When I Found Out That @tomholland2013 Was With A Mystery Girl... Dang These Fanfics Are Coming To Lifeboat

The King Isn’t Dead (m) II myg

Pairing: Yoongi x oc (fem)

Rating:  M

Word: 19.7k~ (my finger slipped?)

Genre:  historical fic, smut, romance, fluff, angst, political upheaval shit

Summary:  After the invasion and the King’s miraculous survival, the nation aims to secure stability and his position of power through the prospect of marriage and continuing the Min line.  As a promise to your brother on the battlefield, the King promises to consider you as his potential wife - to love and to protect.  Or maybe it’ll be the other way around?

Warnings:  Language, non-descriptive violence, prior death, angst, unprotected sex (please dont), public sex (kind of), fluffy fucking, oral sex, fingering, handjobs, unfortunate but historically accurate depictions of misogyny 

AN:  Firstly, I did my own research on Joseon history, and I am by no means an expert on this subject.  This is fiction, and I do not mean to offend anyone with my depiction of this era. Secondly, that upload of Yoongi practicing his sword choreography has taken up way too much of my mental space to not try this one out.  Thirdly, I edited (mildly).  And lastly, I just love this man so much and missed his little face.  Keep healing, Baby. 

+++

The rumors of the King surviving the latest and decisive battle against the sea invaders spread through the country like wildfire.  With a starting 20,000 men, less than a third returned home.  Broken, scarred, exhausted, and traumatized.  But victorious.

Some say the King rose back from the dead to fight off the invaders.  Others say he turned into a tiger and bit off the opposing captain’s head.  Some say he drank the enemies’ blood to revive himself, to finish the battle. But, you know better. 

The battle left the King with a scar down his eye apparently.  Upon his return, Traditionalists in court whispered behind his back that they should dethrone him.  No royal should bare a scar, they reminded.  The loyalists had them drowned for speaking such slander against their savior. The country would make an exception for this King.

As long as he wed promptly.  He has a week to chose a bride that would provide the nation with a prince.  Solidify the Min royal line.

And this is why you sit on his floor, head low, with two other possible wives for the King.  You wait for examination in the finest robes your aunt could buy.  Which one of you will become a Queen and the others concubines or gisaengs?

There is Seunghee who has an air of royalty, with her long straight hair and pale skin.  She comes from a family of scholars who have advised the King’s courts for decades.  She is slender and mild mannered.  

And on your left, there is Arin.  She too exudes elegance with her petite facial features and bright eyes.  She comes from a wealthy family in the North that could easily barter treaties for foreign aid.  She is poised and charming.

You don’t know how you ended up here.  

Actually, you do. You just can’t believe it, because you’re not from an obscenely noble family with long ties to the throne.  You originate from the South, adopted with your brother by your uncle and aunt.  Your family was well off and built ships for the military.  Your family is important but still a new name to the inner ring of palace.

In an alternate reality, where the recent attack had not occurred, you would never have ended up here.  Your brother would not have gone to war, would not have been drafted in the hidden division that prevented the full on invasion on Busan bay.   Your brother would never be stationed in the fleet next to the King — he would never have seen the sneak attack on his Majesty, from the side.  He would never had acted so courageously by jumping in front of the King, saving his Grace from death.  Your brother would’ve survived, and his last dying wish wouldn’t be the safety of his sister.

You’re only here because your brother is dead. 

Keep reading

im actually struggling so much luigi mangione ruined my definition of a crush now i cant look at men the same.

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took a break from studying to draw Yoongi <33

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if you’re seeing this, i want to remind you that you and everything you make and create, in every form and shape, is awesome :3

The ghost I left behind

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I wrote this with Sunshine & Rain.. By Kali Uchis, feel free to enjoy this with that on repeat to really feel it burn. Also please somebody give me HD gifs asap. Also if you hadn't read the preview yet, I recommend it!

Word count: 4,7k

Preview

--

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting an ugly green tinge over the already-drab walls of the 23rd Precinct. Y/N pushed the door open with her elbow, hands full—one holding a stack of wrinkled flyers with Bob’s photo on them, the other clutching the hem of her coat closed.

The front desk officer didn’t even look up.

The bell above the door had long since stopped ringing for her.

She shuffled to the counter. She was wearing the same hoodie she always wore—his hoodie, oversized and faintly smelling of old laundry detergent and smoke. Her stomach was just beginning to curve outward, subtle but undeniable beneath the fabric. Four months.

