clara's corner

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ she/her ✎ tot/genshin/ ✎ 20 | nsfw ✎ minors dni ⋆｡⋆💌˚｡⋆｡˚☽ UNDER CONSTRUCTION!!!!!!

[thelonelyarchon]

welcome to clara's corner!

about me ━━━━━━━━━━━━

/ᐢ⑅ᐢ\ ♡ ₊˚ ⠀ ꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ ♡‧₊˚ ♡ ⠀ ./づ~ :¨·.·¨: ₊˚ ⠀⠀⠀ `·..·‘ ₊˚ ♡ ⠀⠀⠀⠀classical singer | writer | music ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀enthusiast | a princess! ˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚

name: clara

nationality: filipino

age: 19

fandom: genshin impact, tears of themis, violet evergarden, honkai star rail, lovebrush chronicles

blog: contains NSFW works

masterlist ━━━━━━━━━━━━

📮 genshin impact ୧ ‧₊˚ 𓐐⋅🥡₊ ⊹

— zhongli imagine | zhongli x reader angst

— return to sender | alhaitham x !fem readers (on hold!)

📮 tears of themis ୧ ‧₊˚ 𓐐⋅🍓₊ ⊹

— picture perfect (guy) | artem wing x !fem reader smau (on hold!)

— severed fates | artem wing x fem! reader (one shot) ~on hold?

📮honkai star rail ୧ ‧₊˚ 𓐐⋅⭐️₊ ⊹

— n/a

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

@thelonelyarchon 2025 | don't copy, plagiarize, or repost my works on other platforms. thank you!

[thelonelyarchon]

hello! I just read the whole haitham series and god. I'm pissed 😭 but then again relateable I've been love hating him as well and I'm proud to say I'll be waiting for him to get wreck in the future chapters, cz what the hell is he doing 😭😭😭 But other than that, may I be added to the taglist? Thank you and have a great day! <3

hi i just saw this and its been exactly a year since you sent this 🤣😭

thank you so much for the support!

i'm sorry for a year without updates! currently re-writing the whole thing. when i do update and start posting again, i'll be sure to add you!

[thelonelyarchon]

📮 RETURN TO SENDER ᯓᡣ𐭩⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪

— PAIR: !model alhaitham x !fem youtuber reader

— SYNOPSIS: you are a budding lifestyle vlogger and youtuber specializing in writing love letters. not only that, but you're also alhaitham's secret admirer! you like him but he doesn't know you. so what if one day, your friend found your love letter addresed to him and mailed it?

"though i appreciate your enthusiasm and 'profound love for me,' i regret to inform you that i cannot return those feelings," your breath hitched. "enclosed with this reply is your letter. it may be best for me to return it to you. good day."

oh no... not what you expected, eh? what now?

CONTENT WARNING/NOTES: fem reader, self-insert, reader has pre-determined storyline/background, female anatomy description, yandere-ish alhaitham, OOC characters (obv), asshole alhaitham, angst, profanities and cussing, sexual innuendos . . .

masterlist | series playlist

📮 POSTAL OFFICE ᯓᡣ𐭩

[name]'s mains official | private

alhaitham's mains official | private

💌 LETTERS SENT ᯓᡣ𐭩

📥 DROP OFF . . .

001 - letter mailed, lives ruined

002 - what letter? kaveh, what letter!?

003 - guilt & ruin

004 - rejected

005 - so... moving on

006 - first love pt. 1

007 - first love pt. 2

008 - first love pt. 3

009 - a ragnvindr

010 - relapse

011 - love vs obsession

012 - prescon

013 - three months

014 - his love letter

015

016

017

018

019

020

🛫 IN TRANSPO . . .

021

022

023

024

025

026

027

028

029

030

031

032

033

034

035

036

037

038

039

040

📦 DELIVERY . . .

041

042

043

044

045

046

047

048

049

050

📬 RECEIVED . . .

051

052

053

054

055

056

057

058

059

060

NOTE:

- contains grammatical error

- contains plot holes

- second attempt in (finishing) writing a socmed au

- may have sexual innuendos

- there's cussing and a lot of offensive name calling (usually from tighnari but its used in a humorous/lovingly way???)

- trigger warnings will be placed on each post (if necessary)

- taglist: OPEN

@thelonelyarchon | do not reproduce or repost my works all rights reserved 2024

[thelonelyarchon]

hi everyone! so i disappeared for a year now and i've stopped writing this au the moment i stepped foot in nursing school.

fast forward to end of 2025, hi! i'm a 2nd year nursing student now and i'm about to be officially capped as a "student nurse" 💐💞

when i left this au on hold, i always knew i'd go back to writing it but i knew that it was an indefinite date.

since i've lost most of my files about this au (photos, drafts, backup files, outlines, and more) i'm at a loss right now. but that doesn't mean i want to give up.

this is just a small update but i want to share my plans as of the moment:

-----------------------------------------------------

1. RETURN TO SENDER will comeback. Maybe around middle or late 2026.

2. Return To Sender Reboot will NOT be the same as its predecessor au. Instead, it will take the key informations, relationships, characters, and some major plot points and integrate them to the newer, hopefully better, RTS rewrite.

3. I will not delete the old au when I do publish RTS reboot. I'll keep it up for old time's sake (and because I loved that Au so much. Like I was putting out updates almost everyday for a month or so during that era.)

4. When I publish the first "chapter/masterlist" for RTS, then it would mean I already FINISHED IT FROM START TO END. I would already have all the chapters laid out, scheduled for automatic posting.

5. MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION OF ALL:

Will you still read Return To Sender if it comes back one day?

Yes

No

Voting ended onDec 22, 2025

[meowdei]

aphelion and perihelion — ft. alhaitham

synopsis: you are the daughter of the man alhaitham brought down, bound to him by the soul mark that feels more like a curse than fate. somehow, one letter at a time, he finds his way into your heart—until you can no longer pretend you don’t ache for the man who ruined your life and saved you all at the same time

word count. ❤︎ 14.4k words—give it a chance. PLEASE I BEG give it a chance and i will venmo u a penny

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; soulmates au ; somewhat enemies to lovers (it’s a bit one sided) ; reader is azar’s daughter ; reader is a rtawahist scholar and wields an electro vision ; reader is going through it guys. cut her some major slack okay ; YEARNER alhaitham ; soulmarks as the soulmates trope ; sumeru plot is heavily referenced and i hope it’s all accurate it’s been 3 years ; male masturbation ; vaginal fingering ; protected sex (use condoms!) ; praise kink ; getting together ; implied moving in together in the end ; this is not proof read. i am tired and hungry

commentary. ❤︎ read the extended author’s note here

The Akademiya admissions form includes the following overview for Rtawahist:

Rtawahist is one of the Six Darshans of the Akademiya that students may select to study, specializing in illuminationism and the pursuit of truth through the study of the stars. Its scope includes, first, astronomy—the mathematical observation and mapping of celestial bodies—and second, astrology—the interpretation of their patterns as signs of destiny. Students who pursue this Darshan will train in celestial observation, star-mapping, and the interpretation of cosmic patterns, combining scientific precision with philosophical inquiry.

When you fill out your application years ago, you check the box for Rtawahist without even reading the overview. You have no need to do that. You do not bother with listing a second choice, either. You also have no need to do that. Your father will see the application through—that much you already know. Privileged, perhaps, but not unearned. You have every intention of earning your keep.

When the acceptance papers arrive, Rtawahist is stamped as your chosen Darshan. You are not surprised. You are not ungrateful, either. The stars, you think, may have been your first love—you do not take your devotion to them any more lightly now than you did when you studied them.

You have never anticipated that the same stars you devote yourself to could be so cruel, forcing you to watch the man who replaced your father as Grand Sage also be the one who orchestrated his downfall.

You cannot bear the injustice of it.

Your father—who now sits in a cell while the city mocks his name—has been replaced by the very man who put him there. The same man they call a hero. The same man who stripped him of his title, his dignity, and every scrap of respect earned through decades of work and brilliance.

You catch this despicable man just as he leaves his—no, your father’s—office.

“Excuse me,” you hiss, “are you the one they call Alhaitham?”

He pauses, glancing over his shoulder at you. His expression is unreadable, almost bored—like you’re an interruption that he endures. The veins in your head threaten to burst from the sheer insult of it.

“I’m on my break now,” he says flatly, “if you wish to submit an appeal to any funding proposals, please submit an application according to the prescribed format—”

“That’s not why I’m here,” you interrupt, hissing once more.

His eyes glance over your figure up and down briefly—your blood boils even more for it—and then there is an almost imperceptible shift in his gaze. Curiosity, maybe, or perhaps recognition. Good, you think, he should recognize you—and he should regret it soon enough. 

“Then I can’t imagine what business you have with me.”

Your eyes narrow. “It’s about my father.”

“Ah.” His arms cross loosely over his chest, as if the puzzle has solved itself. “Then you’ve come for closure. If that’s what you want, I’m not sure I am the one to turn to.”

You grit your teeth. “Do not talk as though he’s dead. I don’t need closure for a man who still lives.”

“I never implied he wasn’t alive. He’s imprisoned,” Alhaitham replies evenly. “By his own actions. I didn’t decide his actions for him—I only carried out what had to be done when his ambitions threatened the nation.”

“What do you know of his actions?” you snap. “You think yourself to know every detail simply because you were the scribe? Handling a few mere documents doesn’t give you the knowledge and upper hand you think it does—you’re still nothing but a scribe with a salary that is hardly applaudable. What, you think you understand him because you saw a single moment from the outside?”

“I understand him because I saw everything I had to,” he replies blandly. “I don’t have to be more than a scribe with a generous income to know I watched him imprison a god. I also didn’t need a report to see him falsify divinity and use that for his own gains.”

“That’s not true,” your voice shakes, “you have no idea what you’re saying. You’re believing the convenient cover-up story that—”

“It’s the truth,” he interrupts. “You just don’t want it to be.”

Your hands ball into fists as your breath trembles. His composure infuriates you—it makes your grief feel small, your faith in your father feel foolish. It makes you feel inferior to a man who has held a title of authority for less than two days. Your father was a foolish piece in the Fatui’s schemes—this you are certain. There is no other truth you will believe. You cannot stand for the injustice of their plans falling on his shoulders and stripping him of his freedom. Stripping you of his presence. 

“He devoted his life to this Akademiya. To Sumeru. To the Archon, weak as he may have felt she was. And you—you sit in his chair and call yourself righteous for tearing him down and stealing his position.”

Alhaitham exhales quietly through his nose, a trace of weariness threading through his voice. “I stole nothing. I sit in that chair simply because someone has to—and the Archon herself has asked it of me. This is a temporary position. I have no interest in leading the Akademiya long-term. If you wish to read the reports detailing your father’s crimes, I suggest finding the General Mahamatra. I’ll have it arranged so you’re granted permission to see the documents, if it’ll ease your mind.” He shifts slightly, a finality to the motion. “Now, if you would please allow me to continue with my rather limited break—”

You don’t bother hearing the rest. His earlier words already have landed like cold water against your face. How dare he? How dare he speak to you as though you’re a fool—a child, a little girl who is naive enough to believe whatever reports were written by the same insidious people who used your father as a scapegoat for their own gains?

You watch as he turns from you and begins to walk away. To dismiss you once more. To ignore your existence and the weight you are left to carry because of his selfishness.

“Don’t you dare,” you whisper. The words shake from nothing else but fury. And before logic can tell you otherwise, before it can stop you, your hand shoots out. “Don’t you dare turn from me before I am finished, you scoundrel!”

You catch his wrist. And then you regret it. (Perhaps ignorance, as they say, is the ultimate form of bliss. Perhaps if you had never touched him, had allowed yourself to be ignorant of this discovery, you’d have been able to live some semblance of a happy life.)

It happens in a sudden—there is a searing heat surging beneath your palm, sharp and alive, as though something ancient and dormant has been waiting just beneath your skin for this exact moment. A soft, glowing light emits where your fingers meet his skin, and what looks like a thin, golden thread burns into both your wrists before settling into a mark.

You both freeze.

Alhaitham’s eyes flicker down to the mark forming on his wrist, then to yours. The same shape—a sharp V, and from its bottom, points three thin lines branching outward. You recognize the shape almost instantly—a constellation. Aquila. (How cruel fate is, mocking you with a soulmark that mirrors your favorite constellation and ties you to a man you loathe.)

You stumble back a step, your breath catching in your throat. The glow lingers on your skin for a moment longer, pulsing faintly before it fades—leaving behind the familiar, unmistakable shape burned into your wrist.

No. No, no, no—it can’t be. It can’t. You refuse to believe it. You won’t. 

Your stomach twists, your skin burns, your eyes sting, and the air collapses in your lungs. You drag your hand away from him quickly—as if scalded by his touch—staring at the mark like it’s something foreign, something monstrous, something hideous.

Alhaitham’s expression doesn’t change—still composed, still maddeningly calm. You hate him for it. For being so unfeeling about something that has all but changed the direction that your world spins and the axis that it is tilted on. He opens his mouth to speak, but you’re already shaking your head.

“No.” The word cracks on your dry tongue. “No, this isn’t possible…it can’t be—”

“It would appear,” he says quietly, “that it can.”

The way he says it makes bile rise in your throat. He sounds like he might be identifying a constellation, not dismantling your entire world. Like he’s merely stating an objective fact that he has read in a textbook rather than admitting to changing your whole life. Again. 

You clutch your wrist to your chest, covering any evidence of the mark as if hiding it might undo it entirely. “You…this—” You can’t even form the accusation properly. The words tumble along your tongue, frantic and hurried as you try to string together something coherent. “Undo this! Undo what you did!” you shriek, the words panicked.

Alhaitham freezes, just a fraction, his hand brushing his own wrist where the mark glows faintly. His eyes flicker between your face and the mark, calm on the surface but calculating beneath.

“That would be impossible. I didn’t do this,” he blinks, “nor could I. This…is not in my control. Or yours. And please, lower your voice—people will get the wrong idea if you scream in the halls—”

You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes. “This can’t be real! It can’t—”

“It is,” he says firmly. Louder this time. You blink through your tears and look at him—really look at him, and only now do you notice his pallor. Only now do you notice he subtle tension in his jaw, the faint dig of his nails into his own skin. “This is very real, and it isn’t exactly something either of us can simply ignore. Therefore, it would be wise of you to accept—”

“No!” you shake your head, your voice giving away your horror as it worsens by the second, “No! You can’t be serious. You can’t expect me to accept that the stars would decide this fate for me. They…they would never trap me with…with you! A man so awful, so wicked, so utterly merciless. How could they curse me like this? How could they choose someone as vile as you to be my fate? How could I deserve something as cruel as this?”

“I—”

You turn before you can hear any more words from him. You turn and you run—you run past the halls of the Akademiya, past the streets of Sumeru City, past every vendor and market you know, and you run into the quiet, empty home your father raised you in. The one that is devoid of him now—and maybe always will be. You run from him, from that man and from the mark he taunts you with, from every fragment of happiness he tore away from you and has crushed in his fist.

────────────────────────

They say not even the Archons can come in the way of a soulmate’s bond. It is written and sealed by Celestia themselves—or so the whispers tend to go. You often wonder if that’s just the Akademiya’s way of giving reason to what they don’t understand: linking this inexplicable bond to a power such as Celestia that they find equally impossible to grasp, yet impossible to deny.

If you were not so devastated, you might think it’s funny that you and Alhaitham happen to be a pair. Your visions certainly make for a good dynamic—Dendro and Electro. A formidable combination, as everyone likes to say. The two heighten each other, a sharper and more concentrated source of energy when together than apart. The Akademiya’s been taking advantage of that for years, pairing Dendro and Electro users in Matra units whenever possible.

There was even research once—old Akademiya studies claiming that soulmates who were both vision wielders always shared elements with strong synergy. Hydro and Pyro, perhaps. Cryo and Pyro, maybe. Dendro and Electro—everyone’s favorite in the Dendro Archon’s nation. The reactionary benefits were a popular topic across Sumeru, and being the nation of Dendro, plenty of Dendro scholars happily threw themselves into studying the synergy with Electro.

It spread far enough that even Liyue got involved. A researcher there proposed something new: that some soulmate pairs didn’t have opposing elements at all, but the same one. Their powers, they said, heightened differently—something that is less of a reaction, something that is more of a saturation. A phenomenon they called Elemental Resonance. That theory didn’t last long. The skeptics tore it apart, insisting two vision wielders didn’t need to be soulmates to fight well together. The sages pulled their funding soon after, and the whole thing was left to fade into obscurity.

You have never particularly believed any of it. You doubt the Archons and the gift of their power to you has much to do with your supposed bond to Alhaitham, either. Still, a small part of you almost wonders if those who are divine have a strange sense of humor—what chances that Celestia has decided Alhaitham is your fate, and the Archons have decided that your vision is his match. 

Perhaps if your soulmate were anyone else, you might have believed in the divine. You might have even trusted their judgment. You almost wonder if they have made a mistake until you stare at the lines that mark your wrist—and then you know that, however much you want to deny that the divine have power, you cannot. 

Aquila. Your mark is the shape of Aquila’s constellation. It is proof enough that Alhaitham is your soulmate just as much as your vision is Electro. There is no denying this truth. You would recognize the constellation in your sleep—a scholar of your caliber from Rtawahist’s darshan would never mistake such a commonly known collection of stars. You have studied the stars for so long. Day after week after month after year, you’ve stared into the sky and wondered if each constellation will guide you to the truth. Your father has always said it would.

You remember it vividly—the first time he’d taught you about the stars and their meanings. Azar was always a doting father. You can still feel the warmth of his arms as he’d sat you on his lap as a child, pointing to the sky and guiding your eager eyes.

That one is Aquila, he’d whispered. But in the Rtawahist, we call it Vultur Volans. It reflects an older astronomical lexicon predating the modernized Aquila, you see.

Well. That one is my favorite, you’d whispered back excitedly. And he’d chuckled—you still shiver when you remember the way it felt. Warm. Safe. Good.

Your father was always good. 

And yet, he is sitting in a jail cell with zero contact from the outside world. Even contact from his own daughter requires utmost effort on your part. Official regulatory protocols dictate that you must submit a formal request to the Grand Sage to visit any current prisoners before their trials. Your only options are to follow them—but you don’t expect it to be a yes.

As Acting Grand Sage, Alhaitham alone has the authority to approve or deny any visitation for Azar. No one apart from you will visit Azar—you are the only one who loves him. You know that. You think you may be the only one who even likes him. The thought makes you a little sick. 

When you submit your request, you are certain that he will deny you the right to see your father. You think, deep down, you may have just made the submission more to spite him than to visit Azar. But then the reply comes—short, stamped, and neatly folded in an envelope—and his handwriting legibly scrawls: APPROVED.

You can’t decide if you’re relieved by the opportunity or enraged that you were granted his mercy. 

But you waste little time. When you arrive, the matra who escort you say nothing. They don’t have to. Sharp eyes and distrustfully downturned lips are something you are growing used to, something you are accepting as yet another piece of your truth. People are not exactly unkind—regardless of where you and Alhaitham stand, he is a hero to the nation, and knowledge of your connection is not uncommon by now. People know better than to mistreat the previous Grand Sage’s daughter for his sins. They know to repay the current Grand Sage’s generosity by extending to you their mercy. 

You hate it. All Alhaitham ever seems to offer you is some twisted sense of mercy. Like he is above you. Like his is the one to pass judgment on you while you are helpless to hope it is benevolence. He feels less like your soulmate and more like your superior. 

You finally arrive—the door groans open. Metal drags across stone.

And there he is.

Your father is in a jail cell. He is a prisoner. A criminal. A sinner above all. Divinity will not spare him just because he is your father. They see him as nothing more than a blasphemer. Still, you can never see him as anything but your father. Not as the Grand Sage, not as the figure the city whispers about in disbelief and fury, and certainly not as the man whose name has already been stitched into Sumeru’s history as a traitor. Here, in the dim light, he is simply your father.

Azar sits on the narrow bench, hands resting loosely in front of him, posture still and tall. He hasn’t wasted away, you’re relieved to see—of course, it has only been a week, but you cannot help but worry that food and water are not something they spare kindly to a traitor of the Gods. Still, despite being well sustained, something in him looks smaller. His pride, maybe. His dignity. He has always held it tightly, even when you were a child.

You enter, and then his gaze lifts. The hardness drops away at once. His eyes soften—warm and steady and so in love with all of the little fibers of your existence standing in his line of sight. It’s the way his eyes always look when they fall on you. Suddenly, you are a child again. Suddenly, you ache to hold his cuffed hands and look up at the sky once more and hear him speak about the constellations.

But the sky is hidden by stone in his awful prison, and you fear he may never see it ever again. The thought makes your throat constrict, and suddenly every word on your tongue becomes heavy. Like lead. You wonder if you swallow them down, if lead poisoning will consume your bloodstream and kill you. You wonder if you speak them, the bluntness of their force will kill you on impact, too. 

Damned if you do. Damned if you don’t. That’s how it feels—so you stay silent. 

“Do you eat properly?” He speaks first. “You have always made a habit of skipping meals when you are upset. Who will make sure you drink water now that I am no longer there to notice you are not drinking enough?”

Of course, he breaks the silence first. And of course, it’s to express concern for you, not give you answers. The tears slip down your cheeks like a river washes over stone—unstopping and unthinking. Like a command from the sky, the current does not stop. It does not halt for the world, nor does it slow down for it to catch up. Your tears do not wait for you. They do not slow down in time for you to even decide if they will make an appearance.

Azar is a stain on the cloth that is this nation’s history. You know that.

But Azar is your father. You are his little girl. The blood in his veins is the same retched blood that pumps your heart. You live to a beat of life that was once cradled in his palms. When your legs were not strong enough, his arms carried you through this world, and even when you could stand on your own two feet, those same arms carried away the obstacles from your path and discarded them. No matter the weight, your father bore whatever burden the sky commanded.

How can you abandon a man like that? How can you look away from the face that is a reflection of yours? How can you condemn the eyes that learned the stars for you, so you would never know the struggle of learning every constellation alone?

Your fingers ache to scrub at the stain, to scour it from the fabric, to wash the ugly color out of existence. But your mind knows the truth: no soap, no water, no hand is strong enough to ever clean blood once it’s set.

“You’re asking me if I eat?” You hiss, the words catching on your breath. “They’re saying things, out there. They’re saying you imprisoned our Archon! That you forced the people into dreams and…harvested their energy. That you…that you almost ruined this nation and doomed us all!”

Azar does not move. When you were young, your father was always patient with you. He’d sat through every tantrum, still and calm until the energy it took to misbehave slowly seeped out of you. Only when you grew tired—and only then—would he pick you up and sit you on his lap. His voice would never rise. His hands were never harsh. His eyes were never cold. 

Such energy that young body of yours always has. I almost envy it. Will you listen now, my dear?

Yes, father. 

He does not move. He sits through every bitter word you throw at him, still and calm now, just as he was all those years ago.

“They’re wrong,” you continue, desperate now, your voice cracking in between pleading syllables. “They have to be wrong. You would never—you couldn’t do that.”

“I could,” he says simply, his voice quiet but firm. “And I did.”

The words feel like a slap to your face. 

Your father would never hit you, but it feels like he has struck you with his own hand. Your heart stills, your stomach churns, and for one dizzying moment, you almost laugh. It’s nothing more than a twisted and cruel joke. Your father’s sense of humor has always been a little odd—but he is your father. The man who carried you on his shoulders to see Sumeru’s festival lights, who bought you your first paper book and the colorful sticky notes to annotate within it, who brought home pounds of zaytun peaches because you had briely commented you liked them once, who pointed out constellations and told you their stories so you’d forget the nightmares that frightened the sleep away from your eyes some nights.

“You’re lying to me,” you whisper. Your fingers clutch at your robes, desperate for something to hold onto—you cannot hold his hand. Not when they are cuffed. “You’re just…you’re tired, or you’re confused—yes, that must be it. I see now—they’ve poisoned you against yourself. They are accusing you of someone else’s plot through lies, Father, and you are believing them from your own guilt because you could not have stopped it on your own. You had no choice but to follow along—for your own survival. They may not see that, but I do. Listen to me. You can’t simply give in to what they say.”

Azar chuckles softly, the faintest smile curving his lips. Not cruel, not mocking—only tender. “I see your imagination still runs vividly, my dear. But I fear I am precisely what they say I am,” he tells you, in the same patient tone he once used to explain to your young mind how the stars move across the sky. “The father who loves you more than his own breath and the man who did what was necessary to see his ambitions through. They are two sides of the same coin. They never have been separate.”

Your vision blurs, and you shake your head furiously, but the tears don’t stop. “Stop saying that! Why do you lie? Please. Just…stop. Listen to me,” you beg, “you must tell them—the second of the Fatui harbingers is a terrible man. I have seen his records in the Akademiya, father. He once went by the name of Zandik. If he threatened you into doing his bidding, you have to just be honest—there is no shame in being powerless to a harbinger of Snezhnaya—”

His hand, bound by cuffs, cups your cheek. The rattle of metal sounds so horribly wrong—so sickeningly, nauseatingly wrong. “You are my child—my own flesh and blood. I will never stop loving you,” he says gently. “But I will not lie to you. Not even to soothe you.”

The words may have well ripped away the stars you always believed were hung in the sky by Azar himself. You don’t know what’s worse: the fact that his love has never sounded truer, or that his guilt has never been more absent. You don’t understand it. Cannot process it. It isn’t something he can explain to you patiently this time—how he can allow his love and his sins to coexist with ease when it feels like it tears your flesh straight off of your bones. 

“You have consumed forbidden knowledge, haven’t you?” You cry, bordering on hysterics, “It’s caused you to go mad! We can get help. We can move to the desert and live peacefully if you wish—I’ll take care of you. The sky above the desert is the same sky above the Akademiya, I won’t miss this place—I promise! Let’s go, and perhaps your mind will be cleared of all of this nonsense, and we can just forget that any of this has ever even—”

“You are a bright girl,” he interrupts you, “a student I raised, in fact. You know how to find the truth, don’t you?”

You do. You’ve studied the art of truth since before you could even comprehend that there are worlds beyond the sky.

Your father is a criminal. And if, someday, you have children of your own, they will learn of his crimes from the history books. It isn’t a reality you can reverse by spinning the planet backward. There is no undoing this—only moving forward. There is only the future, and what the sky has decided will exist within it.

You will live without your father. And he will rot in a cell. The stars have already decreed it, leaving you no chance to protest. Perhaps even a week ago, you would not have dared to argue with them. It’s funny how one moment can change everything.

“The only truth I know,” you say, blinking through tears as you stand, “is that everything I have ever loved is forever ruined.”

You turn and walk out of the cell, your steps echoing down the corridor. You keep your eyes fixed on the floor, fighting back the sobs clawing their way up your throat. Your vision blurs so completely that you don’t even see the figure ahead until you collide with it. Skin meets skin—and it’s warm, grounding. Suddenly, the ache inside you disappears. For one fleeting second, breathing feels easy again.

Then you look up and see him. And you wish you could stop breathing altogether.

“You’re crying,” he murmurs. Alhaitham is ever the sharp mind—sharper than most in all of Sumeru’s Akademiya—and yet, he is somehow capable of saying something so painfully useless.

“Shocked, are we?” you smile thinly, pulling away from his hands, which have caught your waist to steady you. “Perhaps if you had a little love in your heart, you’d understand why.”

“I understand perfectly well why you cry for him,” he says plainly. “It’s just that he doesn’t deserve tears from someone he’s betrayed.”

“Why did you do it?” Your lips quiver. You search his eyes for answers as though they will tell you before himself—you wonder why you do when he is so cold. Blunt. He would tell you his answer even if you did not want to hear it for yourself. “Why did you take him from me?”

“Do you think you’d be spared from the version of Sumeru he was trying to build?” He raises a brow. Alhaitham is so, so cold, you think—so harsh and cruel with the way he holds a mirror up to your face and forces you to see the truth. How can you bear to look into a mirror ever again? How can you bear to see your eyes and remember they are the same eyes of your father?“Do you really think you’d find happiness in the world he wanted to create? You’d rather he take your life with him?”

“Don’t speak to me about what I would and wouldn’t want as if you know me,” you hiss. 

“I know enough,” he says, gaze steady as it bores into you. “You’re my counterpart. I know that whoever I’m bound to by fate could never be someone so different from me. If you weren’t blinded by the fact that he’s your father, would our views really be so far apart?”

“I am not blinded by anything!” you poke a finger into his chest, “if I was, the only thing I would be blinded by is the horror of Celestia mocking me with you and…and that face of yours that haunts me everywhere!”

“And what? You think you haunt me any less?” he fires back—you realize now that you have only ever seen an Alhaitham that is patient. An Alhaitham who has lost his patience minces his words even less. “You think it’s easy to see your face every time I close my eyes? Your face that so closely resembles his? The man that nearly cost me everything I’ve worked for—my position, my achievements, my peace? You really think I believe someone like you—someone who is as capable and intelligent—can be this naive? You’re not suffering because of me. You’re suffering because you ignored the truth long before I ever spoke it out loud.”

You freeze. Your fingers tremble as you grab his shirt and yank him closer until your faces are level, your jaw set. “What do you mean?” you ask, low and dangerous. “What exactly are you accusing me of, you absolute lunatic? Has that knowledge capsule you touched rewired your brain completely?”

“Why do you think the Matra haven’t questioned you?” he fires back, voice firm but level. “As his daughter, you’d be a prime suspect for conspiracy. You studied under the same Darshan. You really think the General Mahamatra overlooks that kind of detail? Who do you think cleared you? Who made sure your name never appeared in the reports when documents detailing Azar’s plans were found in your own home? You expect me to believe that, for months, you never once suspected something was wrong? That you didn’t see it, or worse—you did, and you dismissed it? You think so little of your own father’s intelligence—that he wouldn’t tell me himself that you were innocent? You really think that he was never aware of your doubts that you shoved down blindly from loyalty, and that he wouldn’t beg me to spare you? He did. And I believed him enough to keep you out of all of his crimes. I have done everything I can to help you keep a shred of your dignity and your life as you know it, so that his mistakes don’t cost you. You think I would purposely ruin things for you? You think so little of me?”

“So what?” you whisper, voice shaking as you glare at him. “What…what is it you want? For me to thank you? To thank you for letting me exist at your mercy and witness how generous you are? Is that it? Is that what you want from telling me this?”

“No.” His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking beneath his skin. “I want you to finally see things for what they are, and stop letting your emotions cloud your judgment—”

“So now I’m too emotional?” You laugh, a sharp, broken little sound. “Forgive me, Grand Sage—perhaps being orphaned so young has left you with little knowledge of what it means to be loved, but I have the privilege of understanding exactly what that means. You’d never understand the agony of watching someone you love be subjected to this fate.”

He stills. His shoulders go rigid, the tension in his jaw almost visible.

Too far—your mind screams in sync with your heart. Too far. For a fleeting moment, you almost think you can feel the pain in his chest as if it were your own. 

“You have no idea,” he says lowly, his voice laced with a venom you’ve never heard from someone so composed, “what you’re saying. My parents’ status hardly means I know nothing about love—you’d do well to remember that.”

“Or what? You’ll throw me in jail along with my father, is that it? Use that high authority of yours over my head?”

“Funny of you to lecture me about love,” he snaps, “when all you seem to think with is that blinding hatred of yours. I’ve waited so long to find you—did you know that? Since the day I was orphaned and stripped of that love you seem to think I know nothing of, I always dreamt of finding you—just what luck it would be that the one meant to love me would make it seem like such a rotten task.”

He grabs your wrists, prying your hands off his shirt and stepping back. Even now, the motion is painfully gentle—too careful for how sharp his words sound. Then he turns abruptly, boots bluntly pressing against the stone floor as he walks away one step at a time.

You stand frozen for a moment before rushing after him, the echo of your steps chasing his. “I’m not done speaking to you,” you call, practically jogging to keep up with his long strides.

“I am,” he says flatly, not slowing. “I have a meeting to prepare for.”

“I’m sure you can afford a few moments—”

“I can’t.”

“Well, too bad,” you snap, breathless. “You’ll have to find some way, because—”

He stops suddenly and turns. Before you can react, his hand wraps around your wrist again—not harsh, but firm enough that you stumble closer. “You are maddening.”

“Well,” you say stubbornly, “I suppose it’s no wonder we’re bound to each other because you’re the exact same way.”

“Fine then,” he rolls his eyes. He turns, dragging you along with him, “Then you can say what you need to say somewhere private,” he mutters, low enough that only you can hear. His eyes flick briefly toward the guards stationed down the hall.

He doesn’t wait for you to reply. You follow him (without a choice, considering the way his hand pulls you along) through the corridors in silence, your pulse still hammering from the searing heat of his touch. When he pushes open the heavy door to his office and steps aside for you to enter first, you realize that despite it all, Alhaitham is a gentleman. Painstakingly so. 

He looks at you expectantly, still so stiff in his posture as he crosses his arms and leans his back against the door. Probably so no one tries to come in, you think to yourself.

“Whatever it is you have to say, best make it quick,” he grunts. “I’m a busy man these days—against my will, if I might add.”

You roll your eyes, scowling. “I’m sorry about that comment,” you mutter. “It was cruel.”

“You’re apologizing?” His brows lift in genuine bewilderment.

You scowl deeper. “Say what you will about Azar, but he raised me with proper manners. I’m hardly above apologizing when I should.”

He studies you for a moment, then nods slowly. “Well…I appreciate it.”

“What exactly is it that’s suspected of me?” you ask bluntly, meeting his eyes. “I want to know.”

Alhaitham sighs, shoulders relaxing. “It’s not that your innocence was ever in question—Cyno and I both agreed that if you were involved, you’d have been more of an obstacle during our plan. But ignoring you in any investigation entirely would’ve been foolish. Your father agreed to cooperate during questioning if you were cleared, so I looked into you myself.”

“And what did you find?” you press.

“Like I said,” he waves a hand, “you’re innocence was never a matter of debate. Whether or not you suspected your father before the rest of us and stayed silent…that’s another matter. One I’d rather not get into the ethics of.”

“I knew he was collaborating with the Fatui,” you whisper. “I saw…letters.”

He raises a brow.

You exhale shakily. “That’s all I knew. And I suppose not digging deeper was my mistake. Maybe I could have talked sense into him. I thought it was about money—or maybe knowledge. The man he dealt with was the second of the Harbingers from Snezhnaya. A man once called Zandik, and a former scholar here at the Akademiya. I read the reports—not that I was supposed to, but I did. I assumed Father’s hunger for discovery had just led him into questionable company. I never thought it would…” your voice falters.

“You would never have changed his mind,” Alhaitham says quietly.

You glance up at him, too tired to be offended. “Ah, is that what you think?” you ask bitterly.

“It’s what I know,” he replies. “If love for his daughter had been enough, he wouldn’t have risked everything in the first place.”

“So the problem was that he didn’t love me enough,” you say, laughing without humor.

“The problem,” he corrects evenly, “is that he loved his ambition most. Enough to let it consume him. No amount of love for you could have undone that. If it’s any solace, I think he would’ve regretted it—eventually. For your sake, more than his.”

“Wow,” you sniffle, voice flat. “I’m comforted.”

“Then I’m relieved,” he hums. “I’m not great at comforting. Means I’m doing something right.”

“Listen, Alhaitham,” you say tiredly, meeting his eyes for the first time without malice. His gaze softens the moment he sees your expression. But even then, you don’t soften the blow of what comes next. “The divine may have bound us together, but it’s clear to me that we’ll never make this work. Not when something so much bigger than us stands in the way.”

His eyes flicker—confusion, betrayal, anger, sadness. And something else you can’t quite name.

“How can you be so sure—”

“I’m not,” you cut in softly. “I just know that I’m tired. I need to make sense of what’s left of my life, and to do that, I have to stop living inside this…mess. You’re a constant reminder of everything I’m trying to move past. I think it’s better if we keep our distance.”

