Final info ive put together after i have just looked over the insert notes (inside the other tape) sent to me by my friend:
This band had Steven Wells and Andrew Bain in it - they went on to be in a pretty popular NZ rock band called Fur Patrol from late 90s-2000s, so this is a precursor to that. in the notes they also thank Campbell Kneale, a prolific underground nz musician in bands like Birchville Cat Motel and Black Boned Angel. they also thank "Drinkwater".
alright everyone. after 33k+ notes on an obscure 90s indie song from Aotearoa i gotta admit many want to hear the rest, & as i cant think of a better format to supply this, here's the rest of the tape in this post. please let it stay here where it needs to be, don't spread it like its yours. its not mine either!
i now present to you:
Clayflower - Still (1993, Aotearoa, Cassette, Shoegaze/Indie Rock)
beautiful and cool obscure music like this is everywhere if you just wanna look for it even for a few minutes. dont let yourself think someone has to come along and show it to you <3
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CHAPTER 4: DESIRE
Summary: You are a noble from Goa Kingdom, yearning of freedom from the system. Outlook III, your father send you to Mary Geoise to participate on the marriage mart. His order are simple, to find a secure match as the way to get access for your family to become Celestial Dragon. You've never wanted this, but you caught the attention of certain red haired figure. What would you do about it?
Trope: Enemies to Lovers
Warning: All characters are legal, age gap, angst, dark romance, jealousy, mention of slavery, shitty celestial dragons behavior, shitty parents, NSFW, sex, suggestive contents, saint charlos, abuse of power, use of alcohol, cruelty, use of gun, use of illegal substance, sexual harassment, misogynist society, mention of prostitution, out of character, more tag will be added.
"What is it, Commander Figarland? Is your mind troubled because someone has stolen your flower?"
The wind drifted softly, carrying fine grains of sand that glittered like fragments of fire beneath the blazing sun. The Red Desert stretched endlessly, as though the world itself came to an end at the heat-shimmering horizon. There were no markers to guide one's path, no sound but the whisper of sand brushing against itself, like secret murmurs that could never truly be understood.
That merciless land had been turned into a training ground for the Holy Knights. The scorching sun that burned against their skin seemed insignificant compared to the grueling drills they endured. Even so, mirages held no sway over the knights, for their primary focus was not survival or the search for water but rather every strike hurled at them. Every movement of their sparring opponents, and everything else meant to sharpen their abilities.
The sweat pouring down, soaking both skin and clothing, was the least of their concerns. Strength had to be forged with consistency and precision, like steel heated and shaped into a weapon. Yet even in the middle of that desolate nowhere, beneath such crushing burdens, something was troubling someone.
Saint Figarland Shamrock could not drive you from his thoughts, no matter how deeply he buried himself in missions, training, and instructing others over the past few days. Even after every attempt to cast aside his buried desires, your existence only seeped deeper into him, creeping slowly yet surely until there was no room left for anything else.
No matter how hard he tried to deny it, the more he resisted, the more your image transformed into something beyond his control. A soft whisper lingering in the spaces between silence, an echo that remained long after all noise had faded. As though a siren were luring sailors into the boundless sea of desire.
A man whose discipline was as unyielding as steel, whose life was governed by honor and duty, should not have faltered over the mere shadow of a woman. Least of all someone who had not even tried to captivate him through ordinary means. Yet that was precisely what made you so dangerous in his eyes. You enthralled him effortlessly, even without trying, and that was something he could not comprehend.
Hearing the remark from one of his subordinates only deepened his frustration, for it reminded him how easily you could fall into someone else's hands. "Silence. You would do better to concern yourself with your own bride-to-be, Ward."
The red-haired man poured his strength into his grip, tightly clutching his sword as he blocked his sparring partner’s weapon. With a single stomp into the desert sand, his defense strengthened even further, sending Ward flying backward. The unfortunate man slipped upon a dune, tumbling helplessly until he was blanketed by the sand.
Meanwhile several knights lounged in the shade watching the spectacle unfold. A tall, ginger-haired man, one of Shamrock’s comrades, stroked his beard as he remarked, "Do not be too hard on him. Ward will not be pleased if he looks battered on his wedding day." Saint Shepherd Sommers reclined against his chair, one hand resting behind his head.
Sommers was not the only one sheltering beneath the canopy. Saint Rimoshifu Killingham was conjuring drinks with his power, able to turn dreams into reality. Even the shaded resting place itself was one of his creations. Nearby stood the female knight with striking heterochromatic eyes, the lower half of her face wrapped in bandages as her defining feature. Saint Manmayer Gunko stood there in silence, observing the training session.
The commander sheathed his sword and cast a glance toward his subordinate, who was now struggling to rise in the distance while brushing the sand from his sweat-soaked body. At the very least, he would not have to worry about his appearance on his wedding day, which was only two days away.
With steady strides, Shamrock approached the Holy Knights who were resting nearby, leaving behind nothing but the imprint of his soles and his sparring partner struggling to follow. Upon reaching the shade, he took the drink Killingham had just conjured to quench his thirst, prompting Sommers to protest that it had been meant for him. Figarland ignored him entirely.
Not long after, Ward joined them, dragging over the last remaining chair before collapsing into it. After that final strike, his body felt as though it might shatter. He found himself wondering when he would be granted the instant healing powers bestowed by the Supreme One, like the other knights. To prove himself worthy, a long road of struggle still lay ahead.
The whisper of shifting sand accompanied the knights’ casual conversation as they relaxed after training, discussing whatever came to mind. This time, Sommers steered the discussion elsewhere, unwilling to dwell on his nearly failed mission. "You are getting married in two days. Is it not a little late to choose a best man?" he asked, turning toward Ward at his side.
