MtheWitch

M,18, she/they ,INFJ, ,12th grade online school , panromantic ace, dark academic, ig: ecrl_grey

[radiolightning]

In case anyone is having a bad night:

Here is the fudgiest brownie in a mug recipe I’ve found

Here are some fun sites

Here is a master post of Adventure Time episodes and comics

Here is a master post of movies including Disney and Studio Ghibli

Here is a master post of other master posts to TV shows and movies

*tucks you in with fuzzy blanket* *pats your head*

You’ll be okay, friend <3

[meanwolfs-remade-deactivated201]

i will reblog this everytime it shows up because any of my followers could have a bad night right now

[becausewhatiam-iswhatimnot]

All these links, besides the first, are broken. So here’s some more.

Here’s an emergency compliment

Here you can play 2048

Here’s a playlist of Bob ross

Here’s a website to watch movie’s and shows for free

Here’s a website to watch documentaries for free

Here you can to nothing for two minutes

Here you can break something. It’s good for anger

Here’s a button to press to make everything okay

Here’s a site to cut something up (TRIGGER WARNING)

Here’s a site that makes you a website depending on a song you choose

Here’s a gay comic. It’s adorable

Here you can spend Bill Gate’s money

Here you can draw your own island

Here you can learn about patterns website’s use

Here you can get your life stats

Here you can listen to the Tucker Zone (Headphones needed)

Here you can see how fast you’re moving

Here you can see the progress of time

Here you can see the future of the universe 

[becausewhatiam-iswhatimnot]

Want some more? 

Here’s the butterfly project

Here’s a snickerdoodle mug cake

Here’s a link to some free audiobooks

Here’s something to read when you feel like a burden

Here’s a secret

Here’s my playlist of some sea shanties 

Here’s another secret

Here’s a link to some cool websites 

Here’s a blog that gives you recipes for when you’re low on spoons

Here’s some Brony Headcanon’s

[becausewhatiam-iswhatimnot]

Some more? I’ve got plenty

Here’s 100,000 stars

Here you can control the weather (TW FLASHING IMAGES)

Here you can weave silk

Here you can make a castle of your own

Here you can make a kaleidoscope drawing

Here you can explore recursion

Here you can play a jelly block game

[becausewhatiam-iswhatimnot]

I’m back with some more! 

Here you can draw with pasta

Here you can draw logo’s from memory

Here you can play this is sand, here you draw cool sand designs

Here you can play The Organ Trail

Here’s a customizable white noise website

Here you can simulate gravity

Here you can create your own guardian of the galaxy

Here you can make your own galaxy

Here’s a website you can get some support at.

[becausewhatiam-iswhatimnot]

to find later

[addiewho]

Here you can split circles into smaller and smaller pieces (I found this really satisfying)

Here you can have images of people point to where your pointer is

Here you can paint someone’s nails

Here you can grow a garden across your screen (Audio included)

Here you can try out all kinds of mind illusions (Trigger Warning: Flashing Lights)

Here you can see how many miles you have scrolled

Here you can watch a website load forever, although you might be getting enough of this on Tumblr mobile

Here’s a rickroll

Here you can remind yourself that you’re awesome.

Here you can throw trash into a dustbin only for it to bounce right back out (Audio included)

Here you can make sand dunes using sand (Audio included)

And here you can generate more cool websites like these

[boy-in-the-stars]

pinning thissss

[fiddlepickdouglas]

And yet more!!!

Here you can listen to a gentle rainstorm

Here you can make snowflakes

Here is a Line Rider feature film with relaxing music

Here is the entire script to the Princess Bride (many don’t need it but it’s fun to read anyway)

Here is an abbreviated script for the entirety of Book 1 of A:TLA that I made out of anger at the film that definitely doesn’t exist

Here is a playlist of the top 10 most relaxing songs ranked according to science

Here’s a site where you can make a dude beatbox with fun animations

[inksgoosiefolder]

[ ꜱᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀᴛᴇ ]

“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that. “I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly. Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.

in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.

[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]

wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]

Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table. 

Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on. 

Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites

The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.

“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”

“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).

“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile. 

“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.

The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you. 

“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom. 

Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”

He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment. 

He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile. 

‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger. 

“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.

“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of. 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone. 

His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”

“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen. 

“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”

The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen. 

You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.

Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”

“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.

You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”

“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student. 

“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek. 

“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you. 

“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”

Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”

“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom. 

Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her. 

“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table. 

It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”

He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”

You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”

“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled. 

You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”

Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”

“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish. 

Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”

His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”

“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.

You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!” 

The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”

You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently.  You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance. 

Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you. 

All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds. 

And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”

You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”

“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”

It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding. 

“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”

There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement. 

The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.

You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.

Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”

Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”

As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”

He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.

“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.

The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”

Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays. 

It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there. 

By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all. 

Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off. 

“I’ll go with you.”

He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both. 

“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming

Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day. 

But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut. 

“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest. 

His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too. 

You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour. 

He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach. 

“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up. 

“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there. 

“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out. 

He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that. 

So navy it was. 

You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though. 

Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.

“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”

“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window. 

“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame. 

Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays. 

He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one. 

It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too. 

Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet. 

“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term. 

You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you. 

It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”

“It’s fake satin. I think.”

“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.

The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”

“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.  

“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps. 

“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.

“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”

You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed. 

“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”

“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”

“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”

“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level. 

You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead. 

Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool. 

Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.

On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.

It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box. 

Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.

But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber. 

There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves. 

“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”

“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly. 

It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction. 

He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall. 

“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”

“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.

“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath. 

Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two. 

With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words. 

“Enjoyed it, probably.”

“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks. 

You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.

He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in. 

He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it. 

“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”

“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper. 

Actually, Ryland looks expensive. 

“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that. 

“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly. 

Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally. 

Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error. 

There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment. 

Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you. 

“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”

“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval. 

“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well. 

With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”

“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up. 

Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”

You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”

“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already. 

“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected. 

“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit. 

“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even. 

All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him. 

Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be. 

He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”

“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option. 

He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into. 

It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.

“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance. 

You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”

He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”

It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer. 

“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.

Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”

You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is. 

Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now. 

Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family. 

“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen. 

“What?”

“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”

“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”

“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”

You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”

Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”

It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe. 

Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”

“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric. 

You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”

“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”

A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”

“If it’s with you.” He amends. 

“And slow kissing? You like that too?”

“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them. 

You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”

Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head. 

“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew. 

“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight. 

“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction. 

There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it. 

“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”

“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years. 

“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”

“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”

Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”

“Science, opposites attract I guess.”

“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons. 

Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”

“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.

“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”

He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little. 

“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.” 

You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”

“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.

“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now. 

Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?” 

Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”

You scoff. “A little?”

“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”

“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking. 

She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”

Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself. 

Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”

You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”

He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts. 

It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of. 

You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each. 

The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful. 

It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.

You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”

Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor. 

It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom. 

All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”

You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”

Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”

He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”

He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”

You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”

“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder. 

Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”

He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”

You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”

The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you. 

For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent. 

“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips. 

Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”

“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.

He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares. 

When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”

“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”

His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it. 

The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay. 

Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off. 

He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side. 

He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”

You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together. 

He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back. 

You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left. 

Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again. 

You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her. 

The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night. 

You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit. 

Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination. 

“Presumptious.” You smile.

He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”

“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt. 

“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”

“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”

He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”

“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”

“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber. 

But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”

“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.

Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”

He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”

“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”

“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.

“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”

He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.

Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him. 

The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late. 

Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again. 

“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous. 

“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon. 

“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you. 

Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.

“It has.” You lick your lips. 

Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours. 

Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door. 

Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours. 

It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true. 

For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress. 

Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”

He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress. 

“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”

“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for. 

“Just me?”

He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”

Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you. 

His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.

There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”

“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”

“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping. 

The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination. 

You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining. 

“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”

You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties. 

It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp. 

“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”

It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight. 

He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts. 

Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly. 

“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”

“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”

When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight. 

“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed. 

You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity. 

Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent. 

His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails. 

The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders. 

Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee. 

His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.

Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to. 

He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”

Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”

He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”

Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear. 

Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you. 

It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips. 

You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of. 

It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.

When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”

With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him. 

Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”

“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss. 

He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other. 

You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear. 

“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs. 

Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed. 

He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him. 

Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness. 

Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them. 

“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.” 

His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs. 

It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”

He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off. 

“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment. 

“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”

You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.” 

The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach. 

He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered. 

It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.

“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”

A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again. 

This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix. 

You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”

Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust. 

You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”

“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit. 

The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do. 

When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation. 

“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”

Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants. 

Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him. 

He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”

You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”

He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”

“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper. 

Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.  

He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs. 

Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”

You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”

He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets. 

You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you. 

“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him. 

“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.” 

The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know. 

You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”

No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”

The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”

“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”

“Deal.”

[ Masterlist ]

baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.

[stargirl-meltdown]

undone

pairing: ryland grace x reader

word count: 6.2k

summary: ryland has always taken things slowly, but that changes the moment he realises his sweet girl isn’t nearly as innocent as she seems… and that he rather enjoys it

warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, graphic description of sex, submissive ryland supremacy!, begging, glasses stay on during sex, desperate ryland, kind of humiliation?? (forcing ryland to talk dirty), dom-ish reader?? creampie, porn with semi-plot

Ryland had always been an early riser. 

It wasn’t down to a specific discipline; it was just how his brain was wired. He woke before alarms, before the sun had fully shown itself. He liked being up just that little bit before the world had fully begun. 

Years of teaching only sharpened the habit. He allowed himself to enjoy his morning coffee on the balcony, relished in the quiet of the classroom before the chaos started, allowing himself to just sit in peace for a little while longer. Quiet, he decided, was a luxury he would welcome, even if it came intermittently. 

And today was Sunday. 

It was a soft morning, lacking lesson plans and half-marked papers, no rushing to beat traffic or coax half-awake teenagers into caring about cell structure. Gentle sunlight poured in through the gap in the curtains, having nowhere it needed to be, much like him for a change. 

You were still curled up next to him, still asleep, your breathing slow and even. He daren’t move an inch. 

His arm was starting to tingle slightly, and he was itching to reach for his glasses on the bedside table, but he remained still. He could see you well enough like this—soft around the edges, a tad blurry. It was almost like a photograph on film, one that had not quite come into focus. It was an image that would be burned into his brain for mornings to come, and afternoons, and evenings, for that matter. 

He feared that if he moved to sharpen the image, it might break the moment entirely. He remained still. 

You’d probably tell him off, catching him in the act. He would probably think it was odd if the roles were reversed, watching one sleep, but he couldn’t feel guilt if he tried. 

His attention always seemed to bend toward you; the rest of the world would have to wait a while. 

The sunlight caught your face just right, tracing along your cheekbone, softening at the curve of your mouth. You were wearing one of his old t-shirts, and it swallowed you slightly, slipping off one shoulder as he tried not to stare at the bare skin.

He thought, not for the first time, that you might be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

Which, scientifically speaking, was ridiculous. He could list a dozen scientific phenomena that objectively outclassed a sleepy human in borrowed clothing. Mitoses. Photosyntheses. The rings of Saturn.

But you being here was slowly dismantling his entire sense of scale on the matter. 

He exhaled slowly through his nose, careful not to shift the mattress, as he recalled the previous night. 

The previous night. 

He had been so damn nervous. 

Months of careful courting, getting to know you piece by piece and always eager for more. ​​Shared dinners that stretched far too long because neither of you wanted to leave. Walking you home under streetlights, where conversations continued to flow so easily.

Sometimes you let him steal a kiss—or three—with him always pulling away at the last minute, insisting that he wanted to take his time. He wanted to do it right. 

He was old-fashioned—not in the way people tend to mean now—but in that he believed in taking his time.

You just mattered to him. More than he cared to admit. That, tied with the fact that he was years out of practise, meant that this was even more rare. 

He could not mess this up by rushing anything. 

Not when the first girl he had the guts to ask out in years laughed at his terrible jokes, let him ramble through every scientific theory that caught his interest, not when your cheeks warmed at his soft compliments—especially not when his did the exact same. 

He was a goner from day one. Every time he got home, he felt like he was floating. In high school all over again, with the pretty girl deciding to sit next to him in class for a change. You didn’t shy away from his personality, didn’t shrink. The knowledge that he had not ruined anything by just being himself. 

He knew how easily it could happen. It had before—people brushing him off as distant, too lost in his own head to be taken seriously. He’d be damned if he let you slip through his fingers, not when you understood him so effortlessly.

So he hadn’t rushed, hadn’t pushed. There was no assumption of anything physical, no reaching for more than you were willing to give. But he couldn’t stop last night, not when you had been so certain, so soft. 

It was natural with you, easy in ways intimacy never quite came to him. 

All the nerves he had been holding in his stomach seemed to quiet. How could he be nervous when your legs pulled him deeper? Looking up at him with those eyes of yours as you asked him so nicely? 

He knew he would give you anything you asked for in that moment—everything, actually. He’d be a fool not to. 

You shifted then, barely more than a breath, but it pulled his attention back instantly. Your hand slid across his chest, fingers curling slightly in the fabric of his shirt as you turned, instinctively, toward him.

He froze, every muscle going still on instinct, like any movement might break whatever delicate, unconscious decision you were making. He could feel your weight against him, solid and comfortable. Like this wasn’t new for you, even if it was for him. 

He hoped that, in time, it would no longer feel so novel to him. The fact that you were still here come morning was all the reassurance he’d done his job right.

You moved slightly against his arm again. Though it wasn’t like before, your unconscious shift still shrouded in sleep. Now you move with purpose, slowly stretching your limbs as you surface, waking in layers. Your hand slid across, your body pressing a little closer as you relaxed, settling into him once more. 

He was perfectly still, not wanting to disturb you further. 

Your eyes blinked open, still heavy with sleep. It only took you a few seconds of looking at him before your expression softened. 

There you are. 

“Hi,” you murmured, almost shy, not fully awake just yet.

“Hi,” he echoed, just as soft. 

His eyes traced your face again, before he finally moved his hand. His fingers traced gently along your shoulder as you began to focus on him. Your gaze sharpened slightly as you assessed him. He seemed far more cognizant, and your lips curved into a gentle smile. 

“...were you watching me sleep?”

The question, entirely fair and completely reasonable. The answer, however, deeply incriminating.

“…no?” he tried, failing miserably. 

You uhuffed out a sleepy laugh, barely more than a breath as you nudged him with your foot, your smile widening. “Liar.”

You got him there. 

He offered you a helpless shrug before leaning over, trying to salvage his dignity. He reached blindly for the bedside table before his fingers found his glasses. He slipped them on, pushing them up the bridge of his nose, the soft image of you coming in a little clearer. Both were equally lovely to wake to. 

“Well,” he said, “in my defence—you weren’t exactly in focus.”

You laughed properly at that, your nose scrunching as you gave up on berating him. You curled yourself into his collarbone, forehead brushing lightly against his skin as you nuzzled closer to him, still amused. His arms enveloped you as they were itching to do all morning. 

“Did you sleep okay?” you asked, voice slightly muffled. 

“Perfectly,” he replied, although to him, it was a silly question. Even if he’d barely slept, the simple act of you being right beside him would have been perfection. 

“Good,” you hummed. 

Your body pressed more firmly against his, your leg sliding up just enough to tangle with his, your hand tracing absently along his chest in the soft morning glow

His breath hitched. 

The warm feel of you, the way your soft thighs slide higher between his, the press of your breasts against his ribs under that oversized t-shirt…

His mind was already dipping into the memories of last night. 

Images flickered behind his eyes in vivid flashes: the way you’d pulled him in with your legs wrapped tight around his hips, the breathy little sound you’d made when he finally sank into you, the way you’d looked up at him with those same sleepy, trusting eyes. 

He’d tried so hard to be gentle, to take his time as he’d promised himself, but you’d been so warm and wet and eager, rocking up to meet every careful thrust until his control had frayed at the edges.

He needed to get his mind out the gutter—fast. There was no way you’d be up for that so early, but his mind circled back to your skin in the pale moonlight. 

Your draping over him was not helping the situation; his body was reacting faster than his brain could. His cock stiffened fast, thickening against the soft give of your thigh, the thin fabric of his boxers doing nothing to hide how quickly he was hardening for you.

Oh, come on—seriously?

He tried to distract himself, but you felt it immediately. He knew you did, because the corner of your mouth curved against his skin in the tiniest, most wicked little smirk.

Whatever he was in for, he didn’t know, but that expression didn’t put him at ease at all. 

Your lips brushed his jaw first—deliberate kisses that trailed down to the sensitive spot just under his ear. Then lower, along the line of his collarbone, slow and open-mouthed, like you were tasting the morning on him. When you pushed your knee up even higher, pressing right against the hard line of his cock, he twitched visibly beneath you. 

A helpless sound slipped out of his throat before he could stop it. 

You breathed a quiet laugh against the side of his neck, warm air ghosting over skin, and it did terrible, wonderful things to him. His hips jerked once, involuntarily, chasing the pressure of your thigh; he couldn’t help himself.

“Excited this morning, hm?” you teased, voice still husky with sleep but laced with mischief.

This was cruel. 

He huffed, but it melted straight into a groan when your mouth found the side of his neck again—this time harder, lips and teeth and tongue working over the same spot until his toes curled against the sheets.

“I—it’s biology,” he managed, voice rough, “waking up in bed next to a pretty girl, it’s not—”

Your teeth sank gently into his neck, right where his pulse hammered, and the rest of the sentence shattered. His arm shot out across your back, hand gripping your shoulder hard. 

In one smooth movement, you swung a leg over and straddled him, settling your weight right over the aching ridge of him. The thin layers between you doing absolutely nothing to dull the sensation. 

You looked down at him, all doe-eyed and teasing and absolutely loving how flustered he was getting. You were still laced with sleep, but your lips curled as you knew exactly what your were doing to him. 

“You think I’m pretty?”

God, you were gonna be the death of him. 

His head was so foggy as you grinned down at him, loving the reaction he was giving you. Last night was all chaste kisses and whispered words.

Now, you were looking at him like you wanted to devour him. 

All he could do was nod up at you, glasses slightly crooked, hair a mess against the pillow. 

“Sweetheart,” he breathed, voice wrecked already, “like you—like you even have to ask.”

The flush that bloomed across his cheeks was beautiful and your grin grew even wider. You wasted no time in rewarding him with a slow drag of your hips against his, rubbing along his full length through the fabric, the friction pulled a sharp groan out of his chest. 

You took the opportunity to lean down, lips brushing the shell of his ear. 

“Ry…” you teased as you rocked against him again. 

His hips bucked up into you, trying to chase the heat and pressure like his body had a mind of its own. 

He could barely think when your thighs pressed against his hips so deliciously. He didn’t trust himself to speak clearly, worried his voice would crack further. 

“T—top drawer,” he managed, his words stumbling out between quick breaths. 

You pulled back with the proudest smile, clearly pleased with yourself. You pressed a gentle kiss against his lips as you leaned over to grab your reward. You stretched toward the bedside table, letting the hem of his t-shirt ride up your thighs, allowing him the devastating view of your bare skin. 

You chuckled when his breath hitched at the display. He was far too easy to rile up—you loved it. 

The drawer slid open with a quiet rattle. You reached in, fingers closing around the familiar box of condoms before giving it a small shake. 

His stomach dropped. 

Goddamn it. 

He groaned, cursing himself repeatedly in his head. This was mortifying. One hand dragged down his face as reality hit him. 

After so long without anyone, he barely touched the damn things. Not like he was getting anything close to action these days. 

He should have remembered—there had only been two left yesterday, and you’d made such sweet, perfect use of both of them last night. You’d asked so sweetly if you could say, if that was alright, and then one thing led to another in the glow of the bedside lamp. 

He should have been better prepared—god, if only—but he had been selfish last night. He gave in. He wanted to memorise every sound you made, every way your body fit against his, every breathless call of his name that was suddenly flashing through his mind once more. 

Now, he would be facing the consequences. 

“I–I’m sorry,” he started immediately, voice thick with apology, eyes wide behind his glasses. “I should have—I wasn’t expecting—I’m an idiot, I—”

You shushed him gently, stopping his rambling. You leaned down close again, forehead almost resting against his. 

You didn’t look upset, which was a good thing? 

With a gentle voice, so filled with affection despite its teasing edge, so much so that he never would have guessed the filthy words that left your mouth. 

“I’m protected, Ry,” you placed one hand on his jaw, keeping your lips to his ear. “If you want… we can still…”

Surely you didn’t mean….

It took every single scrap of willpower not to combust right then and there. His brain scrambled as he caught your insinuation. 

He’d be lying if he said he’d never thought about it—of course he had. 

He was a man, and he was stupidly, helplessly in love with you. And, at the end of the day, biology was biology. Late at night after those long dinners, goodnight kisses that left him aching in his car, his mind wandered to the most primal thought: what it would be like to feel you. All of you. 

No barriers—nothing. Just the soft and slick feeling of your skin against his. 

He’d always shoved the thought away, called himself delusional, told himself it was far too big of an ask to impose on anyone, let alone you. 

He’d never done that before. Not once. Not with the handful of careful, cautious flings he’d had years ago. Nothing this intimate. Nothing that held like handing you every last piece of him. 

But you were offering it so willingly. Sitting all pretty on his lap like it would be a pleasure for not just him. His cock gave a helpless throb against you at the mere idea. 

You chuckled at his reaction, you knew the effect you had on him. 

He was nodding before he could stop himself—quick, frantic bobs of his head, glasses struggling to stay still, mouth dry. 

You smiled that little smile and placed two fingers under his chin, tilting his head and forcing his dazed eyes to meet yours. 

“I need words, Ry,” you whispered as your thumb brushed his bottom lip. “Can’t do it unless you tell me yes.”

You were going to be the absolute death of him. 

“Yes,” he rasped, voice cracking. “Yes, I want—but only if you do. Please don’t feel as though—I would never—”

You quieted him with a kiss to the corner of his mouth, cutting off the rambling before it could spiral. 

“I want to,” you murmured against his lips. “Wanna feel you everywhere.”

The groan that tore out of him was completely broken and involuntary. If that’s what you wanted, that’s what he’ll give you. Gladly. 

“I’m gonna be on top, okay?” you ask, but it isn’t really a question. 

He forces himself back to reality, to the fact that you are going to be on top of him. That the fantasy of you riding him is unfolding right in front of his eyes. You give him a second, a small window to object as you pull your underwear down slowly—like you think he might. Like that’s even remotely a possibility right now. 

You smiled down at him as you hooked your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, eyes locked on his, a knowing smile playing on your lips that made his stomach flip. 

He watched, utterly transfixed, as you tugged the fabric down his hips with aching slowness. His cock sprang free, painfully hard and already leaking at the tip. The cool morning air hit his overheated skin, he hissed through his teeth. 

“Eager, hm?” you murmured as your fingers brushed against his thigh. 

He opened his mouth, some half-formed protest already forming, but your hand wrapped around him before he could get a single syllable out. The sudden pressure of your palm stole every thought. His hips jerked up into your grip on instinct, and all that came out was a broken, breathless babble.

“Never—never done it like this before,” he managed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Not—not bare, I mean—”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your expression softening in a heartbeat. 

Your hand stayed right where it was, stroking him, thumb circling the slick head in a way that made his vision blur at the edges. For one terrifying second he thought you were going to stop, that the weight of being someone’s first for something this intimate might be too much. 

That maybe you’d decide he was too much.

But your cheeks flushed darker, your eyes gleaming with something possessive, and your fingers tightened just a fraction around his shaft.

“Does this mean… I’m the first?”

The thought was dizzying. You were going to be the first one to give this to him, the ultimate trust. The idea sent a jolt down to your lower belly, your breath getting heavier in your lungs as you looked at his dishevelled expression. 

You stroked him again, base to tip, torturously unhurried. 

“Y–yes,” he nodded. “You’re the first.”

He could barely get the words out, your hand distracting him from anything coherent. 

“Hm,” you hummed, low and fond. You leaned over him until your breath ghosted over his lips. Your hand never stopped its slow, devastating rhythm on his cock. 

“Better make it worth it then, don’t I?”

He was gone. 

Helplessly gone.

A wrecked sound tore out of his throat and his hands flew up to grip your thighs, fingers digging. His cock throbbed hard in your fist at the words, another bead of pre-cum sliding over your knuckles. He couldn’t even form a reply—just nodded frantically, cheeks burning crimson.

You sat up and peeled his old t-shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. It dropped somewhere off the side of the bed. Ryland’s eyes went wide, pupils blown behind the lenses as he drank in the sight of you—bare, soft, perfect—straddling his hips. His mouth went dry. He stared at the swell of your breasts, the way your nipples had already tightened in the cool air, the gentle curve of your stomach, the place where your thighs pressed warm against his.

You caught the way he hesitated, his hands hovering like he was afraid to ruin the view, and you laughed again.

“You can touch me,” you said, voice warm. “I want you to touch me.”

Gladly. 

His hands found you instantly, reverent and greedy. Palms sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, then cupping them, feeling the goosebumps rise across your skin. 

He leaned up on his elbows, mouth following the path of his hands—open-mouthed kisses pressed to your sternum, your ribs, the soft underside of one breast before he dragged his tongue over your nipple and sucked gently. 

It was clumsy with his adrenaline, but you still sighed, arching into him. Your hand threading into his messy hair and scratching at his scalp in that way that made his eyes flutter shut.

He kept going, lost in the taste of your skin, the little sounds you made, even as his cock ached and leaked against you. 

He could have stayed there forever, worshipping every inch of you, but you gently tugged his head back by the hair. He hissed at the sting, glasses fogged and crooked, eyes dazed and glassy as he stared up at you.

Please, do that again. 

You cupped his face with both hands, thumbs stroking his flushed cheeks. 

“Lie back.” 

He obeyed quickly, falling back against the pillows, hands still locked on your hips.

He almost felt bad, the way you took over so easily. Surely he could be doing more, giving you more. But the thought faltered under the weight of the look in your eyes.

There was something in your expression that made his stomach flip, something that felt almost dangerous in the gentlest way. Like you were about to take him apart piece by piece.

The moment he was flat, you wrapped your fingers around the base of his cock again and gave him one long, torturously slow stroke. 

“Please—” he squirmed beneath you, hips twitching.

You smiled down at him, wicked and sweet. 

“If I’m the first one to have you like this, Ry,” you purred, stroking him again, even slower, “I gotta take my time.”

The look on his face must have been devastating, because your eyes darkened with pure satisfaction. He whined when you kept teasing him, thumb pressing right under the head on every upstroke, spreading the slickness until his cock glistened.

“This is cruel,” he gasped, voice cracking, head tipping back against the pillow. His thighs trembled under you. “Sweetheart, please—I can’t—”

He needed to feel you—now. 

You took pity on him then, because he looked so desperate, so beautifully wrecked beneath you. 

“Only because you asked so nicely.” 

Thank God. 

You shifted your weight, guiding the flushed, angry tip of his cock to your entrance. The first brush of wet heat against him made his breath stutter.

“Oh—God—” he choked out as you started to sink down.

The slide was slow, deliberate, and devastating. Nothing between you. Just slick, perfect heat enveloping him inch by inch until you were seated fully on his cock, your ass flush against his hips, nothing separating you at all.

“Baby—I—” 

He could feel everything. Every flutter of your walls, every tiny twitch and clench as you adjusted around him. The way your body welcomed him completely, hot and wet and so tight it made his head spin. His hands spasmed at your sides, fingers digging into the soft give of your hips. He watched, transfixed, as your eyes fluttered and rolled back for a second when you rocked your hips experimentally, your walls rippling around his bare cock.

“You feel that?” you asked, voice husky, one hand braced on his chest as you rolled your hips again, taking him even deeper.

“Yes—yes, I feel it,” he gritted out, the words ragged. “I feel all of you—it’s—”

Every nerve in his body was lit up, oversensitive and raw. Nothing could have prepared him for this. 

All those nights he was alone, his cock in his hand as he felt guilty about what he was doing. Images racing through his head of you like this, raw, so beautiful on top of him. 

All those half-hearted imitations didn’t come close to this bliss. 

“I need you to move,” he begged. “Need you to move, sweetheart, please—”

He sounded almost pathetic as he pleaded with you. 

You began to ride him, rising up until just the head of his cock kissed your entrance before sinking back down, taking every thick inch again. The wet, filthy sound of it filled the quiet room. His head fell back, a moan tearing from his throat as pleasure exploded behind his eyes like fireworks. Sparks shot down his spine, pooling hot and heavy in his gut. 

He watched you through half-lidded eyes, completely blissed out—your head tipped back, lips parted on soft little gasps and moans that made his cock throb inside you, the way your breasts bounced with every roll of your hips, the way your thighs flexed as you rode him like you owned him.

And you did. In that moment, you absolutely did.

“Fuck, Ry,” you breathed, leaning forward so your hands braced on his chest, nails digging in just enough to sting. “You’re so deep—”

Fuck, he knew. He could feel it. 

Every thick inch of him buried to the hilt inside you, the slick, velvety drag of your walls hugging him so perfectly with nothing between you. It was overwhelming, obscene, the wet heat of your pussy swallowing him whole and clenching like it never wanted to let go. His hips snapped up on pure instinct, chasing that devastating friction, but you were the one in control, grinding down slow, making sure he felt every single flutter.

You picked up the pace then, rising and sinking with purpose. He whimpered, the sound punched out of his chest as pleasure coiled tighter in his gut. His glasses were completely fogged now, the lenses useless, but he didn’t care. He could barely see straight anyway, too lost in the sight of you above him: flushed cheeks, lips parted. 

You looked like sin in the morning sunlight, and he was helpless beneath you.

“Does it feel good?” you teased, voice breathy but dripping with satisfaction as you clenched around him on purpose, a rippling squeeze that made his cock throb hard inside you. “Can you feel it?”