“I disagree,” he says quietly. You close your eyes. “But if that’s what you want, I’m not really in a position to argue.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

With that, you leave his office. The skin of your mark burns as soon as you put distance between you, but you force your feet in front of each other with every step. 

────────────────────────

Grandmother had told Alhaitham once, when he was young, that his parents were lucky with their fate. He’d thought her to be crazy at the time. What was so lucky about dying so young? Of leaving their only son behind before even watching him grow? 

The answer became clear when he was a little older. Dying alongside your soulmate, he’d realized, is mercy. He had seen the way Grandmother would clutch her wrist; he had seen the way she would rub at the skin when she thought he wasn’t looking. His mother and father were fortunate—sure, they never witnessed their son grow, and yes, they never accomplished all the things they had dreamt as scholars. But they had each other for the entirety of their life spans since the day their paths crossed. 

Grandmother was right. There is no fate that is more fortunate than that.

Alhaitham wonders if he is the most unfortunate individual to exist—how can it be that the same mother and father who were so lucky in their time had produced a son with such terrible luck himself? How can it be that with a soulmate so alive and healthy and near as his, he is still fated to the reality that he will never have you by his side? 

Even a mind as brilliant as his cannot come up with any explanation for it. And it seems the more he would like to forget you—forget everything, the more you pop into his mind. Even in his dreams, you show up, haunting him and haunting every part of his mind and soul and body. 

You’re soft. Alhaitham is overwhelmed by how soft you are. 

Your lips are delicate, your skin is pillowy under his touch, and something about the way you touch him back is just as gentle, too. Your walls are soft as well—despite being as tight as they are, they’re warm and velvety, and they squeeze around his swollen cock so well.

“H-haitham,” you breathe, “please, Haitham—I need more. Please, baby.”

He shivers twice. Once because you call him Haitham, and a second time because you call him baby. He feels a third shiver creep over his spine when he realizes how much he likes your voice when it calls him sweet things like that. 

Like a bee, you trickle honey onto his tongue—it’s warm and saccharine and addicting. He tastes it and wants to get closer. Nearer. He wants to feel you so deeply in his system, he would happily mistake the stinger and its venom for your love and your affection. 

“Call me that again,” he pleads.

“What?” you smile, cupping his cheek tenderly, “baby? You are, you know—my baby.”

“You’re…you’re so soft,” he pants, groaning as his hips rut into you with a punishing pace—he can’t stop. More. More. More. That’s all he can think. He wants more. More of you and more of your existence bleeding into his. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

“So full, Haitham,” you sob, whining as the thick, blunt head of his cock presses against the sensitive part in the back of your walls. You squeeze around him, and he lets out a helpless moan. 

It’s good—it’s so painfully good, and he’s so close, and the pressure in his lower belly feels so close to snapping. There’s an ache that’s building between his legs, right where he connects with you in between yours. A vulnerable place that only you can get close to, where he lets you make him ache. 

He’s close. So are you. One more roll of his hips and—

—Alhaitham wakes with a start, his breath caught somewhere between a hitch and a curse. The sheets cling damp to his skin—heat is still crawling through his chest, his pulse hammering like he’s run miles through desert ruins to escape them as their walls close in on him. He almost wishes they had. He almost wishes he were in them right now, and that they’d collapsed on him and taken him down for good under the rubble.

Your voice still rings in his ears—soft, broken, begging. Since when has Alhaitham cared for the sound of your voice begging? He can still feel your hands on him, warm and desperate, the vision so vivid that he can still feel the phantom weight of your touch on his skin. And worse, he realizes, is that he had enjoyed it. Every second of his dream, he’d had his lips on you—on your own lips, on the slant of your jaw, against your throat. Every second of his dream, his hands were digging into your hips as if you were the only thing keeping him alive.

He drags a hand over his face, forcing the images back into the dark where they belong. But the ache low in his body betrays him, straining against the slightly damp fabric of his boxers.

Fuck. 

It’s that mark. It has to be. He doesn’t lust over you this way, and the overwhelming truth is that he doesn’t even know you like that. There is no way Alhaitham can be this turned on by a stupid, fleeting image of you under him in his head—he hasn’t even seen you in days. But he supposes that only hurts his case—the longer the days go by without seeing you, the more restless the mark on his wrist has been. The divine must have it out for him. They force you into his senses, into his veins, into his dreams, into his fucking mind, deep in the smallest crevices until even his own body turns into a traitor.

There’s a twitch in his boxers. He covers his eyes with his hand and scrunches them shut with a frustrated groan—this is not a problem that will go away. Alhaitham knows this. He knows that if he gets up and forces himself into a cold shower and somehow manages to evade this problem now, it will only haunt him in his mind again. Even worse, he might just get a vivid image flash in his head in the middle of his work day and make his pants uncomfortably tight—tighter than they already are, that is. 

So, with utmost reluctance, he caves. 

Slowly, a hand wanders down his chest. It caresses the warm, sweaty skin. He tries to imagine the touch as yours—it’s a sickening thought that if he were a bit more coherent at the moment, he’d be horrified by. Your fingers would be less calloused, of course, but he doesn’t take too much time to linger on that thought. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, you’re a headache,” he curses to himself. He’s right. You are. You make his worst migraine possible. 

His finger circles a nipple gently, and he lets out a low hum of approval at the feeling. He wonders if you’d appreciate his physique—the planes of hard-earned muscle, the sharp contours carved from years of disciplined training, the toned definition written into every line of his body. 

You’re pretty, Haitham, he can imagine you saying. He wants to hear you say it. He feels a little nauseous. 

“Don’t tease,” he grits, “we don’t have time for that.”

You don’t care for your job enough to stress over being late—you’re busy against your will, remember? Don’t pretend you care now, he pictures you giggling in response. And you would be right. He doesn’t particularly care for his position. But he has a responsibility for the Akademiya. 

His hand reaches for the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down swiftly and kicking them off under his sheets somewhere. He’ll worry about them later—for now, he worries about the thick, strained cock that falls heavy against his lower abdomen. 

“You’re insane,” he mumbles, wrapping his hand around his cock and squeezing lightly as he feels a sharp, fleeting pressure of ecstasy run along his length. “You drive me insane.”

Then don’t go insane, he thinks you’d say. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, you know—you’re the one who keeps letting this happen, Haitham.

“You do this to me,” he whispers, arguing back, “it’s your fault.”

That’s rather mean, Haitham. You blame me for everything.

“I don’t,” he breathes—and then his hand strokes his girth. “If anything, you blame me.”

He gasps, eyes fluttering shut as his head falls further back against his pillow. The sheets cover his shame, yet he still feels unbearably bare and open and vulnerable. Touching himself isn’t something new—Alhaitham is like every other human, no matter how much he clings to logic and reason to guide his choices. Granting himself a moment of pleasure is nothing foreign, even if it is rare, given how busy he is. 

But touching himself to the thought of you feels like he’s sinning, even when all he really is doing is giving into the fate divinity has designated for him. Perhaps they had always designed him to be in hell. 

“Fuck, baby,” he moans, repeating your sweet, affectionate name for him back to you—like you can hear him if he speaks to the air and trusts it to carry the words over to you. “L-like that.”

You like it when I touch you this way, don’t you, Haitham? You’d ask.

“Yes, fuck,” he hisses. Filthy. You make him so filthy with the words he spills on his tongue. “It…it feels good.”

I know, you’d coo, I like it when my Haitham feels good. Because of me. 

“Yours,” he agrees, letting out a raspy groan as he tightens his grip and strokes himself faster, feeling the familiar build up in his lower belly as the ache between his legs intensifies, “your Haitham,” he breathes. 

My Haitham, he can hear you soothe, all mine. You were made for me, weren’t you? Made to be my love. I love you, Alhaitham. 

He cums as soon as he hears you whisper those delicate words in the fragile existence of his subconscious. That place that exists but doesn’t all at once. That place that he can escape to, but never really go as he wishes. He gasps, letting out a quiet whimper as thick ropes of cum spill into his hand and coat his abdomen with heavy twitches of his cock—he tries to imitate how he thinks you’d touch him through his high. 

Maybe you’d slow down, teasing him as he bucks into your hand with a frustrated huff. Or maybe you’d quicken your pace, stroking him faster so he’d have no choice but to be at your mercy. (It doesn’t matter, really—he’ll never find out, he’s sure. So he might as well run through every possibility himself and settle on what he likes best as the closest he’ll get to having you.)

Finally, when he slumps against his mattress as he finishes, limbs feeling heavy and tired, he stares up at his ceiling and lets out a shaky sigh as he feels his own erection soften in his grip.

“Same dream again,” he scoffs to himself, rubbing his clean hand over his face tiredly, “you’re depraved, you fool. And you only have yourself to blame—Sumeru dreams again because of your own flawless plan.”

He lies there, wallowing in his own misery and self-pity for a moment before a thought strikes him:

Alhaitham is a linguist. He studies the art of language—its history, its structure, the delicate logic that binds meaning to form. And if anyone knows how to put words together in the language he’s most fluent in, it’s him. He sits up immediately to get to work—and then he is reminded of the shameless mess he’s made and groans. (After this is cleaned, he thinks, after this display of lewdness is cleaned, will be the start of his careful plan.)

So it begins—one letter at a time, he gives you distance. Because physically, as much distance as you ask for within the walls of Sumeru City, Alhaitham will grant it. But linguistically, there is no distance you can create that he will not find a way to close.

—————

Week One: 

To you,

I don’t expect a reply. In truth, I don’t even know what I hope to accomplish by writing this. Perhaps it’s a habit I can’t unlearn—the impulse to record, to make sense of what cannot be reasoned aloud by writing them on parchment. Or perhaps it’s because words have always been my preferred method of thinking, and you have become something I cannot stop thinking about.

You told me that space would be most beneficial. I’ve been trying to respect that. I keep my distance. I let you pass without a word, and I make sure my presence doesn’t reach you unless absolutely necessary. Yet language does not abide by the same rules as distance. Even now, as far as I am from you, I find myself turning my thoughts of you into sentences, as if the act of forming them could bring me clarity. It hasn’t.

I used to believe that words were easy tools meant to define—simple to wield as long as one abided by their rules, like grammar. Then you happened, and suddenly, every word I knew became insufficient. It no longer feels easy to use words. I don’t know what to call this feeling. Perhaps there isn’t a word for it yet.

What I do know is that I’ll write. One letter at a time. Not to persuade you of anything, but to preserve these thoughts before they’re lost to distance. Perhaps, along the way, I’ll find the right word for this state of mind you’ve put me in.

— Alhaitham

—————

Week Two: 

To you,

Another uneventful day, though I suppose “uneventful” is a luxury in the current state of the Akademiya. Meetings have multiplied ever since I transitioned into leadership. Half of them could be replaced by a single well-written report, but apparently, no one else sees it that way.

The Dendro Archon insists I attend, so I do. I listen, I make my notes, and I watch as words—our supposed instruments of precision—are thrown about carelessly, stripped of meaning by overuse. It makes me wonder how many things in life lose their truth simply because they’re spoken too often. Perhaps feelings are the same. Perhaps it’s better that I don’t speak mine aloud.

Today, someone used the word corrupt during a discussion about administrative reforms. They said it as though it were an objective diagnosis, a simple matter of right and wrong. No context. No nuance. They did not give me a proper explanation for why they came to use that word when I pressed. It bothered me more than I expected. Words like that should be used with care, or they’ll become too easily bent by whoever speaks them.

It made me think about how language fails us when we use it without precision—and how I fail at it, too, when I try to speak about you. I’m still searching for the right word for what you make me feel. Something that isn’t dulled or watered down by overuse. There must be one. It just hasn’t presented itself yet.

So give me time. I’ll find it. Studying words is what I do best, after all.

— Yours, Alhaitham

—————

Week Three: 

To you, 

I find my days are increasingly occupied by bothersome interactions, though I suppose that is hardly surprising given my current position. Meetings, receptions, consultations—each demands a performance of attentiveness I must forcefully will myself to demonstrate. I am expected to navigate pleasantries, offer guidance, and answer questions I hardly consider worth any depth. It’s exhausting.

Social interactions in a professional capacity, in theory, should not require this much effort. Yet the expectations that are considered proper, such as tone, phrase, and posture, are disproportionately taxing. I suspect that those who set up these standards for the workplace hardly used their intellect when creating the framework for how we conduct ourselves.

Luckily, when I find myself drained, I can seek clarity by writing to you. Perhaps it is because no pretense is required. No careful phrasing to appease or persuade.

And yes, I am still searching for a word for how you make me feel. Even amidst these endless meetings, my thoughts drift inevitably to you. In one of the manuscripts I reviewed today, I stumbled across an archaic word: eunoia. It means beautiful thinking; a well-minded state. For a moment, I thought perhaps this is the word for what you make me feel—a state where every thought in my head is serene and filled with clarity. It then occurred to me that this would hardly be a fitting word—for all the clarity you might bring me, you are also the only person who manages to turn my mind into a hazy, unclear place. I hardly recognize myself when I think of you for too long.  

So I continue my search, hoping that someday I will find the word capable of holding the entirety of this state you put me in.

— Yours, whether you will have me or not, Alhaitham

—————

Week Four: 

To you, 

I spent the last few days in the rainforest—an inspection trip to ensure the withering is no longer a threat. The humidity there was constant, draining enough to make even thinking a tiresome task. And yet, I found myself thinking more than usual.

In the thick of Apam Woods, I saw several kalpalata lotuses. I’ve heard they’re your favorite. The cliffs that they grow along make for a good contrast, blue and green against a pale grey. They’re said to be the origin of all plant life in Sumeru—the beginning from which everything else grew. I suppose that’s poetic, though I’ve never been one for mythic explanations. Still, I couldn’t help but think that if such explanations were real, every branch and every leaf in Sumeru traces back to the roots of a kalpalata lotus.

Every thought I have seems to trace back to you in much the same way.

I’ve had no luck with a word this week. I thought perhaps the change of scenery might help, but nothing suitable presented itself. Maybe the right term won’t come from research or inspiration at all. Maybe it will reveal itself gradually. Until then, I’ll keep searching.

— Yours, if you would honor me with the pleasure, Alhaitham

—————

Week Five:

To you, 

I’ve spent the past week cataloging old star charts because I know the stars are what you love most—Aquila’s constellation among them. You’re already aware that the Rtawahist tend to call that constellation Vultur Volans, and you’ve certainly seen it in the night sky. I used to admire its symmetry as a child, as my grandmother had taught me to search for it when I could not sleep on restless nights. Now I can’t look at it in the sky without thinking of the shared version of it burned into our skin. 

I’ve never been one to seek meaning from the divine. I believe in consequence, not providence. Yet even I can’t help but wonder what sort of irony governs a world where the person I was fated for is the daughter of the man whose corruption I exposed. There are moments when I think fate must be a cruel scholar, concluding at the expense of those bound within its margins. If it is you with whom I am bound to the margins, then I would not choose to escape them despite the flaws of this design. If you were to ask me whether I regret it, I would say I don’t. Justice doesn’t become less rightful simply because it brings pain. But I wish, more than anything, that it hadn’t been you who had to bear its cost. 

I’ve finally found the word—or rather, two. You are familiar with them, I am sure. I know amongst the scholars of Rtawahist, you are one of the most brilliant—a star right here on the ground that I can witness without reaching the sky. The words are aphelion and perihelion: the points in an orbit when one is farthest from, and closest to, the sun. That’s what you’ve become to me: both distance and nearness. Cold and warmth. The center forcefield and the reason I keep moving. Whether you grant me the closest or farthest point of your light, I will always orbit around you. It is in my nature to do so, and it will never stop at any point in time. 

If the divine truly intended for our paths to cross, perhaps it was not to bind us together, but to teach me that even a life governed by logic is still vulnerable to gravity. If it is you who will pull me down, then I will choose to fall, no matter the force that will shatter me as I meet the ground. 

— Yours, happily so in every world, Alhaitham

────────────────────────

The letters come every week. 

Every Monday morning, without fail, a new envelope waits at your door—your name written in Alhaitham’s impeccable handwriting. The calligraphy is always deliberate and elegant, not a single word crossed out, not a single stroke shaky. He is good with words—you’ll give him that much. Week by week, letter by letter, word by word, he carves his way into your heart. You knew he would. You always knew that not falling for Alhaitham was an impossible task. Not because fate demanded it, but because he had been right that day.

Without your father to blind you, you are not so different from him after all.

You read every letter. You drink in every word. You smile when he complains, and you roll your eyes when he’s predictable. You tear up when he thinks of you, and your lips tremble when he reminds you that as long as he can use words as his tools, you will never truly be free of him. You will never truly be alone.

By Sunday afternoon, the day before the sixth letter is due, you decide to pay him a visit.

You knock on his door. When he opens it, he blinks at you in disbelief, eyes flicking from your face to the world behind you as if to make sure this isn’t a hallucination. You blink back. For a moment, the world tilts on its axis the way it always does around him—gravity somehow always shifts and changes, tugging you closer to the ground when he’s near. Like you’re falling.

“You’re…here?” he breathes.

“Hello to you, too,” you snort quietly. “Proper etiquette is to invite guests in. Especially when they happen to be your soulmate.”

“Ah, well,” he says, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “In my defense, my soulmate happens to despise me. That complicates things, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t despise you,” you whisper. “We can talk about that. When you let me in—which you still haven’t done.”

He flushes, coughing as he hurriedly steps aside. “Right. Come in.”

You smile at that. He’s endearing—infuriatingly so. When he isn’t sending your father to prison or dismantling everything you once knew, he is so painfully endearing. And, of course, no one else would see it. You’re sure only you could ever find someone like Alhaitham endearing. Most people at the Akademiya certainly don’t.

When you’re both seated in his living room, opposite ends of the same couch, you whisper, “Thank you. For the letters, I mean. They…made me feel less lonely.”

“Of course,” he says quietly. “Though, I’ll admit, I had some selfish reasons for sending them. But I’m glad they helped. I know the last few weeks haven’t been easy for you.”

“Well,” you manage a tight smile, “Father writes to me too. I’ve come to terms with the fact that he’s responsible for his own actions—it only took a month, huh?”

“It’s not wrong to have faith in people you love,” he says after a pause. “Maybe not to the point where it blinds you, but…it’s not my place to tell you how to come to terms with betrayal.”

You huff a quiet laugh. “You always sound so detached when you say things like that.”

“Detached,” he repeats. “Maybe. Maybe I am—maybe I’m not as rational as I like to think I am.”

“No,” you whisper, “no, if anyone is irrational, it’s me. The facts were always there—I just chose not to see them. You saved Sumeru—and me, by extension, and I gave you a hard time for it.”

“I didn’t save Sumeru because I’m a generous person,” he says quietly. “I did it because there is an order to everything that should be maintained…and I don’t value imbalance to that order. It’s…it’s not about playing a hero.”

“Yes,” you crack a smile, “I forget that being generous is not a fit for that cold image of yours.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he grumbles. You giggle—he lets loose a small, barely-there grin. “I suppose Sumeru’s best interest is not something I stay ignorant of,” he finally admits. “But I’m sure that isn’t why you’re here, either.”

“It’s not,” you agree. “You’ve been writing to me. All this time.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He blinks, startled by the question, as if he can’t understand why you would ask. “Because you asked me to stay away. And I told myself I would respect that. But contact does not have to mean the absence of distance—I wanted to contact you.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head as you glance down at your lap. “You shouldn’t have had to do that. If I were worthy of that effort, you wouldn’t have had to fight distance in the first place.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply. “You were the one who needed distance. I didn’t fault you for that. You are worth fighting distance—to me, you are.”

Tears sting your eyes at his words. Alhaitham is good with words. You don’t think it’s because he studies them, though—you think it’s because deep down, he’s a gentle soul that was made to be patient with you. To learn you and what you need when you are unsure of it yourself. To be easy when you are difficult. You know why Alhaitham is your other half—it isn’t just because the divine have said so. It’s because the stars will always guide you to him. It’s because no matter where you are, there is always a way back to him. 

He is always waiting for you. Always watching for you. Always searching for you. 

You press your lips together. “I didn’t want you far because I hated you,” you murmur. “It was because being near you made it harder to accept that things…were changing. I thought being away from you would make losing my father easier.”

He studies you quietly, his voice soft, “Did it?”

“No.”

A breath escapes him—half sigh, half laugh. “So you continued, why? To punish me for the hell of it, huh? You really are something else.”

You know it’s a joke—still, for old time’s sake, you glare weakly. “Be quiet.”

He smiles fondly. “I knew it would be worth it if I’d waited. That one day, you’d come to me on your own terms. Even if it took months. Even if it took years. I would happily wait.”

“Why aren’t you mad at me?”

“Because you’re here now,” he says—like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I knew it wouldn’t help to stay apart, but I knew I could never say no to what you wanted. And…I knew we’d never manage to do it for long. You’d have found your way back to me just as I would you. It’s just how things go—the nature of this world. You and I finding each other is in our nature.”

“I wanted to come find you after the first letter.”

“Why didn’t you?” he raises a brow—he almost looks a little hurt. 

“Because I was scared,” you laugh—there’s no humor in it. Only a choked sob. Only a tear that runs down your cheek as his eyes quickly change to soften for you. “If I came, what if you decided I was just…too much? And then you hated Celestia for deciding to bind me to you? And then you hated me? And then no one would love me ever again—”

“You really are something else,” he snorts, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging you against his firm chest. It’s warm. Alhaitham is warm. You never want to be cold ever again. For the first time since you arrived, his composure completely slips. His fingers curl into your shirt as his voice cracks and he pleads, “Don’t go again. I’ll never hate you if you never leave.”

“I’ll never leave if you never hate me,” you sniffle. 

“I should have known you’d be stubborn,” he playfully pokes your ribs, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “Using my own promise against me.”

“I believe it’s because we’re cut from the same cloth or something like that—that’s what they say about soulmates, don’t they?”

“Who knows,” he snorts, “I don’t waste my time reading hopeful fantasies.”

“Yes,” you let out a watery laugh. He wraps his arms around you tighter at the sound. “You took your time reading up to expand your vocabulary, instead. Like a hopeful romantic.” 

“You took your sweet time coming to me,” he murmurs, chuckling. “What else could I do with my time?”

You hum. “I suppose I did. And you waited.”

“I would have kept waiting.”

You swallow hard. Then, your hand reaches up, cupping his cheek and making his breath hitch. “You don’t have to wait anymore.”

“Is that so?” he glances at you, amused. Hopeful. Affectionate. There’s love in there, too, in those eyes of his—you see it just as much as you feel it. You don’t know everything there is to know about him yet. You don’t know his pain and his joy and the things he keeps hidden away to keep himself safe. You don’t know what he likes to eat and what he doesn’t. What his favorite genre is to read (though you can guess), and what he hated learning most when he was a student. 

But you know you’ll love him. The stars told you so. And you’ll listen—you always do when they show you the truth. 

“Are you happy it’s me?” you murmur, gripping his shirt and pulling him closer. His lips hover over yours, and your breath fans across his mouth. He inhales sharply. “Be honest—would you swap soulmates if you could?”

“Never,” he grins, “I could never hand over such a headache to anyone else. It would be unethical.”

“Huh?” you gasp, “where went all your sweet, fancy words? This is not the Alhaitham I came looking for—my letters promised me a very different version.”

“Can you really call yourself my soulmate if you don’t like all versions of me equally?” he hums. And then he leans in, breaking the distance and kissing you. And you wonder, genuinely wonder, how you could have gone so long without ever feeling his lips on yours. Without ever feeling him against you and completing you this way. “I would never exchange you for anything,” he breathes against your lips, “never. Gravity will always pull me to your maddening charm, you see.”

“You must love being insulted then,” you giggle, pecking his lips, “because that is all I’ve done for, hm…let’s see, ninety percent of our interactions.”

“Do you take it all back?” he pouts playfully, shifting you onto his lap, your legs straddling his waist as his hands roam along your hips. He kisses your jaw, and you close your eyes, humming as you pretend to think about it. “I’m sure you do. You’ve probably realized I’m a catch.”

“The lazy, antisocial scholar who has a reputation for being difficult to get along with,” you think out loud, “let me see—hm, no, I don’t see what catch you’re referring to.”

“How shallow,” he accuses, “basing your assessment on rumors.”

“Actually,” you murmur, cupping his cheeks and cradling his face as you admire it (he’s handsome. You’ve never given it proper thought, but Alhaitham is the most handsome man you have met. Another infuriating advantage he has.) “I have the object of these rumors right here—no one will know if they’re true or not better than me.”

“Yes,” he breathes, “no one will know me better than you. If you’ll have me.”

“I would always have you,” you press a soft kiss to his nose, “you know that, don’t you?”

“I do now.”

And then he kisses you again. Harder. Needier. He kisses you like he’s been deprived of all that he’s been searching for in this life. Like he’s been denied his rights to his peace. Like he’s lost every path that leads him home. You kiss him back. Like he is the answer to every prayer you’ve ever whispered. Like he is the last thing you have left to anchor you. Like he is the only thing that’s truly yours in this world. 

It’s a blur from there—wandering hands, hiked up shirts, searing touches. His shirt comes off, and then so does yours. His belt is unbuckled, and your waistband is tugged down. Your fingers trace over the hard planes of his abs, and his fingers trace the plush skin of your inner thighs. 

“I want you,” he pants, whispering the words between slow, open-mouthed kisses. “Is…is that okay? It doesn’t have to be—we don’t have to—”

“More than okay,” you breathe. In fact, you add soft, pleading, “want you too.”

He groans, reaching to shove your panties aside to press his fingers into your wet cunt. He takes in the view—dark green fabric dampened by your essence and painted even darker. He grins. 

“Did you wear this to see me? Knew it was my favorite color?”

You swat at his shoulder, glaring as he chuckles. “No, you lunatic! I wore these for myself because they happened to be the f-first….oh…”

You trail off, gasping as his fingertips brush against a sensitive spot along your walls, curling into you perfectly despite never feeling your body before this. You whimper, nails digging into his shoulders as he studies your face. 

“Seems like I found it,” he hums in satisfaction, “that’s where you want me, is it?”

You glare at him in horror. “How lewd! Your mouth looks a lot better when you silence it, you know!”

“Why not help me with that, then,” he hums, “if you’d like to see it that way so badly.”

You do. You silence him with a kiss as much as he drinks in your soft moans while his fingers work their way into you. In and out. In and out. They stretch you open as they curl and scissor their way into you and glide against your warm, wet walls. You like the friction. His fingers are thicker and longer than yours—they reach parts you never thought about reaching. He fits you and completes you in a way that feels intentional. Like there is a reason why he is bound to you as part of what makes you whole. 

“H-Haitham,” you pant—he pauses. His fingers still and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and you almost feel like you should apologize based on his reaction until his fingers slam against you with a faster pace, brushing harder against that spongy spot. With more force. More cause. 

“Say that again—fuck, say that again, please,” he hisses. 

“Haitham,” you whine, “so…so close.”

“Yeah? Are you?” he groans, “then cum. Cum for me, my beautiful girl.”

You do. You feel the way your walls constrict and tighten around his fingers—almost making them impossible to move, but he thrusts them into you anyway, working you through your orgasm. Your head falls to his shoulder, teeth biting the smooth skin as you mewl at the pleasure that ripples through your body—a leaf disrupting the calm still of of water and sending waves along the surface. 

You slump against his chest as he slips his fingers out, panting for a few moments before you shimmy out of your soiled underwear and shift—the wet heat of your cunt grinds against his leaking tip. 

“Fuck,” he curses, gritting his jaw. 

It takes only a moment of thought before he wraps his arms around you and stands, carrying you to his bedroom and carefully laying you against his bed. You stare up at him, skin flushed with sweat and marks from his lips, and he feels his cock twitch at the sight alone. 

“Haitham,” you breathe, wrapping your arms and pulling him down so that your lips barely touch, “fuck me—please.”

He closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath before he rummages through the bottom drawer of his nightstand. You watch with dilated pupils as he slides a condom over the thick girth of his cock, groaning at the friction before wrapping his hand around the base of his length. He guides himself to your entrance, panting roughly as he asks in a low, raspy voice, “Ready?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, “please.”

He pushes the first few inches of his tips past your folds—lets you pull him into a searing kiss as you gasp into his mouth and whine. He’s thick. Thicker than anything you’ve ever taken. You feel the burn of the stretch, and he’s not even fully in you yet. 

“S-so big,” you whimper. 

“You can tell me to stop,” he says softly, “promise. I’ll still be happy, okay? I’m happy with anything as long as it’s you. You’ll tell me if it’s too much, right?”

You nod. But your eyes are stubborn when they open, and he lets out an amused, defeated sigh. “I want it, you know.”

“I know you do,” he kisses your pout, “my stubborn girl.”

You angle your hips upwards before he can say anything else, taking the rest of him in with a quick movement as he sinks into your cunt. His breath hitches as you gasp, and then he bites his bottom lip and closes his eyes, letting out a shaky groan. You watch as he pants, breath labored, while he holds himself back and gives you time to adjust. 

“You’re so pretty, Haitham,” you whisper, “your face is pretty. Know that?”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that about you?” he lets out a strained chuckle, “that’s what you should be hearing. Not the other way around.”

“Well, you took too long,” you say, flashing him a cheeky grin, “so I did it for you.”

Something flashes in his eyes at that—dark and hungry and insatiable as he lets out an amused chuckle. He grabs your ankle, making you yelp as he tosses it over his shoulder and angles himself to press deeper into you. 

“My apologies,” he murmurs, nipping and kissing along your jaw as his hips pull him out almost fully and roll into you with a deep, heavy thrust. You let out a soft cry, eyes fluttering shut as he murmurs, “There we go—that’s a pretty view, isn’t it? I knew I’d be speechless, but this is just unfair, sweet girl…you’re breathtaking, aren’t you?”

“S-stop,” you gasp, turning your face away from him shyly. He laughs—it’s a husky, raspy little thing. 

“Shy? What’s there to be shy about, beautiful? S’just me…a-and you, yeah?”

His hips roll with punctuated thrusts, angling the thick curve of his cock into you—hitting that same spot his fingers found so effortlessly. Whoever crafted Alhaitham took their time—they made him perfectly curved and muscled in all the right places. Of course, part of that is his own discipline. You know—very well, you know that abs and biceps like that don’t form overnight because genetics say so. But he was made by careful, slow hands that took their time on him. And those same careful hands took their time on you to make sure every curve and angle of you would fit against him. Would mold around him. Would curl into him so well, you would never know where you start and where he ends. 

“You drive me mad, do you know that?” he whispers against your ears, “do you know how wicked a woman you have to be—to enter my life so fast and turn it upside down so quickly? Do you know how powerless you have to make me—to come and go as you please, like you did, and possess me that way?”

“I—”

“I’m not done,” he grunts, slamming his hips down and silencing you with a particularly sharp thrust, “you made me sick. Made me some…some shell of myself. Some version I hardly recognized. You turned me insane—more than any forbidden knowledge could have. Corrupted every part of my brain. You have to take responsibility for that.”

“F-fuck,” is all you say, whining as his thumb finds its way to your clit, rubbing harsh circles while the thick head of his cock bullies its way past your folds, sliding the ridges of his length along your folds. You shake from the friction—thighs quivering as you accommodate his punishing pace. 

“You have to take responsibility for…for changing everything as I know it. You think you’re the only one who’s scared of change?”

“I’m not…I’m not scared anymore,” you breathe, “not if it’s you—you…you’re good change.”

“Yeah?” he asks—voice shaky. 

“Yeah,” you nod. 

He kisses you. You kiss back. Your second orgasm crashes over you harder than the first—only this time, it doesn’t break the serene calm of the water’s surface as it's still. This time, the waves are ones you saw coming—ones that bury you under them and pull you deep into the bottom of their depths. 

“Haitham,” you whine—and your back arches off of his bed and meets him halfway as he grinds his hips into you with a sloppy, desperate pace. 

“Yeah,” he pants, voice cracking, “y-yeah, I know. I know…I…I f-feel it too.”

You feel his cock twitch, and then there’s a flood of warmth against the thin plastic that separates you from him. He stills for a moment before he lets out a deep, throaty groan, burying his face into your neck and riding out the shockwaves of his own orgasm with sharp thrusts that don’t have proper rhythm. Not anymore. Not when he’s so far gone in his own pleasure as it burns through every nerve of his body. 

He slumps next to you on the bed—not before he wraps a strong arm around you and pulls you flush against his sweaty chest. Alhaitham is warm. Even when you’re warm, too, you still want to feel his warmth. You don’t mind the burning heat. Not when it’s him. 

“Did you mean it?” he whispers. 

“Mean what?”

“That I’m good change?”

You look up. Light breaks over your face as you smile at him and trace your finger over his chest. “Yeah. You are.”

“You are too,” he says softly, lips curling into a delicate smile. “You’re everything good for me.”

“Does this mean the letters will stop?” you pout, “no letter tomorrow now that I’m here?”

He chuckles. Looks at you with a look you can’t remember the last time you’ve seen before—maybe it was when your father could still look at your mother. Maybe you’d last seen such a look on his face, all those years ago. 

“Do you want them to stop?”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head as you nuzzle closer, “I don’t.”

“Then they won’t stop,” he says, kissing your head. “Promise.”

────────────────────────

Just like he promised, Alhaitham never stops writing you letters. Even when your house is no longer registered under your name and you have no address anymore, he still writes you his letters. 

“You sold your house,” he says quietly. “I saw the papers in the files.”

You pause your fingers from their adventures along his chest. It’s funny to think that some time ago—just a few months prior, even—you’d have stiffened at the words. You would tense at the fact that he knows anything about you and pull away from him. You would tell yourself that you have to pull yourself out of this bubble that surrounds you and throw yourself back into the real world. 

But you know now that Alhaitham is the real world. He is under the same sky as you and watches the same stars. You point to a constellation and he looks. He learns it. He remembers it, too. He is part of your world. 

“I did,” you murmur back. “I just…can’t keep going back there anymore. It’s not the same.”

“Where will you go? You haven’t bought another house yet,” he raises a brow. You roll your eyes—he thinks you didn’t think this through. You roll them out of slight amusement, though. Not bitter anymore like it once was. 

“I’ll find one. I don’t have to move out for another two weeks.”

“That’s highly unprepared. Not a good calculated risk,” he clicks his teeth. This time, you give him a flat look. 

If you are aphelion, Alhaitham is perihelion—opposite ends of the same path, always at different ends, yet always tied together by the same sun in the same sky. You are bound to him by the same, never-ending orbit. And he has sworn this to you, thoughtfully written in the letters you keep carefully hidden away in your drawer. For you.

“I’ll be fine,” you huff. “Mora isn’t exactly an issue. Say what you will about my father, but he left me a generous sum.”

He hums, staring ahead in thought. And then, “You know…you can always live here.”

You pause. “Here?” you ask cautiously, “you mean with you?”

He swallows for a moment and looks down. “Yes,” he says quietly. “With…with me. If you want, that is.”

“Your only other room is taken,” you snort, “by your roommate. And I’m not going to evict poor Kaveh—unlike me, he can’t afford a move.”

“This room is just fine,” he says boldly. Still, you can almost hear the way he’s a little hesitant. Scared, maybe. Still clinging to his pride as he delivers it with a shrug. “The windows are big. The mattress isn’t uncomfortable, either—you’d know. The bathroom has two sinks, too.”

“How convenient,” you nod slowly. 

“Very.”

“Okay,” you whisper. You pause. He stills, but he doesn’t stiffen. You breathe in and then out slowly for a moment before you say it again, louder this time. “Okay.”

Alhaitham’s eyes brighten at that—but then again, they are always bright. His irises are the sky, and every little streak of color that paints them is vibrant enough that you might mistake them for the stars. You might even wish on them, beg them to tell you secrets and show you the way, and lead you down a path that always takes you to him. 