"I already have. Commander Figarland will be my best man," Ward declared, fully aware that the ginger-haired knight had been hinting to be chosen, though in truth he had not even made the list of groomsmen.
Hearing this made Sommers visibly irritated; complaints and barbed remarks spilled from his mouth as though someone had stolen what was rightfully his. "Why him? I did not think you and Shamrock were that close. I should have been the one worthy of that honor."
Shamrock casually interjected with unmistakable arrogance, "Because I am the best." It could not be denied that there was a certain satisfaction in knowing he had been chosen over anyone else.
"The best?" Sommers repeated after grumbling, his voice rising half an octave, laden with disbelief. "At what, exactly? Arrogance is hardly a qualification."
Ward chuckled softly, trying to ease the tension, though his eyes gleamed with amusement. "Now, now... this is meant to be a celebration, not a battlefield."
"To me, there is little difference between the two," Shamrock muttered without the slightest trace of guilt.
Groans echoed amidst the whispering sands. This barren expanse of crimson dunes had been deliberately chosen as a training ground, isolated from the city center without requiring descent from the Red Line. The endless desert stretching as far as the eye could see offered complete freedom to unleash the full extent of one’s power. Its merciless climate blazing hot beneath the daytime sun and plunging to freezing cold by night was a trial that offered no mercy, as though nature itself demanded endurance of both body and spirit.
It was in a place like this that one should have been able to forget everything, and Shamrock had nearly convinced himself that he could. Yet like a shadow unwilling to fade before dusk had truly fallen, you remained within his thoughts, refusing to leave. He let out a long breath, allowing the dry air to fill his lungs, as though hoping the sting might replace something far more unsettling.
He did not know how long he had been lost in thought, but by the time he noticed, the Abyss had already swallowed him and carried him back to the city center. Together with Killingham and Sommers, the red-haired man stepped out from its trace and continued onward, certain that Gunko had offered Ward a ride upon her bandaged bird. The cool air that greeted him was a stark contrast to the searing heat of the desert that had scorched his skin only moments before.
Shamrock glanced to his left. The Garden of Eden lay only a few steps away where the Celestial Dragons and other nobles gathered to socialize. He had to admit that it was indeed a fitting place for promenades; the word boredom had no place in any description of that garden.
Not long after the commander shifted his gaze forward, focusing on his purpose of returning to the Figarland residence. He tried not to dwell on the one fact he had just realized, yet failed.
You were there.
There was no need for Observation Haki, no need to catch the scent of your roses.
It was as though he recognized the color of your soul even without crossing paths.
Greenery lined the path, made up of many different kinds of plants. Some vines climbed gracefully along wrought-iron arches, forming natural corridors that felt deeply intimate. As though designed for secret conversations and glances never meant to be witnessed.
Amid the lush leaves, flowers bloomed in rich colors deep crimson, pristine white nearly sacred in its purity, and soft violet like the whisper of dusk itself. Their fragrances mingled in the air, never overpowering, yet enough to leave a delicate trace in the memory of anyone who had ever passed through.
And yet, there was nothing more captivating than your presence.
It felt as though this garden had been deliberately crafted as the earthly embodiment of the Garden of Eden described in holy scripture, fashioned as closely as possible to resemble a fragment of heaven fallen to earth. Artificial rivers and lakes were adorned with bridges for crossing and small boats for exploration, an undeniably breathtaking sight.
Outlook and Didit chaperoned you on your leisurely morning-approaching-noon stroll, walking several steps ahead to ensure everything remained dignified. You noticed the displeasure on their faces despite how carefully they tried to conceal it. And the reason was the gentleman at your side.
Donquixote Doflamingo.
Ever since your growing closeness with The King of Dresrossa at that evening dance, people had begun to notice you once more, as though your radiance had suddenly returned. How ironic that a man's opinion of you could so greatly determine your worth in society's eyes. A woman's identity was tethered to men rather than belonging to herself.
And so, you sought to survive within that system by playing the very game it demanded.
Your arms brushed against one another several times as you walked, yet neither of you paid it any mind. Your attention remained fixed on the light conversation filling this promenade. It was a natural part of a stroll too pleasant to be interrupted by excessive self-awareness.
In that relaxed and pleasant atmosphere, several newspaper boys ran throughout the garden, distributing and hawking the latest issue of St. N.I gossip papers, and naturally, nearly every noble and Celestial Dragon purchased a copy. One boy approached from behind you, and you reached for your handbag to retrieve a coin, but your movement was too slow because the pirate had already handed the boy a bill. You tried to protest, but he dismissed your refusal.
"What sort of man allows a lady to spend even a single coin? In fact, give copies to them as well." The blond man paid for your parents too, who had been observing the two of you with discreetly watchful eyes. The boy nodded and continued on with his work.
After your exchanged refusals, your thanks finally left your lips. Doflamingo answered with a grin laced with playful teasing. "If you are thanking me, then read it aloud for me."
Your fingers, gloved in short wrist-length gloves, held the newspaper folded neatly into thirds. The headline was printed in letters far larger than the article beneath it, as though demanding the attention of every gossip-hungry reader. You cleared your throat before beginning to read the very first line.
Dearest Gentle Reader
What is the true meaning of desire?
You deliberately lowered your voice, attempting to imitate the mysterious writer you always imagined whenever you read this gossip column. Word after word flowed from your lips, weaving together into carefully crafted paragraphs as you recited them while walking, all the while keeping careful watch over your steps.