Can he feel it? 

You were killing him. 

He didn’t know where this new, wicked confidence had come from—last night you’d been soft and sweet and letting him set the pace, but now you were riding him like you owned every inch of his body. 

He wasn’t complaining. Not even a little. If anything, the contrast made his head spin faster.

“Yes—yes, god, yes,” he babbled, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “Feels so good—been thinking about it for weeks—”

The confession slipped out before he could stop it. Your movements slowed instantly, dragging to an aching crawl until you were barely rocking on his cock, just enough to keep him throbbing and leaking inside you but nowhere near enough to satisfy. 

You looked down at him, one hand sliding up to cup his jaw, fingers firm as you forced his blue, glassy eyes to meet yours.

“Weeks?” you echoed, voice soft but edged with pure delight.

He was panting, chest heaving, sweat already beading at his temples. He nodded frantically, too far gone to lie. His cock gave a helpless twitch inside you at the way you were looking at him—like you wanted to devour every filthy secret he’d ever had.

You leaned in closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you rolled your hips with excruciating slowness. 

“Come on, don’t be shy now,” you whispered, voice dripping honey and sin. “How much have you thought about this? Be honest.”

This was mortifying. 

He groaned, cheeks burning hotter than he thought possible. This wasn’t fair. This was cruel. You were sitting so pretty on his cock, pussy wrapped tight around him, and now you were pulling dirty confessions out of him like it was nothing. 

He wasn’t good at this—words always tangled on his tongue around you at the best of times, and now, with you clenching around him on every slow drag, it was torture. Pure torture.

“I—I don’t know, I just—ugh, please move faster,” he begged, voice cracking, hips twitching uselessly beneath you in a desperate attempt to get more friction.

You stopped moving completely. Just sat there, warm and full of him, smiling down at him with that innocent little tilt of your head that did not match the filthy way you were keeping him buried inside you.

“I’m not moving until you tell me,” you said sweetly, like you were asking him about the weather instead of demanding he spill every desperate fantasy he’d had about filling you up bare. "

His brain short-circuited. The contrast—your soft, almost shy tone against the way your pussy was still fluttering around his aching cock—was going to end him. He was so sensitive, every tiny shift of your body sending sparks shooting up his spine, his body drawing tight with the need to cum.

“Ah—okay—since the second date,” he gasped in a humiliated rush. “Just—please, honey—don’t stop—you’re killing me here—”

You had the nerve to giggle, the sound vibrating through your body and straight into his length. For a second, he thought you were going to lean back and finally ride him properly, but you just stayed there, smiling down at him like he was the most adorable thing you’d ever seen.

Just take pity on him already.

“Long time, huh?” you murmured, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, now we can do this whenever you want, Ry. Just gotta ask.”

Whenever he wants? 

Christ. 

He swore he was going to die. The casual promise in your voice sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through him. 

You owned him. Completely.

You finally took mercy and started moving again, you rode him with purpose. You moaned his name, and he could barely contain himself. 

He was so sensitive, every drag of your pussy around his bare cock sending him spiralling higher, the heat of you with nothing between you driving him out of his mind. He could feel everything—the way your walls squeezed, the slick slide of your arousal mixing with his, the way your thighs trembled against his hips.

“Fuck—” you groaned, voice so gone it broke him. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, eyes locked on his as you kept riding him deep and perfect. “Please, Ry?—Wanna feel you.”

The polite little plea combined with the filthy request shattered what was left of his control. He came with a shattered cry of your name, hips jerking up hard as he gripped your waist. 

“Baby, I'm—” 

The words tumbled out, even as his cock pulsed and throbbed, spilling thick, hot ropes of cum deep inside you. Wave after wave, more than he thought he had in him, flooding you until he could feel the slick mess of it already starting to leak out around where you were joined. 

His whole body shook with it, oversensitive and wrecked, glasses slipping down his nose as his head tipped back against the pillow.

You kept moving through every pulse, milking him for everything he had, whispering soft praises against his mouth until the last weak spurt finally faded and he was left trembling beneath you, spent and panting and so full of love and lust he couldn’t even form words.

Slowly, the world came back into focus. His heartbeat thundered in his ears while the rest of him felt loose and heavy. You were still straddling him, full of him, but your movements had gentled into lazy little rocks that sent aftershocks rippling through his oversensitive cock. He was still buried deep inside you, the mess of his release already starting to leak out around where your bodies were joined, warm and obscene and impossibly intimate.

Your lips were on him, sweet kisses scattered across his flushed face. One to the corner of his eye where his glasses had slipped, one to the bridge of his nose, one to the corner of his mouth that was still parted on a shaky exhale. You kissed his forehead, his temple, the flushed shell of his ear, murmuring little nothings between each press of your lips. 

He was still floating somewhere outside his own body, chest heaving, but the sweetness of it pulled him back down gently. His hands, which had been locked in a death grip on your hips, loosened and slid up your back in a dazed caress.

When his eyes finally fluttered open, hair a complete disaster against the pillow, he looked up at you with pure, raw apology written all over his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped. “I’m so sorry, I—I didn’t mean to—”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. 

“What?” you asked, genuinely confused, one hand brushing damp strands of hair off his forehead. “Ry, I asked for this. I wanted it. There’s no need to apologise.”

He huffed out a half-frustrated groan, and let his head fall back against the pillow. His cheeks burned hotter. 

Of course you’d say that. Of course you’d be sweet about it. But the guilt still twisted in his gut like a live wire.

He’d come so fast. Like a damn teenager who’d never touched a girl before. He hadn’t even lasted long enough to get you off, and that was the part that stung the worst. 

He was supposed to take care of you—had promised himself he would, after all the careful, patient months of waiting. He was the one who was supposed to make you fall apart, not the other way around. 

He’d spilled inside you like he had zero control, like the bare feel of you around him had short-circuited every rational thought he’d ever had. 

Pathetic. 

He could already feel the scientific part of his brain cataloguing the humiliation: refractory period probably shot, ego thoroughly demolished.

“What about you?” His voice was still shaky, but the concern was there.

You blinked down at him, all innocent again, like you hadn’t just ridden him into oblivion. 

“What about me?”

“You didn’t even—” He gestured vaguely between you, cheeks flaming. “I didn’t get you there. I couldn’t even last long enough to—”

You chuckled, as you slowly lifted yourself off his cock. The wet drag pulling off him made him twitch hard, a broken sound escaping his throat as the air hit his oversensitive length. You flopped down beside him on the mattress, curling into his side, one leg sliding over his thigh.

“Well,” you said, propping your chin on his chest and looking up at him with sparkling eyes, “we have the rest of the day. I’m sure you can make it up to me later.” Your smile turned just a little wicked. “Or maybe in the shower?”

He groaned, already turned on again, and pulled you closer, arms wrapping around you. 

You were unbelievable. 

The way you could go from filthy and commanding to soft and playful in the space of a heartbeat left him dizzy.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?” he muttered against your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head even as his body still hummed with aftershocks.

You laughed softly and tilted your face up, catching his mouth in a deep kiss that tasted like morning and sex and everything he’d been dreaming about for months. When you pulled back, your lips brushed his one last time.

“I’m gonna hop in the shower,” you whispered, voice warm against his mouth. “You’re more than welcome to join me.”

You slipped out of bed and he watched as you padded toward the bathroom. His eyes dropped to your thighs, where the evidence of what you’d just done together glistened in the sunlight: a slow, shiny trail down your skin. The sight hit him like a punch to the chest, possessive and so fucking beautiful it short-circuited whatever was left of his brain.

He was out of bed in an instant, nearly tangling himself in the sheets in his rush, cock already half-hard again just from the sight of you. You glanced over your shoulder and giggled and he followed without a second thought, trailing after you like a man who had already accepted his fate.

Yeah. He was definitely going to make it up to you in the shower. 

a/n: im ovulating idk i think i blacked out when writing this. two people have asked me about creampies and this is where my mind immediately went

also sub ryland is real to me and i'll do anything to write about him being pathetic <3

hopefully you enjoyed and i will hopefully have something else written by next week so keep a lookout ;))))

[fillianore-moved]

so metropolitan museum of art has a register of books they’ve published that are out of print and that you can download for free! they’re mostly books on art, archeology, architecture, fashion and history and i just think that’s super useful and interesting so i wanted to share! you can find all of the books available here!

[m1d-45]

Is there only one bank in teyvat?

-🥘Stew

(Btw, new PHONE and i HATE IT! [Affectionate])

GREAT QUESTION

minor spoilers for natlan AQ and kinda spoilers for mondstadt's/inazuma's/fontaine's ?

there DEFINITELY is , absolutely, 110% . HOWEVER COMMA,

the northland bank is:

the most widespread

capable of the highest loans

provides the best security for one's funds

is very willing to accept... non monetary exchanges

+more

so. it's by far the most popular, even despite it's reputation! if you have the money, there is nowhere safer for your money than the northland bank, and they have branches in most nations at this point. some are certainly larger than others, but they still have a hand in most economies, even if not as tight a grip as in liyue.

speaking of: the northland bank in liyue is a very notable outlier. aside from being the biggest chapter outside of snezhnaya, it has most definitely choked out most major competitors. if you want anything over a few thousand mora safely secured, you're all but forced to go to northland. there have been attempts to combat this, and the idea of a state-funded bank has been thrown around, but everything the bank does is technically above board, and their rates are reasonable, and they've already got prime estate in the center of the city, and it would be a hassle to make work diplomatically...

the situation is similar in snezhnaya, except they are the state-funded bank. every other bank that isn't northland is connected to it in some way. either they're funded by them, work as a subunit for them, or just are them, just with a new face. snezhnayans don't have the pretense of kindness the liyuen branch has, though—their interest racks up fast, and kills from loan collectors are well known and well feared.

so, in liyue and snezhnaya... no, there's not really another reliable bank to use. other than them, though, there are at least options !

mondstadt, obviously, has next to nothing to do with the fatui. there's the goth hotel, of course, and they do do some business out of it, but most mondstadters simply don't use a bank. they keep their money on their person, or can get help from the knights or their community as needed—even the winery has been known to lend money to those in need, on occasion.

the second weakest sect of the bank is assuredly in inazuma. it draws very little business, as most of its clients are desperate laypeople with little money to their name. it mostly serves to keep tabs on inazuma and its economy, as well as the political climate. the most popular bank in inazuma is the one sponsored by the shogunate, but even that's more so just for long term savings than an active account. there was a bit of a bottleneck during the decree, but before and after it there was and is an abundance of other, smaller options to choose from. northland poses as one of these, but again, the real value is in social currency.

natlan and sumeru are roughly tied for involvement with the northland bank, though natlan is pulling ahead with recent developments regarding the captain. public (and private, for that matter) faith in the fatui is increasing, so the establishment of a larger foothold there is definitely possible if not inevitable. inversely, sumeru's branch is struggling for similar reasons. prior to this, however, both had a rather neutral opinion of the bank at large. of the handful of large banks, northland just happened to be one of them. there are plenty of other reliable options, and the (general maha)matra and sheer cooperative strength keep unsavory activities low. it's hard to leverage one family or tribe for money when pressing one all but guarantees others get involved. in either of these nations, you could easily go your life without ever hearing anything notable about the northland bank.

the gap of involvement between liyue and fontaine is absurdly large—tsaritsa knows why the regrator wants liyue so bad—but the gap between fontaine and natlan is still nothing to scoff at. aside from the knave, it's fairly heavily implied that the regrator was the one that set up the coupon system in the fortress. with fontaine's every changing laws, there's no shortage of loopholes for them to exploit, and general opinion of the fatui is rather high, so it's fair to assume they're doing a good job of it. there's not a monopoly, or at least not one as strong as in liyue, but there's a high likelihood someone turns to northland for money. there's more deals in the dark here, too, and many deaths are written off as mysterious crimes of passion. it's a bit of a gamble, but nothing like snezhnaya. overall, far heavier ties, but if you were determined to out of principle, you could probably live without ever doing business with them first-hand, so long as you vet your sources well. the political scene in fontaine isn't exactly orderly, after all.

[anilyan]

Nameless Bard, Kreuzlied, and how rebels used music to control Time

This is a theory that I started writing once leaks of Venti’s new bow came out (although some parts are even older than that), exploring how this alias can work similarly to an ancient name or, for some of the figures who have used it, even represent the same entity traveling through time or wielding time powers. Where one of them was potentially the Nameless Bard.

[Being edited on 15/12/2025]: Since I failed to publish this on time, meanwhile leaks of Venti’s artifact set (A Day Carved from Rising Winds) came out, and confirmed quite a lot of it. So I wanted to post it before letting it fester.

Before I analyze the correlation between Time Powers and rebels (at least in Mondstadt), I want to list some of the things that those artifacts tell about Old Mondstadt. Then I will list all figures who have been called Kreuzlied, explore how the Wanderer Troupe also had time-stuff going on, question parts of the weapon Daybreak Chronicles, and finally ramble about the Nameless Bard and how these recent reveals have been a long-time coming.

What the artifact set told us about Old Mondstadt:

More hints that Decarabian was a dragon (also confirmed as a god-king). I am refering to this passage “A sword piercing the nobility and the poisonous dragon”. Since this is about the Thousand Winds being summoned, it’s possible that the passage refers to some other event, but I list for example [here - in the beginning of the last section, about Mondstadt] how Decarabian and Amos were probably a dragon Sun-King and seelie Moon-Queen pair. I list the evidence I have, from fate shared with other pairs to the failure and madness while trying to attain a hivemind dream.

The bard could use the powers of Time, or at least used them once. This whole post will be about that and I’ve been working on it for months.

When he used those powers in a final sacrifice, his existence got erased from the Irminsul, apparently because he used his body as an Instrument/vessel to play the Melody of Fate (again, I elaborate here) and save Mondstadt. Venti seemingly remembers his name, or at least, “the wind” does. But I’ve been saying for a long long time that erasure was one likely reason why we didn’t know the names of the main figures from Old Mondstadt, especially not first names (same link and section).

Venti tried to reverse time to save the bard, but failed.

The verses of Lost Prayer to the Sacred Winds are indeed about the bard, like I have been saying for just as long, and this basically confirmed my suspicion that the pages inside the unascended version depict the bard instead of Barbatos. I will elaborate further into this theory, including the art.

This is a small thing compared to the rest, but apparently Amos was offered to Decarabian as a sacrifice, and was surprised when he elevated her instead, so she confused her feelings for love and devotion and used it as a reason to live and fill her “hollow heart”. She committed many attrocities in the name of love, and the artifacts also confirmed that she was the one who slayed Decarabian (as suspected for years due to the description of Amos’ bow). I don’t think this necessarily denies my theory that she was a seelie, since the evidence I gave about her prophecies (same link as before) and such wasn’t countered, and she definitely had weird things going on.

It confirmed the already-known backstory of the Gunnhildr clan, how they were saved through prayer when they were at the mercy of blizzards outside Decarabian’s city, and later sorn loyalty to Barbatos and crowned him with laurels. But they slay when they swear to take Venti down if he ever became a Tyrant too xD

The artifacts mention Arcadia. The first mention of that place was in Kaeya’s story quest, and the place was mentioned again during the Narzissenkreuz questline [source]. It’s also a place in Honkai Starrail. It’s likely to be some sort of ancient civilization, and a representation of the “center of the world” with a tower that emprisons the Princess (that cares for her flowers/ppl in her eternal summernight garden, etc etc, until a rebel/hero comes to slay the dragon and release ppl from their fates. It’s a recorrent theme in genshin and imo it’s the og story of the first angel that repeats in every fallen civilization, when the seelie/angel moon-themed princess falls in love with the hero or shares forbidden knowledge, especially if there are chemical marriages involved.)

It’s nice that the set lists the name of the clans that existed at the time.

What does Kreuzlied mean, and who went by that alias?

(From wiki:) Kreuzlied in German means Crusade(r) Poem or Cross-song. This is an alias, not a real name, and the game implies (through Goblet of Sojourner and Venti’s new bow Daybreak Chronicles) that several figures throughout history have used it.

Acording to the weapon description, “The word Kreuzlied itself used to mean "The Quartering Song" in the old tongue.” That was because any figure who rebelled was considered a criminal, and consequently subjected to quartering, which was an horrible punishment. This alias became a word associated with those who failed to rebel, but also a cry for rebellion.

Some figures who used that alias, all of which whose names (or at least first names) we don’t know:

Nameless Bard - he was not mentioned in any weapon related to this alias, but he was also a figure whose name was unknown, either likely hidden on purpose, and forgotten to time [update 15/12/2025: it’s confirmed that it was erased]. From Old Mondstadt, he was the bard who lead the rebellion, whose form Venti took after he died in battle.

Nameless Shepherd - listed in Daybreak Chronicles. The weapon Song of Broken Pines mentions that, once Venessa’s revolt against the aristocracy started, he mobilized the true adherents of the Church of Favonius to aid.

Imunlaukr - listed in Daybreak Chronicles. From Old Mondstadt, he was a prominent member of the clan who inherited his name, and joined the rebellion. For some reason, his clan is now mostly forgotten.

Gunnhildr - listed in Daybreak Chronicles. From Old Mondstadt, she was a prominent member of the clan who inherited his name, and joined the rebellion, being the one whose prayers gave some power to wisp Venti.

Ragnvindr - listed in Daybreak Chronicles. Possibly from Old Mondstadt, but since he left to travel at the end of the rebellion after the death of his friends, the Ragnvindr Clan was not necessarily established there, although it was already established during the Aristocratic period when another Ragnvindr joined the rebellion as the Dawn Knight.

Midnight Role - listed in Daybreak Chronicles. No idea who that is

Dawnlight - listed in Daybreak Chronicles. It’s possibly that it corresponds to the Dawnlight Swordswoman mentioned in the Wanderer’s Troupe series

Kreuzlied - that alias is the topic of the Daybreak Chronicles (that might imply he was the last figure using that title, depending on how we interpret the section), but we first heard about him in the Wanderer’s Troupe, and seems to only use that as a name.

How the Wanderer’s Troupe connects rebellion with Time powers wielded through music

First, what do we know about the Wanderer’s Troupe (also known as Swordsman’s Troupe)?

They were a group of people adept both at music and combat, who traveled all over Teyvat around a thousand years ago (although there are some timeline inconsistencies due to the fact they crossed the Mare Jivari and its time anomalies.

The Conductor first met the Sojourner, then the Dawnlight Swordswoman, and finally Kreuzlied.

They eventually joined the rebellion against the oppressive Lawrence aristocrats in Mondstadt, but ended up failing. When they tried to strom the city, they were captured and enslaved. They all either met their demise there, or perished afterwards.

They had a Harp with them, that was the Sands of Eon artifact piece.

“When the performance was coming to an end, the troupe would play this harp.” Perhaps they turned the hourglass to control time, preventing the performance from ending?

The Harp is also strongly associated with both the first angel and Istaroth (who may be the same figure, daughter of the morning star), so those are extra connections to Time powers.

Here is the story of all members, and how it gets interesting:

Conductor: The leader of the Troupe, he used his catalyst The Widsith both as a weapon and to record their adventurer’s, and also contained musical scores. He perished while storming the city of Mondstadt and kept holding onto his catalyst even after death. One of the theme songs that the catalyst grants is Aria, the name of one of the moons of Teyvat.

Sojourner: He used The Stringless bow, and had a sundial that recorded the cycles of the sun and moon, as he is described as a traveler who pursued both Fate and the inexorable passage of time. Fell in love with a maiden in Mondstadt during the Aristocratic period, who had unfortunately be chosen as the Ludi Harpastun maiden to be claimed against her will by a member of the Lawrence Clan (as stated in the manga). When the troupe tried to storm the city to free people from oppression, the Sojourner ended up dying in battle, trying to cover the retreat of his friends.

Dawnlight Swordswoman: Wielder of The Flute sword. When the troupe tried to storm Mondstadt to end the Aristocracy, she ended up being enslaved and put to fight as a gladiator. Despite losing everything, she continued to sing of hope and freedom, and her songs inspired a meber of the Ragnvindr Clan. He witnessed her die in the arena, and took care to bury her with her sword, taking the title Dawn Knight in her honor when he decided to join the rebellion.

Kreuzlied:

Owner of The Bell. Yes, that shitty claymore that doesn’t fit with the style of the others in the troupe… that literally has a clock. The sound of clockwork marked the rhythm of the battles for the Troupe.

This Kreuzlied was a deserter of the Lawrence Clan, so even after failing to storm the city and overthrow the Aristocracy, he wasn’t at least publicly killed, and it’s unclear what punishment was deemed fit for a upper-class traitor.

It’s implied that he survived and managed to continue the rebellion more quietly, establishing a secret society that later supported Venessa when she revolted.

Later, the society kept assisting Mondstadt in the shadows, with the Wolf Pup Rostam even leading it during a time behind the Grandmaster’s back.

The last Kreuzlied: How can the last section of Daybreak Chronicles get confusing?

(this is being written before Venti’s bow is released, making guesses based on the beta description of a scrapped weapon with the same name)

First of all, in the beta version of the weapon with this name, it says “Till at last the final Kreuzlied would-awaken from a thousand-year slumber, answering the small cry of a foreign maiden who had drifted to this land, just as he had once been born from the wishes of a certain youth.”

Part of it fits the last figure we know as Kreuzlied very well: he did technically try to help a maiden being oppressed under the Aristocratic regime of Mondstadt, although that story is more fitting to the Sojourner. [edited post weapon release: I had thought the official release would change some things but the same details remain]. Even the part regarding the slumber could still work, based on my next explorations theorizing he might have been a time-traveler, and consequently potentially needing periods of slumber.

On the other hand, the very last part stating that he was once born from the wishes of a certain youth, resemble the origins of Venti quite well. And we already know that Venti needs slumbers. So it’s possible that he actually is the last Kreuzlied, even though we have never seen him use that alias. Also makes me wonder who is the foreign maiden whose cry he is trying to answer - part of me is thinking of moon maidens, or even the first angel/Koitar/quite possibly Istaroth, but who knows.

There is also the possibility that Venti and the past Kreuzlied’s are one and the same, in other words, at least some of the figures of the past are Venti in different times, Venti has fragments of them, or he basically inherited their fate/role. That is another thing I am going to explore next.

Nameless bard, and his connections to time [confirmed on 15/12/2025, but here you can see how hoyo build up to that]:

» First, yapping about weapons’s lore and CBT stuff:

Some people associate the weapon Elegy for the End (one of Venti’s signatures) with the Nameless Bard, but it doesn’t match him at all. It’s mostly because of the beta description of that bow, that specifically stated the weapon was given to the bard by Venti - however, the same is said for the rest of the old series.

From weapons that made it in-game, Windblume Ode resembles his aesthetics and those of his cutscene far more, and even hint at him by mentioning a “nameless person/flowers” and the Windblume is particularly significant (especially now that we have the artifact set):

The festival was created during the rebellion of Old Mondstadt, and the word Windblume was the rebels’ secret code.

Despite the modern romantic atmosphere, it’s a celebration of the Thousand Winds of Time.

The person chosen to be the Windblume Star is the one who, throughout the year, has done many good deeds or sacrifices for Mondstadt

The fact that he was gifted all types of weapons (from the current Millenial Movement series, that tells of the history of Mondstadt) is intriguing, and could tie with how the Kreuzlied has used many different types of weapons.

It’s interesting how the beta short description of the weapons mentioned that they were a gift from the Anemo Archon to the bard, because Venti only became an Archon after his friend died at the end of the rebellion.

Boring explanation 1: This is beta lore and so the devs hadn’t defined the lore properly back then;

Boring explanation 2: It’s being written from the present, thus using Venti’s current title;

Cooler explanation: Time powers allowed present/future Venti to hand those weapons to him as an Archon, perhaps hidden, perhaps through his past wisp self.

The weapons in the series are Freedom-sworn sword (mostly tells about Old Mondstadt’s rebellion), Song of Broken Pines (mostly tells of the rebellion against the Aristocracy), and the Elegy bow already mentioned. As for that special description catalyst, it was discarded… but it was called Daybreak Chronicles, so, the same name of the new Venti’s bow with the lore I’m exploring here.

For the sake of this theory connecting the Nameless Bard with time powers, I will consider the lore of that old catalyst/new bow, where the catalyst specifically stated that the bard had seen a thousand worlds. That is interesting considering how he supposedly never left the city of Old Mondstadt, because of the wind dome, thus why his dream was to be free of that. He was canonically the only main member of the rebellion who never saw the outside (since Amos has been outside in the snow, the red-haired warrior arrived at the city from wandering the world, and the Gunnhildr and Lawrence clans had managed to leave the city).

» Lost Prayer to the Sacred Winds [wiki page]:

The book Lost Prayer to the Sacred Winds, so valued by the Church of Favonious that is even carried by Dahlia (who is another can of worms: between his dragon ears, dragon wings depicted all over, and constellation that is a symbol of Decarabian… I theorized he might even be the bard sort-of reincarnated)… has an illustration of the bard. Yes, the ascension has a page depicting Barbatos, but the unascended version with the brownish pages has a figure with the same appearance but a scarf-like and cloak-like thing instead of wings, and is playing a lyre, which is an imagery more associated with the bard than the Archon.

[Written before the artifact set leaks]: The book also sounds as if it was written by someone who expected to die - which might still apply to Barbatos. I’m not saying that the book was written by the bard - after all, it also mentions the oppression from the Aristocracy, and an Anemo Archon, which didn’t exist while the bard was alive. But there are suspicious things there… And those contradictions would be solved if the bard time traveled anyway, but that is finding a solution to plot holes i made up ig. [Written post artifact lore]: I guess the artifacts confirmed just that:

The dying words of the bard, after using the powers of the Thousand Winds of Time, were “My dear friend, please accept this thousand-year breeze, the hope for happiness, and the dream of freedom. Do not grieve for me; as long as the wind still blows, people can, like me, sing of tomorrow’s hope.”

Meanwhile, the words in the Lost Prayers book are extremelly similar: “Children of the Anemo Archon, heed these words: From the winds we have come, and with the winds we shall go. Never, ever grieve for me. 'Tis but my flesh and bones which rest in the soil: My soul has become one with the thousand winds. When flowers bloom, when leaves sway, That is me who sings the songs of freedom, of the winds.”

» Cecilias

The bard is strongly associated with Cecilias: he used a Cecilia-pin on his chest, and also chose it for the banner of the rebellion.

That said, they don’t look exactly like current-day Cecilias, so perhaps they are a variant or a version that was lost to time.

Either way, I suspect it was also a favored flower to represent the Windblume, since the Windblume was originally used as a codeword by the rebels in Old Mondstadt and became a celebration to the Thousand Winds, although in the present is more a celebration of love. And Venti, who knows the full story, has also chosen the Cecilia during Paralogism’s Windblume celebration, even though in the first Windblume he has made a point of saying that he wants “the right choice” to stay unknown.

With Cecilias having so many lore connotations and representing “the true feelings of the prodigal son” - associated with both Venti and Albedo - I wonder how much significance they have when tied to the bard.

There is a lot more about Cecilias that I already explore in my “Venti is Phanes (not the PO)” post

» No names [this has been confirmed on 15/12/2025 with the artifact set leaks, but i’m keeping it so you see my old theorizing]

Just like the shape of the true windblume has been lost to the winds of time, so as the name of the bard. And this is far from a coincidence, since the same as happened to all the old rebels, and might very well be more significant than the names simply being forgotten.

They could have been erased from the Irminsul; They could have been hidden on purpose because anonymity brought more power to the rebels; They could have been hidden because words grant power + names determine fate, and Decarabian was likely a dragon who knew well the power of songs (that he even banned) and words, so the rebels didn’t want to grant him that; Maybe the people of Old Mondstaddt never had first names, since the only figure from there who has one is Amos herself, who was a prophet and probably a seelie (yes I’m quite sure, check for example my Venti is Phanes post for a tiny section expanding on that);…

This aligns well with how the alias Kreuzlied is used by rebels in place of their name

[celestialedust]

A few Nibelung inspirations: Python, the Smith God and Saturn

(Might be a little messy but so is my brain)

Index:

Python and Delphi

Whatever Vedrfolnir is up to

The Smith God and the Axis Mundi

Python and Delphi

In Hymns of the Far North, Nibelung is addressed as "The Primeval Blacksmith"

And we are told that he forged a golden bow and arrows, which were stolen by the Heavenly Principles

Let your wrath right that askew throne so that the beauty may submit

On the first day, you forged a golden bow with lunar gleam, a weapon meant to strike down your foes.

Yet while you hunted, your bow was stolen, and now your enemy brandishes it as their own.

On the second day, you forged a great chariot, its moonilt glimmer meant to guard your home.

Yet while you hunted, your wain was purloined, and your enemy claimed it as their own.

This is a reference to Apollo's golden arrows. Apollo, who is the god of Light (much like the HP), got his arrows from Hephaestus, the Blacksmith god.

The invention of archery itself is credited to Apollo and his sister Artemis. Apollo is usually described as carrying a sliver or golden bow and a quiver of arrows.

Wikipedia

"Latona [Leto], clinging to an olive tree, bore Apollo and Diana [Artemis], to whom Vulcanus [Hephaistos] gave arrows as gifts [i.e. on the day of their birth]. Four days after they were born, Apollo exacted vengeance for his mother. For he went to Parnassus and slew Python with his arrows.

Pseudo-Hyginus, Fabulae 140 (trans. Grant) (Roman mythographer C2nd A.D.)

Apollo is also known for slaying the snake-dragon Python in his own home.

The god [Apollo] searching for a place to establish his shrine, reached Delphi and saw the Python, who was a bane to the people. He slew the serpent and declared himself as the owner of the Oracular shrine.

Python became the chthonic enemy of the later Olympian deity Apollo, who slew it and took over Python's former home and oracle.

