I just judged that something like this wasn’t worth reporting.”

Sunday’s hair tickles your face like feathers as he leans in close to you, his lips almost brushing your ear. He still hasn’t let you go. “You’re not the judge of what’s worth reporting. I am.”

“Sir–”

“You need medical attention,” he says, tugging your arm around his waist. You jerk back, but his grip is iron. “What are you doing? It’ll be easier on you if you can lean on me.”

“It’s inappropriate for me to touch you like this.”

“Proprietary has nothing on your wounds,” he says, and you reluctantly settle your arm around his waist, fingers loosely gripping the turn of his hip. He’s right, but you hate how it feels like you’re playing along with one of his ploys. But not even he could have predicted the outcome of the meeting, right? Sunday’s arm descends along your back, holding you steady as the two of you slowly move along the darkened hallway. 

You end up in a supply room just around the corner, out of sight from anyone and lit by the warm glow of lights above you. Stacks of crates and boxes line the shelves, but there’s a narrow table and a pair of chairs, one of which Sunday helps you settle into.

He moves around the room with practiced familiarity, pulling a medical supply box from one of the shelves. He flicks it open, rummaging through the supplies. And then, Sunday kneels in front of you, his knees hitting the dusty ground, his hands outstretched towards you like a prayer.

But what can a man like him ever want from you? Only something you can never give.

“You don’t have to do this.”

His hands ghost along your leg, the fabric of your gray slacks creasing as Sunday slides them up to reveal the gash on your leg. It’s unthinkable, normally. Your boss is meticulous on the minute details of your uniform, and you’ve seen employees reprimanded for having their collars an inch too low. But here he is now, ruining the symmetry he values himself.

His gloved fingers skate along the skin of your calf, the pressure so light you almost can’t feel it, drawing your attention back to him. He cradles your ankle with one hand as he examines your wound. He’s still kneeling in front of you, his head ducked so low you can’t make out his expression, only the fringe of his eyelashes.

It’s wrong. It’s wrong to see Sunday like this, because even when he’s gentle, reverential and at your feet, you know the second you believe in him, you’ll lose. Submission and honesty from a man like him is never willingly given.

“I don’t have to, but it would only be right when you were hurt due to my carelessness,” Sunday says.

“It was my fault for not being careful. It has nothing to do with you,” you say. “Besides, this is unprofessional, considering our working relationship.”

His hand tightens on your ankle like a vice. “I’m not doing this as your employer.”

Sunday doesn’t look up once as he dabs disinfectant-soaked cotton along your wound. You hiss at the sting, as Sunday presses harder than you expect. The bandages that go around your calf are wrapped neatly, pulled tightly to the edge of pain. It feels like a chastisement, or a punishment, for the unwillingness of your earlier actions.

Your blood flecks Sunday’s gloves as he works, staining his pristine clothes. The two of you share a similar uniform, distinct from most of your other coworkers. The same dark vest, the same dove gray slacks and white suit jacket, the same golden enamels and blue accents. It’s almost like he’s trying to dress you up in his clothes, to mark you in some indelible way. 

You dig your nails into your palms until you think you can cut into your own skin. From the beginning, you’ve never been able to escape the games he’s always playing. 

Sunday still kneels on the floor, holding your ankle in his hand like a delicate bird. He pulls down the leg of your slacks himself, the fabric rustling as it covers the fresh bandages on your calf.

“Be more careful next time,” he says. 

Right now, while he’s still beneath you, you could reach out and tug his hair, grip his chin and make him look level at you, force him to kneel forever and press him into the ground. But even if you do, it’ll still feel like something Sunday has let happen. 

Penacony is a chessboard, and you’re just another piece in his hands.

“You said you’re not doing this as my employer. What are you doing this as?” you say, pushing back your chair, leaping up. Your leg moans in protest, but you ignore the searing pain to stand in front of Sunday.

“What do you think?” he says, his face serene. “You’re clever. I’m sure you know.”

You whirl your head in disgust, heading towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

His eyes burn into your back as you go, watching you. Always watching you, because you can never escape his presence, the eyes he has all over this damn place.

When you stride into Sunday’s office the next day, the wound on your calf burns with every step you take. There hasn’t been enough time for it to heal. Your uniform, as always, is pristine, the slacks creased just so, the wrinkles nonexistent. 

Sunday barely looks up from his desk as you slide a folder in front of him. There’s a pen in his hand, poised above a sheaf of papers he thumbs through.

“You finished your report rather early,” he remarks. 

“That’s because it’s not a report. It’s my resignation.”

His grip on his pen tightens, enough so that you wonder if he’s going to break it. The tranquil expression on his face doesn’t change, but there’s a wrinkle in his facade. A twitch of his eyebrow, a slight turn of his mouth. Subtle signs of his unhappiness that only you can see. After all, you’ve known him long enough that he can’t hide from you, not completely.

“Is there something unsatisfactory about your current position?” he says evenly. “The pay, perhaps? The vacation days? The hours?”

“Those are all fine. I’ve just been thinking I need a change of pace,” you say lightly, tapping your fingers on his desk. His eyes track your every movement. 

“I’d hate to lose a valuable employee like yourself. You won’t find a better place to work than Penacony.”

“I know. You value Family above all else. But it makes me wonder what will happen if I’m not a part of yours.” You smile at him. His own smile tightens. You’ve never been so forward with him before, would never have risked it. You have no script for this, but neither does he. “This is a place where everyone’s dreams come true. But what’s your dream, Sunday?”

His jaw twitches at your casual address. “My dream? I wish to see Penacony prosper.”

It’s such a stock answer you could laugh. It’s what Sunday tells everyone, the picture perfect answer he can print in newspapers and feed to interviewers. 

“That’s a good answer.” You lean across his desk. “You know, I’ve always been fond of birds. But the best way to keep one by your side is to make it want to be there, don’t you think? Otherwise, when you open the cage, it’ll fly away. It has to go in the cage willingly.”

“A fascinating observation,” Sunday says. “But you simply shouldn’t open the cage door at all, if you want to keep it by your side. If you provide the bird with everything it wants, then there will be no reason for it to go.”

“Birds are capricious creatures.” You raise your hand, angling it towards the wings that flutter near his head. They tremble at your wandering fingers, but right before you can brush one of his gray feathers, you drop your hand and pick up your resignation file, waving it lazily in the air. “I mean, who knows what they want? Don’t you think maybe the bird tries to fly away because it wants its owner to chase it? It makes you wonder who’s really the one being caged here.”

“I’ve owned birds before. I think I can handle such a thing,” Sunday says sharply.

“I’m sure. You know, maybe my resignation is a little hasty. I think I could stand to stay for a while longer.” Under Sunday’s vigilant eye, you glide towards the door, pulling it open with one hand.

“You shouldn’t do such things in jest,” Sunday calls behind you. You turn to face him. The tension still hasn’t left his shoulders.

“It wasn’t a joke,” you say. “I just changed my mind, that’s all.”

This time, you don’t let your gaze drop away from him, even as the door slams shut between the two of you. The expression on his face, the simmering frustration, the restrained edges of his desire, the way Sunday looks as if he’s the one who’s been trapped— it’s the most beautiful he’s ever been.

You’re starting to understand why Sunday enjoys his little games, but it’s too bad for him. This chess board doesn’t just belong to him anymore.

[iceunhie]

fragility — sunday.

summary: disagreements may often occur with sunday, but the two of you seem to always find a way to resolve it. (or, in which sunday is a little too devoted; lucky for you, you'd never have it any other way.)

notes: sunday character study, reader and sunday are arranged to be married/betrothed; not canon compliant, sunday might be ooc and i do not apologize he must be down bad 💯 reblogs are appreciated ! would love for u to tell me what you think about this experimental fic hehe

Sunday has always been the picture perfect image of control.

