#Masterful artistry | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

solxamber · 3 months ago

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Starstruck || Malleus Draconia

After debuting with a gothic, fantasy-inspired theme, you somehow managed to hit Malleus Draconia’s exact vibe. Now, the fae prince has single-handedly appointed himself your Number One Fan—and he's taking his job very, very seriously.

It’s finally happening. After years of grinding it out in practice rooms, singing until your voice was raw, and dancing until your legs felt like spaghetti, the moment of truth has arrived. The managers want you to decide on your debut concept.

In front of you are two choices: school theme and gothic fantasy. You glance over at the school uniform option and cringe a little inside. At your age? No, thank you.

You’re not about to spend your precious debut years waving around pom-poms and trying to look sixteen. Gothic fantasy, on the other hand? Now that’s got some style. Dark cloaks, intense lighting, elaborate costumes—it’s exactly the drama you’ve been craving.

Your manager stands beside you, flipping through a spreadsheet with an expression that can only be described as financially preoccupied.

“Listen,” he says, in a tone that suggests he’s already decided, “school theme has a mass appeal. It’s relatable. Kids these days love a little campus vibe. And you know, uniform sales have great margins…”

“I’m doing gothic fantasy,” you reply, crossing your arms with a confidence that could stop a truck.

He blinks at you. “Okay, sure, I get the allure. But are you sure? Think of the numbers, the opportunities to connect with the youth. Imagine the adorable school scenes, the casual sports day outfits, the innocent love plots…”

“Imagine the smoke machines and black roses,” you counter, eyes gleaming.

He tries another angle. “Well, just consider the feedback from market research. School themes are—"

“Gothic. Fantasy.”

He sighs deeply, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, “These artists and their egos,” but gives in, albeit with a look of absolute resignation. “Fine. Gothic fantasy it is. But you’re taking full responsibility if it flops.”

Release day arrives, and your first single—complete with a dramatic, shadow-filled video and costumes that look like something out of a Victorian vampire drama—hits the internet. The reactions are… intense.

Sure, maybe it’s not an overnight sensation, but it’s more than enough to get people talking. Your fans? They’re not your typical “bought it for the vibes” crowd. They are deeply invested.

You’re talking about people who can recite your lyrics like a spell. You even see fan forums cropping up where people dissect the symbolism of your music videos. There’s a post dedicated to the exact shade of black eyeliner you’re wearing, and someone actually counted how many flickers each candle has in the video.

One day, as you’re scrolling through the comments, a particularly poetic fan post catches your eye: “The ethereal aura this idol has given us with their gothic artistry is like a dark gift from another realm.”

Okay, maybe the fandom is a little… intense. But you can’t help but grin.

It all starts innocently enough.

One day, Lilia’s showing Malleus some music videos he calls "classics" (pretty sure some of them are just 20 minutes of bats screeching over synthesizers, but to each their own).

But, as fate would have it, Malleus stumbles across your latest release. His eyes widen as the screen fills with your dark aesthetic, the intense melodies, the dramatic lighting, the black roses swirling around you like a misty dreamscape. He’s hooked.

The video ends, and he turns to Lilia, awestruck. “Who is this human?” he asks, as if you’re some kind of ancient artifact discovered under a full moon.

“Oh, that’s a new artist. Apparently, they’re pretty talented.” Lilia raises an eyebrow, amused by Malleus’s reaction. “Why? Fancy yourself a fan, young master?”

“A fan?” Malleus looks scandalized. “Lilia, I am enchanted.”

Malleus’s enchantment quickly turns into an obsession. He spends the next few days discovering every song, music video, interview, and even those mildly embarrassing “What’s in My Bag?” videos where you show off your essentials (you had no idea one video about your favorite scented candles could attract such intense devotion).

He watches one interview where the host asks if you’re afraid of fae, and you reply with a casual, “Nah, I’d love to visit them one day.”

This is what seals the deal for Malleus. This human is not only a talented artist but also respectful, brave, and curious about the fae world. He has found his idol.

He decides it’s time to support you. And, because he’s the literal prince of the Briar Valley, he does what any fae royalty would: he orders some of your albums.

One hundred of them, to be exact.

In Malleus’s defense, he has absolutely zero concept of money. To him, it’s normal to go big. So he clicks “order” without even thinking, and in his mind, it’s done. Simple.

A few days later, when the delivery truck pulls up with boxes upon boxes upon boxes, Malleus’s reaction is… complicated.

He stares at the delivery man, then back at the wall of albums now stacked in front of him, and mutters, “I may have made a mistake.”

But Malleus Draconia is no quitter. So he devises a new plan: he’ll distribute these albums across the Briar Valley. Anyone who even mildly expresses an interest gets an album handed to them with an enthusiasm that’s both heartwarming and slightly terrifying.

It doesn’t take long before every fae in the valley knows your name, and soon enough, your music is echoing through the mystical woods. You, a mere human, are now an icon among the fae. The legend of the human idol with the beautiful music, who’s brave enough to express curiosity about fae life, spreads like wildfire.

Meanwhile, you’re in the middle of a heated argument with your manager. Despite your loyal fanbase, your concert venues are… sparsely filled, to put it kindly.

“I don’t know how to make this any clearer,” your manager says, waving his phone around for emphasis. “We need more fans, more sold-out shows, or it’s not going to be viable to keep booking these venues!”

You’re about to respond when his phone dings. Then again. And again. Suddenly, it sounds like he’s strapped a vibrating blender to his hand. Ding, ding, ding, dingdingdingding.

“What the…?” He stares at the screen, his expression shifting from annoyance to shock. “I—it says you’ve sold out every single venue. Wait, wait—there’s a waiting list for tickets that haven’t even been put on sale yet?”

He looks at you, blinking in astonishment. “I never doubted you for a second!” he declares with all the sincerity of a used car salesman. You roll your eyes. “Sure, pal.”

Later that night, you decide to check the fan forum for yourself. And something strikes you as… odd. Suddenly, all these usernames sound like they belong to a fantasy RPG. You scroll through names like “Elder_Oak_Watcher,” “Pixie_Phenomenon,” and “Darkthorn_Dreamweaver” and can’t help but wonder if your fandom has fully committed to your fantasy vibe. You chalk it up to hardcore fans. Nothing suspicious, right?

The agency celebrates by booking more venues, announcing a new merch line, and—wait for it—a raffle event for a day with you. You’re thrilled but mostly relieved that things are finally looking up.

Cut to the Briar Valley, where Malleus gets wind of the fan meeting announcement. His eyes practically sparkle with delight.

“I have a chance to spend time with them?” he murmurs, clutching the announcement poster like it’s a sacred artifact.

“Of course, you do!” Lilia chimes in, grinning. “And if you’re really eager, I could help improve your odds.”

Silver, overhearing, asks. “Are we really doing this?”

“It’s for young master Malleus!” Sebek hisses, practically vibrating with devotion. “If he wishes to meet this human, we will ensure he wins that raffle! Even if I don’t understand why he’d—” He pauses, scowling. “—lower himself to that level for a human.”

Lilia waves a hand dismissively. “Oh, Sebek, let Malleus enjoy his hobby! It’s rare to see him so enchanted. Besides, a bit of human culture never hurt anyone!”

Silver shrugs, giving Malleus a supportive smile. “If this makes you happy, Malleus, we’ll all enter on your behalf.”

Sebek bristles. “Very well, if it is the young master’s wish, I, too, shall enter—though I don’t understand this human obsession.”

Lilia claps him on the shoulder. “Consider it a show of loyalty to the crown.”

Sebek mutters something about “weird human tastes” but agrees nonetheless. And with that, your raffle odds have just quadrupled, courtesy of the most enthusiastic and unhinged fae entourage you never knew you needed.

Malleus beams, and for once, the usual silence in Briar Valley is replaced with something very unexpected: the excited murmurs their prince getting ready for his ultimate fan meeting.

It’s your first “Unboxing Fan Mail!” livestream, and you’re bubbling with excitement as you tear through letters and packages. You’re halfway through reading a pile of cute fan letters when one catches your eye: an envelope with a hand-drawn gargoyle. This thing has personality.

“Whoa…,” you mutter as you carefully open it. Inside, you find a letter, written in such flowery, old-fashioned cursive you almost need a magnifying glass. Clearing your throat, you read a part of it aloud:

"Your craft has brought light and delight to the shadows of our realm. It is rare to encounter such reverence and elegance in a human. Know that your courage and respect have earned you an esteemed place in the hearts of those from lands beyond mortal reach. Enclosed is a token of my admiration—a rose from my homeland, blessed to be as timeless as the admiration I hold for you.

Sincerely,

M.D.”

It takes a second for the words to fully sink in. Your gaze drifts to the box sitting beside you, which you unwrap with careful fingers. Inside lies a single Briar rose—its petals dark and lush, radiating a faint magical shimmer that tells you this is no ordinary gift. The rose feels alive, pulsing softly with ancient magic. You gently lift it, brushing a fingertip along the petal’s edge, feeling the cool, unyielding softness.

And suddenly, you feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “Oh… wow,” you manage, voice wavering. You blink back tears but don’t quite succeed, pressing a hand to your mouth in a mix of joy and disbelief. “Thank you so much, M.D. This is… this is beautiful. I don’t even have words.”

Back in the Briar Valley, Malleus is watching the livestream playback with his usual calm demeanor… until he sees you crying. His face falls, and he looks at Lilia, horrified. “Did I… upset them? My letter was meant to honor them, not… bring tears.” He’s practically pale. Well, paler than usual.

“Oh, don’t fret,” Lilia chimes in with a laugh, patting Malleus on the shoulder. “They’re just happy! Look how much they loved it. You brought them pure joy!”

Malleus blinks. “So… I have not offended them?”

“Far from it! In fact,” Lilia says with a knowing smirk, “I think you’re officially their number one fan.”

Malleus’s eyes narrow with sudden, unshakeable determination. “Of course, I am,” he says, as if this is the most obvious truth in the world. “Who else could claim that title?”

You have no idea what you've gotten into.

It’s your first concert. The crowd is buzzing, their voices creating a low hum that vibrates through the walls, yet you’re backstage with a knot in your stomach that feels about the size of a boulder.

You shift from foot to foot, hands clammy as you grip the mic, wondering if this is actually a good idea or if you should just make a break for it now and head for the hills.

A voice echoes through the earpiece: “Three minutes, everyone!”

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself as the band gives you encouraging nods. All those years of training, of dreaming, of rehearsing until your feet felt like they’d fall off—this is what it was for.

Your fans are out there, waiting. You can already hear some of them chanting your name. And slowly, your nerves start to melt away, replaced by a surge of adrenaline.

The lights dim. You step onto the stage, heart pounding, and the audience erupts. Thousands of people, waving lights and singing the opening notes of your debut song back to you.

The energy washes over you, filling every corner of your soul, and suddenly there’s no room left for doubt.

The music pours out of you, and the crowd’s response is instant, electric. They're clapping, cheering, and singing along. You almost forget to breathe as you realize—they know every word.

It’s in the middle of your second song, during a moment where the lights are shining right on the front row, that you spot something peculiar.

Wait… Are those… fae?

Not just one, but three of them. And they’re not your typical, “blending in” kind of fans, either. One of them—the tall one with the horns—looks like he’s just stepped out of some mythical kingdom (which, granted, he kind of has). There’s an unmissable aura around him, and his eyes are fixed on you like you’re the most mesmerizing sight he’s ever seen.

The other two fae are close by, each one unique but unmistakably not human. And a very sleepy human is nodding off standing there.

You try to keep performing, but your heart’s pounding for a new reason now. The tall fae—he’s so intense. There’s something captivating, almost otherworldly, in the way he’s watching you, like he’s fully captured by your music. It’s a bit like he belongs here and also… really doesn’t. Yet somehow, he makes it work.

Finally, you reach the interaction part of the concert, the moment where you get to pick a “lucky fan” from the crowd for a backstage pass at your next show. Your mind goes blank for a second as you look over the crowd, but the sight of those fae at the front makes your decision easy. You raise a hand, pointing directly at the tall one, still staring at you with that intense look in his eyes.

You can feel the collective shock from the crowd as you exclaim, “You! Yes, at the front! You’re the lucky winner!”

The tall fae’s eyes widen ever so slightly, a look of pure delight crossing his face as his friends react with either shock or something bordering on exasperation. He steps forward a bit, visibly thrilled, and nods to you as if he’s just received the highest honor imaginable.

Lilia, standing beside Malleus, gives a knowing chuckle. “My, my, our prince has been blessed by fortune,” he teases.

Sebek, looking utterly scandalized, hisses, “The Young Master? At a human’s concert again? With a… backstage pass?” His voice drips with disbelief.

Silver, with a half-smile, murmurs, “Well, he does look happy. That’s what matters, right?”

And Malleus, basking in the moment, seems too happy to notice their reactions. He meets your gaze, nodding as if to say, Yes, it is I, your devoted fan.

And suddenly, you’re beaming, too, because in this moment, you realize—you’re not just performing for humans. You’ve captured the attention of beings beyond the mortal world, and something about that feels… magical.

It’s the day of your next concert, and you’re backstage, mentally preparing yourself. You’d think after the first show, the nerves would be easier to handle, but that flutter of excitement is still there. Just as you’re rehearsing a few last lines, your manager bursts in, a mix of terror and wild enthusiasm lighting up his face.

“You… you’ve got to see this,” he stammers, pulling you toward the edge of the curtain.

“Uh, okay?” You’re confused, but you follow him to peek out onto the crowd.

What you see is not what you expected.

The venue is packed. And not just with your usual audience—no, tonight, the crowd is full of fae. Like, really full of fae. A sprinkle of beastmen, a handful of humans (who look varying levels of petrified), but the overwhelming majority? Fae of every type.

You spot wings, horns, a few floating orbs of light that might just be small fae spirits, and an array of gleaming, wide eyes that are laser-focused on the stage.

In the front row, you catch sight of a familiar face. The tall fae with horns who won your backstage pass last time—he’s here, and still utterly entranced. On impulse, you give a little wave, feeling a bit silly, but somehow unable to resist.

To your surprise, he just stands there, looking stunned, until the black-haired fae next to him nudges him with an elbow. Then, almost shyly, he lifts his hand and waves back.

From Malleus’s perspective, everything is perfect. His people have fallen under your spell just as he has. Watching you emerge to greet the crowd, he’s already enraptured.

You look out into the audience, and then—to his amazement—you look right at him and wave. He freezes, utterly smitten, until Lilia nudges him. After a second, he waves back, his heart doing something he’s quite sure it’s never done before.