And he’ll always be there. The sun might come out and the stars may disappear from your line of sight, but the stars will always be there. And they’ll always come back. There’s never been a night when they haven’t—not once, not in any chart the Akademiya has ever kept.

He smiles at your answer. It’s barely-there and it goes as quick as it comes, like a shooting star that passes by. But it came, and you have seen it in its fleeting glory.

He kisses your forehead and hums, “Okay.”

TWO MONTHS LATER SHE IS DONE AHHHHHHHH

[thelonelyarchon]

OH MY GOD MY HEART IM SHATTERED.

[cursedheartsclub]

The Lie I Left You

clark kent x reader (for now!) Tags: hurt no comfort (for now), angst, unrequited love (for now), clois endgame Author’s Note: Inspired by the new Miraculous Ladybug episode and the ache of unrequited love. If you all enjoy this, I might keep going. Maybe we'll even explore what happens when you leave Metropolis for Gotham and get tangled up with someone a little older, a little gruffer, who has as many secrets as you do… Someone named Bruce Wayne. Divider by: @cursed-carmine

You learn, early, that time does not love you back.

It yields, a little, under your hands. Thirty minutes at most, a shallow bend in a fast river. You can pull moments like loose thread and watch the last half-hour unspool: a coffee cup righting itself, sirens un-wailing, a bullet deciding not to be born. It saves strangers. It prevents mistakes. It erases slips of the tongue that would cost a life, or your pride. It will not change what lives in a person’s chest. You can reverse a word, a step, a breath. You cannot reverse a feeling.

You learn to live small inside that fact. You catalogue tiny mercies, make altars of them: a sunrise you get to watch twice; a joke that lands on the second try; a day when no one dies because you were paying attention. And then there is Clark Kent, and his laugh you never want to rewind because you want to keep every version of it, even the ones where he snorts by accident because you surprised him. And then there is Lois Lane, and the way his voice softens when he says her name, a new vowel in a language you’ll never speak like a native.

You love him, and like time, he does not love you back.

Tonight the city is the quiet kind of loud. Metropolis hums; lights comb through low haze; the Daily Planet globe turns like a thought he hasn’t finished yet. You and Superman perch on the rim of a water tower that is always colder than you expect, flaking paint pressing a constellation into the backs of your thighs. On a distant roof, a cat arcs its spine. A train rolls by three blocks away, a silver ribbon, and down on Bleecker a neon sign flickers with the stubborn optimism of a heart that doesn’t know how to stop beating.

He’s listening. He always is. To you, too, his attention a steady warmth at your side, the kindest kind of gravity.

You’ve already packed your apartment in your head. Your leases and lies are in a row. Gotham is a different kind of loud. You’ll pretend you like it there. You’ll find a rooftop that feels like a poor translation of this one and you’ll practice not looking east.

“Why do you have to leave? Did I do something? Did someone hurt you?” Clark’s voice pitches high.

You’ve been his best friend long enough to hear the panic underneath the manners. You could laugh, if it didn’t feel like laughing with a mouth full of glass. You steady yourself on the cool metal and the heat of his knee touching your knee.

“I just have to go, Clark,” you say.

“Why?” His voice breaks a little.

He’s so close you can count the questions he can’t let himself ask, all of them crowding up behind the polite one that made it out first. You breathe in the city and him and the ache.

You look out over Metropolis so you can keep your face. “You don’t need me here, Clark. You have such a warm life for yourself. You have Jimmy. Lois. You two are so beautiful together. And I…” You can feel your power waking in your fingertips, a low thrum that always tastes like rain and copper. “I’m in love with you, too, Clark. I have been for a while. It’s like I don’t even remember a time where I wasn’t anymore.”

The words feel like stepping off a ledge on purpose. There’s a terrible freedom in it, the brief flight between honesty and consequence.

“You...you don’t mean that,” he says, voice gone gravel. He turns like he’s looking for a different scene on the horizon, one where this doesn’t happen.

You find his eyes and give him the wet, broken truth. “I do, Clark. And I am so happy that you have found someone who you love just as fiercely as I love you. And Lois? She’s absolutely what you need. She’s the exact type of person I always knew you’d need. But if I stay… Clark, if I stay our friendship will never recover. That’s why I’m leaving.”

He doesn’t flinch from pain; that’s one of the hundred things that doomed you. His whole face folds around it. “You can’t. Please don’t leave me. Lois and I, we can… we can tone it down. We can stay separate from each other around you. I love you too, you’re my best friend, I can’t lose you.”

A lesser kindness would let you take that deal. It would be the beginning of a slow death. You lace your fingers with his and the heat of his palm makes every choice you’ve made feel like a betrayal of skin.

“Being away from you is going to be the hardest thing I have ever had to do.”

“Please don’t go.”

You swallow. The city breathes; the cat jumps down; the train is past. Somewhere, Lois’s phone lit up with his name an hour ago and you know he laughed when he saw it. You don’t get to be the person who dims that.

“Clark,” you say, and your voice is steady in the way of people who are about to do something unforgivable, “I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.”

His head snaps toward you. “What are you about to do?”

“I’m about to lie to you,” you say. “And I am so sorry about it. I hope one day, you can forgive me.”

His brows knit, the frown he brings out when a bridge gives way under too much weight. You lift your hand to his cheek; his stubble is fine sand against your palm. Your power beads on your skin like dew. It always starts in your hands. It always asks if you’re sure.

“(Y/N), wait,” His voice climbs, panic losing its manners. “No, (y/n), you have to wait!”

You close your eyes because it hurts less when you don’t watch a world choose not to happen. The light, your light, spools golden from your fingertips in thin, trembling filaments, and you tug.

Time does not crack. It sighs.

Sound unthreads: the train’s last clatter rises and walks backwards into the rails; a siren a mile away takes its noise back molecule by molecule until the street is a held breath. The cat recoils into its leap, paws regaining the parapet. A hot dog vendor’s laugh unstitches into a question, then into a thought, then into silence. Around you, the city’s palette reverses, the day’s heat re-enters brick; cooling towers inhale their steam; the neon sign on Bleecker eats its light letter by letter until it is only the darkness beneath glass.

The air thickens into syrup and your muscles protest with the old, learned ache. Every rewind costs you; the river of your body doesn’t like being asked to flow uphill. Your heart miscounts; your lungs remember a different shape. Behind your eyes, a constellation sparks and winks out, like migraine’s older, crueler cousin. Your thoughts run on two tracks at once, the confession you just made and the version of you who never does, and you are both of them for a second, a pressure that makes your teeth hurt.

Clark’s hand slips out of yours in reverse. Your words un-leave your mouth, hitching, and become breath; your breath becomes intent; your intent becomes weight in your chest that time has no interest in carrying for you. The stubble under your palm smooths itself, unkisses your skin. The gold threads gather, taut, and then snap back into you. You taste iron. You keep your hand where it is because it is the last place it was allowed to be.

And you fall back into the moment you chose.

“Why do you have to leave? Did I do something? Did someone hurt you?” Clark’s voice pitches high.

You have practiced a thousand faces in your mirror. Tonight you choose the kind that looks like it belongs to someone who is not breaking.

With your warmest smile, as you replay, all at once, the hundred small mercies that made you fall in love with him, you say, “Because I met someone. He lives in Gotham. He’s… brilliant. You’d really like him, Clark.”

There is a heartbeat, yours, you think, where the lie quivers like a coin you’re spinning on a tabletop, a decision not yet made. Then it lands; you watch it hit him like a gift he thinks he deserved.

“That’s awesome, sweetheart! I’m shocked! Sorry. Not in a bad way. I didn’t mean for that to come out how it did. Goodness. I just, I figured I’d of known it when my best friend fell in love.” He laughs with his belly, shoulder loosening against yours, dimple popping like it always does when he stops keeping track of his face around you.

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of things you don’t know there, superman.” You manage the tease; your stomach manages the twist.

“When do I get to meet him?” Clark asks, warm smile on his face.

“A while from now,” you say, and you can hear how gentle you are with yourself in that sentence, like you’re tucking yourself in and turning out the light. “I want it to just be mine for a bit. To keep it private till I know it’s something serious. Don’t want to just drag anyone around to meet you and Lois. You know that’s not how I am.”

It’s almost nothing, that use of her name, the way you hand it back without shaking. He hears it and his gaze softens, pride and relief and a sweetness that does not belong to you rising like heat off summer pavement. He reaches with one arm across your shoulders and pulls you in, a distinctly friendly side hug that would be unbearable if you didn’t need it so much.

“You deserve to be loved. I hope this guy’s not an idiot.”

“Me too,” you breathe, letting the feel of his body against yours sear itself into your consciousness. This is borrowed warmth. It will return to Lois soon. For this one minute, it is only yours, and that is the cruelest kindness time affords you: not reprieve, only witness.

Below, a siren decides it is time to be loud again. Somewhere, Jimmy is sending Lois a picture of a dog in sunglasses with a caption that will make her groan and then reply to it anyway. The globe turns. Clark’s phone buzzes and he doesn’t check it right away, because you are here and he is the kind of man who does not turn away from the person beside him. Your power has always wanted to make more time. Tonight, it made less.

You tip your head onto his shoulder and stare hard at the city until your eyes stop threatening to tell on you. You will buy a train ticket. You will invent a name you won’t have to say often. You will be good at it; you are already good at it. Gotham hums gray at the edge of your mind like a storm that won’t break.

“I’m happy for you,” he says into your hair, and means it with the full sincerity that ruined you. “Gosh, I’m really happy for you.”

You smile where he can’t see you do the math. Thirty minutes becomes twenty-nine. His arm is heavy and safe. You catalog this, too; you put it on the altar with the others. When you get to your apartment, you will sit on the floor between boxes and make a list of things your nonexistent boyfriend in Gotham likes: late-night coffee so strong it borders on cruel, rooftops more than restaurants, quiet museums on weekday afternoons when the world forgets to look, and the river at night when the city lights bleed across the water. You’ll tell yourself you made him up whole cloth, a fiction to carry you out of Metropolis.

(Fate has a sharper sense of humor than you do. Because somewhere in Gotham, a man already exists who drinks his coffee black and bitter, who spends more nights under the sky than under his own roof, who disappears into galleries when no one is watching, who has memorized the hush of the river. You don’t know him yet, don’t know his name, his laugh, or the way his gaze will undo you, but you will. You’ll meet him, and fall in love, and realize that what you thought was an invention was prophecy.)

Clark squeezes once and lets go, the way he always does when he’s about to stand and be the thing the whole world asks of him. “Walk you home?”

“Fly me,” you say, because your cruelty has limits and he’d be hurt if you said no. “One last time.”

He grins. “Not the last,” he says, optimistic as weather. “Just for now.”

He lifts you like it’s the easiest thing, like gravity is a rumor he refuses to spread, and the city drops away, and the wind does its best to clean your face of anything that would betray you. Metropolis is a quiet mouthful of light beneath you; your heart knocks like someone trying to get out of a locked room.

He lands on your roof with a soft, respectful touch of boots to gravel. He sets you down like you’re made of all the things he’d never let break.

“Text me when you get to Gotham?” he asks, hopeful, and then, because he can’t help it, he adds, “Tell him I said he’s lucky.”

“I will.” You tuck your hands into your jacket so he won’t see the way your fingers still glow faintly where time went through them. “Goodnight, Clark.”

“Goodnight,” he says, and then adds your name like he’s afraid you might forget it where you’re going. He lifts off, a dark blur against a darker sky, and then a star that moves, and then the idea of a star, and then nothing.

You wait until the sound stops pretending it can hang around after he’s gone. You press your palm to the place on your shoulder where the hug has already become memory. You go downstairs. You do not cry because you already did that, thirty minutes ago, in a world that will never have to carry it.

Time does not love you back. That is not its job. And still, neither does he. That is not his fault.

You pack. You leave the lights off. You practice the new story until your mouth knows it without your heart trying to correct it. You lie down in a bed you trained yourself not to imagine sharing. Outside, the city turns over, pulls the covers up, dreams whatever cities dream.

And when morning comes, no one will know what you gave it to be this kind of friend.

[dumbbandpoetic]

⋆˚࿔ decorating the apartment ⋆

.𖥔 flufftober day 2!

.𖥔 pairing: clark kent x black cat!reader

.𖥔 summary: in which clark needs to convince his grumpy girlfriend to let him put up all of his autumn decorations but he doesn't know how!

.𖥔 warnings: tooth rotting fluff

.𖥔 wc: 682 words

“What the hell is all this?”

Clark is in the middle of lifting his fourth box of autumn decorations when his girlfriend finally interrupts him from staring at her phone for the last half hour. His heart melts when she talks.

Gosh, she’s pretty.

“It’s my autumn decorations.” He grins, effortlessly tossing the box up in the air and spinning it around to show her the label on the side. There, in sloppy, cartoonish handwriting, are the words ‘(best) seasonal decor’.

Autumn’s always been his favourite - back in Smallville, on the farm, autumn was the best. It was the season where leaves fell off trees and he could jump in piles of them with Shelby. Where Ma would make cinnamon rolls which tasted like what humans would call heaven. Where he’d go back to school and see all of his friends, happy about it, unlike most other people.

His girlfriend isn’t quite so happy as he is. She’s amazing, and he loves her, sure, but it’s a lot harder to excite her with things. On the other hand, Clark gets excited when the last bite on his plate fits perfectly on his fork. Some would call them a perfect match.

“That’s a lot of boxes for some decorations, Clark.” She scoffs, finally setting her phone down. To copy her, he sets the box down, striding over to the couch. When he lays down, it sags a little, but she supports his weight. He lays between her legs, head resting on her chest as he looks up at her. Clingy puppy, he is. Can’t spend a second without her. “Oh, hello.” She grins.

“You know, I actually have ten boxes down in storage.” He murmurs, pressing his cheek flat against her ribs. “Which makes six more.”

“That’s a lot of decorations.” She repeats, eyebrows raising slightly, as she lifts her hand to trace little circles on his cheek. He almost purrs, which is embarrassing, but not nearly his worst moment.

“Well, I like putting a lot of stuff up for autumn, baby. It gives me an atmosphere.” He grins, pressing his face further into her hand. He can’t stop himself. It’s like a drug.

“I don’t know. Won’t it get distracting? And it’ll take forever to take it all down-”

“Gosh, you are such a negative Nancy sometimes.” He murmurs, leaning up to peck her cheek, which effectively shuts her up. “Don’t you think it’ll be nice? We can have themed dates.” He gasps at that revelation. “Oh my god, themed dates. And couples costumes!”

“Clark, please.” She laughs, her hand splaying across his face as she pushes it away. “Too much information. Too many things I don’t want.”

“You don’t wanna do couples costumes with me? Babe!” He whines, pulling away from her hand to give her his best puppy dog look. “We could’ve been Hercules and Meg, but if you don’t love me enough…”

“Stop it!” She giggles, and he gets his way as soon as she leans down and softly presses her lips against his. Because if there’s one thing about Clark Kent, he kisses with motivation. With intent. And within 3 hours, their apartment was covered in fake pumpkins, pretty lanterns that Clark had made in primary school, cinnamon scented candles - and somehow, amongst all the boxes, something of hers slipped in. A wreath of red leaves and dried orange slices that she’d made a few years ago.

“It’s beautiful. This is beautiful.” He mumbles when he pulls it out of the box, looking down at her appreciatively before hanging it up with a nail. “Just like you are.”

“You’re only saying that because I gave you what you want.” She grins, flicking his forehead. He gasps indignantly.

“Fine. You’re right. Whatever.”

credits to andromeda-graphics for the dividers!!

taglist: @thankschef-blog @pb-n-jen (to be added) (just comment to ask!)

[yudon32]

The execution of Lady Furina de Fontaine

[thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch]

Of Soulmates and Humans

Ch. 1- The Sun

zhongli/f.reader

genre: dragon emperor!zhongli, servant!y/n, royal au, soulmate/dragon mate au, different kingdoms, angst, slow burn but also kinda not really?, hidden identities

warning(s)!!!: use of morax/zhongli interchangeably, bullying/mistreatment, typical harsh high-low class system dynamics

w.count: 10.9k

SYNOPSIS: the golden marks etched into your very being were the entire reason you were seen as defective. humanity wont love or cherish something they can't comprehend or explain- a mark with no origin other than fables is one such thing they do not accept. they will not accept you. but someone will. other peoples will. experiencing love is not purely a human trait. your other half lies within dragons. and someday you'll get to witness just how far they- he- would go for you.

a/n: ah shit, here we go again. its only been 8 months

Soulmates are rare. So rare that some peoples see them as blessings from the heavens; others deem them curses. Nothing more than worthless marks that only stain the body and doom the soul. The world is vast and with its vastness, the only way to determine where one side of a Soul Pair would fall is entirely up to fate. 

Take humans and dragons for example.

For humans, a child born with a mark is no different than a child born with a shackle. They would be lucky to grow up without being ousted from friends and family- very few get the luxury of love. Other handedly, Dragons who gain a connection to a destined partner rejoice. For such a long-lived species, having one single person in the world to call their own is the most anticipated point of their being. 

A healthy, newborn baby girl was born on a night when the moon was high and fully shining in the dark night sky freckled with stars. Lapis Dei with all six of its stars hangs beautifully in the cosmos- none paid any mind to it. The precious babe born into the world wails solemnly and alone as the blanket she should be tightly swaddled in lays loosely around her delicate, bare body. 

Not a single attendant or midwife dare approach the screaming newborn that strongly kicks her feet as her tiny hands curl tightly against her chest. The father of the babe stares horrifyingly at the child he had- up until this very moment- held affection for. Even her mother- who went through such intense labor refuses to hold her child. 

How could any human willingly hold such a cursed child? A child who wails with a golden glow coming from her back. Shining so brightly through the fabric underneath her, even the stars would rival her shine.

The castle is rowdy. More than usual. Servants and staff run around from place to place, dusting anything with a surface, cleaning floors, replacing old furnishings with new and straightening them up into symmetrical perfection. The last time the royal halls were this chaotic was when the princess was born- or so you’ve heard. You were too young to remember, so it’s all hearsay. With how the king spoils his daughter though, it’s easy enough to believe. 

Speed walking through the halls, you weave through bodies of other workers with your hands full. Two very full, and not exactly light weighted, boxes are stacked in your hands. Chalk full of kitchen ware to be brought out only for exceptionally special occasions. No doubt covered in a thick layer of dust you- or someone else on staff- would have to scrub off without also chipping any paint. 

“Pardon me,” you quietly call as you squeeze your way through a group of people crowding around the kitchen’s entrance. None working mind you. All most likely gossiping about the sole reason why the palace was in such an uproar. You couldn’t blame them; if you had someone to talk to about it- you were sure you’d do the same. 

That isn’t the case, however. 

The kitchen staff are busy sorting through ingredients to see which are expired, which aren't and storing them accordingly. Right now, bundles of grass and tins of tea leaves lay scattered on the main island table. You haven’t the faintest idea what they’re for- at least the grasses (which you’re half certain are actually spices yet to be ground). The chef who is pretty much the head honcho in his domain see’s you first. 

“Set those over there,” he points to a free space on a nearby counter. He probably anticipated your arrival with wares and cleared a space for you so you wouldn't linger. He wasn’t a cruel man and has never said anything nasty to your face. But, his facial expressions don’t hide his feelings so well. You never say anything back though. Marching to the designated space, you slide the boxes into place and dust your hands off on your apron. 

Even though you work officially as a palace maid, your jobs vary. You could be pulling weeds one day and the next you would be climbing to dangerous heights to check on a chandelier that someone claims ‘swings too violently’; even if your assignment makes no sense and you have no experience in repairing such things. Still, you had no way to refuse orders. Being at the bottom of the barrel and all. 

“If you’ll excuse me,” you politely and quietly dismiss yourself and shuffle out of the kitchen before the sounds of knives chopping herbs into sections starts feeling personal. 

An unfortunate soul, sold by her prostitute mother as a baby for money and raised as a servant within the palace.

That is your story. 

The world you live in is an unjust one. One that has nearly jaded you time and time again, but you refuse to let it dilute who you are. You can work through your days in peace despite the obvious hazing and belittlement thrown your way. At the very end of the day, there’s always a chance you’ll enter a dream. A dream where you’re wanted and cared for. A dream that isn’t fully a dream. 

In this world, soulmates exist. There’s many kinds and many characters for each pair. No two pairs of souls are the same. 

Some have matching-mismatching eyes. Others lack the ability to lie to each other no matter the situation. You’ve heard of pairs who never know what colors look like until they laid eyes onto each other. Or perhaps the pair would have the other's name or first words written in ink that could only be delivered by the Gods on their skin. 

Or the soul pair could have matching soul marks: a defect imprinted on the body at birth. 

The wind blows cool air through the open corridors leading to the outside garden. From up above the courtyard, you see gardeners with sheers trimming hedges of the maze the king had created when the princess was a little girl when she expressed the slightest hint of intrigue. Old flowers were being replaced with new ones to fit the oncoming season and the several tables set up for tea parties are being lined with new linen tablecloths and cushions. You wonder briefly if they would repaint the tables as well. 

The breeze brings the scent of the flowers to your nose. You inhale deeply and for a single moment wish you could enjoy a spot under the sun with a cup of tea and pastries one day as well. Then the moment of wishful thinking ends and you remind yourself of your station. Shaking your head, you continue on your way. There’s still chores to be done and the day is hardly half over. 

Hours pass by and the sun moves to the center of the sky and even further still. Midday passes and afternoon arrives. The sun’s warm as you feel the rays filter through the windows. Currently sweeping up a mess of shattered glass from a vase a different servant knocked over a bit ago. You half wonder if they’re getting a scolding right now or if they’re hiding to avoid one. The thick glass pieces clink together as you sweep in small motions, collecting it all into a messy, sharp pile. 

“Y/n!” Your name causes your sweeping to halt before looking around your shoulder. You smile as your shoulders deflate at the familiar figure gracefully waltzing down the hall in your direction. The high priestess’s voice is soft as it echoes dully in the almost empty hall. This is the emptiest you’ve seen any part of the castle today honestly. Good. Your conversation with someone non-hostile won’t be interrupted this way. 

You turn your back to the pile of vase shards and give the high standing woman your attention. “Lady Kokomi,” the woman smiles softly at you calling her name in return, “good afternoon. Does the temple have business in the castle today?” 

“Of sorts,” she tells you. It never fails to amaze you just how beautiful the woman in front of you is. She’s older than you, so she claims since she never tells you her real age, and carries herself with such grace it’s near divine. Perhaps her standing as the kingdom’s highest priestess enables her to have some sort of training for walking. She holds herself with such refinement- you almost feel jealous. “I hear a special guest is arriving tomorrow, so I fear what I intended to discuss with His Majesty may be postponed. So, I came to check on you instead.” Her smile is soft and welcoming; you feel flush just looking at the beauty of it. 

“I’m flattered,” you bashfully reply. “I wish I had more time to give you, but you know how it is if I’m caught slacking.” 

Kokomi’s smile twitches before her smooth lips are drooping at the ends into a soft frown. Her brows upturn in a way that can only be interrupted as worry. “Are you still being mistreated?” She knows the answer, so when you don’t justify her with one, she simply takes a calming, deep breath inwards. “I understand.” Her voice is solemn, and you reach out to grasp her hand that hangs at her side. In normal circumstances, a lowly servant like you would not be permitted to touch someone in such high power without permission. 

Kokomi doesn’t treat you like that though. She squeezes your hand comfortingly. “You’d tell me if it got too bad, right? If you find yourself at a loss, or unable to take it, you would inform me?” 

“Of course,” you tell her. And you mean it. You would. This tall standing woman is the one person you could trust with anything among the palace, even if she’s of the temple and not a royal. Be it your well being, your personal woes, or even your very life. “I’m alright.” 

“The temple will always welcome you, y/n. Please, if you ever need a place to go-”

“I will. If I didn’t, I’m sure her Ladyship, Priestess Kokomi, would track me down and give me a stern talking to while swaddling me in furs and presenting me a warm meal.” 

“My,” Kokomi’s lips finally flip up into her smile that fits her face much more than a frown, “it’s like you're dancing around in my very head.” 

Kokomi stays just a bit longer in the hall with you, holding your hand tightly all the while. As soon as her ears pick up on the approaching sounds of footsteps, her posture straightens as she drops your hand, and her facial features shift just enough that she’s entered professional mode. You understand the cues and lower your head as she stands before you. 

“Thank you for your hard work.” She places her hand softly on your shoulder. 

“It’s my pleasure, my Lady.” Your eyes remain downwards and soon her hand slips off your shoulder affectionately and she’s twisting on her heel. Her fancy heels that you could only ever dream of affording, much less wearing, clack like bells against the polished floors. She offers a quick thanks to other servants who pass her before her presence disappears entirely. 

You quickly retake up your task of sweeping glass shards and discard them before moving to the next task you might come upon before being assigned one. As you dust off a light fixture you absentmindedly wonder when the next time you’ll see Kokomi will be. 

You’ll have to tell Li about the nice conversation you had with your good friend. He always seems to enjoy it when you tell him about your day. 

Night comes faster than you thought it would, with your hair still damp with a few droplets of water still dripping from the ends when you crawl into your bed. The cot you’ve been given as a servant residing in the castle is shotty as best. A well-worn mattress that has a dipped depression where you lay every night and have laid every one before this one. The blanket has mismatched patches scattered around it and the cotton stuffed into it is lumpy and uneven from your past attempts to make it thicker and warmer. At least your sheets are clean and pillow decent. 

In this small room, your private room, you have a little bit of peace and quiet. A single wardrobe with two opening doors split down the middle and three drawers under them. The wood was worn and metal handles corroded after years of use. Inside lay your uniform for work and the few casual clothing sets for the extremely rare day off. 

Beside the wardrobe is a small vanity you had been given by a past servant who was going to just throw it out. The mirror was cracked diagonally downwards but you didn’t mind. All you needed was to make sure your work clothes and hair were presentable for a hard day's work. The stool that came with it has a flat cushion, but you don't sit there for long periods anyway. 

There's one long shag rug running from the door to your room all the way to the middle of it- which is about five paces give or take. The best part of your room was the tall, glass door that leads out onto a small balcony with a waist high railing. You have a potted plant out there you tend to and there's just enough space to fit two people shoulder to shoulder on it along with the plant. 

Tucking yourself in, the moon casts shadows from your windowed doors onto the floor. The moon was full tonight and it was just cool enough that venturing outside would spark gooseflesh. Sleep finds you easily after a long day of different chores. 

Then your eyes open. 

You’ve never had a proper dream before. You’ve experienced nightmares on occasion, but a fabricated dream of fiction has never occurred to you subconscious. All simply because your dreams are connected to another. Someone who’s face you’ve never seen but still know so very well. 

You imagine this is what lucid dreaming would feel like if you had real dreams. The idea of knowing you're asleep while your mind is still in control of your thoughts and theoretical actions. You lift yourself off the grass you always ‘wake up’ on and make it to your feet. You dust off your back and legs as if you’re covered in dirt- you’re not but even if you were, Li would never be able to tell. 

Starting forward, it’s only a few paces before the scenery around changes with the whoosh of a gentle breeze. The open meadow changes to a dirt clearing with a single bonfire around it. It’s on the top of a cliff where the fabricated view of the artificial moon is always the loveliest. The moon was always full with an unnatural blue tint to it and it’s always surrounded by far too many stars. You’ve even taken to creating a few made up constellations with the stars you know don’t exist in reality. 

Your walking picks up when standing at the edge of the cliff is a shadow of a person. You know who it is, you’ve known him for years. 

“Li!” You call out, jogging up to his side. The stranger who isn’t a stranger turns and you can only assume he smiles at you. You can’t tell.

You can’t see him.

Coming to stand at his front his hand moves to brush against your cheek. He does this offer so he can ‘see’ what expression you're making. Today he runs his knuckles down the apple of your cheek and can feel your smile. 

“Good evening, my dear.” 

This is Li. Your soulmate. The soulmate you can’t even see. That’s how it works- at least for you both. 

You were born with a mark on your back. Golden lines that never touch and form the shape of a diamond imprinted on your left shoulder blade. It was because of this mark you were never loved by your father or your half-sister. 

Abandoned to be a mere servant of the palace as a maid and nothing more. You’ve never once acted the part of your kingdom’s first born princess; in fact, they don’t even know you exist. Sometimes, it feels like the only good thing you got out of being unrecognized is the fact you were allowed to carry your foster mother’s name and not the royal families. 

According to the rest of peoples in your kingdom, the first princess was still born and the mother mourned so deeply she took her own life. Thus the king remarried two years later and had a child with the late second-queen. 

Sometimes you wish you were accepted despite your ‘flaw’, yearning for familiar love. It never lingers because if you had been brought up any other way than this one, you wouldn’t be where you are now. You could have treated Li like a stranger you loathed. You don’t. You love this man whose face you have never seen. 

The way your soulmarks work is simple yet complicated. You both can meet in dreams just like this. The first time you both met was when you were 15 and to say you were beyond spooked is an understatement. You actually woke yourself up by screaming in pure shock. He snickered at you the second time you met in a dream. 

Li is simply a shadowed figure to your eyes. You appear the same to him, a simple shadow in the shape of a human. Neither one of you will know what the other looks like until you see one another. It’s almost cruel, since you’ll probably be trapped inside this castle until you're old and grey and when you finally die, you’ll be lucky to be buried in the cemetery. You may never know what he looks like or ever get to meet him. It's tragic. 

That doesn’t mean you know nothing about your soulmate. You know plenty. 

For starters, his name isn’t actually Li, but that’s what he’s asked you to call him. He says he can’t tell you his real name for reasons that are hard to explain. You understand though. He’s tall with long hair he usually ties low at the back of his head. 

He isn’t a human, but a dragon (when he told you that, you begged to touch his ears since you’ve heard they’re pointed- he let you). However, the horns you can make out the silhouette of that separate, branch off, and stretch above him you leave alone. 

He prefers drinking tea over liquor and he prefers it black- but he does fancy a particular wine that’s often made in his homeland. His kingdom has two names- one is pronounced in draconic tongue and the other is much easier for humans to articulate- Liyue. You still haven’t learned what is it in draconic though since he doesn’t often speak of home around you. 

He can’t stand seafood. 

Apparently he’s actually over 500 hundred years old and while he's had his soulmark his entire long life, it only began to glow with warmth on the day you spooked yourself awake for the first time at 15 years old. It’s been many years since then. 

You’ve traced his face with your fingers before, hoping to get a mental feel for how he appears. His features are defined and he feels handsome, but unfortunately for you- you still couldn’t create a whole image of him in your head. You don’t know if it’s arrogance, but he also claims that others say he is pleasing to look at. You choose to believe him. 

Li loves the smell of flowers. Where he lives in the kingdom of dragons there’s a special flower that grows spontaneously on cliffsides. The plant that blooms in three, purple stalks is called violetgrass and while every flower has its own uniqueness and beauty, he tends to favor the blue bell blooms that hang downwards. 

He was kind and patient with you. Li often speaks freely and listens attentively. Despite claiming to have a short temper some days, he’s never once lost it with you. He claims your presence has a calming effect on him, and should the day ever come when he raises his voice towards you, you are free to put him in his place. You can’t imagine either happening. 

While you are soulmates, Li has also taken time before to explain that additionally on his end, you are considered his draconic mate despite remaining human. He speaks of you as if you hold his very soul in your palms and it always makes you warm. 

“You’re a bit late to fall asleep tonight,” he points out. Taking your hand in his, he helps ease you onto the ground and let your legs dangle over the edge of the cliffside. He joins you once you’ve settled, never letting himself become comfortable first. 

“The castle is in uproar right now because a guest is arriving in the morning,” you explain. “I had more work to do than usual.” 

“You did not encounter any so-called bullying I hope.” His voice is stern. He had learned from you before that you’re often the butt of ‘jokes’, or the object of others' scrutiny or brashness. You told him you’ve grown more than used to it, but he simply got more upset because “that isn’t something you should be used to”, he told you. 

“It wasn’t bad. Everyone was too busy for me to be the object of attention,” you reassure. “I did get to have a brief conversation with Lady Kokomi though. She had come to the castle for business, but with all the commotion going on, she simply decided another day would be better.” 

You have no way of knowing that the longer you talk the wider the soft smile on his lips spreads. 

“That’s wonderful.” He places his hand on the top of your head and strokes downwards until he rests it delicately against your ear; his palm muffling the sound of your dream on only one side. “I’m glad you were able to enjoy a talk with such a dear friend. I hope one day I get a chance to speak with her as well since she’s so important to you.” 

You’re glad for a moment that he cannot see your features. You wonder if he’d frown at seeing your gleeful smile turn solemn. 

“I hope so too,” you murmur. Perking back up, you shift tones. “She’s the person in charge of the temple in my kingdom. Her power even rivals the king.” Explaining it really means nothing. Li does not live in your kingdom so unless he ever crosses his lands boards, he’ll never meet her. It isn’t often Kokomi leaves the kingdom since she uses her position to keep the king in check without him evening noticing.  

“Don’t grow upset,” Li soothes you. His thumb skating softly across the cheek he’ll one day get to view in all its beauty. “Someday, it will happen. I promise.” 

You nod at him, not having the heart to voice your doubts. Li is a dragon and will have a long life. Much longer than you will. What if the day comes when you do meet and you’re far past what the human race considers ‘their prime’? What if you’re not young? Would he still find you as lovely as he claims when you're old or wrinkled or gray with age? What if you end up dead before you can ever lay eyes on him? It hurts to imagine- so you try not to. 

Li lowers his hand from the side of your head down to your neck, curling his fingers under your skull behind your neck and gently tugs you forward. He places his lips gently on your forehead and you shut your eyes to linger in their warmth. He started doing so after your 20th birthday as a form of comfort. It works a charm because every time he does you do feel a little better. 

The rest of the night flows as they usually do. Small chit chat followed by silence and soon it’s simply you both basking in the dreamscape of night under the artificial moonlight while pointing out new, false constellations. Li cradles your hand the whole time.

When you crack open your eyes in the morning your hand feels colder than usual. 

“Lord Morax,” the golden dragon in humanoid form cracks his eyes open at the call of one of his many names. He’s been traveling in a human carriage drawn by horses since he first entered this human country. The carriage was stifling to his senses. He’s already shrunk his body down, concealed his horns considerably, and hidden his tail entirely to appear more human, but being in this clunking mode of transport was almost too much. If he could just blow a hole in the top for the air to come and go and feel the sun, it wouldn’t be as insufferable. 

His legs and arms are crossed over their own respective limb as only his eyes move to glance out the window to his left, his bangs bounce from the moving carriage and threaten to poke the golden hues. Outside, one of his closest attendants hangs off the sides of the carriage. Holding onto the railing along the edges at the top of the carriage with one leg hanging off the lip used to step out onto the ground, the wind of movement flutters his dark slated grey and cyan hair.  

“The human castle is beyond the horizon. Arrival will be short.” Also diminishing his draconic appearance, Xiao did not dwindle down to the same threshold as his leading king. His ears were still longer than a human and tipped at the end with his markings that spread across his left shoulder and bicep remaining visible and untainted. 

Morax heaves a sigh. 

“Very well.” With two short words, Xiao nods. Hopping gracefully off the side of the carriage to which he clung previously. No doubt he landed easily and with half a step was walking once more alongside the carriage. He should be on horseback but refuses to ride. He does not like how it feels when his feet are not on the ground- or so he’s argued. 

As promised, soon the outside scenery of trees sprouted by nature shrunk into trees of a much less scale. Dotting along the path until they were replaced with man-planted and maintained shrubbery until finally the greenery was simply clay potted plants that's neatly trimmed among a waist-high stone wall. They line the cobblestone path the horse-drawn carriage trots along with the emperor inside. 

Beyond the lined pathways, Morax’s golden eyes scan the front perimeter of the castle grounds. They differ greatly from his palace back home, but if he were a human- he would most definitely find charming. Green patches of open grass with the occasional bush of flowers and wildflowers respectively that hadn’t been weeded out yet. The occasional marble statue or bust of some random human he’s sure was once important. He can vaguely hear the sound of bubbling water behind the clopping of hooves and wooden wheels running over stone. 