“Hey, Ms. Y/L/N,” the desk sergeant mumbled without meeting her eyes. “You’re back.”

She placed the flyers down with quiet urgency. “I printed new ones. Better quality. I added a note about the reward this time, in case someone’s seen him.”

The sergeant sighed, his pen clinking on the desk as he leaned back.

“I told you last time. No new leads.”

“I’m not asking for a miracle,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Just—please check if anything came in since last week. A tip. A sighting. A… a body, no, not that, but anything really.”

A uniformed officer behind the counter—young, smug, cruel in that casual way people are when they forget you’re human—snorted. “Lady, you know the guy was a junkie, right? Odds are he got tired of playing house and ran off when the stick turned pink.”

Y/N’s heart splintered. Her hands clenched the flyers. “Don’t—don’t you dare say that about him.”

He shrugged. “C’mon. You don’t have to be a detective to figure it out. He got high and vanished. People like that don’t come back. Especially not to play Daddy.”

“He’s not like that!” she shouted, her voice cracking.

The room went quiet.

A throat cleared gently behind her.

“Y/N?” came the familiar rasp of Officer Cooper, stepping out from a side hallway. Silver-haired and weathered, he’d been on the force longer than most of the others had been alive. He always spoke softly, like he didn’t want to scare away whatever kindness he still believed in.

Y/N blinked back tears and turned.

“Let’s take a walk,” Cooper said, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s get some air.”

--

Outside, the sky was overcast. Cold. Cooper lit a cigarette but didn’t offer her one.

They stood in silence next to the station’s rusted bench. She stared down at the pavement, at her frayed shoelaces, at the grey world around her.

Then she broke.

“I can’t sleep, Mr. Cooper,” she whispered, voice small. “I dream about him every night. I wake up thinking maybe he’s home, maybe I missed a call. But then it’s just me. Just me and this baby. I don’t know what I’m doing—I don’t have money, I don’t have family. He was my family.”

Cooper nodded slowly, his expression unreadable.

“I know you’ve been kind,” she said, her voice rising. “You’ve listened. But I need more. I need you to put more people on this. I need you to look for him like he’s not just some addict you all gave up on.”

She wiped her face with her sleeve. Her tears soaked through it instantly.

“Please. Just… just try. For me. For him. For our child. Bobby wouldn’t leave me. Not like this. Not without a word. Not him.”

Cooper took a long drag from his cigarette. Then sighed.

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

She froze.

His eyes softened, like he wished he could lie. Like he hated what he was about to do.

“We finally traced a lead. Someone matching Bob’s description was seen boarding a flight out of the country.”

She couldn’t breathe.

“Where?”

“Malaysia,” he said quietly.

The word hit her like a sledgehammer.

“No,” she whispered. “That’s… no, he wouldn’t… He didn’t have money. He didn’t have a passport.”

“He did,” Cooper said, sadly. “We checked. It was valid. Bought the ticket in cash. No forwarding contact. No signs of foul play.”

She staggered back, her body suddenly too heavy. Her hand flew to her belly as if to anchor herself.

“So… you’re saying he left me.”

“I’m saying,” Cooper murmured, “that we don’t believe he vanished. We believe he made a choice.”

“No,” she choked. “No, he didn’t. He loved me. We were building a life. He called me his miracle. We were deciding on a name. He cried when I told him. He held me all night and said he’d never leave.”

Cooper looked down at his shoes.

“I know, kid.”

Tears streamed down her face now, silent and relentless.

“I waited. Every day, I waited,” she sobbed. “I believed in him. I still do. He’s sick, not a monster. You’re telling me he abandoned his child before the baby was even born?”

Cooper said nothing. There was nothing to say.

Finally, she whispered, “Is he coming back ? Did he buy two tickets? He did, right, to come back to me, to us?”

Cooper crushed the cigarette beneath his boot.

“One way ticket. Maybe it's better if u go home, take a breath, and just... you can call me, ok ? I have a daughter just like you and she's an amzing mother, you will be too. You have to go to work, just rest.”

She just looked at the flyers in her hand. For months he just disappear, all her money spent in paper, organizing searches, paying potential dealers for a tip of his whereabouts.

"So this is it?"

--

2 years ago

The Cluckin’ Bucket wasn’t exactly a place dreams were made of.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like a swarm of angry flies, flickering over cracked linoleum tiles and chipped yellow walls. The scent of fried oil hung in the air like a second skin, clinging to every surface. It was 11:43 PM, just seventeen minutes before closing, and the only two souls left inside were Y/N, wiping down tables, and Bob, in the back room, peeling off the heavy, foam-rubber chicken costume that had been slowly cooking him alive for eight hours.