The concert begins, and it’s an experience beyond anything you’ve known. The fae audience is surprisingly intense—they’re quiet during the softer moments, like they’re absorbing every note, and then wildly enthusiastic during the high-energy parts.

For a second, you wonder if your music has some kind of magic in it, too. Their reaction fuels your own performance, until the final note echoes out and the crowd erupts in applause.

Then comes the moment of truth: the backstage pass winner’s meet and greet.

You’re resting in the designated room, savoring a post-concert cookie when you hear… raised voices?

“Only the winner is allowed in!” your security guard insists, sounding exasperated.

“And I’m telling you,” someone snaps back, “I won’t allow my master to go in alone to meet a human!”

Curious, you step out to find the same quartet from the front row having a tense standoff with security. The tall one—the same one who keeps catching your eye—looks as serene as ever, while his silver-haired friend seems half-asleep despite the commotion. You raise a hand. “It’s okay! Let them all in.”

The guard reluctantly steps aside, and the four file into the room. There’s an awkward pause as they stare at you, clearly debating who should introduce themselves first. The tall one steps forward, and you offer a small smile.

“So… we finally meet. What’s your name?”

“Malleus,” he says, his voice deep and slightly reverent. “Malleus Draconia.”

You’re about to respond when he holds out a hand—a hesitant, almost formal gesture. Before you can shake it, the green-haired fae scowls, clearly offended. “That’s His Highness to you, Don't causally touch him human!”

You freeze mid-motion. Highness? Fae Royalty?

“Yes,” Malleus says mildly, “though I’d rather you not call me that right now, Sebek. This is a personal occasion.”

“Oh, you’re… royalty.” You take a very controlled breath, willing yourself not to faint.

Malleus nods, completely unfazed, though Lilia snickers under his breath and gives you a little wave. “I apologize if that was not clear before. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You regain your composure. You're a professional. “Right, royalty. Got it. No big deal.” (It’s a huge deal, but you can scream into your pillow later.)

That's when it clicks. M.D, Malleus Draconia, Fae Prince.

In an attempt to break the tension(and to not spiral), you say, “By the way, I loved the little gargoyle you drew on the letter you sent me. It was cute.”

Malleus blinks, visibly taken aback. “You… liked the gargoyle?”

You nod, smiling. “They’re nice to look at.”

For a second, Malleus just stares, and it feels like his entire face is starting to glow. “You appreciate gargoyles?” he says, in a tone that sounds like you’ve just admitted you’re secretly royalty, too.

“Uh, yeah. They’re kinda cool.” You laugh, and Malleus looks like he’s been blessed by every possible deity.

Meanwhile, Sebek mutters something vaguely exasperated, and you catch a snippet: “This human has actually caught the his interest…”

Lilia laughs, giving Malleus a playful nudge. “Well, isn’t that something? I guess you truly are their number one fan, Malleus.”

Malleus nods seriously. “Of course. I am honored to be recognized as such.” His eyes gleam with utter sincerity.

You chat a bit more, exchanging small talk, until you mention offhandedly that your company has been discussing hosting a concert near Briar Valley due to the recent increase in fae fans. Malleus immediately perks up.

“Oh, well, you should simply perform in Briar Valley,” he says, as if offering his personal venue is as easy as lending a pen.

“Wait… seriously?” You look at him, not sure if he’s joking.

“Of course,” Malleus replies earnestly. “I would be delighted to arrange it. As the prince… and your number one fan.” His eyes are so bright and genuine, you can’t help but laugh.

“All right, I’d love that,” you say, heartily amused and impossibly charmed.

As they start to leave, an idea pops into your head. “Hey, Malleus, do you want a picture together?”

He blinks, clearly surprised. “A picture? I… would be honored.”

You take out your phone, getting into position, and then, on a whim, you lean over and kiss him on the cheek right as you snap the photo.

From the doorway, Sebek lets out a scandalized squawk, and your manager looks like he’s about to pass out. But Malleus? He’s wide-eyed, staring at you like you’ve granted him the greatest gift in existence.

With a wink, you murmur, “Consider it a special gift for my biggest fan.”

For a second, Malleus just stands there, wide-eyed, and then, slowly, a delighted, utterly smitten smile spreads across his face.

The concert in Briar Valley turns out to be way more fun than you could’ve ever imagined. You were nervous at first—after all, you’re literally performing in a hidden fae realm with the kind of audience that probably doesn’t even need speakers to hear you.

But once you get started, the vibe is incredible. The fae are enthusiastic, cheering and applauding in that slightly mystical way they have. Their clapping sounds like wind chimes, and every so often, you think you see little trails of magic light in the crowd.

And right in the front row, like always, is Malleus Draconia. He’s the picture of regal elegance, standing out in his official Briar Valley attire, looking like he’s attending some kind of royal ceremony. You’d almost laugh at the contrast—Malleus, dignified and regal, surrounded by a crowd absolutely hyped for a pop concert. And, because you can’t resist, you give him a cheeky wink mid-song.

Malleus doesn’t miss a beat; he looks like he’s been struck by some sort of enchantment himself. His cheeks faintly color, but he doesn’t look away, a faint, dazed smile on his face. He’s living his best fanboy life, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy every second of his reaction.

After the concert ends, Malleus insists on personally escorting you around Briar Valley. You’re beyond thrilled—after all, it’s not every day that a fae prince offers to give you a tour of his homeland. Sebek and Silver, ever loyal, trail behind, with Sebek grumbling under his breath every five seconds about “proper decorum” and “human interactions.”

Meanwhile, Lilia is there for the pure entertainment of it all, throwing you little mischievous grins whenever you glance back at him.

As you’re strolling down a cobblestone path lined with Briar roses, you feel the first drop of rain on your cheek. “Oh no, I didn’t bring an umbrella…”

But the second you say it, there’s a flurry of movement. Malleus, Sebek, Silver, and Lilia all open umbrellas in perfect unison, like some kind of magical boy band choreography. Sebek even has an extra umbrella on standby, which he’s holding out to you with a solemn look.

But before you can notice it, Malleus shoots him a look that could probably summon a thunderstorm, and Sebek reluctantly withdraws, muttering darkly under his breath about “Etiquette.”

Meanwhile, Lilia, never one to miss an opportunity, flings the extra umbrella into a bush with a casual flick of his wrist before you can even notice.

He turns to Silver and Sebek with a bright grin, “Come now, let’s give the two some space! Isn’t it so romantic?” Sebek looks horrified, about to argue, but Lilia’s already dragging him and Silver away, leaving you alone with Malleus.

So now it’s just the two of you, standing in the rain, with Malleus holding his large, intricately decorated umbrella over both of you. The umbrella’s big enough that it shields you from the rain easily, but that doesn’t stop Malleus from stepping a little closer, just to be sure.

There’s an awkward, giddy silence as you continue to walk side by side. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, and your hands brush against each other occasionally. Finally, he clears his throat and says, “Did you enjoy the concert? Briar Valley’s… first, of this sort.”

“Oh, definitely!” you say, grinning. “It was amazing to see so many fae enjoying the music. And you were right up front! You didn’t have to—”

“It was… my pleasure,” Malleus replies, his deep voice a little softer than usual. “I wanted to see everything as closely as possible.” There’s an endearing awkwardness to him that only makes him more captivating.

From the moment you met him, you thought Malleus was just a really dedicated fan—sweet, if a bit intense, but ultimately adorable. Sure, he’s got that tall, dark, and slightly terrifying vibe with the horns and the whole royal aura, but he’s also so polite and gentle that you can’t help but find it cute.

But now, as you walk under the same umbrella, his warmth just inches away, it hits you with sudden clarity. Oh, I am so, so screwed.

Because you might like him a little bit. Scratch that—a lot a bit.

Malleus glances at you, noticing the sudden shift in your expression. “Is something amiss?” His voice is gentle, genuinely concerned.

“Oh! No, I’m fine. Just, uh, a little tired from the show,” you say quickly, brushing it off.

Malleus doesn’t look entirely convinced but accepts your answer with a soft nod. Then, almost shyly, he extends his hand. “Here. It’s quite cold… if you’d like…”

You stare down at his offered hand, feeling your pulse jump. It’s such a small, polite gesture, but it sends your heart racing. You slip your hand into his, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, and a small smile tugs at your lips.

As you walk together under the umbrella, Lilia, peeking from behind a corner with a very exasperated Sebek in tow, smirks to himself. "Ah, young love," he sighs dramatically, as if he were watching a play unfold.

Back under the umbrella, Malleus is telling you about the history of Briar Valley, his voice gentle and filled with pride. You don’t catch half of it because you’re too focused on the way he looks down at you, his eyes soft and completely captivated. Every so often, he leans in a little closer, as if he can’t help himself.

Eventually, you reach the end of the walk, the rain easing off, and Malleus turns to you, looking slightly hesitant. “I hope this evening has been enjoyable for you… I wished for you to see the beauty of Briar Valley, but I… I fear I may have monopolized your time.”

You laugh softly. “Oh, trust me, I think you’re doing a great job of showing me around. Plus,” you add, “it’s not so bad sharing an umbrella with my biggest fan.”

Malleus’s expression lights up, a rare, breathtaking smile breaking across his face. “Yes,” he agrees softly, almost to himself. “Your… biggest fan.”

Before they leave, you impulsively pull out your phone. “Hey, Malleus, would you like to take another picture together? You know, as a memory of Briar Valley?”

Malleus’s eyes widen slightly, but he nods. “I would… like that very much.”

You pose, holding up your phone, and just as you snap the picture, he looks at you with a strange spark in his eyes, he leans over, just barely hesitating, and presses a gentle kiss to your cheek.

Now you’re the one who freezes, absolutely flustered but trying very hard to play it off. You clear your throat, laugh a little too brightly, and tuck a strand of hair behind your ear as if it’s no big deal. “W-Well, um, I guess we’re even now!” you stammer, hoping he doesn’t notice the warmth creeping up your face.

Malleus gives you a small, satisfied smile, clearly pleased with your reaction, while Sebek is beside himself, practically vibrating at a frequency that could power one of your concerts, as he splutters, “YOUNG MASTER, THIS IS—YOU CAN’T JUST—A HUMAN—”

But Lilia just laughs, giving Sebek a playful whack on the back. “Come now, Sebek, it’s all in good fun!"

Sebek looks torn between yelling and fainting, muttering to himself about propriety and why, oh why, would the young master be so entranced by a human?!

You just barely manage to keep it together until they leave, but the second you’re alone, you collapse onto the nearest couch, burying your face in a pillow with a ridiculous grin plastered across your face. Because Malleus Draconia, fae prince and possibly the most loyal fan you’ve ever met, just kissed you on the cheek.

Somehow, you know this is just the beginning.

The fan forum has always been your little comfort zone. You’ve got your dedicated fans, who post lovingly questionable fan art, some surprisingly deep theories about your lyrics, and even the occasional meme thread.

Today, though, you’ve decided to go on a bit of a lurking spree. You want to see what people really think—especially the critics. And you do find critics, of course, all happily airing out their grievances. But what you didn’t expect is the replies.

Each negative comment has an oddly formal, razor-sharp response that’s practically dripping with eloquent disdain, all signed "M.D." You read on, completely baffled until it dawns on you: this is Malleus.

This prince has taken it upon himself to haunt your comment section, like a very sophisticated, slightly unhinged ghost. You try to keep from snickering too loudly as you scroll through his hilarious, painfully dignified rebuttals.

I-like-snails: “I don’t understand the hype. This idol is all looks, no talent.”

M.D.: “Your failure to comprehend excellence in its truest form is unfortunate. To imply that this individual relies solely on appearance demonstrates an astonishing lack of insight. Consider expanding your understanding of ‘talent.’ Signed, M.D.”

real-idol-fan: “I’ve seen cooler concepts than this ‘gothic fantasy’ nonsense. So pretentious.”

M.D.: “Ah, but what is more pretentious, dear critic? To appreciate grandeur or to boast of one’s ‘cool’ concepts with all the subtlety of a loud footstep in the night? Gothic fantasy, as you call it, possesses a depth your mind has yet to comprehend. Signed, M.D.”

aura-aura: “This idol’s lyrics don’t even make sense. They’re just trying to sound deep.”

M.D.: “An intellect as shallow as a millpond would indeed struggle to navigate profound lyrical waters. I urge you to revisit the lyrics in question after reading a book or two on metaphor. Signed, M.D.”

You have to clutch your sides as you scroll through the thread. The idea of Malleus, a literal prince, defending you with words like “millpond intellect” and signing every single comment with his initials—it’s ridiculous.

Ridiculous and, at the same time, ridiculously touching. You’d never asked him to do this, never even thought he’d care about what random people thought of you, but here he is, waging a dignified, solo war in the fan forum trenches.

After several minutes, you take a deep breath and manage to calm down, even though you know you’re never going to look at your fan forum the same way again.

It's interview time and things are going smoothly. You’re answering questions about your latest song, about the creative process behind the music videos. All very normal stuff—until the interviewer grins, pulls out a picture, and holds it up for you to see.

You squint and realize, with dawning horror, that it’s the photo. The one of you and Malleus standing close under the same umbrella, him looking at you like you hung the stars and you, very clearly, smiling back at him. Whoever took it managed to capture a moment that looks... well, almost romantic.

"So," the interviewer says, leaning in with a gleam in their eye, "is this someone special?"

You’re ready to laugh it off, to dismiss it casually with a polite “no,” but... you freeze. Looking at that photo, at the way Malleus is watching you, something catches in your throat. “No, of course not” dies on your lips.

Your mind rewinds to all the times he’s shown up, how he’s silently supported you, those comments on the forum—and suddenly, you can’t deny it, not even to yourself.

“No comment,” you manage to say, but it sounds weak, even to you.

The interviewer’s brow arches, and they chuckle knowingly. Meanwhile, you’re scrambling internally. Oh no. Oh no, you’re in trouble. You’re in deep trouble.

The raffle winner is announced, and your mouth drops open when you hear the name. “Malleus Draconia!” Your eyes scan the crowd and—yep, there he is, beaming in a way that could light up an entire stadium, looking like he’s won the lottery.

Well, technically, he has, but there’s something about his expression that suggests this is the best moment of his life. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you feel the universe smirking, because it knows exactly what it’s doing by sending you this unattainable, royally handsome fae prince.

You’d had some time to think since that interview. The photo, the “no comment,” the dawning horror in your gut as you realized that yes, you’re down bad. Horrifically so. In the week since the interview, you’d come to accept it. The only issue? He's so out of your league, it’s practically laughable.