It is in the way his suit never has a single wrinkle, save for those he intentionally keeps to exude a more tolerable presence to The Family—and even then, he has always smoothed out every crinkle, every flaw; whenever they wouldn't look. It is seen in the way Sunday fights to calm his voice after a particular burst of his emotions, the way he almost obsessively tends to his plans to make sure nothing shall go awry.

If Sunday is a lone bird flying in the sky, then his control over himself, his conduct of his emotions is the chain that binds him to the earth below. Grounding him oft when he himself cannot.

If his sister is akin to a bird that spreads her wings to freedom, then Sunday shall clip his own, chain them down onto the earth if only to protect himself.

“Six gatherings.”

“Eight.”

However, there are often exceptions to his near flawless aspect of self-control; situations in which back him up into a corner, unable to retort.

“Seven gatherings and no more.” Like now, when you were being—for a lack of a better term—an extreme pain in the neck. Sunday exhales a weary breath.

“You can't be serious.” You frown at him. “Surely they'll be satisfied with six? They don't even care!”

“It would be best if we were to leave no possibility unaccounted for.”

“Sunday, you cannot subject me to any worse horrors other than prancing around being buddy buddy with those two-faced fogeys!”

He snorts at the barb. Trust that you use your rather extensive lexicon to state your mind in the most absurd of ways, most especially in the rather glitzy and pompous Family gatherings you both are required (read: forced) to apply yourselves to. Sunday should really ought to put in a word about it to you.

(He does not, however, tell you that your opinion is wrong.)

“I assure you that you will live. Acting like I'm sending you to your death is an immense exaggeration.”

Sunday drowns your complaints and listens to it with one ear. He knows, and trusts that you would relent anyway, so there was no reason in arguing over it any further.

Because, despite the innumerable ways in which your very existence rattles his, turning his carefully constructed world upside down in jeopardy, Sunday cannot stray away from anything you request.

(it would be blasphemy to do so. a sin he would never dare to oppose. you had that effect on him.)

You lounge leisurely at his personal quarters as though it belonged to you (it would, Sunday corrects himself, it will) and meet his eyes, liquid gold taking your existence in its entirety, as though it would be ripped away from him in an instant. He sees your eyes soften, just for a bit.

You put your fisted hand onto your cheek, squishing it slightly as you sulk. Sunday thinks he's finally gone mad when he considers running his fingers through them. (Would it be as soft as he had dreamed?)

Even with your face scrunched in a grimace, you are as radiant as gems and jade; your emotions splayed out before him like a clear spring reflecting the bright sky. (You are a reflection of the freedom he longs to embrace.) As wonderful as everything that Sunday is not.

Sunday knows your distaste is rooted in your aversion to the feigned lies and the prospect of sugarcoating your relationship as one of duty and not true affection (despite it being the complete opposite, he likes to assume) and being put on a pedestal by others.

But compliance is his owner, and Sunday is its dutiful servant.

“I know you're less than inclined-” Sunday starts to say, emphasizing the less. “-but now, with the Charmony Festival within full preparation, they want to see us there. United, as-”

“-As a happy pair.” you finish the thought with a rueful smile. “Something to calm them down while everything is in shambles. How characteristic of them.”

He nods. Meeting your gaze has always made him weak-willed. Sunday thinks that you could bring him down to his knees in reverence if you wish; he would not mind. “I know it goes against your principles.”

Because you believed in truth, that the chaos that Sunday abhors has a beauty to it he cannot understand; that you were a delightful paradox Sunday doesn't want the ugly claws of his control to grasp onto.

(He does not deserve you.)

“While I would gladly endure any gathering if it's with you…” you start, and his heart makes that familiar leap, like wings flapping in his stomach. “I don't want to keep up appearances to those who only see through the surface.”

“Then you shouldn't.” Sunday takes time to stand and stay seated next to you, if only to feel the actuality of you at whole. “You know better than anyone what we are.”

After all, Sunday sees no use in looking at the gazes of others when you are always at the forefront of his mind.

“...I know.” Sunday stiffens when you lean your head on his shoulder, your head brushing by the wing below his ear. He shudders. “I’m aware. More than anyone else.”

Your voice flutters in the wind like a bird soaring through the sky, and you illuminate his world in a stream of color. This is the most he gets to an ardent declaration of love, and Sunday would be damned if he would not reciprocate in any way.

(He does not deserve you, but you make it a point to disagree otherwise, every time.)

“I’ll be by your side at every step.” Sunday says, lacing his gloved hands in yours as a promise. “You need only be by my side.”

In the present, and even in the future, Sunday hopes. Your gentle squeeze of his hand is the content of your answer.

“I can't really say no to you, can I?”

Sunday chuckles. “I should say the same.”

If his mind is bound to seek control, then his soul is bound to seek your warmth. Sunday thinks this is as it should be. As he hopes will always be.

You laugh. “Eight gatherings it is. Though I suppose in the future it would be even more than that.”

“Mm. We shall hope it to be so.”

“Oh, it definitely will.”

All by his side, where his heart shall whisper your name and where your soul shall be forever intertwined with his.

© 𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐇𝐈𝐄 : do not repost, copy, or plagiarize my work.

writing process for this was vv inspired by a tiktok audio that i can't remember the name from but it encapsulated sunday so perfectly my keyboard started typing lol

[purfoom]

i love haikyuu so much. bc it’s just. so cute. i love how many characters there are and all of the useless, trivial information we have abt all of the characters. like how iwaizumi used to collect cicadas, only to let them go bc he said he’d feel bad if he kept them. how yamaguchi likes “long fries that have gone soft and floppy”. how kunimi likes salted caramel. how akaashi wrings his hands. how kuroo just happens to get top grades and slips all these scientific words into casual conversation. kenma’s username on everything is “applepi”. it’s just so cute. i love the character interactions, like when bokuto is looking out of the window in his pyjamas and he says “i’m glad it’s fukurodani who i could play my last match with” and akaashi is like “are u dying bokuto?” and bokuto says “what? i’m going to live until i’m 130″. and when shimizu holds suga’s hands when he’s visibly stressed and suga instantly goes red and swirly and he’s like “pls wait!!!!!! we can’t get married yet!!!!!”. and when kuroo and bokuto knowingly smile at each other and hug after nekoma are eliminated from nationals. when kenma smiles and thanks kuroo for getting him into volleyball and kuroo is like “… … … … … huh… …? … … W-WAIT…” and he covers his face and starts laughing and it’s rly cute. nobody is bad. kyoutani is really scary and only listens to iwaizumi, but only bc iwaizumi beat him at arm wrestling. a cunning, deceitful character like daishou has a rly pretty gf he tries to impress, and when they watch volleyball matches together he gets bashful bc he feels like he’s being a huge volleyball nerd but she calls him cool. i just don’t understand how a series is this cute. they’re all so cute. moniwa is so cute. goshiki is so cute. oikawa teaches volleyball to children on mondays. don’t even get me started on yachi

[yinyuedijun]

translation

Aventurine doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you. (Or: You are the only person in the universe who understands Aventurine in his mother tongue. He often regrets teaching it to you.)

5k words. gender neutral reader, established relationship, angst, non-graphic sex (reader bottoms, anatomy neutral), themes of cultural loss, references to slavery, aventurine’s canonically implied desire to die. MDNI.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

Deception does not come easily to him in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak—and too kind. The universe was a different place in the days when his life was coloured by the warble of Avgin dialect. It felt simpler, partly because he was a child and partly because Sigonia was yet untouched by outsiders. There were no corporations, no casinos, no commodity codes. His entire world was sand, desert, mother, sister, father (or more often—ghost), goddess, tent, wagon, luck, sin, rain, blessing, Avgin.