He winced as he pulled the beak off his head, his sweat-damp hair sticking up in odd places. His T-shirt clung to his back, his jeans sagged slightly on his hips, and his bones ached in that weird, chemically induced way that only came from a cocktail of meth and shame.

He hadn’t wanted this job.

He sure as hell hadn’t wanted the chicken suit.

But here he was—twenty-something, barely scraping by, dancing on a street corner in 95-degree heat to try and convince people to buy discount wings.

He tucked the suit away in its plastic bag, sighing, and padded into the dining area, rubbing the back of his neck.

And then he saw her.

Y/N.

The new waitress.

She was crouched in front of the soda machine, elbow-deep in the syrup line, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, earbuds dangling from her neck. She was humming something—Fleetwood Mac, he thought—but he couldn’t be sure.

She wore her name tag crooked on her chest, and there was a smudge of sauce on her cheek.

But to him? She looked like she belonged in a painting.

He froze for a second too long, just staring.

God, she was pretty. And he was in a chicken suit just minutes ago. And probably still smelled like sweat and fryer grease. Cool. Real smooth.

She glanced up—and caught him.

Her eyebrows rose a little. Her mouth quirked.

“Robert, right?” she asked, tilting her head. Her voice was warm, amused, like she already knew the answer.

His throat caught. “Uh. Yeah. Bob, actually.”

“Bob,” she repeated, like she was trying it on. “Can you help me with something?”

“Sure,” he said too quickly.

She straightened, gesturing toward a box at her feet. “I’m trying to get this up to the top shelf, but it’s heavier than it looks and my arms are, like, noodles right now.”

He nodded and stepped forward, kneeling to lift the box without much effort. He was wiry, but stronger than he looked. She watched him, subtly biting the corner of her lip.

“Thanks,” she said as he set the box down on the shelf. “You’re stronger than you look.”

He gave a sheepish laugh, rubbing his arm. “Yeah, well… spinning a giant arrow for eight hours a day builds muscles, I guess.”

She smiled. “Don’t sell yourself short. That costume? Kinda iconic.”

He turned bright red. “Oh, God.”

“What?” she teased. “I think it’s cute.”

“Cute?”

“Yeah,” she said, wiping her hands on a rag. “I mean, it takes a certain kind of confidence to dance in a chicken suit and not die of embarrassment.”

He snorted. “More like a lack of options.”

There was a pause—just a second too long.

“Still,” she said, voice softer now, “You’ve got a good smile, Bob.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said, you’ve got a good smile.”

He swallowed, heart hammering for no reason he could explain. She was looking at him. Not through him. Not with pity. Just… seeing him. And it had been a long time since someone had done that.

They started talking more after that.

Little things. Jokes during their shifts. Late-night scraps of conversation while wiping down counters or restocking sauces. She’d bring him a free soda when she noticed him flagging. He’d sweep her section when her feet were too tired to move. Neither of them said it out loud, but it became something—a rhythm, a comfort.

He never told her about the drugs.

But she saw the shadows under his eyes. The way his hands shook sometimes. The way he chewed his inner cheek when he thought no one was looking. She didn’t ask, and he was grateful.

Until that one night.

They were walking out together. The parking lot was empty, bathed in yellow streetlight. The air was thick with humidity. Bob carried his bag over his shoulder, still fidgeting with the zipper.

Y/N was quiet beside him, arms crossed over her chest.

They reached the edge of the lot. Her car was parked beneath the flickering sign.

He stopped. She didn’t.

Then, she turned back.

“Hey,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. Sure.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked. “Uh. No. Why?”

She smiled—and it knocked the air out of him.

“Just wondering,” she said, stepping a little closer. “Because if you don’t… I was wondering when you were going to ask me out.”

He stared at her, stunned.

“I—I mean—I didn’t think you’d—why would you—” he stammered.

She laughed, shaking her head. “Bob. I like you.”

He swallowed. “You do?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Even with the chicken suit.”

And then, because his body moved before his fear could stop him, he smiled—wide and real.

“I… would really like that.”

“Good,” she said, walking backwards toward her car, grinning. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

He stood in the parking lot long after she drove away, heart pounding, a dumb grin on his face.

For the first time in years, the night didn’t feel so heavy.

--

Central Park in the early evening was dipped in gold.