The contents written upon that small sheet of paper spoke of the scandal surrounding a young lady in her second year upon the marriage mart, who had been caught alone with an armored knight of Pangaea Castle without a proper chaperone. Desire, it seemed had rushed too fiercely to be restrained, leaving her fragile reputation in tatters and forcing the two to marry with all haste.
Nor was that the only matter of note. The considerable debt owed by Saint Jalmack to one of the unnamed elders had become another point of concern. It seemed that nearly everyone knew which elder was being referenced—everyone except you. The desire to amass wealth had, as it often does given way to greed and plunged him into the abyss of financial ruin.
Yet there was one particular topic that captured your attention.
You fell silent for a moment, allowing for a dramatic pause that caused Donquixote Doflamingo to glance toward you to ensure that all was well. Then, at last, you continued.
This author cannot help but admire the remarkable time management possessed by certain distinguished individuals.
Despite his obligations of attending countless meetings as king and as a Warlord of the Sea...
And despite the busy duties of a Maid of Honor assisting in the wedding preparations of her dearest friend...
These two still somehow manage to find time to... meet one another. Entirely honorably, of course.
Indeed, as people often say, “when the heart truly desires something, any obstacle may be overcome.”
Who else could that gossip writer possibly have been referring to if not the two of you? The North Blue cultural exhibition, the theatrical opera telling a tale of a love triangle, even the respectable visit to your residence. The paper revived memories of the past few days you had spent together.
"I suppose privacy has become a luxury in this land," you remarked as you folded the paper in your hands once more.
Doflamingo merely let out a soft laugh, both hands clasped behind his back as he continued walking. "It is difficult to do anything beyond the reach of that gossip writer. He has eyes everywhere."
There was one particular choice of words that caught you by surprise, and you turned toward the pirate to make certain you had heard him correctly. "He? You speak of this writer as though the author is a man, when everyone else refers as 'they'?"
Silence lingered for a moment without response. Unable to resist your curiosity any longer, you pressed further. "Do you know something the rest of us do not?"
"Ah, I have said too much already." Doflamingo turned his gaze away from you, suddenly finding the hedges in the distance far more interesting.
Your eyes narrowed as you searched for the slightest detail within his expression, but it was difficult. The eyes were said to be the windows to the soul, and you could hardly discern what lay in his heart when you could not even see them. "So you admit that you know who this St. N.I. is."
"You are rather quick to draw conclusions." He offered a faint smile, one that neither truly denied nor confirmed your suspicion.
"Tell me. Who is he?" Your voice dropped lower, almost to a whisper so that no one else might overhear.
"I cannot." The king shook his head. The answer was simple, yet because of that, it felt all the heavier. It was not that he would not—it was that he could not.
"Doffy." The nickname slipped from your lips before you even realized it, and with playful reproach, you lightly smacked his arm with the gossip paper still clutched in your hand.
One of his brows arched slightly, followed by that distinct laugh of his. Not because it hurt, but because he was amused. "Some things are better left a mystery," he said softly, his voice lowered until it was almost like a secret meant for you alone.
At that, all you could do was let out a long sigh, conceding defeat in this battle of words.
The king deliberately steered the conversation away, burying the topic of St. N.I.’s identity beneath far safer subjects. The dull weather and your busy involvement in helping with Layla’s wedding preparations became the new focus instead. You knew when to stop pressing. Not because you had surrendered, but because you were wise enough to recognize when someone truly would give no more.
Speaking of Layla’s wedding, there was something you had wanted to discuss, more precisely something you wished to ask Doflamingo. You tried to gather your courage, something strangely unfamiliar to you. Usually, you spoke and questioned without hesitation, yet this time was different.
But just as you parted your lips to finally form the words, the king suddenly remarked, "Unfortunately, I must return to Dressrosa before noon tomorrow."
Your lips parted slightly in disbelief. You had not expected this meeting to end so soon. The carefully arranged words within your mind scattered instantly. A brief silence settled between you, long enough for you to realize that this meeting. Which somehow had begun to feel far too short was truly nearing its end.
After all, you had only just been about to ask whether he would accompany you as your plus one. With that you buried the thought deep within yourself, praying that no one would ever uncover it.
"I thought you would stay until the Reverie," you said, trying to keep your voice as steady as usual. After all, the gathering of the world’s kings would feel strangely incomplete without the King of Dressrosa in attendance.
Doflamingo explained his intentions. "I never planned to remain in Mary Geoise for long. There are many matters awaiting my attention there. Besides, the grand tournament at the Colosseum will soon begin."
Your shoulders fell, not in relaxation but beneath the weight of something far more complicated. The faint curve that had lingered at the corners of your lips and along your cheeks became noticeably more pronounced in its absence, a silent sign that your smile had faded. Though your gaze remained fixed ahead, your thoughts had already drifted elsewhere.
Without realizing it, the fingers of your right hand reached for your left wrist, seeking comfort in the steady pulse beneath your skin.
The man beside you noticed the slight falter in your expression. It lasted only a fraction of a second, nearly imperceptible to an untrained eye. But Doflamingo was not a man who overlooked even the smallest shift, especially when it came from you.
"Is that so?" you murmured softly, striving to keep your tone light, as though the news held no significance at all.
The sound of your footsteps changed as the path beneath you shifted from the firm paving stones embedded in the earth to the wooden planks of a modest bridge crossing the garden’s artificial river. The wood creaked softly beneath your feet, as though it too had sensed the invisible tension carried by the two figures walking across it.
The water of the artificial river flowed peacefully beneath you, a striking contrast to the silence that settled for several seconds after your conversation had once moved so easily. Gentle ripples drifted across the surface like whispers unwilling to be clearly heard, much like the unspoken feelings now suspended between the two of you.