The carriage soon pulls into a circular path that is used as a means of entrance to the front gates of the castle. He assumes this way avoids any unfortunate carriage accidents by maintaining order. The path circles an elegant fountain- the source of water he heard before. A grand marble statuette of a woman in a single clothed dress with her hands cupped above her head. Water drips from her hands as if she’s offering water to the heavens. At her feet, waterspouts from all four cardinal directions into the circular fountain below. 

Morax briefly wonders if this woman is of any significance to the kingdom, royal family, or if she was simply the product of the artist’s mind. 

His carriage halts and the emperor sighs in relief that the jostling has finally stopped.  Hearing the horses whinny and breathe out huffs of air from their nostrils, he expects that the creatures are just as tired as he- more so even. Peering out the carriage window, the dragon stays seated as he looks at the servants lining the steps into the royal castle. All in the same uniforms between male and female and all with dipped chins and closed eyes. 

The carriage door unlatches and opens letting the air outside in. Morax breathes it in deeply, enjoying the freshness after being cooped up with stagnant air for his whole journey past the border. The sound of water from the fountain is no longer muffled and is mixing with the sound of the birds and wind and flapping flags that hold the crest of the royal family. 

Uncrossing his legs and arms, one of his hands comes to the top of the open door frame as his bent legs take him a step and a half out onto the first set of metal framed steps leading out of the carriage car. When his feet hit the pavement, the stone under his bare skin is warm from the morning sun and he feels far more connected to the earth. 

Now outside, Morax is finally able to view the small-scale entourage he’s brought with him from his own nation. A small squad of soldiers from his palace security accompanied him by request and it seemed that all 8 of them cared even less about hiding their draconic features than Xiao did. Most of them- save one or two- all still had their horns visible and tails trailing after their heels. Scales could be seen spotting their skin under the sun where their armored uniforms don’t cover. Morax doesn’t mind. He finds it prideful. 

Aside from his defensive squad, the emperor brought along two close vassals. One being Xiao who was making his way up towards Morax’s right side. He stood shorter than his leader, but he is one of the emperor’s most formidable allies. His speed and agility were above any in his field and he’s the acting general of Morax’s military forces. In battles of war, Xiao goes by the title of General Alatus. His power over wind is second only to one other in Morax’s close circle.  

The other was making her way off of the front of the carriage where she had been reading and chatting with the human tasked with escorting the entire party to the castle. She was a chatty woman, curious of all things and practically begged to be taken along on this more or less diplomatic trip just to study human laws and practicalities. 

With pale pink hair that runs down to her chin, then cuts off into a separate longer section that reaches her mid back, the halfling between dragon and human lovers bounces over to the two other higher standing dragons. With horns like single split antlers angled down past her shoulders that are a beautiful cream color- the halfling known as Yanfei gleams excitedly at the new surroundings. 

Yanfei is a soul of justice. Her knowledge of laws of many walks of life is vast, and she continues to thirst for more knowledge so she can help those who need to be aided. Seeking to right wrongs and punish those who do wrong. The fire in which she commands helps her seek that justice. 

Morax suspects she won’t be seen much- too preoccupied with soaking up knowledge and talking to the humans around the castle. Being half human, Yanfei still mostly grew up in the dragon world. Her human parent past several years ago, so her dragon parent raised her on familiar soil. She’s no doubt curious about the other side of her identity- and she’s so thick skinned that any possible insult she may encounter won’t stop her burning path forward. 

Morax is rather fond of her. She’s the opposite of another dragon left back at his palace. A Qilin dragon that is much more introverted, but still just as devoted to her job as Yanfei. 

The emperor has a soft spot for the younglings of today’s age. 

With his party accounted for, Morax finally cranes his neck upwards and views the castle in all its massive, stone glory. 

“It’s so different from back home,” he hears Yanfei mutter excitedly. Carrying a small book around with her everywhere she goes, he can hear her already flipping it open to jot down notes of anything she wants to remember- which might be everything. He hopes she’s brought extra books with her less she runs out of pages to scribble in. 

“It’s gaudy,” Xiao decides to pitch his two cents in with two short words. The quirk in his brow and dip in his lips say more than his mouth does. 

Morax doesn’t agree nor denies either opinion. It was different, but that’s also because they were not human. They did not grow up in the human world- they grew up with dragons where things were going to be different by nature. 

The castle was large, much larger than the ones he’s seen in the past (then again, it’s been several, several years). The structure stands so tall you’d have to take several hundred paces back and still look up so far you’d bend you back to view it fully. Four grand marble columns dot the front of the castle, each column separating the long, tall, white outside walls. With each wall off of the front main entrance, each is pivoted back to make the entire thing appear curved. Windows dot the sections in modesty and above the highest point at the main gate is colored glass that shines in the sun. 

Morax knows that this castle has three other keeps within its tremendous grounds. If his research was still of date, one keep is for the old castle- the one that was originally built when the kingdom was first pitching its tent. As far as he knows, it's nearly abandoned. At one point it was used as a quarantine area when an epidemic broke up a century ago. 

A second keep was used to house servants' quarters and store yearly items that would be stored away when their season of use passes. There should also be working quarters and small work rooms for the staff that require it for their tasks. It’s the equivalent of a storage area combined with room and board. 

The third was the most recently built and is where a number of high-class guests converge for parties, meetings or garden viewings. Established beside the vast courtyard- he hears it’s quite the way to spend time if you’ve got the status. It will also be where Morax’s temporary chambers will be provided as well as his attending dragon-folks. Apparently, the entire upper floors of the third keep were cleaned, polished and set up for all of them for their own privacy. 

Part of him wonders if it also isn’t to keep them separated from the humans. They do have their prejudice, even if they hide it behind polished hospitality. 

Behind the main wall of the entrance onto castle grounds looms the castle itself. Standing tall and proud with white stone, marble and metal combined efforts of infrastructure. The walls surrounding as well as the main castle all share the same deep shade of blue that coats the respective roofs. The shade was darker than that of the sky, it was deep and rich capturing the essence of royalty. 

The towers on both the west and east directions were tall enough they could meet low hanging clouds with spires to pierce them. 

“You Imperial Majesty,” came an unfamiliar, human voice. Morax’s brow twitches as the calling. He strongly dislikes how humans address him like that. An emperor of dragons differs from a human emperor, but they- even after hundreds of generations- refuse to learn that difference. Xiao seems as displeased as his sire is with his stance going rigid. 

Morax lower’s his chin from its lifted gaze that has been examining the castle and brings it back to his eye level. Despite being in a human form, he still stands quite tall. The man who addressed him previously walks towards him and stops about two paces away. He offers his hand in greeting and Morax accepts it mindful to watch his grip and not crush his greeter’s hand. 

“We welcome you to Salkire Castle. Was the trip from the border too terrible?” 

It was insufferable. “No, we managed just fine.” Slipping his hand from the greeter’s grasp, he extended his arm to his left towards Xiao. “This is Xiao, he will be acting as my personal retainer for the duration of this visit.” Xiao offers not a head nod or a smile or even a twitch towards the human in front of him. Morax’s arm swivels in front of him to his opposite towards Yanfei next. “This is Yanfei. She’ll be wandering around your castle and associating with your people quite… freely.” 

The human had no reason to challenge such a claim about Yanfei being able to do as she pleased since it all boiled down to the king’s orders. He’d simply address it to the human ruler later and issue the pass- there was no other choice. 

“I am Roman. I serve under His Majesty the king. He’s currently tied up with work at the moment, so I was instructed to handle your greeting and show you to your temporary living quarters in his stead.” Morax did not know how much of that was factual or if the human king simply couldn’t be bothered. Still, it was no skin off his nose. 

“Very well.” 

“Then, if you would follow me Your Majesty-” 

“Before we proceed,” Morax interrupts with a strained smile. If he hears ‘your majesty’ one more time-, “while I am here, I will much prefer to be addressed by my human moniker. I’ve many names and titles, but I am not overly fond of some.” 

“Oh,” Roman seems taken aback like he couldn’t have ever done anything wrong, “my apologies.” 

“You may hear my dragons refer to me as Lord Morax from time to time, but to you humans you may address me as Zhongli.” 

“I see,” the attendant hums before nodding as if finding the name acceptable. “Lord Zhongli then.” 

With a nod from both parties, Zhongli is finally led inside with Xiao and Yanfei on either side and his squad of protection marching behind his back. 

Finally being led to his quarters in the third keep’s highest floor, Zhongli emptily thanks the attendant before Roman dismisses himself. Zhongli instructs that Xiao and Yanfei find their own rooms as well as take into account where the other 8 dragons will be before laying low for the day. He did not want his dragons kicking up any scenes or too much noise on his first day in a castle he isn’t overly keen on being in in the first place. Xiao has no issues with a small, one-day ‘house arrest’ order- Yanfei on the other hand whined quite heavily. 

Now alone in his room, he stands at the closed door that he has just connected the chain lock from the doorframe to the door for the most amount of privacy he could possibly get. Letting a sigh escape him, he allows his shoulders to sag and eyes to slip shut. 

Morax did not hate humans. They were irritating and annoying sometimes sure, but he had no animosity towards them as a whole. In history, humans have done horrible things to all sorts of species as they developed and advanced- dragons included. But, then again, dragons aren’t wiped of shame either. Before Morax took the throne, the generations and emperors before him were not innocent of crimes and misdeeds.

That’s just the way of the world. 

He views humans as neutral. Not all are evil, not all are good. Morax is not a cruel dragon. He has his temper and could act irrationally on rare occasions- but he is not cruel. So, he could not outright hate humanity for their misdeeds of the past, even if he wanted to. 

Humanity did give him one thing, however; one person he cherishes beyond words he could ever write or speak of weave into poems or hymns. 

Humans gave him his soulmate. 

Perhaps one would call him biased if they found out his soulmate was human and thus blame his indecisiveness about the entire race on that sole fact. Even if that were the case, it would do them no good. Morax was stubborn- nothing would ever change that. 

Reopening his golden eyes, he finally scans his room. He does not smell anything untoward inside nor does he sense anything amiss or potentially hostile. 

The room was rectangular in shape and ran longer than it did deep. The entrance to the room was a doorway split down the center creating two strong, thick doors of deep stained wood. They smelt like they were once part of a grand tree, but the word of weidling and painting and staining took away all that nature once was. The doors were on the far right side of his room as he stands at the entrance. 

In front of him was a resting area. A long couch that could easily fit three bodies stretches against the far-right wall. Caddy-corner from the opposite end of the couch across the room was a single-person chair that looked oddly plusher than the couch. In front of both pieces of furniture was a low, oval coffee table that stretched the length of the couch. Between the chair and couch’s open corner was a single potted plant. A plant that much resembled the one that’s directly next to the entry doors directly to his right. Behind the back of the lone chair was a single window letting in the midday sun with navy drapes that resemble the color of the castle roof. 

As if splitting the room itself in two, a dividing screen was placed just off center of the room. Beyond that screen on the left-hand side of his temporary quarters was the ‘bedroom’ he supposes. 

A large bed rests on the opposite wall from the sofa. He, Xiao and Yanfei could possibly all fit on it in their current forms but if he weren’t in his altered body- it could possibly hold his half-shifted form with his tail out. The bed had a thick blanket thrown over it neatly with three pillows resting against the headboard and one, single, long pillow in front of them. The corner bed posts all have cloth attached to them. A sheer deep blue cloth hangs from the canopy and covers the bed with a faux feeling of privacy. 

At the foot of the bed was a short, long piece of wood. Perhaps it was used to help one climb into the bed? Or maybe to help humans put on shoes without having to bend all the way over. Under the bed and foot-rest-climbing-aid, was a rug that matched the one that was also placed under the resting room furniture. 

To the left of the bed was another single window with matching blue drapes. And to the right was a tall wardrobe. Next to it was a shorter, longer dresser with three drawers down each of the three columns. 

Between the entry doors and the short dresser was a small, stone fireplace. It looked out of place in the room of marble, polished floors with equally polished furniture, but the stone build and ‘aged’ look allured him. The firepit was encased with black iron bars that stopped just short of the top and the small stone chimney to release smoke melded awkwardly with the wallpaper. Perhaps the only thing to match the fireplace in the room was the chandelier that hangs in in the center of the room, seeming like it was from a generation past. 

Zhongli walks into the room further, scoping it out until he loops it in no time at all before he’s standing at the other side of the room from the entry. Moving aside a pair of floor to ceiling drapes, he’s pleased to see a long balcony just off his room. Sliding open the glass set of doors, he steps out into the fresh air. With the third keep being quite high off the ground, the air above feels fresher than down below with the wind keeping him company.

His balcony came with yet another potted plant at the left of the doors. To the right was a small, circular metal table with a set of matching outdoor chairs.  

Peering down, he’s at a good height that his draconic eyes could watch without being considered a threat. He suspects he’ll be out on this small little balcony quite a bit. 

Taking a seat in one of the chairs at the round table, he leans to rest his arm on the balcony’s railing as he watches the workers of the castle move about. They’re small from this high up, but he could still make out certain features of their body and at the right angles, their faces. 

Morax is unsure how long he spends simply staring down at the humans below, but time hardly matters to him at the moment.

Then, something happens. 

While his eyes continue to scan, they stop short on one person. One individual catches his gaze so violently he springs from his chair that he has gotten accustomed to. He stands with such intensity that he could fling it backwards, instead it simply scoots obnoxiously against the outside stone flooring. Both of his hands are gripping the railing with such force he fears he could crack the foundation- yet he can’t lessen it. He leans forward slightly as if that could get him closer to the ground. 

It feels like his body is on fire. He does not harness the power of flames, yet it feels like he could breathe out a wildfire at this very instant. His eyes shine with a shade of gold that could rival the sun and despite his constant state to remain entirely in a human form, his scales grow onto the sides of his face and his horns branch from his skull upwards into multiple crowned antler-like spikes that twist at the top. 

One of his hands that clutch the railing releases itself to then grab at the left side of his chest. His palm rests where the mark of his elemental power lies, the same mark that gave him proof of his mate’s existence. The warmth blooming from his chest where that matching mark is can’t be a coincidence. 

His mate was human. He knows that. But surely it can’t be-

His eyes follow the human who has captured his eyes from so high above and as if fate was aiding him, a gust of wind blows whatever it was they were carrying out of their grasp. They look up, grab for it and sigh when it’s within their hold again. 

Zhongli watches until the human is out of his gaze and back inside the castle walls. His heart is pounding in his ears and his chest burns with a heat he has never experienced. 

Stepping back until his rear was landing in his outside chair once again, as his tail that has reemerged from his tailbone hangs over the arm of it. His taloned hands come to his face to cover the lower half of it as he breathes heat air into his palms. His skin is hot and his eyes dry from prolonged exposure without blinking. 

Zhongli has just seen his soulmate. He has seen you. 

That has to be it. There’s no other explanation that this entire situation could be. In the very depth of his soul he knows- that was you. 

“Y/n,” he breathes so quietly, so desperately. He wonders if the air he’s breathing is steamed from how he can’t get his body to cool down. Tilting his head back, he views the bright sky and grimaces. Why was it not night yet? He needs to go to sleep. He needs you to go to sleep. He needs you to dream. 

Zhongli needs to see you. 

“Xiao.” And he appears. 

Ever since the middle of your day when you were bringing in wares from past celebrations into the third keep of the castle, you’ve had this feeling of being watched. You’re not sure why- it seems that people always have their eye on you for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t a secret that you had a mark on your back that acts as a hidden stamp of invisible permission for others to ogle you like something inhuman. But this feels... different. 

The feeling lasts for a while before fading when evening begins setting in. You make it back to your quarters and shut the door, locking the door and moving to sit on your cot. Glancing out the windowed doors that lead out onto your small balcony, you wonder what the dragon emperor is like. 

He arrived today, you think to yourself. 

You’ve never met a dragon obviously. Even if they were frequent guests of the castle- which they have never been- there’d be no reason for you to meet one. It’s a stroke of luck that you were familiar and even close to Kokomi given her status. “I am no more important than you, and I am not any more powerful than you,” she had told you one day. Kokomi knows your secret, who you were supposed to be, and yet it’s like that does not matter to her. 

There is a light chill in the air coming from the small gap between the doors of your balcony and the room. You get to your feet and pull the drapes over the one side that has the draft and place your desk stool in front of the floor length fabric to keep it from moving about. It was hardly a fix, but there’s no way anyone would be willing to properly fill it. 

As you push your stool up against the wall the best you could to pen the drape against the window, there's a shadow looming outside. You notice it at first from a glance, probably just a late-night critter out on a stroll, but then you take in the sheer size of it. It’s not a night critter or a bird or even a larger animal. The shadow is a figure of a person. 

With a short scream, you jump away from your windowed outside doors and slap a hand over your mouth. The clouds cover the moon and the stranger's figure is obscured with darkness. 

Are they an assassin? You think briefly. Surely not.

No one but a select few in the whole of the kingdom know who you are- and there’s no way any of them would look at you now and see you as a threat. Was it the princess then? She’s always spoiled and doing whatever she wants. The king hardly tells her no, giving in to her demands and whims like they’re the easiest decisions in the world. The princess also does not like you. If she wanted to have you killed, it would be a simple chain of ask and you shall receive. 

Frozen in fear and astonishment, you keep staring at the stranger outside your window. If they are an assassin, they certainly aren’t very quick at their job. You could have very easily run out screaming and be halfway down the hall by now if you weren’t frozen in place with your hands still folded over your mouth. 

The clouds seem to sense your unease as they soon give way to the moon. The cool light from the waning celestial body shines down on the psychical body outside your doors and stands unmoving on your balcony. They’re smaller than your mind originally thought after being flooded with the idea of danger. They have no weapon- not visible anyway- and stand almost relaxed. 

It’s a man, one you’ve never seen before. He looks different than any person you’ve ever seen. Pointed ears, green tattoos that seem to glow under the moon, a shoulder plate with two horn-like spikes on his left shoulder and dark hair with light highlights. 

“A dragon,” you whisper to yourself. There’s no other explanation for this man’s appearance. He certainly wasn’t human, and the emperor of dragons did bring an entourage. He must be one of the select few who accompanied his king. 

The dragon-stranger finally seems to realize you’re coming to terms with his being there and raises a hand to knock gently on the windowpanes of your door. He knocks twice before lowering his hand back down to his side. 

Okay- so he isn’t here to kill you. Assassin’s don’t knock. 

Slowly approaching the balcony door, you come close to the glass and place your hand on the door handle. Unlatching the lock, you crack the door open and soon the chilled night air slithers in. You don’t open it more than a crack as you peek your head through it. The dragon-man keeps staring at you and you blink silently at him. The silent stare down continues until you finally open your mouth and speak. 

“Um,” you flounder, “do you… need something?” 

The stranger’s shoulder slacken as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulder. He steps closer to the door and you almost step back into the safety of your room at his approach. 

“May I come inside?” 

“What?” His question comes out of nowhere and you answer his question with your own astonishment. Could he- a stranger- come inside? Inside your room? A stranger?! “You can’t,” you tell him. If he’s upset with your choice, he doesn’t show it. 

“You’re y/n, right?” His next question catches you off guard. He knows your name? Your guard is up and you're half a second from slamming the balcony door, closing the drapes and ignoring him entirely. Or maybe you should run. You're curious as to why he knows your name though. He’s a dragon who has only just arrived today, but he knows you? “Your soulmate sent me,” he states. 

“My-” your thoughts halt at his words. Face scrunching up in distrust, you frown. “How do you know about that?” The dragon in front of you seems to see that his words were not the right ones to use. The first amount of emotion you’ve seen on his face, his shaky eyes convey a sense of nervousness. “Please, go away.” 

This must be some form of ridicule. You didn’t want to be distrustful of dragons for many reasons. They’ve never done anything personal to you and your soulmate was a dragon, so being on good terms with them felt like the natural course of action. But now? This dragon stranger showing up on your balcony claiming to be sent by the very same soulmate you’re so fond of? He has to be lying. Li’s never seen you before, he doesn’t know the specifics of you living in the castle. All he really knows is your name- and it wasn’t as if you were the only one with it. 

“I don’t care that you’re a dragon,” you start, “I don’t appreciate someone climbing outside of my room, standing on my balcony without saying or doing anything, and then lying to me. So, please leave.” You finalize before you’re shutting the door in his face and drawing the curtains like you had thought of doing earlier. 

You didn’t lock the balcony doors, so you hope he doesn’t try to come inside. 

Now alone in your room again, the moonlight muted and only casting dim shadows through the drapes, you step backwards until you're in the middle of the floor. You feel horrible. Sick to your stomach. Did the dragons already hear the murmurs and rumors of your sullied name because you were marked with a soulmate? But, according to Li, dragons don’t feel prejudice towards soulmates like humans do. Was that dragon hazing you out of no other reason than just that he could? 

You shake your head. There’s no use worrying about it. You don’t know if he’s still standing on your balcony like some sort of scarecrow, but you don’t go and check. Shambling to your bed, you throw the blanket back and crawl inside. Burying your face into the fabric, you curl into yourself and squeeze your eyes shut. 

Just go to sleep, you tell yourself. If you see Li in your dreams tonight, maybe you can ask him if dragon’s can be malicious about soulmates like humans or if that’s something unnatural.

You're the first one to show up in the dreamscape tonight. Sitting on the ground by the cliffside, there's a small bonfire beside you and you take in the artificial warmth from it. You’re completely zoned out for an amount of time you don’t keep track of. Eventually, beyond the crackling of the fire, you hear the sound of crunching ground under footsteps. Lifting your head, you let a small smile grace your face as the nasty feelings from when you were awake lifts like a spell for even a moment. 

Getting off the ground, the familiar silhouette of Li's shadow is seen marching up to you. It looks like his figure is more rushed than usual. His strides are long, quicker, and his arms pump out to aid in his fast pace. He doesn’t slow down as he approaches either and you let out a small squeak when he comes toe to toe with you. 

“Li-” you croak out as he raises his hands and brings them to cup your cheeks. You can’t see him under the dark shadow of his silhouette, but just the way he stands and the way he’s breathing so deeply, heavily, you wonder if he’s distressed about something. 

His thumbs brush under your eyes and his hands move so the tips of his fingers trace your ears. Cupping the back of your ear down to your earlobe only to trace down your jaw and resettle back with his palm on your cheek. He pushes his hands up to lift your cheeks up, smooshing them and pursing your lips in the process before letting them rest again. You blink up at him with a quirked brow. 

“Li,” you try again, bring your hands up to curl softly around his wrists that hang below your chin. “What’s wrong?” You wonder if he thinks you’re hurt or something? “I’m okay,” you tell him, just in case he was fretting about something. He hasn’t said a thing, only just holding your face his hands occasionally roaming only to return to your cheeks like they belong there. 

“You’re breathtaking,” he breathes in a hushed tone. Your hands on his wrists twitch as your eyes open wide and mouth falls gape. 

“What?” You barely breathe. If the dreamscape had kicked up a breeze, it would have taken your words away with it. You don’t know what to think and you try pulling away from him. Not to run, but to gather your thoughts. What? 

His hands that had found a home on your cheeks panic. One drops to your shoulder, keeping you planted down and the other slides under your ear to cup behind your head to keep you close. 

“Don’t,” he breathes desperately, “don’t go away.” He brings his head down to rest his forehead on your own as he takes in a deep breath through his nose and out. “Please, calm down.” 

“Li,” your voice feels clogged in your throat. “Can you-” 

“I see you,” he finishes for you. He doesn’t enjoy interrupting your sentences, he finds it rude, but he can’t help it right now. He wants to spill his guts. Wants to admit who he is, how he saw you, how he sees you… but he can’t. At least, he can’t tell you all of it. Not yet.

“Let me explain.” He’s met with silence and he swallows, pushing his forehead firmer against your own. “Please,” he pleads. You can’t say no. He lifts his head away and takes a breath. 

Where to start? 

Li knows he can’t tell you everything- he just can’t. If he did, there’d be too big of a risk given the time. He has to wait, so that means he still has to be vague. Being distruthful isn’t what he wants, but you possibly coming to harm is the last thing he wants. 

“The human castle you have told me about where you’re employed,” he starts choosing his words carefully, “I am also here.” He watches your face contort in emotions he’s dreamed only of seeing for years. 

“Did you accompany the emperor?” You ask softly, carefully as if you’re asking a taboo question he will never be able to answer. 

“Yes.” Zhongli feels terrible since it’s technically a lie seeing as he is the emperor. “When I saw you earlier,” it feels surreal saying that, “I was irrational. I asked that another attendant to Lord Morax check on you in my stead.” 

“You asked that?” You question. “Why not come yourself?” You frown and he feels a weight in his chest at the notion that he’s the very reason it’s there in the first place. His thumb traces under your eye. 

“I’m sure you tire of hearing so-” Zhongli sighs so heavily his shoulders slacken- “but, I cannot see you. Not yet. It’s-” 

“-Complicated. I know.” Your tone is not malicious nor is it expectant. Zhongli has come to learn several things about you over these last several years of meeting in the dreamscape. One such thing is that you keep expectations low- nearly at zero. If you expect nothing, then you cannot feel disappointed. So, you try and conform it into understanding instead. “Will I be able to meet you before the emperor leaves?” Your question is so fragile with hope he could weep. 

Sliding his hand up the back of your head, he brings you closer to him. With your forehead resting safely under his jaw, he rests his chin on your crown. Stroking the back of your head with his thumb, he takes in your scent. “I promise,” he vows. That’s all you need. You stand with him for an amount of time you’re unsure of, basking in his warmth and comfort. Before your eyes shoot open and you push yourself half and arm's length away from him. 

Blinking down at you with shock you cannot see, he looks at your widen eyes that peer up towards him. 

“Did you say that you asked another dragon to check on me?” Your voice shakes. With a side-tilted chin, he blinks. 

“I did,” he confirms. 

“Oh no,” you whine before filling him in on the dragon-stranger that lurked outside your balcony before you rudely shooed him away under the pretense of being hazed. Zhongli stifles a laugh and you feel as they tremble his entire body under your hands. Your face grows hot with fluster and finally being able to witness such an expression breaks the dragon. He laughs as you flounder in embarrassment.

Zhongli recalls the moment he spoke Xiao’s name after the desperate racing of his heart calmed for a moment. ‘Find the woman who I describe to you in the castle,’ he instructed before giving a more than detailed description of you. ‘She is my mate.’ Xiao took this information and objective seriously- as he does most things. So, the idea of him being rejected so blatantly is quite the amusing thought. There are few who could speak to him like that and get away with it. 

“He just stood there!” You shriek. “He didn’t say anything until I did- like is that a dragon thing?” You ask the questions seriously, obviously not knowing anything about draconic etiquette. Short answer was no; it isn’t a typical dragon mannerism. However, it is normal to not speak of someone of higher class first. Xiao isn’t always the type to fall in line with tradition, but even he knows that he isn’t supposed to speak to the emperor’s mate (and his possible future empress?) first. Not that he or his lord could explain that to you right now. 

In the morning, when Emperor Morax opens his eyes, he calls for Xiao once again. He’s expressionless, as usual, but Zhongli looks at him with amusement. 

“Please, refrain from any jests, my Lord,” Xiao requests. If Morax were a worse man, he’d laugh straight to his retainer's face. He doesn’t, but a low chuckle does escape him. 

“Continue to keep an eye on her,” Morax instructs. “Preferably in the daytime, when she can see you.” Xiao choses to overlook the tease he previously asked his lord to skip over purely out of respect. “Why not introduce yourself?” His suggestion and continued advice out of simple entertainment is vexing- but not completely unwelcome. 

t.list: @witheringblooddemon @arminsarlerts @kurinneko @kangyeonie @dawns-breath @nintendogeek2018 @mfreedomstuff2 @wraithisd3adinside @uniquecutie-puffs @pranabefall

!!REMINDER!! if you wish to be removed from or added to the tag list- just let me know c:

a/n: and so the process finally begins

[laciefuyu]

[CN server Spoilers]

Tears of Themis 5th Anniversary — Forever Begins with You SSR

[saradika-graphics]

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[almonds-nsfw-world]

༉‧₊˚. NEUVILLETTE IN HEAT → headcanons

--warnings: nudity, dragon in rut, Neuvillette being clingy, creampie, overstimulation

.ೃ࿐𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 : ̗̀➛ 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈

╰┈➤ NEUVILLETTE is an incredibly, private dragon. Though you know him like the back of your hand, he would never truly voice his need for help to you. He doesn't want to bother you and he, himself, is still a little lost on how things fully work in a relationship. But he's trying, in his own peculiar way. So, when his....time of month (as he calls it) arrives, you'll notice he'll instantly distance himself from you. He'll personally go out of his way to ensure his path does not cross with his beloved.

╰┈➤ when you call NEUVILLETTE out, he'll deny it at first, afraid he'll feel as though you're being forced to relieve him of his ache. He also does not want to bother his mate with something as trivial as arousal (that's forced upon him because of his draconic nature). He would much rather try his best to conceal his bulge through a new attire - one more loose but just as pretty as his usual one. Not that he cares too much for that, it's just part of his dutiful attire...though, he does admit, this one does help him during his pitiful rut. But after your consistent questions and concerns, he finally gives in and explains it. His pride becoming somewhat wounded when he does.

╰┈➤ NEUVILLETTE feels embarassed when you drag him back to your shared chambers with his guilt swallowing him whole but it's eventually overridden by an aching need to release his watery semen deep inside you. And the smell of you? God....it makes his instincts kick in, his desire to be one with his beautiful mate, to please you as much as you please him. His cheeks are already reddened, sweet trickling down his temple as you give him that loving smile of yours. He's melting, and just from your touch alone.

╰┈➤ NEUVILLETTE in heat is a whole different hydro dragon. His arms are wrapped around you, his head buried in the crook of your neck while he thrusts himself deep into your wet, slippery hole. The feeling of your combined juices soaking his pulsing, veined shaft drives him absolutely to the brink. He's sloppy, messy, tears down his cheeks as broken moans and sobs escape him. His long white hair is splayed around you both while he desperately tries to push that blue-tinted knot inside you. His cock alone is gorgeous...the tip has a blue tint and is slightly pointed. His girth alone is decorated in ridges meant to satisfy his mate during this season. And oh, you bet your hole he does.

╰┈➤ NEUVILLETTE in heat is a messy man. He's begging to stuff you again. He's sobbing away as he stuffs his knot deep inside you again. For two days, he won't let anyone near you after stuffing you full, oh no, especially if you can give him offspring. Though, the thought of being a father feared him more than anything else. But whether or not it would happen, he would be grateful either way, because as he sinks his teeth into your neck, his sperm gushing along your spongy walls, he knows that he'll never find another after you. He knows that. You're it for him. And dragons mate for life.

╰┈➤ a NEUVILLETTE in heat is a NEUVILLETTE that will fall to his knees for you. A dragon whose walls are down and his heart vulnerable. A dragon in love.

©2025 almond, do not steal, translate or repost elsewhere.

[euniveve]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐰𝐬 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

(𝘜𝘯𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘈𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯)

⚖ chapters: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12]

⚖ status: ongoing

⚖ pairings: neuvillette x reader

⚖ tags: fem! reader, attorney! reader, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, forced marriage, reader is from liyue, miscommunication, one-sided pining, eventual romance, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

⚖ warnings: implied past trauma, everyone in the fic is emotionally constipated, the reader is extremely sassy, the reader hates literally everyone but her best friend and the melusines, graphic description of injury

⚖ sum:

“Because to love me is embedded glass and you are a fool if you have done so monsieur.” “Then I am a fool.” *** It is a shame, really, that you, the Chief Attorney of Proteus & Portunus Litigations, the one that has been gifted with the title "mademoiselle", is an outsider. Not Fontainian in descent. Upon hearing a rumour or two, the Hydro Archon, ever the kind and just, decides to bestow you a certain privilege and honour with another title. "𝙈𝙖𝙙𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙉𝙚𝙪𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚." After all, two "outsiders" may just help each other become more "Fontainian."

✦ links:

ao3 | tag | series playlist | reader's playlist

[seokizaten]

Ink and His Visage [Kamisato Ayato] —⋆｡°✩

Series Introduction: Inazuma shines eternal, does that include the ordinary villager’s years of push and pull with the Yashiro commissioner?

Themes: Kamisato Ayato x villager! reader, unrequited romance, angst, one-sided love, setting after the vision hunt decree, inaccurate lore, she fell first - he fell harder trope, slow burn, slow romance... like REALLY SLOW (this is for y'all, my slow burn girlies)

Author’s Note: Thanks for taking an interest with my work! This is my first ever post in this platform and I’d like to spread my special appreciation with the man mentioned. I also am going to apply my love to my readers (although, excuse the angst) Love yourself always, queens! Hope you enjoy!

Chapters:

prologue || chapter 1 || chapter 2 || chapter 3 || chapter 4 || chapter 5 || chapter 6 || chapter 7 || chapter 8 || chapter 9 || chapter 10 || chapter 11 || chapter 12 || epilogue Status: Completed

Masterlist

Arts:

Kamisato Ayato at Tanabata!

Playlist:

What I listened to while writing

This is a fanfiction based on Genshin Impact’s Kamisato Ayato, all made with my imagination. Please do not copy, translate, or repost to another platform without my permission!! —⋆｡°✩ Thank you so much!!

[blossom-shy]

WANDERER/SCARAMOUCHE X READER

When he is married to the reader and they were arguing In the car and wanderer kicks her out

# Stranded

The rain drummed against the windshield as harsh words filled the confined space of the car. Your husband's knuckles were white against the steering wheel, his jaw clenched in that familiar way that meant he was barely holding back his temper.

"You never listen," Scaramouche's voice was low and dangerous, the kind of quiet that preceded a storm. "I told you not to interfere with my work, but you just couldn't help yourself, could you?"

"Interfere?" You turned in the passenger seat to face him fully, your own anger flaring. "I was trying to help! That deal was going to fall through and you were too proud to see it!"

"Help?" He laughed bitterly, finally turning those indigo eyes toward you. Even in the dim light of the car, they seemed to glow with fury. "You embarrassed me in front of my colleagues. Made me look weak."

"Made you look human, you mean." The words escaped before you could stop them, and you saw his expression darken further.

The car suddenly swerved to the side of the empty highway, gravel crunching under the tires as he brought it to an abrupt stop. The engine idled roughly in the sudden silence, broken only by the steady patter of rain.

"Get out."

Your heart stopped. "What?"

"You heard me." His voice was eerily calm now, which somehow made it worse than his anger. "Get out of my car."

"Scaramouche, we're in the middle of nowhere. It's pouring rain—"

"I don't care." He reached across you, his movement sharp and deliberate as he grabbed the door handle. "If you think I'm so inhuman, then you can find your own way home."

The door swung open, letting in a gust of cold, wet air. Rain immediately began soaking the passenger seat.

"You can't be serious." Your voice cracked slightly. "We're married. You can't just—"

"Can't I?" His smile was cruel, nothing like the rare, genuine ones you'd fallen in love with years ago. "Watch me."

For a moment, you stared at each other in the dim light. You searched his face for any sign of the man you'd married, the one who held you during thunderstorms and brought you tea when you were sick. But all you saw was cold indifference.

Pride warring with disbelief, you grabbed your purse and stepped out into the rain. The cold hit you immediately, soaking through your clothes within seconds.

You turned back, certain he would change his mind, that this was just another one of his dramatic displays of temper. But the car door slammed shut with finality.

Through the rain-streaked window, you could see his silhouette. He didn't look at you as he shifted the car into drive.

"Scaramouche!" You banged on the window, but he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead.

The car pulled away, its taillights growing smaller and smaller until they disappeared entirely around a bend, leaving you alone on the empty highway with nothing but the sound of rain and your own ragged breathing.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, shivering as the reality of the situation set in. Miles from home, soaked to the bone, with a phone that had no signal.