Katican.

Aventurine is sure that he knew more than just those words. He was fluent as a child. He had conversations with his sister that were complex enough to make his heart hurt, though perhaps his heart was just constantly aching anyway. But the rest of his early words escapes him. He could maybe dredge them up if he thinks long enough, but he also isn't sure if his tongue and lips could form the shape of them anymore. Sometimes he still counts in Avgin, memorises phone numbers in it, but he doesn’t remember the last time he actually strung together a full sentence in the language.

When Aventurine was first stolen into slavery (a word that he had not known as a child, and still doesn't know in Avgin), he wasn’t given a Synesthesia Beacon. He had to rely on his ears and his wits, deciphering the harsh edges of the Katican dialect and then the strange garble of Interastral Standard Language. By the time he had a Beacon installed, it was already translating all speech into Standard—his dominant language.

Sometimes he feels a little aggrieved by it, but at least it wasn't Katican. He'd have blown out his brains if it were.

But it is easy to console himself: Avgin is not a useful language anyway. Dead languages have no value, and the Avgin dialect was killed along with its people. You can’t perform commerce in a dead language, can't negotiate contracts, can't enter a gambling den and use your silver tongue to rob people blind. You can't use a dead language to fell governments and extract resources; you can't use a dead language to bring an entire planet to its knees. You can’t use a dead language to gamble your life; you can't use it to save yourself from the gallows.

You cannot deceive people in a language that is defined by sand, sister, goddess, ghost.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin. His command of it is too weak, and there is no one left to which he can lie, anyway.

When you ask Aventurine to teach you his first language, he gives you an amused look.

“Why Avgin?” he asks. “No one speaks it anymore. I can teach you Common Sigonian if you’d like. Or we could learn Xianzhounese together. Maybe Intellitron code? I know a little.”

“You speak Avgin,” you argue.

“Not often,” he says. “And badly when I do.”

“But it's still your language. And I want to understand you.”

Aventurine has to stop himself from laughing. Understand him? He hates being understood. When people understand him, it makes him predictable. And unlikeable. Hardly a position from which he can manipulate people in.

You understand him well enough to know that.

“You'll have to give me a better reason than that,” he says neatly. “Make it worth my while. Reward me.”

You look at him as you ponder, your eyes lingering on his. Perhaps trying to read him, though he prefers to think you're just enjoying the sight of them.

“I’ll teach you my language as well?”

“You mean—you'll reward my hard labour with more work?” he says, lighthearted.

You frown at him despite the joke. “You don't want to understand me better than what a Synesthesia Beacon would allow?” He blinks, pausing. “It’ll be convenient too. We can talk shit about other people in public and no one will understand us.”

Aventurine considers you. He doesn't like being understood, but he does like understanding other people. It is essential for manipulation, for scheming, for control. And he likes controlling you especially—for keeping you close but your heart a comfortable distance away, for opening your legs when he wants the pleasure of your body, for playing your emotions however he needs. And the day will come when that skill will be invaluable—the day when he must die without shattering you.

He also likes the idea of talking shit in public.

“I'm listening,” he says, voice lilting. You lean in, smiling. Sweet. It makes his heart feel something he isn't used to. Something addictive. Something disgusting. He scrambles to cover it with one of the usual tools: humour or distraction or maybe just plain old lying—his most reliable weapon.

“I'll throw in a kiss?” you try.

He hums. “Just one?”

“One per day.”

“Three.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

“Well, I am a businessman.”

You snort, but he knows you're endeared. You have very noticeable tells when you’re flustered.

“Okay,” you say. “Three kisses on days you teach me.”

“Deal.”

Aventurine remembers more Avgin than he thought he would.

It comes to him slowly, painstakingly. You aren't interested in structured lessons, and he wouldn't be able to provide them anyway. He has a nonexistent grasp of grammar aside from this sounds right and that sounds strange, and Avgin dialect is both so niche and so dead that no textbooks are available. The scholars have abandoned the language as much as the politicians abandoned its people. Aventurine only has you, his fragmented memory, and whatever questions come to mind as you live out your days with him.

Mostly, you ask him about basic vocabulary. Sometimes you ask him to repeat sentences from your conversations in Avgin, like he’s some kind of multilingual parrot. Each prompt forces him to wade through the fog in his mind, the one that’s been shrouding his childhood memories until now. He's startled at how naturally the old words roll off his tongue: One, two, three, four. Good morning. Good evening. Good night. Sweet dreams. Five, six, seven, eight. You're lying to me. Why do you always lie to me? I don't know what you're talking about. Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Welcome home. Have you eaten? Have some bread. I made you stew. Twenty, thirty, forty, fifty. That was dangerous. I thought you wouldn't make it back to me. Sometimes I think you want to die. One hundred, one thousand, one million, one billion. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

When you say, How do I ask you to let me hold you, he answers easily. He'd heard the words so often as a child: Let me hold you, Kakavasha. Let Mama hold you. His mouth forms the sounds without conscious thought.

He regrets it almost immediately.

When Aventurine hears it from you—stilted, halting, but no less gentle—he stops breathing. Let me hold you. You say it all the time in Standard, but it feels different in Avgin. More painful. A strange sense of panic closes in on him when he's wrapped up in you, thinking in Avgin, thinking sand, sister, goddess, ghost. He holds you tightly, like the rags cut from his father’s shirt, or his mother’s locket won back from the shell-slashers, or a bag of poker chips beneath a card table, clutched within his trembling grip.

“Aventurine, is something wrong?” you ask in Avgin, and he replies in Standard with his usual smile.

“Hm? No. What could be wrong if I have you here?”

Lying is one of his greatest tools. Sex is another one. So he says, “I think I'd like my reward now,” and he runs his lips along your jaw, your pulse, the spot over your heart (there's a word for that in Avgin but not Standard, he tells you), until you're laughing. I thought you wanted three kisses, you tease, and he replies, Who said I wanted to kiss you on the mouth?

But he coaxes open your thighs, and once he's inside you, he collects his payment properly. He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and you swallow his lies whole.

There are some things that Aventurine doesn't teach you. Mostly, they’re things that he can’t teach you.

There are countless gaps in his Avgin. His speech is painfully childish—probably more childish than it was when he actually stopped speaking it. He doesn't know how to swear (something that disappoints you) and he doesn't know how to flirt (something that devastates you). He doesn’t know any words that would be useful for work either: commercialization, governance, stakes, winnings, profit. When you ask him what his job title is in Avgin (“Was senior management even a thing in Avgin society?”), he laughs and gives you the word for gambler.

Then there are the words that he remembers—has remembered his whole life—but never says. Not to you, and not to himself. He doesn't teach you any prayers. He doesn't teach you any blessings. He doesn't teach you about Mama Fenge, or the Kakava Festival, or how the rain fell when he was born. When you ask him, What holidays did you celebrate when you were little? he shrugs and says, We didn't have any. Sigonia’s too bleak to do any partying.

Then you ask him one day, while your bodies are spent in the afterglow of sex, sticky with sweat and sweetness, how to say I love you. And he goes quiet.

Love is a cheap word in Interastral Standard. In the language of globalisation and trade, love has been commercialised, commodified, capitalised for power. You say it to him in many contexts: I love this, I love that, I love you. He hardly ever reacts, and he's never said it back. It would feel unnecessary and also cruel if he did: Aventurine has only ever said the words himself as either a joke or a manipulation.

But love feels different in Avgin than in Interastral Standard, doesn't sound like a thing that can be traded or bought. Kakavasha only ever said the word love to his mother, to his sister, to his father's grave. Love in his mother tongue feels priceless.