The last fingers of sunlight threaded through the leaves like warm lace, casting dappled shadows on the grass. It was one of those rare New York days—cool but not cold, the air kissed with early autumn, the sky a watercolor blend of lavender and peach.

Bob stood awkwardly near a bench beneath a sycamore tree, tugging at the hem of his second-best flannel. His fingers twitched in his jacket pocket, where he kept the meth pipe he hadn’t touched in two days.

He was sweating.

Not from the weather.

From her.

Because Y/N was there, spreading out a gingham blanket on the grass near the edge of a pond, her hair tucked behind her ears, a small cooler bag next to her feet.

She looked like someone who belonged in the light.

He still wasn’t convinced he deserved to be sitting beside her in it.

“Okay,” she said, brushing imaginary dust from the blanket. “Don’t laugh. I made too much.”

Bob walked over slowly, hands in his pockets, watching as she pulled out a series of plastic containers and neatly wrapped foil packets. Sandwiches. Potato salad. Tiny cupcakes with blue frosting that had clearly been made with care. Even folded napkins.

“Holy crap,” he said, blinking. “Did you raid a deli or something?”

She grinned. “No, I made it. I… I like cooking.”

“For me?”

She looked at him like it was obvious. “Yeah. Who else would I be trying to impress, Bob?”

He knelt on the blanket, legs crossed, still a little stiff, watching her with barely restrained disbelief. “I just… I’ve never had anyone… you know. Do something like this. For me.”

She shrugged, setting a container between them. “Well, now you have.”

He picked up a sandwich, still stunned. “You made all this… for a guy who dresses like a poultry mascot?”

She chuckled. “I happen to like that guy.”

Bob opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. He just smiled—a shy, crooked thing—and took a bite.

Bob sat on the edge of the picnic blanket, chewing slowly, trying not to look too shocked by how good the sandwich in his hand was. “Okay,” he said between bites, “you’re going to have to explain to me how you made this taste like something from an actual restaurant. What’s in this?”

Y/N grinned, tucking a napkin under her leg to keep it from blowing away. “Nothing fancy. Chicken, basil, a little Dijon, homemade aioli—”

“H-homemade? Who even makes aioli? That’s, like, elite-level cooking.”

“I like cooking,” she said simply, with a shrug. “It calms me down. Helps me feel like I’ve got control over something, you know?”

He nodded slowly, finishing the last of the sandwich. “Yeah, I get that. It’s like spinning that dumb arrow—kinda zen, if you ignore the back pain.”

She laughed. “That’s tragic. I cook to relax, and you give yourself arthritis.”

“Hey, I’m not proud.”

She passed him a small container of fruit salad, their knees brushing slightly under the blanket. There was a breeze picking up, threading through the grass, fluttering the corners of the gingham cloth. In the distance, a dog barked, and somewhere near the pond a violinist had started playing faintly.

“You live with roommates? Alone?” Bob asked suddenly, trying to picture what her place might look like. “Your kitchen’s probably better than mine. Mine’s got, like, one working burner and a fridge that sounds like it’s dying.”

She hesitated, then looked down at her hands. “Actually… I live alone now.”

His brows lifted slightly, sensing the shift in her voice.

“I didn’t always,” she continued. “My ex boyfriend and I used to live together, in this little apartment off Bedford. It was cramped, noisy, walls were paper-thin… but it was kind of cozy. It felt like ours.”

Bob stayed quiet, letting her speak.

“He left about nine months ago,” she said. “For someone else. Someone with shinier hair and a ‘real’ job, probably. I don’t know. One day he said he didn’t love me anymore, and that was that.”

Bob’s chest tightened.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

She waved a hand, but her smile was tinged with something older than the moment. “It sucked. But if he hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have taken the job at Cluckin’ Bucket. Wouldn’t have ended up on night shifts. Wouldn’t have met you.”

He blinked, thrown. “That’s… wow. You really think that’s a good trade?”

She shrugged again, but this time with a little smile. “I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

Bob looked down at the cupcakes, the homemade food, the folded napkins. All for him.

He cleared his throat. “I just don’t get it. How someone could be with you and let you slip through their fingers. That guy had the f—freaking lottery ticket and he just… walked away?”

She glanced at him, visibly surprised by the fire in his voice.

“I mean it,” Bob said, quieter now. “If it were me… I’d never let you go.”

The moment stretched between them, warm and tender.

She looked at him for a long time, something soft and wounded behind her eyes.

“You’re sweet, Bob,” she said quietly.

“I’m not,” he replied without thinking. “Not really. But I want to be.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to say something else, but instead she reached for another sandwich.