As you started walking along the dark road, you wondered if this was finally the breaking point—if some lines, once crossed, could never be uncrossed.

Behind you, thunder rumbled across the sky, as if the heavens themselves were commenting on the wreckage of your marriage.

---

Three hours later, you finally pushed through the front door of your shared home, water still dripping from your soaked clothes onto the hardwood floor. Your shoes squelched with each step, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably from the cold that had seeped deep into your bones.

A kind truck driver had eventually stopped, taking pity on your bedraggled state and giving you a ride to the nearest town. From there, you'd managed to catch a late bus, enduring the stares and whispered comments about your appearance.

The house was dark except for a single lamp in the living room. Scaramouche sat in his usual armchair, still in the same clothes from earlier, though his hair was disheveled as if he'd been running his hands through it. An untouched cup of tea sat cold on the side table.

He looked up when you entered, his expression unreadable. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were your chattering teeth and the steady drip of water from your clothes.

"You came back," he said finally, his voice quieter than before, stripped of its earlier venom.

"Where else would I go?" Your voice was hoarse from the cold and exhaustion. "This is my home too. Or was, anyway."

His eyes flickered—something that might have been regret, or perhaps just surprise that you'd made it back at all. He stood slowly, and you noticed the way his hands trembled slightly at his sides.

"You're soaked," he observed, as if just now realizing the full extent of what he'd done.

"Amazing observation." The words came out sharper than you intended, but you were too tired and too hurt to soften them.

He flinched as if you'd struck him. "I'll... get you some dry clothes."

As he moved toward the stairs, you called after him, your voice breaking slightly. "Is that it? You leave me stranded in a storm for hours, and all you can say is that I'm wet?"

He stopped, his back still turned to you. His shoulders sagged, and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I know."

But you were already walking past him, your waterlogged shoes leaving a trail on the stairs as you headed to the bedroom. You didn't want to hear his excuses, didn't want to see whatever expression he was wearing now. The hurt was too fresh, too raw.

"Wait—" he started, turning around.

You didn't acknowledge him. Instead, you went straight to the bedroom and locked the door behind you with a decisive click. Through the wood, you could hear his footsteps pause outside, then the soft sound of his hand pressing against the door.

"Please," his voice was muffled. "Let me—"

Silence. You peeled off your soaked clothes with numb fingers, each piece hitting the floor with a wet slap. Your reflection in the mirror showed exactly what you felt like—a drowned, abandoned mess.

You could hear him lingering outside the door for several more minutes before his footsteps finally retreated down the hallway.

The next morning, you emerged from the bedroom to find a steaming cup of your favorite tea waiting on the kitchen counter, along with a plate of toast cut exactly the way you liked it. Scaramouche was nowhere to be seen, though you could hear the shower running upstairs.

You walked right past the peace offering without touching it.

When he came downstairs, hair still damp and dressed for work, you were sitting at the kitchen table with your own hastily made coffee, pointedly ignoring the breakfast he'd prepared.

"Good morning," he said carefully, hovering near the counter.

You turned a page in the newspaper you weren't really reading. The silence stretched between you like a chasm.

"I have meetings today, but I could cancel—"

Still nothing. You took a deliberate sip of your coffee, keeping your eyes fixed on the words that might as well have been in a foreign language for all the attention you were paying them.

His frustrated sigh was audible across the kitchen. "You can't ignore me forever."

You finally looked up, meeting his gaze with cool indifference. "Watch me."

---

Two months had passed since that night, and the house had become a graveyard of unspoken words.

You and Scaramouche moved around each other like ghosts, sharing the same space but existing in completely separate worlds. He'd stopped trying to make conversation after the third week of being met with silence. The breakfast offerings had ceased after a month of watching you throw them away untouched.

Your shared bed had become a carefully negotiated territory—you on your side, him on his, an invisible wall of hurt and pride running down the middle. Some nights you could feel him lying awake, his breathing too controlled to be natural sleep, but you never acknowledged it.

The house itself seemed to reflect the state of your marriage. Rooms felt colder, colors more muted. Even the plants you'd once tended together were beginning to wither from neglect, neither of you willing to be the first to care for something that required cooperation.

Scaramouche had grown quieter, more withdrawn. The sharp edges of his personality had dulled into something listless. He worked longer hours, came home later, sometimes falling asleep in his office chair rather than facing the arctic silence of the bedroom.

His colleagues had started asking questions, you suspected. The few times the phone rang and you happened to overhear, his voice carried a strained politeness that hadn't been there before.

You'd thrown yourself into your own work with renewed intensity, anything to avoid the suffocating atmosphere at home. Friends invited you out more frequently now, their concerned glances speaking volumes about what they could see that you refused to acknowledge.

On this particular evening, you sat at opposite ends of the dining table—a table that had once hosted laughter and shared meals, now serving as another barrier between you. He picked at his food mechanically while you scrolled through your phone, both of you eating in the kind of silence that screamed louder than any argument ever could.

The sound of his fork hitting his plate made you glance up involuntarily. He was staring at his barely touched dinner, his hands clasped so tightly in his lap that his knuckles had gone white.

"I can't do this anymore," he whispered to his plate, so quietly you almost didn't hear him.

You looked back down at your phone, but the words on the screen blurred together. Your heart hammered against your ribs, but you kept your expression carefully neutral.

Two months of silence, and it felt like you were both drowning.

The admission hung in the air like a challenge. You could feel his eyes on you now, waiting, hoping for any kind of response. Your finger hovered over your phone screen, the words you'd been reading forgotten entirely.

"Please." His voice cracked on the single word. "Just... say something. Anything."

You set your phone down with deliberate slowness, finally meeting his gaze. He looked terrible—dark circles under his eyes, cheekbones more pronounced than before, as if the weight of your silence had been physically consuming him.

"What do you want me to say?" Your voice came out hoarse from disuse in conversations with him. The sound of it seemed to startle you both.

Relief flooded his features so completely that for a moment he couldn't speak. He leaned forward slightly, as if afraid you might disappear again into silence.

"I don't know," he admitted, his hands still trembling in his lap. "I just... I need to hear your voice. I need to know you're still here, that we're still—" He stopped, swallowing hard. "That there's still an 'us' to save."

You studied his face, seeing past the careful mask he usually wore to the raw desperation underneath. Two months of your silence had stripped him down to something vulnerable and broken.

"You left me on the side of a highway in a storm," you said quietly. Each word was measured, deliberate. "You looked me in the eye and drove away."

He flinched as if you'd slapped him. "I know."

"Do you?" Your voice grew stronger, the dam of suppressed emotion finally beginning to crack. "Do you really? Because I stood there for twenty minutes thinking you'd come back. Twenty minutes in the rain, believing that my husband wouldn't actually abandon me like that."

Tears were sliding down his cheeks now, his composure completely shattered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I—"

"I called your name," you continued, your own voice breaking. "I banged on the window and called your name, and you wouldn't even look at me."

"I know," he whispered. "I know, and I hate myself for it. I've hated myself every single day since then."

You opened your mouth, ready to unleash all the hurt you'd been carrying—ready to tell him that he'd become exactly like the woman who had abandoned him, that he was repeating the same cruel patterns his mother had carved into his soul. The words were right there, sharp and cutting, designed to hit him where it would hurt most.

But as you looked at his broken form across the table, something in your chest twisted painfully. The memory of late nights when he'd wake up gasping from nightmares about being left behind, about not being good enough, about everyone always leaving him in the end. The way he'd curl into you those nights, vulnerable and small, whispering fears he'd never voice in daylight.

You saw his mother's cruelty reflected in what he'd done to you, yes—but you also saw the scared, abandoned child he'd once been, acting out of the same fear that had been carved into him long before you'd ever met.

The cruel words died on your lips.

Instead, something else broke inside you—not the sharp crack of anger, but the soft collapse of a heart that remembered loving him despite everything. The pain in your chest shifted, transforming from the ache of betrayal into something deeper, more complex.

"I forgive you," you whispered, the words surprising even yourself.

His head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief. "What?"

"I forgive you." The words came easier the second time, though tears were now streaming down your face. "I hate what you did. I hate that you hurt me like that. But I forgive you."

He stared at you as if you'd spoken in a foreign language, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"I can't keep carrying this anger," you continued, your voice shaking. "It's killing both of us. And I... I remember who you are underneath all this pain. I remember why I fell in love with you."

"I don't deserve—"

"No," you said firmly. "You don't. But that's what forgiveness is, isn't it? It's not about what you deserve."

He broke then, completely and utterly. His shoulders shook with silent sobs as he buried his face in his hands. Two months of guilt and self-hatred poured out of him all at once.

Without thinking, you stood from your chair. Your body moved on instinct, drawn by the sight of him falling apart. You walked around the table and gently placed your hand on his shoulder.

"Come here," you whispered.

He looked up at you through his tears, confusion and hope warring in his expression. Slowly, carefully, you pulled him to his feet and wrapped your arms around him. He went rigid for a moment, as if he couldn't believe this was real, before melting into your embrace.

His arms came around you desperately, clinging to you like you might disappear again. His tears soaked through your shirt as he pressed his face against your shoulder, and you could feel how much weight he'd lost in these past two months.

"I'm sorry," he kept whispering against your neck. "I'm so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

"I know," you murmured, your own tears falling into his hair. "I know you are."

You stayed like that in the dining room for a long time, holding each other as months of pain slowly began to drain away. Eventually, you pulled back just enough to see his face.

"Come on," you said softly, taking his hand. "Let's go upstairs."

He followed you wordlessly to the bedroom—the same room where you'd locked him out that first night, where you'd slept on opposite sides of the bed like strangers. Now, you sat on the edge of the mattress and gently pulled him down beside you.

Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around him again. He immediately curled into you, his head finding its familiar place on your chest. His tears hadn't stopped, and you could feel each shuddering breath against your body.

"I thought I'd lost you," he whispered, his voice muffled. "I thought you'd never forgive me. I thought I'd destroyed everything."

You stroked his hair gently, the same way you used to during his nightmares. "You almost did," you admitted quietly. "But we're still here. We're still trying."

His arms tightened around you as fresh tears came. In the quiet safety of your bedroom, with your forgiveness wrapped around him like a blanket, he finally let himself grieve for what he'd almost thrown away.

---

You woke to the unfamiliar sensation of warmth beside you. For a moment, you were disoriented—it had been so long since you'd shared the bed properly that you'd almost forgotten what it felt like to wake up next to someone.

Scaramouche was still asleep, his face pressed against your shoulder, one arm draped protectively across your waist. His cheeks were stained with dried tears, and even in sleep, his grip on you was tight, as if he was afraid you might disappear.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting everything in a soft, golden glow. For the first time in months, the bedroom didn't feel like a battlefield. It felt like home again.

You shifted slightly, trying not to wake him, but his eyes fluttered open immediately. For a split second, confusion crossed his features—then memory returned, and with it, a mixture of relief and uncertainty.

"Good morning," you said softly, your voice still rough with sleep.

"You're still here," he whispered, as if he couldn't quite believe it.

"I'm still here."

He studied your face carefully, searching for any sign that you might have changed your mind overnight, that forgiveness given in the heat of emotion might have evaporated with the morning light.

"How are you feeling?" he asked hesitantly.

You considered the question honestly. "Tired," you admitted. "Sad. But... lighter, somehow. Like I can finally breathe again."

He nodded, understanding exactly what you meant. The house had felt suffocating for both of you these past months.

"I called in sick to work yesterday," he said quietly. "After you... after we talked. I couldn't imagine sitting in meetings, pretending everything was normal."

"Good," you said, surprising him. "We have a lot to figure out."

His expression grew serious. "We do. I know that forgiving me doesn't mean everything just goes back to how it was. I know I have to earn your trust back."

"One day at a time," you agreed, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his face. The simple gesture made his breath catch.

"I love you," he said suddenly, desperately. "I know I don't deserve to say that after what I did, but I love you so much it terrifies me."

"I love you too," you replied, and watched as relief flooded his features. "That's why this hurt so much. That's why we're going to fix this."

---

**Six Months Later**

The sound of rain against the windows no longer made you tense. If anything, it had become comforting—a reminder of how far you'd both come.

You were curled up on the couch together, a book in your lap while Scaramouche worked on his laptop beside you. It was a quiet evening, the kind that had once felt suffocating but now felt peaceful. The house was warm again, filled with the small sounds of a life shared: the turning of pages, the soft clicking of keys, the occasional comment about something interesting.

"I have to drive to the next city tomorrow for that conference," he mentioned casually, then paused. His fingers stilled on the keyboard. "Would you... would you like to come with me? We could make a weekend of it."

You looked up from your book, noting the careful way he'd phrased the question. Even now, six months later, he was still cautious about anything involving cars and arguments. Some wounds took time to fully heal.

"I'd like that," you said with a smile. "It's been a while since we've traveled together."

The relief in his expression was subtle but unmistakable. These small victories still mattered to both of you.

Outside, thunder rumbled gently across the sky, but inside, you were both exactly where you belonged. The work of rebuilding trust was ongoing, probably always would be, but you'd learned that love wasn't about perfection—it was about choosing each other, again and again, even after

[thelonelyarchon]

🧶✂️ SEVERED FATES

Pairing: Artem Wing x Rosa, Artem Wing x Fem!Reader (in future chapters)

Summary: (Unofficial summary) Artem Wing is regularly praised for his ability to compose himself in any situation. Despite bombarding himself with paperwork and cases to appeal at court, he never once found himself in a situation where he was totally lost and helpless... that is until his birthday arrives. Plagued by nightmares and sudden illness this time of the year, it's a yearly tradition of the young senior attorney to pray at Cloudbreak Temple since he entered lawschool, the year it all began. It was the same thing every year. Pray and pray for answers. But what if... this year is different? And with the arrival of a mysterious but familiar heiress, he might just get his answers.

"Find what was severed and repair it," said the monk.

But... what must he repair?

Content Warning: Mentions of chest pains, unconscious Artem, overworking, description of fatigue, slightly unnerving imagery of being shot, does not follow Tears of Themis timeline religously, slightly ooc characters, angst (?), not-proof-read

Author's Note: This is an experimental post/prologue! I've had this crazy Gufeng!Artem x Fem!Reader angst fic at the back of my mind since last year and I was too scared to write it. Luckily, I found mysekf writing it earlier today after I finally got the go sign to stop my medicatiom for anxiety. What a better way to celebrate it than writing something that I was scared to bring into life beforehand! Anyway, if this gets positive feedbacks and interested readers, then I'll continue the series!

“AND THAT is why you should take this opportunity to rest, Artem. You’ll exhaust yourself this way,” Celestine pinched the bridge of her nose as she fought back another wave of nausea. The older senior attorney and co-founder of Themis Law Firm was in her first trimester of pregnancy, and her stress was getting to her.

Artem refused to look at Celestine. The pile of paperwork and casefiles sitting on top of his desk prevented him from doing so. He had been stuck in a vicious cycle of ‘work, eat, sleep, repeat’ for the last three weeks as the firm had an influx of cases to be handled at the end of March and early April. Nearly all senior attorneys in the firm were preoccupied with their cases, and Artem had the higher task of overseeing all of them.

“I know how to take care of myself, Celestine. You, on the other hand, should focus on your health and not on mine. You’ll exhaust yourself this way.” Artem lets out a small huff as he smiles to himself. Celestine’s mouth was wide agape.

Did Artem just throw her concerns back at her?

“You’re unbelievable,” she sighs. “I really can’t persuade you, no?”

Artem shakes his head without lifting his gaze from the paper he’s scanning. Using the blue silicone page-turner he has on his index finger and thumb, he smoothly flips through another page or two while scanning its contents.

She figures that she can’t persuade the young attorney no matter what she does. After all, Artem just earned another title in the industry: senior monster attorney.

“But I’m being serious now. Like for real, this time. Artem, I know you want to keep me stress-free… but I can completely manage my nausea in court. I can help you. It’s not like I’m incapacitated mentally, too!” Celestine argues.

In the two years he’s been working with Celestine, they’ve developed a sibling-like relationship. Artem understood where her concern was coming from. To be frank, he doesn’t know when was the last time he had a proper sleep. Usually, he’d go home late in the night only to eat and then do some more reading and compiling of evidence until he fell asleep. He would wake up to his alarm blaring, hastily dressing himself up for work before arriving at the firm to continue where he left off the night before. He would be lying if he didn’t admit he was overworking himself.

“I’m fine, Celestine. Reading more won’t hurt me.”

“Yeah, it won’t but I will hurt you if you don’t rest now while I’m still being kind,” Celestine turned her back to him and crossed her arms. She walks towards the door before turning her head at him again only to emphasize what she said. “That’s an order from your boss, Artem! Rest or you’re fired.”

For the first time since the moment Celestine entered his office twenty minutes ago, Artem lifted his head to look at the senior attorney. Maybe it was from the frustration she felt but Celestine wasn’t smiling. He gently dropped his pen on his table and closed the folder with the casefiles he was supposed to finish reading by lunchtime.

He rests his elbows on his desk and uses the back of his entwined fingers as support for his chin. He learned it is best not to provoke a pregnant woman or he might just have to deal with her tears. He is efficient at dealing with court trials, but he’s aware he’s useless when it comes to stopping women’s tears.

“Fine, Celestine. You won,” he leans back on his chair and loosens his necktie. Now that he took the time to relieve himself of his duties, he could feel the fatigue consuming him.

His eyes feel itchy and dry from all that reading, and he knows he may just need a pair of glasses if he continues to abuse his eyesight like this.

When was the last time he slept well again? Yesterday? Two days ago? Maybe.

“Mr. Wing, I have here last month’s pending civil cases! These haven’t been looked at yet so Kiki was hoping if you could-”

“Ah! Rosa, there you are! You’re just in time!” Celestine exclaims as she claps.

Rosa jolts back in surprise as Celestine bombards her with a hug. She laughs nervously and looks at Artem. Her smile drops upon seeing his face. He looked… like a homeless man. He looks horrible!

“I’m on time for what…?”

“I have an important favor to ask of you and it’s more of a personal favor, but I’m willing to give you a bonus for it!” Celestine said.

Rosa’s eyes widened as she stepped back and raised her hand. Just what happened here? A bonus sounded tempting, but Rosa knew that when Celestine asks for personal favors these days, it usually involved three things: pregnancy cravings, dealing with impertinent clients, or Mr. Wing.

And with the sight of Artem casually sprawled over his office chair nearly passed out from fatigue, she knew she should be nervous.

“Ah… hahahaha… uhm. Ahem! C-celestine?”

Celestine grinned and moved behind her. She pushed Rosa inside the room towards Artem and stood by the door. She reaches for the handle.

“Rosa, make sure Artem doesn’t step foot inside the law firm for the next week or so nor have him hold anything related to work! That’s an order. Don’t worry, I'll count both of your absences as a paid one-week leave,” she slyly smiles. Rosa was horrified.

She will… babysit Artem for a week!? She should feel happy that despite chilling around for the next week or so, she was still being paid. But… she’s spending her week with Mr. Wing!? Now, now! That’s uncalled for!

“N-now h-hold on for a second, Celestine–!”

Celestine laughs as she pulls the door close. Before she could close it, she left her with one more instruction, “Oh. One more thing. Artem’s relieved from the cases he has right now except for next month’s trial. And by the way, it’s nearly the 26th. Keep an eye on Artem, will you?”

Rosa’s eyes softened when she saw the genuine concern on Celestine’s face. She knows Celestine and Artem’s mother are close, and she treats him like a brother. It was also Mr. Wing’s birthday week. But for some reason, there was something deeper behind the meaning of her instruction.

Keep an eye on him… for what? Or… from what?

As soon as the door clicked shut, Artem let out a sigh. Rosa turned to his way.

“That Celestine… really,” he sits up from his chair. “I’m sorry you had to do this. You may refuse to do so if you like.”

Rosa shook her head and offered him a smile. “It’s alright, Mr. Wing. At least it’s me you’re with. That way, I can still bend the rules and allow you to sneak a peek at your work from time to time,” she winks and gives him two thumbs up.

Artem chuckles as he smiles warmly. “Right. Well, help me arrange these files. I’ll leave the other cases to Celestine and I’ll bring the ones for next month.”

“Copy that, Mr. Wing!” Rosa said enthusiastically.

As Artem stood to fix his things, he noticed the calendar sitting on top of his desk where the keys to his car were placed in a bowl. The date April 26th was encircled in red marker ink ominously. Artem holds his chest as the familiar sense of foreboding creeps up to him. He sighs and shakes his head.

Rosa notices the sudden change in his demeanor. “Are you alright?”

Artem looks at her and smiles. “Yes. Also… would you like to come with me to Cloud Break Temple?”

Rosa’s eyes sparkled at his offer.

Cloud Break Temple… their spot. It’s been a while since they’ve been there.

“Of course… Artem.” She said softly.

_____________________________

“WHAT are you going to pray for, Mr. Wing?” Artem looks at Rosa as she speaks. Currently, they stood at the arch at the entrance of the temple. Many tourists and locals were climbing the long stairs up to the temple. Some were students, some were elderly, and some were even pregnant.

The bustling sound of the temple and the bells and windchimes comforted Artem. He never really admitted it, but for some reason, the temple was a safe refuge for him. Although, during the week before his birthday, he would feel an ominous shadow looming behind him.

“Hmm, nothing. I was just going to pray for well-being.” He said.

“Ah! If I remember correctly, last year you went here for your birthday, too. Is this a yearly tradition?” She asks.

“You could say that. It only started when I pursued law school.”

“Huh?” Rosa asked, confused.

Naturally, Rosa didn’t know everything about Artem despite the blooming affection between the two of them. Artem has yet to pursue her officially. However, in the short time she was able to work with Artem, she could somehow get a gist of who he was and how his mind worked.

It’s only been a year since she met Artem and worked for him at the law firm and NXX so this came as a surprise.

Artem looked at her and smiled. He reached for the top of her head and gently caressed it. Rosa’s cheeks were flushed. Artem could feel his burning too. He clears his throat and retracts his hand away before walking deeper into the temple.

The temple was still the same, although a few areas had been closed off for construction. When they got to the area to get their tickets, he found a familiar face. It was the old monk that had entertained them last year.

“Oh! It’s you two darlings again.” He started. Rosa and Artem laughed at his words. They greeted the monk together.

“How have you been? Are you here to pray for safety? What about the exam? Or, is it marriage again young man?”

Artem blushed as he shook his head and laughed nervously. “How I wished to, but it is not my purpose for coming today. I am here to pray for–” At the corner of his eye, he caught a shadow walking past him, stopping him in his tracks. The words remained at the tip of his tongue as he trailed off.

It was a shadow… no, it’s a silhouette. No… it was a woman who walked past him.

Before Artem could turn around to see who it was, he found himself clutching his chest as a searing pain radiated throughout his body. He falls to his knees.

In his mind, he thought his fatigue was finally catching up to him. Was it a heart attack?

“I can’t… I can’t breathe.” Artem muttered.

“What is wrong with me?”, Artem thought as he felt his consciousness slipping away.

“Artem! Mr. Wing! Are you alright? Can you hear me?” He could hear Rosa’s distant, frantic cries for help as people surrounded them. His eyelids fluttered open as he fought back to keep himself conscious. But it was so… heavy. It was just like the last time last year. It was as if his chest was just shot.

HIs head lolled back and his eyes rolled back as he struggled to fight back. He was sure he would lose consciousness now. His hand clutched his chest even harder. It was even more difficult to breathe. He could see the face of the old monk looming over his figure.

"Am I… on the ground? Why is the sky the only thing I can see?"

The monk's face was void of emotion as if studying the strange thing that he had just seen. But what is it? Why is he staring at him as if he knew this would happen and he knew why it happened? Artem couldn’t bear to look at the disappointment on his face. What did he do wrong?

He turns to his side as the last bits of his consciousness leave him. His eyes landed on the wishing tree, the same one on which he and Rosa had hanged their tablets. Visions began to form as he hallucinated.

Blink.

“Oh… what a lovely tree. It’s more luscious now this time of the year.”, Artem thought as the tree became much more younger-looking. It lacks the wooden tablets that were hung on its branches.

Blink.

“Who… who are they?”

A man and a young noble lady met under a younger-looking wishing tree. This time, the first tablets were hanged by the two. Two entwined fates, one lucky and one unlucky…tightly tied together to make a fortunate one.

“Why… am I seeing this?”

Blink.

It was only a split second before the scene changed again. Artem found himself screaming for help when an arrow was shot towards someone. Before he could see who shot the arrow, the searing pain in his chest became unbearable and the last bits of his consciousness finally slipped away as the arrow pierced his heart.

On the other end of the temple's grounds, you, the woman who happened to pass by the area, stopped to look at the commotion behind you. You tilt your head off to the side as you eye the young man who's sprawled unconscious on the floor.

"Who is he?" You asked the man in black beside you.

"A young man has fainted, Madam. It was the one you happened to pass by just now. It's not of your concern. The staff has called for help. We must leave now if we are to catch the plane by tonight." He said.

The urgency in his voice was unmistakable, but you chose to ignore him. You took of your sunglasses to take a better look at the man. Your brows twitched at the familiar face. Who would've thought the one lying on the ground and causing a commotion would be the youngest senior attorney in Stellis City? Artem Wing.

A slight smirk played on your lips as you thought of the Gods giving you a favor. Perfect timing. He's the right man you need for tue job you have in mind.

"Hugo," you gently eyed your bodyguard to signal hik to come closer to you. He quickly moves beside you to hear your request.

"Yea, Madam?"

"Get the car. I would like to personally bring the man to the hospital." You wore your sunglasses and turned around to exit the temple grounds. Younhear your bodyguard choke on air at your order.

"P-pardon, Madam!?"

"You heard me once. No need to make me say it twice."

"U-understood." He jogs back to the scene where a staff was frantically attempting to awaken Artem. You on the other hand, refused to look back. Once your guard was out of sight, you couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief.

"I hope I'm doing the right thing by helping you, Attorney Wing. Don't make me regret this." You mutter.

You though you should have a little more faith in him. After all, you just hit the jackpot. Maybe the gods really did hear your prayers today. With the case you were entangled with, sure enough Stellis's top senior attorney can help you win this and clear your name. 99.9% win rate? Yes, helping him is worth it. You just hoped he would think that way, too.

[thelonelyarchon]

Hey! It's 2025. I think I might continue writing this and tweaking it a bit. After reading the newest Artem Card for the new celestial theme cards (card illustration from above!), I fell in love. The story somehow fits the idea for this fic??? Omg! I'll definitely do something for this. Lemme cook.

[vivalabunbun]

An Encore of Betrayal

Summary: The devil with no sin nor memory and he who has held them all for centuries.

Word Count: 21.8k (get cozy)

Tags: Neuvillette x Fem!Reader, Slow burn, Slow fic, SMUT, NSFW, Historical AU, Fantasy AU?, Reincarnation AU, cursed!neuvillette, dragon!neuvillette, reincarnated!Reader, human!reader, Fluff, a lot of fluff, Melusines doing their best to play cupid, ex-lovers to lovers, slight enemies to lovers? ANGST, he's trying his best, dragon x human dynamics, Monsterfucking (two... I have no defense), cunnilingus(long tongue), marking, size kink? breeding kink, heat, overstimulation, hate sex? kinda?, slightly unhealthy dynamics (past life), dubcon, trust issues, immortal x mortal, slightly possessive!neuvillette, slightly yandere!neuvillette, TW: mild mention of blood, TW: descriptions of drowning, sin, and sacrifice. TW: Trauma from betrayal, themes of resentment, Infertility.

Author's Note: Wanted to try out a historical fantasy from Neuvillette's pov. I struggle with fantastical settings, so overlook any world-building confusion. Mihoyo won't give me his real name, and it's eating away at my sanity. Enjoy!

Somewhere deep beneath the waves, away from the omnipotent watch of false divinity, lies a village. A bustling home carved into an outcast cove nestled under the cover of suppressive tides.

One littered with tiny houses surrounding an impressive estate modeled much like the ones seen in those novels abandoned from capsized ships. 

Would you believe that such a place exists? 

Decorated with curious trinkets which sunk beneath the surface which had forsaken them, kept in this cove for so long that it was challenging to remember the azure hues. 

Ornaments decorating the expanse of this once lonesome cave, almost enough to conceal its true origin: A prison.

A fool sentenced to this penitentiary masquerading as a home, now affectionately named ‘Merusea Village’. 

Within that attentively built estate, a looming figure stood in front of a wall lined with neatly organized novels, lilac eyes running along the titles printed along each spine. 

A collection saved from watery abandonment after falling overboard by the curious hands of Melusines. Amassed throughout the years until the shelves of this humble library were without vacancy. 

Stopping a finger on a spine, he decided on the novel to pass the ever-plenty time bestowed upon him. He’s aware that each book amongst these shelves has been thumbed through by him.

But with enough years, the recollection of the contents contained within each one tends to become foggy. 

It's fate that the novel selected in his hands just so happens to be a collection of tales.

Humans have many strange behaviors, one might even call them traditions. One particular tradition mortals seem to indulge in often is that of storytelling. 

Lilac eyes browse through the pages, refreshing himself on the tale held within its faded covers. 

----------

There once was a lovely kingdom amidst lush pastures and fertile lands where the townspeople sang and danced under the bright sunlight.

But one day the sun disappeared, concealed behind ashen clouds that cried a lonesome hymn, plaguing the unfortunate kingdom with rain.

The origin of the rain stemmed from the lonesomeness of a great dragon of water.

Thus, to stop the rain, the king sent out a princess to the dragon, declaring that the kingdom gates wouldn’t welcome her back if rain fell from the sky. She was sent off in a white gown. 

Down below a flooded loch, the princess was offered to the weeping dragon. Looking up the princess saw the sorrowful pools in the beast’s eyes. 

‘Hydro Dragon, oh Hydro Dragon, why do you cry?’ She asked.

Intrigued by the bravery of the young princess, the dragon answered: ‘Because I am lonely, I have no brethren left.’

Feeling pity the princess responded: ‘Hydro Dragon, oh Hydro Dragon, don’t cry. I will be lonely with you.’ 

So the princess befriended a lonesome dragon under the hymn of softening rain, with his loneliness soothed, the sun peeked back out from ashen clouds. But one day, pitiful tears fell from her eyes and the princess wept so bitterly. 

The dragon could not bear seeing those tears stain her cheeks. He offered her pearls, jewels, and gold. Yet those bitter tears still fell, tainting the pristine water. 

‘Beloved princess, why do you cry so bitterly?’ He implored. 

‘I long to go home, I miss my kingdom,’ she revealed. 

But she could not go home, for if she stepped foot away from the riverside the lonesome rain would start again. The colossal dragon could not leave the loch, but he could not bear seeing those bitter tears.

So he relented, telling the princess a secret. A secret all dragons buried deep within: His true name. 

‘If you speak my name, my true name, then I can grant you one wish. But be careful, for there can only be one wish.’ The dragon whispered. 

‘Do you wish to return to your kingdom, beloved princess?’ He asked. 

The princess was silent for a long while, weighing the choices in her hand. She longed to return home, but she also longed to be by the side of her kind dragon. 

Confident in her decision, she beckons the great dragon closer, until her lips could reach the side of his large head where his ear lay. After whispering his name, she tells the beast her wish. 

‘I wish for you to become my prince, so we can return to the kingdom together, that way you won’t ever be lonely again.’

A clever wish he grants with a nod. Scales and claws shedding away until a handsome prince stood in front of her. Thus, hand in hand they returned from the loch to the warm welcome of the kingdom. 

And they lived happily ever after. 

----------

Ah, so it was that tale. 

Judging from the age of the novel, he guesses it must be a rendition of a rendition.

Words and events twisted, embellished, and simplified. Until it became nothing more than a mere fable told to entertain the wandering minds of children. 

A beloved tale of a maiden who got a dragon to give up his grand authority, stopping the flood of vengeance from drowning Fontaine.

This is what the origin of his damnation has turned into. The tales of the heroine’s feats sung and written throughout the narrative of time, passing from one generation’s lips to another’s ears. 

However, he supposes this is expected of humans. It’s their tradition of storytelling, after all, mending a fallacy into a tale palatable to their conscious.

Or perhaps, these embellishments were added to compensate for the hollows caused by the frailty of mortal memory. 

Patching over the holes with flowery words to distract readers from inaccuracies that were only compounded upon from the last. 

Fontainians who came to believe in it, must not have known the dragon all that well, considering that they thought the proud dragon would bow to the whims of a meek human.

Placing a secret so simply in her hands at the mere sight of tears.

Did Fontainians not realize that the land they reside on once belonged solely to dragons? How preposterous it is that a sovereign couldn’t set foot upon his own land. Or did they forget why he couldn’t? 

What a naive ending, did mortals truly believe that blood and water could dwell together without consequences? That simply wishing the dragon to become a human could resolve all troubles?

To overwrite everything with a ‘happily ever after’ which never happened?

Regardless of his reservations toward such fables, the Melusines always seem eager to gather around for such stories. The towering figure lacked the conviction to deny such requests. 

From down the hall approaching closer came the pitter-patter of steps, he turned his tall frame toward the direction of the sound just as a few familiar faces revealed themselves from the library entrance. 

“Monsieur Neuvillette! Come quickly! A human! A human appeared!” A group of Melusines tugs on the fabric of his slacks while pointing toward the phenomenon. 

A mortal in this domain? A cavern hidden deep under the land and waters where the warmth of the sun couldn’t grace. How did such a being find their way into this sanctum?  It’d be best that he alleviates their worries. 

“Please lead the way.” Neuvillette closes the novel, returning it to the confines of its shelf. 

His swift movements in time with the melusines’ frantic patter as they made their way out from his estate.

Soon the tops of the Melusines’ cozy homes of Merusea Village came into view, as did the murmuring of a distraught crowd. 

“Excuse me.” His steps made their presence known, their heads perked up to look at him before parting a path for Neuvillette. 

Upon the maroon pasture of Merusea Village was a blanket of silk and woven lace, snowy fabric surrounding the still figure of a human.

Treading closer Neuvillette kneels down while reaching out a hand, weaving his fingers under the fabric which obscures the mortal’s face. 

“We found her while gathering offerings from the waters … Is she…” The anxious murmuring quiets to await his verdict. 

“She has a pulse,” he reveals, fingertips detecting wisps of warmth along cold skin. 

It was faint, but his attentive eyes caught onto the slow movement of her chest. The snowy fabric had greedily drunk up the essence of the sea. Cursing her to sink deeper below the tides. 

To leave a mortal in such a state would be too cruel of a fate. 

Neuvillette moves his hand to support her covered head as his other arm gathers the damp fabric under her legs.

Carefully, he stands back to his full height, cradling her limp body in his hold. An audience of fretful gazes follow his motions.

“Do not fret, she only requires some rest and a change of clothing, I’ll take her to my abode. Could you gather some cloth to dry down her body?” Neuvillette’s melodic voice just barely above a whisper, so as not to stir the figure in his arms.

His expression softens to offer the compassionate creatures some reassurance. With firm nods the Melusines scatter, determination alight in their bright irises as they sought the necessary items to care for their newfound guest. 

The dampness of the heavy fabric seeps into his own attire as Neuvillette turns the knob to grant him entry into his abode. 

Quietly ambling through the spacious halls, the master bedroom came into view. Neuvillette lays the limp form upon his sheets, ensuring that her head rests slowly upon the soft pillows. 

Just as her figure sinks into the mattress, a chorus of metallic clinks catches his attention. Glancing down her body his lilac eyes discover the origin.

A pair of silver shackles encased around her ankles, the unforgiving metal digging into defenseless flesh. 

Gingerly, he takes one ankle into his grasp to better observe the shackles.

This time he couldn’t fight against the deep frown as it debuted upon his lips. His eyes hone on how tightly those heavy chains were bound along the flesh. 

Soon the unforgiving metal crashes down to the floor, he soothes the freed skin with his thumb while checking for any other possible wounds. 