When Aventurine thinks about you saying it—I love you, Kakavasha, in clumsy, earnest Avgin—something so painful swells in his throat that he can hardly breathe.

“There is no word for love in my language,” he tells you.

You blink. “Okay, then what's an idiom for it?”

“There is none. There’s no word or phrase expressing love.”

You raise a brow. “That’s hard to believe.”

“Is it?” He smiles. “There’s no Avgin in the known universe who cares about love. Only scheming, thieving, and treachery—and you can't do those things when love is involved.”

You look at him in alarm. “Why are you saying that?” You're practically squirming in your discomfort. “I don't know why you think I'd believe such a racist stereotype.”

“It’s not a stereotype,” he says. “I'm not talking about the Avgin culture. I'm talking about myself.”

After all, he is the only Avgin left.

It is an unfair thing to say. A cruel thing to say. After all the laughing and kissing and crying and fucking, after all the tender eyes and gentle words from you—it is probably the worst pain imaginable: I don't give a shit about you. He waits for you to cry.

But you only stare at him calmly, studying him. You brush the hair out of his eyes, seeing them clearly.

“If you lie to me all the time,” you say in Avgin, “eventually I'll stop believing anything you say.”

Aventurine is speechless. His heart does that addictive, disgusting thing again. He thinks about leaving, but then you say, Let me hold you, and he can't do anything other than obey.

Avgin dialect was once included in the Synesthesia Beacon list of functions. The Intelligentsia Guild added it before the Second Katica-Avgin Extinction Event, when the IPC was trying to get a political foothold on Sigonia via the Avgin people. The language was alive then, with enough value to be included into the Synesthesia LLM by the linguists.

But since the Extinction Event—since Kakavasha ran away from home—the Synesthesia data on Avgin has been stagnant, a fossil. Aventurine knows because he's subscribed to software updates for certain languages (Avgin Sigonian, Common Sigonian, Interastral Standard, and now your mother tongue). He gets pinged every time there's a new addition for slang, for neologisms—but there hasn't been a ping for the Avgin dialect since he had the Beacon installed. The live translation function hasn't even been available since the previous Amber Era. When he checks its page on his Synesthesia app, it's very clear why—

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 0 STATUS: Extinct END OF SERVICE: 2156 AE

The complete death of the language has led to an irritating dilemma for you and Aventurine. You keep running into words that he doesn't know—this time not because of his childlike speech, but because they never existed in his language to begin with. Ocean, tropical, rainforest. Starskiff, accelerator, space fleet. Stock market, shortselling, mutual funds. Black hole, event horizon, spaghettification. All things that never came up for Kakavasha, but now come up for Aventurine, and the language has not evolved to include it.

He always wants to switch to Standard to discuss these things, but you're insistent on speaking in Avgin as much as possible. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't mind humouring you—partly because he likes to indulge you, and partly because he’s grown used to hearing the honeyed timbre of Avgin dialect in your household. The place would feel strange without it.

So you start filling the gaps with other languages, filtering them through the lyricism of Avgin. Loanwords, he thinks they’re called. You take ocean, tropical, rainforest from Amazian; starskiff, accelerator, space fleet from Xianzhounese; stock market, shortselling, mutual funds from Interastral Standard. For the astrophysics terms, you try directly translating them—with limited success.

“Can't I literally just say ‘black hole’?” you ask in Avgin, and he nearly spits out his coffee.

“Please don't. That's a dirty word.” He can't bring himself to say what it means, but from the way you’re laughing, you can clearly guess.

“I thought you said you didn't know how to swear.”

“You've just reminded me how.”

“You're welcome.” You look on the verge of cackling. Aventurine finishes his coffee and wonders when you're going to surprise him with your newfound vulgarity.

“Let's just do the space terms based on Standard,” he says. Begs.

“No, that's so boring.”

“Then let's do your language.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Give him a blank look.

“You don't know how to say those words in your mother tongue either, do you,” he intuits.

“Well, ‘spaghettification’ doesn't really come up in everyday conversation, does it?”

“Then maybe we don't need it.” He smiles, senses an opportunity. Smells blood. “How about ‘love’? I'd much rather know how you say that. I bet it sounds beautiful.”

You give him a long look. Your eyes are vulnerable when you share it: Love. I love you. He’s fascinated by the sound of it. Your voice is never that fragile when you say it in Standard. It's never so earnest. He repeats it, staring at you, and your gaze falls to the ground. His mouth curls.

“I like it,” he says. “Let's use that. It'll sound nice in Avgin.”

You try to recover. “Sure. That works. But back to ‘black hole’—”

And the two of you continue like that for days, weeks, months. It feels like a complete bastardization of his mother tongue on some days, in some conversations. Almost unrecognisable. But it doesn't feel bad. It’s all he has, it's all you have, and when he walks into your home, he starts speaking it without thinking: your bastard, patchwork language. The Avgin dialect that exists only in your house. A tongue that can only be understood by a liar.

And then, one lazy Sunday morning, he gets a familiar ping. He expects it to be Interastral Standard, as usual. The language balloons with each planet that the IPC colonises.

But instead, he opens his screen and freezes.

SIGONIAN, AVGIN DIALECT SPEAKERS: 2 STATUS: Endangered. SERVICE RESUMED: 2157 AE NEW UPDATES: 103 loanwords and 5 neologisms added.

He can't stop looking at the status. Endangered. Endangered, which means dying, but alive. The Avgin dialect is alive again. The Intelligentsia Guild determined it, so it must be true. But Aventurine can't agree: there are no Avgin speakers in the known universe other than the two of you, and what you speak isn't real Avgin. The Avgin spoken by his mother and father and sister is dead; the Avgin spoken by Kakavasha is dead. The festivals are gone; the deserts have been terraformed. There are no wagons; there are no dances; there are no prayers. There are no blessings, and he has no home—

As long as you are alive, the blood of the Avgin will never run dry.

His throat locks up.

“Aventurine?” you ask. Your voice is drowsy, but concerned. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at you from his phone, a polished smile on his face.

“No.” His syllables are plain and efficient in the noise of Interastral Standard: “Just looking at details for a new assignment. It’ll be a long one.”

“Oh.” You frown. “Will you be away from home for a long time, then?”

He stops himself from swallowing. “Yes, I'll be away from the house. For several months, probably.”

“Okay.” Your voice is small. “Take care of yourself, okay? I'll miss you.”

Each word you speak resonates with heartbreak. It always does in these conversations, even in Standard—but the sorrow is amplified in Avgin. His mother tongue has an inherently sad quality to it, he's noticed. His people have lost so much over their history—their language is one of loss. It's his language of loss. Kakavasha did all his grieving in Avgin; Aventurine has never felt sorrow in Standard. When the language died, so did Kakavasha—and all his regrets with it.

“You'll come home to me, right?” you ask. It's a beautiful sentence in Avgin. A heartrending one. He feels something that he hasn't known since he was a child.

It's a feeling he has to kill.

“Yes,” he says in Standard. “Of course I'll come back.”

This is not the first time that Aventurine has been mistaken for dead, but this is the longest time.

The latest world to join the IPC network was a tough acquisition. It had been ruled by a despot who wreaked havoc on both the people and the planet, and who was too stupid and reckless to resolve conflicts with his trade partners. He probably would have blown up the whole star system had he been left to his own devices. Aventurine had no qualms about bringing him to ruin, nor did he have qualms about nearly dying in the process.