Meanwhile, Malleus is practically vibrating with excitement. As soon as his name was drawn, half of his kingdom exploded in celebratory fanfare. (To be fair, most of the Briar Valley population had entered the raffle in his name. “Statistical advantage,” Lilia had called it.)

By the time he gets home, he’s already lining up outfits, preparing what he calls “appropriate tokens of affection.”

“Perhaps... a small gargoyle?” he muses, clutching a miniature stone sculpture that weighs about as much as a small human child.

Silver clears his throat. “Maybe... consider something less... heavy?”

Undeterred, Malleus sighs but places the gargoyle back, moving on to his backup plan: a solid gold gargoyle instead.

Lilia, in the background, chimes in with, “Just give them a rock and say it’s a Briar Valley special!” Malleus ignores him.

The day arrives, and you’re waiting at a cafe for Malleus. The producers are buzzing around, setting up lights and cameras for some wholesome footage to share with your fans. You’re running through the usual script in your mind, but then Malleus walks in, looking... well, looking like Malleus. Tall, regal, glowing with excitement, and completely out of place in the modern cafe.

You’re trying to keep your cool, reminding yourself that he’s just a fan here to meet his favorite idol, but when he brushes his hand against yours as he takes his seat, you’re thrown into chaos. Wide-eyed, flustered chaos. In fact, you’re so visibly affected that one of the producers has to muffle a squeal.

You glance at Malleus, and for a second, it’s like the two of you are in your own little world, oblivious to the cameras. You’re laughing, he’s smiling in that polite but endlessly fascinated way, and it feels like the meet-cute scene in every cheesy K-drama ever made.

After the cafe, the producers decide to set up at a bowling alley. It’s cute, casual, and definitely low-stakes—or so you think. You explain the game rules to Malleus, who nods in solemn understanding. Then, you hand him a bowling ball and stand back, figuring he’ll get the hang of it soon enough.

Except... Malleus does not get the hang of it.

He lifts the ball with such enthusiasm and raw power that when he bowls, it lands with a thunderous bang. The ball rockets down the lane like it’s been launched out of a medieval trebuchet, shattering the pins with explosive force and completely obliterating the machinery behind them.

The bowling alley is plunged into silence. Even the producers are speechless.

You, however, are not. You burst out laughing so hard, tears actually stream down your cheeks, and you double over, clutching your stomach. Malleus, meanwhile, looks at the wreckage he’s caused with a sheepish expression and asks, “Did I... do it wrong?”

You’re still laughing too hard to answer. His expression is priceless—equal parts apologetic and baffled. For all the confusion on his face, he’s smiling too, in that warm, captivated way, like every sound of your laughter is worth all the destroyed bowling alleys in the world.

One of the crew members has to remind you both to stop standing in the wreckage.

After the... eventful bowling alley scene, you suggest something calmer, like feeding ducks at the park. You arrive with a bag of crumbs, ready for a relaxed, picturesque afternoon.

Malleus seems thrilled at the prospect of feeding these “quaint little birds.” He declares “I will bestow upon them many crumbs.”

But, as it turns out, ducks seem to be as unnaturally drawn to Malleus as your fanbase is to you.

The ducks start waddling toward you, sure, but when Malleus bends down to offer a handful of crumbs, they completely mob him. You watch in bewildered amusement as the ducks clamber onto him, flapping and honking, climbing his shoulders, even perching on his head like he’s the world’s fanciest scarecrow.

“I... seem to be... a duck magnet,” he murmurs, looking helplessly at you, as if apologizing for attracting every duck within a ten-mile radius. He’s totally overwhelmed, but also somehow completely fine with it. If you find this amusing, then it’s a noble cause in his mind.

They hop onto his lap, perch on his shoulders, and one brave little duck even nestles itself on his head, honking proudly as it looks down at him.

You’re giggling again, snapping photos with your phone as he stands there, a bemused fae prince turned accidental duck king. Malleus, standing there covered in feathery chaos, looks up at you, his expression softening at the sight of your laughter. You think you see the smile on his lips, and you’re certain this day can’t get any better.

Dinner with Malleus feels like the culmination of every daydream you’ve ever had and every moment you tried to ignore the thrill he gives you. The restaurant is all soft lighting and quiet music, and you’re seated across from him, barely able to touch your food because you’re too busy trying not to stare. Or at least, not to make it obvious you’re staring.

But it’s impossible not to. Malleus, in the soft glow of the candles, looks ethereal in a way that’s borderline unfair. He’s taken off his usual high-collared cloak, and he’s looking at you with an openness that feels both heart-wrenching and unbelievably warm. His eyes hold that steady, unwavering gaze that has you feeling more exposed than any stage spotlight.

You’re talking about something light—music, maybe, or the utterly ridiculous game of bowling earlier. But the words are just filler, a flimsy attempt to distract yourself from the absolute burning feeling in your chest, a feeling you’re starting to realize is a little too big to be brushed aside.

It’s love.

It’s as terrifying as it is exhilarating. You’re looking at him, and it’s all you can do to not reach across the table, grab his hand, and say something incredibly unhinged like, “Hi, you don’t know it yet, but we’re soulmates.”

He leans in, head tilted as he listens to you with that pure, undivided attention. And then, his lips quirk into a faint smile, and you’re done for. Absolutely, completely done for.

Dinner wraps up, and he offers you his arm as you both leave the restaurant and step into the cool night. You take it, fingers curling around his elbow, and feel the warmth of him through the fabric.

The street is quiet, and the moon is hanging low, casting an almost dreamlike glow over everything. And you—well, you’re looking at him like he’s the moon itself, like he’s the only thing worth looking at in the whole universe.

You’re walking slowly, so slowly it feels like the moment is stretching forever, but somehow that’s not enough. You can’t stand it; you can’t stand just holding his arm and pretending this feeling isn’t eating you alive. So, finally, you stop, turn to him, and without even a thought to what this might mean for your career or the scandal it could stir, you say, “Malleus?”

He looks down at you, eyes soft, waiting.

And you just… go for it. You lean up, heart pounding so hard it’s a miracle he can’t hear it, and kiss him.

The world stands still. For a second, you wonder if you’ve overstepped, if maybe he’s going to pull away or question you or—

But then he’s kissing you back. Immediately. Thoroughly. His hand rises to cup your cheek, and he leans in with a gentleness that completely undoes you. You feel the warmth of him, the tenderness in his touch, and it’s enough to make your knees weak.

When you finally pull away, breathless, you look up to find him watching you with an expression that’s somewhere between wonder and the same sort of ache you’re feeling.

And right now, the only thing that makes sense is to kiss him again.

So you do.

This time, it’s softer, slower, like you’re both savoring it, letting the world fall away until it’s just you and him in the middle of the quiet, moonlit street.

When you finally pull back again, there’s a lingering silence. You don’t know what to say. How do you explain to someone that you’re completely undone by them? That you’re staring at him and barely restraining yourself from saying things like, “Let’s make matching T-shirts,” and “You’re my favorite human being, even if you’re technically not human.”

He’s still gazing at you, lips curved in that barely-there smile, looking utterly unphased yet somehow entirely aware of the fact that you’re melting. He’s looking at you like you’re something delicate, something precious, and it’s honestly making you want to pull him down and kiss him senseless all over again.

But instead, you just laugh, quiet and breathless. He raises a brow, a faint smirk playing at his lips. “Are you laughing at me?” he asks, in a tone that’s half curious, half amused.

“No,” you say, “I’m just… realizing something.”

“And what’s that?”

You look at him, eyes shining, and feel that burning again, that truth too big to ignore. “I’m completely in love with you.”

He doesn’t look shocked; instead, he just leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. And in that moment, you feel it again—the absolute certainty that you’re screwed. Because here’s a man who looks at you like you’re his whole world, and now that you’ve had a taste of this—of him—there’s no going back.

Masterlist

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #malleus x reader #malleus draconia x you #malleus draconia x reader #twst malleus #malleus draconia

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expobazzar · 2 years ago

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The Journey of Warli Art from Mud Walls to Fashion Closets.

Discover the captivating journey of Warli art, a traditional tribal art form from India, as it transcends its humble beginnings on mud walls to find a place of honor in the fashion closets of the modern world. Uncover the rich cultural heritage, intricate patterns, and symbolic storytelling techniques that have made Warli art an enduring symbol of tradition and creativity. Explore how this ancient art form has seamlessly integrated into contemporary fashion, breathing new life into fabrics, garments, and accessories. Experience the harmony of tradition and innovation as Warli art bridges the gap between generations and cultures, leaving an indelible mark on both ancient walls and trendy runways.

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vibelladonna · 2 months ago

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❛ 𝒷𝓇𝓊𝓈𝒽𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝓈𝑜𝓁 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

· ─────── ⋆⋅♤⋅⋆ ─────── ·

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Solivan Brugmansia, or just Sol, a super mysterious artist who kinda blends the lines between being the creator and the creation himself. His piercing eyes and his quirky style pull you into his world of raw creativity and quiet intensity.

When you're invited to his studio to complete a college art project, you’ll be sucked into his art, his silence, and that eerie feeling that he sees way more of you than you expected. The real challenge? Keep your focus on your brushwork.

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: Fem Body! Reader, Forced Proximity, Domestic Fluff (At the start), Artistic Passion, Obsessive Behavior, non-consensual, unwanted touching, grinding, dubious consent, predatory behavior, penetration, very rough sex, whiny submissive Sol at one point and dominant Sol at another point, same goes to you—reader as well, and somewhat long ass word count—I got carried away, took two days straight to write—I’m so so sorry.

I honestly wasn’t planning on writing Sol because, let’s face it, he already gets plenty of love from the fandom (and, not gonna lie, he scares me—a LOT). That said, I still love his character design and how he was created! But someone asked for more, so here we are. I’ll be putting together a master list soon and opening up requests since I wasn’t expecting so much love for my Crowe fanfic. Seriously, thank you! Anyway, hope you enjoy reading this one!

You stood outside the apartment door, the faint hum of the building’s creaky pipes filling the silence. A faint scent of paint and something sweet—floral, maybe—escaped through the crack at the base of the door. Your fist hovered briefly before you knocked, your knuckles rapping gently against the wood.

You'd come here to his apartment for a college project on Expressionism, drawn by his reputation as the quiet genius in your class. The space was a living embodiment of his mind—a sanctuary of creativity and controlled chaos. Canvases leaned against walls, his surfaces erupting with bold strokes and raw emotion. The air hummed faintly, tinged with the smell of oil paint, charcoal, and the faintest trace of something floral—perhaps the namesake of the mysterious Solivan Brugmansia—Sol for short.

There was a pause. The sound of footsteps approached, deliberate and unhurried, before the door clicked open.

Sol stood there, framed by his apartment’s warm, ambient light. His black hair, streaked with vibrant green, gleamed faintly, catching the dim overhead light. The half-up, half-down style gave his sharp features an ethereal quality, the long central streak of hair falling between his orange and crimson eyes while two smaller strands framed his face.

Today, he was dressed as part of the canvas he worked on. A black shirt, fitted but comfortable, paired with matching pants, both splattered with faint remnants of past creative frenzies. Over this, he wore a painting apron streaked with the vibrancy of forgotten colors—a kaleidoscope of blues, yellows, and pinks. It looked almost ceremonial, as though he were a priest of Expressionism itself.

“Hey,” Sol said, his voice soft but resonant, as if each word had been weighed and measured before leaving pierced lips. He stepped aside, gesturing you in.

You entered cautiously, suddenly hyperaware of how much space you were occupying. Sol’s apartment was an eclectic mix of chaos and artistry. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with books, jars of brushes, and sketchpads in various stages of use. Canvases leaned haphazardly against one wall, his surfaces alive with strokes of vibrant, chaotic color.

A large easel stood in the corner by a wall, its frame splattered with years of paint, and next to it was a table strewn with tubes of oil paint, jars of water, and what looked like a half-finished sculpture.

The furniture was minimal but intentional. A worn, paint-streaked couch sat across from a low coffee table, which had been overtaken by sketchbooks and coffee mugs. The faint glow of string lights wound around the ceiling added warmth, softening the industrial feel of the concrete floors.

Sol closed the door behind you, the lock clicking faintly. “Shoes off, please,” He said, his gaze flicking briefly to your feet. He was wearing socks, his black shirt, and matching pants, giving them a striking silhouette beneath the paint-streaked apron he wore. “Do you always live like… this?” you asked, gesturing vaguely at the organized chaos.

Sol glanced around as if seeing the space through your eyes for the first time. “It’s functional,” He said simply, before pulling a stool toward the easel and sitting. “I know where everything is.” He reached for a brush, spinning it absently between his fingers. “Did you bring the sketches?” You nodded, pulling a folder from your bag. “Yeah. I mean, they’re rough. I wasn’t sure if they’d fit the theme.” You hesitated before handing them over.

Sol didn't say anything right away. Instead, he put the brush down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he flipped through your work. His gaze was intense, those fiery eyes scanning each page with a focus that made you feel bare.

His eyes were a masterpiece in themselves, an intense study of Central Heterochromia: an inner ring of burning orange encircled by an outer hue of crimson red. When he looked at you, it felt as though he were dissecting your very soul, layer by delicate layer.

“This one,” Sol said finally, tapping one of the sketches. It was an abstract piece—a swirl of jagged lines and harsh shading. “It’s raw. Honest. Use this as your foundation.”

“Really?” You leaned closer, your shoulder brushing his accidentally. Sol didn’t pull away. “I wasn’t sure if it was too… messy.”

“That’s the point,” Sol said, his voice quiet but firm. He set the folder aside and stood, moving toward the table where his paints were arranged. “Expressionism isn’t about clean lines. It’s about emotion. About what’s inside.” He picked up a palette, his long fingers deftly squeezing out colors in no particular order. “You brought what’s inside. I’ll help you pull it out.” You couldn’t help but watch as he moved, each action deliberate and fluid.

“So… how do we start?” You asked.

Sol turned to you, the faintest trace of a smile playing at his lips. "You start by not overthinking. Paint what you feel. I'll be here if you need guidance." He handed you a brush, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment before pulling away. "The colors are ready. Paint whatever you like.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hum of the lights and the soft beat of your heart. Something in his presence was grounding, even as his piercing gaze seemed to strip you down to your essence. You took a deep breath and stepped toward the easel, the weight of Sol's quiet encouragement settling on your shoulders. "All right," you said, gripping the brush a little tighter.

"Let's do this.” You added.