Wikipedia

You know, just like the HP slew Nibelung, declared him an “evil” dragon, and took over his planet.

Something similar happened to my good friend, the “evil” dragon Durin, who coincidentally is associated with the rotting of the earth (nigredo), just like Pytho.

The priestess of the oracle of Delphi became known as the Pythia, after the place-name Pytho, which Greeks explained as and named after the rotting of the slain serpent's corpse in the strength of Hyperion (day) or Helios the sun.

Wikipedia

Also, the "Nibel" in Nibelung means fog/clouds

This myth has been described as an allegory for the dispersal of the fogs and clouds of vapor that arise from ponds and marshes (Python) by the rays of the Sun (the arrows of Apollo).

Wikipedia

But let's keep talking about Apollo taking over Pytho's home, Delphi.

Delphi is mentioned a bunch of times in-game. In Enkanomiya we have the Serpent's Heart, also known as Delphi and Delphi Pytho. The land of snakes where the imaginary serpent Ouroboros was once worshipped, even before Orobashi.

The Serpent's Heart

From the first time our ancestors discovered this place, it had already played host to a unique phenomenon in which space itself might overlap in a certain locale. Later, those who came before us would utilize this phenomenon by creating the Serpent's Heart.

It would be used to guard secrets, imprison criminals, and worship the great imaginary serpent, Ouroboros. In the earliest times, this place was called Delphi, the land of snakes.

This name did not change even after the arrival of Watatsumi Omikami. Ancient art depicts the scaleless serpent as "Ouroboros," and the coral-adorned serpent as "Orobashi."

The Byakuyakoku Collection

"The origin of heaven and earth is like the chicken and egg, and are not dragons and snakes kin?"

The Serpents and Drakes of Tokoyokoku

Delphi is also mentioned in the book Vera's Melancholy

"It's enough. Let's go home... The furthest place I've dreamt of, is the Delphi where you are." Though the explanation is delayed, you should know that Delphi is the center of Greek mythology.

Vera's Melancholy the perfect ending... is it?

"Delphi is the center of Greek mythology". This is true irl as well.

Python, sometimes written Pytho, presided at the Delphic oracle, which existed in the cult center for its mother, Gaia, "Earth", Pytho being the place name that was substituted for the earlier Krisa, Greeks considered the site to be the center of the Earth, represented by a stone, the omphalos or navel, which Python guarded.

Wikipedia

"The center of the Earth" is a recurring theme known in comparative mythology as the "Axis Mundi" (Axis of the World)

In astronomy, axis mundi is the Latin term for the axis of Earth between the celestial poles. In a geocentric coordinate system, this is the axis of rotation of the celestial sphere. Consequently, in ancient Greco-Roman astronomy, the axis mundi is the axis of rotation of the planetary spheres within the classical geocentric model of the cosmos.

In 20th-century comparative mythology, the term axis mundi - also called the cosmic axis, world axis, world pillar, center of the world, or world tree - has been greatly extended to refer to any mythological concept representing "the connection between Heaven and Earth" or the "higher and lower realms".

Wikipedia

Different cultures have different axis mundi, the greeks have Delphi's omphalos, others have a pillar, and others have the world tree, known in norse mythology as Irminsul or Yggdrasil.

So, if we were to apply the myth 1:1 to Genshin, the Omphalos would be Irminsul, under which Python (Nibelung) is buried

Erwin Rohde wrote that the Python was an earth spirit, who was conquered by Apollo, and buried under the omphalos and that it is a case of one god setting up his temple on the grave of another.

Wikipedia

(About this, remember that Nibelung is called Ilmarinen in Hyms of the Far North? Did you know that in Nod-Krai, there is an npc called Ilmari standing beneath a white tree?)

Whatever Vedrfolnir is up to

Let's talk about the Ouroboros now, the serpent after which Genshin's Delphi is named “the land of serpents”.

The ouroboros or uroboros is an ancient symbol depicting a snake or dragon eating its own tail.

The ouroboros is often interpreted as a symbol for eternal cyclic renewal or a cycle of life, death and rebirth; the snake's skin sloughing symbolises the transmigration of souls.

Wikipedia

Dainsleif's constellation is the Ouroboros, we also learned that he is able to maintain his physical form despite the curse, thanks to a ring his brother Vedrfolnir gave to him. In the Archon Quest we see Vedrfolnir represented as an Ouroboros-ring-shaped chess piece.

It's also interesting to note that Vedrfolnir bears the same color scheme (gold and blue on white-grayish, in particular gold fangs, blue eyes, golden headpiece) as Nibelung (this is also the same color scheme as the twins' spaceship and the teleport waypoints, but that's a conversation for another day)

Vedrfolnir's ring is also most likely a reference to Wagner's opera Der Ring des Nibelungen.

We first met Vedrfolnir as that chained purple stone in the Caribert quest, which bears a lot of visual similarities with the imprisoned "fell dragon prince" Scylla. (Btw Durin is also called a "fell dragon" and Nibelung is obviously a fell dragon prince king)

Upon freeing Scylla, you get the achievement "Contra Mundum" (Latin for "against the world"), which is likely a reference to "Axis Mundi"

And speaking of Axis Mundi/Irminsul:

In Norse mythology, Veðrfölnir (Old Norse "storm pale", "wind bleached", or "wind-witherer") is a hawk sitting between the eyes of an unnamed eagle that is perched on top of the world tree Yggdrasil.

Wikipedia

Notable mention of the Shattered Halberd, where both the Contra Mundi and Axis Mundi are mentioned:

The late Celestial Emperor Shenxiao, the now Contra Mundi, was once a dear friend of mine.

[...]

"The world is beyond repair. It shall be born anew from the ashes of the last." The mad Celestial Emperor sentenced all living things of the world to a hard punishment.

[...]

"Oh my daughter, the one in whom all my hopes are placed! Did I not bring you into existence that you might one day pierce me with a halberd?" Awakened at last, the God King floated in the heavens to the claps of thunder and the dancing of the wind, rejoicing at his return.

[...]

The first Divine Halberd, Irmin, once pierced the Axis Mundi and connected the nine worlds. Now, its replicas had proliferated across the heavens.

Fearing the madness that would ensue following his death, the God King made one final Divine Halberd, and named it the Prinzessin der Verurteilung. In this moment, it -nay, she- could finally unleash her true self.

The Smith God and the Axis Mundi

We said in the beginning that in the Hymns of the Far North Nibelung is also called Ilmarinen.

Ilmarinen is a god and archetypal artificer from Finnish mythology. He is immortal and capable of creating practically anything. In addition, he is described as working the known metals of the time, including brass, copper, iron, gold, and silver. The great works of Ilmarinen include the crafting of the dome of the sky and the forging of the Sampo.

In the Kalevala, he is a blacksmith and an inventor.

Wikipedia

Much like the Axis Mundi, the Blacksmith God is also a recurring theme in mythology:

(Unless otherwise stated, the following quotes are from the book "Hamlet's Mill - an essay on the myth and frame of time" by Giorgio De Santillana and Hertha von Dechend, of which I've heard mixed opinions about, but we are Genshin players, not scholars, so whatever I'll take it)

Moving now to another great theme, in fact a very great one, it is possible to trace back the significance of the blacksmith in Asiatic shamanism, particularly the celestial blacksmith who is the legitimate heir to the divine "archi-tekton" of the cosmos. Several representatives of this type, whom we call Deus Faber, still have both functions, being architects and smiths at the same time.

(Deus Faber = Smith God)

The Yakuts claim: "Smith and Shaman come from the same nest," and they add: "the Smith is the older brother of the Shaman" which might be valid also for Vainamoinen, coupled with Ilmarinen, who is said to have "hammered together the roof of the sky." It is the primeval Smith who made the Sampo, as we know, and forged sky and luminaries in Esthonia. It is no idle fancy that the representative of the celestial smith, the King, is himself frequently titled "Smith." Jenghiz Khan had the title "Smith," and the standard of the Persian Empire was the stylized leather apron of the Smith Kavag. The Chinese mythical emperors Huang-ti and Yu are such unmistakable smiths that Marcel Granet drew historic-sociological conclusions all the way, forgetting the while that Huang-ti, the Yellow Emperor, is acknowledged to be Saturn. And just as the Persian Shahs held their royal jubilee festival after having reigned thirty years, which is the Saturnian revolution, so the Egyptian Pharaoh also celebrated his jubilee after thirty years, true to the "inventor" of this festival, Ptah, who is the Egyptian Saturn, and also Deus Faber.

Vainamoinen is not mentioned in the Hymns of the Far North, but I think he can be associated with the Primordial One. Vainamoinen, Ilmarinen (Nibelung) and Lemminkainen (aka Saarelainen, the 3rd descender) are the three brothers protagonists of Kalevala. Ilmarinen and Saarelainen were two of the three descenders known at the time the Hymns were written, so I don't think it's a stretch to assume Vainamoinen to be the only missing descender, the Heavenly Principles.

The HP is mentioned in the Hymns as Pitkamoonen, an epithet usually referred to Ukko but…

A runic song from South Ostrobothnia mentions Pitkämöönen striking fire. In the same context, another runic song from South Ostrobothnia mentions Väinämöinen in this part, and a runic song from Kainuu mentions Väinämöinen and Ilmarinen (Ilman rinta).

Wikipedia

I think that in Genshin Ilmarinen being Vainamoinen's older sibling is not to be taken literally. It simply means that former came before the latter, just like Nibelung used to rule before the HP.

So, in this text, Saturn, the Roman Kronos/Chronus, God of Time and the Golden Age is identified with the blacksmith god.

(Zhongli is also heavily inspired by all of this, namely Huang Di the Yellow Emperor and Saturn's cube, but that's a conversation for another day)

Saturn, giver of the measures of the cosmos, remains the "Star of Law and Justice in Babylon" also the "Star of Nemesis" in Egypt, the Ruler of Necessity and Retribution, in brief, the Emperor. In China, Saturn has the title "Génie du pivot", as the god who presides over the Center, the same title which is given to the Pole star.

Saturn is the "Génie du Pivot", which means in this context "god of the axis", of course Polaris, the pole star which shines above the axis of the Earth, represents the Axis Mundi

The Lord of the Mill…

Another way to say "god of the axis" because the mill has an axis around which everything spins. (The same goes for the maelstrom or whirlpool)

...is declared to be Saturn/Kronos, he whom his son Zeus dethroned by throwing him off his chariot….

Saturn is dethroned by Zeus, just like Python was dethroned by Apollo and Nibelung by the Heavenly Principles.

...and banished in "chains"...

In chains like Scylla and Vedrfolnir.

...to a blissful island, where he dwells in sleep, for being immortal he cannot die, but is thought to live a life-in-death, wrapped in funerary linen, until his time, say some, shall come to awaken again, and he will be reborn to us as a child.

About the "blissful island" (called Ogygia) where Kronos resides:

The maelstrom, result of a broken mill, a chopped-down tree, and the like, "goes through the whole globe, according to the Finns. So does Tartaros, according to Socrates. To repeat it in Guthrie's words: "The earth in this myth of Socrates is spherical, and Tartaros, the bottomless pit, is represented in this mythical geography by a chasm which pierces the sphere right through from side to side."

It is source and mouth of all waters.

It is the way, or one among others, to the realm of the dead Medieval geographers call it "Umbilicus Maris, Navel of the Sea, or "Euripus".

[...]

A Dyak hero, climbing a tree in "Whirlpool-Island," lands himself in the Pleiades.

But generally, one looks for "it" in the more or less northwest-north-northwest direction, a direction where, equally vaguely Kronos-Saturn is supposed to sleep in his golden cave notwithstanding the blunt statements (by Homer) that Kronos was hurled down into deepest Tartaros.

And from those "infernal" quarters, particularly from the (Ogygian) Stygian landscape, "one" -who else but the souls?-sees the celestial South Pole, invisible to us.

So the Axis Mundi pierces the world from the top to the bottom, from the Heavens to the Abyss, from the polar star in the north pole to the invisible celestial south pole, where Kronos sleeps in his cave/island after being dethroned.

Just like Python rests under the Omphalos/Axis Mundi after being defeated by Apollo.

The maelstrom, result of a broken mill, a chopped-down tree, and the like, "goes through the whole globe," according to the Finns.

Now, remember that npc Ilmari standing beneath the white tree I mentioned earlier?

Traveler: About that tree…

Ilmari: It's cursed. There used to be a whirlpool here - the sailors called it the Eye of Kratti. Then one day, this tree just started growing right out of it.

Now then, on the topic of the world's axis and its corresponding god and star, let's talk about the Precession of Equinoxes.

We said that the Polar Star represents the Axis Mundi because it's right on top of the Earth's axis of rotation. Well, it wasn't always like that.

Because of the Precession of Equinoxes, the position of the celestial pole changes. Now it corresponds to Polaris, but thousands of years ago the polar star was Alpha Draconis.

That's right, the Dragon Star was replaced by another star. This is the end of the post, so you should know by now who this is about.

P.S.

Shoutout to the world-famous Oracle of Delphi, where the Pythia, named after Python, gave prophecies. Just like a certain someone.

Shoutout to the FrostBearing Tree in Dragonspine, the white irminsul-branch-tree that got revived by Durin's blood.

Shoutout to the rings of Nibelung Saturn

Conclusion:

So what am I trying to say with all of this? Tbh I'm not completely sure... I am certain these are (a small part of) the myths hoyo is taking inspiration from, but how precisely they decide to apply these myths to the story, we can only speculate. (For example, King Irmin and Hroptatyr are also obviously involved in the Irminsul shenanigans, but i'm not sure where they fit in this picture, for now)

So is Nibelung sealed under Irminsul? Possibly. Is it feeding off his remains? Maybe. Has Nibelung already been reincarnated as Vedrfolnir? That would be crazy but you never know (tbf there is a squirrel in norse mythology that brings messages from the dragon under Yggdrasil to Vedrfolnir, so we just have to find the squirrel looks at ororon, maybe the squirrel is just the Abyss stored in Nibelung's body). Is Nibelung coming back when Doc burns Irminsul? I sure hope so!

Anyway, thank you for sticking around this long❤️

[bone-cement-huffer]

memeception

[hashtagloveloses]

WE’VE HIT TERMINAL MEME

[bl00dlikeice]

@caesarianconfection

[fidefortitude-deactivated202011]

I’ve said “I hate this” so many times on this website, and never actually meant it, because “I hate this” is just shorthand for ‘this is an example of a meme given a twist I wasn’t expecting with intent to surprise’. Which is, in of itself, a meme on this site. God damn it.

But this… This is something else.

The rapidity of a meme’s introduction to its zenith to its decline is so rapid that in ten years, you’ll need a damn twenty-page manual to explain this. It’ll be as unfunny and hard to explain as jokes in Shakespeare plays, except even more inexplicable because fuck, at least Shakespeare’s jokes are usually about anal or fucking your mother, good wholesome sex jokes we can all get behind.

For the love of fuck, how do you explain loss.jpg? How do you explain gun?

[mommacomms]

….I THOUGHT THIS WAS A YMCA REFERENCE

[pagesofkenna]

it is a YMCA reference - that’s one of the 6 memes being represented here

ok let me see if i can break this down easily. YMCA is the easiest place to start - the song itself has become a meme over time with people changing the lyrics to reference other pop cultural events. so YMCA is meme one (1)

this first lyric replacement (”take the breadsticks and run”) is a reference to the tumblr meme ‘stuffing breadsticks into my purse’. i think everyone remembers that one so i wont bother to explain it. that’s meme two (2)

“man door hand hook car door” is a meme of its own, a creepypasta from i dont remember when. it was a terrible stupid retelling of the generic ‘stuck in a car while hook handed man tries to kill us’ story so the stupid title caught on for memorability. that in and of itself is meme three (3)

‘gun’ is… yeah i dont know how to explain gun. long story short you add gun to the end of a phrase instead of what you expect the last word to be. its shock funny. its everywhere but its popular to add to “man door hand hook car door” for.. some reason? gun is meme four (4)

and the thing is, this four meme combo is something thats gone around before. meme combos are, itself, a meme. which means taking this meme combo and mixing in another meme actually becomes meme five (5)

which leaves us at loss.jpg. loss.jpg was a terrible bad comic supposed to be about some tragic event, but it was presented so poorly literally no one takes it seriously, and for some reason recreating the four-panel setup has become popular. so thats meme six (6)

(but i need to add that this is the greatest version of loss.jpg i think i’ve ever seen. the initial ‘young man’ lines up with the guy bursting through the door, and the shock meme ‘gun’ matches the shock scene of the woman in the hospital and idk if OP even thought about that but it makes this just so much better)

[animatedamerican]

I wasn’t going to reblog this, but @pagesofkenna‘s comprehensive meme-by-meme annotation is a thing of beauty and should be shared.

[captainlordauditor]

average tumblr post contains one meme, this post, which contains six, is an outlier and should not be counted

[japhers]

it might also just be a coincidence due to loss.jpg’s format but the whole white minimalist four-panel setup is also suspiciously reminiscent of those early 2000’s rage comics

[maps-and-elvis-and-zelda-n-shit]

I was getting a political compass vibe too

[your-uncle-dave]

tag urself im man door hand hook car gun

[politicalcompassmemes]

This works better than I thought it would.

[chiribomb-deactivated20220820]

This was in my senior project

[kait-the-kitty]

I’m not sorry.

[panickedmartian]

EIGHT MEME COMBO

[smooththegoofyshark]

FATALITY

[soda-soda-pop-deactivated202005]

We have officially created a new language 

[soda-soda-pop-deactivated202005]

I just had to do it to em

[phoneykin]

THIS FUCKING THREAD I’M GONNA CRY

I LOST IT AND MAN DOOR HAND HOOK CAR GUN AND DIDN’T EXPECT MORE I’M SOBBING

[soda-soda-pop-deactivated202005]

M E M E T E N

[soda-soda-pop-deactivated202005]

OwO?

[louchie]

[your-one-true-prince]

W o w

[screamingveryslowly]

You know I had to

[bone-cement-huffer]

I hope you know this is the most cursed addition to my post, and I love it

[joyriding-in-the-fandoms]

THIRTEEN!?

[junepop45]

SOMEONE EDIT THIS FROM THE ORIGINAL PHOTO SAYING “this one does not spark joy” TO THIS VERSION SAYING “this one sparks joy”

[astral-ghoul-deactivated2025100]

[moved-to-ancient-gaylienz]

well i added my contribution : )

why—

[fandersunite]

IM SCREAMING

[robynspreciousnest]

This is the most elaborate meme I have ever seen and damn am I concerned by how it makes sense.

[operahousebookworm]

“You’re in your 30s, but you still understand all this meme stuff?” “Oh yeah, sure.” “Can you explain it to me?” “I absolutely fucking cannot.”

[sword-and-nightingale]

One does not simply explain this

[sword-and-nightingale]

Edit:

Another freaking layer!!!

[shitposting-hobbits-to-gallifrey]

16 motherfucking layers

[catbxy]

In the future someone’s going to ask me to explain this and I’m going to be at a loss.jpg for words

[randomslasher]

I’m not reblogging this because I want to. I’m reblogging this because sometimes you’re a witness to history whether you want to be or not, and you have to embrace that. 

[tea-withnofixinsplease]

GUYS STOP!! IF WE CONTINUE ON THIS ROAD, THE MEME WILL BECOME TOO POWERFUL!

[whatthefuckdoesthatevenmeanbooth]

No keep going, let’s see if we can brake tumblr. If we do let’s use it to brake fb and twitter

[tea-withnofixinsplease]

You’re chaotic neutral I love it

[tbhitisdbh]

What he said

[tbhitisdbh]

Struck by inspiriation twice lads

[trashcanakin]

[heir-of-the-chair]

My humble contribution

[sword-and-nightingale]

I love going through the notes of this and seeing my 16 layer version and 24 layer version circulating.

[dysphoric--acid]

ive added my end of the chaos

[theoneandonlyredrobin]

Beautiful

[theundertalehuman-deactivated20]

@lowkeyjustvibing what the fuck did you just reblog?

[lowkeyjustvibing]

I don’t fishing know

[theoldworldsrunnerup]

Has this been done yet?

[theundertalehuman-deactivated20]

[theoldworldsrunnerup]

[daroaringknight]

had to contribute to tumblr history

[lets-go-mental-in-the-woods-dea]

Oh my god this is tumblr history

[ds-and-ibvs-nerdo-deactivated20]

oh my god my mutuals are doing this too

[theoldworldsrunnerup]

Yes we are✨

[ds-and-ibvs-nerdo-deactivated20]

my hand slipped oop

[theundertalehuman-deactivated20]

fool i posted my meme before you

[ds-and-ibvs-nerdo-deactivated20]

oh okay then-

[the-real-fucking-daddy]

someone-

[franthehorsegir]

I dare some one to keep going.

[nonbinaryvulcan]

I couldn’t scroll past this and not make an addition 😂

[franthehorsegir]

Thank you 😝🤣

[silkwingfood]

i spent half an hour on this addition hope y’all are happy

[bisexualnerd]

My humble contribution

[bunkerbuilder37]

I made one

[pricetagofficial]

This was a journey, and I’m glad I got to experience it

[muuunna]

I am sorry to say but the train named,“Last Remnant of my Sanity”, has officially left the station.

[cy-n0-suree-deactivated20210707]

The sheer power of this thread has me quaking

[cool-i-m-dead-inside]

I’ve reached rockbottom and here we are

[ellebellas]

Ok but I need someone who can actually make a meme to add on but do the Thor ragnorak meme where tumble is Hela and she’s like you can’t defeat me and Thor is that first original plane white meme and he says I know but he can and the fire guy is the most recent one. Thanks

[my-life-is-a-mess]

you ask and you shall receive

[bucketofplums]

I’m so glad this made it to my dashboard

[bucketofplums]

So I decided to contribute as well…

[mindfulmagics]

I love how by the last ones the meme is almost unrecognizable in the layers

[lt-sparrow]

34 💖💖💖

[nothing-mancer]

We must never let this end

[trinoxtrinox]

There are, SO MANY LAYERS to this meme, and I’m going to add more of them by fusing a few of the deepest memes I’ve seen so far XD

The memes here come from the following chains, starting from the bottom right:

This current chain with 35 layers before this.

This chain with 27 layers. By @cerbi-my-babyyyyy

This other chain with 35 layers. By @gay-girl-thing

This particular chain with 28 layers. By @thewintercavalier

Another chain with 27 layers. By @be-gay-cause-crime

This particular chain with 29 layers. By @theforgowolf

Yet another chain with 27 layers. By @thefirstjackal

And this last chain with 29 layers, yet again. @memermemedout

I wonder, how many layers does this meme have now with this fusion of memeceptions, 28, 36 or 43?

[memermemedout]

here you go

[creepy-guy-in-your-house-offical]

What the fuck is happening

[31suitboots]

the circle of life

[worldheritagepostorganization]

World Heritage Post

[melit0n]

Ode to Waterfowl, Elegy to Crow.

Synopsis: In the Opera House, season flies by like a flock of swifts–days and nights folding over one another, passing and rising, tinted in gold and draped in crimson. Piece by piece, the world turns in opalescent tulle and the crooning of the singers, though, there is only one dancer that Erik finds himself enraptured by, both on stage and off; a pearl, hidden away in the creaking, breathing halls.

So, when the stagehands grumble, and the goslings of the corps de ballet gossip, he finds himself awaiting–ever so patiently–the announcement of roles for a new performance, something he’s adamant you execute.

As he stares into the gentle waters of the lake, wings ragged, he sees more of himself in you than he’d like to admit–yet, he wonders, is not Lucifer permitted his dreams of angels?

- Oneshot requested by @officialcaptain

- The Phantom/Reader

- Word Count: 9.5k

- Warnings: Stalking.

- Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71813876

- Masterlist.

In a perpetual night, the subterranean passages of the Opera House sprawl out before Erik–an endless succession of shadowed corridors, their wooden ribs creaking softly, as though the very bones of the place shifted in some sort of uneasy sleep. 

Cobwebs weave their gauzy lace from corner to corner, their gossamer threads whispering against his coat as he passes. They are always there, no matter how often he disturbs them; returning each night as if in patient anticipation, a fresh net almost always spun anew. Always waiting, as if expecting him–or a far gone, far lost wanderer; stranger to the labyrinth, stranger to Dante’s infernal honeycomb; transposed into oak and marble–to someday stumble into their snare. 

Erik shifts the small leather bag between his fingers, the contents lightly clanking together, as his feet habitually skip over a whining step.

Around him, dreaming, the walls hum with the memory of the day’s exploits. Stone and timber stir and sigh, their restless settling at times a noise close to distant laughter, something drip, drip, dripping in tandem with his footsteps. 

He counts each one, one-two-three, one-two-three, like a waltz, something Chopin reverberating vaguely in his mind.

When he had first helped raise these walls, when it had stood gleaming in its newness, even he had half the mind to believe it was alive. Golden foyers and their winding staircases like lungs; the grand auditorium, a great and throbbing heart; and these hidden halls, as if veins. Breathing with the inhales of every prima donna, bending with each piqué of the corps de ballet. 

Rounding the jut of a pillar, he watches the glow of an oil lamp–the lights still not having been modernised; gas favoured for above, not below–spill in trembling rivulets through the cracks in the panelling, shards of warmth shattering the dark passages. His fake nose itches. 

A fanciful notion indeed, though, one that the impressionable ladies of the ballet–as well as the stagehands, box keepers and cloak-room attendants–enjoyed petrifying each other with. Some of the young girls–though, he’s sure half the ballerinas and chorus girls all, albeit concealed, share the same unease–really do fear that, with the wrong hallway, the Opera House may just swallow them whole. 

Confident as they may appear draped in the palatial gleam of the foyers, mingling with patrons and flattering the great and good of Paris, they gather like flocks of nervous birds as they traverse the dimmed halls, never entering their usual daytime perches the moment night falls. No longer women of poise and training, but children once more, crying ‘wolf’ at every missing earring and gasp of cold air. 

Thus, as the hour grows later and he makes his unhurried way towards his apartment– reminding himself to collect his order in the coming week–he is…surprised, to hear the low tremor of voices from the other side.

“I am telling you; they have put up the list!” One whispers, or attempts to; the result is a mockery of secrecy, pitched high and sharp, and as loud as a murmur dares to be. One…two, and three pairs of heels clack, clack, clack upon the steps beside him, metronomic and anxious, as they descend.

“And I am telling you it has been done too hastily!” Replies another, her voice smooth and unctuous, though its practiced cadence falters under the weight of irritation. An alto, perhaps, in some other life, but certainly not this one. “We only heard of the routines but a fortnight past-”

“-Did you see if any of the new ones have been chosen?” A third voice joins–Accented; Belgian, he thinks. All whispers, but still needless, headache-inducing chatter.

“I am not certain,” she speaks in a flurry, and he begins to attempt to faze them out. “I- I did see one about a swan, which I hope-”

-he must make an alteration with one of his orders-

“-Please say it is not Swan Lake again.”

And restock the pantry. He always finds it unfathomable how fast everything dissipates. 

“I-”

One of them stumbles with an expletive–a curious, almost amusing sound to hear from a lady’s mouth–and the vibration hums beneath his own feet as he ducks beneath a low beam.

“-If it is, we can count on one less chance at performing.” One of the girls cuts in with a scoff, mumbling, “the director always chooses Émilie…”

Perhaps for good reason, he thinks to himself, moving the bag in his hand again. Most of the others–bright-eyed, trembling at the edges of their confidence–still moved as if newborn fawns; all innocence and no grace. Principals were chosen so justifiably, after all.

A low murmur ripples through the group; discontent weaving between them like smoke, like starlings chittering at a cat.

For all that, he cannot entirely disagree with their grievance. Swan Lake is a thing of beauty, yes–its melodies delicate and well formed, costuming exquisite–but beauty, pressed too hard, will stale. Even loveliness, repeated ad nauseam, loses its bloom. A lesson far from learned by the managers.

The high-pitched voice from before cuts clean through the grumbling, and through his thoughts. “Mhm, but no; I believe it to be the Russian one.”

But that does remind him.

“Are you sure you are not thinking of Swan Lake?” The smooth toned one presses.

He must send a letter to the managers soon. His monthly pay has not yet come through; while it is most likely a trifling matter of accounting, he smiles to himself at the notion that the messieurs might believe themselves capable of withholding what is due.

“Certainly not,” insists the first, indignation sharpening her pitch. 

Perhaps…perhaps a small scare might hasten their attentions. 

“Are you ever certain of anything, Cécile?”

The thought brings a small smile to his face.

“Do you not remember the ballet master talking of it?” Cécile groans.

It falls as the girls continue their gossip. Wearily, he rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm. The Opera House never sleeps; not truly. Its dreams are much less fanciful, and much more tangible, if only ever to the fretful cast members. Stage long cleared, it still sings a mundane, domestic symphony; late practices, whistling cleaners, creaking bones. A tune he’s come to cherish, even yearn for, in the still silence of his apartment. 

The footsteps beside him falter. One pair, then the others, stop, and chatter their collapses into a stillness far too conspicuous. His heart sings for it. Quiet; always a hard thing to come by, especially when one wants it. After an evening spent sorting papers, tallying accounts, and attending to the dull necessities of the living, he has little fortitude left for another round of girlish squabbling.

“Surely not!”

Yet here it is.

As Cécile splutters for words, they begin to walk again, “performed recently at St Petersburg-”

“-Do not let Yekaterina hear that pronunciation-” another giggles, Belgian vowels dancing.