If things had gone his way, he'd either be dead or missing. This would have been the perfect opportunity to do the latter, actually—to be freed from the IPC. Free to drift alone, speaking with strangers in strange, unfamiliar tongues. No connection to his past, to the cruel history of his luck, to his commodity code. No tether to his inherently unjust destiny. But instead he's back in your house, pockets heavy with his borrowed wealth, speaking to you in his bastardised, childish Avgin. I'm sorry. Come here. Let me kiss you. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

Your Avgin is—shockingly fluent. He doesn't know how. He can't think about it right now. All he can process is the wounded animal noise of your speech as you yell at him, as you cry. Like an injured songbird, or a weeping child. Why did you leave, why did you lie, why do you always lie to me, why don't you give a shit about me, you spit. Why do you want to die, why do you want to die, why do you want to die, you keep saying. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost, he keeps hearing. Sand, sister, goddess, ghost. Don't leave me, big sister. People will die. Why do you have to go?

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, this time in your language. “I'm so sorry. Come here. Let me hold you.”

You collapse into your mother tongue. Aventurine is both relieved and horrified. Relieved that he doesn't need to hear the language of his grief—horrified that he needs to hear yours. He's never heard you cry like this. He's never heard you break like this. These must have been the words you used when the soldiers found you hiding in your closet, when they dragged you out of your home. You were just a child.

Aventurine doesn't know the words you are using—you've never taught them—but he still understands them.

You're very malleable when you’re sad; even more so when you're hysterical. Aventurine understands this about you, and he understands how to calm you—this time in your native tongue—and he understands how to kiss you. He understands that you need to feel close to him. He understands that there are ways to accomplish this other than sex. A normal person would talk it out, have an honest conversation, come to a mutual understanding, and maybe even stop trying to kill himself. They wouldn't fuck you into the mattress while your face is still wet with tears.

But Aventurine is not a normal person. He doesn't know how to have an honest conversation, and he doesn't want to be understood. Lying is his greatest weapon, and sex is a close second. So he kisses you until you’re too breathless to cry, fucks you until you can't think, and makes you come so hard that you’re in too much bliss to grieve. And maybe it's horrible of him, but he enjoys it. He enjoys the way your body takes him in so easily, the way your nails dig into his back, the way you tighten around him when you climax, so wet and needy for him. The way you beg for him in your language for liars as he spends himself inside you: I love you, Aventurine, I love you, I love you, I love you—

Only because it feels good. This is all only because he enjoys fucking you. This is all only because you enjoy fucking him. This is all it'll ever be, and it'll be this way until he gets to meet his end.

(Some months ago, Aventurine started dreaming in Avgin.

It surprised him when he first noticed it. The last time he remembers having a dream in his native tongue, he was twelve years old and still in chains. And even then, it had become a sporadic, strange thing. Awful to wake up from. One minute he was with his mother and sister on a cool, rainy day, speaking fluently in Avgin as he laughed and played—and the next minute, he was being shaken awake in his cage, hearing the cruel lash of Katican.

But ever since he's started speaking Avgin with you, he's been dreaming in it. Vividly. Sometimes he's a child in these dreams, and sometimes he's grown. He's always back in the Sigonian desert, among the tents and the campfires and his family wagons. His mother and sister are alive. Sometimes his father is too. The skies roar with thunder and the stellar winds are always harsh, but they always keep him cocooned up in their arms. He's always warm.

Sometimes Aventurine dreams of nicer days. Clear skies, warm sun, cool breeze—all blessings from the Mother Goddess. On these days, he tends to be an adult, and you tend to be there with him. Your Avgin is fluent but strange, filled with funny loanwords and peculiar slang. His father likes the neologisms and starts using them—but only in wrong ways. His sister finds it embarrassing and keeps apologising to you.

His mother loves you. She loves you so much it hurts. This is how I know you're blessed, Kakavasha, she says, glowing. You’re so lucky to have found such a kind person.

Kakavasha knows this. He knows he's lucky, and in his dreams, that isn't a bad thing. In his dreams, his luck means that his home is not violently excised from his heart: his father never dies; his mother never dies; his sister never dies. The tents are not burned; the wagons are not destroyed. He is never forced to forget his people's dishes, their songs, their language, their joy. And in his dreams, his luck means that he meets you anyway, without all the loss and the chains and the lying.

In his dreams, he is able to bring you to the desert. He is able to teach you the Avgin he spoke as a child, to cook all the meals his mother used to make, to share with you their coffee and their tea. He teaches you prayers. He teaches you blessings. He tells you about Mama Fenge, about how the rain fell when he was born. He takes you to the Kakava Festival, shows you how to dance, sings to you all the Avgin songs until you're singing back. He presses his palm to yours in prayer; he kisses you in devotion, not avoidance.

Sometimes the two of you still fight, the same fights that you have in real life, but he handles them with honesty. He listens to you. He apologises to you. He tells you that he’ll change, and he means it—because this world is a kind one, and he has no need to be so cruel to you.

In this kind world, when you lay in bed with his arms tight around you, you smile at him and say, I love you, Kakavasha. You say it in Avgin—real Avgin, not the dialect born from genocide and deceit—and when he responds, there's not even a little bit of insincerity in his voice. Because Kakavasha never became Aventurine in these dreams, so he has no Interastral Standard in which he can lie to you, no silver tongue with which he can manipulate you, no commodity code that inspires his fear of being controlled by you. Kakavasha only knows Avgin, and he only has his sand, his family, his goddess, his home.

And he has you. Finally, he has you.

He kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you—and then he tells you the truth.)

.

.

.

Aventurine cannot lie in Avgin.

You noticed this very early on: whenever he lies to you, he always switches to Interastral Standard. Probably he wouldn't be able to do it in his mother tongue. His command of it is too weak, and the words he knows are all too kind. He speaks with the innocence of a child, and children cannot deceive people in the way that adults can. Children cannot perform commerce or negotiate contracts. They cannot use a silver tongue to rob people blind. They cannot save themselves from the gallows.

So Aventurine’s Avgin is defenceless. Vulnerable. So vulnerable it hurts. You are not so vulnerable in your first language because your captors spoke it on occasion, and you learned to lie in it to gain their pity. You told Aventurine that knowing it would help him understand you, but this was a deception. Aventurine’s mother tongue was a language of trust, but yours is a dialect of abuse.

The Avgin language died before Aventurine could be gutted by it; this is why it disarms him so completely. This is why he’s so indulgent and so warm when you use it with him, why he yields to all your requests. Not requests for money or gifts—you’re certain those are meaningless to him—but for affection. Let me hold you. Let me touch you. Let me kiss you. He can never say no.

This is also why he loves hearing you speak his mother tongue, you think—it makes him feel at home, it makes him feel safe. Maybe it even makes him feel loved. He never seems so at peace speaking any other language, so you try to use Avgin as much as possible. You like seeing him happy. You like it even if it means you need to teach him your own native language in exchange, even when it means you need to hear him say all the things your captors used to say. You don't mind it if it's him. You never mind the harm he inflicts on you, especially not when it brings you closer to him.

It is convenient that he cannot lie in Avgin. You only wanted to learn it in the first place because he talks in his sleep—mostly in Standard, but sometimes in his native tongue. And now that you know he cannot lie in Avgin, you also know he's always being honest in his dreams. Honest when he throws his arms around you in his sleep. Honest when he grabs you so tightly that you bruise. Honest when he buries his face into your neck and whispers prayers into your skin.

Most of the words he says are common ones, the earliest vocabulary that he taught you. But there are some things he's withheld from you—and to learn those things, you had to track down linguists from the Intelligentsia Guild, bribe them with your dirty money, have them give you all their deprecated, extinct data. It felt two-faced, and it was violating, but it was the only way. You already know that Aventurine would rather die than translate his feelings for you, would never want this part of himself understood.

I'm sorry for always leaving you.

I'm sorry for making you cry.

I can't bear the thought of losing you.