Sol’s eyes followed your every movement, unblinking and intent. The way your hand gripped the brush—a touch too tight, almost desperate—and the soft inhale you took before the bristles kissed the canvas was enough to captivate him.

To Sol, it was as though he was watching the birth of a masterpiece, even if the real art hadn’t yet materialized on the canvas. He was utterly mesmerized, a silent spectator to something far beyond mere paint and pigment.

Then, in a sudden, mischievous shift, you dipped your brush into a light green on the palette and, without hesitation, swiped it across his cheek. The coolness of the paint startled him, his eyes widening as he froze in place. For a beat, Sol said nothing, stunned into stillness. Then, slowly, a small smile began to tug at the corner of his mouth, the icy veneer of his composure cracking ever so slightly.

He raised an eyebrow, amusement glimmering in his crimson-and-orange gaze. “Really?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest undercurrent of a chuckle as he wiped at his cheek with his fingers. “Was that necessary?”

As he spoke, his hand casually reached for another brush, dipping it into a bold shade of red.

Your grin widened at his reaction, a playful spark lighting your eyes. “Necessary?” you teased, tilting your head. “Maybe not. But it was definitely worth it. Besides,” you added, twirling your brush between your fingers, “your reaction was priceless.”

Sol’s smirk deepened, his eyes narrowing as though calculating his next move. He leaned forward slightly, closing the space between you as the red-tipped brush hovered just inches from your skin. “You’re asking for it now,” he said softly, his tone playful but laced with a subtle edge. “Challenging an artist in his territory? Bold move.”

Your heart skipped at the proximity, but you held your ground. Meeting his gaze with equal intensity, you let your smirk turn sly. “Oh, I’m not just asking for it,” you quipped, your voice low and teasing. “I’m daring you to try.”

Sol’s eyes darkened, his playful expression giving way to something more intense, almost… predatory.

The brush in his hand swayed, the paint clinging to the tip as it hovered closer to your face. His voice dropped to a whisper, sending a shiver through you. “You don’t even know what you’re playing at,” he murmured, his lips curving into a slow, wicked smile.

Then, with a sudden and deliberate movement, he swiped the red paint across the bridge of your nose. The cool sensation made you blink in surprise, but the shock quickly melted into a laugh. You reached for another brush, dipping it into a rich green. “Rules, you say?” you said with mock defiance, a glint of mischief dancing your eyes. “But isn’t breaking them half fun?”

You drew the brush across the canvas instead of retaliating directly, your strokes bold and deliberate. Sol’s eyes flicked between the emerging shapes and your determined expression, his lips twitching with a mix of admiration and confusion.

A low chuckle rumbled from his throat, the sound rich and unexpected, sending a pleasant chill down your spine. “You’re not only cheeky,” he said, watching the paint flow in deliberate curves. “You’ve got the right attitude for this. Art isn’t about staying in lines—it’s about breaking through boundaries.”

His words carried a teasing edge, but beneath them was a subtle warmth, an acknowledgment of your courage and creativity. Still, as his gaze lingered on you, there was a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

“Careful, though,” he added softly, a smirk creeping back to his lips. “You might end up inspiring me more than the canvas.” The tension hung in the air like a taut string, electric and alive, as the two of you exchanged another glance.

You noticed the way Sol cast fleeting glances, darting his eyes between the canvas and your face. His expression was perfectly schooled, calm, and unreadable, but the tiniest flicker of amusement betrayed him. You knew he was holding back, his true opinion hidden behind that enigmatic smirk. Your eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of determination flaring within you as you paused your brush mid-stroke.

You met his gaze with a sly smile, your voice dripping with playful accusation. “You’re such a liar. Just say it—I’m bad at painting.”

Sol chuckled, a soft, throaty sound that was more amused than menacing this time. The smirk on his lips grew, and he didn’t bother to hide it as he leaned slightly against the edge of the table. “All right,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “The truth? You’re terrible at painting.” Before one could object, he held up a hand, his expression mock-serious.

"Your brushwork technique is messy, your composition is unbalanced, and your color harmony… well, let's just say it's as chaotic as your personality.” He said.

Your jaw dropped, and a flicker of indignation flashed in your eyes. But you composed yourself quickly, raising your chin in defiance. "Oh, is that right?" you retorted coolly, crossing your arms. "Well then, I suppose you think you could do a lot better."

Sol’s crimson-and-orange eyes gleamed with mischief, and he raised an eyebrow as though the answer should’ve been obvious. “Of course I could.”

Without waiting for permission, he stepped closer to the canvas, grabbing a clean brush from the palette. He leaned forward, studying your piece intently, his head tilting just slightly as he took in every line and stroke. For a moment, he said nothing, and the quiet stretched between you.

Then, with a smirk, he glanced back at you. “But don’t worry,” he said, dipping his brush into a pale yellow. “I’m not going to paint over your work. That would be cruel.” His tone softened slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he added, “You’ve got potential. Under the right tutelage, of course.”

You watched as Sol began painting over the blank spaces on the canvas. His brush moved lightly, in long, deliberate strokes. Each movement was precise, controlled, and yet carried an effortless grace. His hand didn’t hesitate, the tip of the brush gliding across the fabric like it was an extension of himself.

Your eyes drifted to his hand, caught by its hypnotic rhythm. It was larger than yours, bony yet strong, the veins along the back prominent as they flexed with the motion. The way his fingers gripped the brush with such confidence… It made you wonder, for a short second, what it might feel like if those same hands brushed against your skin instead of the canvas.

You blinked, startled by the thought, and shook your head slightly. But your gaze returned to his hands almost immediately, as though they had a gravity of their own. Something was captivating about them—the way they moved with purpose and elegance, the way the bristles danced under his direction.

“What?” Sol’s voice broke your trance, and you snapped your eyes up to meet his gaze. His lips curved into a teasing smile as though he’d caught you staring. “Don’t tell me I’ve already inspired awe.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes to cover your embarrassment. “Awe? Hardly. I’m just… observing your technique.” You gestured vaguely toward the canvas, trying to sound nonchalant. “Mm-hm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced.

He leaned back slightly, his free hand resting on the table as he continued to paint. “So, what do you think? Learning something?”

Your lips twitched into a small smile, your earlier indignation melting into something lighter. “Well,” you began, tilting your head, “I can see that you’re good with your hands. I’ll give you that.”

Sol paused, glancing at you sidelong with a raised brow. His smirk deepened, taking on an almost dangerous edge. “Careful with compliments like that,” he said, his voice soft but laced with a playful warning. “You might give me the wrong idea.”

Heat crept into your cheeks, but you held your ground, determined not to give Sol the satisfaction of flustering you. Instead, you stepped closer, the faintest hint of a challenge in your stance. “Oh, I’m sure you’re used to hearing it,” you shot back. “You’re practically begging for praise with the way you show off.”

Sol laughed, low and rich, the sound like velvet brushing against the charged air between you. Straightening, he set his brush down and leaned slightly against the table, his gaze never leaving yours. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his smirk widening just enough to make your pulse quicken. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

Your brow lifted, and you tilted your head, feigning disinterest even as you studied him. His piercing gaze, the subtle confidence in his posture, that maddening smirk—it was infuriating how self-assured he was. And yet, there was something magnetic about him, something that made it impossible to look away.

You rolled your eyes, breaking the moment with a scoff. “Fine,” you said, lifting your brush again and stepping toward the canvas. “But don’t expect me to call you a genius. Not yet, anyway.”

“Fair enough,” Sol replied, his voice tinged with amusement. He shifted slightly, leaning down, watching you with a quiet intensity. The air between you felt electric and playful but threaded with an undertone of something deeper, something neither of you dared to name.

You focused on the canvas, trying to tune out the way his gaze burned into your back. But as the moments stretched, your thoughts wandered again. Did he feel it too—that spark, that pull? Or was it just your imagination running wild?

“Do you want me to guide you?” Sol’s sudden question cut through your thoughts, startling you. You glanced over your shoulder at him, your brush hesitating mid-stroke. “Guide me?” His expression flickered with faint amusement as he straightened, stepping closer. “Your brushwork on our painting,” he clarified. “Are you sure you’re paying attention?”

The flush on your cheeks deepened. You’d been so wrapped up in your thoughts—most of them about him—that you’d completely zoned out. Trying to cover your embarrassment, you huffed, lifting your chin slightly. “Of course, I’m paying attention,” you retorted, though your voice betrayed you with its defensiveness. “I’ve been observing, just like you said.”

The corner of Sol’s mouth quirked, a small, knowing smirk that sent a spark of irritation and something else through you. “Is that so?” he murmured.

Before you could respond, he moved closer, standing just behind you. The air around you shifted, warmer now, charged with his presence. You felt the heat of his body at your back, the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned in, close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear.

“You’re about as good at lying as you are at painting,” Sol said softly, his voice low and teasing. “You haven’t been paying attention to anything but me for the last five minutes.” Your protest died on your lips as his hand—larger, warmer—wrapped gently around yours, guiding your grip on the brush. You froze, your heart pounding as his chin rested lightly on your shoulder, the weight and proximity making it hard to breathe.

“Okay,” he murmured, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “Just follow me.”

Your hand moved under his guidance, the brush sweeping across the canvas in a smooth, deliberate arc. Together, you created a perfect swirl, the paint gliding like silk beneath the bristles. Your breath hitched, your gaze darting to his face out of the corner of your eye.

Sol’s focus was entirely on the canvas, his eyes following the line of the brush with the same intensity he’d given you earlier. A faint smile ghosted across his lips as he added another gentle stroke, the motion fluid and practiced. When his gaze finally flicked to yours, the warmth in his expression sent a jolt through you.

“Pay attention, please,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady the rush of emotions his proximity stirred. But then his eyes lingered a moment too long, and a small, knowing smirk curled at the edge of his lips again. Finding a burst of courage—or recklessness—you turned your head slightly, your faces just inches apart now. “I thought you said I wasn’t paying attention,” you said, your tone playful, though your voice was softer than you intended.

Sol’s smile deepened, his eyes flickering between yours and the canvas. “You weren’t,” he said, his breath brushing against your skin. “But maybe you’re finally getting the hang of it.” His low chuckle reverberated softly against your back, and the way his fingers guided your wrist—it was impossible not to feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

You swallowed hard, determined to keep your focus on the canvas in front of you, but Sol's presence was utterly overwhelming. "Maybe I just needed the right tutor," you managed to say, your voice wavering just enough to betray how unsteady you felt.

Sol let out a quiet laugh, warm and teasing. "Maybe you did," he replied, his tone carrying a playful edge. His hand adjusted slightly, guiding the brush into a smooth curve. “But you’ll need to focus for it to work.”

Easier said than done. He leaned in closer, his chest brushing lightly against your back, his breath warm on the side of your neck. Your heartbeat hammered, your skin prickling with the awareness of how close he was. His scent—a faint mix of paint, something floral, and the slightest hint of musk—filled your senses, making it almost impossible to concentrate.

The brush wavered slightly in your hand, the line on the canvas faltering. “Careful,” Sol murmured, his lips almost brushing your ear. “Don’t move too much. You’ll smudge our work.”

Your grip on the brush tightened as you fought to focus, but it was no use. The combination of his steady breathing, the warmth radiating from his body, and that damn smirk you knew was probably still on his lips—it was too much. Your arm shifted slightly, your elbow bumping against his.

Sol sighed, soft but pointed, his hand slipping away from yours. “All right,” he said, straightening up and stepping back. His tone was still calm, but there was a flicker of something firmer beneath it, something that sent a shiver down your spine. “If you can’t be still, maybe we need to change tactics.”

You blinked, turning to face him. “What do you mean?”

Without a word, Sol reached out, his hands firm but careful as he grasped your waist and guided you backward. Before you could process what was happening, you found yourself seated in his lap, his hands steadying you.

Your heart nearly stopped.

“Wha—Sol!” you sputtered, heat flooding your face as you tried to wriggle away. “Please stop moving,” he said, his voice quickly said, almost in a warming tone. His arms rested lightly on either side of you, effectively caging you in. “You said you needed the right tutor. This is part of the lesson.”

Your protest died in your throat as you felt his breath against your ear again, his warmth surrounding you completely now. Your pulse was racing, your cheeks burning, but there was something about his calm composure—like this was the most natural thing in the world—that left you utterly speechless.

“You’re too restless,” Sol said, his voice softer now, almost teasing. “You’re going to ruin our painting if you keep squirming.”

“I—I’m not squirming,” you managed, though your voice betrayed you. “Sure you’re not,” he replied, his smirk practically audible. His hands moved to guide yours again, steady and sure as he returned your focus to the canvas. “Now, relax. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Despite your flustered state, his voice and the firm yet gentle pressure of his hands steadied you, guiding the brush in smooth, deliberate strokes. The rhythm of his movements and the closeness of his presence made it impossible to think about anything else.

As you followed his guidance, your breaths began to sync with his, the tension in your shoulders loosening slightly. His hand stayed over yours, directing the brush with practiced ease.

“There,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. “See how much better that feels?”

You swallowed, glancing over your shoulder at him. His gaze was focused on the canvas, but the faintest smirk still played at the corner of his lips. His eyes flicked to meet yours briefly, and the intensity in them sent another wave of warmth rushing through you.

“I think you just like being in control,” you said, trying to sound teasing, though your voice was softer than you intended.

Sol chuckled, his breath brushing against your neck. “And I think you like making things harder than they need to be.”

Your heart raced as his words lingered in the air, the tension between you palpable. But before you could respond, Sol’s hand guided yours in another gentle stroke, pulling your focus back to the canvas. “Now,” he said, his tone a bit more playful, “are you going to let me teach you, or do I need to keep you here until you finally pay attention?”

The challenge in his voice made your cheeks burn even hotter, but you rolled your eyes, gripping the brush tighter. “Fine,” you muttered. “I’ll pay attention.”

“Good,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “Because we’re not done yet.” Your pulse raced as Sol’s hands guided yours, the rhythm of the brushstrokes steady under his control. He sat perfectly at ease, holding you on his lap like it was just another part of his creative process.

And you? You were anything but composed.

“When doing this stroke, pay close attention,” Sol murmured again, his voice low and coaxing, his breath brushing against your ear. All you needed to do was Relax. As if you could do that when every inch of you felt like it was vibrating with awareness of him. “No pressure,” he added, his hand over yours, moving the brush in a smooth arc. “Unless you want to mess up and start over.”