“-To Carmilla, no,” her voice swells, emboldened by its own conviction. “Carmen Saint-Säens’ music-”

He winces at the butchering of the vowel, “-Good Heavens, do not let us hear that pronunciation-”

“-you know who I speak of!” She snaps, exasperated. Erik brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose; glad to know he’ll be turning away from this corridor soon enough. “You two must certainly be going deaf if you do not-”

“-Please, Cécile,” the new voice–affable, uncertain, as though half-afraid it were speaking only into the dark–makes his ears, and heart, perk. At once the girls halt, and so does he. “May you keep quiet?” Tempted beyond sense, his feet shift against the boards without a sound as he brings his eye to a narrow slit in the wall. “We are not meant to be down here this late.” Even if in only splinters–in shards, in fragments–he’d know that voice, “I do not wish to be reprimanded,” know that S/C skin; know those H/C locks, bathed in the warm glow of the mounted lamps. “Or reported by one of the lamplighters.”

Gently, he smiles to himself;

“And where have you been?”

You.

You answer with something simple; a hushed murmur about retrieving a forgotten item. 

Of all, he is in the least unsurprised with your presence.

The blonde–short, button-nosed and bright even in her fluster; Cécile–murmurs her own apology before promptly linking her arm through yours as they begin their descent once again.

Late evening practices–the crisp tap of your shoes, and the somewhat gaudy tunes wrung from whatever pianist you’ve coaxed into playing at such an hour–are commonplace for you.

And, like clockwork–

As is his watching.

–his legs urge him to follow.

“Mhm,” the Belgian hums, deep brown eyes, almost black, catching the shine of the low light. “We were wandering around half-blind without you! It is like Bluebeard’s vault down here.” Her laughter flutters, thin and nervous, like a moth trapped inside a glass.

He would call it routine–he would call it ritual. 

Through a sliver of lamplight, he catches your smile; apologetic, tinged with amusement. “Forgive me,” you laugh. “I did not know you were all so afraid of the dark.”

Would call it solace, even. 

The honey-toned one scoffs, a pale hand carding through the wisps of chestnut that have escaped her tight plait. “Mm, speaks the woman as pale as a dying man. You linger here later than any of us,” he catches a playful grin; full of perfectly aligned teeth. “Do tell, what has spooked you?”

Especially on those long, tireless nights. Where it would end with just you and him; one fixated spectator to your impressive perseverance. A low hum of song, not from your own throat; not from your own mind, to accompany you. 

The Belgian interrupts whatever response you had planned with a conspiratorial giggle. “The Opera Ghost, no doubt.”

You are not afraid of many things–certainly not that which goes bump in the night. Certainly not the shadows drawn on the walls. Certainly not ghost stories. 

The others titter uneasily, the sound skittering down the stairs like loose beads. 

You have spent enough time pressed between patrons to know the darker dangers lie in the glint of gold, in the faint brush of silk. 

Behind the wall, Erik’s mouth quirks. 

But sometimes–between the guttering candles and the oil lamps–you feel as if your reflection isn’t the only pair of eyes on your form.

“If there were such a thing,” Cécile whimpers, pouting, no doubt, “out of all of us, he would have appeared to Y/N.”

You part your lips to reply, but, again, the Belgian beats you. “Who is to say he has not? Perhaps he has already placed a curse upon our dear Y/N.” The girls press closer, clinging to you as though to a talisman. Their laughter ripples nervously along the corridor, and Erik nearly lets a scoff escape. “And perhaps,” she continues, turning slyly toward you, “he has sworn her to silence.”

“Well-”

“-I say there is naught to fear.” Cécile interrupts, too quick to be entirely convincing.

Their voices begin to recede as they descend further into the warren below. Erik lowers a foot, expecting the next step, and instead finds solid ground beneath him.

“Ah, yet you are the one clinging to her for dear life!” Another teases, and their laughter swells again–lighter now, easier; swiftly drowning out their talk of ghosts–before drifting away entirely. 

Soon only their echoing footsteps remain, trailing off toward the old practice rooms as he stands at a crossroads, head turned to follow your voice.

There are still things left undone, papers and plans and the weary pull of sleep–but he is a man of patience. A man of ritual.

So he turns, steady as the wind turns the crow’s wings.

A cobweb tickles his nape.

And, as ever, he follows–the tap, tap, tapping of your shoes his metronome, his summons.

The wood is uneven beneath his feet as he follows, soundless as smoke, the bright thread of your voice through the gloom. Gaps of light fracture the darkness here and there; small, slanted panes that catch upon flaking plaster and the corroded lips of iron lamp brackets.

“...ook! I told you, Joan.”

Before long, he finds another slit in the wood, heart thumping in his chest; a thrum he cannot quell. 

“I have eyes, Cécile.”

Through it, he spies the little flock huddled close–yourself in the centre–with skirts brushing in the narrow corridor. They’re gathered around a small sheet of paper, pinned to the wall. Whatever ‘the list’ may be, the print, regrettably, is too fine to read; mere black loops of ink, barely touched by the dim halo of the lamp it hangs beside.

The Belgian turns to you, hands pointing towards the note. “Y/N! Do any pique your interest?”

You hum, tilting your head, E/C eyes narrowed as though you might will the letters into clarity. A gentle shake of your head follows, then, “No…well, Giselle’s part would be nice,” Joan nods, as does he; a programme, then? “Or even one of the Wilis.” You add, softer, now. Surely a programme. You turn your eyes to the Belgian, “What of you, Ida?”

She worries on her answer for a moment, lips pressing together before she lets it spill. “Something from La Sylphide, or like you, from Giselle.” Her gaze flicks back to the paper, lingering wistfully. A programme he was not even aware of; since when did the season’s set change so? “They’ve chosen well; the summoning, the pas de deux…so pretty.” A sigh escapes her, wistful and small. “Only one of the new ones, though…”

Cécile leans toward you, “I think you’d suit it.” almost conspiratorial in her compliment.

“Hm?” you hum. 

“‘The Swan’; the new one,” her grin widens. “I think you’d suit it.”

You return her smile, kind and bright, your eyes crinkling at their corners. Even if tired, you give the same look to the mirrors–to him–after practice; it never fails to bring heat to his face. “How can you say so when you have not even seen the new routines?”

“I spoke to the ballet master’s assistant,” Cécile shrugs, all girlish confidence. “He said it was very beautiful.”

Gently, your eyes shift back to the paper, eyes catching on the words, a smile unfurling across your lips. “It would be wonderful…” you say it under your breath, more so to yourself than your friends; as if saying it too loud would shatter your wish.

Nodding, Ida adds, “Either way, Y/N, you’d deserve such a r-” but the sentence dies upon her tongue, as if taken right from her throat. 

For an instant, he stiffens, certain he’s made some noise–a floorboard groaning under his weight, an exhale too close to the wall. His gaze darts back to you. Your head is turned to the other end of the hall, the one you came from, eyes dancing from shadow to shadow; like a partridge listening to the snap of a twig beneath a hunting dog’s foot.

Before he can decide, the whole group scatters–skirts swishing, shoes striking the wood in frantic rhythm–into the folds of the dark; only sign that you were ever there the swish of the oil lamp’s flame.

He blinks, momentarily disoriented. He’d only ever seen girls move so fast when-

-the glow of the hall swells, almost to the point of blinding. He squints, blinking rapidly at the sudden burn, before his eyes adjust and reveal…

…a lamplighter. 

Erik’s shoulders fall. He wonders if, perhaps, your covey thought the man to be him.

The man hovers a moment, eyes drifting to the sheet that had enthralled you, before he turns the wick down, extinguishing the light. Erik hears the slightest blow of air before the other man’s footsteps disappear back down the hall whence he came. 

He exhales between his teeth, steadying the wildness of his pulse. Silence returns–heavy, complete–and, with it, the hum of your voice, ringing in his ears.

For a moment, he stays stagnant in the hall; thoughts stuck on the programme. Season starts and ends smoothly, predictably; October calls for autumnal favourites–Faust, Lucia di Lammermoor and La Bayadère–as does June and its Spring, the pit growing green with Roméo et Juliette and Coppélia just before the rich leave for their countryside and seaside estates. 

So, for the second time this evening, he is given another surprise–that of a possible gala. A possible chance to see you perform; a new piece, nonetheless. 

Contemplative, he turns away, back on his original path. Shifts past his mechanisms, fades through walls, glides down below; six feet under the ground below. 

The Swan, he thinks. 

His lips curve faintly in the dark. 

How fitting.

And so, the days, the weeks, pass, as they always do; the Opera House singing its lullabies, its laments, all the same. Nights fold into days, fold into nights again, like pages of an oft-read libretto; scenes blurring and bleeding into one another. 

One week, the house is awash in crimson and brass, its stage a Bacchic revel for Don Giovanni. Tambourines rattle against the marble bones of the auditorium, dancers whirl in clouds of brocade and tulle. Another, the orchestra bellows Verdi’s elegies–air thick with incense, cigars, and the salt of practiced tears. He counts each sob before the applause erupts. 

The Arcadian pillars rattle with the sheer noise of it. 

A truly stupendous sound, but, not the one he yearns for. Not the gentle plink of the rehearsal room’s battered piano, not your exhales, not the sound of the smile in your voice–bright as Summer’s nightingales’ morning call–as you accept the cheers of your fellow dancers. 

Not your mumbles, when you believe yourself to be alone. 

It is on one of these nights, on one of these evening visits, that he hears it. 

It had been a long day–an unpleasant one, at that; mind stricken with too heavy a thought. Enough so that he’s sure the foundations of this painted marble heart shook with the despondency of his fugues. 

He had traversed upwards with the hope that it was one of the days in which you remained late into the evening, possibly without the accompaniment of a pianist. There is peace, there is comfort, in watching the bend of your legs, the frustration, then, the joy on your face as you glide across the polished floors with all the ease of the tide. Something simple to calm his mind. 

Something awe-worthy to bask in. 

He had not yet entered into the slim, hidden room behind the practice room’s many mirrors–merely a turn away from it, before he had stopped. He’s unsure where he had found himself in the song, but his ears perk nonetheless. It is not brassy, nor jubilant, but low and tremulous, as though the piano itself mourned a dying thing. The melody coils upward with a kind of sorrowed grace, tender as a farewell whispered into a fading dream. Each note falls upon him with the weight of Autumn leaves, piling somewhere deep within the hollow of his chest.

Not a song he has heard before; not one that conjures a troupe of sylphs, nor that breaks and mends Giselle’s heart.

Then, it stops. Chords scattering and fading into the wood, hypnagogic, before their absence is filled by your muffled voice; so close, yet so far.

“May you play that section again, Freja?”

There is a moment of silence, a moment where something deep within his stomach aches, before the song begins anew. It wails, quietly–something Saint-Saëns in its lilt–and he finds himself backing away with two thoughts; that he will only watch with the rest of the crowd, and that you will be magnificent. 

The melody clings long after it finishes. Even when silence settles over the Opera House once more, he hears it still; distance and warm with reminiscence. It follows him through corridors and into restless sleep, coils itself about his thoughts, and chews. Maggot to corpse; gapeworm to crow; devotion to man.

If he is to be sick with it, then he is the happiest sufferer of all humanity. 

But, suffering, as he has come to know, has a price.

During season, he knows the weeks fly by like swifts, but now–alone once more in his evenings, and abstaining from the sight of you–it seems as if even hours crawl, slower than wax surrendering to its flame. 

The building shifts in ways only the spiders and their webs truly know. First, the scent of rain on the stones as late summer fades to autumn; the faint draught seeping down from the grand vestibule when the nights grow colder. Rehearsal lamps burn earlier and longer now, their golden glow creeping through the cracks like fingers of ivy steadily conquering an abandoned abode. 

And now, slipping from staircase to staircase, a feeling he has known to name as restlessness bubbling at the tips of his fingers, he is beginning to regret his vow.

Between marble and the watchful gaze of Apollo, the strings of practice echo, albeit muffled; strong as waves crashing against a cave’s mouth, soft as wind flitting through handmade chimes. Someone whistles along with it, out of tune, yet still familiar–as all music seems to be–as he crosses from corridor to corridor, past the stares of marble busts and carefully painted Gods. 

Here, in the hush of painted grandeur, he feels the ache of absence. He feels as if each of his cells strain towards the rehearsal rooms, his feet almost betraying him, as if magnetised, and he is coming to realise that the phrases of the cast–spoken between strings and the flit of music sheets–do hold some truth to them. 

To him. 

Up and up he ascends, as far from the plink and tap of the practice rooms as he can manage. Sunlight casts its aureate glow across the walls, gilded rays slipping over frames and canvases, igniting the painted saints and heroes with false divinity. He doesn’t pause, doesn’t hesitate, when a cluster of men drifts past his wall, their shoes muffled by the carpet. Cigar stained, their laughter drips like oil, as he slides by, as always unseen and unheard.

Habit–routine–is God, here. Slips between stonework and the fingers of the candleholders as the same invisible sanctity that drapes itself across Notre Dame and La Madeleine. Early rises, late finishes, bread and wine at their proper hours; the orchestra’s tuning, the ballet master’s clap, the hush before the curtain ascends. 

The tap of your pointe shoes; steady as rosary. 

Careful, he slinks through a tighter passage, holes for the lamp fixtures offering glimpses of a group that chatter excitedly around a clerk’s desk, hums of delight swelling each time some machine–a Remington, he’s heard them call it–chimes.

He does not pay them much mind–

 “...ore of a piano than a pen…” 

“...strikes the wrong key?”

–only scoffing to himself as he peels a cobweb from his shoulder. 

He has never found much comfort in such places; not in St Michel’s, not in the many mosques of Persia–walls of stone and whispered prayers never warmed him, never saw him.

He is a patient man, he tells himself, again and again, as though repetition might make it truer. 

Still, the sentiment gnaws. It always does, and patient men find ways to ease their ailments.

Which is why he climbs–chasing height as though it were penance–towards the director’s office for the nth time in this week alone. It is not, by any means, a common haunt for him–the affairs of administration and their petty intrigues hold little allure; he leaves the odd letter if he is in disagreement with anything major–but in these weeks he feels as if he can walk the route blind. Knows which corridors cut the distance shorter; which hour finds the director and his assistant absent for luncheon; which drawer conceals that which he seeks.

And so, with the practiced ease of a ghost, once he has waited long enough beyond the wainscot to assure himself the chamber is empty, he slips inside, as he has done what feels like a hundred times before. Late afternoon light drapes itself across the dark oak furniture and paneling, spilling in thick amber bands that turn the bookcases–and their many well-thumbed books–desk and chairs into honey. It seems somewhat spartan compared to the manager’s offices–always providing themselves a certain imitation of the opulence they’re surrounded by–let alone some of the singer’s wards, but for that very reason he finds he prefers it.

Graceful, dust motes rise and drift in the beams like tiny sentinels, disturbed by the air he displaces. Mindful of the old floorboards, he carefully makes his way across to the desk, situated in front of the window. A pallid bust–Mozart, believes; a replica of the one that adorns the Opera’s façade–watches him from its perch upon the mantelpiece, blank marble gaze joined by the lifeless eyes of all the dull paintings, cradled in carved faux gold.

A faint pricking of conscience stirs when his hands begin their furtive work amongst the side-cabinets–as it has each time he has done this beforehand–but the sensation dissipates as his hands clear a small stack of bills, and grasp what he has grown to become familiar with in a drawer above its usual spot. 

With a bit of shuffling, he draws a small brown notebook from the depths of the drawer. Its cover is battered at the corners, rubbed and smoothed by frequent handling; a familiar artifact he has held many times before. The ballet master keeps something similar, that too has been searched on the one occasion he’d managed to slip it out of the man’s coat, but in the end, it is this book that matters most; where final decisions take form, and where patrons’ whims and flatteries are sifted into something resembling decree.

Loosening the string that binds it, he withdraws to a chair set back from the window’s glare and begins his work. Like a scholar leafing through some sacred codex, he turns the pages and lets his eyes glide over the careful script, each entry an incision of judgment: ‘Mlle. Bouvier, footwork commendable, elegant; contender for Giselle,’ ‘perhaps Mme. Laurent for Dido’s lam-,’ the remainder of the word smudged into obscurity, ‘Mme. Lefevre recommended by M. Vicomte du Beaumont for…’ and so on. Page after page; tidy names, tidy roles, tidy futures carved into the paper.

But not yours.

Never yours.

Just as during his last visit, he finds no mention of you. Not a single note. Not even a half-considered phrase. And, worse, the only mention of the elusive ballet he’s managed to find is a scrawled ‘cygne’ near the bottom of one of the pages, splodges of ink below it as if someone had spent too long contemplating the word. 

His hands grip the small notebook tighter as his frustration builds.

He knows you attend rehearsal–he still hears the bright cadence of your laughter and that of your companions cascading down the stairwell as the sun steals into the corridors, still catches, in weaker hours of his resolution, the ghost of unfamiliar melodies winding their way through the gloom. So, why does the page refuse you?

Why does the world of ink and decision not acknowledge what he already sees? 

Surely, he thinks, riffling the pages forward and back with increasing urgency, he must have overlooked something. Perhaps the director has begun a new volume? Has he taken to keeping his notes with the ballet master? Or–though the very notion sets his teeth on edge– have you chosen not to apply for any roles at all?

Surely not.

He heard, saw, your excitement, plain as silk, all those nights ago. You would not hide yourself away from such a chance.

His eyes skip from patron’s title to patron’s title, and the sour thought finds him that perhaps favouritism is getting in the way. That, maybe, he must gently advise some of the troupe to stay home, if only to bring the ballet master’s, the director’s, eyes to you.

Then, small, near the top corner of a page, his eyes catch upon it. 

‘Mlle L/N is performing incredibly well, no?’  

And beneath, in a finer, lighter hand: ‘Agreed.’

His breath falters, and the exasperation weaving its way through his ribs is washed away with a sense of pride at the sight of it. It is not entirely his to claim, yet it feels like a triumph, nonetheless. Though a part of him chafes at such a scant mention–the cruel brevity of it compared to the notes lavished on lesser talents–it is silenced by simmering delight.

His fingers peel away from the notebook’s leather face, and, carefully, he reaches out. A gloved finger presses to the ink, tracing the loops and curves of your family’s name.

They see you. Not in the way he sees you, not even close, but they know. You have a chance, a strong one if this notation is anything to go by, and your acquisition of it without his assistance makes the success all the sweeter. 

…yet, performance of which piece remains unseen.

He sighs to himself as his curiosity finds a way to nag at him again; the hum of the music, your music, buzzing in his ears. It whispers–tries to persuade him to take a different turn when he makes his way to his apartment, down to the endless walls of mirrors that make up the main practice room. 

Unhurriedly, he pushes himself out of the chair, closing and re-tying its string with the same meticulousness in which he found it.

Perhaps, he thinks, his mind and heart would fare better if he stayed below, where-

-a sudden ripple of chatter cuts through his thoughts; far too close.

He freezes for a moment, cursing himself for losing his ear to the corridor. With a muted hiss of the leather, he shoved the notebook deep into a drawer, loose pages crinkling under the sudden force and wood thumping dully as it shuts. Already, the key scrapes in the lock; brass handle shifting, and-

“-ainly,” he inhales to calm himself as the muffled voice of the director reverberates on the other side of the wall; clipped and measured, even through the plaster. “Ah,” Gently, he shakes his head to himself, more reflex than thought, as he begins to retreat. “And what do you say of Mademoiselle Rousseau?” Now is certainly not a time for him to be seen. “Do you think she’d…?”

But, the second voice–drawled, faintly incredulous–halts Erik mid-step.

“What?” The ballet master. “En travesti?” 

The pairing of them, voices circling possibility, possibility that touches the stage, touches you–despite himself, it snags him. Holds him.

“Yes,” replies the director. 

Makes his eyes turn towards the thin fissure in the wall.

“Her movements need much more work.” The ballet master scoffs, lightly, a kind of dismissal in his voice that he’s sure has sent many ballerinas away sulking.

Makes him want to stay, if even for a second longer, to perhaps catch a breath of what is not written down. 

The director steps into view, his angled face sharper in the sunlight. He bobs his head side to side, conceding the point but not surrendering as he mumbles, “true…” whilst dragging a hand through his already greying beard.

Erik’s gaze shifts left, “Who was your other choice?” spying the ballet master lingering, arms crossed, in the doorway.

The director’s eyes begin to drift across the same papers Erik rifled through minutes before. “Mademoiselle Deschamps.” 

At once, his attention wanes. The same names, the same tired praise, repeated like a litany.

The ballet master exhales through his nose, almost satisfied. “A good one. Why not settle on her? She’s well seasoned.”

Repeated like a litany, and nothing to do with you.

A pause, the sound of paper being lifted, considered, squinted at in minor confusion, and set aside again. The man continues, still somewhat distracted with, “We are showcasing new talent with this, no?”

The words make Erik still. His pulse leaps, caught in his throat. 

New talent. 

The phrase trembles with promise, and he clings to it–

“True, true.”

–hungry, certain–

The thump of drawers opening imitates his heart; one-two-three, one-two-three.

“Ah, that reminds me.”

–as if it had been uttered for you alone.

“How are you for The Swan? Have you made a decision yet?”

Two words. One mention–enough to coil his stomach tight, enough to have the organ twisting like a dying thing, enough to drag him closer to the wall, pressing cheek and shoulder against the plaster as if proximity alone might pull the answer out faster.

The director falters, squints down at the disordered heap on his desk; still confused, still distracted. For a sickening beat, Erik wonders if he misplaced the notebook, if in his haste he tucked it into the wrong drawer, then–“yes,” murmured absently into the air, paired with the careless hum of a man who has no notion what his words are worth.

The air thickens, weighted with his anticipation. 

Something.

Even the ballet master leans forward, silent encouragement etched in the angle of his body, urging the director onward.

Give him something.

The only answer they’re–he’s–given is the scrape of drawers and the shuffle of papers.

He has half the mind to whisper something into the air, a spectral suggestion hummed into the silence, but the ballet master fills it instead with an almost soundless, resigned exhale. “Do you still aim to print the shortlist by the end of the week?”

“Yes. Aha!” The director straightens, notebook raised aloft. “There it is.” He busies himself collecting the scattered documents, stacking them into some semblance of order. “I believe Monsieur Guérette would kill me if I didn’t.” He gathers them in his arms, rounding the desk and heading towards the door. “The costumers are already hounding me f-” 

His words cut off with the final thump of the door as both men retreat, voices trailing into the corridor beyond.

Erik slumps back, spine striking the cold, damp wall. The Opera House trembles around him, noise, noise, noise, but in this hall, draped in shadow, he hears nothing but the hollow echo of his own breath.

It is more than he has found before–yet far, far less than he craves.

Almost an answer. 

Almost confirmation. 

And ‘almost’ gnaws at him worse than silence.

He drags a sigh through clenched teeth and forces himself down the hidden staircase, but his heart pounds restlessly, mind unmoored, every nerve itching for the sight, the sound, of you.

He does not listen, for the forbearing find their cure in noise; thunderous, drowning noise.

And so he lets the thrum of his organ devour him whole.

The chords crash like storm-surf, rattling the pipes as though a tempest had set Heaven’s rafters shaking. His fingers strike harder, faster, driving thought beneath the tide of sound; fugues knotted into furious counterpoint, progressions honed fierce enough to cut marrow from bone.

The cavern vibrates. The lake quivers. Still, the ache does not abate.

Every line he spins breaks, mutates, reforms into something silky. The storm falters. A melody slips through his fingers; something delicate, something almost tender. 

Not his own, not meant to be crooned by his fingers. 

He hammers the keys, hours of trying to wrench it into dissonance, but it resists. Returns. Blossoms. 

And the walls sing it back to him. 

His shoulders tremble as he bows over the keys, breaths trembling. 

A walk, he decides. A walk, and the fresh air, will clear his mind. 

Only does he return late at night, where the blue-white rib of the new moon hangs tall in the great expanse of night; a lone lamp lighting a long forgotten street, and glimmering gently on the calm waters of the Seine. 

Paris is restless–as all cities, as all towns, as all buildings are, he supposes–even at night, and he finds the barest glint of the far-off stars has done nothing for him. His only temporary distraction was the vague shape of something being built across the waters; some great tower, taller than the Persian windcatchers, reaching higher than Apollo and his Lyre, as if it could pierce the blanket of night itself. 

Interesting as it is, still not enough for his wandering mind, which has found itself in the dim passage that leads towards the practice rooms.

Patient men’s wills are pliable when it comes to woes of the heart, after all. 

An excuse, that is what he wants. Some fragile warble of pain in your voice; a missed note from the piano–the wrong chords that you surely cannot dance to; a teacher’s rebuke, muttered harshly enough for him to seize upon, to twist into a counterpoint of praise whispered in silence.

But there is nothing. 

He can almost–almost–convince himself that you have gone home for the eve for some much deserved rest, that he’d much rather be in his own apartment, if not for the slight tap, tap, tip-tap, of your shoes. Satin against the smooth flooring, dancing to no rhythm, no beat, but still as sure as the swan swims.

Still dancing, even if your pianist for the night has gone home.

He can’t fathom why they’d wish to miss your elegance. 

It calms him; the sound of it. Like fingers of rain tapping against windows, against the roof of a house. Lets the knot in his chest unravel. Draws him in, and he wonders if it is how Icarus felt as he touched the sun. 

You grow closer, huffs of breath–just how long have you been here?–slipping through the slats, uneven and faint. The honey-toned glow of the lamps bleeds faintly through the wall of mirrors, just enough to gild the dust that trembles in the air. It spills into his passage like a half-forbidden offering, warm against the damp stone.

The practice room emerges in fragments. A curtain cleaves it in two, sagging under its own weight and drooping in the middle as if too weary to uphold its division. Near him, on the darkened side, the piano slumbers beneath its cover, silent, awaiting a willing conspirator, and on the lit half–he supposes, he knows–you.

Carefully, he passes by it, towards the light, but flinches back when he catches the flit of an arabesque. It momentarily startles him awake; reminds him of his own vow that he cannot even hold together, reminds him that all good things come to those who wait.

Then, the veil of the dream falls again, and he yearns to peak Cupid. 

But, Erik is a patient man, which is instead why his gaze flickers to the piano; glimpsing the ivory keys that wink at him in the low light. His hands itch for them. 

You huff, annoyance in your breath, a pause in your noiseless twirl, before you begin again.

A middle ground; that’s what this can be. Something satisfactory for the both of you. 

He slips through one of the mirrors, easily, silently, sliding it open.

He will not see you, and nor you, him.

Gently, he shifts the seat outwards, trying not to listen to his own heart pounding in his ears. The seat is well worn, plush of it barely a separation from the hard wood, but it will do. He shifts the drapery away, and lets his fingers hover, shaking, above the keys. 

He should go–shouldn’t he? Should he play? That’s what he’s sat here to do, has he not? 

He’s never been this close before. Always with the separation of walls, always with the distance of the stage. You are just beyond the curtain, close enough that, if not for the fabric, he could touch you. Let his fingertips graze tule, graze skin.

He clenches his fingers; a poor attempt to try to stop their quivering, to try to manage the warmth spreading through his body. 

What should he play? Giselle’s pas de deux? Something from La Sylphide? 

Or…perhaps…

His hands inch away for a moment, one of them coming to cradle the mask, cradle his face.

Fragments. That’s all he has. 

His eyes dart towards the partition.

But, that is what he has been given his whole life, no?

The hand on his face tightens. He wishes it were yours. 

Erik is a patient, patient, man–

–his hands fall back to the keys–

–and patient men do with what they have been given. 

Quietly, he wishes he weren’t. A man can be greedy, once in his life, he hopes. Carrion crows, in all their preternatural nature, in their swooping and their cawing, still listen intently to the swan’s coo. Still yearn to know what it is like to float, so easily, on the mirrored sky.

He presses down upon the first note he recalls, fingers recoiling almost at once as your startled gasp rings through the room. Lesser so the beginning of a song, more an alert of his presence. 

“Freja!” You breathe out, shock making your voice tremble, ending in a shaky chuckle. “I- I thought you were not in today.”

In the hush that follows, temptation tugs at him to speak, for he would hate this small, stolen moment to be attributed to anyone but him, yet the tap of your shoes silences the impulse.

The tap of your shoes, approaching the curtain. 

“If you’re still sick, please do go home.” He can hear the grin, the weariness in your voice, and his feet find themselves ready to dash back to the mirrors. “I am quite fine without-”

Before you can finish, his hands fall to the keys once more, the chord catching you mid-step. He plays slowly, listening, searching, for the faintest hint of movement, but the sound never comes.

If he were to look behind him, he’d see your shadow; long and posed, filling his side of the room. 

Dance. 

The shadow draws back, growing smaller as you retreat to the light once more.

Please, dance. 

He begins again, filling in what he does not know, and smiles to himself at the sound of you. Breaths light as feathered wings catching wind, falling perfectly in time with the piano. The whisper of your feet against the wood, legs weaving with the melody.

As his own breath trembles, he allows himself to wonder what you look like. To paint your face feverishly in his mind; are you smiling? Eyes closed as you let yourself be lost in the routine? Perhaps focused, brows furrowed, or features maybe loose with serenity. 

He leans forward, hunched over the keys, as though the angle could bridge the distance between the image in his mind and the reality beyond the curtain. His hands dance across the notes, but it is your phantom gestures he sees; the curl of your fingers, the sweep of your arms, each step ghosting through his imagination.

It is such a soft song. Surely you must move gently, tenderly, too. Hands carving reverent shapes from the air, feet kissing the ground as if even the wood is unworthy.

And still, his heart writhes in his chest at the thought. Only so long without the sight of you, without the thought of you, and he is undone, reduced to this.

But, he thinks, is Lucifer not permitted his dreams of angels?

As the song unfolds, he loses certainty of where the original ends and where his own invention begins. Pride will not allow him to simply repeat the past chords, to draw you both into a loop, a never ending Ouroboros of almost climaxes–that, he will not disappoint you with. Instead, his hands continue to flit from key to key, same as a weaver who pulls the strings of their tapestry–deft hands moving if only to create shape, create colour–and makes a mimicry of the Affabile. 