Freedom would be too lonely without you.

I don't want to hurt you anymore.

I don't want to lie to you anymore.

I missed you.

I want you.

I need you.

I love you.

end

afterword

[theaquamarinearchives]

[ mess it up ― diluc ] "how could I think that all that i gave you was enough? 'cause every time i get too close, i just go mess it up." cw. gn!reader, angst, ex-lovers, mentions a minorly unhealthy relationship, diluc with trauma (canon event, i didn't do it to him), mentions of alcohol and drinking, light swearing, a lot of adelinde content! thinking over the breakup and having regrets

aquamarine's findings. repost from my old blog, this was sorta revenge for him being c6 but i love my husband i swear // mess it up, gracie abrams.

DILUC was a stubborn man with a tough shell, one that appeared to never be faltering no matter how many people tried. adelinde had spent countless evenings standing at the door to master diluc's office, a glass of grape juice in her tired hands as she tried so stubbornly to win the young master's heart back over; maybe he wasn't going to be this cold and sheltered for the entirety of his life, if only she tried a little bit harder.

the very cavalry captain of the knights of favonius - his own brother - had even tried endlessly, purposefully causing mischief around the dawn winery in an attempt to drag out that mischievous redhead child that diluc was storing away in the dark of his heart. despite kaeya's attempts, it was all futile and he'd be merely scolded by his brother.

sometimes even jean attempted to grasp the reins of an old friend, regardless of the turmoil left between the wine industry tycoon and the knights of favonius. he was once honoured among the knights, feared by their enemies and their youngest captain; what had happened so achingly? now all she can do is grimace at her own fruitless attempts at small talk in the streets of mondstadt, on days where the clouds blanket the sun. it's dull, dreary and the tired look in diluc's eyes couldn't have matched the weather anymore than they did.

in the stupidity of your own decisions, something you tried to excuse as mere young love, you too had make your move to try fix something that perhaps should stay broken. yet it worked, perhaps momentarily. he cracked, faint smiles etched onto his face whenever he'd see you. his calloused hands would stop wiping tankards with a damp cloth just to press a soft kiss to your head when you visited him at work, his focus no longer on the tavern or work for a few seconds.

on days where the sun hugged mondstadt, basking it in golden light that brought smiles out on every face in the city, you'd find diluc among the grapevines, his sleeves folded up to his elbows as he partakes in some hard labour around the winery; after all, he still cared enough to give his workers a day's rest to enjoy the sunshine. you'd join him, happily harvesting grapes in delicate grasps of your hand however diluc wouldn't fail to miss you popping the occasional one into your mouth with a cheeky grin.

regardless of the lingering touches and gentle, featherlight kisses, nothing could truly fix him, could it? for all you know, your attempts had been nothing more than another day, another week, another month for the redhead. the same redhead that you'd dedicated hours to - that you'd dedicated your heart to. what a fool, placing something so delicate into the hands of someone who didn't know how to take care of it.

diluc wishes he'd told you that sooner. he wishes the warnings had slipped from his chapped lips into the night air on the evening you'd confessed your feelings, that he didn't give an ounce of care for love. he was going to focus on the winery, the business - his father's legacy. perhaps it was the only thing he had left to grasp of him now that he'd settled in the post-mourning phase of his young adult life but that twinkle in your eyes, how could he say no?

grumbling to himself, he sips at the bitter liquid in his glass before slamming it down moments later. it's supposed to taste sweet, at least that's what kaeya insinuates every time he steals a bottle from the cellar. diluc never cared, he never drank. he couldn't stand wine yet he kept producing it like it was his lifeblood but here he was, ruby eyes boring into the dark red liquid that fills the winery's infamous glasses his mother had collected when he was still too young to remember.

adelinde lurks in the shadows, a frown adorning that pretty face all the other maids gushed over; she didn't look a day over her age, still as youthful as ever as if she hadn't watched the young masters grow up into grown men with differing personalities nonetheless. a soft sigh escapes her lips, her hands clasped in front of her neatly pressed apron as she makes her presence known.

"i thought i'd never see you drink wine." she comments, her eyes drinking in the way diluc's body tenses in the orange glow of the candle on his desk. his gaze lifts to her, softening ever so slightly when he sees the maid. he feels vulnerable - no, he is vulnerable. nothing will bring back the relationship he'd thrown out so effortlessly like paper in the breeze and that bites at him, tears at his flesh while he's still conscious. the thought makes his body ache more.

"first time for everything," his voice is hoarse as he replies, gruff as he leans back into the plush velvet of his desk chair. that familiar black coat with the fur trim hangs over the back of it and adelinde sighs again, "it's late, why haven't you retired for the night?"

he's sober, adelinde notes as she steps further into his office, her lithe hands lifting the bottle of wine he'd been drinking from to admire the label she'd seen no ends of times throughout her life. diluc watches without another word. he realises how absurd it must seem for him to be drinking the wine, so out of character it would probably turn his father in his grave but it drowned out the pain or at least, it dulled it for a while.

"you know i've never retired while you're still awake," adelinde retorts as she places the wine bottle back down on his desk. the thud draws diluc to his senses and he clears his throat, pulling his large hand away from the glass as he seats himself upright, "you're still thinking about them?"

"do you think... they'd let me back in, adelinde?" he asks in his moment of vulnerability, his rough fingertips tracing over the rings that decorate his fingers. adelinde's lips pull into a tight line, "if i pulled myself together and let them see it happen... do you think they'd let it happen?"

adelinde knows the answer is no, she'd caught wind weeks ago that you'd moved on from the situation and was fixing your wounds in the aftermath of what had happened. she'd uttered it to diluc before but it appears he'd either had one glass too many or he'd chose to ignore it in a delusional hope to fix himself again.

"master diluc, you know-" she cuts herself off, her eyes sorrowful as she drinks in the way his lower lip trembles. his breath is shaking, vulnerable and she's reminded of the young boy who'd come running to her whenever master crepus scolded him for his mischievous antics.

"i fucked up, i know," he groans, a slight crack in his voice as his hands bunch into fists on the arms of his chair. adelinde makes a soft noise in response, "and now i just have to sit here, kicking myself with my gut in a knot while they're happier."

there's a silence that fills the office. wind creaks in the attic, adelinde realises she'll have to chase up the maintenance workers on fixing all the gaps and there's a subtle crackle of the flame burning on diluc's desk. she takes note of the dark circles under the young man's eyes, hollowing his pale face from the lack of sleep he'd been receiving since he cut things off with you.

at least, that's the story he told her - that he was the one to cut the ties holding the pair of you together. it wasn't the truth and diluc thinks he'll never utter the truth to anyone, a possibility as to why he'd stopped drinking wine the moment adelinde made herself known. he's a lightweight and he's self aware, the last thing he wants is to spill out the truth like a sobbing mess, tears staining his cheeks while his breath reeks of alcohol.

the truth was you'd been the one to finish things to protect yourself. your hands clasped around your breaking heart, trembling and shaking in a last ditch effort to stop things from collapsing completely. diluc couldn't love, not in your eyes. you'd tried so hard but you knew behind the acts of affection, he wasn't there. it was as if you was kissing a ghost, someone who lacked the will to be in that situation.

in the long term, it made you feel unloved. that's when you began to recognise that you was holding pieces of your shattering heart and desperately trying to piece it back together again, fumbling endlessly with your own heart all while you tried to force feed love into the winery owner - the one who undoubtedly was up until that point, your lover.

diluc doesn't blame you for your decision but he regrets it, every ounce of it. he considers that the whole relationship could have been avoided but at the same time, by the time you'd ended things, he'd began to crave your touch, your love, your kisses. he'd hear your voice when you wasn't even present. it happened too late however and now he pays the price, the heartbreak of his own regrets for not trying harder.

this truth he'd keep locked in his shallow heart, his lips pursed into a tight line as his eyes drag over the quill on his desk - yet again, another thing he doesn't dare bring into this conversation with the maid. he'd wrote you numerous letters, just begging to hear from you so that mayhaps his heart could rest a little.

he would tear every one of them up and only one of them was ever sent.