They sat in silence again, this time heavier.

Then Bob spoke, his voice rough.

“I don’t have anyone either,” he said. “No family. No ties. Just a bunch of mistakes and a backpack that smells like old socks.”

She looked at him. “No one at all?”

He shrugged. “Not since my mom passed. My dad was… not really in the picture. I’ve kinda just been floating since then.”

“Me too,” she said. “It’s like… we’re both ghosts in a city full of people who have somewhere to be.”

That hit him harder than he expected.

He nodded slowly, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“I always thought,” he murmured, “that maybe I was just built to be alone. Like I was meant to burn out early. Some people are just… too messed up to fit.”

She leaned toward him, brushing a thumb gently against his hand.

“You’re not messed up,” she whispered. “You’re just… lost. And that’s not the same thing.”

His heart nearly stopped.

“You’re the first person who’s ever said that,” he admitted.

“Then everyone else was wrong.”

He didn’t know what came over him then—maybe it was the sunset or the food or the warmth of her fingers against his—but he turned toward her, and for once, he didn’t feel ashamed.

“Can I… see you again?” he asked.

Her eyes crinkled with a smile.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

--

present day

The apartment was still.

Still in the way a place only gets after someone is gone—not just physically, but really gone. Like the soul of the place had followed them out the door and taken all the warmth with it.

The late afternoon sun filtered weakly through the dusty blinds, casting long stripes across the bed where Y/N lay curled on her side. Their bed. His side still had the indent of his body, even after months. She hadn’t brought herself to sleep on it, like maybe the dip in the mattress could hold his shape long enough for him to come back and fill it.

Her hand cradled the curve of her growing belly. Just past four months. She was showing now. Her body knew, even if the world didn’t care.

Across from her on the nightstand were the pictures—cheap Polaroids and one dog-eared photo booth strip from Coney Island, taped crookedly to the wall. Bob’s stupid half-smile grinned back at her in every frame. The one where he was pretending to flex with a corndog in hand. The one where he looked away, caught off-guard, cheeks red from laughing at something she said.

Her thumb brushed the edge of the picture. Her throat burned.

“God, Bobby…” Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.

A fresh wave of tears pressed from behind her eyes and spilled freely down her cheek, soaking into the pillow. She clutched the blanket tighter with one hand and her belly with the other.

“You left,” she murmured. “You really left.”

She bit her lip so hard it nearly split, the ache in her chest unbearable.

“I defended you. I told them you’d never run. I called every hospital, every shelter. Put up posters with your face in every goddamn corner of this city. I begged the police to keep looking because I knew something was wrong. I thought maybe you were in trouble, or hurt… or…”

Her voice broke, raw and low.

“Turns out you were just gone. Just—just done.”

She sat up slowly, wiping her face with the sleeve of Bob’s old hoodie—still too big on her, still faintly smelling like him, like cologne and smoke and something warmer.

“You saved up that money. You actually planned this,” she whispered, hollow. “You looked me in the eye… kissed me goodnight, touched our baby, and you already knew you weren’t coming back.”

Her breath hitched as her hand moved over the swell of her belly, as if trying to protect the child from the truth pressing in.

“You knew I was pregnant. And you still left. That’s what makes it worse. Not the addiction. Not the lies. That. You knew, and it didn’t stop you.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I gave up everything trying to find you, Bobby,” she said, louder now, choking on the grief. “I drained what little savings I had. Every cent I scraped together went to flyers, gas, private search sites. I even hired some guy off Craigslist who said he could ‘track people down for a price.’ That was three hundred dollars I’ll never get back.”

She laughed bitterly through her tears.

“I work double shifts now just to stay afloat. Still serving greasy food to assholes who think I’m invisible—coming home to this empty fucking apartment, sleeping in a bed that feels like a coffin.”

She fell back onto the pillow and stared up at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths.

“I really thought you were different,” she whispered. “I did. I thought… maybe this time, it wouldn’t end with someone leaving. I really get left for everything else at this point, not good enough, prettier women, drugs. And maybe that’s worse. Because at least he looked me in the eye and said goodbye. Or maybe…did you find a better woman Bobby?”

Her lips trembled as another sob escaped.

“You said you loved me. You said we were in this together. We made something together, Bobby. We made a life. And you just… vanished.”

She reached for the ultrasound photo tucked into the drawer and held it to her chest.

“I swear he moves and grows everytime I cry,” she whispered. “Like he knows I need a distraction.”

She ran her hand down her belly again, slower this time.