Dance.

He lets it ebb and swell, rising like breath, sinking like the hush between heartbeats. The melody dips low, tender as a lullaby, just as the original calls for, then flares again with limerence and grandeur. 

Please, dance for me.

Vague, he feels the caress of your shadow–inky fingers drifting, feather light, over his shoulders–just as he reminds himself what he should be playing. It almost makes his hands halt on the keys all together, but, instead, he forces them to wane, drawing the final phrases out as if he could bask in them forever. 

Still, eventually, his fingers still; trembling above the ivory just as they had before.

The last notes hang in the air, and, for a few short moments, the Opera House, the world, is silent around the two of you, and he hopes, if he were ever granted Heaven, that it sounded like this.

Then, the hush shifts, broken by your exhale–a surprised thing that is half laugh, half astonishment. It makes the tips of his fingers buzz, as if the last chords, as if your voice, had hidden itself there, beneath his skin. 

“Freja,” you breathe into the silence, the syllables rippling outward and stirring the lamplight until it trembles. “Since when were you, ah…” A small laugh slips free as you lift one leg, shaking loose the ache coiled in the muscles of your calves and thighs. “What have you called it…frem-ragen-de?” The chuckle that follows is gentle, self-mocking, and the steady tap of your steps draws closer to the curtain. “I hadn’t realised you’d taken such a liking to impro-”

You are met with naught but absence. Only the faint smell of warmed wood, an empty chair neatly tucked away, and the piano veiled in its white cloth once more, untouched, as if no hands had ever woken it into song.

Behind the piano, your reflection smiles at you.

It is not something you speak of; merely a memory–a realised dream of an exhausted, half-asleep mind–that hangs heavy on your countenance, and, he fears, scares you from evening practice. 

He does not make any more visits; he’s satiated, for now, his hunger for presence, but he does keep his eyes on the paper work of the director’s desk. On the scrawled notes in his notebook, and the gossip of the costumers. And for that, he knows that it has not curbed your ardour in the slightest.

Waterfowl never startle easily to the shadow of a mere corvid, afterall. 

So, when the week finally meets its end, he does drift down, along with the other excited gaggles of girls and their mothers, to gaze upon what has been laid, like scripture, upon the walls. Between various updos, the dancers gathered–voices overlapping in laughter, in sighs, in quick gasps of triumph or disappointment–in a tight bunch, he spies it; the grand poster, the gospel of decisions, heavy and pasted tall. 

His gaze scorches over it with the fever of expectancy, with built up impatience, scanning past titles, past the careless script of other girls’ futures, until-

-there. Your name. Looped and grand, paired with a dance that has been renamed, he supposes, to ‘The Dying Swan.’

What joy it is to watch you. To see the relief, the utter elation, cross over your features as you laugh in something akin to disbelief to your friends. Your hands jitter at your sides before you bring them upwards, unsure what to do with the exhilaration flooding through you. 

His own twitch, a silent yearn to clasp them in his, and your friend, Ida, completes the action for him; bringing you into a tight embrace. Even with your head pressed into the nook of her neck, praise swarms you and, while some of it is weaved with jealousy, he’s sure, you deserve every word of it.

Your grin, caught between the slats of wood, burns itself into his mind, as if waxed stamped, and, even if Erik is a patient, patient, man, he allows himself not to leave such a thing untended to. He makes do lingering on the edges, as he always has, barely grazing the lace trim of your work; prying into the notes of those with power, catching the murmurs whispered between the corps de ballet, peering the set pieces as they’re passed from stagehand to stagehand to the storage rooms.

Something to satisfy him, yes, but also to be certain you remain where you belong; part intact, competence unchallenged. 

And, just as the itch mounts, just as he begins to yearn for you and the rehearsal room’s piano once more, the day comes. Fit between the week’s performance of Faust–while a favourite, one he finds he cannot sit still for this time–and Les Huguenots, it settles upon the Opera House like a silken veil; calm, thin, and as if one snag would tear the mere idea of it apart.

The hum of the auditorium is different than that of the walls, the practice rooms and the wings. 

Here, at the great thundering heart of it all, sound swells and blooms; patrons’ laughter rising and falling like distant bells, the clink of champagne flutes destined to be left half-drunk. It rolls through the red, velour seats and gilded balconies until it almost, almost, becomes a song in of itself. 

Distantly, jewels and rings and promises glitter around him, shining like stars in the light of the chandelier–walls warm with expense, accented by the grinning cherubs and the halcyon blue of the false, painted sky; the limit for all dreams, here.

In the box to his right, a woman, and who he supposes is her husband, chatter endlessly in their drawling, nasal accents about something in the mountains, and a marriage ceremony that he’s found mildly entertaining to hear about. Though, it does nothing to distract him from his restlessness. Nothing truly can, he thinks. He knows it is only a few minutes until the calcium lights dim, can tell by the shifting of the musicians in the pit, but he still finds himself tapping his foot on the carpet beneath him.

He glances towards the programme–the title ‘Grief Endured, Farewells Whispered; a diverse eve’ stark against its dove white body–resting on the seat beside him, companion to the customary box of chocolates that he never eats. His hands reach for it, gloved fingertips grazing the thin paper as he flits through the pages. Titles parade before his eyes–‘Addio del passato’ from ‘La Traviata’, Beethoven’s ‘Ah! Perfido’, fragments of ‘Giselle’, the mournful ‘When I Am Laid in Earth’ from ‘Dido and Aeneas’, ‘La Sylph’–until the names blur into an index of farewells and lamentations. But, then, amid the sea of print, his gaze snags upon yours.

First on the programme.

A tremor courses through him–something akin to adrenaline–but, before he can think too long upon it, the auditorium around him begins to change. The warm glow dims; a hush sweeping the room, like a wind blowing out the candles in a house.

At once, his attention is shifted, leaflet set aside; watchfulness unwavering.

He is a patient man, and patience, he thinks as the heavy, carmine curtain spreads and rises, has never rewarded him more richly than this. 

The piano starts mellow; just as he had remembered it. For a few moments, it is just the stage, a deep darkness, the yawning void of potential, and the music: loud as water hurrying through a riverbed, quiet as wind threading its fingers through the many arms of a willow.

Even surrounded by over a thousand–Paris’ pretentious donned in white bow ties and lace; fans fluttering like hummingbirds; temporary votaries worshiping at the altar of art–he feels, as the cello–how magnificent it sounds–laments, and you appear, that the two of you are the only ones in the world.

Your back is turned as you glide en pointe towards the centre of the stage, arms rising and falling in measured undulations as if controlled by the tide rather than will, your dress–a perfectly executed swathe of moon white feathers and opalescent sequins, as if you were a Schwanjungfrau caught halfway undressed–stark against the darkness. A star, luminescent, brought down from the sky above if only for a few burning, dazzling moments.

A ghost of the firmament; permitted for seconds to walk amongst men.

And, when you turn–chin lifted towards the painted cherubs, towards him–something in his chest twists. Knots. 

You bend and dip, feet and arms stumbling, jolting, in something between control and disorder; brows furrowing as you do, almost as if you were in pain. 

Genuine, palpable torment. 

Not that of a wound in your side, something that tears and throbs as you move, but an old ache.

Slow, you sink towards the ground, not quite falling. Your head drops with the rest of you, face hidden in shadow with arms sweeping low.

Like a scar that still aches with a memory. 

Just as fast as you fell, you rise again along with the cello.

Like sorrow–like grief.

Your arms–your wings–beat harder, before steadying themselves; sequins catching the light once more, shimmering like moonlight across water, like the burn of a candle flickering in a gust, as your body wavers.

An expression deep enough, etched onto your face with all the despair of Cain, that he only knew himself to wear. 

You twist and turn, movements desperate, almost frantic, as if you were searching for something just beyond reach, or fleeing the drag of an unseen hand.

It is a strange, cruel thing to realise. To feel; to witness. 

Your legs rise in a flurry of arabesques, head and gaze thrown towards a sky you cannot reach, cannot see, before gravity calls you back down. 

To see himself–his own restless, grasping soul–in something so beautiful. Something so elegant, fine, soft as silk and murmured, sweet-nothings. Things of which he’s never had, never touched, never drowned himself in.

Gentle, you fold in on yourself, head bowed low, nestled between your outstretched arms like a prayer whispered too late.

He is no creature of grace and purity, destined to be mourned by kings and adored by crowds. He never was, never will be–born marred; a voice in the rafters, a shadow on the sill, doomed to watch splendour from afar.

You bring your head back up like it’s some great weight and hover your arms above you, bending and staring upwards once more in what he might call reverence. Then, with a sudden, aching urgency, you surge upwards. Your back to the audience now as the cello croons and the piano hums its sorrow; desperation in the way you reach and reach, arms stretched like a supplicant’s plea, and, for a fleeting second, he believes you might truly take flight. Ascend to the rafters,  rise beyond the glares and the stares, beyond the fickle applause and sharper reprimands, beyond the reach of all hands.

Even the slightest comparison, and it feels almost wrong–is wrong; wrong the way smog blackens a spring sky, wrong the way oil sullies the surface of water–for, afterall, man’s hatred, a mother’s hatred, has made him a monster. 

You turn back towards him, a laboured act, your arms drooping with exhaustion.

But it settles in his chest none the same. 

Pain twists your face as you attempt another arabesque, only to falter–still en pointe, tap, tap, tapping, one-two-three, one-two-three–as if the very act of standing were agony. Your own body, own image, failing you.

He understands the title, now.

Your arms stretch outwards, seeking a support that never comes; a gust too weak to let you take flight. 

He feels it–nestled in his heart, where it has always been, and sitting heavy in his gut; almost like fear, almost like longing. As if he stands at the bank of the river, unable to help, unable to dampen his feathers–powerless because he was not made for the great tumult of the current; barely made for the skies himself. 

The piano cascades downwards beautifully–oh how beautifully–as you float down towards the floor, rising and falling, rising and falling, until at last, you lay your head to rest. Wings outretched, feathers drenched, weighted by your own being, as the tide of the river gradually ushers you away. 

Something once admired, quickly out of sight, quickly out of mind.

As the audience roars, he finds tears falling down his face. 

------------------

Thank you so, so much to the requestor for giving me the chance to write tpoto again–although, I do apologize that this took a hot minute for me to string together. My mind decided to blast me with like, twenty different scene ideas that I determined to include, plus, this is my first time writing from Erik’s POV, so I apologise if some parts seem out of character. I tried challenging myself further by writing more solidly in a Victorian style (in my other oneshot, I think I just went ‘formal with a low frequency syntax’, while in this I paid more attention to sentence structure, more period accurate word choice etc.), so, I hope it isn’t too horrible lmao. I don’t think I nailed the flow, but if I kept agonising over this, I don’t think it would’ve ended up being posted until January or something lmao.

Frustrations aside (I think I say this in everything I write) it was fun! Very nice to dredge out all of my Opera and Classical music knowledge for a little bit, as it was to learn of a new Pas Suel. The descriptions of MC’s dance are based off of Natalia Osipova’s performance of The Dying Swan, since I found I much preferred that to the, albeit still beautiful, original choreography performed by Anna Pavlova. 

Historical notes // jargon translations:

Saint-Säens’ = The umlaut is intentionally placed wrongly on the ‘a’ instead of the ‘e’, creating a mispronunciation.

Bluebeard’s vault = ‘Bluebeard’s castle’ is an old French fairy-tale in which a high ranking man, Bluebeard, weds a woman, and leaves on business; handing her the keys to the house. He only has one rule, which is to not enter the vault, of which houses the corpses of his previous dead wives. I think you can guess what she ends up doing. 

A remington = A typewriter. 

St Michel’s = Erik is noted to be born in a small town outside of Rouen, and I chose this to be Hénouville; St Michel's is the Parish church there.

En travesti = In theatre, this means ‘trouser role’ or, it can be modernly translated as ‘in drag’. This is in which a female dancer would play a male character, or vice versa. 

Great tower = This oneshot is unambiguously set in 1888, so this is implied to be the Eiffel tower, which was originally only built to stand for the 1889 Exposition Universelle (World’s Fair, which happens every five years and is held in different countries; the last being held in Osaka, Japan this year). It would've been quarter to half-way done, being around 115 meters, and therefore the tallest building in Paris at the time

Persian windcatchers = Large, chimney like structures commonly used in Iran (Persia) post late 20th century used to create ventilation and cooling systems in buildings; basically ancient AC. They can get up to 34 meters tall.

Fremregande = Danish; translates to ‘excellent’. 

Drawling, nasal accents = People with Franc-Comtois dialect and accent (especially the older generations), aka where the couple is implied to be from, often talk much slower, and sometimes more 'nasal-y' in comparison to the Parisian accent, which has much more clear intonation.

Schwanjungfrau = German; translates to ‘swan maiden’. This comes from an old fairy-tale in which a hunter stumbles upon a flock of swans, who end up being shapeshifting women. While they’re bathing in human form, he steals one of the women’s swan skins in order to blackmail her into marrying him.

[goblinnghostie]

would you do something like the fix with leroux erik crying when he wakes up as reader caresses him with 2004 erik? but maybe a little more fluffy than smut since i’m asexual? it’s no pressure, just asking. :)

BET

            There were no days or nights in the lake-bound silence of this world—only the low pulse of eternal candlelight and the ceaseless whisper of water against stone. Time unraveled somewhere between the walls and the music, and (Y/N) had long since stopped trying to measure it.

From her restless place in the richly carved bed, she could feel it in him—exhaustion deeper than her own, straining every line of his body, spilling into the air: the residue of countless sleepless hours.

Erik sat hunched before the organ as though carved there, shoulders rigid beneath his black coat, head bowed in a contemplative fury. The last true thread of melody had died what she had supposed were hours ago. What lingered now were only ghost-notes—fragments of thought pressed into keys without shape or intention. His fingers moved slowly above them, tendons pulled taut beneath pale skin with each press of his fingers.

The strain had etched itself into every part of him. The black, bead-embellished jacket across his shoulders was creased and stretched from being held in one unbroken posture. The white of his sleeves had gone gray at the cuffs, smudged with ink and candle soot. His cravat hung loose around his throat, its knot long since forgotten. Strands of dark hair clung to his temples and the nape of his neck, damp with sweat and neglect.

The ivory half-mask caught the candlelight in a dull sheen, casting his visible features in stark relief. What little she could see of his face—the bloodless lips, the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the faint tremor in his jaw when he exhaled—spoke of strain, not stillness. His blue eyes, shadowed and unblinking, fixed not on the paper before him but on something inward and unreachable. More than once, (Y/N) had watched him press the heel of his palm against his brow as though holding his skull together.

The space around him had become a ruin of creation. Scores lay scattered across the bench, the floor, the music stand—some slashed through in violent strokes, others left bleeding with half-finished measures. Fresh pages bore cramped notation begun and abandoned in the same hour. Quills lay discarded, nibs dulled and ink-pots sat spent and crusted at the rim.

He had been at this for—she could not say how long. First playing until the music unraveled, then tearing into composition, then pacing the chamber in long, soundless strides…only to return. And return. And return.

He left the organ bench only to trace the same strip of stone over and over, coat hem grazing the floor, boots whispering in relentless repetition—then resumed his post as though waking from a trance. He had not so much as glanced at the tray of food she’d set beside him; the plates had cooled untouched. He had not reclined in the chair by his desk to stare out at the stretch of water surrounding his home; lost in thought as he often did. There was no self-directed muttering, no grim commentary, not even the biting disdain he turned on his compositions when they displeased him.

He had not looked at her.

From the bed, (Y/N) watched him with a growing tightness in her chest. This was no ordinary immersion in genius. Something in him was consuming itself, and she could not tell how long it had been feeding.

At last, she slipped from the bed.

The velvet bedding slipped from her legs as she rose, pooling in a dark heap at the swan’s carved side. Her bare feet touched the cold stone, the chill rising through her bones as though the lair itself meant to warn her back. She ignored it and stepped down from the dais.

Her nightgown trailed around her ankles, lace catching the candlelight in a soft shimmer with each step. The fabric whispered faintly as she moved; a fragile sound against the cavern’s silence, softer than the organ’s keys had been when his music still lived.

She stopped just behind him, close enough to feel the faint shift of air around his body, but not so near as to brush his coat or shoulder. To touch him without warning—especially now—felt perilous. She had seen his temper strike like a match in the dark, sharp and instinctive, born not always of anger but of startled defense.

She drew a careful breath.

“Erik?” she said softly, letting his name fall no louder than a prayer.

The reaction was immediate, though small. His hands went still—not freezing from motion, but from that deeper, arrested kind of stillness, where even thought seems to halt. A thin breath slipped from him, slow and tight.

He did not turn fully toward her. Only his head shifted a fraction, the half-mask catching a thread of candlelight as it angled over his shoulder. She could not see his eye clearly, only the suggestion of it in shadow.

He did not answer.

Her brows drew together, the quiet between them stretching thin as wire. For a heartbeat she considered retreating back into silence—but silence had done nothing to reach him. If she spoke sharply, he might recoil. If she touched him, he might startle. Sweetness, then. Softness he could not swat away like noise.

She let her voice slip into the space between them, warm and careful.

“Erik… when will you rest?” The words lingered in the cavern, fragile as lace. “You’ve been working so hard… too hard. You haven’t stopped to eat, or to close your eyes, even for a moment.” She let the gentleness in her voice wrap the truth, though her concern slipped through all the same. “It worries me.”

For a breath, nothing moved. Then, slowly, his shoulders tightened - her plea had found him but he refused to let it land. His mask remained turned toward her, half-lit in the candles’ glow, but no answer came. Only the faint tremor of his hand against the keys betrayed that he had heard.

The pause lingered just long enough for her to feel the air continue to  further tighten around him, a tautness gathering in his shoulders and jaw. But still— there was no sharp retort, no bitten word, and no flare of sudden movement.

That was an opening.

She stepped closer, careful as a whisper, and came to perch at his left side on the edge of the organ bench. The candles cast her in soft gold, and from here the unmasked side of his face told her the truth.

Exhaustion lived in the hollow beneath his eye, in the faint bluish shadow bruising the skin. Irritation pulled faintly at the corner of his mouth, the kind that came not from anger but from being forced to acknowledge anything beyond the relentless current of his thoughts. And yet—beneath both—there was something far more fragile: that flicker of astonishment he never quite hid when she came too near, as though her presence contradicted every law that shaped his life.

She offered him a smile—small, warm, deliberate—and let her fingers rest lightly against the sleeve of his coat. The fabric was cool under her touch.

He went still at once, not recoiling but holding himself as though the slightest movement might undo him.

He was tired. Overdrawn. Guarded. And…already beginning to give way.

She could feel it: he was crumbling, and she would win—not with force, but with gentleness he had never learned how to defend himself against. His jaw shifted, a faint click of teeth before his voice emerged—low, controlled, and clipped at the edges.

“You need not concern yourself with me.”

He did not look at her when he said it. His gaze flicked back at the keys under his hands while his head remained angled just shy of facing forward; as though turning fully toward her might cost him more than simple speech did. The words were dismissive, but the tension in them betrayed their fragility.

Still, something in him had moved.

His eye flicked down—just once—to where her hand rested on his sleeve. The glance was fleeting, almost involuntary, a break in the mask of indifference he tried to hold.

She didn’t flinch at his dismissal. Her touch softened where her fingers rested on his sleeve, her voice smoothing itself into something light—almost teasing in its agreement.

“I know I need not be concerned with you,” she said quietly, “and yet… I am.”

Her gaze lingered on his profile, the hard line of his jaw, the faint pull at the corner of his mouth that betrayed now strain rather than irritation. “You’re exhausted, Erik. Your back must be aching. You haven’t eaten. You’re burning yourself down to nothing.”

He still would not look at her fully, but his silence had shifted—no longer the kind that sealed her out, but the kind that braced for intrusion.

She leaned in just slightly, close enough that her knee brushed the fabric of his coat.

“Tell me what I can do to help.”

The question was simple, but she let it carry her intent: she would not scold, would not pry, would not demand—only remain, and reach for him, and stay.

Her hand remained on his arm as she waited, watching the minute tension in his shoulders and the unmoving set of his mouth. He could tell her nothing. He could tell her to go. He could say she was a fool for asking.

His fingers twitched once over the keys before his voice—low and resonant, though thinner than usual—cut the silence.

“There is nothing to be done.”

The words were meant to close the subject, but they landed without weight, as though spoken from a distance even he could not quite reach. He did not look at her immediately. Only after a pause did his gaze shift—first to the scattered scores before him, then to the faint outline of her hand on his sleeve, and at last to her face.

The stillness between them stretched.

“You need to rest.” Erik said at last. The tone was meant as instruction, perhaps even dismissal, but the authority in it was dulled—stripped of the usual bite and sharpened restraint.

Her fingers tightened gently on his arm as the soft lace at her wrist brushed the back of his hand. She did not argue. She only leaned a little nearer, the warmth of her closeness threading into the cold space he’d kept around himself.

“Then come rest with me?” she said softly.

Something in his stillness changed.

It was slight—only the faint furrow of his uncovered brow and a softening at the corner of his eye—but she saw it. The gleam there was not irritation now, nor dismissal, but a strain of longing so fragile it almost pained her to witness. He wanted—achingly so—but wanting and allowing were never the same thing for him.

He would deny himself before she ever could. Unless of course, she didn’t give him the chance.

She stayed close, her voice soft as down. “I’m cold,” she murmured, letting her fingers trace lightly along his sleeve before stilling again. “And I… I cannot sleep, not while I’m worried for you.” Her lashes dipped, the sweetness in her tone genuine. “I want to be with you, Erik.”

His jaw eased—not fully, but enough. The rigidity in his shoulders slackened a degree, as though her words had loosened a fastening he’d tied too tightly. He still did not speak. But his silence no longer pushed her away—it listened.

That was enough.

She drew a careful breath, and a faint warmth crept along her cheeks despite her composure. “Would it be…” Her eyes flicked up to his, shy and purposeful all at once. “Would it be terribly inappropriate if I asked you to lie down with me?”

Her hand slid just slightly further along his arm, her touch light, coaxing, unthreatening. “Just to rest. And to be with me.”

The words landed like a balm laid into a wound—soft, soothing, and utterly undoing.

The way his face shifted—barely, beautifully—told her she had struck true.

His answer came low and immediate, as she knew it would; as she knew the refusal had been waiting on his tongue.

“It would.”

Oh, but the words lacked their usual armor. There was no iron in them—no righteous distance, no true intent to turn her away. It sounded like a line recited out of duty rather than desire, a reflex of conscience rather than conviction.

She only smiled—soft, unoffended, and impossibly tender.

“I know,” she said gently, tilting her head just enough to catch his guarded gaze. “In the world above, it would be terribly wrong. …I know that.” Her voice held no challenge, only understanding, as though she were agreeing with him.

Her hand remained on his arm, light but certain. “But, we are not there. We are here—in your world. In your home.”

She let the words breathe, watching the slight flicker in his eye, the quiet tension waver in his jaw.

“Would it truly be inappropriate… even here?”

“This place does not make me…” His voice dipped, the usual commanding resonance dimmed by weariness. “Immune to impropriety.”

It was meant as refusal. It should have landed as such.

The words came too gently, too thinly, spoken again more out of habit than conviction. He did not pull from her touch. He did not turn away. His gaze lingered on some point ahead, as though looking at her directly might break him further.

(Y/N) could feel it—how close he was to yielding.

She didn’t argue his words—she melted around them.

Her smile was small, soft, and without challenge. “Then let it be rest, not impropriety,” she murmured, her voice barely above the hush of the cavern. “No one above need ever know.”

Her fingers smoothed lightly along the sleeve of his coat, warm and intimate. “And I will not think poorly of you for closing your eyes beside me… for a little while.”

Silence stretched, but it was no longer cold. The shadows in his posture held still, listening.

She lowered her voice further, the gentleness turning coaxing. “You don’t even have to sleep. Just lie down long enough to breathe.” A pause, soft as breath over silk. “Let me sit with you there. That is all I’m asking.”

He drew in a breath—deep, but not steady. It slipped through his teeth with the faintest tremor; a sound more vulnerable than anything he’d offered her in hours. His shoulders rose, then fell, as though the act of speaking cost him something.

“If you are so inclined,” he said at last, the words low and rumbling, “to damn the both of—”

She didn’t let him finish.

Her smile bloomed gently, warm as breath against winter glass, a touch of mischief curled into the softness. With both hands she tugged lightly at his arm.

“Come.” she said—sweet, coaxing, decisive.

The single word cut cleanly through his protest, and he did not resist the interruption. For a heartbeat he remained seated—but only because he always lingered on the edge of refusal before giving way.

Then, slowly, he rose from the bench.

There was no force in it, only surrender—the kind that came not from defeat, but exhaustion and the aching pull of wanting something he would not name. He stood pliant under her touch, the tension in him unspooling by degrees.

That was answer enough.

She slipped her fingers down his sleeve until they found his hand—cold, elegant, and long-neglected by touch. Her own hands enclosed his gently, their heat a quiet mercy.

Without a word more, she led him from the bench—past scattered scores and dark water and the last of his defiance—toward the swan-shaped bed and the quiet he had refused for too long.

She did not lead him straight beneath the covers. Instead, once they reached the bedside, she released his hand only long enough to pluck at the edge of his coat with gentle disapproval.

“I will not have over-clothes in my bed.” she said lightly, as though this were a matter of household order rather than the unmaking of a guarded man. “Off with your jacket. And your shoes. And that poor, limp cravat.”

He stared at her—at first as though she’d spoken in a foreign tongue—then down at the garments she’d so calmly condemned. He didn’t argue. Perhaps he couldn’t. Exhaustion had hollowed out enough resistance that even indignation found no purchase.

When she reached to help him with the first button of his coat, he caught her wrist—not roughly, but in reflex—and she only smiled and withdrew her hands.

“I’ll not watch you undress, Erik.” she said gently; granting him this mercy.

With that, she turned her back to him and busied herself with the blankets. The velvet sheets slid like dark water beneath her hands. She smoothed the covers, fluffed pillows, fussed as though wholly occupied—though she listened to every quiet movement behind her.

She heard the soft scrape of shoes being toed off. The muted rustle of fabric as he shrugged out of his coat with the stiff awkwardness of a man who was unaccustomed to such intimacy, even in so small a human act. She even caught the faint catch of breath as he tugged off the cravat that had hung limp around his throat for hours.

He said nothing. She did not look.

Even in this—perhaps especially in this—she gave him his dignity.

Only once the small sounds stilled did she turn back around, hands light upon the coverlet. He stood beside the bed now, stripped of coat and cravat, shirtsleeves faintly rumpled, mask angled down, every line of him taut with uncertainty he could not disguise.

She smiled as though nothing at all were amiss.

“Better,” she said softly. “Now come here.”

He approached the side of the bed opposite her slowly, tentatively, wary of making a wrong move or moving too quickly. When at last he bent to sit upon the covers, the act itself looked painful, as though surrendering his body to rest were harder than any intricate composition he’d ever written.

She said nothing, only reached, unhurried, to draw back the velvet coverlet and folds of sheets beneath so there would be room for him to settle under them.

The moment the sheets shifted in her hands—an invitation to lie down under them rather than perch like a guest in his own bed—he startled. Not visibly, not in any dramatic flinch of limb or cry, but in the sudden, decisive recoil of his body.

“No.” he said—stern, final, too sharp for the volume he used.

She blinked once, slow and doe-eyed, as though entirely at a loss for why he’d spoken at all.

“No?” she echoed, feigning soft confusion, her tone sweet as honey. “Whatever do you mean?”

Her hands remained on the bedding, poised but not insisting. The invitation was still open, as though his refusal had only been a curious sound in the air rather than a verdict. His chest rose and fell once, strained, fingers curling faintly at his sides as though wrestling with the words he refused to speak aloud.

His breath thinned, and then caught—barely audible, but there. The sternness he reached for did not quite materialize; it frayed even as he shaped the words.

“I do not—” His voice broke off, as though the sentence struck something raw on its way out. He swallowed, gaze fixed on the dark curve of the bed rather than her face. “That is not… for me.”

The last three words were scarcely more than breath, spoken without his usual precision. Not a rebuke. Not even refusal. A quiet verdict passed against himself. He stood there, stripped to shirtsleeves and black trousers and mask, looking at the parted covers as though they were some sacred boundary he was unworthy to cross.

And yet—he hadn’t stepped away.

He hadn’t told her to stop.

He hadn’t told her to leave.

Only that it was not for him.

A claim she had already decided to dismantle.

She did not falter at his broken refusal. If anything, her expression gentled all the more, the corners of her mouth curving in that soft, knowing way that made denial so hard to cling to.

“Not for you,” she repeated, her voice feather-light, as though she agreed with him. Then she leaned closer, her lashes lowering, her smile warming. “But perhaps… it could be for me. Just this once. Would you deny me the comfort of your nearness, Erik?”

Her hand smoothed over the coverlet, pulling it back a little farther, as though making space for him wasn’t invitation but inevitability. “And, if lying down feels too much… then don’t lie down,” she coaxed. “Sit here, with me, beneath the covers. Nothing more than that. Only so I can be warm, and know you are beside me.”

Her tone carried no sharpness, no command—only that honeyed tenderness he had no armor against. The candlelight caught in her hair, her lace nightgown trailing pale along the velvet sheets as she waited, poised, unthreatening, every bit the picture of patient affection.

Her fingers found his rigid hand again, warm against the chill of his own, and held it lightly—just enough to remind him she was there, waiting. “If it cannot be for you,” she whispered, sweet as prayer, “then let it be for me. I want you close, Erik. Will you please give me that?”

His head bowed, the shadows catching against the curve of his mask as he stood silently. His breath deepened, no longer restrained to the quiet, measured inhales he used to keep himself unreadable. It shuddered once on the way out, the faintest tremor rippling through his shoulders.