Doflamingo tilted his head slightly, his pace slowing until he came to a complete stop, silently signaling for you to stop beside him. And you did. This time, the pirate-king stood directly before you as the two of you came to a halt in the very middle of the bridge.
"I will return for the Reverie, of course," he said casually, without the slightest trace of hesitation. And before you could respond, the blond man continued.
"And of course, for you."
The words sounded like a promise spoken with no intention of ever being broken—a vow wrapped in reassurance, meant to soothe any longing before it had the chance to consume you.
At his words, part of your unease was swept away, as though every problem had suddenly found its answer. You pressed your lips together, holding back the small smile threatening to appear. Not because you wished to play hard to get, but because you did not want Doflamingo to misread your expression—to mistake it as proof of feelings too soon formed when the two of you had only just begun to know one another. Better to let this stage of acquaintance linger a little longer before validating anything.
His hand reached for your left hand, lifting it until it was level with his face. You assumed he meant to press a gentlemanly kiss to your knuckles, as etiquette demanded.
But your assumption was wrong.
Without pause and without warning, your hand was lifted higher than it should have been, your wrist drawn closer to his lips in a deliberate kiss. Bare skin met warm lips, crossing a boundary that ought to have remained untouched at such an early stage of acquaintance. It stole your breath entirely, leaving you too afraid to inhale or exhale, as though doing so would shatter the moment at once.
Your body tensed without your realizing it, a natural reflex to something you had not anticipated. Your heart began to race, filling the silence that had suddenly grown heavier than before. You were certain the king could feel your pulse against his lips, beating in a new and unfamiliar rhythm—one caused entirely by him.
The kiss lingered far longer than propriety allowed. If anyone witnessed this, it would have become the principal subject of every gossip paper, a scandal enough to send tremors through the entire Red Line encircling the world.
You silently prayed that no one had seen, yet neither did you make any effort to pull away. You simply stood there, frozen, staring at him with eyes full of questions and quiet hope.
After what felt like an eternity compressed into a handful of seconds, Doflamingo released your hand and let it fall gracefully back to your side. Wearing his characteristic smirk, he murmured, "I never say goodbye. The phrase sounds far too much like surrendering to circumstance."
"This parting is only temporary. We will meet again. So... until next time, my lady."
While you were still trying to process everything, he left you with those parting words that lingered in a way all their own. You remained standing in the middle of the bridge, watching him depart, and how absurd it was that a man who was still little more than a stranger had managed to leave such chaos in your thoughts with only a few words and a gaze far too calm to ever forget.
And the bridge suddenly felt far quieter after his departure.
────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───
The Wedding Day
It was supposed to be the happiest moment in someone’s life.
But not this wedding.
The bride’s chamber felt suffocating, heavy with tears and sorrow despite the countless luxuries surrounding it. Soft sobs filled the room, accompanied by silent prayers that they would not be heard beyond the doors. All you could do was hold the bride close, offering whatever comfort you could, even if you did not fully understand the reason behind it. Your heart ached at the sight of your dearest friend in such a state, regardless of the cause.
Layla trembled in your embrace, her tears soaking the fabric over your shoulder, but that was the very last thing that mattered. Not the makeup beginning to smear and fade, but the state of her heart. The burdens she had hidden for so long—truths that should have been spoken before standing at the altar, yet for which she had never found the courage.
"How can I marry Lord Ward when my heart already belongs to another?"
The bride confessed through broken sobs. Far away in her homeland, there was someone she loved. Qays, a man whose name she had never dared to speak aloud, for it was as forbidden as the love story they shared. A noblewoman falling in love with a poet was, of course, unacceptable to many, including society itself and the young woman’s own parents. It was a painfully cruel truth that two hearts had been forced apart by the absence of blessing and approval.
She pulled herself from your embrace to continue speaking. Her sobs lingered in the air, as though unwilling to truly fall upon the cold marble floor. The wedding gown that should have symbolized happiness instead felt like chains wrapped around her every step. Her trembling fingers clutched the delicate fabric pooled in her lap, as though by doing so she could somehow keep her breaking heart from collapsing entirely.
After their forbidden love became known to the public, Layla’s father—a man of considerable power in their homeland—naturally did not remain idle. He tore the two lovers apart by banishing Qays and sending Layla far away to Mary Geoise to enter the marriage mart.
The distance was agonizing. It did not merely separate two bodies, but stole their breath, shattered their hopes, and transformed time itself into something cruel. There were no farewell words and no final meeting, and somehow, that was the most painful part of all.
"People call him ‘mad’ because his verses make no sense to them. But I am far more mad for having loved him." Layla confessed before collapsing into your embrace once more, and by instinct, you wrapped your arms around her as any true friend would.
You fell silent upon hearing such a tragic love story, unable to find words that could properly describe the sorrow of enduring something so cruel. All you could do was press your lips together into a thin line, too stunned and speechless to say anything at all. Only you, Layla, and her trusted lady’s maid remained within the bridal chamber. Everything spoken within those walls would become dangerously perilous if ever exposed. Especially the words you were about to say.
A cunning thought crossed your mind. "You do not want to get married, do you? I can help you leave this place."
You pulled away from the embrace so Layla could see the sincerity in your eyes. "Do not worry about money or resources. I can arrange everything. Just say the word if you wish to run away! I will escort you to the gondola so you can descend and board a ship at Red Port."
At the glimmer of hope you offered, you saw life return to her eyes for the first time in what felt like forever. Yet in the very next instant, that light dimmed again, extinguished by the cruel wind of reality that shattered fantasies and hope alike.