“But I won’t let them grow up thinking he or she was a mistake. Or unworth staying for.”

The room felt unbearably quiet now. Still, again. But this time, colder.

She closed her eyes and curled tighter around herself, the photos, the baby. Everything she had left.

“I’ll do this without you,” she said softly. “Even if it breaks me.”

And in the stillness, in the tiny home they had built, she stares at the ceiling. Thinking. Doubting. Is this all that life can be ? How would she be able to take care of a little human? Maybe this baby wasn't meant for her. Maybe it was someone else's place to be their mom.

Maybe that's it.

Then I will wait. Just until the baby comes.

"What's wrong?"

A Price to Pay - Ayato x f!reader

Summary: You first knew Ayato years ago. He was handsome, charming, and loved to provoke a reaction from you. Yet, the love of your life, the next head of the Kamisato clan, left you. Now he was at your door, shocked to see you were home. If you put your anger aside, perhaps you'd learn why he had to leave you. You were one of the few who can cause him to lose composure after all.

Other info: Angst with comfort, hurt/comfort, 2.6k words, spoilers for Ayato's story quest in the first paragraph

(Inspired by his story quest. I wondered if something in Ayato's past could've made him more personally invested in the main conflict of the quest and it somehow turned into this. I hope you enjoy it.)

Passing by the notice board caused your stomach to drop once again. You knew it was irrational. The wedding was cancelled because it was merely a rumor to begin with. Nonetheless, it left a bitter taste in your mouth, churning up memories you thought you had put to rest.

You stopped in your tracks when you saw a figure at the front door of your home. He was tall, handsome, and elegant as always. You knew him well, many years ago.

You sighed as you approached the door and Ayato was startled to see you. He adjusted the collar of his kimono and you scoffed at his action. Despite now being older and more accomplished, he had the same telling habits when he was in an uncomfortable situation. He had better feel ashamed.

"My apologies," he told you. "I did not expect you to be home."

"What? Your informants gave you the wrong info?"

You struggled with the key at the door and when it opened, you glanced back at him, only to raise a brow at his expression. It was brief, but you were sure you had seen a small smile from him. You disregarded it.

Blocking the entryway, you stood in front of him and crossed your arms. "Why are you here, commissioner?"

His eyes widened, but only slightly, before clearing his throat. "I have business to attend to with your father," he told you.

"For the upcoming festival? He has more pressing matters at the moment. He left me in charge of it for now."

"Ah. I shall return another day then," he said with a polite smile, proceeding to leave.

"If you need to discuss something with me, you might as well spare me the pain and say it now." There was a deeper meaning to your words but you dared not to mention it now.

He fiddled with his sleeve, unsure how to reply. He resorted to a shrug and a chuckle. "I thought you despised being in my presence."

"I do."

Lightning striked in the distance, an ominous sign the skies would pour down with rain any minute. You sighed over the unfortunate circumstances.

"Come inside," you told him. "I have quite a few drafts that need approval. I was going to ask Ayaka but it seems my point of contact has changed to… you."

You gestured to him to come inside, and just as he stepped into your home, a trickle of rain began.

The inside of your home felt a lot smaller than usual. It was never as big as the Kamisato estate, but the last time you were both here was when you were much younger. Your retainer rushed into the room to welcome Ayato and to see if he would care for any refreshments. You went to your office in the back to retrieve the paperwork for the festival.

When you returned to the living room, balancing a stack of binders, Ayato quickly came to your aid. You pushed his hand away and walked to the table before dumping all your work on it.

Over the next few hours, the two of you discussed the drafts of the posters, brochures and other signage for the event. You needed to verify the accuracy of the information, not wanting to give the illustrators and designers the wrong information.

There were quite a few vendors selling goods at the festival, so it was a challenge to consolidate all of their information. Fortunately, Ayato was competent at his job and was familiar with each one like the back of his hand. Almost all.

"There's one more vendor from Liyue," he told you. "But I can't quite remember the name."

"Qingce textiles? You mentioned them earlier today."

"No, not that," he said, placing a hand on his chin. "I don't know if the spelling is correct. I will require one of my retainers to verify it for me."

"No need. I'm familiar with them," you told him. "I frequented their store." You dragged your pen as you wrote out their name. Traveling to Liyue in the past was a nice change of pace from the busyness in Inazuma. No, not the busyness.

You went there after Ayato called off your engagement.

"Have you heard from Watatsumi fisheries?" you asked him. "My father last told me they were still deciding on participating in the festival. Many people waited in line at their stall last year."