“How could I refuse you?” he said at last.

The words were soft—too soft for the sharp conviction he often tried to wield—and rich despite the exhaustion fraying the edges of his deep timbre. They held no drama, no theatrical flair, only the truth of a man too tired to pretend he did not desperately want what was being offered.

Slowly, as one might approach either the gallows or a dream, he lowered himself to sit upon the bed. The velvet gave beneath his weight, but he held himself with rigid care, as though to relax even a fraction might cause something in him to splinter.

She offered him no time to reconsider.

With quiet ease, she moved in beside him and slipped beneath the sheets, drawing the coverlet up and over them both in a sweep of deep, wine-dark velvet. The fabric pooled at his lap and draped over her hip as she nestled to his side, the warmth of her body a sharp contrast to the cold that always clung to his skin.

He remained stiff, every line of him iron-bound and wary. But when she leaned into him, pressing close as though chasing heat, he did not pull away. The tremor in his frame betrayed strain, not rejection.

She exaggerated a faint shiver, tucking herself closer into his side. Her cheek brushed his shoulder, her breath soft against his sleeve. When she tilted her face up to look at him, the warmth in her eyes could have melted iron.

Her fingers found his hand beneath the coverlet, cool and long and startlingly still. She laced her hand into his with gentle care, threading her fingers through his.

“Thank you.” she whispered, as though it were he who’d done her some great mercy instead of the reverse.

He did not look at her. His gaze stayed fixed somewhere beyond the chamber’s middle distance, as if the gate of iron across the water might offer steadiness he could not find in himself. But, his hand did not leave hers. Though he did not answer, the steady rise of his chest told her everything she needed to know.

The silence that followed was thick with his internal struggle, his body tensing, and his chest rising unevenly.

It didn’t take long at all, though.

For a few lingering breaths he held himself upright, as though vigilance alone could keep him from surrendering. But…the warmth of her body curled against his side, the hush of the bed, the velvet cushion pressing gently against his aching back—all of it unraveled him faster than he could brace.

His breathing, once taut and uneven, began to slow. The slight tremor in his arm faded beneath her hand. His shoulders loosened by a small degree, and then another. His head dipped, not in shame this time, but in sheer, unguarded fatigue.

Within minutes, the weight of sleepless hours dragged him down deep. His body, so long ruled by his fiery will, betrayed him at last and yielded to rest. His hand remained in hers, slack but still trusting. The mask caught the candlelight in a muted glint as his chin lowered toward his chest.

She watched him—only a moment—her lips curving in a private, triumphant softness. She had done it. She had won. She knew against him she would always win; the only weapons she needed were warmth, and sweetness, and the quiet insistence that he need not shatter to be allowed what he desired.

Pride glowed faint in her chest as she nestled fully into him, drawing the velvet covers more snugly around them both. His body radiated the dull chill of exhaustion, but with her pressed against him, it warmed quickly.

Her eyes fluttered. The hush of the chamber, the faint lap of water, the rise and fall of his breathing—it wove around her like a lullaby.

With him at last asleep beside her, she let herself drift into slumber too, content in the victory of having coaxed a wrathful phantom to rest.

*****

Erik surfaced from sleep slowly, as though rising through the dark of a lake he had never meant to enter. For a disorienting moment he did not know where he was—or, more unsettling still, how he had come to rest at all. His mind recoiled from the awareness before it fully grasped it.

He had slept.

Not the shallow, listening half-slumber of a hunted thing, but a long, depth-less oblivion that smothered even the echoes in his skull. Longer than he had allowed himself in… he could not remember how many years.

His first instinct was suspicion—that (Y/N) had drugged him, enchanted him—but the thought withered almost as soon as it formed. He knew why.

He turned his head slightly to the right.

She lay beside him.

Well. Bewitchment after all, then.

The candles had burned low, their flames reduced to embers in the sconces, casting the chamber in muted gold and shadow. Yet even in that gentle dimness, she seemed to hold her own light. Her hair spilled across the pillows in a silken halo, one curl brushing his shoulder and the hollow of her throat. One of her hands rested on his chest—light, but certain—her fingertips curled into the fabric of his shirt as though she had always meant to claim that place.

Her face—dear God, her face—was unguarded in sleep in a way he could scarcely endure to look at. The softness of her mouth, the untroubled calm of her brow, the dark lashes fanned like silk against her cheek—she looked like something carved by celestial hands and misplaced in his bed by some divine oversight.

Her body lay fully against his, warm and unburdened beneath the velvet covers. At some unknown hour she had curled into him—without his noticing, without flinching, without the faintest tremor of the fear any sensible soul should feel pressed so intimately against a monster. Her breathing was slow. Even. Certain.

Trust.

The word struck him like a blow beneath the ribs. She slept beside him unarmored, unafraid, and sprawled in the lion’s den as though the lion had no teeth. As though there was nothing in him to guard against. As though he were not the thing to fear in the dark.

He felt her warmth before he felt the rest of himself, and the faint, steady weight of her hand rising and falling with his breath. It unsettled him. It anchored him. It terrified him.

He did not move. Not yet.

He only watched her, his heart beating a quiet, incredulous rhythm against her palm.

It came without warning.

One moment he was only looking at her—at the impossible peace of her repose, at the beautiful warmth curled into his side—and in the next, something in him gave way with no herald and no mercy.

Grief surged through him like a tide breaching a dam. Not the kind that burned and howled, but the older, crueler kind—slow, sinking, born of hunger rather than flame. He did not understand it, even as it swallowed him.

His breath caught once, too sharply. Then again. His hand twitched against the sheet, fingers curling reflexively, as though bracing for a blow or reaching for something not there.

The first tear slid beneath the mask before he even knew it had formed.

Then another.

He did not sob—he had forgotten how. The sound that left him was quieter and more perilous: breath stuttering in a broken rhythm, a faint tremor in his chest he could neither conquer nor contain. His shoulders shook once, barely—a shiver, not a collapse—but it betrayed him all the same.

He had not meant to break. Not here. Not in the hush that followed sleep. Not with her hand resting over his heart and her trust pressed like a blade, gentle and devastating, between his ribs.

But this—her nearness, her warmth, the unguarded weight of her body draped over his, the undeniable fact that she had slept beside the monster and woken neither harmed nor afraid—this unraveled him in ways cruelty never could.

Affection had always cut deeper than hatred. Mercy sliced cleaner than scorn.

A tear slipped down the curve of his cheek and fell onto her wrist where her hand rested over his heart. He froze at the contact—but she did not stir.

His vision blurred, the edge of his mask growing damp where it kissed his skin. He shut his eyes tightly, as though sheer force of will might drive the tears back and erase what they’d already exposed.

They came anyway—silent, graceless things, born of self-pity and of a hunger so long starved it had decayed into agony.

And she, with her palm resting over his heart in sleep, had given that hunger cause to stir again.

He had no defense against that.

One breath he lay rigid beside her, tears slipping traitorously down his skin. The next, his body had turned—just slightly—angling toward her as though summoned. Whether it was her warmth drawing him in or his own longing dragging him there, he could not tell where instinct ended and surrender began.

His hand moved without permission.

It hovered inches from her cheek, suspended in that charged space where yearning touched terror. Her skin seemed impossibly soft in the muted light, faintly flushed with sleep, a curl of hair resting at the corner of her mouth. He could almost feel the warmth of her breath against his palm.

Oh, God.

To touch her—to trace the slope of her jaw, to press his mouth to the soft pulse beneath her throat, to gather her to him like absolution—every part of him ached for it with a force that he was sure would kill him.

For one fragile heartbeat, he nearly did reach out.

But, longing collided with dread, and dread won.

A stifled sound—too soft to be a sob, too raw to be swallowed—escaped him as he snatched his hand back. He clutched it to his chest as though burned, fingers curling hard into his shirt, nails biting through linen. The sob rising in his throat came from someplace older than breath, older than speech.

He forced it down—but not well enough.

She stirred.

His blood went cold.

Her brow creased faintly, lashes fluttering once before lifting. Sleep clung to her eyes as they focused, confusion blooming into slow, gentle awareness. She saw him. She surely saw the wetness on his cheek. Saw the tremor in his shoulders. Saw the devastation he had never meant another soul to witness.

Horror flooded him—not at the tears themselves, but at the fact of being seen in them. He went still. Breathless. He was trapped in the nakedness of it, powerless to hide as her waking gaze met the ruin in his.

Her expression did not match what he was dreading to see: horror, revulsion, startled recoil.

Her brows drew together—not in judgment, but in something unbearably tender. Something like sorrow for him, not disgust of him.

And then—God have mercy—she smiled.

At him.

It was not the measured smile one gives beasts or madmen; the careful curl of lips meant to soothe danger, but something soft and warm and achingly gentle—as though she were…pleased…to wake and find him there.

The sight of it struck him like a blow to the lungs.

A sound broke in his throat—half gasp, half sob. He clamped his jaw shut, but the tremor still shuddered through him.

Her hand, still resting over his heart, stirred and lifted. Slowly, without hesitation, (Y/N) reached up and touched him—fingertips brushing the bare side of his face. The backs of her fingers traced the edge of his cheekbone, feather-light, where the tears clung.

For one blinding moment, panic surged—had the mask slipped? Had she seen? No—the half-mask was still there, pressed against the pillow. She touched only the portion of him the world was allowed to see. And still the fear did not ebb. Even that small intimacy felt like sacrilege.

He could not look away.

There was awe in her eyes—God help him—soft and unguarded, as though his tears were not disgrace but revelation. She touched him again, fingertips lingering against his cheek, and his skin burned beneath them despite the chill of the cavern.

Then she spoke.

“Good morning.” she whispered sweetly. She smiled warmly at him.

Happy. She sounded happy. As though waking beside him—him, this tear-stained and shaking monster—were a gift, not a sin.

Erik’s heart lurched so violently inside of his chest he thought it might tear itself free of his ribs. He could not speak. Could not draw a proper breath. Could only stare at her, undone beneath the weight of her tenderness, as those two simple words rang through him with unbearable clarity.

Her gaze didn’t waver. She watched him with a gentleness threaded through every line of her face, as though nothing in his unraveling could disturb her. Her hand rested fully against his cheek, warm against his skin, her thumb brushing softly along the damp trail beneath his eye.

The touch unraveled him further. He was lost—lost in the brightness of her eyes, in the echo of her voice still lingering in his mind, in the unbearable softness of her nearness. Every caress stripped away another defense; every breath she drew beside him widened a fracture he’d spent a lifetime sealing shut. Something in him was breaking loose—something vast and long-imprisoned—and with dawning terror he understood he could not stop it.

If it came, it would devour him. If it came, it would swallow them both.

He shut his eyes once, trembling, and in the small silence of that heartbeat he prayed—wordlessly—that she might forgive him. Forgive the weakness. The need. The hunger clawing up from the dark where he had long buried it. Forgive that her kindness had coaxed it into the light.

When he opened his eyes again, she was still there. Still close. Still smiling that soft, unafraid smile. Still touching him as though she had chosen this moment, this man, this ruin. The last fragile thread of restraint thinned to breaking.

She searched his face for a moment longer, as though committing every flicker and tremor to memory. Then, with a softness he was wholly unprepared to endure, she slipped both arms around his shoulders.

He went still.

Before he could flinch or retreat, she drew him gently into her—slow, certain, unafraid. And to his horror, she did the very thing he had feared he might do himself.

“Come here.” she whispered.

An invitation. A mercy. A command wrapped in kindness.

Then she pulled him fully against her. She embraced him.

His body obeyed before his will could protest, folding into the circle of her arms. The moment her warmth pressed to his chest—her breath at his ear, her hands smoothing over his back—the floodgates gave way.

The sob that tore from him was so raw it scarcely sounded human. A strangled, wounded sound from some starved, forgotten place in him that had known only silence, never comfort.

He reached for something to brace against and found only her.

His hands fisted in the fabric of her nightgown as the first full sob wracked his body. Then another. Then another. The force of it bent him into her, his forehead pressing near her collarbone, his mask askew as though even it could not shield him now.

She did not recoil.

She gathered him closer.

Her fingers slid through his hair, down the nape of his neck, tracing the tense knobs of his spine. She cradled him as though he were something precious rather than something defiled. When she pressed her face into his dark hair and kissed the crown of his head, a sound broke from him—helpless, ragged, desperate.

Each movement she made unraveled another thread. Each stroke of her hand stripped away a layer of armor he had worn since childhood. Every soft hush, every warm breath against his temple, every kiss to his hair cleaved him further open.

Still she did not let go.

She held him as the sobs heaved through him—deep, shuddering, ancient sobs that scraped his throat raw and hollowed his chest. She rubbed slow circles into his back. She whispered nothing and everything. She let him weep in a way he never had—not even alone in the dark.

With every heartbeat, every tear, every gentle press of her hands, something long-entombed in him began at last to break apart.

“It’s all right,” she whispered into his hair, her voice low and warm—meant to be breathed more than heard. “I know. I know. I’ve got you. Sweetheart, I’ve got you.”

The words were not loud, nor even fully shaped. They were breath made into comfort, poured into him in fragments that asked for nothing in return. He clung to her as though she were the only solid thing left in the world.

The sobs did not end cleanly. They rose and fell, breaking in uneven waves against the shore of her body as she cradled him. Each time one threatened to rip him apart, her hands were there—cupping the back of his head, smoothing down his spine, grounding him in warmth and softness he had never been meant to receive.

She pressed a kiss to his temple—slow, deliberate, reverent—and murmured again, a litany of quiet nonsense and unbearable care.

“I’ve got you,” she breathed, her cheek resting against his. “You’re not alone. Not here. Not with me.”

In the hush of his home—with his mask askew against her shoulder and his heart breaking wetly against her chest—he let himself believe her; if only for the space of a single impossible, shuddering breath.

[douleurfantome]

Every Note, Yours | Erik/Reader

synopsis: In which you introduce The Phantom to a new marvel of modern invention, and your current obsession: the phonograph. A brass horn gleams in the candlelight, a needle hums against wax, and for the first time in his labyrinthine lair, music comes not from living breath but from a machine. He is… not impressed.

notes: I was playing with my record player and vinyls when suddenly an idea struck… How would he react? Obviously had to change it to a phonograph to be historically accurate (thank you Thomas Edison) This is my first time writing Erik so I’d like to apologize if he seems out of character.

word count: 2.1k words

warnings/tags: oneshot, gender neutral reader, established relationship, fluff, sfw, Erik being his jealous & adorable self

The boat ride had been more precarious than usual, and it was entirely your fault. The box was far too large for you to carry comfortably, let alone balance on your lap while you guided the rope. It wobbled every time the boat shifted, threatening to tip into the dark water and vanish forever into The Phantom’s subterranean lake.

By the time you reached the marble edge and clambered onto the stones, your arms ached and your patience thinned, though your excitement never faltered. The box was deposited with an unceremonious thud.

Erik was waiting at the bottom of the steps, arms crossed over his chest like some forbidding statue. His shadow stretched behind him in the candlelight.

“What,” he said at once, voice sharp and suspicious, “is that.”

You dusted your hands and smiled, already delighted by his tone. “A miracle,” you replied simply.

The porcelain mask tilted. His eyes, visible only when the light struck them just so, glinted with a wary gleam. He descended a step, then stopped, as though proximity alone might reveal the object’s secrets.

“You’ve stolen something.”

“Borrowed,” you corrected him, hands on your hips. “And no, before you accuse me of grand larceny in broad daylight, I asked permission. I wanted to show you.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “You risk life and limb on my cursed waters to drag down a crate like an overeager child with a toy, and you expect me to be charmed?”

“Yes.” You pushed your sleeves back and began tugging the box open, ignoring his pointed sarcasm. “Because you will be. You only don’t know it yet.”

The lid creaked free. You crouched, pulling back straw padding until at last you revealed it. A tall gleaming brass horn rising proudly from its wooden base, a hand-crank on the side to set the cylinder in motion, the wax surface lined with tiny grooves to hold every vibration, and a fine needle rested delicately against it: a phonograph.

Erik froze on the steps. You looked up at him, beaming. “Do you know what this is?”

His silence was damning enough, though perhaps not unexpected of a man who kept to the shadows, letting the world above chase its marvels while he clung to his own.

“It plays sound,” you explained eagerly, almost bouncing. “Well, recordings of sound, voices, music, even speeches! You wind it, place a cylinder, and it… It gives them back to you.”

For a moment he said nothing. His hands had lowered to his sides. His eyes, when you caught them, were unreadable.

Then: “A box.” The disgust in his tone was palpable. “You brought me a box that wheezes and scratches like an asthmatic dog.”

You burst into laughter. “You haven’t even heard it yet!”

He spun away, his midnight cape flaring dramatically. “I do not need to. I can already hear it. Some vulgar distortion, a parody of music—”

“It’s marvelous,” you interrupted, winding the handle with deliberate care. “And you’re sulking because you think it might rival you.”

That earned you a sharp turn of his head. His mask gleamed as he glared at you, affronted. “Rival me? Do not be absurd. I am rivalled by no machine.”

Yet his posture betrayed him. Stiff, shoulders set, every inch the spurned genius.

You stifled another laugh and set the needle. The phonograph crackled, hissed, and then, wonder of wonders, music wavered to life. Tinny, imperfect, but unmistakably human. A soprano’s voice rose, faint yet bright, carrying a popular aria across the cavern.

Erik’s whole body went still as you turned toward him, eyes alight. “See?”

He did not answer. Only folded his arms again, tighter this time. “So. A soulless echo. A cheap trick. You haul it into my home, as though I might bow down and worship.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” you teased, kneeling beside the box to adjust the needle. “It isn’t worship. I just thought you’d find it fascinating.”

“Fascinating,” he echoed bitterly, “that people now prefer the croak of an automaton to the human voice.”

You stood, brushing your fabric. “I don’t prefer it.”

His head jerked toward you, as though testing for sincerity.

“I don’t,” you repeated, softer now. “No machine could rival you, Erik. You are music itself.”

His breath caught audibly, though he tried to disguise it with a scoff.

“And besides,” you added, a little wickedly, “do you really think I’d trade you for a wooden box?”

He says nothing, but the silence tells you everything. A flicker passes through his eyes, doubt battling against the fragile hope you’ve offered, pride bristling against the tenderness in your tone. You can almost hear the argument assembling on his tongue, sharp and defensive, before he swallows it back down and lets the shadows speak for him instead.

The phonograph warbled on, filling the subterranean lair with its thin, uncanny soprano. You let it play for a few more notes before you reached down and stilled the needle. The music died with a sigh, leaving only the whisper of water against stone.

Erik looked faintly triumphant at the silence, as though he had personally defeated it by sheer disdain.

You smoothed the fabric of your clothing, then stepped toward him. “You know,” you began lightly, “you pout worse than any child I’ve ever met.”

“I do not pout.” His voice was sharp, indignant, but his eyes flicked away like someone caught.

You smiled. It was always startling, almost tender, to glimpse this side of your Erik; the man behind the mask, all his dreadful legends and fearful reputation dissolving into something so much smaller, so achingly human. How easily he could be childish, even endearing, when jealousy tugged at his composure. For all the terror he had woven around himself, there were moments when he seemed nothing more than a boy still learning how to be loved.

“You do,” you murmured, warmth threading through your voice. “Right now. Arms crossed, lips pressed, shoulders drawn. One might think I'd dragged home a rival suitor instead of a phonograph.”

He stiffened. “If it sings for you, then perhaps it is.”

The absurdity of the statement almost made you laugh again, but you caught yourself. His voice had cracked ever so slightly, revealing that beneath the theatrical scorn there was a raw, real fear.

Your heart softened. You reached out, uncrossing his arms with gentle persistence until his hands hung awkwardly at his sides. “Listen to me,” you said quietly. “Nothing, no box, no invention, no genius of Edison or anyone else, could take your place. Not in music, and not in my life.”

His breath stilled. Beneath the mask, his mouth parted soundlessly, like a man unmoored.

“And besides,” you added, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve, “the only reason I wanted this at all is so I could record you.”

Like an offering, the words lingered between them.

Erik blinked. His entire body seemed to flinch as though struck, though it was not pain that crossed his face but something dangerously close to awe. “Record… me?”

You nodded. “Your music. Your voice. Your compositions. Imagine, your work captured and saved, able to be heard again and again, even when you’re not here to play it yourself.”

For a moment, nothing moved. Then Erik’s gloved hand came up, gripping the stair rail beside him as if to steady the earth itself. Behind the mask, his eyes burned with sudden, ferocious light.

“You would wish that?” His voice was hoarse, trembling on the edge of disbelief. “To keep my music? To— To play it, even in my absence?”

“Of course.” You smiled, tender and sure. “I’d like the world to know what I already do, that you are incomparable.”

It was almost comical, the transformation. All at once the rigid posture slackened, the bitter armor dissolved. His entire being seemed to lift, radiance breaking through his gloom. For once he did not try to disguise the sheer, boyish delight that surged across him.

He straightened, mask tilting upward, and for the first time that evening his voice rang with unrestrained brightness. “Then yes,” he said, almost breathless. “Yes— You must record me. Every note, every bar, every masterpiece. Let them try to rival that.”

You laughed, heart swelling at his sudden glow. “See? I knew you’d love it.”

He stepped closer, his hand catching yours with a surprising urgency, and though his mask still concealed the greater half of his expression, the pride blazing in his visible eye was unmistakable.

“And you,” he declared, voice reverent, “are the only audience I shall ever need.”

.

.

.

.

.

It took Erik all of five minutes to declare that the phonograph was “a ridiculous contraption designed by men who never truly loved music.”

“It cannot even hold pitch without shuddering!” he snapped, swooping down on the machine like a hawk upon a hare. “Listen! Hear that? That dreadful scraping under the tone? Abominable! Barbaric!”

You, perched nearby on a velvet-draped chair, tried not to laugh outright. You bit your lip as you watched him circle the phonograph, every inch the indignant maestro before an incompetent orchestra.

“You cannot expect it to breathe,” you teased gently. “It’s only meant to… remember.”

Erik froze at that word. His gloved hands, poised over the brass horn as though he might throttle it, stilled. Slowly, he turned to look at you.

“To remember...” He tasted the word, as though it were a language newly discovered. His shoulders dropped just slightly, the fight leaving him for a breath.

But then the needle skipped again, and he bristled once more. “No! No, no— Unacceptable. If my voice is to be preserved, it must be flawless.”

“Your voice is flawless already,” you reminded him warmly.

He shot you a glare so sharp it could have slit marble. “Do not mock me.”

“I would never,” you said, solemn, though your eyes shone with mirth.

Thus began what you would later think of as The Battle of the Phonograph. Erik insisted on retaking every piece, every aria, every single phrase he sang, demanding you reset the cylinder again and again. He paced the lair like a caged lion each time the playback hissed faintly or flattened a note.

“It makes me sound like a corpse singing through water!” he declared at one point, tearing the needle off with such vehemence you feared for the poor machine’s life.

“Erik!” you cried, rushing to save the phonograph from his wrath. “You’ll break it before it ever breaks you.”

“I should hope it would break first,” he growled. But his hands, though trembling, released it carefully under your pleading gaze. And yet, when you coaxed him back to the chair, when you placed your hand over his and said softly, “For me, please, just one more song,” he relented every time.

He sang, and you recorded, and when the wax cylinder spun back his voice in its thin, imperfect echo, you closed your eyes and listened with a smile so luminous that even Erik, for all his fury, could not mistake it.

“You see?” you whispered when the recording ended. “Even with its flaws, I still hear you. And that is enough.”

Something in him cracked then, something brittle and fiercely guarded. He pressed a hand to his mask as though to contain the rush of emotion threatening to undo him.

“And if it were the only trace of me left in the world,” he asked, his voice breaking low, “you would keep it?”

Your answer was immediate, steady, unwavering. “I would treasure it. Every note, yours.”

For a long moment he did not move, as if the weight of your devotion rooted him to the spot. Then, slowly, he reached out, cradling your hand against his chest, against the wild pounding beneath.

“Then perhaps,” he murmured at last, softer than the ripple of the underground lake, “this invention is not so terrible after all.”

You laughed, leaning close, the sound warming the cavern. “Admit it, you like the thought of being captured for posterity.”

He gave you a sly, almost boyish glance. “Posterity is welcome to try. But you… You are the only one I would let keep me.”

Later that night, when you left the lair, the phonograph under your arm felt heavier than before. Yet your heart was lighter, thrumming with the certainty that though the wax cylinders might scratch and fade, what you carried from him could never be diminished.

And back in the shadows, Erik sat at his organ, fingers hovering over the keys. For the first time in years, he felt something dangerously close to joy curl in his chest. Because now he knew there was someone in the world who would play him back, again and again, and call it love.

[quier3m3]

i could heal him, he could make me worse

[mournfulroses]

Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Trapeze: The Unexpurgated Diary of Anais Nin, 1947-1955

[girlsworldillusion]

so this is what falling in love is like?

Ominis Gaunt x Gryffindor Reader

Summary: “Ominis, what — what are you trying to say?”

He breathes your name huskily, and you feel your cheeks tingle with the heat of a fresh flush of blush.

“I’m in love with you,” he says earnestly, more whispering the words than saying them, his hand tightening in yours a fraction more, and all you can do is stare at him in utter shock.

Where a night of studying at the Undercroft grows into something much bigger than you expected.

Rated: Explicit (+18)

Word count: 9k

Artist: (x) @oladcnfthb

Author's Note: My first fanfic of the HP universe. Not the last, if I may have a choice. I hope you all like it, your comments will be greatly appreciated by this poor writer.

English is not my first language, I apologize for any mistakes you may find.

"And then I heard this girl, Grace Withey, or Whitney, I'm not sure now," the boy mutters thoughtfully before dismissing the question with an exquisite wave of his hand, "either way, she was asking if he had time to offer 'some much needed and much appreciated guidance in the Care of Magical Creatures', like she said. She claimed to be a disaster in that class, though it seemed like she was doing quite well before he arrived, if you ask me."

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh, but keep your eyes closed as you listen to Ominis report the detailed case of the latest romantic incident that simply fell into Sebastian's lap - emphasis on report, as this could never be classified as gossip. Ominis Gaunt has never stooped to the social stratagem that is the art of spreading gossip, as he himself makes a point of reminding you every time that possibility is remotely suggested in some witty comment.

After a long study session, you were both lounging carefree on the opulent burgundy couch set against one wall; a gaudy luxury that you fought tooth and nail to add to the cold expanse of the undercroft so that you could rest while you did some reading, or simply when you were too tired to return to your dormitories. Two tall stacks of books rested on the low table in front of you, some even open and scattered across the carpet on the floor, as well as piles of half-scribbled parchment, inkwells and quills. The flickering flames arranged in the braziers hanging on the walls provided an orange illumination that was both functional and comforting to the eyes. In the cushioned space between you two lay the remains of two boxes of Chocolate Frogs - his clearly opened in a much more elegant manner than yours.

Outside the castle the snow fell without stopping, freezing everything around with its cloud of crystals, but inside the walls you felt safe and warm.

"She was clearly interested in more than just his guidance on creature care."

Despite the suggestive tone, there's a soft smile on your lips as you says this, your feet swinging languidly on the tabletop where they're propped up on top of each other.

"No surprise there." He snorts beside you, a sullen quality to his tone that definitely wasn't there a few seconds ago. "This sort of thing always happens to him. And oh, he's so pompous about it too, really insufferable. It's obvious by now that he can have any girl in school, even some boys I dare say, and he's amply and unfortunately very aware of it. It's annoying that he has that kind of power, if you ask me."

This time you can't help the amused chuckle that escapes your lips, perfectly conjuring behind closed eyelids the sullen pout the man is surely making just by his tone of voice.

"Careful now, Gaunt, some poor unsuspecting person who hears you speak like that might interpret your words as jealousy." Your tone oscillates between a weak attempt at reprimand and amusement, enjoying poking the poor man. "What's wrong, haven't you been getting enough attention from the student masses?"

It was a teasing comment, intentional in the aim of maintaining the fun and pleasant atmosphere that surrounded them. But when a few good seconds pass without him saying anything in return, you slowly allow your eyes to open, staring at the Slytherin sitting next to you.

The first thing you notice is how tense his body is; shoulders rigid and head turned away from you, hands clenched tightly on his thighs. He looks uncomfortable in every tiny line of his tall body. He's not denying what you suggested and you've teased him enough times in the past to know that he should have done so already if he disagreed with your words.

Oh

"I would find such a notion rather unbelievable if that were the case, of course, since this is you we're talking about." You murmur slowly when it becomes obvious he's not going to respond, watching his every reaction intently as you fish for information.

"What—wait, what are you talking about?" He looks a little dazed, tilting his head toward you just a fraction, but you continue your train of thought, taking advantage of the fact that you have his attention once more.

"Well, you're Ominis Gaunt. Not only do you have all that physical representation of cold elegance and an aura of royalty that your House so annoyingly likes to impose, but you're also a member of one of the most notorious families in the wizarding world. It's hard to believe that there isn't a line of lovestruck hearts out there just waiting for an opportunity to date you. I bet you're just as popular as Sebastian these days - you're just more discreet about it than him, obviously."

Your comment, although honest in every word, is made innocently, with no apparent justification for any fuss - just sincere curiosity about the question raised. And that's why you're taken aback by his reaction to you. Even though he remains frozen where he sits with all the grace and refinement of an enchanted lord from a fairy tale, the poor man's cheeks burn with such an intense blush that you quickly find yourself worried that he's about to have some kind of silent breakdown.