"I cannot..." The bitter truth had to be swallowed like medicine that could not even heal the pain it was meant to ease.
Running away on one’s wedding day was never that simple. Especially when both families possessed power and authority, the runaway bride would suffer the consequences most severely. "I may be destroyed if I marry now, but if I flee, they will destroy Qays along with me."
Two lovers sacrificing themselves for one another through separation. Not every love story was destined for a happy ending. Once again, you asked if she was truly certain about marrying Lord Ward, but Layla insisted that this was something she had to do. Not for wealth or reputation, but for the sake of love itself. You looked at her for a long moment, searching for even the slightest trace of hesitation or a small opening through which you might persuade her to change her mind, but there was only unwavering resolve in her eyes.
You had no right to force Layla to flee or to stay. All you could do was support the decision she had made. "Very well, then." With that, you gently wiped away her tears and fixed her makeup, doing your best to erase every trace of her crying before she walked toward the altar.
"Please promise me that you will not tell anyone about this," the bride pleaded as she adjusted the veil to conceal her grief-stricken face.
"I swear I will carry this secret with me to my grave," you answered firmly, without the slightest intention of ever breaking that promise.
After taking some time to compose herself, Layla was finally ready to face reality and proceed with the wedding. Because of that, you left the room to summon the other bridesmaids along with the bride’s father. Before departing, you instructed her lady’s maid not to leave Layla alone, as she was in the most fragile state imaginable. Only after receiving that assurance could you finally step away, if only for a moment.
Yet that fragile peace lasted barely a few minutes after you exited the room to carry out your task. The door had not even fully closed, leaving the lingering tension within exposed to the corridor. Then a voice suddenly cut through the air like unexpected thunder.
"I understand the bride requires time to get ready, but this is becoming excessive."
When you turned toward the source of the voice, you found Shamrock leaning casually against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. His military uniform was immaculate perfectly tailored, orderly, and nearly flawless. Gleaming insignias adorned his chest, each one seeming to tell a story of victory, authority, and perhaps the blood that had once been spilled to earn them.
The weapon hanging at his side was not merely an accessory, but a silent reminder that this man was always prepared for war, even amidst a celebration that was meant to be sacred. His posture stood poised equally for defense and offense, ready should anything go terribly wrong. ‘Is he attending a wedding or commanding an army?’ The thought crossed your mind the moment you saw him dressed like that.
"What are you doing here?" The question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You knew Shamrock was a colleague of the groom, but this area was meant to be reserved for the bride’s side.
Shamrock did not answer immediately. His lips curved faintly—not into a warm smile, but into something closer to a silent acknowledgment that he was enjoying the tension he had created. He pushed himself away from the wall with an easy motion, though every step he took felt deliberate and measured.
"Merely carrying out my duty as Best Man, ensuring that no one kidnaps the bride."
You nearly rolled your eyes at the mocking edge in his tone. "What era do you think this is? The medieval age?" you shot back dryly, one brow arching with thinly veiled sarcasm.
It did not bother him in the slightest. In the same neutral tone, he added, "I am also here to make sure the bride does not run away."
The words landed heavily between you, and your eyes widened in shock. Instinctively, you pushed the door shut a little harder than necessary. "Were you eavesdropping on our conversation?"
"Am I wrong?" he asked, more quietly this time, his voice lowering like a shadow creeping across the floor.
Your heart began to race faster than it should have. Not because the question was unexpected, but because he spoke as though he already knew the answer. As though this entire exchange was merely a game to him. And somehow, without realizing it, you had stepped directly onto the chessboard he had arranged.
The thing you feared most was this great secret being exposed, especially if it fell into the hands of Saint Figarland Shamrock. Unconsciously, you took a step backward as though trying to place distance between yourself and him. If the escape plan become reality, he would not have hesitated to inflict cruel punishment disguised as discipline and correction. And you could not begin to imagine enduring such a hell.
Shamrock tilted his head slightly, studying your face as though trying to read what you had left unsaid. Fear and vulnerability were written plainly there—things he would normally have savored as a small victory. Yet this time, the commander fell silent for a brief moment that somehow stretched endlessly. His gaze, once razor-sharp, shifted ever so slightly. It did not soften but it lost some of its cold edge.
After several seconds of that fleeting terror, you drew a steadying breath and forced yourself to face him. "It does not matter anymore. The bride has chosen to stay, and the wedding will proceed as planned."
"A wise choice," the commander replied in a neutral tone whose meaning you could not decipher.
At that, you gave a slight shake of your head, as though the fulfillment of expectation was merely an obligation in his eyes. "Of course you would never understand the meaning of love or sacrifice."
The words were not thrown at him as an accusation, nor were they meant as mockery. They were simply a conclusion you had drawn for yourself. And with that, you turned and walked away from the corridor, using your duties as Maid of Honor as an excuse, though another reason was your desperate attempt to avoid the red-haired man.
The corridor seemed to stretch longer the farther you moved from him. The soft whisper of your gown brushing against the marble floor became the only sound brave enough to disturb the oppressive silence. You did not look back, not even once, as though by refusing to acknowledge him you could deny his presence but that was impossible.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three seconds.
Four seconds.
And on the fifth, Shamrock stepped forward to follow you.
His pace adjusted to match yours, allowing the commander to walk just behind you. He abandoned his post of guarding the bride simply because something about you had drawn him away without invitation. A commander who should have been capable of controlling everything was now allowing instinct to overrule discipline.
"You always look down on me."
His voice broke the silence at last.
You did not slow your pace.
"And you never do the same?"