"diluc!" your voice chirps in his memory, your cotton shawl drifting in the infamous breeze of mondstadt as you stand upon the grass hill, clouds decorating the blue sky above your head. a smile graces your face, that specific one that he adored despite never mentioning it to you - a mistake on his behalf. your eyes crease with your smile, a gentle laugh reverberating from you, "hurry up!"

diluc finds himself trudging up the grassy slope to join you, his fateful beloved. his shoes find dips to keep his footing in the steepest parts, a calloused hand occasionally pressing to the sharp grass blades to stop him slipping. eventually, he joins you. he stands at your side, drinking in your face in sheer admiration before it dawns on him that this isn't his reality, not anymore.

the bedsheets are damp when he wakes, moonlight still filtering through the large ornate glass windows of his chambers. an exasperated breath escapes his lips, his tongue darting out to wet them as his head falls back onto the feather filled pillows. fiery red hair sprawls out beneath him, no longer tied up as tears sting at his eyes, threatening to spill in the vulnerable silence left in his wake.

every time he gets too close, mere inches from a promised happiness within his grasp, he just goes and messes it up, like always.

the archives' notifications. @bisexuawolfsalt, @lovingluxury, @auroratumbles, @ryuryuryuyurboat, @soleillunne

@zamorazz, @zworllyx

© theaquamarinearchives 2024 ; reblogs appreciated. do not re-upload, translate, etc. my works on any platforms or feed any of my works to ai.

[lychniis]

⚘— DUE RESPITE.

i. SYNOPSIS : he demands his affection. it's long overdue, in his opinion. ( jing yuan x reader ) // evenfall event - prompt xi ( ❛ honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips.❜ ) + daisy.

ii. WARNING(S) : mild mentions of blood and one fucked up appendix, this is lowkey selfship coded, reader is a doctor and is lowkey tired too, jing yuan is just a wee bit touchy, a tiiiny hint of angst. very small but i swear but it's all fluff and sweet talking.

# masterlist

“Come here.” 

He smiles in indulgence, fingers pattering playfully over hardwood. You consider his request, sugar melting over your tongue with the passing moment. You reach out for more candy as the twisting in your gut persists. A wingbeat draws your attention again. Jing Yuan is still staring straight at you.

“Why?” you ask carefully.

“Let me kiss you.” Blunt, to the point, so unlike the lilting riddles he’d spin and confuse you with. You shake your head. 

“I smell of blood.” you’d overseen the surgery of one insistent patient, a short lifer whose stomach cramps stemmed from an inflamed appendix. Even after washing yourself down you can’t quite rid the tang iron rimming your fingertips. 

Jing Yuan laughs. To him, everything may as well be a joke. Or a threat. Or a simple amusement. You consider it the happy experience of going senile with age ( you had expressed it to him. He’d laughed even harder till the birds in his hair clear out and his shoulders shook and trembled like his being was wracked with earthquakes ).

“Trust me, I’ve smelled far worse.” he assures you, leaning forth to take your hand, his lips pressing up against the palm. “Come.” A tug. You’re a slave to the way his eyes shine. You hate how he has you so easily stringed up and weak for his words ( your heart is racing, it’s a traitorous little thing ripping away at your chest and stealing your breath and warming your cheeks ).

His large hands settle you easily on his lap, drumming staccato over your hips. His lips find your temple next. “Darling mine.” he whispers. “Darling mine.”

“Yes.”

Jing Yuan smiles and shuts his eyes, curling his grip around the hook of your legs. The action in firm, steady, half patient, half wanting. “Look at me.”

You turn your head away.

He presses his face to your hair. “No?” he intones with feigned disappointment. “I cannot see your face?”

“No.” you play along, reaching for more of the rock candy. Jing Yuan stops you, and it’s warm, warm, warm all over. There’s is something tempered in his gaze. It’s a lazy adoration. 

“Is there any way I can appease my beloved then?” he muses. “Should I beg on my knees? Wax poetry?”

You groan. “No, no poetry, Jing Yuan.”

“No poetry either? My, you are a tough case, aren’t you?” he’s sweeping you away from the floor, draped on his lap and his chest. Your grasp lays upon his heart. You feel it beat. Your head turns and you face him, lips pursing as you try to stifle back the flustered curl tugging at the corners. “There.” he whispers. A finger taps at your jaw. 

He lets you close the gap and steal away gaping kisses.

“I’m weak for you, aren’t i?” you mumble mournfully between them. Jing Yuan softens to it. “An utter fool. An idiot.”

“Maybe. But I’d be a hypocrite for belittling you for it, no?” he’s chasing after your lips again in a rare moment of greed. He’s not a selfish man. Jing Yuan would let himself be rend by a thousand swords or scorched by starfire if it means another lives a life in peace. It’s a simple truth nestled in him, so blatant in its presence yet artfully tucked away beneath paraphernalia and other quirks picked over the centuries. 

( Jing Yuan who’d let himself bleed, bleed, bleed. )

Your nose nuzzles at the column of his neck. You will not be thinking of tragedy today. “Just keep holding me.”

His eyes crinkle at the corners. He is flesh and blood in your grasp. he is whole. He is him.

The respite is welcomed.

❪⠀🎬⠀❫ AINE SPEAKS ;;

working through this event like the damn aventurine boss jk jk. anyway i am ill for this man and i want him to hold me thank you.

anyway, this evenfall post was requested by @floraldresvi!! i hope you like it!!!

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taglist — @dustofthedailylife @meimeimeirin @silentmoths @crystalflygeo @ofoceansandtombsanew

AINE | 2024. do no plagiarize, repost or rework this piece.

[cynosmosis]

Diluc is the kind of lover who is protective, but moreso in a nonverbal sense. Think; when you're walking on the sidewalk he's standing closer to the road, he's keeping his hand on you in large crowds to make sure he knows you're ok, when someone he's suspicious of tries to talk to you in his presence he keeps his hand on the small of your back to let you know he's there, and he's covering the edge of the table with his hand when you bend down to pick up something beneath it. Those kinds of things.

[pininghermit]

Craving of You

Request: With the incident happening, may I see Adrian as time goes on slowly reciprocating physical affection between us, his lover now? Like from brief hand holding to him just plopping his head onto our shoulders or just him sleeping inside our bedroom and cuddling close to us.

Pairing: Alucard x GN Reader

Wordcount: 1.8k

AN: Sorry it took reallllllyyyy long but here it is. I hope you like it. I had alot of fun writing this. (Also I'm trying to get to other requests to have faith in me ya'll)

Humans sleep a lot, or maybe that’s just you. Adrian cannot fathom the extent of your need for sleep, even though he is part human himself. You remain the connoisseur of naps, resting your eyes for 15 minutes or indulging in a 12-hour special on weekends. You remind him of a cat basking in the sun. Sometimes he wonders if sleeping could qualify as a hobby for you.

You sleep with the most peaceful smile on your face. Your brows are free of any crease, as if even the darkest of nightmares cannot challenge your will to find rest.

Your hair falls around you messily, and your limbs entangle themselves in the nearby blankets and pillows. A few wayward strands rest on your forehead, gently swaying with the rhythmic warmth of your breath.

And Adrian cannot bring himself to sleep. He cannot convince himself to look away from the sight in front of him, even as nightmares and horrid scenes haunt his dreams. It's as if the physical separation of your separate beds is insignificant.