"I-it's not quite like that." He straightens his already perfect posture as he brings a limp fist to his lips, covering his sudden stutter with a subtle cough that, in and of itself, carries more pomp than you could ever achieve in your entire life - which, of course, only confirms what you've just said. "While my family is admittedly reputed in the wizarding world, I can assure you that it is not in a good way at all. And it goes without saying that everyone here knows it too. They vacillate between avoiding me as if I've been jinxed with a repulsive Slugulus Eructo or fearing me as if I'll Avada them at the slightest sign of movement. That in itself is a major romance deterrent, you know. I don't blame them, of course. My family's crimes extend to me through the bloodline, whether I like it or not. It's inevitable, really."

You part your lips, all too ready to interrupt what was proving to be the beginning of another session of misplaced guilt from the Slytherin, when you see him smirking. His pale cheeks are still stained with that pink dust, but his lips are stretched in a mischievous pull that actually disguises his embarrassment for a few seconds.

"Besides, although I am, as you well know, completely averse to the dark practices of the Gaunts, I confess to taking advantage of all that reputation, sometimes. It suits me at some very specific moments."

You tilt your head, giving him your best unimpressed look.

"Oh, I am quite aware of that. Your readiness to use the Gaunts' reputation for your own benefit was especially evident that night when you threatened to terrorize my last generation if I opened my mouth about the Undercroft. You certainly know how to make a good point when you put intention behind it."

It washes the smile from his lips so instantly it's almost comical, leaving behind only a kicked, embarrassed expression, the flush in his cheeks highlighting the constellation of beauty marks on his porcelain skin.

"I - I already said I was sorry about that, I was just -"

"Hey, hey, it's okay, it doesn't bother me anymore. I'm just teasing you." You cut him off with a sly smile. "Anyway, you're not going to get away from the real issue here."

Because, well...you really couldn't stop thinking about the suggestiveness of his previous statement. The possibilities - oh - were running through your brain nonstop. So, against your better judgment, and with your cheeks flush with heat, you find yourself pressing him on it.

"I don't understand what exactly you want to know." He mumbles, trying to cover up his embarrassment with a look of disinterest that is too poor to be taken seriously.

"You...have been with someone before, right?" This time you're deadly direct, no hints or openings for half answers. You had a question and you wanted to clear it up, your embarrassment in uttering such words wouldn't be enough to stop you. "Ah, intimately, I mean."

Obviously, it's not the kind of question that a decent lady would have asked a young man of such high prestige as Ominis Gaunt, you imagine. But after everything you've been through since you started your journey at Hogwarts, you feel bolder than the tolerable standard for young ladies, as if you'd lost some of your subtlety somewhere along the way. But how could you not?

More times than you can remember, you've been teetering on the brink of death, facing enemies who didn't think twice about whether or not you were too young for such things. More times than you can remember, you've been responsible for making decisions that would directly impact the lives of many people, even the wizarding world as a whole. The power in your hands, the skills and the often almost unbearable weight that such responsibilities brought to your life, made your mentality run miles ahead of those of your schoolmates - of society, in general. Inevitably, you felt that circumstances had forced you to develop a sense of urgency and raw honesty that even some adults lacked.

It was true that you lacked practical experience in some intimate matters - now mind you, you didn't exactly have a lot of free time for romantic interests and sex, too busy between the Keepers Trials, running tirelessly through the Highlands performing exhausting tasks for every poor soul who crossed your path - tasks that often culminated in your near death - attending the many classes during the day and the intensive study for the O.W.L.s in the library.

It was a true miracle when you managed to find time to sleep in your own bed in the dormitory - more often than not you were so exhausted that you simply lay down wherever you were and took a nap.

The fact was that you weren't exactly experienced in matters of intimacy, not really. There had been a few daring kisses here and there, of course. Even a few curious hands while you were snuggling with a Ravenclaw boy between the shelves of the library, hidden from Madam Scribner's watchful eyes. But you hadn't gone any further than that with anyone - even though the rumors circulating around school were that you and Sebastian Sallow had once been caught in an embarrassing and quite explicit situation in the Prefects' Bathroom. Which, of course, was a blatant lie. You had only been in the Prefects' Bathroom once and it certainly wasn't for any...carnal purposes.

You suspected that it was Sebastian himself who had started such rumors.

Either way, your lack of experience in the field had never bothered you much. Honestly, you didn't have the energy to bother yourself with it more than superficially. But you’d be lying if you denied that the prospect that Ominis, the most unfairly handsome and well-born boy you’ve ever met, might be as inexperienced as you is doesn’t offer a kind of comfort you didn’t even know you needed — as well as a funny thrill of anticipation in your belly.

You blink slowly as you stare at his handsome profile, bracing yourself for more of his cold scowls and frustrated huffs of impatience — perhaps even a sermon on how unladylike it is to ask such questions. He’s very good at sermons. Instead, however, you’re met with something else entirely. The upturned bridge of his nose is stained with blush, as are his cheeks. His unseeing gaze is turned away from you, his lips pressed tightly together, the corners slightly turned down. He looks…nervous? Distressed? You feel bad for pushing him like this. But as blushing and regretful as you are, the thought of what this means makes your heart beat faster by the second. The thought that you were right about your deductions after all makes your throat almost dry.

"H-hey, Ominis," you stammer awkwardly, but he still doesn't tilt his head in your direction. His arms are crossed over his chest like a physical shield, his entire posture screaming barely contained tension, making you slowly pull your feet off the table and adjust yourself on the couch so that you're sitting sideways to face him better. You take a deep breath, but Merlin, the air between you feels heavy now. It's strange, really; you don't think the two of you have ever been this awkward around each other, except for the first time you had a conversation - which was actually more of a threatening monologue on his part than a conversation per se. The regret of having insisted on this subject begins to weigh on your chest - a sincere fear that something that seemed so harmless to you a few minutes ago could be the cause of a crack in the bond you've arduously cultivated with Ominis is taking root in your mind.

You adjust uncomfortably the red hood of the robe around your neck, thinking that it wasn't worth trying to satisfy your curiosity after all - and let it be recorded for all that a Gryffindor knows when to give up their pride and admit to having made a bad decision, no matter how bitter the aftertaste is on your tongue. With a forced smile on your lips and a hand rubbing the back of your head, you silently pray that your next words will ease the heavy mood that has settled in the Undercroft.

"You know what? Let's forget about it. This is really none of my business and I'm sure that -"

"No." Ominis interrupts you shyly, impossibly redder than before and you immediately shut up, eyes wide as you stare at him with your heart wanting to fly out of your chest. "I've never been like this with anyone." The small tremor in his voice indicates how nervous he feels.

It would be comical if it weren't so desperate how by now you were already certain of this statement and yet it still manages to leave you completely speechless when it leaves his lips. The regret of having started this whole thing is ridiculously more overwhelming than before because you simply don't know what to say now that you've heard what you already knew all along. Thinking back now, what in Godric's name did you plan on saying in the first place? He would confess what you suspected to be the truth and then what?

Congrats, that's what you get for being so inappropriately curious.

"T-there was this girl in fourth year and we, well, she kissed me - but it was weird and a complete accident, it only lasted for a second and...and after that I never, you know...I've never been interested in anyone like that...at least not until -"

You think you might just burst into a ball of flames from how scorching your skin is, and Ominis is obviously as disturbingly embarrassed as you are because he's gesticulating with his hands and babbling nonstop, his nervousness causing him to reveal far more than you had initially asked, making both of you more awkward by the second.

Oh. Oh, Merlin. He hadn't even kissed anyone. At least not really.

What are you supposed to do with this information?!

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, sighing so deeply that his shoulders slump with the movement, deflating the way a balloon punctured by a needle would. 

Despite your brutal state of embarrassment, you frown, leaning forward on the couch so that you’re a little closer to him. “Sorry? Why are you sorry? I’m the one who asked you things that didn’t concern me. If anything, I’m the one who should be apologizing to you.”

Ominis gives you a shy smile that lacks any sincere joy. “I know, but still. I mean, I shouldn’t have — it’s weird for me to say these things about you, even though I’ve wanted to say them for a while. But I didn’t — I just didn’t want it to be this disastrous.”

In retrospect, you think this might all just be a trick of your overactive imagination. It's quite possible that you simply blacked out while Ominis was telling you about Sebastian's latest romantic endeavor - in his deep, soft voice - and that this is all just a dream.

It's a very plausible option, given that this has happened before. His presence, always so calm and controlled, combined with his mesmerizing baritone have guided you into a lethargic state of drowsiness more times than you can remember. It's just how he makes you feel - relaxed and safe.

Yes, that's what's happening once again. It has to be. Why, for heaven's sake, can't you have just heard what you think you heard, right?

But the way he stands there, serious features and a deep blush on his face, waiting for your answer with a visible degree of insecurity in his normally impassive being, is what makes you finally say something.

"W-was that about me?" You let out quietly, your racing heartbeat somehow accelerating even more, to the point where you question the harm this would do to your health. "When you said you've never been interested in anyone like that, at least until..." you continue, trying to bring some semblance of order to your thoughts, "was it me you were talking about then?"

It took a few seconds before he nodded once.

"I've wanted to talk to you about this for a long time. But there was always something going on - someone you needed to help, a poor creature needing to be rescued in the middle of the Forbidden Forest, a Goblin Helm to be recovered in a cursed cave far away from here..." he chuckles softly and you find yourself laughing back, shy and gentle, though a long exhale leaves your lips as you feel a bit of lightness begin to permeate the air between you two once more.

He reaches for you hesitant, but gently - oh so gently - places his cold hand above yours on the couch. You don't flinch or avoid his touch, though you still stare for a few seconds at the place where his long, pale fingers cover yours, trying to assimilate the unreal image that unfolds in front of you. And when your gaze rises and finally finds his face, it almost breaks your heart.

Realistically, you know he can’t see anything at all, but that becomes an afterthought in your mind as soon as you look at him. His eyes, bright, pale blue orbs like two moon-like spheres, are tilted and fixed at the exact same level as yours — and in this particular moment, you’re certain he’s seeing you, as impossible as that possibility may be. Swallowing the saliva that’s building in your mouth is suddenly a difficult task, but you force yourself to do it anyway.

"Ominis, what—what are you trying to say?”

You whisper slowly, as if the mere question is a secret between the two of you, the unexpected intensity in his cloudy eyes making your heart stutter as he continues to stare at you, his bushy brows furrowed in an expression that’s hard to discern. Suddenly, you realize how close you’re standing. Nothing but a small gap in the couch separates you, where your hands are clasped together and two boxes of Chocolate Frogs still rest. You can smell him, confunsing your mind as you unconsciously lean a little closer to him — fresh mint, chocolate, and something that reminds you of open parchment or the scent of the pages of a rare book.

He breathes your name huskily, and you feel your cheeks tingle with the heat of a fresh flush of blush.

“I’m in love with you,” he says earnestly, more whispering the words than saying them, his hand tightening in yours a fraction more, and all you can do is stare at him in utter shock. The expression on his face is vulnerable, evidenced by the furrowed lines of his brows in what looks almost like agony. But he’s also determined — a single-minded determination that’s enough to steal the breath from your lungs. "It took me a while to understand it, but I think I've been since the day I met you, to be honest. When you arrived late to the Great Hall, out of breath and in a hurry, but still so ecstatic with everything around you - as if being brutally attacked by a dragon while trying to get to school was no big deal. You've been stunning to me ever since. It was impossible not to be completely enchanted by you."

You're at a loss for words, so you don't even try to find them, opting for silence as you repeat his words on a loop in your mind.

It's strange how you always imagined confessions like this should be made in front of silvery moonlit ponds or in lush meadows during the spring season or literally anywhere that could be considered even remotely inspiring for romance. Certainly not in secret spaces filled with dust, crates and training dummies like the Undercroft. But here you are; overwhelmed and speechless by a declaration made in the last place you imagined you'd receive one.

And oh Merlin, you want to believe him, to entertain the idea that someone as utterly adorable as Ominis could feel that way about you - even though you've never been able to explain to yourself how you really felt about him.

Ominis Gaunt has always been an enigma.

The Slytherin's obvious qualities are nothing new to you; his gentle disposition despite his aloof facade and the weight of his family's unsavory reputation, or his polite and gentlemanly manners towards everyone. But these were attributes that anyone with even the slightest interest in him could see, qualities that didn't set him apart that much from others you knew.

But the truth is that, with time and familiarity, you noticed other distinct peculiarities in Ominis.

Leaving aside his ethereal beauty and his tall, majestic physique, which, again, are very obvious positive traits about him, he was the most captivating man you've ever met. The patience he possessed towards others, the fierce loyalty to you and Sebastian, the fact that despite the long sermons that accompanied it, he was always breaking the promises he made to himself in favor to protect and support those he loved. His far above average intelligence, the way he annoyingly always knows the right thing to say - even, and especially, at the times when you don't want to hear it. And, of course, his most attractive side in your opinion: the unexpected softness in his dark nature - it's about him being able to frighten and silence an entire room with just his imposing presence and still be the one to comfort and care, with kindness and respect.

You certainly understood that Ominis was someone seriously conflicted. The way he sometimes tended towards a cold temperament, or how, at times, he let his emotions guide him to his dark and cold side, did not go unnoticed by you. But still, you saw how he tried hard to let his gentle side prevail in his manner.

But

Did noticing these little details that would normally go unnoticed by others mean that you reciprocate his feelings?

Well, you felt safe with him. Even safer than you felt with Sebastian. While the latter was undeniably a friend you held in high regard (and even a small crush, if you were honest) he did not give you the same sense of complete comfort and trust that Ominis did. With Sebastian you felt like you had to constantly prove yourself, like just being who you were was never enough for him. Now with Ominis...

And as you stare at him, open-mouthed, searching for the right words to respond to his unexpected declaration, you think that maybe that's why you've never been able to put a name to what you felt for him. There was no heady, bubbling, flowery passion to announce any feelings, like there had been with your other brief flirtations before - or even with Sebastian. There was only the warmth, the relief, the peace of feeling whole and completely safe.

The feeling of knowing that if you were in a life-or-death situation and could count on only one person to save you, he would be the one to come to your rescue.

Godric

Realization borns in your chest to the point where you feel like you could float, like the feeling after eating a mouthful of Fizzling Whizzbees. Suddenly, you feel like you have so much to say, but you don't know how. Ominis, as usual, is much more eloquent:

"You wanted to know if I've ever been intimate with anyone, and my answer is no." He seems more hesitant, as if his hopes have been diminished a bit along with your prolonged silence, but his voice is still soft - as is the grip of his fingers on yours. "I've never been intimate with anyone because the only person I've ever wanted to be with was you."

All the air in your lungs leaves you in a sharp exhale, the warmth of deep admiration, affection and trust filling your chest and making your heart beat wildly. Overcome with emotion, you look once more at his hand holding your smaller one, opening your mouth, fumbling for the words in a confusing jumble of vowels and consonants.

"It's okay," Ominis assures you with a sad smile, his large milky eyes slanted downward, staring blindly at where he feels you squeeze his fingers. "I know it's a lot to take in at once. I don't mean to pressure you into anything, I swear. I just, I guess I just needed to tell you how I feel. But I understand if...well...I really understand that you don't feel the same way." His thick eyebrows sink, his face hardening slightly, as if he's already prepared for your rejection.

"Ominis." His name is a sigh from your lips. Touched. Longing.

You don't know how exactly what was supposed to be just another night of studying has brought you here. All you know is that you intend to enjoy every moment of this unexpected confession, eager to discover what new paths it might lead to.

The heat of Ominis so close combined with the way your heart had raced as you focused on his perfectly flushed lips, and how his scent was making your head spin, made you suddenly feel more impulsive than ever. And that's saying something considering your history of questionable choices.

You decide to go for it.

"Can I kiss you?" You ask in a frail whisper as you realize that nothing you could say would be enough to make him understand the emotions you're feeling right now.

His head snaps up at the question, his eyes wide and his lips parted.

"W-what? I mean, yes. Merlin, yes you can -" he breathes quickly, his pale skin stained with a deep blush, his orbs darting aimlessly. "But I've never actually kissed anyone - I might not be as good at it as -"

You cut it.

"I seriously doubt that."

This only makes him blush harder and you almost regret what you said, rushing to save him from the situation.

"B-but I can show you how, if you prefer."

You’re almost breathless at this point, vaguely reminding yourself that you’re no queen of the experience either, but when he nods eagerly, everything flies out the window and it’s like the pulsing muscle in your chest has given up on this whole adrenaline show and simply stopped beating.

Well, that’s it, you think as you push the boxes of Chocolate Frogs onto the rug with trembling fingers and move closer to Ominis until your legs are touching.

You’re almost facing each other on the couch now, his breath fanning your face, gentle and soft, and you stare for a moment into the milky expanse of his eyes. Pale skin dotted with a few beauty marks, perfectly sculpted jaw, elegant nose, flushed lips slightly parted.

For a moment, shame takes over you to the point where you almost turn around and beg him to pretend none of this happened. Almost. But his thumb lovingly caressing your knuckles is what grounds you in this moment once again.

You wouldn’t be a self-respecting Gryffindor if you gave up on your goals over a little embarrassment, would you?

“Right.”

You gently cup Ominis’ jaw between your fingers, delighted when he immediately leans into the touch, unable to hide the small hitch in your breath as you feels his heart rate spike as press on a pulse point.

You lean closer to him than you’ve ever been before, your noses not even four inches apart, his minty breath tickling your face. "Close your eyes, please,” your voice trembles weakly and you wet your lips before continuing, your skin so heated that you’re sure Ominis can feel the flames emanating from it without even touching you, “and then just do what feels right, I guess – let your body guide you.”

You didn’t even know what you were saying anymore, but there he was, bathed in the flames of the braziers and the partial darkness of the Undercroft; his long, thick eyelashes fanning over his flushed cheekbones as he does exactly what you say, more beautiful than anything you’ve ever seen in your life.

He keeps one hand covering yours to stroke your fingers back and forth, his other hand, however, is on his own thigh, clenched into a tight fist – like a restraint. Restraint for what? You’re not sure. But the possibilities still conjure a swarm of butterflies in your belly.

Ominis leans in a little closer, almost unconsciously, parting his lips and inhaling audibly as you exhale a soft sound. Your hand slides down the sharp line of his jaw, stroking the curve of his ear with your thumb until you rest your fingers delicately on the back of his neck, guiding him to extinguish the last few inches that separate you as you let your own eyes drift closed. With a tentative brush of your lip against his, you press forward, sealing your lips and your heart with his in that moment.

The first touch is nothing and absolutely everything you imagined.

You sigh.

For the first second you freeze, afraid that you have no idea what you would do now that you finally felt Ominis Gaunt's plush lips on yours, but apparently your previous advice to him is very convenient and your instincts take over the worry almost instantly.

Your lips mold between his like a perfect fit, soft and moist, his heat invading your mouth in shy puffs. You melt almost immediately, letting the kiss remain chaste - a firm but soft pressure, with gentle movements over his.

All tension drains from your body because this is familiar; sweet, warming your body from the inside, like drinking butterbeer with friends in front of a fireplace on a cold winter's day - comfortable, safe. But it also gives you an anxious tingle that makes you unconsciously squeeze your legs together; your stomach twists and turns with funny somersaults, the swarm of butterflies more agitated than ever.

Having your lips collide with his, the softness and fresh taste he exudes, you realize how much you miss this - even if it's the first time you're experiencing it with him. So much for emotional incoherence.

Ominis breathes a shaky, heated breath into your mouth, fingers releasing your hand to grip your wrist in an almost desperate gesture.

You're the first to pull back, suddenly dizzy, blushing even more when he chases your lips for a few inches before stopping himself. Through half-lidded eyes, you watch him slowly begin to open his too, a dazed look on his face, with panting lips and rosy cheeks that make him look both childish and incredibly sinful at the same time.

"O-Ominis," you whisper, panting as if you've just finished climbing one of the mountains in the Highlands. “That was…”

In a game-changing moment, he furrows his brows and locks his jaw once before parting his lips to say, “Can we do this again? I mean, do you want to… will you let me do it again? Like, right now?”

Despite your earlier determination, you find yourself whipped by the abrupt change in his tone. At the restless eagerness in his breathy voice, at the possessive grip on your wrist. How, in the blink of an eye, the tables seem to have been turned and he’s the one taking control now. But inexplicably, your own greed for more collides with his and you find yourself nodding, before remembering that he couldn’t possibly see your silent consent.

“Yes, please…”

Unlike you thought, he doesn’t immediately pull you to his lips. What he does, however, stuns you more than any alternative. His fingers, long and elegant, adorned with a few rings that are surely worth more than your life, close around the sides of your waist as soon as the words leave your lips, hoisting your body off the couch with such blatant ease that it would surprise you if you didn’t have more shocking things to deal with at the moment. Like, for example, the fact that he made you sit facing him.

On his lap.

You gasp, absolutely mortified, but, removed from all logic, you make no move to escape his grip; allowing your legs to remain parted on the sides of his thighs, hips against his, hands gripping his broad shoulders for stability.

Ominis, unlike you, seems quite at ease with the awkward position he’s placed you in, releasing your waist to tentatively raise his cold fingers to your burning face, pale blue eyes intensely and greedily locked on your features - features he could never see. Not in the usual way.

“I can?”

Deeply disturbed by the way he’s looking at you and how quickly things have climbed, you can’t find the words to respond, choosing instead to take both of his wrists in your delicate, trembling fingers and guide his hands to your face. You try to control your rapid breathing as his fingers trace the angles of your eyebrows and jaw and the soft roundness of your cheeks and chin, the icy feel of his rings prickling your skin. His eyes slowly close, his brows furrowed in concentration, as if he’s replicating the image of your face in his mind.

“You always smell like honey and lemon tea leaves.” He murmurs with a satisfied hum, and your eyelashes flutter along with your heart as he traces the arch of your eyebrow and then the line of your nose. Your mouth falls open unconsciously when his fingers touch the softness of your lower lip, and it’s Ominis who gasps this time. You watch in embarrassed ecstasy as his face darkens with a blush, the muscle in his jaw twitching once more, his thick eyelashes fluttering over the apple of his cheeks.

You nervously smooth the green hood of the robe around his neck, playing with the texture of the fabric to distract yourself from the intense emotions that threaten to make you faint.

“Your heart is beating so loud I can hear it from here,” he says softly, tracing the delicate cupid’s bow over your lips, a mischievous tug at the right corner of his mouth.

Your eyes widen a little as you let out a shy giggle, still pretending to maintain a confidence that has surely flown out the window long ago. Ominis once told you that since he lacked the fundamental sense of sight, his other senses have been immensely enhanced over the years, including hearing. And, well, your heart was beating so loudly and unkindly as the quickening footsteps of a Graphorn.

The thorough exploration stops for a moment so he can gently cup your jaw between his thumb and forefinger, and you feel the slightest pressure toward him. He pulls you straight to him.

Your faces are almost touching once more. You feel his soft breath on your cheek, hear his light but greedy intake of breath. His grip tightens the tiniest fraction.

Soft lips press against your cheek.

He doesn’t rush at all. The kiss lingers. A warm, syrupy sensation spreads through your body. Your hands tighten in the fabric around his neck. His lips press a little deeper, the tip of his nose nudging your temple affectionately. A warm sigh blows over your flushed skin before he pulls away. His fingers trail, impossibly soft, along your jaw in comforting movements as he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead, your other cheek, and another to the tip of your nose. His contradiction shocks you as much as it always has; how one moment he can be shy and hesitant and the next the most confident and dominant person in the world.

“So beautiful, sweet girl.”

You’re about to scream, bubbles of affection and desire exploding in your chest, your fingers itching to pull him in for another kiss. Wanting — no, needing — his lips on yours once more. You don’t have much control left, though. He’s stolen your confidence and turned it into a messy, tangled puddle of wants. You know what you want, but you don’t dare take it. Not when he’s clearly calling the shots like this. You’re frozen, barely breathing, and only vaguely aware that he’s touching your neck now, tilting your head so your faces are pressed together as he push his lips to yours again.

Merlin, yes

This time you actually shiver beneath his fingers, a helpless noise rising from your throat straight to his mouth. His other hand tightens around your waist, and the one on your neck slides into your hair, his fingers digging into your scalp.

This kiss is clearly different from the last, bolder and hungrier from the first contact. And you actually find yourself questioning the veracity of his claim about being inexperienced at this, because by Merlin' sake, he certainly seems very skilled to you.

You assume this is another one of those inexplicable situations where he’s exceptionally good at whatever it is he sets out to do, even if it’s the first time he’s doing it. The thought almost irritates you, as it reminds you of your first kiss — the one that was an awkward, painful mess of teeth chattering and more saliva than there should have been. But just as quickly as the feeling appears, it’s gone.

Your head feels light and buoyant, and it feels a lot like being enchanted with a Wingardium Leviosa the exact moment his tongue brushes against your bottom lip. Then, all you can seem to hold in your mind is the sensation — the heat of his tongue in your mouth, the almost painful stab as he pulls your head back by your hair, the shocking, abject excitement that surges as he starts to act more roughly. You moan, and he wraps his arm around your back to pull you so close to him that your chests are pressed tightly together.

You’re not sure when you do it, but behind your closed lids you swear you see entire constellations exploding with the sensations he gives you with his kiss.

There’s a certain degree of inexperience in the way his tongue moves inside your mouth, but that’s nothing more than a tiny detail when compared to the absolute hunger with which he seems to want to devour you. His saliva, like all of him, seems to melt on your tongue with the most addictive mint flavor - and, deliciously, the lingering taste of the chocolate you both ate not long ago.

It’s all overwhelming, perfect but overwhelming, and the dizziness comes faster than you could have anticipated, making your movements slower and heavier. A wet breath, a grunt from him, another maddening kiss, lips seeking lips, soft cotton under your fingertips. Ominis’s robe feels like a lifeline, and you grab it with everything you’ve got.

If you focused on something other than the sensation, you might notice how heated you both are and how flushed you look. Maybe you could notice Ominis’ hand gently releasing the death grip of your hand on his robe to place the aching fingers on the back of his head.

Just when your nails unconsciously scrape his scalp to pull a few strands of blond hair between your fingers, Ominis parts his lips between yours to release the most sinful of sounds — something that lies somewhere between a growl and a moan, and the thing goes like a lightning bolt straight between your legs.

It’s you who pulls him back into a feverish kiss this time, wet, breathy sounds escaping you both between the clash of your tongues as you press against each other. You’re hyper-aware of how hard he is beneath you, his length straining against the fabric of his uniform pants, and you blush — but you want him even more. Delicately but purposefully, you catch his swollen bottom lip between your teeth to tug once before licking it, but Ominis gasps so loudly and closes his hand around your neck so unexpectedly that you actually choke on a startled, high-pitched sound.

Regardless of the adrenaline rush the action generates, or perhaps precisely because of it, you brace your knees better on the couch around him, rocking your pelvis against Ominis’s before you even realize what you’re doing, enjoying the strangled gasp he lets out despite the almost fierce grip on yyour throat.

“Again. Do it again,” he breathes against your lips, resting his forehead against yours, and you do. Ominis begins to move too, thrusting his hips up while you thrust yours down, getting into a rhythm that has you both gasping in the silence of the Undercroft, the flames of the braziers the only other noises to be heard around.

His hand slides under your shirt without any warning, over the soft skin of your stomach and to the edge of your bra before pushing it up and over your breast. The shock of his cold fingers on your heated skin is so much that you cry out, your nipple hardening in his broad palm as you push harder against him, and the shuddering gasp that leaves him in response has you aching to touch him too. And, by Godric, has the Undercroft always been this suffocatingly heat?

You pull apart for air as Ominis chases your lips with his, the feverish movements of your hips momentarily ceasing.

“Ominis…?” Your unspoken question hangs in the air between you, curious, thirsty to know how far you both intend to let this go.

His nose brushes against yours, his brows furrowed in anguish, his eyes pale and intense. “Every…Every single time I heard you, or smelled you near, I felt this. This desire. I’ve imagined you, like this, with me. So many times. It’s always been you. I want this so bad.”

“Y-yes,” you whisper as breathlessly as he does, your words a shared secret between you two and the darkness. “I want this too. I want you.”

He sighs in rapture, pressing his grip on your throat a fraction further, kneading his hand over your breast until he catches a nipple between his fingers, teasing the flesh with the cold silver of his signet ring. “Then don’t stop. Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

The commanding quality in his normally restrained tone coupled with his unusual choice of dirty language causes a spontaneous clench in the wet region between your legs. With unsteady fingers you snake your hand under his shirt, mimicking the same liberty he’s taken with you, and feel his back arch in response as you slide your soft and warm palm across the hard planes of his abdomen. With your other hand, you hold a silky handful of his hair, pulling him into a hard kiss as you roll your hips over him again - both of you moaning at the sensual grinding of your intimate parts.

“Baby, just like that -” he breathes shakily as he pulls away from the kiss and turns his head. At first you think he might just be hiding his face in the crook of your neck, but when you feel a pair of warm lips on the delicate flesh of that area your eyes flutter shut.

“Ominis,” is all you can manage to say as you tilt your head to the side for better access and hold him tighter by the grip on the back of his neck, rolling your hips to press yourself against the Slytherin as he begins to gently suck on the sensitive skin.

There are so many layers between the two of you. Ominis’s pants, his underwear, your panties, the heavy robes draped over your bodies, the uniform shirts. Barriers that at the moment only serve to prevent the actual touch of skin on skin. And, Merlin, you want so badly to feel his skin against yours, but you feel like you can’t rush it. Either way, neither of you seem to have the patience for the task at the moment, his mouth on your neck feeling so incredibly good that you can’t think of stopping him from continuing – not even so you can undress.

This intimacy with him already surpasses any practical experience you’ve had, any previous secret make out session. The adrenaline coursing through your veins is more than you’ve ever felt before – more electrifying than raiding Goblin and Ashwinder encampments, more than rescuing a Hippogriff right under Theophilus Harlow’s nose, more than completing a Trial from one of the Keepers. And the sheer euphoria and newness of it all, the overwhelming and unfamiliar sensations, his panting breaths in your ear, the needy grip of his hands on your body, his cock pressed greedily between your legs – and, most of all, the fact that it’s him, is pushing you rapidly towards your inevitable end. You’ll come soon, and for the first time, not from your own fingers.