You scoffed, tilting your head just enough to glance back at him, a mischievous spark lighting your eyes. “I think you like having me mess up,” you said, your voice laced with defiance. Sol’s lips twitched into a smirk, but he didn’t take the bait. “Maybe,” he said, his tone calm and measured. “But it’s our project. If we waste more time because of you being difficult, that’s on you.”

Something about the calm way he said it made you bristle. You shifted slightly in his lap, testing his patience as you pressed back just enough to feel the firmness of his chest against your back.

“I’m not being difficult,” you said, your tone saccharine and falsely sweet. You turned your head more, your eyes narrowing as you added, “I just think you’re enjoying this a little too much, Sol.”

His brow arched slightly, the only indication that you’d gotten under his skin. “Am I?” he asked, his voice still maddeningly even. But as you shifted again—this time deliberately moving in a way that pressed closer to him—you felt the way his body tensed beneath you.

The faintest hint of red crept into Sol’s cheeks, and his hand on yours tightened slightly before releasing, his composure faltering just enough to make your lips curve into a triumphant smile.

“See?” you said, turning fully now so you were half-facing him, still perched on his lap. “You do enjoy it.”

His crimson-and-orange gaze flicked over you, lingering for just a moment too long before snapping back to your eyes. Something about him was... off.

Not in an unsettling way, but in a way that made your skin prickle with awareness. The piercing gaze from those luminous eyes seemed to see more of you than you intended to show. His silence spoke volumes, each glance and measured movement a language of its own.

The way he painted and the way he carried himself made it hard to distinguish where the artist ended, and the art began. Sol wasn't just quiet. He was quiet. And in that stillness, you found yourself drawn to him like a moth to a flame—a dangerous, beautiful thing you couldn't resist.

You noticed it then—the way his expression shifted, the way his pupils dilated slightly as he took in the way your outfit clung to you, a simple, black shirt with a matching pencil skirt, looking like a dress, more fitted than he’d probably realized earlier.

“You’re pushing your luck,” Sol said softly, his voice carrying a warning edge. He was stiff beneath you, his posture taut, as though holding himself together with sheer willpower.

But you weren’t backing off.

Instead, you tilted your neck and leaned in, your face stopping mere inches from his. “Am I?” you whispered, the deliberate echo of his earlier words carrying a teasing, brash confidence.

His reaction was almost immediate. The flush on his cheeks deepened, painting his pale skin with a rosy hue that crept to the tips of his ears. You shifted back slightly in his lap, letting your back brush against his chest, and the sudden contact made him jerk awkwardly on the stool.

Sol swallowed hard, his hands gripping the edges of the seat as though he was anchoring himself. “Please stop,” he said, quieter this time, his voice almost a plea. But the way his molten gaze locked onto yours betrayed him—he didn’t mean it. “Aw.. Why?” you asked, tilting your head with mock innocence. “Am I distracting a great artist from his work?”

His jaw tightened, the muscles flexing as his hands flexed on the stool. The tension radiating from him was palpable, and it only spurred you on. His composure was crumbling, piece by piece, and you were determined to break it completely.

“You’re impossible,” Sol muttered, his voice strained.

The triumph in your smile grew, and you leaned closer, just enough for your breath to tease the sensitive skin of his neck. “You could always make me stop,” you murmured, your voice soft and challenging.

For a moment, Sol didn’t move, his gaze flicking between your lips and your eyes. His breathing grew heavier, each exhales brushing against your cheek. You could almost hear the war raging inside him, every bit of his control battling the undeniable pull between you.

Then, in one swift motion, his hand slid to your waist. The firm but steady grip steadied you as he leaned forward, his lips brushing against the side of your neck in a fleeting, feather-light kiss that sent a jolt of electricity racing through you.

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you pressed back further into him, daring him to take another step.

Sol’s response was immediate. His teeth grazed your neck, the gentle nibble enough to leave you breathless and your pulse hammering in your ears. His other hand moved to your hip, holding you firmly in place as he pressed another kiss to your neck, this one lingering longer, his lips warm and insistent.

“Still think I’m enjoying this too much?” he murmured, his voice rough and ragged against your skin. Your smirk faltered as heat flushed through you, your ability to respond stolen by the heady sensations he was creating.

Sol chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against your neck, sending another shiver coursing through you. “What’s the matter?” he teased, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below your ear. “You’re quiet now.”

You swallowed hard, forcing your voice to steady. “I-I’m just giving you a chance to prove your point,” you said, though your defiance was flickering with every second.

“Oh, I’ll prove it,” Sol murmured, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin.

His fingers brushed the hem of your top, skimming the fabric aside to expose more of your collarbone. He continued his trail of kisses, his lips soft but deliberate, his teeth occasionally nipping at the sensitive skin and likely leaving faint red marks.

Your breath came in shallow gasps, your mind clouded with the sensation of his mouth, his hands, and the heat of his body enveloping you. When you shifted slightly, testing his patience, Sol growled low in his throat.

He tugged you closer with a sudden movement, turning you slightly on his lap so you faced him. His hands gripped your hips, firm but careful, making sure you wouldn’t lose your balance. His body pressed flush against yours, his thighs anchoring you in place, leaving no space between you.

The sudden awareness of your positions sent a jolt through you, the contrast between his firm frame and your softness making you hyper-aware of every point of contact. His chest brushed yours as he leaned closer, his voice low and dripping with intensity. “Was this an accident?” he asked, his gaze burning into yours. “Or was it on purpose?”

You swallowed thickly, turning your neck behind yourself to allow your eyes to drift to the hollow of his throat. Slowly, you reached out, your index finger tracing a light, teasing path along his collarbone. “Possibly… both,” you murmured.

His hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could trail your touch any lower. His grip was firm but not painful, his expression a mix of frustration and desire as he forced you to meet his gaze.

“How long,” he asked, his voice dangerously soft, “are you going to keep staring at me?”

Your lips curved into a slow, teasing smile as you tilted your head. “As long as I want to,” you said with a defiant edge. “What’s wrong? Are you going to punish me more?”

His grip on your wrist tightened slightly, and his other hand pressed against the small of your back, holding you steady as he leaned in closer. “Don’t be cocky,” he warned, his voice dropping to a rough, predatory whisper. “You don’t want to know the kind of things I’m imagining.”

You glanced down at the growing tension between you—at the unmistakable bulge pressing against your thigh. A flicker of boldness sparked in your expression as your fingers teased over his chest. “I think I already know,” you whispered.

Sol’s eyes darkened, his breath hitching as he tensed beneath you. His lips brushed your ear, his voice a strained mix of frustration and want. “You’re playing with fire,” he murmured, his tone rough, almost ragged.

Before you could form a reply, Sol leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that stole the air from your lungs. It wasn’t gentle—it was raw, demanding, and full of the hunger he’d been holding back. Your eyes widened in shock at first, the boldness of his move catching you completely off guard.

But that shock melted quickly, replaced by an undeniable pull that made you lean into him.

Sol’s hands moved to your hips, gripping firmly as he turned you fully to face him on his lap. The motion was smooth but decisive, his strength evident as he shifted you effortlessly. Your knees now rested on either side of his thighs, your bodies pressed flush against one another.

The new position heightened the intensity, your chest brushing his with each labored breath. Sol’s hands slid up your back, pulling you closer, while his lips moved against yours with a hunger that left you breathless.

You didn’t hesitate, your hands moving to the sides of his face, holding him there as you matched his fervor with your own. The kiss deepened, turning messy and desperate, your mouths moving in sync as though trying to consume each other completely.

Sol broke away for a moment, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, his eyes burning into yours with a heat that made your skin tingle. “You’re relentless,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, his fingers pressing into your lower back.

You smirked, your lips brushing his as you replied, “And you’re loving it.”

Before he could respond, you leaned back in, reclaiming his mouth with a force that left him no room to argue. Your hands moved instinctively, reaching behind him to untie the apron, quickly removing it from him to have a clear view of his chest.

Slowly, your index finger drags itself down his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath the fabric of his shirt. The urgency of the moment consumed you, and your fingers found the buttons of his shirt, fumbling at first, then unfastening them one by one with increasing speed.

Sol groaned softly against your lips, the sound vibrating through you and making your pulse race. His hands moved again, one slipping up to cradle the back of your head, the other gripping your waist to keep you anchored against him.

As his shirt fell open, your hands splayed against his bare chest, your fingertips brushing over his warm skin. The contrast between the cool air and his heat sent a shiver through him, his tone muscles tensing under your touch.

You pulled back just enough to catch your breath, your eyes raking over him as you took in the sight of his now-exposed chest. His skin was pale smooth, his collarbone pronounced, and the faint sheen of sweat glistening under the low light made him look utterly irresistible.

Sol’s lips twitched into a smirk at your lingering gaze, though his eyes were heavy with want. “Like what you see?” he teased, though his voice was uneven, betraying his arousal.

Instead of answering, you leaned in again, your lips finding the hollow of his throat. You pressed open-mouthed kisses down the column of his neck, nipping at the sensitive skin as your hands continued their exploration. Sol tilted his head back slightly, giving you better access as a low growl escaped him.

“You’re insatiable,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, a wicked smile playing on your lips. “And you’re complaining?” you shot back, your tone dripping with challenge.

Sol’s hands slid up your sides, his thumbs grazing the edge of your ribs as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours again. “Not a chance,” he murmured against your mouth, before pulling you into another searing kiss.

The kiss deepened, growing more fervent with each passing second. Your fingers tangled in his hair, the strands silky yet wild, as his grip on your waist tightened, pulling you flush against him. The heat of his bare chest against yours, the intoxicating rhythm of his lips moving over yours—it was overwhelming, drowning out every thought but him. Your breaths mingled, uneven and ragged, as you both surrendered to the storm of desire building between you.

With deliberate boldness, your hand began a slow descent, sliding over his toned stomach to the waistband of his pants. While he remained engrossed in the kiss, you let your fingers drift lower, brushing against the hardness beneath his pants. A sharp intake of breath escaped Sol’s lips, his body tensing against yours. His grip faltered briefly, but his response was immediate.

He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against yours, his heterochromatic eyes ablaze with unfiltered desire. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he tried to regain control. “You’re playing with fire,” he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, both warning and temptation.

Instead of pulling away, his hands found your hips once more, his fingers digging in just enough to ground you, to anchor himself. He tilted his hips slightly, pressing into your touch as a shudder ran through him. His challenge hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown at your feet, daring you to keep going.

Your lips curved into a sly smile, your voice laced with teasing defiance. “Then I’ll just have to handle the heat,” you murmured. Leaning closer, your breath ghosted over his ear as you added, “Didn’t you say I need to work on my brushwork?”

With deliberate intent, you slid your hand along the curve of his waistband, unbuttoning his pants with practiced ease. Sol groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through his chest and into yours. His hands gripped your hips tighter, pulling you impossibly closer as if trying to meld you into him.

“I didn’t mean… this,” he muttered, though his tone betrayed how much he wanted it. His lips found your neck, trailing heated kisses along your skin as he fought to keep his control intact. His body trembled beneath your touch, his breath hot and ragged against your throat.

Your hand ventured lower, and as his pants gave way, you were met with the proof of his desire. The sight of his cock—pale like his skin, flushed with need, and curve glistening pink tip—sent a wave of heat through you. You couldn’t help but marvel at him, at how his body responded so wholly to you.

Sol groaned again, his head falling back as he fought the urge to completely unravel. “F-Fuck this shit,” he muttered, his voice hoarse and raw.

With a sudden burst of need, he grabbed your hand, his rough fingers intertwining with yours as he guided you to his cock, wrapping your hand around it.

His eyes burned into yours, a silent plea and a command wrapped in one. “If you’re going to do this,” he growled, “then do it right. After all, I’m the tutor,”

The juxtaposition of his firm grip and your softer touch sent shivers through him, his body responding instinctively to your every movement. He bit back a curse, his jaw clenched, yet his eyes remained locked on yours, filled with both vulnerability and hunger as he helps you move his cock up and down.

The way his hand enveloped yours, guiding you with deliberate control, sent a jolt of heat through your body. His skin was hot beneath your palm, pulsing with need, the intensity of it making your breath hitch. The sensation of being so intimately connected, of having him at your mercy, was intoxicating. Your lips curved into a sly, knowing smile as you met his gaze with a sultry intensity.

"Then guide me, Sol," you murmured, voice low with a hint of teasing.

His eyes darkened, his breath catching at your words. For a moment, it seemed as though he might lose his composure entirely, but instead, he pressed closer, the heat of his body radiating into yours. His hands tightened over yours, steady and commanding, as he guided your movements with aching precision.

"Guide you?" he rasped, his voice rough with barely contained desire. "Gladly."

His fingers wrapped firmly around yours, leading you in a slow, deliberate rhythm around his cock. Each movement was an exquisite torment, a maddening mix of control and surrender that left you craving more. His voice, low and gravelly, brushed over your skin like a caress. "Like this," he whispered.

The feel of him beneath your touch was overwhelming, a mix of heat and tension that made your chest tighten and your pulse quicken. As his hand fell away, relinquishing control to you, the look in his eyes—half-lidded and burning with need—was almost too much to bear.

Taking charge, you continued the motion, your strokes deliberate and teasing. Sol's breaths grew heavier, his head falling back slightly as he tried to stifle the low groans that escaped his lips. But he couldn’t hold back the quiet whines that followed, each sound unraveling you further.

The weight of you on his lap, the way your hips shifted against him—whether intentional or not—drove him wild. His hands gripped your waist tightly as though grounding himself was the only way to keep himself from losing control—and you from falling.

His face flushed a deep red, his jaw tightening as his breaths came faster, his body trembling beneath you. His arousal was undeniable, glistening with beads of precum that caught the light as they slid down his length. The sight alone was enough to make your stomach tighten with desire, but it was the sounds he made—low, broken groans turning into quiet, breathless whimpers—that truly undid you.

Sol’s tired yet desperate eyes met yours, silently begging for more, even as his body surrendered entirely to your touch. The vulnerability in his gaze was intoxicating, and you couldn’t help but feel a wicked thrill at the power you held over him. Every gasp, every shudder, every barely audible plea only pulled you deeper into the moment, the fire between you burning hotter with each passing second.

You begin rudding the slit on his tip, dipping your finger on the pre-cum, smudging it across the tip, “A-ahh…” That alone sent a chilling feeling down his spine. Then you wonder for a second.

Just how far you could take this?

And, as if he could read her mind, Sol’s voice was broken into another gasp at the feel of her finger on his tip. You smirked, leaning in close to his ear. “Does that feel good, Sol?” You smirked, leaning in close to his ear.