"That's a pity. I was told they ran out of their last batch of fish. A certain hired hand left them on the boat to spoil."

You widened your eyes in panic, wondering how your friend was dealing with the situation. But after spotting the slight uptick of the corner of Ayato's mouth, you rolled your eyes and returned your papers.

"That shouldn't be a problem for you, correct?" you asked.

"Of course," he replied. "Thoma also informed me they have plenty in their storehouses. Besides, they still have quite a bit of time before the actual festival to obtain fresh fish."

"So ultimately, your information was irrelevant."

"Perhaps," he told you. As you shuffled more papers, Ayato glanced at your empty cup. "You should get some more tea."

"I'll ask Mizuda to fetch it for me."

"I was implying you needed a break. I can continue here."

Your heart skipped a beat without your permission. Why was it that just after being with him for a mere few hours made you forget that you hadn't conversed in years? You ground your teeth, hoping his business with you would end swiftly.

When you returned from your tea break, you walked back to the living room with a cup in your hand.

"Is that… boba?" he asked. He glanced outside the window as the rain continued to pour down. "Where did you get it?"

"I made it."

You held out the cup and he stared at the drink in front of him. When he took it, his fingers grazed over your hand and he almost dropped the cup in the process. You eyed him, questioning his behaviour and he apologized for his uncharacteristic clumsiness.

The next few minutes were strange. Ayato knocked your biscuits off of their plate when reaching for a new sheet of paper. His sleeve got caught on the edge of his boba cup and caused it to flip over onto one of your binders. It was fortunately empty. You finally snapped when he dropped the ink bottle, which had just missed your rug.

"Ayato, what's going on?" you groaned.

"I–." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It seems you still have this effect on me."

You bit your lip, picking up a few papers but you forgot why you needed them. "You–," you began before taking a breath to compose yourself. "You have no right to have any feelings for me."

Ayato was the boy who promised to go through everything with you. You were best friends turned sweethearts and he was elated to learn his arranged marriage would be with you. He loved to tease you yet you didn't mind. It was some of the few times he had fun as he diligently learned to be the next head of the clan.

You gripped the paper in your trembling hand, holding back tears threatening to blur your vision. "Why– Why couldn't you stay with me?"

He sighed as he leaned back in his seat. "You were simply the price I had to pay," he said, closing his eyes and head tilted towards the ceiling.

"What about me?" you snapped at him. "Don't you think I suffered as well?"

You knew he would be the next head of the clan. He prepared his whole life for it. But it was accelerated when his parents died. It was the burden he had to carry, you understood that. Despite this, the two of you promised to be with each other through these times and were excited to wed each other when you reached adulthood.

He continued to stare at the ceiling before rising from his seat and occupying the space in front of you. He bent down, knees on the floor, and, very gently, tucked in the edges of his kimono.

"I promised myself to never appear in front of you again," he told you. "I never considered an opportunity would arise to apologize to you."

He placed his forehead on the rug and you clenched your fists, your nails digging into your skin.

"I am sorry you had to suffer on my behalf."

"Don't you think it's too late? You never told me why you called off the engagement. Of course, I suffered! You got up and left without a word! How could you do this to me?"

Silence. He didn't give you an answer. Your sweet beloved had left you in a blink of an eye and yet he was here in your house.

You rubbed your temple. "Forget this. Let's just get back to work."

You picked up your pen but he hadn't moved from his spot. "Ayato?" You glanced below you; a small patch of the rug was damp.

You pulled him up. "Ayato," you said in a panic. Tears filled his eyes and coated his cheeks. He quickly hid them behind his hand.

"I've overstayed my welcome." He got up to rush out of your house but you took his hand. It required little force to halt his movements. The feeling of your hand in his had shocked him.

"Ayato," you said again, this time with a gentle tone. He bit his lip, attempting to steel his expression. But it was no use. The tears had already betrayed him.

"My love," you called him this time, and he turned around, embracing you in his arms. His sleeves spread over your back as his tears soaked your shoulder. You stroked his broad back in the same way he used to comfort you.

"Mizuda," you called your retainer and she entered the room. "Please retrieve a handkerchief for me." She nodded and left the room.

"You need not to worry about her," you told Ayato. "She's astute and tight-lipped. I trust her with my life."

He chuckled as he finally lifted his head. "How is it that you are comforting me when you have suffered unjustly?"

"Ayato," you said, staring into his eyes. "I was angry with you because you never gave me an explanation. I thought you didn't care about me anymore."