Those two sentences left both your lips and Shamrock’s at the same time, chasing and challenging one another. The sharp clicks of your high heels clashed against the heavy thud of his boots, as though they were competing to see which would crack the floor first. And it was not only the marble corridor that seemed on the verge of breaking, but also the tension that always coiled itself tightly around the two of you whenever your paths crossed.
“Have you ever once tried to act civil and tolerate my presence? I highly doubt it,” the commander snapped, finally giving voice to the irritation that had long gnawed at him.
He did not stop there, but continued his declaration. “The hatred in your eyes every time your gaze lands on me is impossible to miss.”
You did not turn back, not even for a fleeting glance. Yet in the silence of your thoughts, you found yourself wondering why he was following behind you like a hound trailing its master. With his strength, he could have easily overtaken your pace and cut you off from the front. Yet this time, Saint Figarland Shamrock did no such thing, as though by remaining behind you, he could somehow see through everything you kept hidden.
Your steps descended onto the spiraling staircase, one that seemed endless as it curved downward, draped in thick carpet that softened each footfall. His own steps followed close behind, measured and deliberate. Each movement seemed carefully aligned with yours, maintaining the same distance and rhythm without intruding. Yet it was precisely that restraint that made his presence all the more glaring.
You lifted the sides of your gown delicately with both hands as you descended, minimizing the risk of tripping over the sweeping fabric. The dress, a brilliant shade of blue reminiscent of a flowing river, was adorned with intricate lace that added an elegant detail to its design. Made especially for the bridesmaids, it was impossible not to be impressed by how the dressmaker had managed to craft something so exquisite in such a short time and not merely one gown, but several for the other.
Short gloves in a matching shade adorned your hands, accompanied by a silver bracelet resting delicately around your wrist. The short sleeves of your gown covered only half of your upper arms, paired with a modest neckline that subtly highlighted the simplicity of your necklace. As you descended the staircase, the pearl earrings hanging from each ear swayed gently in rhythm with the sound of your footsteps.
Saint Figarland Shamrock ascended the staircase with steady precision, as though he had long memorized the rhythm of every step he was meant to take. His long crimson hair swayed softly with each stride, until a few strands fell over his shoulders and drifted forward, concealing the insignia he usually wore with pride.
As though it symbolized something.
That this time, he was neither a knight nor a commander.
He was simply a man who yearn.
The relentless chase between you and Shamrock caused both of you to ignore the breathtaking architecture surrounding you. The building had been crafted from pure marble, carved with astonishingly intricate detail. Even along the staircase, there should have been works of art waiting to be admired at every inch. Yet neither of you paid them any mind, for both you and the commander had been utterly blinded by emotion.
"I do not need to tolerate you because you disturb my peace far too much," you retorted without hesitation. Yet the more you tried to reject his presence, the harder it became to ignore.
Step after step carried you downward. His pace remained steady and rhythmic, moving in harmony with yours without ever truly matching it. The distance between you stayed perfectly measured, as though an invisible line of discipline had been drawn between the two of you. It felt less like descending toward a wedding celebration and more like participating in a meticulously organized military parade.
The shoes you wore were no help at all, in fact they betrayed you precisely when you most needed to escape him. Before you had even reached halfway down the staircase, your feet already felt exhausted from balancing upon the heels. Your pace slowed ever so slightly, and it became clear that Shamrock would soon catch up to you. Perhaps afterward you would need to inspect your feet for swelling or bruises.
At last, you stopped, granting yourself a brief moment of rest before turning to face him. And just as expected, like a shadow you had already anticipated, he stopped only moments after you did. Your gazes met, each pair of eyes carrying entirely different emotions within them. Slowly, you released your grip on the sides of your gown.
"Now the real question is this—why do you always seem to disturb me wherever I go?" you asked, as though genuinely demanding a definitive answer.
"Always?" he repeated softly, almost like a murmur meant only for himself. The corner of his lips curved faintly upward, though this time there was no mockery in it. Instead, it resembled a reluctant confession. "I had no idea my presence lingered so deeply in your mind."
Without you realizing it, Shamrock stepped closer than he should have. Close enough for you to feel the faint warmth of his breath. Close enough that the difference in height between you no longer felt like distance, but rather a line on the verge of disappearing entirely.
"On the contrary, It is you who has unsettled my thoughts since the very first moment we met." The admission left the commander’s lips with a weight you had never expected from him.
His gaze remained locked onto yours, but something subtle had changed within it. The tension he usually concealed beneath his confidence had surfaced at last. Not entirely exposed, but enough to make his words feel far heavier than before. Enough to leave you stunned into silence in a way you had never anticipated. And he did not stop there.
The red-haired commander continued as though confessing a sin that should have been revealed long ago.
"There has not been a single second in which you have not invaded every cell of my being."
Every rebuttal that had once come so easily now seemed trapped in your throat. All you could do was stand there in bewilderment, trying to catch every subtle detail hidden within his expression.
His gaze no longer carried its usual piercing sharpness. Instead, there was the faintest trace of softness within it. Even the slight lift of his brows, the lines forming across his forehead, seemed almost like marks of fate themselves. Something a shaman might read as prophecy.
Saint Figarland Shamrock stood directly before you, and without realizing it, he took another step forward to erase what little distance remained between the two of you.
"Not when I rise with the dawn. Not when I attempt to sleep beneath the cover of the night sky." He paused only long enough to draw a breath. "Let the sun and moon bear witness, if proof is what you require."
He paused only long enough to draw a breath before continuing. "Your very existence has become an addiction I cannot resist, and I do not know how to overcome it."