Sol let out a strangled, guttural moan, his body shuddering at your touch, his breathing labored and strained. He gripped the edge of the stool as if holding on for dear life, his knuckles turning white. "Y-Yeah," he managed to gasp, his voice trembling the words out.

"Feels... so good." His head fell back, his eyes fluttering closed as you continued your ministrations, his body completely at your mercy.

As he tried his best to muffle the pathetic whimpers that were threatening to escape his lips with his free hand covering his mouth, Sol was coming undone, every touch, every gentle caress pulling him closer and closer to the edge. And he couldn’t get enough of how your delicate fingers all wrapped nicely around his cock.

Hearing his voice, broken and needy, sent a thrill coursing through you, intensifying your desire for him. This side of Sol—a man usually so composed and enigmatic—was uncharted territory, and you were quickly losing yourself in the discovery.

You leaned back slightly, just enough to drink in the sight of him, a teasing smirk playing on your lips. “Just good?” you purred, your voice dripping with mock innocence. “Or does it feel better than that?”

“Pumpkin,” he rasped, his voice deep and trembling with barely contained restraint. It took everything in him to hold back, but the way your sharp, half-lidded eyes bore into him, your smirk only widening as your hand pumped him faster—it was driving him to the edge. “I-I’m close, please… please...” He moaned,

“Oops, sorry~” you cooed, amusement dancing in your tone as if you weren’t purposefully unraveling him by slowing down.

Sol’s body jolted under your touch, another strangled moan escaping his lips as his grip on the stool tightened. He was trembling, the effort to maintain control wearing thin. His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one sharper than the last. “Come on… Please…” He whines, “Let me cum, I want to cum… Will you let me, pumpkin?” He begged.

His breathing is ragged, tiny beads of sweat rolling down his cheek, some of his hair sticking to his face as you pump his cock—dare you say, he looks hot like this.

You grin again, that same slow, cat-got-the-canary sort of smile from before. Are you enjoying this? Maybe it’s just a teeny bit too much.

“Mmh, I don’t know,” You say, tone light and mocking, considering it while pumping him faster. “Are you sure you’ve been good enough to deserve that, Sol~?”

Sol's face flushed crimson as he groaned under your touch, his body reacting with an involuntary twitch. He could barely hold himself together, the effort nearly breaking him. Your teasing, the way you toyed with him like this. It was enough to drive him insane with need. And yet... he loves it.

“Please,” he panted, his voice choked with need. “Please, pumpkin... don't tease me anymore.”

You grin, your breath catching in your throat for a brief moment at the sound of his pleading. He’s so desperate, and again—it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever seen.

Before you get to reply, you are stuck watching, listening to him. With one last stroke, he came. You feel a warm, sticky substance splatter against your face, and you gasp in surprise, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment. When you open it back up, you see your hands are covered in… his cum.

He whines, trembling under your touch. “Fuck…” He grumbles… before chuckling breathlessly, his chest rising and falling with each ragged inhale. He looked at you, his eyes darkened with desire, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You're a tease, you know that...?" he murmured, his voice still hoarse. He reaches up, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers leaving a smudge of his cum on your skin.

You laugh softly, eyes fluttering closed at the touch of his fingers against your face. You can still taste him on your lips. “I’m aware, and I love it,” You say, your tongue darting out to lick a stray bit of his cum away, “Such a good boy.”

Sol's heart skipped a beat at the sight of your tongue running across your lips. He could hardly contain himself, his body still thrumming with a mix of need and satisfaction.

"You're... you're going to be the death of me, Pumpkin," he said, strained and thick. "I swear... you're going to drive me insane." Before you could respond, his hands shot forward, gripping your wrists roughly, halting your movements. “You know, It takes a true artist to know how to use their hands,” he muttered through clenched teeth, his frustration and desire boiling over.

“Right now, I feel inspired. With your body so close to mine—” his gaze flicked to you, sharp and burning, “—you gonna feel so good once I get through painting you.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, his grip on your wrists firm and electrifying. Yet, you didn’t back down. Instead, your smirk deepened, and you tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Aww, it’s cute when you get all frustrated like that.” you quipped, resuming your teasing pace despite his attempt to rein you in.

Sol’s jaw clenched, a growl rumbling deep in his chest as his eyes blazed with irritation and helpless desire. “Teasing me like this,” he gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of his need, “You deserve to be punished.”

“Sorry? Punished?” You repeated, arching a brow, your smirk faltering for a moment as curiosity mingled with arousal.

His hands released your wrists, moving instead to the hem of your shirt. Slowly, deliberately, he began sliding it upward, his touch igniting sparks along your skin.

He lifted your shirt, his movements were unhurried yet firm, tossing it aside without a second thought. The cool air kissed your bare skin, making you shiver, but it was nothing compared to the heat in Sol’s gaze. His eyes roamed over your body unabashedly, dark with want, his intensity sending your pulse racing.

The way he looked at you—devoured you—was intoxicating. You felt your breath hitch, your skin tingling under his gaze as if he were leaving invisible marks with every flick of his eyes. Sol leaned in slightly, his voice low and gravelly, sending shivers cascading down your spine. “Now let’s see if you’re ready for what you started.”

The lace of your black bra barely had a chance to tease him before Sol unclasped it with uncharacteristic haste. His breath caught in his throat as the fabric fell away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the cool air. The curve of your shoulders, the elegant line of your neck, and the sight of your hardened nipples sent a shiver of desire coursing through him.

You were breathtaking, more so than any image his mind could have conjured. The reality of you—your warmth, your movement, the way you bared yourself so freely—was utterly consuming.

As you slipped off the remaining layers with deliberate ease, Sol found himself captivated, unable to look away. "You're staring," you teased, your voice low and sultry, tinged with amusement. "See something you like?"

He tried to respond, but the words caught in his throat, his mind blank save for the raw need coursing through him. He swallowed hard, his gaze trailing shamelessly over your body, lingering on every curve, every delicate line of skin.

He wanted to touch, to claim, to make you his in every sense. But he hesitated, almost afraid of the depth of his desire. The way you looked, so confident and alluring, made him feel as though he was standing on the edge of a precipice, and all he wanted was to jump.

Sol's hands moved almost without thought, tracing the length of your legs, the curve of your knee, the delicate arch of your foot. His reverence for you bordered on worship, a devotion so intense it frightened him. He had tried to keep it at bay, but now that he had you like this, so open and vulnerable, he felt the weight of his restraint snapping.

He was a man who could get lost in his own obsession, and with you, it was dangerously easy. Sol didn’t just want you—he craved you, a hunger so profound it threatened to unravel him entirely.

With trembling hands, he slid your pencil skirt down your hips, the fabric pooling on the floor with a careless toss. He left the lace of your black panties on, unable to resist the way they hugged your body so perfectly. His lips found your neck, pressing kisses against the sensitive skin as he let his hands explore.

The only thing separating you now was the thin layer of fabric between you, damp with evidence of your arousal. Sol’s thumb moved instinctively, pressing gently against the damp spot, and the soft gasp you let out was like fuel to the fire burning inside him.

Your reaction sent his heart racing, his body trembling with restrained need. But when you whispered his name, your voice breathless and trembling, it pulled him back from the brink.

“Sol,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. “Wait… you’re going a little too fast.”

The words hung in the air like a sudden stillness before a storm. Sol froze, his hands pausing mid-motion on your body. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling heavily as he pulled back, his intense gaze locking onto yours. A mix of frustration and unspoken yearning flickered in his eyes, the tension between you crackling like electricity.

“Too fast?” he echoed, his voice hoarse and tinged with disbelief. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “You’re the one who started the fire, said you can handle it, and now you’re telling me to slow down?”

He let out a soft, strained laugh, the sound laced with both amusement and restraint, as though he was trying to tether himself to reality. Still, he relented, easing the intensity of his movements.

Slowly, he reached down, unzipping his jeans and pushing them just enough to loosen their grip, his shirt discarded in the process. His gaze softened, though the heat in his eyes remained, a smoldering flame that refused to extinguish.

“This is still your punishment, Pumpkin,” he murmured, a crooked smile playing at his lips as he leaned in, brushing a featherlight kiss to your lips.

The kiss was different this time—rough, more forceful. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw and down to your neck, each kiss feeling like a vow unspoken. The world outside faded, leaving only the two of you suspended at this moment. He moved further, his lips exploring your collarbone and sternum with reverence, his warmth leaving a trail of fire across your skin.

His hands trembled slightly as they cupped your chest, his touch reverent but firm, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh like he was trying to memorize the feel of you. His breath hitched as he brushed his thumbs over your nipples, the gentle pressure sending a shiver down your spine.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispered, more to himself than to you, his voice thick with wonder. “So damn pretty.”

Your mind swirled with the weight of his words, his touch, his presence. The heat between you was overwhelming, your body arching into his hands as he explored with care and devotion. Each kiss, each touch, sent waves of sensation rippling through you, leaving you breathless.

“Sol…” you breathed, your voice trembling with both hesitation and longing. “Please…”

But instead of heeding your plea, he pressed forward, his lips finding the sensitive peak of your chest. He kissed you there with aching tenderness, his tongue tracing slow circles as his hand mirrored his movements. A soft moan escaped your lips, and he hummed in approval, his grip steadying you as you began to unravel under his touch.

He paused only to meet your gaze, his eyes filled with something deeper than desire—an emotion too profound for words.

He quickly shifted you, his hands firm yet careful as he turned you toward the painting you and he both made. The cool air against your heated skin made you shiver, the contrast heightening your awareness of his every movement.

He moved behind you, his breath warm against your neck. For a moment, he hesitated, his fingers brushing down your skin to the fabric of your panties. He slid them down slowly, his movements deliberate, almost reverent, before throwing them on the floor.

He forced you to lean on your back against his firm chest, the back of your head resting against his shoulder as his hands stayed on your hips.

Soon his hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face upward with a tenderness that made your heart flutter. His gaze locked onto yours, a tempest of emotions swirling in his red-orange eyes—desire, restraint, and something unspoken yet intense.

“Sorry, Pumpkin,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet whisper, “but I need you.”

He adjusted your position, the shift sending a jolt of sensation through you as his cock settled snugly against your bare heat. A soft, broken sound escaped your lips—a breathy, high-pitched “A-Ah!”—and your half-lidded eyes met his. In his fiery gaze, the pupils seemed to ripple, almost heart-shaped, as though they reflected his overwhelming hunger for you.

Sol began to move, rubbing cock rather fast and rough against your cunt, his hips pressing forward until he found that sweet, electrifying spot. Your voice spilled out again, light and melodic, each sound like a chime caught on the breeze. His movements became more assured, each thrust purposeful as he reveled in the way your body responded to his.

He had you now—completely, utterly his.

Your bodies melded together in perfect rhythm, your breaths and sighs tangling as if they were one. Sol’s senses were flooded with you: the subtle rise and fall of your chest, the faint tension in your spine that dissolved beneath his touch. Each reaction, each sound you made, only drove him deeper into the intoxicating realization that you were exactly where he wanted you—wrapped in his embrace, utterly lost in him.

He has you in his grasp, but he wants to hold onto you tighter.

He focuses on where your lower bodies meet, tongue poked between his lips and furrow in his brow. Drives his hard cock rubbing against your bare cunt, catching the crown into your clit until you’re shaking underneath him. Sol can’t think anymore, lost in the feeling of wonderful pleasure.

If it feels so good like this, being inside you might be too much.

So close in proximity that Sol can hear each of your short pants. Erratic and almost thoughtlessly driven by one single thing: pleasing you. Feeling each other, all wrapped up together.

Drawing out those moans as he pinches your nipples at your tits, making you feel how hard he is. How pent-up, needy, and fucking horny he is all for you. Just humping your soft, sweet cunt makes Sol want to risk everything he’s got with you.

The push and pull of too much and not enough at the same time. It’s so fucking euphoric. Your cunt keeps wetter and wetter, and Sol doesn’t know if it’s you or him - his pre-cum dribbling agasint your needy cunt. He can feel your pussy pulse and tremble. Your spine goes stiff, and Sol pulls away to look at you.

You’re so pretty. You’re on edge, in complete bliss, and so fucking pretty only for his eyes to see.

“A-ah, Sol—please, wait,” you gasped, your words trembling as pleasure coursed through you. Sol froze for a moment, his eyes wide and blazing, the sound of your plea cutting through the haze of his need. Frustration flickered across his face, mingling with something softer, something more conflicted.

He didn’t want to wait—couldn’t—not with the way your body moved beneath him, flushed and trembling, your breath hitching with every touch.

Your mind was a haze of heat and sensation, your body barely keeping up with the overwhelming pleasure that had left you spiraling. And when you both reached that peak together—his cum spilling over as yours soaked on tophim in return—it was a moment that burned itself into his memory.

A first—he made you come with him. The sight of you arching against him, your cries echoing in his ears, left him undone, his breath ragged and unsteady as he trembled, listening to your pretty moans.

Sol’s hands remained firm on your hips, anchoring you as his gaze devoured you. Again, the image of you—writhing, broken, and entirely his—was seared into his mind, a memory he wanted to relive over and over again. His heart pounded as he leaned forward, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both desperate and adoring, his tongue teasing yours in a way that left you breathless.

“You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, I need…” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and raw with emotion. His nose nuzzled against your cheek before he kissed the corner of your mouth, his words pouring out in a slow, deliberate cadence.

“I want to see it again,” he said, his tone steady but trembling with need. “I want you to cum again, Pumpkin.”

The vulnerability in his voice stirred something inside you, but your body was already at its limit. You pulled back slightly, your breath still uneven as your gaze met his. “Sol, I... I don’t think I can,” you admitted softly, your voice tinged with exhaustion.

His eyes darkened the fire in them dimming for a moment, replaced by something closer to concern. His hands softened their grip, and he leaned back just enough to study your face, his expression caught between worry and restraint. “Did I hurt you?” he asked gently, his voice quieter now, though the tension in his body remained.

You shook your head quickly, your words coming in a rush. “No, no, you didn’t. I just—”

“Then you can keep going,” he interrupted, his tone almost pleading, his patience unraveling at the edges. His gaze was intense and unwavering, and you felt your resolve waver under the weight of his need.

“Sol,” you tried again, shaking your head as you placed a hand on his chest. “I’m tired. You’ve... you’ve worn me out. And you’ve got to be tired too—don’t you think? What about our project?”

His brows furrowed as he let out a frustrated groan, his body taut with tension. “It doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly. “It can wait.”