Your retainer returned with a handkerchief and Ayato wiped his tears. "This is quite amusing. After all these years of leading my clan, I am still very much immature. I am able to confront nobles, stand up against assassins, and uncover the deception of others," he takes your other hand, "but wasn't able to appear before you."

"Were you afraid I'd be angry with you?"

"No. I was afraid you'd be too understanding," he said. "And you would bear the cost of my decision alone."

You rubbed your forehead with the heel of your palm. "Now why would you do that– No, of course you would." He had his own way of dealing with his personal problems.

"I couldn't think of a solution that wouldn't cause you any pain." He released your hands and turned his head away from you. "I thought that you would at least have some consolation if you could direct your anger towards me."

"Is that why there was also an increase of suitors for me when you left?" you sighed. "Were you hoping I'd somehow be comforted by it?"

"No," he shook his head. "I had no hand in that. I considered it, but there was no one I could trust to take care of you."

You let out a sigh when your heart skipped a beat once again. "So why leave in the first place?"

"If I didn't, my sister–" He pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, disregard that. It was ultimately due to my incompetence that I could not fulfill my promise to you." His hand shook as he spoke, and he clenched it before hiding it from your view. "I could not rely on your family, lest we drag you down with us."

"Drag us down? Did you really think–?"

No. That wasn't it. He needed to ensure stability for his clan after his parents died. If it were only him left in the clan, the Ayato you knew would have run into your open arms, accepting any help you gave him. But if he chose you, he couldn't provide what his sister needed, a strong head of the family who'd forge a path for her. Her, along with the rest of his weakened clan and all who were under his care.

"You wanted to be able to stand on your own two feet." You closed your eyes and took a deep breath. "Incompetent indeed."

You didn't agree with him. Power dynamics didn't consume your mind like they did his. But now you could make some sort of reason behind his actions. Perhaps you were both too young and immature back then, not to mention Ayato had little time to grieve over his parents. And after you left for Liyue, he thought it best to not keep in contact.

"I do not ask for your forgiveness," he told you. "I have already put you through too much. But I will not allow you to suffer again," he said, looking directly at you. "I will ensure it."

He folded up the handkerchief and placed it next to him. "Did… you have any other questions? I hope it'll make our future interactions more bearable for you. If not," he continued, "I can arrange for someone else to take my place."

You pinched the bridge of your nose. This was too much to process. "Let's just finish up what we can for today."

The two of you worked for a few more hours and the sun had already set. You had difficulty concentrating and the side glances from Ayato didn't help at all. But one thing was for sure. You missed him. And he missed you.

"It's late." he told you. "I must return to the estate. I can arrange for someone else to come next time."

You crossed your arms, shoulders relaxed, as you leaned on a door frame, watching Ayato retrieve his belongings. "Will you be attending the festival?"

"Of course," he replied, squinting his eyes at a sheet of paper due to the dim light. "I must ensure it'll run smoothly."

"My retainer won't be working that week." You'd be alone then.

The paper fell to the ground as he lifted his eyes to you. He raised his hand to clear his throat. "Perhaps I… should come back to work here tomorrow. So that I won't be as busy during the festival." You raised a brow. "Or not. I'll get Thoma or Ayaka instead to–"

"I'm free Saturday."

Ayato's eyes grew wide. He tightened his lips together and you snorted as he struggled to hold back a smile. He nodded and quickly packed the rest of his papers before leaving your house.

The rain had stopped. The dim lampstands outlined his silhouette as he stood to stare back at your house once more, the man who sacrificed much to accomplish what he did over the years, the same boy you had loved dearly.

Perhaps fate would be kinder to the two of you this time around.

I hope you liked it. :) Fun fact: the textile business is a reference to the reader's from my Kazuha drabble and the fishing business is the reader's from my Itto fic. I was too lazy to think of vendors so I used them. lol. Those two fics have completely different tones from this one though. :)

Please consider leaving a comment if you enjoyed this.

I've heard about his news 5:00 this morning about the passing of THE STAN LEE ... This is more worse new than hearing that Chris Evans will no longer work for Marvel... I'm sobbing please send help... We've lost a legend... We lost a genius.... We lost a hero.... I'm gonna miss his Marvel cameos. Everytime me and my brother watch a Marvel movie, everytime we see Stan Lee on the screen,we point at him and say "SPOT HIM" and now everytime we watch his cameos, I can't help but shed a tear knowing that he will no longer make anymore cameos... Rest Easy Stan. EXCELSIOR!!!

~Marvel Fans