Lilac eyes travel up to her face for any sign of discomfort, only to be reminded that her face was concealed behind a shroud of lace. 

How uncomfortable it must be to have a cold piece of fabric to cover one’s face. Neuvillette places her ankle back onto the bed.

His large hands took hold of the damp veil to lift it from her resting frame, revealing to his draconic eyes for the first time their face. 

The veil stays suspended in the air as his hands cease all motion. Hardened gaze tracing over her features, the curve of her cheeks, the slope of her nose, and the structure of her face.

Repeated details he had long seared into his consciousness. 

Within those mortal tales, there’s a wide variety of beasts and fearsome creatures. Dragons were depicted as such omnipotent beasts. But there’s a monster all other beast falls secondary to, the devil. 

They didn’t possess the sharpest talons nor the largest fangs. No, what made them so horrifying is that they dawned the most enchanting faces. 

He’s staring at it right now. The face of the devil who deceived him. 

Those gods must be laughing at him right now. Those false idols, with their capricious fate and whims, who once must’ve shook hands with you to carry out their schemes all those years ago. 

The scheme which imprisons him here in this humiliating form of the mortal creatures those false idols loved so much. 

Yes, a devil, that must be what you are. For how did a meek mortal trick a dragon who once held the full authority of the tides?

His chest expands with a deep breath before a long exhale leaves him. Ah, yes that must be why this white gown has appeared before him again. He removes the senseless scrap of lace, checking once more for signs of discomfort before he turns his body away. 

Finding himself outside the threshold of his bedroom as he closes the door behind him. He should wait here for the Melusines to arrive with a change of clothes and towels. 

It’d buy him enough time to steadily return the tempestuous loch to a subdued ripple in a pond. His chest expands once more with a deep inhale. 

A second cruel rendition unfolding once more in the narrative of time.  

The crisp turn of a page resounds through the room. Lilac eyes glanced up from the text every so often to watch the steady rises and falls of your chest from his vantage point of a wooden chair pulled up to the bedside. 

Heavy lashes still shut just as they were the day your drenched figure was pulled from the tides by merciful hands. 

The journey to wisdom is lined with mistakes, mistakes providing teachings one must ingrain into their very being if they don’t wish to repeat such blunders again.

Just as how a burn seared into skin is a forever reminder that fire indeed burns indiscriminately. 

A scar ingrained deep within him cries out for Neuvillette to withdraw from the fire which scorned him so long ago. 

Alas, it’s duty which has sat him down beside your sleeping form. You’re the first guest this cove has seen in a long time, thus bringing you under the responsibility of the host, Neuvillette himself. 

A stir brings his stoic gaze back away from his thoughts. Your chest rises with a long inhale as leaden lashes flutter open.

The cadence of your breaths begins to rise as more of your senses return to you. Fatigue evident in each slow drag of breath. 

“Ah, I see you’ve awoken.” Neuvillette observes. 

Your muscles momentarily forget their fatigue as your head snaps toward the owner of the deep voice. Eyes now wide and alert. 

“My apologies, it wasn’t my intention to startle you.” He casts a glance toward the steaming bowl on the nightstand. 

He could feel the weight of your stare travels up his figure. Do you perhaps remember him? Can you recall his lush snowy locks streaked with azure? Irises that held an all too familiar hue, a multitude of lilac shades much like a field of lavenders.

Does this ‘you’ remember the dragon you fooled? 

“W-who are you?...” Your gaze was too cowardly to meet his.

Ah, have the cycle of death and rebirth washed those sins and memories?

The tonality of your trembling voice filled with puzzlement instead of recognition. He should’ve expected this much.

This you is nothing more than a stranger who shares the face of a devil. 

“Where am I?” Another question leaves those lips in the absence of a response. 

Just give him a moment, allow him to pacify the surging torrent within so their bitterness doesn’t seep into his words. 

“You’re in our village!” A cheery voice joins the conversation. 

Two pairs of eyes land upon a short figure with a pair of pastel horns. You blink once, then twice, then slowly thrice. Inquisitive eyes stared right back at you. 

“W-what… are you?” Instinct commanding your body to retract deeper into the sheets. 

A sharp cough halts your actions, drawing your attention back to the man as he lowers his hand down from his lips. 

“She’s a Melusine, they prefer to be addressed using she/her pronouns,” he elucidates, an ever so subtle chastise in his tone. 

“Oh…” You advert your gaze again, shame creeping onto your cheeks from your unintentional discourtesy. 

A few breaths of silence follow, he observes you studying everything but the two figures just beside the bed.

Your fingers soothing over the soft cotton nightgown against your skin, a change from that restrictive and ornate dress. 

“We, Melusines, helped you change out of that wet dress. Big sister Sedene said you’d get sick if we left you in that.” 

It looks like your diverted gaze wasn’t as subtle as you originally thought. Sheepishly you extend your gratitude. 

“Thank you…” Your words draw out, a brow quirked as your stare remained on her short form. 

“Kiara!” She points to herself with a mitten hand. 

“Thank you, Kiara.” You finish. 

Her mittened hand then gestures to the towering man beside her. 

“This is Monsieur Neuvillette! He’s the one who carried you here,” she announces. 

“T-thank you, Monsieur Neuvillette.” You could only gather the courage to glance at the wall behind him. 

“Just Neuvillette is fine,” his tone melodic and calm. “Are you able to sit up?”

Nodding your head, you attempt to fight through the fatigue of your muscles. Neuvillette and Kirara offer their assistance, his firm hands guiding your body up as Kirara adjusts the pillows to support your back. 

Once you were situated, he reached for the bowl placed down earlier. A light clink sounds out from a spoon clattering about the porcelain dish. You glance at the contents, noting the clear amber broth. 

“This should be kind on your stomach while providing you with some much-needed hydration and nutrients.” He holds out the soup. 

A quivering hand attempts to reach up for the bowl, only for muscles to lose to fatigue as your arm limply falls back down to your side. Your strength has yet to return. 

Another clink from the spoon resounds in the room as it gets taken into the grasp of an attentive hand. He holds out a spoonful of the warm soup, but your lips remain shut as a skeptical gaze meets his. 

“Please forgive this inconvenience, but it’s best that you eat something to regain your strength.” The spoon remains unmoving in his hand. 

There’s a rumbling stir within him. A voice snarls into his ear, interrogating him as to why his hand is feeding the very devil who once bit it. 

“If you don’t eat you won’t get better.” Kiara’s eyes are riddled with concern as she observes your sealed lips. 

That was his rebuttal to that snarl.

The Melusines simply don’t wish to see a human in such a pitiful state. Blissful in their ignorance of events that conspired long before their birth. 

 Dignity overpowered by the guilt of seeing such pure eyes marred with worry. 

Soon your lips part, accepting the spoonful of broth delicately offered by him. After he observes you swallowing the first sip, Neuvillette holds out another spoonful. You part your lips again.

Neuvillette overrides the clamorous warnings of his instincts with the duty of being a ‘good host’, bringing another sip to your delicate lips.

 

With a regular diet of warm broth with servings of Bulle Fruit on the side, you were soon able to pick up the spoon yourself. The fatigue that plagued your bones finally leaves, allowing you to support your body off the mattress which had your shape imprinted into it. 

The Melusines, seemingly born infatuated with humanity, would often gather about your bed.

They were curious about you just as you were about them. To them, you’re the creature from those fairytales he’s read them. 

In exchange for your recollections of warm Summer days and descriptions of lush lilac fields swaying in a gentle breeze, they reveal more about this village.

About how the estate you were currently residing in was refurbished by their own-mittened hands, taking inspiration from the various books depicting what human abodes looked like. 

The beds, drapes, and even rugs are all arranged by them to create a lovely abode. A drastic change to the worn and rampaged shell it once was before their meddling.

Perhaps if he never filled their naive minds with those tales, they wouldn’t be enamored with you and humanity. 

Or maybe it’s the vibrance of your smile that drew their naive souls closer. A warmth like a flickering candlelight beckoning a moth closer.

What are the odds that the hands of fate stayed so faithful to the details of a heroine from so long ago? 

From your image to your bewitching mannerisms, and alluring voice, they’re all identical replicas. You and the ‘devil’ from that tale. 

Wisdom from a lesson learned long ago, he must not repeat the same mistake. He must not be enchanted by the same flame which scorned him. He must ensure a breadth between you and him, just as those tiresome voices call for. 

However, Neuvillette understands he has a responsibility as a host. Thus, he regularly checked on your condition, then when you were well enough to stretch your legs he accompanied you on strolls. Maintaining a respectable distance away. 

He guided you through the marble halls of the estate, showing the library and bath which were yours to access whenever you wanted.

Rooms illuminated with the muted glow of luminescence gems and pearls. Water sourced from a hidden freshwater spring. 

Impassive eyes observe yours as you look in awe at the facilities and commendations hidden deep under the tides. Were they comparable to the ones you’ve encountered back on the surface? 

This estate, these wide stone halls, those pearls and jewels once scattered about, were all made just to please the bitter tears of a mortal. Perhaps his first attempt was too subpar to quell the longing to return to the sunlight. 

But gauging from the glimmer reflecting off your eyes, it seems the Melusines attempt was satisfactory at least. 

Today’s stroll took you outside of the estate, Neuvillette accompanying you about a routine walk, watching from behind as your eyes scan the dim realm.

The lanterns lining the path of Melusine's home grace the maroon pastures and rocky walls in place of the faint wisps of sunlight offered by the depths of the sea. 

Very much expected for a village beneath the waves and earth. Were you reminiscing about the warm grace of the sun you felt up there?

It’s not fair to compare the vast sky of the surface to their cavern hidden away from the eyes of the mortals, perhaps even the divine themselves. 

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” You began today’s attempt at a conversation. 

“Yes?” He hums in acknowledgment. 

He keeps sentences brief, but informative. Counters to your attempts at conversation. 

“I’m aware this might sound strange, but is there a dragon down here?” Turning back to face him.

His strides stop as a lull of silence falls over the both of you. The weight of his unshaken gaze upon your shoulders caused them to tense up.

Your hands find each other for comfort under his oppressive stare as he awaits the reason behind this odd inquiry. 

“W-well you see, Fontaine has been having awful weather for years now. Saltwater ruining crops and persistent heavy rain, it’s because the Hydro Dragon is crying from his loneliness. I was selected and offered as his bride, to stop the rain, that’s what The Oratrice instructed,” you babble out. 

“So…do you know where he is?” Sheepishly you glance up. 

The lilac hues of his eyes connect with yours as his lips remain unmoving. Staring into your eyes as he contemplates what you have just revealed to him. Your hands fumble together as you await his response.

“So humans are still telling that local legend…” He sighs. 

He has to rein it back. The torrent which threatens to brew within him. Deep breaths to remind himself about the nature of mortals. 

Humans are fickle and meek creatures who constantly yearn for something divine to worship, a figurehead to guide them in the turbulence of life.

When faced with hardship and destitution, they believe such concepts to be punishment from above. 

Thus, they invent traditions to appease those false idols. Going to great lengths in attempts to pacify those unseen forces, even if it meant sacrificing one of their own. 

Perhaps this was the trait of mortals that made them so favored by the usurpers, their naive devotion feeding into the greed of selfish gods.

Maybe that’s why those false idols uprooted the land that belonged to dragons. 

“I wonder just how far that fable has spread by now,” he sighs again.

His lashes flutter shut in exasperation as a huff leaves him. It was a moment before they flutter back open to hone in on you. There’s no use in keeping his identity from you any longer. 

“Do I seem lonely in your eyes?” Baritone voice steady and low. 

No sounds fall from your agape lips as your eyes reexamine his features, this time shamelessly ogling the peculiar details you’ve brushed off previously.

Do you notice it now? How his ears were a bit too pointed, or those two particular cerulean strands of ‘hair’ poking out from his snowy locks. 

As you study the specifics of his eyes, do you now comprehend the sharp dark pupils that cut through the multitude of lilac shades? Much like a shadow cutting through a field of lavenders. 

“You’re the Hydro Dragon,” you deduce. 

He nods in confirmation. Only causing your eyes to scan over him again as your mind reels back from this revelation. 

In those stories you’ve read back on the surface, how did they depict him? As a towering scaled beast with fangs and claws? Are you wondering why he’s not matching that description? 

“I’m aware that my current shape might not convey such a presence, ” he answers your unspoken question. 

He fights for his lips to remain stoic, not allowing the weight of a frown to pull them down. You don’t know, you don’t need to know, he reminds himself. 

A detail excluded from the pages of that tale, the ‘princess’ would only ever look at him, would only ever smile at him when a dragon took on this shape. A form which mirrors humans. 

In fact, she was so fond of this human shell of his that she cursed him to dwell within it for the rest of eternity. 

Neuvillette takes another deep breath, quelling the stir once more. You look like you had more questions. 

“So… does that mean the need for a bride is fictitious?” You clutch your hands tighter. 

Some years ago, the Melusines were born from spilled blood. A new generation of successors of the brethren he once forsaken. Making this prison much less lonesome, voiding the accuracy of the sentence in that tale. 

If that was the case, then why did the waters still rage? Why did the pittering of rain drown out all bird songs and tumults of perplexed citizens? Is there a way he could simplify the details missed by storytellers for generations? 

After that ‘happily ever after’, a dragon cursed his devil just as she cursed him. 

No, such expositions would be an unfair burden upon your shoulders. 

“It’s not fictitious.” Turning to gaze out at the depths of the underground realm, he takes a breath before continuing. 

“The land which your nation, Fontaine, resides on is stolen land,” he reveals. “More accurately all of what you know as ‘Teyvat’ was stolen from the dragons, my fellow brethren.” 

The furrow in your brows deepens as you listen on. 

“My brethren were banished to the depths for the sake of humanity. A dragon’s rage isn’t something that can be easily quelled.” He glances back at you. 

“A union between a dragon and a human, a show of peace between the two species. Even if the origins of this ritual have been embellished heavily, it serves the same purpose to pacify the ancient dragon’s rage,” he concludes. 

Neuvillette wonders if this tale was enough to satisfy your inquiry, if his attempt at the human practice was enough to simplify the events muddled and twisted by time.

Impassive eyes scan over your expression, not missing the glimmer ever so bright within. 

“So… has the rain stopped?” Your hands almost clasped together in prayer. 

He nods, the shine growing ever so luminous in those blameless irises, one he couldn’t resist the enchantment of. That all too familiar look in your eyes. 

“That’s good.” A slow smile made its appearance upon plush lips.

Ah. He remembers what that look was called, voices of recollection pulling him away from the edge. Just before he fell into bewitchment once more.

That look wasn’t relief, nor was it salvation. It's duty. He takes a slow and deep inhale. 

Just as it was all those years ago, the narrative of this tale did not stray away from the plot. He must be more careful. 

There’s been a still lull engulfing the atmosphere down in a hidden cavern. So still in fact that walks amongst maroon patches of grass have stopped. Your body was well enough to explore the corners of the state without assistance. 

No reason for him to remain by your side throughout the day, and no reason for you to shadow him. 

Neuvillette and you keeping mostly to one’s self. It was just the natural progression of things. After all, the ritual had been completed and the tides had receded. You’ve served your duty once more. 

A foreign aroma was wafting through the estate, strange enough for Neuvillette to leave the library to investigate the origins of this aroma.

Steps slowing as the clacker of pots and pans becomes more distinct. The entrance of the estate kitchen comes into view, and he peers in to see a few familiar faces. 

“Oh? Monsieur!” Rhemia notices his presence. 

An assortment of vegetables, spices, and even some meats from fresh catches were spread about the table as a pan sizzling over a crackling fire.

Ingredients gathered from offering dropped down below the tides. The recent influx could be attributed to how the hymn of the rain has ceased. 

“Hello, Monsieur Neuvillette.” Your smile greets him. 

Ah, he’s found the explanation behind the foreign aroma and why the variety spread of ingredients was being utilized in a kitchen that was once mainly created just to match those diagrams drawn in novels. 

“I hope you don’t mind my use of the kitchen, I wanted something other than…Consomme Purete.” Wiping your hands with a rag. 

Yes, Consomme Purete.

It was the dish served when you had first woken up, a light but nutritious soup that was kind on your stomach. It had the right amount of hydration balanced with nutrients to sustain oneself, a perfect dish.

The only dish cooked in this kitchen, that was until today. 

Removing a pan from the heat, you carefully transfer the contents onto a plate then place the pan back on the wood stove.

The rich aroma caused an audience of bright-eyed stares from the Melusines to center upon the steaming plate. Their tails make their excitement clear as they gaze upon a dish they’ve never seen before. 

Was this a new passion of this life?... Or was it just one he never got the chance to witness?

Was this the devil before the role of a bride was forced upon her? A devil he’s never known, for all he saw was her performance to stop the deafening rain all those years ago.

His attention was brought back as the chime of cutlery against porcelain was heard, cooked veggies stabbed between the teeth of a fork.

Cupping a hand under the fork, your body leans down to the Melusine’s height, feeding them a bite of the fragrant dish. The wags of their tails increase in cadence as they chew. 

“This is Tasses Ragout, tasty isn’t it?” The corners of your lips curl as you watch their little heads nod eagerly. 

The suspicion melts from his gaze as he observes to the delight in their expressions, a few mitten hands tugging at the skirt of your gown for a bite. A giggle bubbles from your throat.

A scene mirroring that of a mother trying to appease the appetites of her ravenous young. 

Soon your eyes connect and he straightens his posture. Brushing away the nonsensical musing, lilac hue advert away momentarily to recompose themselves before returning. 

“Would you like a taste?” A fork offered in his direction, beckoning closer to take a bite. 

There’s a myth he’s read about, of a forbidden apple held out by the tempter of all tempters, an apple so red and lustrous it made any mouth salivate. 

“Thank you for the offer, however, I’ve already had my lunch.” He refrains. 

A bite from that forbidden fruit was the genesis of disgrace and banishment. A betrayal of commandments once promised. Neuvillette won’t be deceived again. 

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Monsieur! Monsieur! Come look!” 

Mittened hands grasping upon his coat and gloved hands as a circle of Melusines guides him through the winding halls, anticipation amping their voices. 

There’s a chorus of giggles resounding through the halls, a joyous clamor of pattering steps against the marble floors.

The estate has been lively ever since your arrival in that white dress, a liveness which reaches his pointed ears even from behind closed doors. 

Regardless, he allows himself to be towed by their skipping steps. Leading him to a room he recognizes as a space where many fabrics and gowns were collected and stored.

Garments made with the intent to be sold to Fontainians, but their crates were capsized over by the ravenous tides. Saved from watery abandonment by curious hands. 

While this form of his could wear a few of those garments, the Melusines had statures much too short for pools of fabric to not drag along the ground. Thus, that collection of fabrics found themselves collecting dust. 

Their steps abruptly stop just at the threshold of the door, mittened hands pressed up against their lips signaling for him to remain silent.

Soon their sights glance into the room as he follows, lilac eyes opening ever so slightly wider as they process the scene in front of him. 

Evening gowns crafted by skilled tailors to be sold to Fontanian ladies, you had the right frame for those garments as well.

A trail of lustrous sapphire silk gathered behind your figure. The artistic stitching and pleating draping the silk around each curve of your body as if you were the only person meant to wear it. 

A few Melusines fussing about the silk train, ever so curious of humanity, they must’ve requested for you to dawn the gown.

Just as they often had requested for him to dawn those fickle suits and coats for their enjoyment.

It seems you bent to their childish whims just as he does. 

“How do you like it?” You ask your audience, twirling about in front of a mirror. 

It’s different from those hardier dresses for when you wandered about the village and estate, in comparison this dress was much less practical. 

“It’s beautiful, Madame!” Their round eyes were enamored.

“I’m glad, who knew you had such an aesthetic eye.” Your expression softens. 

Bending down to Carole’s height, you scooped her up. Cradling her as your forehead touches her horns gently.

“Thank you for such a lovely dress.” Placing tender pats along her head, careful to not disturb her horns and hair. 

Carole leans into your touch as your smile widens. Twirling once more with her in your arms, giggles ringing throughout the room.

Until your head peeked up, finally aware of the silent spectator just behind the door frame. 

“Oh, hello Neuvillette,” you greet him with a smile he doesn’t return.

A tense lull creeps in, and a chill begins to mix with the quiet atmosphere. Lilac eyes pass over your form as Carole remains sat in your arms.

“Monsieur! Isn’t Madame pretty? Look!” Cheery and oblivious voices chime returning the warmth to the air. 

Mitten hands release your skirt as they skitter toward his towering figure. Pride shines in their beaming smiles, awaiting validation of their handy work.

Steadfast eyes lowering themselves to the level of their short statures until the sharp edges gradually dissipate. 

“A fine effort indeed.” A gloved hand extends to rest atop their heads. 

Patting their heads tenderly as they closed their eyes in contentment 

A warmth in those lilac hues, endearment no word could ever encapsulate fully. 

“Are they your daughters?” Your head slants to the side.

His body stills, strictness reinstated in those violet irises just as they met yours. Studying that look within your polite smile, one which didn’t seem to reach your eyes. 

Gloved hand ceasing all movement, his concentration now elsewhere. That expression ghosting your face, what does it mean? 

“My apologies, was it too impudent of a question?” Your gaze adverts away, searching for reprieve in this heavy hush.

A deep breath as he formulates his response. 

“I don’t share blood with them if that’s what you’re inquiring. However, they are the successors of my brethren.” 

“Oh, I see,” you hum. 

 Neuvillette returns to patting their heads, while you readjust your hold on Carole. Subtly bouncing her, while turning back to face the standing mirror.

Casting a glance, he could discern the softness returning to that polite smile. Yet, the dragon has yet to unravel that luster in your irises. 

An audience of bright eyes switches between the Monsieur and Madame. 

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Bring these to her, you should greet the Madame!” Tiny hands push against Neuvillette’s back. 

The traitorous clicks of his shoes against marble expose his approach.

Your head peers up from the book resting upon your lap, in the midst of reading a tale aloud to an audience. 

Just in time to catch the tall figure of Neuvillette emerging into the library at the behest of the Melusines. 

Lilac eyes meet yours ever so briefly before his gaze averts elsewhere. Gloved hand adjusting a bundle hidden a broad back, brings the other hand up to clear his throat. 

“The Melusines found these when retrieving some offerings from the water, I believe you’ll enjoy them.” He presents their trinket. 

A simple collection of dainty petals clustered together, pastel hues contrast against vivid virescent leaves. A quaint ribbon tied around the stems holding the bunch together held out in front of your face.

The recipient stares in round-eyed astonishment at the fragrant blooms before a smile melts into your lips. 

“Thank you.” You accept the bouquet from his hand. 

Admiring the rustic arrangement and the saccharine aroma as the Melusines sat around you leaned in closer to catch a whiff too. 

“These are called Pluie Lotus up on the surface, they smell nice right?” Giggling lightly as you held the bouquet closer to their noses. 

Grin ever present upon your lips as your soft eyes watch their marvel of such simple weeds. A bloom foreign to this realm abandoned by the sunlight. 

There’s subtle slack in his posture, a budding smile just about to unfold just as your head peers back up. Every fiber in Neuvillette’s being tenses, goosebumps slithering up his nape. 

Frozen there only able to witness your eyes study back and forth the hues of his irises and the periwinkle color tinting the fragile petals.

He watches an epiphany light up in your widened eyes as the bouquet was lifted higher, turning back to face him. 

Don’t. Don’t say the words he knows are hanging off the tip of that honeyed tongue. 

“They are the same lovely color as your eyes, Neuvillette.” You beam at him, the corners of your eyes crinkling from the stretch of your lips. 

His posture returns to its rigid and upright state, a hand hidden from view balls up into a fist.

A sharpness threatening to break through leather confines and into his palm, as if they were attempting to grapple the surging torrent stirred up within himself. 

Why? Why was this line from a script being recited word for every damn word? All said with that saccharine smile plastered over those wicked lips? 

Indecipherable eyes narrow ever so slightly before he catches himself. Reining in the torrent just before it seethed out.

He clears his throat again to swallow back the bitterness. 

“Do excuse me, please return to your reading session,” he utters his parting. 

Promptly turning to return to his secludedness, stepping past the Melusines gathered by his side.

Swift strides through the empty halls leaving you to your peace and him to his peace, just as it should’ve been. Much to the pouts of a disappointed audience. 

However, he didn’t have the mind to contemplate their discontent. Not when these rabid bellows drown out every other thought in their rancor.

Like a sea starved for vengeance, ravenous to settle a debt against those vile gods and their beloved creations. 

A brass knob was abruptly twisted, hinges squealing in surprise as at the force as Neuvillette shuts it behind himself.

Ragged breathes resounding through the reprieve of his bedroom. Away from innocent bystanders and the devil who showed her face again after all these centuries for an encore.  

Has he not been humiliated enough? He tugs at his cravat, freeing himself from the fickle decoration constricted about his neck in this already imprisoning body.

A form which binded him no matter how violently talons and fangs clawed and chewed, unable to leave a singular dent upon this damn curse. 

This was humiliating enough, bound to this cove that separated him from the sea which cries for their sovereign.

He once believed this penitentiary was obscured away from the peeking eyes of capricious gods. Perhaps, he’s wrong. 

Why is this fantasy being played out right in front of his eyes now after all these years?

To have you by his side, to have you reside in the home he craved out and inlaid pearls into, to see you smile and cradle young against your bodice. It’s insulting. 

Because this was all he ever wanted. This was all he had ever wanted. 

The lonesome dragon only ever yearned for a maiden’s endearment. He once believed she adored him back just the same. 

Because while she lay within his arms under silken covers, her bare skin pressed against his mortal shape, her enchanting eyes always regarded him with such tenderness as her delicate hand stroked his cheek. 

A glimmer he once believed was love.  

The tale written along the parchment implied that the ‘princess’ loved the dragon. However, that was inaccurate. She never did. 

For if she loved him, then she wouldn’t have deceived him.

She wouldn’t have ever whispered his secret to the town’s folk. Those foul creatures who then used his secret, which was once reserved solely for ‘you’.

Why? That simple question taunted him for decades as he rotted in this mocking solitude.

Why did ‘you’ yearn for the sun more than him? Was his love not enough to replace the warmth of a star? Was the home he made not enough when compared to the extravagance of humanity? 

Or was it because blood and water, no matter how much they intertwine and mix, could never produce wine? 

If… if the Melusines had been born just a few centuries earlier, then would you have been satisfied by his side? An answer he could already discern.

 Because after his decades of solitude within these deridingly hushed walls, he finally accepted the truth. 

 She loved her people, they took up all the space of her heart, leaving no room for a prideful leviathan.

What a clever plan it all was, to distract a sovereign from his duty, cleansing stolen land with a flood of vengeance, by sending a maiden.

A woman so bewitching, so enchanting, and so lovely, that a proud dragon couldn’t resist bending to her whims. Spilling the secret hidden deep within him into her ear. 

Abandoning his true form to be confined in the shape she favored the most. Then lured up to the surface, suspicions obstructed by the dazzlement of a false welcome from the nation of Fontaine. 

Unaware until the scorching knife was already lodged in his back. Using the secret he had only ever told you, those meek creatures of the usurpers wished:

‘For the rest of one’s life, one shall never leave this cave deep beneath the tides’. 

What a clever ploy, a masterly crafted master plan. Did that Oratrice bestow it upon mortals? Or was it your own little scheme? A devil in human skin who must’ve been enlisted by the god themselves. 

 That day when he was chained by that loch, you didn’t even bother to grace him with your presence.

You cruel, cruel devil whose heart only had room for her fellow citizens of Fontaine, whose eyes only ever glimmered with duty. 

Neuvillette had finally comprehended the truth, he had made peace with the disgrace he brought upon himself. 

So why did those vile false gods dangle you back in his face? They had already taken fragments of his authority.

Was his torment entertaining to them? 

Lungs shaking with unsteady breaths, he could feel the pricks of scales dotted along his skin only for this body to swiftly reject it. A turmoil of draconic influence constrained by a mortal curse. 

Like a beast kept in a cage much too small for it. If Neuvillette wishes for this agitation to cease, he must cease the stirred emotions. 

 Emotions don’t settle quickly once agitated like sand attempting to settle at the bottom of violent tides. He paces his shuddery inhales, biding in the solitude of his room until the storm dissipates. 

To avoid the placid lake within him from thrashing violently to the woes from the throb of a wound which has yet to scar over, Neuvillette found it best to avoid your presence. 

The lanterns outside the Melusine’s homes had long gone out as they followed their routine bedtime.

The expanse of the cavern dimmed to near blackness, the small creatures all tucked away soundly in their beds. A hushed ambiance provides a suitable environment for reflection. 

His steps flatten the grass underneath as they accompany his strides with their rustling.

The absence of light had never bothered him, it’s within his nature to detest it. Any beast would withdraw away from the mere image of fire. 

The rustle of the grass halts, a wispy aroma of smoke wafts towards him. It doesn’t take long to identify the origin. Only a small flicker broke through the shadows, candlewick fostering only a weak flame.

But it was enough to fend the shadows away from your frame. 

The flame’s light caught on each subtle ripple of the pond you were kneeling over.

The seemingly unremarkable pool served as the sole entrance and exit to Merusea Village. Where the Melusines traveled through to gather food, fresh water, and trinkets swallowed up by the waves. 

Cold waters catch the bitter droplets of your pained eyes in the reflection of the ripples upon the surface, the distorted silhouette of a weeping devil. 

An unspoken gospel revealed to draconic pupils. 

Under the rich aromas wafting from the kitchen, behind the diligently tailored gowns, and hidden in the cadence of your voice as you read tales aloud, laid the yearning for the rays of a bright star. 

You’re human, a creature fleeting and meek by nature. Blood yearns to be with blood just as every drop of rain yearns to return to a cloud. 

A sharp rustle of grass under a heavy step jolts your hunched-over posture straight, head whipping around to face the uninvited audience.

Once those weeping eyes recognize the brooding figure in front of them, your face adverts away from his direction. Shame evident upon your expression. 

A concerned hand reaches out only to retract away, contrition marring his shut lips as Neuvillette diverts his eyes too.

Fire burns indiscriminately, even the dancing flame of a candle can sear its mark upon skin. Neuvillette knows this all too well, for the lesion he received from embracing that flame once still festers even after all these years.  

However, lilac eyes pan back towards the orange glow illuminating your melancholic face. Warm hues contrast against the wet trails down your cheeks. There’s an ache more agonizing than a festering wound. 

His steps advanced closer until he was knelt down by your slump frame. A benevolent touch lands upon your shoulder. Guiding you away from the taunting waters and into his arms, hiding your face in his broad shoulder. 

 Offering you a semblance of warmth in a coven shunned from the grace of gentle sunlight.

With your face away from his gaze, the cacophony of your sobs returns, digging your fingers into the folds of his dress shirt.

Echoed back mockingly by the cold cavern walls.

Perhaps a foolish dragon has yet to learn his lesson, still lured in that the brilliant light of a flame. 

A gentle hand traces up along your back, softly brushing your hair away to reveal the skin of your nape to his sharp pupils.

Honed in upon untainted skin, the courts of rebirth may have removed the proof of your damnation, but not the hex itself. 

Or maybe, a foolish dragon feels some responsibility for being the one to curse you to this fate. 

A mark once imprinted upon your nape by a lonesome dragon, a heavy oath sworn to you engrained into the very fabric of your soul amidst the first rendition.

One which then became the cursed chains that sunk you under the unforgiving waters.

It’s said that love is heavy, a weight greater than the density of water. A heaviness which could sink anything and everyone under salty tides. 

A heaviness originating from this accursed prison where a disgraced being resided.

Even as the earth above welcomed new generations as they said goodbye to bygone times. 

The solitude of a fool turning into ravenous waves which seeped into soil until its appetite was satiated by the return of its beloved treasure.

It’s his fault that the tides stole you from the sunlight. 

The courts of rebirth had already forgiven you of this burden, not a single memory remaining of that tale.

What right does he have to place it back upon you? There’s no point in punishing one for a sin that had been cleansed by the tides of time.

You didn’t deserve to be held away from the warmth of a benevolent sun.

To have been dragged down below to these depths. To have been stolen away from the warmth of the sun by the command of fickles gods and ancient grudges.

It’s much too severe of a sentence for you, someone who didn’t deserve to repent for a sin that wasn’t truly yours. 

Is it okay for his hands to wipe away your tears when this cursed dragon was the cause of your agony?

Even if it’s wrong, Neuvillette holds you closer. Even if he didn’t have the right, he pressed your face in his shoulder. Allowing the vehemence of your tears to scorch his skin as you buried your cries into him. 

Glancing at the pool you had been leaning over, he watches as the ripples of the surface taunt you and him the same.

Two beings whose bodies couldn’t embrace the tides. Two cursed beings who’ve been trapped in repeated play. 

“It seems you’re bound to this prison as well.” He scorns those gods and ancient grudges, but he scorns himself the most.

Confined behind a human face and a human body, a traitor who’s lost his birthright over the waters who couldn’t welcome him.

How can a cursed dragon quell those choking sobs of yours? How can he atone for his selfish sin?

Neuvillette takes a deep breath just your tears continue to soak his skin. Steeling his resolve, he meditates on the one resolution he can offer you. 

“Fontainians still tell a tale about a princess who wished a dragon to become a prince, yes?” He begins. 

After a pause filled with hiccups and shaky breaths, you nod your head as an answer. 

“It was when she spoke the dragon’s true name that he granted her one wish,” he recounts the tale, feeling the trembles of your shoulders. 

“That part of the story isn’t fictitious,” he reveals.

Voices from the depths of his rationality whisper for him to stop, to expand no more upon this secret of his brethren. Clamorous warnings to a traitor to not repeat his past transgressions. 

However, he obeys no edict from the heavens or origins. Not when an unjust punishment caused such heart-wrenching sobs. 

“Names hold great significance to dragons. So much so, to whoever learns their true name, a wish can be granted.” 

Slowly, your tear-stained face pulls away from his crinkled dress shirt. Finally meeting his lilac gaze. He notes the bewilderment which surrounds his reflection in your eyes. 

“Is… your name not ‘Neuvillette’?” You inquire. 

“It’s a surname bestowed upon me by the mortals of the land.” 

“Then… What is your name?” A glimmer of optimism ever so subtly debuts in your eyes. 

He could not tell you. No matter how beautifully that light shines, this was one ordinance he couldn’t ignore. All he could do was glance away as he shakes his head. Unable to bear the sight of that light extinguishing. 

“That is what you must find for yourself.” 

Perhaps this is his defiance of the plot which has been unraveling for so long. His attempt to step off that circular path, searching for a different end. 

The silent audience of fate watching on with bemusement to where this rendition will lead. 

“Oh?”

“Oh?”

What a peculiar occurrence, Neuvillette was just about to exit his study when he found himself just a breath’s width away from you. Instinctively, he takes a step back behind the threshold of the doorway.

Passive eyes studying your form, you must’ve been standing there for a while. A hand held up intending to knock on the oak door returns to your side as you stare at the floor. 

“Is there something you need assistance with?” He continues to study you. 

Lilac eyes observe as your fingers clasp together, a common habit of mortals when nervous, if he recalls the contents of a book correctly. Another minute passes before you take a deep breath. 

“Is your name Guillaume?” You peer up. 

Ah, so this is what you wished to inquire about.

The secret revealed to you that day beside an exit neither he nor you could cross. Guillaume, a name befitting of nobility. But unfortunately, not for a dragon. 

He responds with a shake of his head, expression stiffening as he watches the corners of your lips drop ever so slightly. 

“Oh…”

It seems his existence brings nothing but a frown upon those soft lips, Neuvillette felt it’s best to retreat from your sight. 

This attempt was evidence of your determination to return to the embrace of a warm star.

It wouldn’t be right for him to interfere, despite those vile voice whispers murmuring from the depth of his mind. It wouldn’t be fair to you. 