Ominis licks a particularly hard bite mark he’s just left (in a place that’s going to be pretty troublesome to hide, you think) and pulls back a few inches as you both move together, leaving you alone to deal with the overwhelming image of his face carved in lust; the way his porcelain skin flushes and his kiss swollen mouth opens in a long sigh, pearly eyes half-lidded between his thick lashes as he grinds eagerly against you, the normally perfectly straight strands of hair now messy from your fidgeting fingers, falling across his forehead in a way that’s disturbingly sexy.

“I thought something like this would never happen. I never thought you’d want me the same way. Not someone like me.”

The way he speaks, breathless and feverish, yet so vulnerable and sincere, has you tearing up before you even realize it, sinking your fingers into the space between his chest, right above where his heart flutters like the wings of a Golden Snitch.

“Ominis...you’re so beautiful. You’re perfect. I-I’m so sorry I didn’t notice your feelings before. But I’m here now - you have me now.”

The breath seems to be knocked out of him by your words and you can taste his need as your mouths push together again in a slick mess of saliva and teeth - this time in the right way. Your own mind goes blank, any capacity for thought draining from you as he releases your breast to bring both hands under the skirt of your uniform, possessively grabbing the soft cheeks of your ass between his fingers to pull your body in time with his thrusts.

“Salazar, how can you be so good?” He groans as he breaks the kiss and shamelessly grinds your quivering pussy against his swollen cock, the fabric of his pants growing wet - as much his fault as yours. “Oh, I…fuck, y/n, harder. Harder, baby, please.”

You feel like your face is literally on fire, but you do as you’re told, grinding yourself hard against Ominis and watching with hypnotic attention as his eyes drift closed, his head tilting back against the back of the couch as his hips thrust upwards more roughly. The Adam’s apple in his slender, pale throat bobs with each hard swallow, his skin beginning to glisten with a subtle sheen of sweat. He’s so gorgeous, the sight of him ravished like this is so enchanting that it takes a few seconds for you to realize he’s mumbling something - and a few more seconds for it to sink in that you don’t understand the language.

Because he’s speaking in Parseltongue.

You don’t think he even realizes what he’s doing, considering his reservations about the dialect, too lost in the dizzying rush of pleasure. You are, however, hyperaware of the sounds that flow with hypnotic fluidity from his parted lips; harsh hisses, elongated chirps, vibrant trills of a pink tongue…

You may not understand what he’s saying, but you don’t need to be an expert in the speech to know that it’s definitely not something that should be said in public.

Your cheeks flush as he hisses something that sounds particularly filthy through clenched teeth, skin flushed and eyebrows furrowed in an almost irritated frown — which only makes him more irresistible to your eyes.

You can’t help the way your legs widen to their maximum limits, trying to mold your pussy to the thick line of his cock hidden beneath his pants as best you can.

“Yes, fuck, yes,” he whispers, seemingly back to normal speech (a part of you regrets this), his mouth opening in a guttural moan.

“O-Ominis—” You say, tasting his name in your mouth and it almost sounds like a question, but he fucks himself harder against you, clawing at the flesh of your ass to keep you in place, thrusting his hips into yours until you’re moaning louder — even with the barrier of fabric separating you, you feel it perfectly when the rounded head of his cock manages to hit the exact spot where your clit is.

“Louder,” he growls, lifting his head to you once more, chasing that beautiful sound that came out of your mouth like a starving man. “Let me hear who you’re rubbing yourself against like that.” He leans down and licks a stripe down your throat to your ear.

“Oh, Ominis—” You gasp louder, arching your neck to give him more acess. You can’t even finish your sentence, your lips parted in an “o” as his cock pushes against your pussy in the sweetest way. Your thighs are trembling now, and it feels so good, and you’re going to come, you know you will. “Please, please, you’re going to make me-” the muscles in your stomach are already clenching in anticipation, your back arching, and there’s a high-pitched sound wanting to rip from your throat and you know it’s going to be loud if you can’t control yourself.

“Come on, that’s it, just like that,” he rasps, and your moans grow more intrepid, until they finally turn into desperate gasps as you feel yourself one small step away from the edge.

It feels a little like going crazy, like being out of your mind, just using each other, fucking dirty and rough through your clothes, and you barely realize you’re digging your nails into the skin of his chest until Ominis’s head is jerking back, a sound that fluctuates between a moan of pleasure and pain leaving his lips — even as he murmurs a ‘keep going, please don’t stop.’

“Give it to me, my pretty girl,” he murmurs breathlessly, and you pull the blond strands of his hair between your fingers, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open with sounds that only make his grip on your ass grow greedier. Fuck, that feels good. “Come on, y/n, baby—”

His needy plea is what sends you flying over the edge. Within seconds, your eyes are watering hard, a spiral of lightning-fast heat hitting you as your pussy flutters and clenches around emptiness, the familiar wetness soaking your panties even more.

You cover your mouth a second too late, nearly choking on the scream you muffle into the sweaty palm of the hand that was once under his shirt, your orgasm ripping through your body without any subtlety. Neurons collapsing, couch creaking with the force of your movements, vision blurring and darkening at the edges - but Ominis isn't done with you.

When your drunken gaze flickers open to focus on his face, you notice how absolutely enraptured he looks, his pale eyes locked on your face as if he can actually see you in your breakdown.

Your body is limp and shaking, but you press your forehead against his as he struggles to keep up the pace now that you've given in to exhaustion. Your mouth is parted as he breathes in and out right next to your lips, eyes half-lidded. You lean in to kiss him gently on the lips as he thrusts hard into you, cupping his face to pepper kisses across his cheeks amidst his moans.

One of the hands on your ass comes up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head back so he can kiss your jaw. He thrusts into you hard enough that your body jumps up, but you hold on to him as best you can. Your bodies as entangled as they can be.

You even try to muster the strength to rock your hips against him, but his fingers in your ass tighten to keep you in place as he picks up the pace himself.

His fingers were digging into your flesh and your hair so hard it would have been painful in any other scenario. But not in this one. As it was, it was a reminder of how deep he was falling, how much he seemed to need this, need you, judging by his noises. 

“Come on,” you whisper when you manage to slide your lips to his ear, both of you sweaty and flushed, your little fingers scratching the back of his neck in comforting motions as you encourage him to reach his limit, “come for me, Ominis. Please, please -”

It works. Ominis parts his lips almost immediately, giving a husky moan of release that makes your pussy quiver back to life, his larger body tensing beneath yours, shuddering once, twice. His pale, cloudy eyes look watery for a few seconds, and his perfectly chiseled cheekbones are stained with the most charming blush beneath the sweat on his skin — fuck, gorgeous, that’s what he is.

He collapses back against the couch completely after a while, his arms wrapping around your smaller frame to keep you clinging to him. Not that he needs to. You’re too languid to move. Too exhausted and spent to care about anything or anyone other than him.

His head rests against your collarbone, rising and falling with your ragged breaths. Your arms wrap around him, your hand still lightly stroking his hair. There are blond strands stuck to his sweaty forehead, and you do your best to brush them back when he looks up at you, though his eyes are still closed, visibly pleased with the end result of this study session.

His own fingers run through the unruly strands of hair around your face, brushing a few behind your ear with a gentle caress. He opens his eyes after a while, orbs cloudy and ethereal, but you swear you can see an infinite constellation of glowing dots on their pale screen.

“I…” he begins hesitantly, his voice a little firmer now, though he still wets his swollen lips before continuing. “This meant a lot to me. You have no idea how much. But I don’t want to assume anything - I just, you don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to - you know, don’t feel like you have to be with me just because I…” he sighs, swallowing hard, trying to find the words to say something you already understand.

“Shhh,” you place the tip of your index finger over his lips, chuckling softly when he blushes, “I may have taken a while to realize it, but I also want to see where this can lead us. I do, Ominis.”

He sighs in relief, as if he’s come up for air after a long time underwater, cradling your face between the broad palms of his hands.

"Salazar, that's so good to hear. I really didn't know how I was going to go back to acting like just friends after what happened, if it was your decision." He murmurs seriously, but his sharp features are relaxed as he rests his forehead against yours.

"Don't be so dramatic." You roll your eyes as weakly scold him, though your heart is warm and cozy inside your chest, embracing this moment for what it is - precious. "Didn't you hear what I said just now?"

He pulls back a few inches, his nose wrinkling slightly as he tries to figure out what you're talking about.

He's so cute.

You can't help yourself before you purse your lips into a pout and plant a tender kiss on the tip of his nose.

"I told you you have me now, little fool."

The smile he gives you in response is extremely rare; full and bright, two cute dimples on each side of the cheeks, showing off his perfect teeth; everything as charming as the rest of him. Even though he doesn't say anything after your declaration, seeing something so unusual directed at you already tells you everything you need to know. You sigh in excitement, letting him pull you by the nape of your neck for another kiss, pouring all the adoration he feels for you into the act.

Your skin is sticky with sweat, your hair a mess of knots, your clothes wrinkled and askew, the space between you a wet, embarrassing mess - the heat from both of your robes heating your skin to an almost suffocating level. But neither of you makes any move to separate, or even to pick up your wands and cast a simple cleaning spell - too enraptured with each other and so completely satisfied that you happily ignore everything else.

You feel so happy. And, most importantly, ready for what is to come.

Outside the castle, the snow falls without stopping, freezing everything around with its cloud of crystals. But here, in this dusty and unlikely place for romance, you feel safe and warm.

[lumisverse-deactivated20260228]

✦ dragonsteps

cw. found family, soft angst, fluff, emotional vulnerability, past trauma, body adjustment issues (durin), established relationship (reader x wanderer)

an. aaaaa i really tried my best to make this lore accurate so sorry in advance if there are any mistakes TT i only read up on durin’s lore online since i wasn’t playing when simulanka came out :(( but i did my best !! also credits to @stoopycake for the idea — i love xia sm

you live in mondstadt — not in the city walls, but just far enough out that the breeze feels gentler and the birds aren’t afraid to nest near your windowsill.

the mornings smell like pine and the sky is always soft. sometimes you think the wind sings to you. sometimes you think it’s lonely.

it’s quiet here. still. normal. you like it that way.

wanderer doesn’t. not really. he complains every time he visits — about the wind, about the noise, about how your bed is too soft and your pillows are too fluffy and your kettle takes too long to boil. he scowls at the birds. calls the squirrels in your garden nosy little pests. grumbles about the dirt road, the lack of streetlamps, the way mondstadt’s air always smells like freedom.

but he still shows up. always unannounced. always frowning. always staying longer than he says he will.

he doesn’t knock. he doesn’t warn you. he doesn’t say goodbye when he leaves. you never ask him to stay. you never ask him to leave, either.

you’re not loud about being together. you don’t hold hands in public. you don’t say things like i love you or i missed you.

but he’ll let you fix his scarf when it slips. he lets you sit close when he’s pretending not to fall asleep. he lets you call him kuni, even though no one else is allowed to. and sometimes he looks at you like the whole world is loud except when you’re around.

it’s a quiet thing. gentle. real. you thought you were done with surprises.

and then albedo showed up.

you’re half-awake, halfway through tea, and not expecting a knock at your door — much less one from the chief alchemist of the knights of favonius, with a boy standing beside him who looks like he’s been stitched together from stardust and forgotten lore.

he’s got hot pink eyes, tousled purple hair, two huge black horns, and a pair of even larger wings trailing behind him like a shadow. barefoot. blinking. a little confused.

“this is durin,” albedo says, like this is normal. “i’ve granted him a human form. he’s still adjusting.” “…okay?” you say slowly, eyes flicking between the alchemist and the boy with wings too big for your hallway. “he remembers the wanderer. i thought he’d be most comfortable here for now.”

you glance over your shoulder, where kuni is sitting at your kitchen table, nursing tea he insists he doesn’t like. he stares back at you with a silent, horrified expression. his cup is halfway to his mouth. it never makes it there. “no,” he says immediately. “don’t even think about it.”

“he called you hat guy,” albedo adds helpfully. “he likes you.” durin beams. “hat guy!!”

wanderer looks like he’s just been sentenced to death.

you’re in the grass behind your cottage. it’s warm. the sun’s high and mondstadt’s breeze rolls gently through the trees, rustling the tall grass, brushing against your skin like a sigh.

durin is trying to walk. emphasis on trying.

he’s all limbs and feathers and flailing wings, wobbling with every step like a newborn deer. “nope—wrong foot—careful!” you lunge forward just in time to stop him from faceplanting into a patch of dandelions. his wings flap once, awkwardly, and throw him off balance again.

“this body’s weird,” he grumbles, flopping into your arms like a very large, very annoyed toddler. “i used to fly.” “you also used to be made of blocks,” kuni says flatly from a few feet away, leaning against the fence with his arms crossed and a distinct i told you this was a terrible idea look on his face. “get over it.”

durin pouts. “you’re mean.” “you’re uncoordinated.” “you’re rude.” “you’re loud.” “you’re wearing too many layers.”

wanderer’s eye twitches. “i swear to—” “okay, okay,” you cut in, holding up your hands before the dragon child and your semi-boyfriend start trading elemental attacks. “let’s focus, yeah? deep breath, durin.”

he mimics you — badly. but his chest rises and falls, and that’s enough.

“left foot,” you say gently. “good. now the other one. you’ve got this.” he stumbles, wobbles, wings twitching nervously behind him — but stays upright.

his eyes light up, glowing like a sky full of comets. “look!! hat guy!! i did it!!”

wanderer grimaces like the name physically hurts him. “stop calling me that.” “but you have a hat,” durin says, very seriously. “so does half the population of mondstadt.” “but you are the hat guy. it’s different.”

wanderer mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like i’m going back to sumeru.

you smile. “no you’re not.” he doesn’t argue.

and the breeze is still gentle. and the birds still sing. and for now — just for now — the world is quiet.

the storm rolls in around midnight. soft at first. like a lullaby.

the kind of lullaby that hums through the hills, brushing gently against the trees, coaxing flowers into sleep.

then louder.

wind thrashes the branches against your cottage walls like angry fingers. thunder cracks the sky open from end to end, sudden and sharp, a divine warning. rain batters your windows in relentless, uneven patterns — too erratic to be music. too alive to be background noise.

you stir beneath your blankets. the warmth of sleep still clings to your skin like steam. for a moment you think you’re dreaming — until a weight thuds against the floorboards and the softest yelp breaks through the thunder.

you sit up with a jolt.

“...durin?” your voice is rough, half-dream. there’s a shape on the floor. soggy. awkward. unmoving.

“the sky’s mad at me,” comes the muffled reply.

your eyes adjust slowly. the moon is buried behind clouds, but the occasional flicker of lightning through the window gives you pieces — wings soaked and dragging, the tips curled in like wilted petals. horns bumped askew from colliding with your doorframe. a trembling form hunched over like it’s trying to disappear into itself.

he’s wet. and cold. and afraid.

“i… i didn’t mean to make it rain,” durin says quickly, his voice rising in panic. “i didn’t do anything. i swear i didn’t! i didn’t break anything or yell or fly or—”

“durin,” you say, gentle but firm. “storms are normal.”

his eyes glow faintly in the dark. confused. uncertain. “really?” he breathes. you nod. “really. mondstadt gets a lot of them. especially in spring. it’s just… how things are.”

he glances at the window like it might suddenly turn and glare at him. “…it’s loud,” he says. “i know.” “it wasn’t like this in simulanka. the storms there were quiet. but not in a good way.” you don’t ask.

“do you want to sleep here tonight?” you offer. he doesn't even pause. “yes please.”

you leave your room together. he follows you like a shadow made of feathers and guilt. the floor creaks beneath both your steps. you set up the couch. give him every blanket you can find. even the ugly one from albedo’s failed attempt at knitting.

durin doesn’t complain. he just piles them around himself until he’s almost entirely hidden. only his horns and a few strands of messy hair peek out.

you settle onto the couch nearby, your arm draped lazily over the edge, fingers brushing the fringe of his blanket.

there’s silence for a long while, save for the occasional rumble of thunder and the soft, erratic beat of the rain.

then: “…does the sky hate me too?”

you open your eyes slowly. look down. he’s curled tighter now, one wing tucked beneath his chin like a pillow, the other twitching with every crack of thunder.

your heart clenches.

you reach down. ruffle his hair gently. “no, durin. the sky doesn’t hate you.”

he nods once. small. unsure. but he doesn’t argue. he doesn’t cry either. he just lies there. wide-eyed. listening.

he doesn’t sleep until long after you do.

kuni finds you both like that the next morning.

you, slumped half-off the couch with your hand still hanging down — fingers barely brushing durin’s hair. durin, curled into himself in a pit of warmth and safety, his wing twitching slightly every now and then. not from fear. just dreaming.

kuni doesn’t speak. doesn’t frown.

he just sighs quietly. walks past you. comes back a minute later with an extra pillow. he slides it beneath your back without a word, tucks the blanket closer around your shoulders, and walks away again.

later, he sits beside you on the porch. the sky is still pale and grey, like it’s not quite sure whether it’s done grieving. the rain has stopped, but the wind is soft and damp, leaving the air full of silence and the smell of wet pine.

“he was scared of a thunderstorm,” kuni mutters, staring out at the field. you sip your tea. “he’s still adjusting. albedo said his emotions might be unstable until his body fully settles.” “he’s not even a week old,” kuni scoffs. “technically he’s centuries old,” you remind him.

kuni huffs. durin is in the garden again. crouched in the tall grass. having what appears to be a one-sided conversation with a squirrel who is either very brave or very stupid.

“do you remember what he was like in simulanka?” you ask.

kuni shifts beside you. “…yeah. a lot bigger. a lot louder.” “he just wanted friends.” “he nearly crushed five people trying to hug them.” “he’s better now.” “he’s different.” kuni pauses. then softer, “but he’s still loud.”

you look out at durin. now waving goodbye to the squirrel. “…he’s trying.”

kuni doesn’t say anything. but when you pass him a cup of warm tea, he doesn’t roll his eyes or call it too sweet. he just drinks.

you hear the crash from the kitchen.

“i was reading!” durin insists. “it’s not my fault your shelves are too narrow and my wings are too graceful!”

“graceful?” kuni repeats flatly, standing over the wreckage. durin puffs up. “yes. like a majestic storm-bird.” “you knocked over an entire shelf.” “a majestic shelf.”

you kneel beside him. pages scattered everywhere. diagrams torn open like secrets spilling out. albedo’s personal collection of handwritten notes on the internal structure of abyssal anomalies is now confetti on your rug.

“sorry,” durin says again, softer this time. “i didn’t mean—i just thought… if i knew more about my body, maybe i’d understand why i feel so weird in it.”

you look at him. at his oversized limbs. his unsure hands. the feathers he keeps pulling from his sleeves like they don’t belong there.

he’s trying to hold himself smaller. like if he curls in enough, he won’t knock anything else over.

“…i know i scared people in simulanka,” he mumbles. “and mondstadt too.” you don’t interrupt. he fiddles with a loose feather.

“albedo says i’m not dangerous anymore. but i still feel big. even when i’m small. like… something might break if i move wrong. or laugh too hard. or exist too loudly.”

he hugs his knees. “what if they were right? what if i am a monster?”

you don’t get a chance to respond.

a shadow falls over you both.

kuni.

he’s standing in the doorway. scarf half-on, expression unreadable, eyes dark and narrowed in that way that always means he’s listening even if he doesn’t want to be.

“…you’re not,” kuni says quietly. durin jerks his head up, startled.

“you’re annoying,” kuni says, stepping closer. “and clumsy. and loud. and kind of stupid.” durin frowns. “is that a compliment?” “take it or leave it.” “…i’ll take it.”

you smile.

kuni sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “…you scared me too, you know. in simulanka.”

durin blinks.

“but you stopped,” kuni mutters. “you changed. you chose to change. even though no one asked you to. even though everyone was scared of you. that counts for something.” he kneels beside him, eye-level.

“you’re not a monster, durin. just a dumb dragon with bad aim and a weird sense of humor.” durin stares.

then he throws himself into a hug.

“WHAT ARE YOU—GET OFF—” “YOU DON’T HATE ME!!” “I NEVER SAID THAT!!” “HAT GUY LOVES ME!!!” “SHUT UP!!”

you laugh. despite everything — the mess, the broken shelves, the tea that now has feathers in it again — you laugh.

the sky is still grey, but softer now.

and maybe this isn’t just a house full of misfits. maybe this is something healing. maybe this is something like home.

credits to @cafekitsune for the animated border lines!

[sgrimp]

Community Service with Mavuika

[taylorman2274]

We Care About You (Epilogue)

A week after bonding with the Traveler, you log back into Genshin and find that a lot has changed since your last time playing.

Content Warning(s): N/A

Notes: SAGAU; GN!Reader;

Word Count: 1.6k

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Taglist: @silverstarred; @victoria1676; @angelofdarkness2; @areaderspov; @andromeda-gay; @ash1; @mercy-not-merci; @toodledoodl3; @jellyedkazoo; @namine123; @innuwu; @agaygothicmushroom; @tired-of-life-86; @fantasyhopperhea; @sweetsourbxtch; @zenith-of-all-zeniths; @velleunv; @creativecupcake; @obsoletedeviant;

---------------------------------------------------------

"Something is wrong..."

Wait. No. That's not the word you should be using.

"Something is different..."

These were the thoughts rummaging through your head as you stared at the door to Teyvat on your computer. Everything up to that point had gone smoothly compared to all the previous times you logged on.

This time, however, you noticed that the time it took the game to get ready was noticeably quicker than usual. Like really quickly. Like almost instantaneous.

Like you didn't even have time to check the notifications on your phone. It was as quick as someone snapping their fingers.

"Not that I'm complaining. All the better!" you happily exclaimed, clicking on the screen and opening the door to Teyvat.

Thinking that this loading screen would last around the same time as before, you looked away from the computer towards your phone with the intent of checking on any new notifications that may have popped up. However, the outdoor ambiance of Teyvat quickly traveled to your ears, signaling that the loading screen came and went just as quickly as the one from earlier.

"Again? How?" you questioned, turning your attention back towards your computer screen. "Why is my computer suddenly able t-"

.

..

...

"...What..."

You could immediately tell that you were in Mondstadt given that you were standing in front of the Barbados statue. But that doesn't make any sense. You logged off at Liyue the last time you played Genshin.

"...The..."

Additionally, the plaza looked much more lively than normal. You've never seen more than ten people occupy the area at one time. But this time, it looked like you were standing in the center of a heavily populated city. People were walking, running, praying, and making conversation. But to top it all off...

...They all looked so real that you almost forgot you were playing a video game.

"...Hell?..."

You moved the camera around to view as much of the plaza as you could, but you quickly came to realize something important.

"Wait... Where's my character?"

Given how much time you've spent playing Genshin, you feel a bit embarrassed that you didn't immediately notice the lack of a player character in the bottom center of your screen.

But now is not the time for such feelings! You've got questions to answer.

You tried looking for them in the crowd but found no sign of them. You turned to the left but yielded the same results. You turned to the left aga-.

"HIYA [Y/N]!!!"

"JESUS!!"

The sudden shout jump scares you so badly that you instinctively lurch backward in your chair. The cord from your headphones was pulled off your head from how far you flung your head back. The cord was also responsible for shifting your computer awry.

You quickly leaned forward and brought a hand to the computer to prevent it from falling off your desk. In doing so, you also got a glimpse of what was shown on your computer screen.

Paimon had both her hands over her mouth, suggesting that she was the one who shouted in your face. Her eyes were dilated, looking frantically all around her. The Traveler was frozen in place behind her, their right arm stretched out towards Paimon.

"Uhhhh, [Y/N]?" Paimon quietly spoke up. "Are you okay?"

Given how clearly you heard Paimon from your headphones on the floor, you figured that part of the reason why you got so scared was because of how loud Paimon was.

Grabbing your headphones, you adjusted the volume before putting them back on.

"I'm alright," you assured her. "I just wasn't expecting that."

Your assurance worked as Paimon began smiling again. "Good! Paimon was worried that she accidentally scared you away again."

You softly chuckled. "Given how much I've been through already, it would take a lot more than that to scare me away."

Paimon happily nodded before flying back over to the Traveler. "Hey, [Y/N]," The Traveler greeted. "It's been a while hasn't it?"

"It has." you agree. "What's going on?"

The Traveler's smile grew. "Straight to the point, I see. In that case, I'll let you in on what Paimon and I have been looking into for the past couple of days."

You leaned back in your chair and propped your elbows on the armrests. You guessed that this was going to take a while to explain.

"Remember what I told you before we sent you back to your world?"

You thought back to that moment.

---------------------------------------------------------

"Do you mind doing a quick favor for me after we send you back to your world?" the Traveler asked.

You nodded. "Sure. What do you need me to do?"

"I need you to not come to Teyvat for a little while."

...

"...Huh?"

"I know it sounds weird but let me explain," the Traveler emphasized with a hand on their chest. "I'm planning on asking Albedo to see if he can strengthen the connection between our two worlds so that we don't have to communicate like this every time. Not only will it be easier, but I don't have to worry about anything going wrong with the summoning ritual."

You crossed your arms. "So why do I not need to log i-... excuse me, not come to Teyvat? That basically goes against the whole reason you summoned me here in the first place."

"I'm worried that any attempt to cross the gap will either damage or destroy the link we have so far. Additionally, Albedo works best when he's not distracted."

You shrugged your shoulders. "Fair enough. But when do you want me to come back?"

The Traveler switched to a thinking pose. "Give me a week at minimum. If nothing comes out of it, I'll summon you here again."

You nodded. "Okay, sounds good. Is that all?"

"That's all. Are you ready to head back now?"

You nodded again. Aether was quick to call Xiao's name and he arrived just a second later.

"Remember. One week from now." The Traveler reminded.

"I know, I know. I won't forget," you assured.

---------------------------------------------------------

"So you got it to work?"

The Traveler nodded. "I did. You should be able to see a noticeable difference from your previous visit."

"So that's what's happening..." you spoke in awe. "Everything looks so much more lively now! I'm even surprised that the computer I'm using can handle all of this."

"...Computer?" Paimon asked, confused.

"Sorry. It's the name of the device I use to get to Teyvat," you explained.

"Oh, THAT'S what its called!" Paimon exclaimed. "Interesting..."

You chuckled at her enthusiasm. "Yeah. I wish I could show you all how it works."

"Hopefully we'll be able to in the future," The Traveler butted in. "I'm happy with what we've accomplished so far, but I would be even happier if I could have you in Teyvat by my side constantly like Paimon."

You raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't Paimon literally disappear on the regular?"

"HEY! THAT'S NOT TRUE!"

... ... ...

"Oh wait..."

The Traveler laughed. "You know what I mean, [Y/N]."

"Hmph! You guys can make fun of Paimon all you want, but Paimon's been working on something as well!" She floated closer to you and pointed toward the top of your screen. "Go ahead and click on that button for Paimon, [Y/N]."

...

She was pointing at the wish button.

"You can see that?"

"Yep! Now Paimon's able to tell just what exactly you're doing at all times!"

Dear God, that sounds like a nightmare.

You clicked on the wish button. "You better not have done anyth-"

...

"WHAT HAPPENED TO MY PRIMOGEMS?????!!"

"Wait wait wait wait wait, don't panic!" Paimon frantically assured. "Having more is better, right?"

...

...

...

"...[Y/N]?"

"Shut it, Paimon. I'm checking my bank account for any suspicious purchases."

"Paimon did not steal any money from you! Paimon has no way of accessing them anyway!"

"Then why do I have..."

...

"DOES THAT SAY INFINITY????"

The Traveler could only rub the back of their head in embarrassment as their commotion attracted the attention of the majority of people passing by. After all, it wasn't all too common for a Seelie and a fairy to be shouting at each other.

"I don't get it..." you muttered. "There aren't any signs of fraud in my bank account."

"That's what Paimon has been trying to tell you!" Paimon argued. "You should be more grateful. Paimon went through a lot to get those."

You sighed. Truly, Paimon was as unpredictable as ever. "You're right. You're right. Sorry."

"Apology accepted!" Paimon smiled. "Now, using your infinite supply of primogems, make a few wishes on one of the banners."

...How does Paimon understand what all of this is?

Regardless, you went ahead and wished for a ten-pull on the Standard Banner. There wasn't anyone or anything you were really aiming to pull on the character and weapon banners.

The animation played out as usual, the star starting out as blue before slowly turning into gold.

"Oh sweet! Thanks Paimon!"

"Don't thank Paimon just yet! There's plenty more where that came from~!"

The first wish flashed on the screen. "Jean! Finally, I got her!"

The second wish flashed on the screen. "Aquila Favonia?! Two golds back to back?! This is a moment in history! Take a picture!"

The third wish flashed on the screen...

...

...Another gold? That can't be right.

You're not one to judge your luck, but getting three gold items in a row sounds like a load of bull shit to you.

You pressed the skip button to see what the rest of the pulls looked like.

...

They were all gold.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

"I know right!" Paimon giggled excitedly. "Just wait until Paimon shows you the other banners!"

...

Paimon is going to get you banned by Hoyoverse, fan-fucking-tastic.

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THE END

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Author's Notes: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, surprise?

I will be honest, I've had this idea in my head for a while. It honestly could be it's own one-shot if I wanted to, but I felt like it would fit better as an epilogue for my main series.

That being said, if you don’t like this ending or like the previous one better, then go ahead and treat that one as the de facto ending.

Thanks again for all who liked, reblogged, and/or commented on this little series. I appreciate each and every one of you!

More stories to come soon! ...Hopefully.