You found his words so difficult to believe that for a fleeting moment, you genuinely considered summoning the deities who ruled over those celestial bodies themselves. To call upon them as witnesses on Saint Figarland Shamrock’s behalf before some grand court of heaven and earth. And if such a trial were held, who then would serve as its judge?
You closed your slightly parted lips, pressing them into a thin line and rendering yourself utterly speechless. Now your faces were closer than ever just as close as when you had shared your first dance, perhaps even closer. The staircase draped in blue carpet had become the stage for this dangerous proximity. Even a commander of the Holy Knights had been rendered helpless by it.
You stood frozen, not because you failed to understand.
But because every single word he had spoken carried a meaning so unmistakably clear.
"I never asked for any of this." The words left your lips almost instinctively after you had spent so long searching for the right response.
"Neither did I," Shamrock replied, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath.
His crimson eyes studied every expression that crossed your face. The difference in height between you forced you to tilt your head upward just to meet his gaze. Ruby—if those eyes could be compared to any gemstone, then ruby would have been the only fitting answer. They burned brightly with power and desire alike.
Shamrock remained where he stood, his breathing steady yet carrying the faintest irregular rhythm, as though something inside his chest had fallen out of place. His gaze wandered slowly across your features before lowering slightly to your lips. For heaven’s sake, why had you chosen to wear red lipstick at a moment like this? The color resembled rose petals waiting to be plucked.
With a quiet exhale, he spoke again. "I cannot even begin to describe how difficult it has been to tear my thoughts away from you."
"Through missions that bordered on impossible, through the endless reports piled across my study, even during training sessions..." Without confessing the forbidden visits he had made in his attempts to forget you, he nevertheless admitted how deeply your presence had marked him.
"And somehow, you were always there among all of it."
His voice lowered further, a tone you had never once heard from the commander of the Holy Knights before. Yet even then it still carried the same firmness and careful control that defined him.
If he did not care about your honor and reputation, he would have already surrendered to the instinct urging him to claim you as his own. It took every ounce of his restraint to preserve your dignity, even as your existence had already fully taken hold of him. The commander bit down on his lower lip, redirecting that overwhelming feeling into a flicker of pain.
Meanwhile, after everything, you still remained frozen in place. You made no attempt to step back from him. You did not even seek comfort in the familiarity of your own pulse—the habit you usually fell into whenever you were nervous. You simply stood there on the staircase, your breathing uneven, rising and falling out of control.
You knew you should say something to deny all of it, but what could you even say? You had no right to dictate someone else’s feelings toward you. You had never intended for your existence alone to haunt him the way it clearly did, it had simply happened.
And what Shamrock felt was not your fault… right?
"If you mistaken this for love, then you are wrong. It is nothing more than lust, an obsession with something fleeting and mortal." You responded, matching his earlier tone.
Before you, the commander slowly shook his head in quiet disagreement with your statement. To him, this was not merely obsession wrapped in blind jealousy as it may once have seemed. But love? That was a word far too heavy for this moment. Though even he could not fully understand what this feeling truly was, Shamrock knew one undeniable truth he could not ignore.
"You are mistaken. This is desire, dangerous to voice aloud, yet painful to keep buried." The words were not spoken loudly, yet their impact sank far deeper than you had expected.
The staircase remained silent between you. The argument was no longer simply about language, but about who among you was brave enough to assign meaning to what existed between you, and who still clung to denial. Shamrock continued trying to explain himself with details, only for each attempt to meet your resistance.
Desire
It was almost as though Shamrock had answered the question posed by St. N.I. in the previous edition of the gossip paper.
There was no need for some elaborate explanation to grasp the true meaning of yearning. It was simply the quiet understanding of a powerful desire—an intense longing for something just beyond reach.
A profound ache of longing, an overwhelming desire that could not be restrained, a yearning for something painfully difficult to attain. Every definition seemed to describe precisely what he had felt, both now and before. Such a simple word carried a meaning far too deep to be contained within a mere arrangement of letters.
"You may deny all of this as much as you wish, but it does not change the fact that you have rendered a commander of the God's Knights utterly powerless."
Saint Figarland Shamrock felt the burden and tightness that had weighed upon his chest for so long ease slightly after finally voicing it aloud. Yet in speaking those words, it was as though he had transferred that weight directly into your own heart. It felt deeply unfair that he was trying to make you feel what he had endured when you had never intended to haunt him in the first place.
He moved closer still, his hands clenched tightly at his sides to stop himself from reaching for your waist and pulling you into his embrace. His eyes fell shut, as though savoring the familiar fragrance that clung to you and marked your presence so distinctly.
"Even when you despise me."
After staring upward at the man standing before you for what felt like an eternity, your gaze finally lowered. Everything about this felt unfamiliar, strange and entirely new. Silence enveloped the staircase, broken only by the sound of your breathing and the pounding of your hearts, beating in strangely synchronized rhythm. This time it was not because you felt disturbed. It was because you did not know how to respond.
The red-haired man sank into the silence hanging between the two of you, cutting through the invisible barrier that had separated you. You tried to convince yourself that you hated him, so that you would not surrender to... whatever this was. But was that alone enough to ignore all of this? It would be difficult—just as difficult as Shamrock's efforts to force you out of his mind.
Stand by your principles.
Do not trust him.
You hate him.
He is a cruel, heartless man who can do whatever he pleases.
This must all be nothing more than one of his psychological games.
You should not entertain these complicated feelings.
Amid all that closeness and the monologue raging within your mind, someone called your name not merely the title or nickname people had given you, but your real name. The sound made you instinctively step back, putting distance between yourself and Shamrock before you even knew who had called out to you.