It’s best to maintain this distance between his hand and yours, for your sake and his. 

Which begs the question, why were you still standing here in front of him? 

“Is that all you wished to inquire?” Neuvillette hopes the Melusines will lift your spirits after he withdraws. 

“Actually…” You began. “I made some soup and if you haven’t had lunch yet, would you like to try some?” 

Although his stoic face might not reflect it, he’s positively baffled. Were ‘you’ always this enthusiastic about food?

The devil he knew before would view the freshest catches and clearest waters offered by a dragon with blasé reactions. 

You used to recoil away from the fishes and meats he held out to you, they were only ever touched once he charred them over a fire. 

Then again the kitchen back then was much more barren than the present, cabinets now decorated with bottles of fragrant spices and herbs. 

Was it just a difference in palate? To reject such an invitation would be to squander a precious opportunity for investigation. 

“The pleasure would be all mine.” He matches your strides as the two of you traverse toward the kitchen. 

Settling down in a chair at a wooden table, Neuvillette watches as you ladle some soup into a bowl. Following your form as you set the bowl down in front of him. A pleasant aroma accompanies the steam emitting from the bowl. 

“It’s Fontainian Onion Soup.” You hand a spoon over. 

“Thank you.” He takes the utensil and scoops a hearty serving of the rich soup.

A distinct flavor of caramelized onions and the creaminess of cheese. The broth had been thickened with a bit of flour and the cheese added to the heavy mouth feel. 

This dish certainly expresses the flavor preferences of humans… but could such a thick broth really be considered soup? 

“Do you like it?” Your head tilts to the side as he feels your inquisitiveness. 

Dabbing a napkin over his lips, he clears his throat. 

“A fine dish indeed. Although increasing the liquid content and reducing the amount of fat could improve it,” he advises. 

A hush falls over the kitchen, nothing but the occasional crackle of a fire filling the space. 

“Oh… I’ll keep that in mind.” Your voice was restraining something. 

As you turn away, Neuvillette catches the subtle shakes of your shoulders. 

Ah, has he caused offense? He recalls how cooking and food preferences amongst humans tend to be a sore spot for most, some books going as far as to claim critics as attacks on one’s pride. 

You had taken time out of your day to prepare a bowl for him, and he gave senseless comments in return. 

“Ah, but it’s delicious regardless, thank you.” He has to remedy this situation. 

The shakes of your shoulders increase, as a hand covers your lips. 

“Thank you, Monsieur.” Your lips seem to be trying to stifle something. 

After finishing your sentence, your lips pressed tighter together. He could see the corners twitching as they tried their best to remain neutral.

Before he could get another word in, you excused yourself. Leaving him in front of the warm soup. 

In that moment, Neuvillette vows to himself that even if you were to hand him a piece of charcoal he’ll swallow it without a single complaint. 

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Is your name Édouard?” 

Your voice causes him to turn his attention away from the pages of a book this quiet evening.

You stood just off to the side of the bookshelf where he was browsing, a candle illuminating the curiosity held in your eyes. Presenting a name likely discovered from those very same shelves.

Dirges ring from the corners of his mind, warning him not to allow the light to approach so close.

However, where is a shadow supposed to withdraw to when the light seeks him?

Just as how the tide couldn’t run away from the shore for long. Steadfast and constant attempts to unravel the secrets held by the ebbs and flows. 

Alas, he shakes his head again today, steeling his nerves as he catches the slight drop in your shoulders. Louis, Étienne, Théodore, and all those previous guesses, are names of heroes in Fontainian tales and epics. 

Popularized to the point many boys were named after them, but no parent would ever want to name their child after a dragon, a beast.

He doubts the pages of history have ever recorded his name. 

Your disheartened gaze couldn’t meet his, choosing to stare into the space beside him. He couldn’t fault you for that.

All your efforts of combing through old novels to search for obscured monikers just to be undone by a shake of a head.

He’s not sure how much longer he can endure being the origin of your melancholy.

“There’s a tear in your coat…” 

Your voice brings him out of his thoughts, he glances at the spot your eyes were honed on and spots the aforementioned tear. 

“Ah, I see. My apologies for being in such an unsightly state, ” he sighs. Lilac eyes ran along the jagged seams. 

He should go find a replacement from his wardrobe, but you still looked like you had something to say. 

“I can fix it if you’d like,” you offer. 

It’s just a garment, a piece of cloth that fell off some merchant’s ship and found itself in the walls of a cove. There were plenty of other garments that suffered the same fate, picked up by pairs of curious mittened hands. 

To replace this robe would be simple, but he notes the concealed eagerness in the fidget of your fingers. It must be rather dull for you down here for the past year, to the point you resorted to repairing old fabrics for enrichment. 

Regrettably, Neuvillette admits he’s not the best host. He’s got no talent for small talk nor does he know how to entertain you, thus he left it up to the Melusines. However, he could at least do this much as a host. 

“Thank you, I’d be grateful if you do.” 

His steps in time with yours through the halls as an old storage room comes into view. Still filled with collections of folded gowns and coats.

As he observes the room, you guide him to a pair of wooden chairs, a box filled with needles and threads beside one. You place the candle down on a nearby table.

“I’ll take your coat.” Holding out your hands. 

Following your request, he slips the robe off his shoulders, leaving him in a dress shirt and slacks.

Attentively you take the garment, settling down in a seat as your hand searches through the box. After your rummaging stopped, you glance back at him. 

“It won’t take long, please have a seat.” Gesturing toward the other chair. 

Lilac eyes scanned the aged seat, the door was just beyond it, it wouldn’t take much of an excuse for him to walk past the wooden threshold.

However, he pans back to your anticipatory gaze still awaiting. It wouldn’t be polite to deny such a simple gesture. 

Thus, he heeds your request, ambling toward the empty seat, he begins to settle down just as a rip resonates through the air.

His body halts all movement just as yours did, toward pairs of eyes trained on the sleeve that had been caught on the edge of a wooden table. 

The fibers of his shirt entangled with the jagged edges causing his sleeve to rip. Neuvillette truly has yet to acclimate to such fickle inconveniences. 

“Pfft!-” Quickly your hand covers your mouth. 

Lips pressed together as they tried their best to stifle the sounds threatening to leak out. Your shoulders shaking from the effort, just as they did that day in the kitchen.

Although his expression remains the same, he’s quite dumbfounded.

Unable to contain the sounds any longer, you erupt into a fit of giggles as he continues to stare. The bright chimes of your laughter fill the room, a melodic tune he had longed to hear for so long. 

“S-sorry, I just didn’t expect you to… be so clumsy.” Giggles fragment your sentence along with a brief pause to collect yourself. 

Clumsy. Yes, he remembers that word, an adjective you used to describe a dragon whenever he took on the shape you favored so much.

Of course, even a great beast like a dragon would totter and stumble when in such a foreign body. 

Although he has been in this body for many, many years now, yet, Neuvillette hasn’t acclimated to these fickle mortal attires.

If these garments weren’t pushed into his hands by the Melusines and their bright-eyed stares, he’d prefer to not dawn them. 

Neuvillette shuts his eyes. His lungs intake a deep breath, stifling the sway of these trivial inconveniences before they cause any ripples.

Once he’s certain there was no jagged edge to his stare, lilac hues peek back upon your figure. 

By now those fits of giggles had faded into a tranquil lull, your content face focused on the stitches. Body relaxed against the back of the chair, weaving the needle through the sides of the tear.

Subconsciously, his frame begins to mimic yours, rigid muscles melting against the wooden support. 

Lavender hues follow the disappearance of a sliver point, then catch its emergence from the fabric.

The torn and frayed edges draw closer and closer together by the coaxes of the thread, each stitch attentively placed by your graceful hands. 

“Neuvillette?” Your serene voice interlaces with the placid interlude. 

He hums an answer. 

“That night by the entrance… you said ‘You're bound to this cove as well’.” The pace of the needle slows. 

“Why did you say that?” You finish your question. 

Observant, a characteristic of yours he’s always deemed quite commendable. Ever so keen on the nuances of his sentences. 

The piercing stare of draconic eyes weighs on your shoulders, despite that the cadence of the needle didn’t falter. A ripple makes its appearance within a placid pool. 

“Do you really wish to know?” He warns. 

You hum resolutely. A bitter taste creeps its way up his tongue, the recollection of the string of words which damned him here. 

Instinct advises him to swallow them back, to conceal his shame from your awaiting ears. However, answering the call of your curiosity should be enough of a repayment for repairing a coat. 

“For the rest of one’s life, one shall never leave this cave deep beneath the tides. That is the curse set upon this body,” he reveals. 

The needle stops.

“A curse?…” you stammer out. 

Under your breath, Neuvillette hears you recount the disclosed secret. Repeating it to yourself as if to decipher the syntax, to find some answers to his condemnation.

The answer was sitting just in front of him. 

“…For the rest of one’s life… well, how long do dragons live?” 

To mortals, it’s time who is the reaper of their existence. From the moment a newborn sounds their first cry to the final draw of air on their deathbeds, it was the hands of a clock who ruled over them.

But such hands could not touch a being such as him. 

“The life of a dragon begins and ends in the Fontemer Sea, born from it, made from it, and shall return to it to be born again.” He wonders if mortals could grasp such a concept. 

“Oh…” Your tone grew more somber. 

Judging from your tonality, you must’ve pieced the allusions together.

To be contained within these stone walls with only a pool of seawater he could not touch as the opening, is to bestow upon him immortality he never asked for.

For the Hydro Dragon could not return to the Fontemer Sea. 

Even if dragons had long lives, it didn’t mean the humiliation of immortality. The true cruelty of this seemingly kind curse. 

“Why?” Your voice just barely above a whisper. 

Why was he cursed? Why is he in this sham of a mortal body? Why did he reveal the secrets of his brethren? All of this at the trifling sight of bitter tears. 

“Because the people of Fontaine found my name and they wished for it.” 

Why did he give you his name? And why did you then give it away? There are many questions left unanswered by that tale. 

Why did a proud dragon bow to the whims of a mere mortal in that fairytale?

A creature as potent as a dragon should never bow, not to the ordinances of false gods, not to the turbulence of fate, and not to a mere mortal. 

 Why did a maiden wish for a dragon to become a human like them? Water is an adaptable element, able to take on any shape it pleases. However, it yearns to always return to its natural shape. 

Perhaps, his ‘natural’ form appalled the devil too much. So much so, she used that one wish to confine him in the form she favored most.

More confoundingly, why did Neuvillette allow such a request? A creature favored by the usurpers dared to wish a dragon to abandon his heritage, to cross over the threshold of humanity just for their sake.

Why would a dragon ever bow to a mortal’s request?

The commandments of a false god and the howling thrashes of wind can’t make a proud dragon bow, but the weight of love might be enough for a prideful beast to lower his head towards a mortal. 

A traitor to his own fallen brethren is much too dignified of a title for Neuvillette. No, it’d be better to call him for what he is: A Fool. 

What a spectacle it was that day, even those fickle gods peered down just to watch. A fool who lost his form and authority was imprisoned beneath the tides.

A stir shakes that pool, whirling and writhing, the billows of bitterness mounting. 

“… could it be wished away?” Your voice beckons his thoughts to return to the present. 

Unlike how it was written in those tales, a curse can’t be ‘broken’. Not by a kiss, and not by clasping one’s hands together in prayer. 

“Not even a miracle could make a curse vanish, a curse only ever goes away once its clauses have been fulfilled.” 

Until the stars burn out, until the sky caves in on itself, or until the oceans of this uprooted world dry up, he shall remain here. The retribution a traitor deserves. 

He shall remain in this sham of a body, unable to become the form he desired the most in the next life he’ll never reach.

Not a human, not a dragon, just an atrocity somewhere in-between. This must be what humans call ‘purgatory’.  

“I see…” Your attention never leaves the half-stitched garment sprawled upon your lap. 

A heavy silence fills the space between you and him once more. To conclude a conversation on such a doleful note would be a disgrace. 

However, what is he to say? What words can salvage this situation? Neuvillette has no talent for small talk, he doesn’t have the same mortal heart as yours to provide you with any solstice. 

Amidst his contemplation, a soft hum resounds through the quietude, and the melodic rhythm of a lullaby begins. It seems that you took matters into your own hands, ending the doleful silence at your own discretion.

Once more his back reclines into the wooden chair, pointed ears indulge themselves in a nostalgic tune.

It’s strange, that rippling pool is swaying back to equilibrium. The surface returns to its placid rest as tension melts from his muscles. 

Unaware of the hushed pitter-patter of a curious audience, drawn in by the gentle song as their bright eyes peer ever from the cover of the door frame. 

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Madame! Look I got more Pluie Lotuses!” Kiara’s little steps rush across the marble floor. 

Getting up on the tips of her feet to show the bundle of fresh blooms, salty water still dripping from their petals, as her bangs stick flush to her face still damp from the sea. Her pink tail swaying behind her.

Your body turns in her direction just in time with Neuvillette. 

“Kiara…” A subtle layer of disapproval emerges from lilac hues.

“Remember to dry off before entering the estate, the floors can become quite dangerous when wet.” 

“But…” the flowers lower. “I wanted to show Madame the lotuses…” 

There’s a drop in her tail and horns and a sharp sting to his chest. Her sisters were gathered around in a circle, a story having just concluded, he could feel their stares upon him. Adding to the sharpness of guilt. 

“My apologies, Kiara, I only meant to warn you.” 

She nods her head silently, tail still dragging on the floor. Ah, just what should he do? A frown begins to weigh down his face. 

“Thank you, they’re wonderful, Kiara.” Your gentle chime breaks through the stalemate. 

You take the bouquet from her mittened hands, placing them atop a counter, in exchange you offer her a towel. 

“But Neuvillette is right, it’s not good to run through the halls right after you returned from the waters. It’s dangerous, okay?” Your voice as gentle as the towel rubbed over her hair and horns. 

A content smile returns to her round cheeks as she diligently nods, promising that she’ll be more careful next time. Tail lifting up from the floor as the fluffy towel wipes away the ocean droplets. 

Once fully dried, she joins her sisters. The Melusines cast shifting glances toward one another until one finally steps out from the crowd. 

“Madame…” Carole calls out softly, tugging a few times the hem of your long dress. 

“Hm?” Giving her your full attention, a towel set aside. 

“I overheard you inquiring about names with Monsieur in the library once, could you be…” Her eyes downcasted. 

Oh. This time it was Neuvillette and you who exchanged glances, eyes both reflecting the same dread.

They weren’t supposed to know. They weren’t supposed to hear those slapdash guesses. 

He never meant for them to find out. Always careful to never discuss such matters in their earshot.

For how could he bear to tell them that their cozy village was actually a prison? 

His mind was unable to conjure up an excuse, tongue unwilling to speak it. They weren’t supposed to find out. Oh, what shall he do now? 

“Could you be expecting?” 

Huh?

Two pairs of eyes widened with bewilderment, mind stunned into silence and lips just as confused.

Somehow they’ve huddled even closer than before, encircling you and him with their bright eyes and tails swaying with anticipation. 

“Will there be a new addition to the village?” 

“How long do we have to wait?” 

“Are we getting a brother or sister?” 

Their chatter and probes homogenized into a jumbled symphony his flustered conscious just couldn’t distinguish. Trying to reel his senses back from this unexpected turn of events. Neuvillette clears his throat. 

“No,” he coughs out. 

A collective ‘aw’ resounds through the air, their tails and horns drooping down at the announcement. Guilt pierced its nail through his chest once more. However, he couldn’t lie to their bright eyes. 

“N-not, yet.” You add to his statement. 

A wave of inquisitive‘oh’ ripples through the crowd. Tails picked up from the ground as the glimmer in their eyes returned.

A sweet lie sprinkled over the truth neither of you dare tell, that blood and water can’t make wine. 

“Then, do you want a little prince or little princess?” Carole chirps. 

You remain silent, only gazing down at their faces as they stare back.

A lilac stare was also focused upon you, his curiosity awakening at this question as well. He watches you take a slow breath before leaning down. 

“I’d like to have a daughter, sweet and kind like all of you.” Your hand strokes her soft trestles. 

Her head nuzzles into your palm as giggles fill the air. Only draconic eyes study the small smile upon your lips, dipped in bittersweetness. 

Did you have a lover back on the surface in this life? Perhaps someone who was promised to you. A real prince this time. 

Did you have dreams of basking in the grace of the sun, cradling a bundle as a pair of tiny fingers encase around your own?

Was this the hard-earned happy ending you yearned for?

“Monsieur…” Mamaere tugs on his slacks. 

Neuvillette reigns his thoughts back from their escapade, he angles his head down. 

“Where does a baby come from?” 

The smile on your lips stiffen just as Neuvillette’s body does.

If there’s a god who’s peering into this cavern deep below the land and sea, must they send such dilemmas his way?

How does one navigate through this treacherous domain?

“Oh dear! I just remembered.” Your hands clap together.

“There’s a few ribbons and clips in the fabric room, do you girls mind getting them? So we can braid Monsieur’s hair?” 

At once the Melusines stand at attention, focus diverted over their excitement at the prospect of decorating snowy locks.

The patters of their little steps trample down the hall, allowing you and Neuvillette a well-deserved moment of reprieve. 

“Thank you.” His posture drops slightly as a hefty sigh leaves him, lids shut for a moment of rest.  

“Of course, Sébastien.” 

His eyes crack open, casting you a glance with a raised brow. The ghost of a grin barely contained by delicate lips. By this time, Neuvillette couldn’t recall all the past attempts. 

“Regrettably, that is not my name.” 

“Was it at least a decent attempt?” 

He could hear the pout in your voice, one that didn’t last long before a light-hearted laugh follows it.

Closing his eyes once more as he indulges in those chimes, he nods ever so slightly. It was a good attempt, for it brought out those sounds he enjoyed. 

His lashes flutter open at the sensation of his hair getting gathered in your tender hold. Passing the carved wooden teeth of a comb through his snowy locks.

Careful to not pull or tug on them as you coaxed the tangles out of their knots. The heaviness upon his shoulders leaves with a deep exhale which left his body, indulging in your attentive touches.

Subconsciously, his gaze trails up at the bundle of flowers resting along the wooden table. It wasn’t the periwinkle blush of the delicate petals that commanded his attention.

No, it was that salty, oceanic wisp mingled with the flora aroma. A fleeting essence of the sea.

“Do you miss the sea?” 

Ah, it seems that his stare wasn’t as subtle as he had hoped. Neuvillette turns away from the flowers as if he had been caught amidst a scheme.

Facing in front of him, your paused hands signal your wait for his response. 

“I suppose it’s only natural for me to long for it.” 

After all these years, Neuvillette believes he has finally grasped it, an answer to that void filled with ‘whys’. As if he had seized the reflection of a star from the bottom of a deep lake.

Neuvillette thinks he understands why you and the devil yearned for the sunlight. 

Perhaps the one similarity between proud dragons and arrogant humans. They both ache to return to where they came from.

One yearns for the sea. One yearns for land.

For there and only there, could their sins and grudges be purged. To gain the most restful sleep before the hands of fate shape them anew from the element.

“Hmm,” you hum in acknowledgment. 

Fingers gentle and slow as they brushed through his hair. You hum a lullaby to accompany each pass of the comb. Melodies that made his ears yearn for more, craving for more sounds to leave your plush lips. 

His hair had always been an inconvenience, capricious strands that were seemly curious of everything in his environment.

Snowy tresses find themselves gravitating towards door hinges, door knobs, and even the minuscule gaps in ornate furniture.

However, your patience hands untangled those unruly stands. 

When a knot proves to be particularly stubborn, you tend to lend closer to hone in on the troublesome tangle. 

It just so happens that a stubborn knot appeared, causing you to decrease the proximity between your bodies.

The heat radiating from your frame sends delightful pickles along his skin, a delicate warmth making his flesh grow feverish. 

A hunger deep within begins to grumble and wallow, a greed that wishes to dig past those frivolous fragrances to get to the true taste he craves.

An ugly gluttony pleading to delve into your soft flesh. Ah, he recognizes the cause of this turbulence now…

Neuvillette clears his throat. 

“I believe I’m beginning to feel unwell, so please refrain from venturing into the cellar for the next few weeks. I should quarantine myself.” Too ashamed to turn back and face you. 

“Oh?...” The comb stops.

At this distance, he was well aware of your scent. A fine fragrance no water or bloom could hope to imitate. Concealed under a layer of lavish soaps and oils dropped from the surface was an aroma that was wholly yours and yours alone. 

A gloved hand reaches up to cover his nostrils, seeking some barrier between that tantalizing whiff. 

“Please, excuse me…” He pulls away swiftly. 

The sudden action must’ve jostled his hair too much, for the sultry sensation of your fingertips was felt along azure ‘strands’. 

Just a minor touch against his horns, yet shudders rack up his nape. His teeth sink into the flesh of his bottom lip, sharper than they’re supposed to be, anchoring those ravenous voices at bay momentarily. 

He needs to leave now. For your sake. 

Rushed strides stow a distance between his body and that delectable warmth of yours. His back turned to you as he couldn’t bear to see the expression upon that saccharine face. 

Just what expression were you making as a dragon retreated?  

The cellar of this estate was always cold, its stones never having once touched the sunlight before, thus they only brood in their frigidity. A somberness fitting to quell a heat which yearned to burn. 

The fever has consumed his body wholly, each pant leaving trails of foggy wisps. Neuvillette burrows deeper into the hoard of sheets, pillows, and blankets. The brush of the soft fabrics prickles his skin. 

How strange it is that despite the fever of heat igniting each corner of his flesh, despite the numerous thick covers twisting and burying his bare form, he’s still shivering. 

A chill ingrained so deep it’s in his very bones, skin alight but bones frozen over, just what is this purgatory? 

Annually it happens, a period where primal instincts exude past the rigid confines of a mortal form. Making its influence in the resurgence of draconic features over the mortal flesh that traps him.

No matter how raw his true form claws to be released, the mortal prison doesn’t relent. A curse he’s brought upon himself.

Laceratations of gluttony and cardinal sin sink deeper with each provocation. The creeks of the floorboards above and the sweet voice which leaked through the woods, the morsels of you that stirred the waters of instinct. 

From the depths of the torrent, he’s so desperately suppressing came the unquenchable thirst to lure you in. Beckon you down to this shadowy cellar so that the ugly and primal waters could swallow you wholly. 

But he mustn’t. Those soft touches and smiles had just been bestowed upon him, the twine of trust still delicate. How could he ever squander such privileges? For those lovely eyes of yours to look at him filled with nothing but fear and disgust, he’d rather be chained down here for the rest of eternity. 

He must endure it for a bit longer, he knows it’ll be over soon. The gale which sweeps through him is slowly lessening its blows. 

Even if the waters of primitive instincts howled and stormed, Neuvillette refused to leave this tangle of blankets and pillows. An unwavering grip refusing to submit to those demands. Thus nature had to find its own way to subsist off a drought. 

The heat hazed over his mind, conjuring up fantasies to appease the ever-unsettled water from its vapid reality.

“Neuvillette?” A soft voice calls out.

Just like now. Desire fogs up his senses to create a delusion, mimicking the way your warm voice beckons him. It’s nothing but a figment of his depraved lust. 

“Neuvillette?” 

He buries his ears further into the down covers to block the alluring mirages. Tickling him to submit to the temptation. But he mustn’t. Nothing more than a manifestation of lust. 

 The phantom donning your sweet voice calls out for him, and gentle touches send shivers through his nerves. Ah, he must vanquish this mirage before the fraying line of his self-restraint splinters apart. 

Nothing but smoke and mirrors conjured by desire, a rigid arm expels out from the covers to dissipate the siren’s lure. 

However, it wraps around something warm, a heat which his fever wails for. Intrinsically his shivering body covets that warmth, to be buried flush against the source so that this chill may finally stop its torment. 

So like any greedy dragon, his claws enclose around temptation and drag it into his decrepit cave of blankets and sheets. 

A satisfied purr judders through his stalwart body, a warmth which could finally reach his very bones. Thus, he burrows his face deeper into the shoulder of this phantom, a lovely aroma beckoning him to pull their soft body closer. 

“Neuvillette?…” 

His eyes snap open, realization flooding through him just as the chill that had been ingrained into his bones. This wasn’t an illusion. You weren’t an illusion. 

He tears himself away, just as a moth does once they realize a hypnotic flame had set their wings alight. Trembly arms firmly planted on either side of your body, snowy locks falling onto your face. 

“Are you alright?...” The sapphire luminance of his elongated horns shines across those sinless eyes. 

The strap of a nightgown halfway down your shoulder from when he snatched you beneath his savage form. 

“You… you shouldn’t be here,” he breathes, voice unsteady and taut. 

“You’ve been away for an awfully long time… I-” Your eyes were blown wide and lips pressed together, aghast gaze not daring to glance down at the raging rigidness pressed against the silk of your nightgown. 

Frenzied shivers of pleasure jostles through his veins, tremors racking his body all the way to the tips of his horns. In desperation his rigidnesses pleaded to feel you, throbbing so painfully a hiss leaves his lips.

“You need to leave, quickly please.” Leave before he traps you again.

 Before this pathetic excuse of a sovereign loses against himself, before he makes a fool of himself. Neuvillette tries to pull away, against the weeping wishes of his erections. Face too ashamed to even look at you, but a pair of tender hands guides his cheeks back.

“...But I missed you…” You whisper. 

Why are your hands embracing his face in this unsightly state? Are they not appalled by the patches of scales littered across them? Like a flame reaching out towards a moth. 

“Leave, please.” Don’t tempt him like this. 

“... Don’t you miss me?...” Your hold doesn’t budge.

Why do you look at him like that? Irises filled with warmth as his image is reflected in the flickering candlelight. Gazing wholly up at him. A cerulean glow tinting your hair and supple body. 

“Don’t…” He reasons, the last of his sensibility crying a warning of a sinful fruit. 

“Please, Neuvillette… won’t you hold me for just a bit? I missed you so much….” The shift of your shoulder causes the nightgown to slip further off your shoulder. 

Don’t call out to him like that. No, not as your bewitching body was so close to his. The glow of a candle illuminating the curve of your cheeks, disheveled hair framing your wide eyes. 

Don’t show him such a sight, for he’ll salivate to devour you until his teeth rot.

“Please?...” Coaxing his head down so that his forehead rests against yours. 

Your warmth, your soft touches, and your delectable aroma, they parch his throat so much it pained him. Just as painful as attempting to swallow down sand from a hellish desert, it aches and lacerates his throat. 

And here you were offering a lustrous fruit, so juicy and filled of sin, in front of his famished eyes. A cruel, cruel mercy. 

“... May…May I?” It’s unbearable, this parchedness in his throat, would you be so kind to quench it? 

Your sweet hum grants him permission. Eyes closed just as you turn a blind eye to his ravenousness, still stroking his tender cheeks. Neuvillette couldn’t deny himself any more of the warmth he’s coveted for oh so long. 

Thus, he delves head-first into the glimmer of that enchanting flame. Burying his nose into the crook of your neck, so vulnerable and complacent, to hoard your bewitching fragrance all for himself. His skin flushed against yours as his bones delight in your heat. 

The reigns of self-respect slip out from his hands as they let go in favor of running along your curves and edges. Each feature, your shoulders, and hips, aligns with details he’s long ingrained into his memory.

His fervor touches pushing down the silk fabric which dare disturb his worship. Nevuillette cants his head up momentarily, puffs of smothering breaths clouding the frosty air. 

Lilac eyes drink up how the chilly air made your delectable breast perky, trailing down the goosebumps lining your torso, and landing on your exposed thighs.

A dryness itches in his throat as callused hands bite into the tender skin and he parts those placid legs away. 

Oh, how could one ever take their eyes off that shiny, succulent fruit held out so openly in the hands of the tempter of all tempters?

They reveal to him the oasis he’d been hallucinating these grueling weeks. The tip of a serpentine tongue slips across his parched lips.

Since you so brazenly offered your body up to him, you wouldn’t have any objects against him finally getting a taste, right? 

His foreboding figure traverses downwards until his delirious face is right between the cusp of his salvation and demise.

Dilated pupils peering up at you for approval, an invocation for clemency from this drought. A merciful hand graces his cheeks once more, granting him his salvation and demise. 

His tongue escapes past his parched lips, as lengthy as it was insatiable, it licks a slow and passionate strip up your slit. A taste he once would only recount in the depths of his recollections. 

Does this new body of yours still have the same weaknesses? Will you still writhe in madness if he sucks on that delectable little nub? Or how about those hidden points concealed deep within?

Could this tongue of his bring you past the brink of insanity in this life as well?

There was only one way for Neuvillette to grasp the answers he sought. A long tongue slips past the entrance of your satin walls, welcomed with a lewd squelch. 

Grip parting your legs from his path further. Those quivering calls of ‘Neuvillette’and the pawing of your small hands against his head beckon him deeper. 

Ah, redemption, it’s far too late for him now. For Nevillette has taken a bite out from that forbidden fruit, the evidence of it was dripping down his chin. 

Ah, these slick velvety walls, he missed them. They clamp down with such ferocity along this beastly tongue, extensive enough to reach the deepest cavern of you.

A divine nectar begins to pool, Neuvillette retracts his tongue just enough for the heavenly taste to slide down his throat. Your sweet musk sends his olfactory system into chaos, rampant tongue returning to ravish you.

Not one drop of restraint left within him. It’s beastly how he’s devouring you. His tongue craves more of the delicacy he’s denied himself these past years, a thirst no water could quench. Wet muscles sliding up the whole length of your slit in a meticulous long lap, his nose bumping into your clit. 

Your mewls and sobs echo off the walls when he flicks his tongue over that sensitive nub. Your body jolts violently as the length of his tongue ventures into the honeypot, toes curling in the air, but his iron-clad grip doesn’t allow any room for escape.

Delicate fingers now entangled into his tussled locks, grasping onto illuminated horns. You were likely trying to find something to ground your dissipating sanity, how unfortunate that your actions only flamed the fires. 

A guttural growl echoed. Tongue now plunging further, slithering back and forth along your walls. For being such a sweet sacrifice for him, he’ll give a reward. Slithering tongue making sure to drag against that spot he’s memorized.

Judging from how your feet were arching off the sheets, it seems this sinful detail of yours was repeated as well. 

Your body writhes, no longer docile under the white searing pleasure frying the ends of every nerve within your being. Unrelenting rhythm slipping in and out of your convulsing walls, your body twitching and flailing in reaction.

Trying to find some way to handle this surcharge of sensations. Legs instinctively wanting to shut together as if to cease this turbulent sensation, unfortunately, your pitiful strength gave no resistance against his rigid hold.

He could feel your muscles begin to seize up, slick walls clamping harder on his writhing tongue. Was this foreign sensation too much for you already?

His long tongue explores every last crevice, tastebuds lapping against those weak spots deep within as his nose bumps and grinds against that lewd clit. This unsightly side of you. 

There’s more fervor in the lashes of his tongue, slurping up the nectar trickling out your greed, mixing with his spit dripping down his chin.

Your legs trashing but unable to go anywhere in his unrelenting hold, only able to pull on his silky locks for dear life as sobs tumble out. A flood of arousal adds to the mess on his chin. One he gladly laps up. 

Oh’s and ah’s were the only choked sounds your lips could make as your eyes rolled to the back of your scrambled mind.

Neuvillette still relishing in the elixir he’s denied himself for too long, not even the purest water could compare. Reveling in the taste until every last drip ran down his parched throat. 

Pulling away, a trail connects his lips with your quivering folds.  Callous hands dig further into your legs, making room for his body. Watching as the movements of your chest slowed, his brute figure engulfed your frame.

The ache was unbearable now, each impatient throb reprimanding him for delaying their greed. Neuvillette couldn’t deny their request any longer.

Back sitting up straight, his cocks thrumming against his abdomen, precum exuding out from their swollen heads.  

The cool air did little to calm the throbs of his fervors, the girthy shaft standing tall as its engorged tip weeped precum, its twin weeping just the same.

They hover over the softness of your belly, sharp pupils trail up the shadow they cast, heralding to where they crave to be buried. 

The heat of his body was suffocating, the burn in his throat greater than ever before. But why? He had drank from that forbidden oasis, it’s dripping down his chin, yet why has his thirst grown greater than before? 

Neuvillette was so… so close. If he had only endured it for another day or two, the gale within him would’ve relented and retreated away in defeat. But oh how viciously it’s gloating in its victory. Getting a dragon to bow his head to its cardinal blows. 

“Do you… feel better now, Neuvillette?” Slow pants leave your curled lips as your hands reach up to caress his taut face. 

This brazenness, this shamelessness, this insolence. Ah, these characteristics have followed you through the grave and into this life as well. You weren’t skilled enough this time around to hide your desire glazed across your pupils. 

Did you do this in hopes of making him indebted to you? Offer your sweet body in return for stealing his name from his locked lips? Was this why you traversed down to this dark cellar so late in such flimsy silks?

That gleam in those deceptive eyes, the audacity to believe you could tame the sea with just a flick of your finger. You devious temptress. 

“Better?… you’ve only fanned the flames, you devious woman.” A snarl from the depths of him. 

Before another word could leave your lips one torrid hand pins your wrist to the sheets. Nails much too sharp to be human dig into those fickle and troublesome fabrics hiding your skin from his touch.

An all too satisfying rip resounding through the air along with your yelp. Scraps join the tangle of sheets. 

Did his mortal prison deceive you too much? Did his mild mannerisms trick you into believing that he’s a merciful soul? Or did you always ignore the warnings?

A monster with a human face is still a monster. To believe that one’s patience is endless, only a human could be this impertinent.

His other vascular hand slides down the curves of your body, settling on your hip as your legs hook behind his firm thighs. The ridges of his lower cock drag against your slick folds, wetting his girth from its leaking tip sliding down against your swollen clit. 

Precum mixes with the concoction as the glossiness spreads about his length. A pair of shaky breaths mingle as Neuvillette positions his engorged tip at your dripping entrance.

The sensation must’ve cleared the daze from your mind, your head cants downwards to stare at the two oddities. 

“A-are both of them going to…” Your grip tightens on the sheets, a subconscious search for comfort. 

Ah, now you remember danger. Now you realize your insolence to believe that a mere human could ever tame a proud dragon. 

“There won’t be any point in breaking you so quickly,” he snarls. Not missing the flutter of your hole as the weeping head dragged over it. It wouldn’t be good to break you so quickly. His sweet little sacrifice. 

Taking the erection which hung lower, he rubs its flushed tip along your slit. Each flinch and tremble sparked gratification through his veins.

The lashes of his tongue had aided in the preparation of these sinful walls, but the girth of his beastly tongue could not compare to the thickness pressed against these leaking folds.

The ghost of his breath flutters over your prickling skin. Neuvillette takes deeper breaths as the weight pressed against your core grew, the bulbous tip inching past the puckering entrance.

The stretch was maddening despite the restrained pace. Your walls fluctuate in a surging dance between clamping down and trying to remain relaxed.

As Neuvillette sinks his girth in bit by bit, its envious twin slithers against your aching clit. The sensitive bundle of nerves drags against each ridge and vein, sending jolts of searing pleasure through him and causing your satin walls to flutter. 

A velvety sack kisses against your slick folds, signaling that his length has reached its end. The fat tip of its twin resting just above your naval indicated just how deeply he was buried, trapped between your soft flesh and his sculpted body.

It’s crowded inside you, girth parting and stretching these satin walls while the length is pressed against the deepest most intimate part of you.

Forcing delectable little whimpers and gasps from your haughty lips. Quivering legs now locking ankles behind his back, like a pitiable attempt to hamper him. 

That arrogance disgraced to nothing but obscenity upon a wanton face. To see the devil so helpless and lewd under the manipulation of a dragon. What a wonderful sight. 

Surely your body remembers his. If not, then he’ll ensure it does now, he’ll engrain it into you for the next life. 

One cock slid against the satin ridges of your walls, the other indulging along your searing skin and grinding against your clit. He can’t deny how addictive your body always has been. 