Your breath caught as his hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips again and pulling you against him yet again. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips grazing your skin. “You look so damn good like this,” he murmured, his voice tinged with reverence. “Messy and perfect—covered in our cum.”

A shiver ran through you as his hands explored your body, his touch deliberate and reverent. "How much more should I paint you?" He kissed a trail down your neck and shoulders, his lips soft yet possessive. The warmth of his breath against your skin sent a fresh wave of heat through you, despite your exhaustion.

“Sol, please,” you whispered, though the words lacked conviction.

He didn’t respond, his silence heavy with meaning as his hands moved lower, his touch firm but gentle, as though committing every curve and contour of your body to memory. His fingers brushed over your thighs, then between them, the featherlight touch making you tremble.

When he finally touched you—his fingers tracing over the sensitive folds of your cunt, slick and sticky from your shared cum—a sharp gasp escaped your lips. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your skin as he focused on you, his movements both precise and overwhelming.

“Can you feel it?” he whispered, his voice rough but laced with tenderness. “How much I want you, need you? How much I love you?”

The words struck something deep within you, and though you were overwhelmed, you couldn’t deny the magnetic pull of his touch, his voice, his very presence. He didn’t need to say it aloud; every caress, every glance, told you everything he couldn’t put into words.

Sol was an artist, and you were caught in the vision of it—a dangerous one. You’re trembling with anticipation. A sense of contentment washes over Sol as his breath fans over your neck.

Sol can feel how worked up you are. You’re quiet and tense. Some part of him wants to leave you like that, waiting, but the other part of him wants to give you everything you’ve ever asked for. He gives into the latter because that’s what he wants more.

He used his free hand that was grounded you to lap, reaching down to lift his now hard cock agasint your bare cunt with a deep sigh, and a pleased hum.

He loves the way you smell, the scent of sex and arousal mixed with the fancy soaps you keep in your bathroom.

Your pussy is as pretty as you are, a sheen of arousal all along your slit. Your clit peeks through, swelling from need. Sol uses his tip to kiss your opening without thinking. He starts slow. Lays his cock flat against the seam of your cunt before dragging it up and down once, rubbing you again however, this time, it almost slips inside of you.

You lose a little of what little control you had. Your body jerks back against him, and you bite back a moan. Sol felt that—he can’t get enough of you. Neither can you.

He moans in appreciation, repeating the gesture as he pulls your pussy closer. He gazes and looks down at you. You’re so pretty it makes him want to please. He repeats this over and over, grinding on your clit on his hard and needy cock, throbbing against the soft, smooth muscle as he gains a sort of rhythm.

He gauges your reaction when he tries something new, adding pressure until you’re squirming underneath him. When you start growing noisier, Sol knows he’s hit the right pace.

And he stays like that for a bit, your pussy soaking more of his cock. He adjusts himself slightly, rubbing his fingers between your folds. You let out a soft "A-ah" above him, making him want to laugh. He keeps at it, his fingers sliding far enough to tease your entrance. Your hole is squeezing without him having done much at all, his middle finger teasing and prodding.

“Sol stop! Don’t t-tease so much,” You pant. Sol nearly blows again, listening to you talk like that. He didn’t think you could be so cute.

Sol couldn’t help but smirk, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. "But I love teasing you," he whispered against your skin, "hearing you pant and moan, wanting more but not quite getting what you need."

His finger kept playing around your entrance, just kind of going in circles on your sensitive bits. "Besides, it's fun to watch you squirm to my touch," he said, sliding his middle finger into you like it was nothing. It's not that hard. You're so wet for him, it's crazy. Your walls feel super soft and inviting, all syrupy when he touches them.

Sol loves the way your cunt feels, taking his time to go in and out slowly enough that the tension just fades away. He really gets in there with his middle finger, and when it looks like you're not tense anymore—he goes and adds another one. He's doing both at the same time—and there's this moment where it's just a whole lot of sensation for you.

Eventually, it stops being just a sensation, and it shifts into pleasure. He presses his fingers into you hard, really massaging that soft spongy spot, he can feel you lean forward, nearly lurching forward.

Your back arches, mouth hanging open, “S-Sol!” You moaned.

Another feeling of pride spreads through his chest, his whole body. He wants you to let go again just like this. While he fingers your weepy cunt—he wants to see how far he can push. How wet you can get before he ever gets inside.

His fingers can feel the way your walls tighten up so hard and the tremors of the aftermath. Your back curves against him as you cum again closing your thighs, hard for him, and he can feel it.

He can feel you cum over his cock once more. He can see you, see the pleasure crash into you like a tidal wave. A second. Sol made you cum twice in a row, this time without him. You practically pry him off as you ride the wave of your high. You sighed deeply as you watched Sol lick his fingers. "You taste so sweet, all because of me~" He breathed out, looking down at you.

“Are you done?” You asked, tiredly wore out.

Sol's eyes darkened at your question, his body still thrumming with a unsatisfied need. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind.

"Done?" he echoed, his voice rough. "I'm far from done, Pumpkin.” He sits you up on his lap, fixing you to completely lay back naked and beautiful, tugging open your thighs for your cunt to rest on top of his cock once more. “Sol I can’t please.” You quickly reached onto his shaft, stopping him.

Sol's mind went blank when you touched him, the sensation sending a shiver down his spine. His breath hitched, and he looked up at you through hazy eyes, his body quivering with need. He wanted you, desperately, but he also knew he had to stop.

"Pumpkin," he panted, his voice strained. "I... I don’t think I can handle any more of your teasing.” He said with heart eyes, “Just let this happen, please.”

His tone is so needy, so desperate, and it shoots straight through you, making your body shiver. You can feel just how badly he wants you, needs you. Already itching to do it a third.

"I-I wasn't trying to tease you,” You whisper, your voice soft and shaky. “I’m just... I’m just tired, Sol. I am.”

You try to pull back, even just a little, to put some space between them, but he's holding you tight against his back, “We’re almost there. Just one more…” He breathes out, stroking his cock, guiding the tip to your cunt opening, ‘I wanna feel you…” He mumbled, slowly pushing himself inside, “A-Ah, Sol!” You pleaded, trying to close your legs, but he forced them open.

“Don’t fight it.” He warned, pushing himself in. Your cunt squeezes your opening, not letting his cock inside before he goes in frustration while biting your neck to distract you, “Ahhh!” You mown in pain.

His hands gripped you tightly, anchoring you to him as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. He was completely undone, his desire for you eclipsing everything else, his body responding to the need pulsing through him.

In the haze of his hunger, he vaguely registers the absence of protection, but it barely registers in his mind, overshadowed by the overwhelming need to have you. A fleeting moment of tension flares before it melts into pure, white-hot pleasure, every inch of being inside you sent him aflame.

You feel incredible—like nothing he’s ever known. His arms tighten around your body, pulling you closer, coaxing you down another inch on his cock. His lips find your neck again, this time with more urgency, his teeth sinking more into your skin as he fights to hold himself back.

The taste of you, the feel of you—it’s almost too much. He wants to make this last. He won’t let it slip away too quickly. Sol’s not ready to lose himself just yet; he wants to savor every second of this.

Sol lowers you steadily until all of him is inside. Your expression is slightly pinched, and your whole body trembles, uncomfortable, almost in pain as you adjust to his size. You arch your back, hands reaching to take root in his hair. “P-Pumpkin!” He moaned. The sensation of tension on his scalp makes his cock twitch inside you.

The pressure is almost too much, making you gasp in the air through your teeth. You hold on tight to his arms, “Oh god,” You moan, your head falling back. “You’re... you’re actually intense. I can feel...” Your voice trails off, replaced by a whimper. Every nerve feels like it’s on fire, overwhelmed.

Before you get a chance to adjust to the feeling, he picks your hips and slams them back down on his cock without breaking a sweat. You nearly scream, your hands immediately reach down, squeezing his wrists, trying to make him slow down. He gives you a wry grin; he almost wants you to plead for your mercy.

“Aw.. want me to go slower?” Sol asked, “You have to beg for it~” Your eyes widen, and another soft gasp slips past your lips, your body tensing against him. The pressure and the fullness are almost too much, overwhelming in the best way possible.

He feels so good, so good...

You nod slightly, your voice coming out as a whimper. “Please,” You whispered, “Just stop, please...” Your body shakes as you speak. “Too much... too much at once...”

Sol's eyes gleam with a feral look, his body trembling with the effort to control himself. He pauses for a moment, his hands stilling on your hips, his breathing ragged.

"Too much for you, huh?" he murmurs, his voice low and hoarse. "You can't handle it, can you, Pumpkin?"

There's a hint of challenge in his tone, a hint of desire to keep going, to push your limits even further.

Repeating the motion but slower showing his hint of worry. He knows he needs to be careful, rocking you steadily onto his cock. The pace is controlled and smooth, a rhythmic pass of your hips over and over.

Your insides threaten to dissolve him whole, turn him liquid from the inside out as he makes you ride him in reverse, moving his hips up and down while keeping you in place.

He watches as your breasts bounce as he leans forward, his chin coming to rest against your neck just enough for Sol to see the concentration etched upon your face. He watches you as you discover your pleasure in this moment—it makes you look utterly captivating. The feeling of him is nothing short of exquisite.

He shifts his hands to your hips to pull you closer to him, not changing the rhythm he wanted as you hug him tight.

The room resounds with the sound of skin meeting skin: a sticky smack as your body strikes Sol's thighs with enough force. Every nerve in his body is on edge, alive with sensation. His hand glides gently before your body, teasing your clit as he urges you to ride him.

Sol forces as he feels you again, a new surge of excitement drenching him. He's becoming more sensitive to the times when you approach your climax. Your wetness is so invitingly greasy for him because of him. It is so messy that it's running down his length down onto his balls, turning his pants into a wet puddle from underneath you.

He feels you stiffen in expectation—little contractions that bring you to the brink. His breathing comes in quick, shallow bursts as he watches you chase your climax, his hands gripping your hips as if to bring you even closer.

He knows he can't hold on much longer, the way you feel, the way you look riding him, your smell—god your pretty moans. It’s all too much. But he pushes down the rising tide, wanting to prolong this moment

His voice came out in a strained whisper, his grip tightening as he spoke. "I'm gonna cum soon. I want you to come right after me, yeah? Can you do that for me, Pumpkin?" He gently lifted your chin, locking eyes with you. His gaze searched your face, watching as your expression blurred with the overwhelming sensations.

Your mind felt hazy like everything was fading into a fog, too overwhelmed to form coherent thoughts. The pressure building inside you was almost unbearable—so huge, so intense, hitting you all in the right spots.

"Yes," you whispered, your voice barely audible, filled with a desperate need. "Yes, yes, I can do that... please, Sol, please..."

You could feel his desire building with you, like an unstoppable wave crashing over both of you. "Please, please, please..." You whispered it over and over, lost in the need for him, unable to say anything else.

Sol's eyes blaze with a renewed intensity, the plea in your voice driving him over the edge. His hands tighten on your hips, his body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Pumpkin..." he pants, the words almost catching in his throat. "Pumpkin, I... I can't hold on much longer."

Your eyes are wild, and your body is trembling, every muscle tight and tense, “S-Sol, ah…” You laugh, breathy. The third time you cum is less intense than you thought. It’s a shorter wave, a softer sort of orgasm that seems to ease you more than it does anything else, more hazely and oversensitive.

But you can feel still his cock inside of you, how close he is, how close he’s been. Even still, you clench around his cock hard—getting so much wetter than you were a minute ago.

"Ah, f-fuck..." Sol growls, the sound catching in his throat. He's right on the brink now, his body straining with the effort of holding back. And then your muscles clench around him, the sensation enough to drive him over the edge.

"Looks like I have to catch up, hold on..." Sol moans, his voice a low, gutt, picking up your thighs, “Sol! Wait—what are—!!” He loses himself completely, slamming himself inside you rather rough and fast, his balls slapping against your cunt.

He wants more of you—all of you—after all, you can take more of his paint, you are his true canvas.

Finally giving into the sensation that’s been drowning him, He feels it in his entire lower body. Every atom of him finally catches up to the high of the release. It’s so intense when he opens his mouth, nothing comes out than heavy breaths. His eyes shoot open, then go back closed.

The coil in his stomach loosens more slowly at first than all at once, like a car crash. When Sol finally cums he sees nothing but white hearts in his vision. He can’t scream, can’t speak—so he holds onto you tight and finishes inside you, cock deeply buried inside of your pussy. So much cum spurts out of him, thick and hot painting your walls, so much in fact that it was leaking out of you, dripping down.

Sol tried his best to keep all of it inside of you, as it'd ruin his version. He didn’t even try to pull out, he rode out his orgasm with heart eyes, still fucking you slowly, wanting to keep all of himself—and cum, tucked deeply inside of you.

The sensation lingered long after the moment had passed. When Sol finally opened his eyes again, he found you collapsed against him—your body wrecked, spent, trembling from the overwhelming intensity.

You felt achingly sensitive, every nerve alive and raw, yet your mind remained a hazy blur, struggling to grasp onto anything, while your body felt heavy, as though you were floating just above the surface of consciousness. Everything was a gentle, blissful silence, a welcome respite from the chaos.

Just how long had it lasted? How many times had he brought you to the edge? The last time he counted, it was three, maybe more after what he pulled. He couldn’t be sure. The last clear memory he had was of you, twitching on top of him, your back pressed firmly against his chest, every part of you quaking from the intensity.

Sol took a slow, steadying breath, his own body still trembling from the exertion. He looked down at you, your limp form lying against him, completely drained. The exhaustion in your body was palpable, and in that moment, a part of him realized he’d pushed you farther than he’d intended.

“Pumpkin...” he whispered, his voice soft and concerned as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer into the warmth of his embrace.

“You did so good for me... You okay?” He waited, but you didn’t answer.

Your mind was still foggy, still trying to make sense of the world. Words felt distant, impossible to grasp and form into something coherent. Your body felt like it belonged to someone else—limp, exhausted, utterly spent.

A soft, unintelligible noise escaped your lips, a simple affirmation that you were still with him, still connected. It was enough to make him nuzzled you into his chest, his body instinctively seeking the comfort of his warmth of his wonderful creation.

Sol chuckled quietly, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He knew exactly what he’d done to you—how thoroughly he had worn you out—and he couldn’t help but feel a sense of quiet pride.

You were his, finally.

He gently played with your hair, twisting it with his fingers, his touch tender as he held you against him, giving you time to recover, knowing you needed it before you two could complete the art project that’s—he thinks that’s due tomorrow?