Anyone who happened to catch the two of you alone in the middle of the staircase like this, without a chaperone, would surely assume you had been sharing an intimate moment. The few seconds of proximity between you had done nothing to help the situation; if anything, they had only made it worse.
You let out a quiet breath, trying to steady yourself amidst the confusion. Not long after you lifted your gaze toward the source of the voice, only to find it was Liliana. She was dressed identically to you as she was of course one of the bridesmaids as well. How much had she seen? And just how deeply mistaken was she about whatever she believed existed between you and Saint Figarland Shamrock?
“Were you looking for us?” the brunnete interjected. You were so focused on this new distraction that you failed to notice the commander had also taken a step back, restoring a proper distance between the two of you though it was already a little too late.
“Yes, the bride is ready and has asked for all of us to gather in her room.” You had almost forgotten your duty and purpose here, and it was all because of HIM. “Where is Anneliese?”
“She’s already with Layla. I’m here to fetch you.”
At that confirmation, you nodded at your friend and offered her a faint smile that did not quite reach your eyes, merely to reassure her. Of course, such an attempt would never succeed, considering just how observant she was. You quickly told her that you would follow shortly, unwilling to delay the sacred wedding ceremony any further.
Before moving to join your friend, you allowed your gaze to settle briefly on the red-haired man beside you. He was still standing there calmly, though you had no idea that something deep within him was in turmoil and that you were the cause of it all. Without a farewell without a single word, you simply walked away leaving him behind with a strange, tangled storm of emotions he himself could not understand.
The commander neither reacted nor showed any expression as you made your way up the staircase, trying to leave him behind. Yet even amidst all that tension, your arms still brushed against each other once more albeit by accident. His gaze remained fixed ahead, as if trying not to appear desperate, but the eyes and the body can never truly lie no matter how hard one tries.
His fingers encased in dark leather gloves moved beyond his control as though he were trying to stop you from leaving and make you stay with him instead. Yet his sanity and honor remained stronger than the impulsive urges that relentlessly echoed in his mind whenever you were near.
Shamrock had to admit that after finally voicing everything he had long thought and felt, the tightness in his chest had eased if only slightly. It had not disappeared completely, especially not when he overheard your conversation with your friend.
“The diamond of this season has created quite the scandal, with the most sought-after man in all of Mary Geoise.”
“There is nothing between us.”
Those final words that left your lips became a cruel reminder. A lie you deliberately repeated over and over, as though by doing so, your heart might eventually be convinced enough to believe it. But was it truly the case that there was nothing between the two of you? Even one-sided hatred was still something, let alone the whirlwind of emotions that Shamrock himself had never even realized were real until now.
The commander did not look up to watch you leave, for doing so would only remind him of how easily you could slip from his grasp. And yet, he refused to surrender so readily to the emotions you had stirred within him—not without putting up a worthy fight. It was as though this were some sort of competition, and if he gave in, he would lose. Saint Figarland Shamrock had never tasted defeat, nor did he ever intend to experience even the slightest ounce of it.
Now, there was only Shamrock, standing alone upon the staircase, swallowed by the silence.
The wedding ceremony felt unnervingly swift, almost rushed. It seemed as though only moments ago you had been standing behind the bride, holding a bouquet of peonies, and now the officiant had already pronounced them husband and wife. The wedding vows had sounded hollow, more like a political arrangement than a sacred union. Only a select few knew the painful truth hidden beneath it all.
Several times, your eyes caught the Best Man across the room staring at you with unnerving intensity, as though he were reading straight into the depths of your soul. You found yourself holding his gaze, silently challenging who would be the first to break it? him, or you?
Dear Readers,
Sometimes, one must find themselves confronted with situations that are... utterly unexpected.
And desire is often the mastermind behind every chaos that was never meant to unfold.
Is this author the only one that has noticed the striking stiffness between the Best Man and the Maid of Honor at this season’s very first wedding?
The question now is no longer whether there is something between the two of them.
Rather, it is how much longer they can continue pretending that there is nothing stirring beneath those denial-laden glances.
For, dear readers, history has proven time and time again that desire suppressed for too long will always find a far more dramatic way to reveal itself.
And one more rather absurd question.
Without knowing the context, which would you choose: the bridge or the staircase?
Yours faithfully,
St. N. I.
Note: Saint Figarland Shamrock is finaly here AAAA 😍 the man, the myth, the legend himself (i'm fall for world government propaganda) anyway i saw 'walk them like a dog' edits of bridgerton men so i was like 'oh this is so Shamrock, especially he's the owner of cerberus' that's why i made him to have some hound move 👀. Btw i took some element of very old story of 'Layla Majnun' here, it's literary Romeo and Juliet of the East that i grew up with. I once played as Layla back in theatrical extracurricular on middle school, i've never forget those experiences 🖤
Me after realising ace of diamond is in its last season and it's not getting a sequel
It makes me feel so empty and sad like SO SAD
I'm happy that I discovered it though, I'm happy that I could enjoy it so much, I'm happy that I discovered something so beautiful.
When I read the line sawamura story comes to an end, it made me feel so empty, like this all happened in the past and it just feels similar to like him just being gone, like EWWWWWW
I love ace of diamond, like how dare they make something so good and heartfelt, I don't want to say that Ill feel empty after finishing it, I'm going to feel so satisfied and proud and overwhelmed with longing.
I don't think I'm going to watch the rest of it, but perhaps I will, but for sure I'm going to read it.
I would be such a whore if I got placed into a sports anime, im taking all the setters, all the captains, all the pitchers, all the catchers and the whole rainbow too.
germansingergirl
blakekathryn
pixelskylines
prguitarman
titsay