Dragging as far back as your locked legs would allow him, the flushed head of one dick kisses your twitching clit, and he sinks back in.

Grunts and purrs reverberate through his throat, teeth clenching as your heat engulfs him again. Reaching deeper into your welcoming core as your lips fall open. 

His pace is methodical and controlled to his liking. Drawing out his cock inch by thick inch, sloppy trails of arousal caught on each ridge.

Each time making your core empty and yearning to clench around his girth. Just as a whine would leave your drooling lips, his hips would return to you what your core longed for. 

Pushing each tantalizing inch to stroke your starved walls until his skin claps against yours with a wet kiss. Back and forth, back and forth the resounding slaps echoed. Mingling with his low groans and your pitched gasps, creating a sacrilegious yet divine hymn.

Your hand rakes deeper into his toned back possessed by desperation.

A few snowy strands are trapped between your writhing fingers. Pulling him closer to your smoldering skin, causing your clit to grind intensely against his swollen cock, as its twin twitches within your velvety folds.

Those babbles falling from your fed lips, were they pleas for him to bestow upon you leniency or begging him to speed up? 

“Do you wish to climax?” A polite façade purrs into your ear. 

Lilac eyes were not ignorant to how a devil keens under his body, her gaze drunk off a feverish potion of lust and desire. He could feel it, these velvet walls aching for more, for his girth to jostle your core more, to extinguish this all-consuming ache within you. 

“That’s too bad.”

 His hips remain steady contrasting against the unevenness of your own pants, unaffected by your desperate mewls. You’ve been selfish enough, you’ve been greedy enough. If he were to grant you a taste of ecstasy, then it’ll be on his terms. 

He hasn’t gotten his fill yet, no, he wants to pound his shape forever into these lewd walls. The way they contract and squeeze around his girth with each drive of his hips, they’re practically begging him to.

Thus, he accelerates just a bit more, then a bit more, then a bit more again. Nearly folding you with how flushed he was against you. 

The heavy scent of lust, the smothering heat, his unrelenting and unshakable thrusts amalgamating into a spark. One which set the both of you ablaze. Your nails digging into his skin and eyes reaching the back of your head. Sobs and incoherent prattles resound through the room.

Your devious walls clamped around his length with maddening convulsions, gummy muscles suckling to guide his throbbing head to your deepest greed. It was too much.

Neuvillette was powerless as his body pressed yours deeper into the damp sheets, trying to grasp onto any fleeting wisps of control as euphoria overtook him. 

Sinking his ravenous teeth into the tangle of the sheets beside your neck, he stifles the admission of his defeat. 

A heftiness is spilled within your walls and paints the expanse of your skin in an all-consuming wave. Thick release coating every corner of your core, to finally quell that ravaging heat.

Each subsequent twitch pours more into your crowded cavity and stains your skin. The filthiness of it all seemingly prolongs your sinful depravity. 

Chest expanding with pants, pressing your erected nipples against his taut chest. Neuvillette remains buried against you, brutish arms holding your body flush against his.

As if to anchor you, to not allow the turbulent waves of madness to sweep you far from him, or him from you. Keeping your quiver body safe against his. 

In the darkness behind his shut lashes, he felt it. Your soft caresses his silky tresses and heaving body. Even as your body heaves and quivers in exhaustion, why must you touch him so tenderly?

Why must you be so cruel? If your hands keep caressing his clammy skin, stroking his peeking scales, he’ll misunderstand.

He’ll believe the delusion that you love him.

Him and not the swaying flower fields of the sunkissed surface. 

Whispers cut through the haze of lust and passion, warnings crying for Neuvillette to escape. So he pulls his face from the tangle of sheets, lungs huffing as his eyes find yours.

Exhaustion muddles the hues of your gaze, but not enough to completely smother that glimmer still present. Ah, he knows that that glimmer was. 

Even in his heat-induced daze, he’s not naive enough to believe the sincerity presented in your eyes was anything other than duty.

He doesn’t want to be reminded that those hands, which cup his face with such tenderness, are bound by a sense of duty.

A reminder that he’s merely just a stepping stone on the path of your true desire.

He doesn’t want to see it. 

The head of his cock parting with a deafening squelch. A darkened gaze follows the pool forming between your splayed legs. Disgruntlement muddles lilac hues. 

But such discontent couldn’t last long when the twitch of a neglected length protests. Its bulbous tip longed for its turn within those sticky walls. A primal ordinance he couldn’t resist.

What to call this sensation, to scorn yet desire you just as much. 

It wasn’t long before your hips were maneuvered up, your plush ass now up in the air as your quivering arms and face pressed into the sullied sheets.

As one hand supports your unsteady hips. Sharp eyes surveying the puffiness of your cunt, glistening with temptation and dripping with sin. 

Hooked fingers slides up the weeping slit, collecting the sacrilegious mixture. Earning an addictive whimper from you when his digits pulled away. Spreading them in front of his gaze, tracing over the stringy nectar stretched between them. 

How strange, those lying lips of yours whimper for ‘rest’ and a ‘moment to catch your breath’. Yet your body is still so eagerly exposing itself to his eyes, agape cunt so eagerly twitching and slick. 

You don’t even try to writhe yourself away from his hold, not even a single attempt to hide yourself from his hunger.

How skilled you are at fanning the flames, perhaps it's a talent inherent to devils like you. The tempter of all tempters. 

You’ve always been like this since the very first rendition. 

If only you weren’t so strong-willed. If only you weren’t so clever to trick him. If only you weren’t so enchanting. 

Then he wouldn’t have bent to your whims, the sea would’ve cleansed out the mortal filth from stolen land. Then he wouldn’t be trapped in this disgrace of a body. Then he wouldn’t be in love with you.

The betrayal, the disgrace, and this punishment would’ve never happened if only a fool didn’t surrender everything for a mere, fleeting creature.

Why must you make him repeat the same mistake again?

There it was again, that surging torrent within him making its voice known in the echoes of his mind. Whispering the hint on how a dragon would defeat the flame that had scorched him those years ago.

Smother the flame with the tides of depravity and vulgarity. Taint your arrogance with shame. 

There wasn’t an ounce of gentleness remaining within his eyes, a beastly hunger taking its place.

Yes, you must pay the debt of reducing him to such a humiliating state.

His neglected cock prods against that greedy cunt of yours. Unmerciful hands bruising the plushness of your hips. 

The sinful concoction from the previous sessions allowed his tormented length into your walls without resistance.

The neglected cock finally indulging in the spasms of your abused walls, it’s its turn to bully those weak spots with its thick head. 

Sobs sung in broken chokes leave your drooling lips. Trembling fingers enmeshed into the fabric as if to find some ground for your senses to land after their fall from euphoria.

He won’t allow you reprieve. No, not even for a moment. He’ll shatter your sanity and arrogance once and for all. 

Nothing interrupted the pistoning of his hips as he fucked you through overstimulation, heavy balls slamming against your swollen lips.

The previous twin cock was now experiencing the hard nub of your engorged clit running along its veins and ridges. 

There’s no room for an exchange of words. No, the two of you have long been pasted that point.

No sandy ground beneath as the two of you sank under the ravenous tides of primal instincts and pleasure.

Cacophonous growls, whimpers, and sobs filling the absence along with the thwacks of skin against skin echoed back from the cellar walls. 

You keen under the ram of his hips, jostled head writhing against the soiled sheets. The motion allows your hair to fall over your shoulders.

Exposing an untainted patch of skin. Sharp pupils watching how beads of sweat trailing down your nape reflect the azure glow of his body. 

An itch assailing his fangs even has his hips continue their barrage against your soft ass. Those lovely vulgar moans wane out from his hearing as his senses could only obsess over the untarnished expanse. 

Ah, what if there’s a way for him to pin you here until the stars themselves burn out? You were given to him as his bride.

An offering made to him.

So why can’t he forever confine you within his clutches? Just as you were the original sin which damned him to this cove.

Long tongue dragging along the fresh skin, feeling the jolts of your body. 

He’s done it once before, he’s cursed you before. Imprinting a curse upon your very soul, one which followed you through the hands of death and even when the hands of life reformed your body from the earth.

Why not renew it? 

Neuvillette pins your upper body further into the tangled bedding, one hand abandoning your hips in favor of raveling in the mess of fabric.

Your heated skin felt against his exhilarated fangs, hungry to sink into your nape. 

‘Till death do us part’, that’s not enough.

Such fleeting mortal oaths are much too meek for dragons.

No, those atrocious murmurs in his thoughts command him to curse you in the next life. And the next one, and the one after that as well. 

It’s not like your muddled head would understand, nothing but mindless prattles and mewls from the suffocating pleasure only he could ever give you.

But that’s fine, just drown nicely in lust and desire. He’ll always be waiting there at the bottom to drag you down deeper. 

Just as the tips of his pointed teeth broke through quivering skin, delicate fingers grasp upon a burly hand.

Intertwining their grasp together upon rumpled linen, a subconscious search for comfort.

An action that remits an iota of reason back to his foggy mind, hazy eyes moving toward the sight of your hand clutched around his. 

Even as he’s ravishing your weeping walls, flooding your body with his filthy essence which trickles down your thighs and ass, and chasing his own carnal needs… you still reach for him.

Shamelessly pulling his touch closer, even when the throes of rapture banished all thought from your jostled mind. 

A whisper resurfaces amidst the fog and clamor of instinct and rage.

However, it’s a whisper which made his incisors dare not budge another inch. The inkling of truth which he thought he had silenced within the depths of his heart. 

The accuracy that this wasn’t love. No, what his instincts craved was not love, it was obsession. 

For love was not this sadistic possession, not to curse you just to ease his own damnation.

No, love is supposed to be much like the warmth of your palm flushed against his knuckles. 

He remembers now, the lesson you taught him all those years ago. A demonstration witnessed with his own eyes.

Love was sacrifice, just as how you offered yourself to the tides, quelling the rage of a vengeful dragon. Because you loved your village too much to allow them to drown. 

Retreating away from the transgression almost committed, fangs repressed behind closed lips. Neuvillette presses a sweet kiss against the shallow wound.

 To love you isn’t to steal you away from the embrace of the star who’s forsaken him. It’s to hoist you up to that beloved sunlight. Just where you belonged. 

Oh, how could he not love you?

The bride offered to a dragon in a white dress who once dared to command the great beast to stand still as she braided flowers into his hair.

A brazenness contrasted with the gentleness of her smile. 

The voices of heart and cruelty rang out in vociferous battle in his mind, Neuvillette buries his face into your shoulder. Pursuing the savor of your skin, pinning you deeper into the tangle of bedding.

Providing more simulation for the pulsing cock wedged against your swollen clit and messy sheets. The neediness of his movements exposed just how close his undoing was. 

The hand on your abdomen pulled you impossibly close, adding pressure to the bulging outline of his cock.

Amplifying the ecstasy coursing through your veins, abused walls clamping down on each ridge and each vein of his heft girth. The shape engrained into your wanton core, marvelous sobs and mewls echoing off the empty walls. 

Soon those moans become shattered in your throat, eyes rolling back further with each heavy thrust and slap of his balls. Lungs cease all function as rapture unravels you wholly and exhilaration becomes your undoing. 

Sloppy contractions mix the repercussions of multitudinous ruination, dripping out your convulsing cunt. Just before a hot surge replenishes the brood that oozed out on the sullied sheets.

Grunts vibrate against your back reminding your body to breathe. 

Thick ropes paint your belly and sheets, making an absolute mess. Contracting walls trying but failing to contain the aftershocks from his cock buried deep within, already stretched to their limits, capacity long exceeded. Shudders rack your body and his the same. 

With hands still entangled, he coaxes your body around. Granting him a mesmerizing view of your debauched face.

The face he’s so enamored with that he bows his down closer, bodies still connected as he wishes to echt every last detail of you into his being. So that eternity may remember you. 

Softness resurfaces in his bones, a tender kiss pressed upon your fingers. Soothing those tremors as he guides your consciousness back to reality. 

He holds you, remaining inside as to contain his greed spilled deep inside. The heftiness of his cock prods against your shuddering walls. Every last fiber of your being overstimulated with pulsing pleasure. 

Yet, your hand refused to let go. Still holding him toward your exhausted figure in the dying light of the candle.

Whimpers and coos exchanging in a duet of devotion, a hymn so placate it quells the vapid torrents ever so slightly.

Placid fingers drawing circles into your sore back. A gentle lilac gaze keeping watch as your teary eyes retire behind heavy lashes. 

Blood and water no matter how much they’re mixed, won’t produce wine.

However, just for tonight in a realm heavy with lust, passion, and phantasm, they’ll craft a wine of delusion. One filled with nothing but wishful fantasy. 

However, this wine of delusion shall be enough to quench the thirst of lascivious compulsions and vengeance. 

The gentle caresses of steam ghost past your leaden lashes, lukewarm ripples lap against your skin. Your sore body propped up against the porcelain, as Neuvillette drags a dampened towel along your skin. 

A pang of guilt stung him each time the cloth passed over a discolored imprint. No amount of diligent rubs would purify your skin of those bruises in the shape of his fingers. 

A stir from muscle gradually awakening from slumber reflected in the wavelets of the bath. The sensation of a damp towel must’ve further jolted your senses back to alertness. 

A cerulean glow glistens off the polished surface as your vision finally centers on the figure rising warm water over your limp body.

Attentive eyes immediately connect with yours as he scans your expression for discomfort. 

“Are you hurting anywhere?” Neuvillette halts the towel. 

You respond with a slow shake, your throat must be too sore to answer. Despite how he tries to conceal them behind a robe, blotches of azure painted along his fair skin.

Proof that draconic influence was still in rebellion of his body. All the while he’s very much aware of your eye’s every move. What an appalling sight it must be for you. 

“If I make you uncomfortable I’ll leave promptly, this was just the only solution I could find to bathe-”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” Voice hoarse as your frame melts closer to his, delicate fingers intertwining with between the spaces of his own scaly fingers.

Allowing your breaths to minge in tandem in the steam-damped tiles of the tranquil bathroom. 

“Does it hurt?” A warm thumb traces soft circles along the rough scales along his hand. 

Did you catch the subtle twitches and jolts of his muscles? A mortal body rejecting draconic influences, draconic influences revolting against a mortal cage. Still, he shakes his head. Lilac gaze watching your eyes trail between the scales and his eyes with skepticism. 

“I’m not quite sure as to why I’m still in this… state.” Neuvillette gives a preemptive answer to the question he assumes to be hanging off your tongue. 

“Do you… miss the sea?” However, it seems you had another inquiry hidden in your ever perplexing mind. 

A deep sigh resonates through the tranquil air. He stares at the tips of his fingers dipped into the warm water, a taunting substitute for the sea that called for him. 

“I suppose it’s natural that I yearn for it…”

A hum was your only response, eyes hidden behind closed lashes. Neuvillette just couldn’t decipher that smile of yours, curled lips reflected over the rippling surface of the steaming water. 

--------------------------------------------------------------

“Your body is still delicate, please let us return back to the estate-”

“I might actually grow roots into that bed if I’m to rest there any longer.” A pout was evident in your voice. 

Taking a few greater strides, your body pulls in front of Neuvillette’s pace. It was only momentary of course, for he swiftly rejoins your side.

Observant eyes not missing the subtle wobble in your steps along the pastures of the village.

“Please just don’t stray too far.” He relents, offering up his arm for support. 

With a gracious smile, your arm curls around his, interlocking your fingers with his as two pairs of steps ambled along the grass.

Soon a familiar pool of water came into view, enticing two pairs of eyes with its glimmering ripples.

What it strange sight those waters showed, a cursed dragon who yearned for his place and a cursed mortal who longed for the sun, two cursed beings holding hands in the reflection along the pristine surface. 

“I believe this is far enough. ” His arm pulls your frame closer, a subtle hesitance tainting his tone. 

However, your body didn’t budge. Resolute stance not moving even one bit watching your reflection warp and contort in the water. A deep breath echoes off the wall. 

“Neuvillette… do you miss the sea?” Your stare parts with the water, now peering straight into his lilac hues. 

‘Do you miss the sea?’ You’ve asked him this question many times. He's always given a composite response, but maybe his flowery words diluted the meaning too much to your ears. 

“Yes, I do miss the sea.” His candid yearning. 

There was a question his lips didn’t dare ask, ‘Do you miss the sun?’, Neuvillette wanted to riposte your questions with this question of his.

But he knew it would be pointless, for he already knew the answer. Wordlessly written all over your melancholic stare into the pond, the longing to return to the sun, to be with blood and not water. 

To love you, would be to hoist you up to where you longed to be, in the embrace of the warm sun. Neuvillette had thought he made up his resolve long ago.

However, would it be too selfish of him to wish to turn back?

To convince you to back into the tranquil estate where the Melusines await your return with those dishes you taught them how to cook.

Or maybe would at least try on those gowns still untouched? Could you wait until all those books in the library were read through by your sweet voice?

Would you be oh so kind enough to hold his hand just for a moment longer? At the very least, would you allow him to memorize your warmth? 

His grip on your hands tightens ever so briefly, a shaky breath trembles in his chest before he releases it along with the tension in his fingers.

No, it wouldn’t be fair to stall any longer, you deserve your happy ending. 

Calmly, the dragon bows his head closer to yours. Ignoring the aggrieved voices that cried for him to swallow back to secret just about to spill from his tongue.

The ending of this tale won’t ever change, for a dragon is just as foolish as he was before. 

“My true name is-!” His voice was stunned as a pair of soft lips silenced him. 

Your lips pressed against his own, forcing back the secret. His bewildered eyes hone in upon your face, but your lashes were shut as your hands pull his face closer. The resolve wanes from his bones as he sinks into your embrace. 

As your lips pull away, gasping for breath. He places his hands atop yours, searching your face for an answer. All he got was that indecipherable smile. 

Pulling his face down closer to yours again, your lips find themselves right next to his pointed ears. Under a faint breath which left your parted lips came the secret he kept locked away.

Since when? When did you find his name? Or… did you know this whole time? 

Neuvillette reels back in the embrace of your cruel hands. Lilac eyes stare deep into yours, peering through the cracks in that enchanting façade of yours. 

Ah, this whole time, did he not discover the false innocence in the irises of the deceptor of all deceptors? 

A foolish moth fell for the deception of a devil once again, flying to the flicker of a candle until his wings were charred off into ash.

Those sentences written upon parchment weren’t lies, all other monsters fall secondary to the devil. Even a dragon. 

“Why?” Was all he could muster, oh cruel devil why did you play him a fool once more?

“Because I wanted to see you again… but I knew you wouldn’t quite share the same sentiment since the moment I heard your voice… so I lied,” Those audacious eyes of yours never looked away. 

Ah, how could he forget how crafty and observant a devil is with her schemes? The charming enchantment as she performs her deceptions. Speaking shameless lies with those bewitching lips.

“If you wanted to see me… then that day at the loch… why weren’t you there?” The stir of the torrent within put a snarl into his throat.

Why must you keep lying to him? 

Ah, from the start, Neuvillette should’ve listened to the clamorous cries of his instincts. To withdraw away from the flame, to extinguish the hell fires before they left another lesson learned upon his skin.

Yet, he’s still within the embrace of your cruel hands. His body just wouldn’t pull away. 

Just what is this level of stupidity called? For a moth to still crave the warmth of the flame which charred its wings into ash. Just what is this lunacy called? 

“The nobles locked me away after those tyrants stole your name from my tongue, they locked me away.” Torment brewing in those irises which reflected him. 

A chill staggers the surge of the torrent, an icy sting which stupefied the rampaging currents.

For generations upon generations of scribes and poets never penned this detail down in any rendition of a classically beloved tale. 

“I begged them, I banged against the bars of the cell, even clawed at the stone walls until my fingers were raw, but they left me there to rot in the cold… I just wanted to see you one last time, just once more.” Those bitter pools formed in your penitent eyes spill over. 

This wasn’t how the tale was supposed to end. The maiden, who deceived a dragon for her people, was supposed to be hailed a hero. You were supposed to have a happy ending, so why didn't you get that? 

“All I ever wanted was for you and me to walk amongst humanity… look where that got us…” Tears descend from your cheeks and onto the grass below, a humorless chuckle. 

Was this another lie falling from those saccharine lips of yours? Sugar dusted on the shell of a vile trick? Neuvillette wasn’t sure anymore. 

“That foolish wish of mine… it must’ve been so painful. I’m so sorry.” Your thumb traces over the scales dotted over his cheek, evidence of a draconic rebellion against a mortal condemnation. 

Does your touch scorn or soothe him? Neuvillette wasn’t sure anymore. 

“I’m sorry. I’ll say sorry one thousand times if you wish.” A tremor in your voice.

The surge within him couldn’t sustain itself, faltering and receding back to a placid, pathetic ripple. Perhaps… It's tired.

Tired of holding onto this futile grudge. Not when the bitter answers its tides were ravenous for had finally sunk in. 

He takes a deep breath, collecting his resolve. 

“...what… what do you wish for?” Just how will this rendition end? Neuvillette doesn’t know. 

But he knows his hands should hold onto yours, desperately etching the details of your tender touch into its memory. Rations to sustain him for the rest of a solitary eternity. 

He hears your slow inhale, preparing your throat to speak your selfish desires. 

“I wish for your curses to become mine alone to bear.” You reveal your selfish wish, pressing the voucher of freedom into his hands. 

He had that look on his face again. Disbelief stupefied each muscle of his dashing face, wide eyes peering into yours trying to find the hint of a jest. Your gaze doesn’t waiver as your finger tightens around his. 

“Grant me my wish… please.” Lips stretching with a reassuring smile.

His lips press into a thin line, face returning to its place between your warm hands, he takes a deep breath. Perhaps it’s just his sense of responsibility and fairness that compelled him to fulfill this wish. 

Or maybe, the dragon just couldn’t help but submit to the whims of his beloved, a statement that remained no matter what rendition of the tale it was.  

Releasing the breath he held, the shift in the air was palpable, a lightness in his chest. The pond off to the side billows momentarily, drawing focus toward its excited ripples.

Releasing his hold, feet leading him to the side of the saltwater before his mind could process his own actions. 

He could hear it again, the hymns of the water singing the end of his exile. Reaching out a hand, it sinks past the cool surface, the tides welcoming back their prince with mellow kisses. 

The ocean calls for him, so why is he still staring back at you? The one who’ll never embrace the sea again for the rest of her life, nor ever feel the sway of Summer days in a field full of Pluie Lotus. His eyes conveyed a question his lips couldn’t bear to ask. Thus, you give the answer he seeks. 

 “Think of it as my reparations to you, an overdue apology for my mistake, for making you to suffer so much.” That glimmer in your eyes, one he understands now. 

Moving the hex to a body whose true master was the mistress of time, a body blessed with mortality. If a miracle isn’t enough to make a curse break, then perhaps the tides of time could. 

Taking a piece of the curse with each tick of a clock, just like how the waves take with it grains of sand from warm beaches. 

Once a withered mortal body is called back to the earth, the clauses will be fulfilled after many centuries. Unsettled grudges eroded away like those sandy banks. 

Until the pull of the ground makes its visible influence on your skin. Until your locks come to resemble the snowy shade you’ve lovingly run your fingers through. Until the sweet earth hums for you to embrace it once more, you shall remain here. 

What a clever scheme it all is, a masterful plan which could only ever be conjured by you. You devil, oh so devious, devil. 

“You can hate me, I won't hold it against you,” you whisper. “May this tale end in your happiness, let me do this much for you.”

A bitter bile festers at those lies of yours. How could such lies fall from your lips so easily when they always left such a vile taste upon his tongue?

Gaze honed in upon your frame, watching the gentle smile hold back the slight quiver of your shoulders. He stands back up, slow strides returning him to your side. Taking your hands into his larger ones, placing your soft touch back along his cheeks. 

“Silence… I won’t hear such deceit.” Snowy locks brushing against your fingertips.

“But I wasn’t lying…” Confusion furrows your brow, but your hands remain cupping his face.

Moving away, he studies the rivulets of regret and anguish that leave bitter trails down your cheeks. He swallows back the objections clawing up his throat, such vile words don’t belong on your tongue. 

“How could I hate you?” he confesses. 

Neuvillette has finally come to a realization. All those renditions, all those differing retellings of a classic tale. He had read them all wrong, basis clouding his interpretation. 

For the princess did love her dragon. Just as he loved her, all this time. 

Together in the depths of a cave away from the prying eyes of the divine. Breaths in time with one another as they stand in the embrace of one another, until the dragon bows his head back down.

Touching his forehead to hers, so that maybe Neuvillette could get a glimpse into that ever mystical mind of yours. 

“How can I ever hate what I’ve coveted for so long?” He asks. 

That ever-stirring torrent, that spiteful surge, where did it go? Those clamorous voices with their vengeful snarls and cynical bellows, why weren’t they intrepid enough to direct those foul words toward you? 

Not you, never you. How could they ever hate you, the heroine of a Fontainian fairytale they’ve pitifully yearned for so long? 

“Am… am I loved then?” Your lashes were squeezed shut as if death was rapping upon them. Too cowardly to face the verdict. 

“Yes… yes, you devious devil…” Neuvillette couldn’t help but chuckle at such an endearing sight.

He feels your fingers tense around his skin, astonishment in the features of your face. It soon melts away into those welling pools as a smile pushes against the corners of your eyes. 

Pressing your forehead to his, a warm droplet rolls down your cheek and over the curve of your lips. He simply rests his head against yours.

Only now in the last sentence of this retelling of a tale which has been twisted, distorted, and embellished away from the initial narrative did an unwritten truth emerge. 

A clever maiden was just as foolish as a proud dragon. The weight of their foolishness was so great it dragged them beneath the waves and kept them in a cove deep away from the prying eyes of gods. 

However, if this idiotic dragon could intertwine his fingers with yours. If he could be by your side until the hands of time call you back to the earth in this final rendition. 

If he could be the happy ending you deserved, then he wouldn’t mind in the slightest. 

Fin~

©️vivalabunbun DON’T PLAGIARIZE, REPOST, OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS. 

[aihoshiino]

chapter 158 thoughts

i lied the hyperfixation took over and reanimated my body

Chapters Since The 143 Kiss Happened And Went Entirely Unacknowledged And Unaddressed Count: 15

Aqua Hoshigan Status: N/A

Usually when an OnK chapter ends on a bombshell like this one apparently does, I usually play a little coy as to my thoughts on it but I don't really see much point in doing that this time. This chapter basically is its final moment, with some swings taken at basically every other character on the way down so I don't see much point in separating it from the rest of the work. That said, my ultimate feelings on it will ultimately depend on how the story progresses past this moment so don't expect me to go too deeply into it for now. All I'll say at the top of the post is that I think this is deeply contrived and continues Akasaka's trend of seemingly beating every character with the dipshit stick in order to make a certain dramatic plot beat happen.

But it'll be pretty messy to follow if I get into the chapter's final scene right here and now, so let's rewind to the start and break down the rest of this chapter too. Don't worry, I have plenty of unpleasant things to say about it as well!!!!

Akane's here!! Actually in truth I had somehow forgotten that she'd cut her hair in the weeks since her last appearance so seeing her turn up with it so short kind of startled me for a second LOL

More AKKN yuribaiting… usually I eat up this kind of queerbait with a spoon because I am a simple creature but it doesn't really hit this time. I think it's because we're running through the Tokyo Blade arc in the anime right now and being reminded of how utterly electric their rivalry used to be makes the lack of meaningful follow-up and ultimate state of their relationship just kind of sad to me.

Seeing Akane and Ruby talking also feels kind of surreal given that it's almost 60 whole chapters since they've actually properly interacted onscreen… Like, obviously they were acting together in the Movie Arc and we can infer they had some offscreen chats then but… well, that's things we can infer, not something that's actually in the text of the story. Akane's involvement in the movie really was a total waste of potential, huh…

that said, wtf is akane even doing in miyazaki. girl who are you stalking this time.

Speaking of things that are weird, Ruby's hostile reaction to the idea of Akane getting a new boyfriend is… kind of bizarre, to the point where I literally have no idea where it's coming from?? Like, regardless of what this chapter tries to pretend, Ruby and Akane are absolutely not close enough for Ruby to feel upset at the prospect of Akane blowing her off in favour of boyfriend time. If anything, you'd think that having Aqua's ex-girlfriend definitively Out Of The Way would only be good on her eyes because it means one less obstacle between her and getting to shlonk her brother, but… apparently not???

The only way I can really make any sense of this is assuming this is the old and crusty "single girl getting jealous that her friend has a boyfriend at Christmas" joke, which I guess indirectly answers the question of whether or not anything AquRuby related has resolved in the Offscreen Dimension.

Anyway, Akane's chatter in this scene leads into something I've been kind of holding my tongue about in favour of waiting until it was addressed in the story and we're finally here - as previously predicted, this chapter starts on the note of attempting to assert that Ruby has 'become an idol who surpasses Ai' and you'll notice the way I phrased this because uh… no, she very much hasn't!

This idea of Ruby 'surpassing' Ai has been floating around in the story for a while now and as I've said before, unless OnK puts a huge amount of legwork into supporting that idea, I simply wouldn't believe it. It didn't, so I don't.

Not only is this assertion just half-heartedly plunked into the narrative - incredibly underwhelming for what should be a huge moment of triumph for Ruby - but the visual storytelling of the manga fails it as well. Like, compare this to similar moments from the very arc the anime is adapting this season - hell, in this very chapter, we see a panel of Kana's dazzling acting during Tokyo Blade. In comparison, the panels we see that supposedly show how Ruby has become an idol beyond compare… they just look like literally every other panel of any of the girls doing idol stuff. Hell, she looks distinctly less striking than some of Kana's performances as an idol and they certainly don't match or exceed the panels we've seen of Ai's spellbinding performances, which really undermines what the story is trying to say.

This is made even worse for the fact that the story has repeatedly pointed out that Ruby is the subject of incredible amounts of favoritism in the new B-Komachi - their boss is Literally Her Actual Mom who was explicitly called out by Ichigo for favoring work opportunities while leaving her fellow members out to dry. Members who, I feel the need to remind everyone, were scouted by her twin brother, not Ruby. Members whose careers as idols suffered during Ruby's clout chasing BH era because of her clout chasing and whose hurt feelings on this are framed as something Ruby is graciously forgiving about.

Like… I'm not saying it's impossible for Ruby to become an idol who outshines her mom, but this narrative as it's currently being presented in the manga falls flat for me because we never actually see Ruby face any kind of struggle on her road to doing this. Ai, Kana and Mem all face significant structural, social and industry-wide issues and toxicity that they must grapple with and overcome but Ruby just… does not?? Ever?? And given the way the narrative has framed Miyako's involvement in her career, the only conclusion I can draw is that Ruby is being shielded from all this by Miyako at the expense of the other girls. Especially because Ruby literally said so in 156!

Idk man. This whole chapter just sucks for basically every B-Komachi girl - that panel of the girls on stage where you literally can't even see Mem's face is so fucking miserable lmao. There was so much weight was placed on B-Komachi's togetherness as a trio of not just idols but friends who genuinely care for each other that seeing the story end up in this place of unironically indulging in all the same favoritism of Ruby and sidelining of her fellow members that Ichigo and Miyako did with the original B-Komachi is honestly just upsetting. Not only does it drag down Mem and Kana's stories, but it ends up making Ruby come off as a tremendously self-centered person in a way the narrative clearly does not understand and is uninterested in unpacking.

And like… bro, I don't want to be pissed off at Ruby!! Pre-BH Ruby is one of my favourite characters in the series!!! But the way she's been coddled by the narrative is deeply frustrating to read! It's frustrating to see everyone else's arcs compromised in favor of forcing this bizarre narrative about Ruby that doesn't even do any good for her either.

I can so easily see a better version of this story where Ruby surpasses Ai because she has so much support and faces none of the obstacles that Ai did, where the story is making a point of just how much further Ai could have gone and how much more she could've done if she hadn't been treated like such utter shit by everyone around her. But the point the story settles on seems to just be that Ruby is a better idol than Ai because she arbitrarily is not affected by societal and systemic oppression for no clearly articulated reason, I guess! You go, girl!

huffs. anyway.

Ruby's little monologue about the short-lived life of an idol also feels like the final nail in the coffin for the story being able to even pretend to do any meaningful industry commentary. Compared to how biting it was in the early arcs, it's a pretty standout representation with OnK's bizarre relationship with idol culture as of late, especially as pertains to Ruby's place in it. I can sort of get what I think Akasaka is going for here - it's part of the theme the story is leaning into lately of letting go of your past and moving towards a brighter future and this is how Ruby is coping with Kana's time in B-Komachi coming to an end. The point being made here is that change is inevitable no matter how you try to hold onto things and the only way to freeze yourself in stasis forever is to die.

But having this framed through the lens of Ruby talking so warmly about the impermanence of idols is just kind of… hello?? Ruby's framing here almost seems to treat the issue as some beautifully tragic but inevitable thing… and is very much is not! Idols age out of the industry because of its obsession with youth and beauty and the fetishization and commodification of virginial purity. Seeing Ruby frame it as this sad but natural thing when these fucked up purity standards literally killed her mom is just. What is going on here.

Speaking of baffling! Nino my girl, what are they doing to you…

I mentioned this in my chapter 155 thoughts that I felt extremely cold about the way the story was choosing to characterize Nino in the actual pages of the manga. I won't repeat myself too much but compared to the messed up but deeply human character we saw in 45510 and the RBKN conflict, this Nino honestly feels like a mean-spirited caricature, amped up to such dramatic extremes that she stops being a person and instead becomes a flat cartoon character used for moving the plot along. I loved Nino in 45510 and the Movie Arc so seeing her reduced to this psycho lesbian stereotype really stings.

also wtf is the manga trying to say with the 'since we killed ryosuke' bit. that was a whole ass suicide. this manga gives me such a headache sometimes.

Anyway. I can't talk around it anymore so. RIP Ruby, I guess. It was nice knowing you, but-

no but seriously, I'm holding my tongue on anything to do with this twist until next chapter because my actual thoughts will depend on how it plays out or if this is even really happening at all - which is NOT something i would even entertain as a possibility if oshi no ko was not the manga it currently is lol

But there's also the fact that, as others have pointed out, that panel of the stab is presented with faded colours and overly dramatic lighting in a way that is consistent with how OnK sometimes presents flashbacks or otherwise unreal visualizations. Given how incredibly dumb the entire cast - including Ruby - would have to be for this to actually, really happen, I'm withholding judgement until I see how this pans out.

That said. Man. I was really taken aback by how not just underwhelming but outright Not Good the actual panel of the stab is. The attempt to mine an emotional reaction out of the pre-existing iconic panel of Ai's murder just falls entirely flat because this version of it is worse in just about every regard. Ai's panel is composed beautifully, with the white petals and the motion of her body perfectly drawing the viewer's eye to the knife and the uncharacteristic expression of total shock on her face really hammers home the 'oh shit' moment. By contrast, Ruby's panel is flat with oceans of dead space despite being a much smaller panel and the actual stab has no weight to it, visually or otherwise. Ruby's body and face aren't reacting to it in the least - her expression is totally lifeless and she just looks like she's mid-stride, not that someone's just stabbed her in the gut. And to add insult to injury, the fucking layering on the killer's hand isn't even right. It's so obvious these two characters were drawn totally separately and pasted together afterwards and the entire moment falls flat as a result. Mengo, girl, what happened here!!!

and to add insult to injury. break next week. because why woudn't it be.

any of yall got ibuprofen

[thelonelyarchon]

if anything, really, ruby's forced into the narrative as the sun. sure, ruby shines better in idol groups than kana and mem since kana is more on the acting side (her passion is literally acting!) and mem on another yt spectrum but ruby... i'm so upset with her after the whole "i love senpai/brother" kind of era. the development has gone downhill for me and most would hate me for saying that it had gone down hill.

if anything, if the stab IS real and ruby survives... i'm losing hope in the entirety of OnK.