Lost in your dreams, you clutch your pillow closer to you, and for once Adrian wonders if it is concerning to feel envious of an inanimate object. He could be there, in your embrace, his arms around your waist, allowing you to snuggle into him.

He could, but he hasn't been able to. Not since then… not since his body finds every contact repulsive, even the ones his heart craves. His mind, heart, and soul know that you cannot and will not ever harm him, not when he is aware of the depth of your love for him.

He cannot be fooled, not after you broke down every wall he had built around himself in the aftermath of Taka and Sumi's betrayal. You did so without complaint, expecting nothing in return. And if by some remote chance there existed a possibility of your betrayal, Adrian would choose death by your hands without a moment's hesitation.

A fall for you would be sweeter than any other.

Separated by the narrow distance between your beds, in the dark of your unlit room, Alucard reaches his hand towards you. His hand lingers in the air, yearning for you and your warmth.

"Ai," you exclaim, trying to retract your hand but failing to do so. You freeze as you watch Adrian hold onto your hand. It had been an accidental brush of your fingers, something you did not intend, not at the cost of upsetting your lover.

On any normal day, you would have immediately pulled your hand back and apologized for the contact. It has always been the reality of your relationship, and you have accepted Adrian, all of him.

However, your world tilts on its axis as Adrian surprises you by not letting go. With trembling fingers, your beloved interlaces his fingers with yours, and you savor the point of contact that he has granted you.

So, you smile with all the love you can muster. You smile to show your happiness, your pride, and your affection. Adrian's hands feel cold against yours as the lines of your palms align.

Maybe if times had been different, you would have kissed your beloved. You would have cupped his cheeks and looked right into his eyes, but for now, you let him lead at his own pace as you map the expanse of his hand with your thumb, offering the comfort he has allowed you to offer.

"And then we just ended up leaving because honestly, there was no point in staying," Adrian listens to you ramble as you take another bite of your watermelon.

The heat of the long summer dissipates as the sun descends to the corner of the world, casting a hazy shade of orange over everything. Birds rush back to their nests with renewed urgency, and cicadas sing the song of the night.

Both of you sit on the secluded porch of your childhood home, the backyard now bearing the fruit of your day's labor. A subtle scent of jasmine fills the area from the tree you planted in your childhood.

It's a perfect evening next to you, but Adrian cannot focus. His mind is filled with thoughts of you—your carefree smile, your eyes, your voice. He feels intoxicated by your essence. A part of his heart sings with joy as you still hold his hand close. Despite your complaints about his icy cold fingers, you allow it anyway. He is surprised by how natural it feels for you to hold his hand in yours, how habitual it has become for your fingers to intertwine and for your thumb to run soothing patterns on the back of his hand. It feels nothing like the past he fears; it is different, and he knows it.

Your love doesn't bind him; instead, it offers him freedom.

Adrian's throat dries as he steels his mind. He has to do it, for your sake and his own. Months ago, his dreams were nightmares full of terror, but now they are the manifestations of his desires, desires that urge him to follow your touch.

With a slight tilt of his head, Adrian inches closer to you. His gaze lands on your lips. He yearns, but he resists. Someday he will, but for today, Adrian finds comfort as he rests his head on your shoulder.

Your voice stops, and Adrian feels the sharp breath you suck in. He almost fears rejection. Does it mean you don't desire him? Is he too late? But all his fears dissipate into thin air when he hears the loud thud of your heart. To his sensitive hearing, it sounds like a loud drum.

A smile blooms on Adrian's face as he feels the heat rushing up your neck and catches a glimpse of the light red that colors your ears. Adrian simply closes his eyes and snuggles closer to your arm, leading to where your hands are linked.

His nose nestles in the hollow of your collarbone, and for the first time in his life, he feels goosebumps on his skin. A thrill of pleasure consumes him, leaving him wanting more. In those moments, no fear, no trauma plagues him. There is no room for it anymore; you have taken over everything.

You clench your fist, feeling your knuckles crack under the force of your motion. You despise everything in this godforsaken room—the awful-tasting wine, the snobbish elite, the constricting fit of your formal outfit, the vampire who stands way too close to Adrian, and most of all, yourself for feeling this way.

Yet, you cannot help but watch your lover next to his friend. A friend from childhood who possesses the elegance of immortality that you lack. Morgan, a vampire, who holds fragments of Adrian's life that you do not.

You cannot help but notice how good they look together, how much easier it is for Adrian to accept closeness and the comfort that Morgan offers. Compared to you, who still struggles to calm him down after a bout of nightmares.

Maybe if you were better, you would have the courage to selflessly allow Adrian a better chance at life with someone who would remain by his side until the end of times.

The bitterness of your wine lingers on your tongue as you try to pry your eyes away from the pair who seem deeply engrossed in their conversation. A part of you hopes that Morgan will be there when you are no longer in this world, that Adrian will have someone by his side.

It's hard to gulp down the next sip of wine as scenarios of your separation cloud your mind. You imagine a future where you're no longer part of Adrian's world, where he finds solace and love in the arms of another. It's a painful thought, one that tightens your chest and leaves you feeling hollow.

Was what you offered enough? Would it ever be enough of what little you could offer Adrian? Deep down, you know he deserves more, more than anything and everything you have to give.

Stuck in a room full of people who seem unaware of your inner turmoil, your steps falter as they lead you outside to a balcony, where the cold of the night sobers you from the slight daze of your wine.

Your breath comes in fast and loud as you try to control it, to quiet it down and hide it from the vampires flooding the room. Your vision blurs, and the world becomes hazy. Leaning on the dainty railing for support, you try to steady yourself.

Your heart beats loud and fast. It hurts—everything hurts. It hurts so bad that you lean in, bending at your waist. Your skin feels too warm, and the world feels too loud.

"Y/n," you startle when you feel hands supporting you. Trying to back away from your helper, you mutter quick apologies that seem to blend into your heaving breath. "I'm… I'm sorry… I… uh," your words stop when you feel hands cupping your face and lifting it up.

Cold hands, slender fingers, and flowing golden hair. A blurred silhouette of Adrian stares back at you. You fail to see his face through the tears that won't stop flowing from your eyes.

Now you have worried him, just what he needed. Despair fills you even further. "It's okay. I am okay," you try to reassure him as your breath starts to steady. "Give me a minute. I'll be there, you go back…" you try to pull away as you clear your throat, but Adrian remains unmoving.

You try to decipher the complex emotions in his eyes but fail to do so. Even the miserable smile you try to put on your face doesn't work.

"Have some faith in me. I may not have the courage to love as you do, but allow me to share your burdens as you have shared mine," you cannot bring yourself to answer as Adrian holds your hand in his. "Teach me and expect things from me. You know you deserve all of it. Get angry at me, cry to me, but… not like this… not alone. Don't bear it alone."

And then, without another word, Adrian leans in. His lips peck yours, the slightest touch that leaves butterflies in your stomach. The world goes quiet as you kiss your lover, your hands cupping his face as your lips explore his.

Your end will come one day, and it will hurt Adrian. It will grieve him, but before that day comes, there will be many others. And you will make sure to make them so bright that even in the gray of despair, there will always be a memory bright enough to make your beloved chuckle with amusement.

And if there exists a world beyond this, then you will find him there.

[life-take]

This line really charmed me. It seemed like he was finally comfortable in his skin, and coming after the scene with Tifa, very sweet. He was ready to push forward with her no matter who returned. 

[danijaci]

uhh,,, umm, ah, uhhh, huhhhh huhuhuhhh

I'm.. dying.....

I can't go on,,,, any ,, longer....

Mr Darcy as *cough* Diluc pls save,,, mwee