Oh well… if you don’t wake up in time he’ll complete it all for you.

“You’re adorable like this,” he murmured softly, his voice low and affectionate heart-shaped eyes, holding you tight against him, “All this... started from a simple brushstroke.”

· ─────── ⋆⋅♤⋅⋆ ─────── ·

#tkatb sol #the kid at the back #the kid at the back sol #solivan brugmansia #Solivan Brugmansia #sol x reader #the kid at the back x reader #sol brugmansia #the kid at the back vn #tkatb vn #tkatb #tkatb smut

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anticipatedexhale · 25 days ago

Text

They are trying to cook for you, key word is trying!.

♡ ◞ includes: caitlyn, vander, jayce, jinx, mel, viktor, vi.

☆ ◞ summary: they try to surprise you by cooking up a meal! (character)!

△ ◞ warnings: gn! reader. Other than that nothing just sweet pure fluff, also not proofread yuppie!!

Mel Medarda.

Mel doesn’t usually cook, but she enjoys challenging herself to excel at anything she attempts.

She researches recipes beforehand and even practices privately to ensure she impresses you.

She insists on perfection—not just in flavor, but in presentation.

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When Mel told you she wanted to cook dinner for you, you didn’t know what to expect. She wasn’t the type to roll up her sleeves in the kitchen—her usual dinners involved lavish spreads delivered by Piltovan chefs. Yet here she was, dressed impeccably, her sleeves neatly rolled, slicing herbs with the precision of a master artist.

You sit on a stool, quietly admiring her grace. Every movement she makes feels deliberate, from the way she stirs the sauce to the way she tastes it with a thoughtful hum. “This needs a hint more acidity,” she murmurs, reaching for a lemon.

Finally, she places the plate in front of you—a stunning dish that looks like something from a gourmet restaurant. You almost don’t want to ruin the artistry by eating it, but the aroma convinces you otherwise.

After the first bite, you can’t help but let out a small moan of approval. “Mel, this is incredible.”

Her lips curl into a satisfied smile, her golden eyes gleaming with pride. “I’d hope so. I don’t do mediocrity—not even for a simple dinner.” She leans closer, brushing her fingers lightly against yours. “But seeing you enjoy it makes all the effort worthwhile.”

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Jayce Talis.

Jayce throws himself into cooking like one of his Hextech experiments—lots of ambition, not much planning.

He uses way too many ingredients and utensils, convinced that “more is better.”

The kitchen is a disaster by the end, but he’s proud of the chaos he’s created for you.

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“Jayce, what are you—oh my god, is that smoke?” you exclaim as you walk into the kitchen.

Jayce spins around, holding a spatula in one hand and a pan in the other. There’s flour on his face, and the counter is covered in an alarming array of spices, half-chopped vegetables, and what you think might be egg shells.

“Relax! I’ve got this!” he grins, though the sizzling pan in his hand suggests otherwise. He flips something in the air, but it lands half out of the pan. He quickly scoops it back in, glancing over at you sheepishly.

“You know,” you tease, crossing your arms, “you could’ve just let me cook.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” he retorts, turning back to the stove with renewed determination.

When the food is finally done, he presents it to you with a proud flourish. It’s... not pretty. Some parts are slightly burnt, others undercooked, but you can see the genuine effort he put in.

You take a cautious bite, and while it’s not perfect, it’s oddly endearing. “It’s... not bad,” you say, smiling at his hopeful expression.

He beams like you just handed him an award. “See? Told you I could do it.” He pulls you into a flour-dusted hug, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Next time, though, I’ll definitely get it right.”

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Viktor.

Viktor rarely cooks, as his focus is usually on his work, but he secretly enjoys the idea of creating something special for you.

He’s not overly confident in the kitchen but is determined to make it a success.

He gets overly absorbed in the “science” of cooking, sometimes forgetting the practical side.

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You find Viktor in the kitchen, his sleeves rolled up and a cookbook propped open beside him. He’s frowning slightly as he measures ingredients with the precision of an engineer.

“You’re cooking?” you ask, a little surprised but mostly intrigued.

He glances up, his expression softening at the sight of you. “Yes, I thought... well, you deserve something thoughtful. But I may have underestimated the complexity of this recipe.”

You watch as he carefully stirs a sauce, only to realize too late that the pot is starting to boil over. He yelps, stepping back quickly, and you stifle a laugh as he scrambles to salvage the situation.

“It’s fine,” he mutters, half to himself, half to you, wiping his brow with a flour-dusted hand. “A minor setback.”

When he finally presents the meal, it’s a little uneven—the sauce is slightly too thick, and the vegetables are cut at oddly different sizes—but it tastes surprisingly good.

“This is amazing,” you say with a warm smile, and Viktor visibly relaxes.

“I am glad,” he murmurs, leaning back in his chair. “I suppose I cannot compete with professionals, but knowing you enjoy it is... enough.”

You reach over to take his hand, and he squeezes yours gently, a faint blush creeping over his cheeks.

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VI.

Vi doesn’t have much experience cooking, but she’s confident enough to think she can wing it.

She’s more interested in making it fun than perfect, cracking jokes and sneaking tastes while she cooks.

The end result is edible (barely), but her effort and enthusiasm make up for it.

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When Vi told you she was going to cook dinner, you weren’t sure what to expect. Now, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, you can’t decide whether to laugh or intervene.

“Don’t just stand there,” Vi says, grinning at you over her shoulder as she stirs something in a pan. “I’ve got this under control.

The “control” she’s referring to involves a half-chopped onion, a bag of pasta precariously balanced on the counter, and a sauce that looks... experimental.

“Vi, do you even know what you’re making?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Dinner,” she says simply, throwing in a handful of spices with no regard for measurements.

When she finally serves the food, it’s a little burnt and overly seasoned, but her proud expression as she watches you take a bite makes it impossible to complain.

“Well?” she asks, leaning forward, her elbows on the table.

“It’s... unique,” you say diplomatically, and she bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, okay, it’s terrible,” she admits, leaning back with a grin. “But you’re still stuck with me, so deal with it.” She reaches over to steal a bite from your plate, her playful smirk softening into something warmer.

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Caitlyn.

Caitlyn grew up in luxury and rarely had to cook for herself, but she’s surprisingly good at it thanks to her perfectionist streak.

She approaches cooking with precision, following recipes to the letter.

She loves making meals that remind her of home but adds her own modern twist

She loves making meals that remind her of home but adds her own modern twist.

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The smell of something delicious pulls you into the kitchen, where Caitlyn is standing at the stove, her hair neatly tied back and an apron wrapped around her waist.

“Is that... pie?” you ask, sniffing the air.

She’s completely in her element, moving with quiet efficiency as she checks the oven and stirs a pot of soup. When she catches you watching her, she tilts her head.

“It’s a family recipe,” she replies, turning to you with a smile. “I thought you’d like something comforting tonight.”

“Are you going to just stand there, or are you going to help?” she teases.

You end up chopping vegetables under her guidance, and by the time the meal is ready, the two of you have fallen into a comfortable rhythm.

When she serves the pie, it’s golden and flaky, the filling warm and fragrant. You take a bite and let out a hum of approval.

“This is amazing, Cait,” you say, and her cheeks flush slightly.

“I’m glad you think so,” she says softly, her hand brushing yours as she takes her seat. “It’s nice to share this with you.”

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

Jinx.

Jinx can’t cook. At all. But she’s convinced she can and gets wildly creative in the kitchen.

She’s more interested in the process than the result, turning the whole thing into chaos.

She’d never admit it, but she just wants to make you smile, even if the food is a disaster.

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

“Close your eyes!” Jinx exclaims, practically bouncing on her feet as she leads you into the kitchen.

You do as she says, bracing yourself for whatever chaos awaits. When she finally lets you open your eyes, you’re greeted by a table covered in... something.

“Ta-da!” she announces, waving her arms at the feast she’s prepared. It’s colorful, chaotic, and borderline unrecognizable as food

“Uh, Jinx, what is this?” you ask, trying not to laugh.

“It’s dinner, duh,” she says, sitting down and shoving a plate toward you. “I mixed all the best stuff together. You’re gonna love it!”

You take a cautious bite, and while it’s not exactly good, the way Jinx watches you with wide, eager eyes makes it worth it.

“Well?” she asks, leaning forward, her grin almost childlike.

“It’s... creative,” you say, and she bursts out laughing.

“Yeah, okay, it’s a mess,” she admits, but her smile softens as she reaches out to steal a bite from your plate. “But it’s our mess.”

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

Vander.

Vander is a practical man and isn’t really interested in fancy cooking.

He tends to stick to hearty, simple meals that will fill everyone up—comfort food is his specialty.

He’s a little self-conscious about his cooking skills but always tries his best to make sure you feel cared for.

You hear the familiar sound of clanking pots and the rich scent of stew wafting from the kitchen. Vander stands at the stove, stirring a large pot with his usual no-nonsense attitude. His sleeves are rolled up, and his broad back is hunched over the counter as he checks on the simmering ingredients.

“Smells good in here,” you say, leaning against the doorframe and watching him work.

Vander glances over at you, a bit startled but offering a warm smile when he sees it’s just you. “It’s nothing fancy,” he grumbles, his voice a little sheepish. “Just thought I’d make something filling for us. No one needs to go hungry, right?”

You step closer, leaning in to smell the stew. It’s a mix of root vegetables, tender meat, and just the right amount of seasoning—simple but comforting. “It smells amazing,” you say honestly.

He looks pleased but still tries to downplay it. “Yeah, well, I’ve been doing this kind of thing for a while. Had to keep people fed in the Undercity, after all.”

You sit at the table as Vander sets down two bowls of stew in front of you. The meal is nothing extraordinary in terms of presentation, but the warmth and heart behind it are undeniable. It’s exactly what you need after a long day.

Vander sits across from you, digging into his own bowl, and the two of you fall into a comfortable silence, eating.

When you finally finish, you lean back in your chair, satisfied. “Vander, that was perfect,” you say, giving him a smile.

He looks a bit surprised, his face softening. “Glad you liked it. I know I’m no chef, but... well, it’s nice to know I can still make you happy with something simple.”

You reach across the table, placing a hand on his. “It’s not about the fancy stuff, Vander. It’s the care you put into it.”

His hand covers yours, his expression filled with warmth. “Just don’t expect me to start experimenting with fancy desserts or anything,” he chuckles. “But I’ll always make sure you’re well-fed.”

You smile, feeling both comforted and cared for in his presence, knowing that even if the food was simple, it came with a whole lot of love.

Authors note: hehehe this was so silly to write omg I lobe them.

#arcane #arcane imagine #arcane series #arcane fluff #arcane x reader #mel madarda x reader #mel medarda #jayce talis #jayce talis x reader #jayce x you #viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #jinx x reader #vi x reader #caitlyn x reader #vander x reader #arcane scenarios

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mononijikayu · 5 days ago

Text

crush me in your arms (give me a lovelier kiss, lover) — nanami kento.

"Look at this thing." you murmured, running your hand along the edge of a nearby shelf, trying to feel it to understand it. "It’s like a scene out of some surreal dream." Kento’s gaze lingered on the mannequin. “Feels more like a ghost town out here. But that’s to be expected.” he said, voice low. He stepped further into the shop, his boots crunching softly against scattered debris. "Everyone left. And now everything is left behind, just... waiting."

GENRE: alternate universe - apocalyptic world;

WARNING/S: nsfw, angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, romance, strangers to lovers, falling in love, post-apocalyptic romance, bittersweet, found family, mutual pining, domestic, feelings, moments in the between, slow burn, humor, fighting, survival, emotional, loss, trauma, sci-fi fiction and fantasy, disabilities, blindness, deafness, ambiguous ending, depiction of disabilities, depiction of post-apocalyptic world, depiction of fighting, depiction of trauma, depiction of survival, mention of pre-apocalyptic world, mention of disabilities, mention of trauma, deaf! nanami kento, blind! reader;

WORD COUNT: 14k words

NOTE: so far, i think this is my favorite. this is based on iu's love wins all mv. i've used the title before, but i don't think i've made use of the lyrics. so here is another love letter to the masterful artistry of iu, as well as kim taehyung, who played her counterpart in the mv. i hope you enjoy this one as much as i enjoyed writing it. the ending is up to you. in any case, i hope to see you on the sukuna one on valentines day!!! i love you all <3

masterlist

if you want to, tip!

buono san valentino, 2025;

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THINGS HAD ALREADY CHANGED IN THE FUTURE. The world that once was had already disappeared and gone. That was to be certain. All that had been left behind in this accursed world was the wasteland it had become, barren of life and bastardized by darkness had consumed it all to nothingness.

There remained in this world, the crawling shadows and terror–ridden screams, living in this nightmare where daylight was nothing more than a sham. Daylight no longer offered no sanctuary. And the night? All it could have held was unimaginable horrors no one can imagine.

Curses — those grotesque abominations birthed from humanity’s deepest fears and hatred had now started to roam freely in abandon, their misshapen bodies defying the logic of what could be known, writhing with malevolent energy.

They had long been born from the fears and the hatred and the grief of the humans it had long ago consumed. They were creatures of chaos, all gnashing teeth, clawed limbs, and endless hunger. And they had not stopped since. And you don’t think they will ever stop, not until the last of humanity becomes consumed by them.

Cities and towns, nations even, that had once bustled with the tenderness and light of life had all but crumbled under their relentless assault. All that remained of the once magnificent skyscrapers were broken skeletal ruins, streets littered with ash and shattered glass. Smoke clung to the air, thick and acrid, choking out the remnants of civilization. Nothing was meant to live anymore.

Silence was a rarity, that was to be certain.

And yet, it was always punctuated by distant screams or the low, guttural growls of curses hunting for their next meal.

On and on, the cycle does repeat.

Hope had long since withered away for you. And there remained that fragile ember snuffed out by despair and bitter loneliness you were forced to endure. Those who had once clung to dreams of salvation were now either dead or broken, wandering the ruins as hollow shells. And if they were still alive, and unbroken — then they hid from the world, hiding in the far flung of the unfathomable earth to disappear.

You have been alone ever since you were born. There was no one to consider family, there was no one who could understand you, there was no one to give you a name. All that had been left behind was the burden of survival on a babe crying alone, unable to see anything but the darkness.

As you grew up, you could only surmise that your family has long been gone, consumed by the darkness of the world. You could only surmise that you were the lone survivor of what had been life as you know it.. One of the remaining human surface colonies, where your family had once resided, were wiped out. And there was nothing left of it. Nothing, but you.

If there was a god, there was quite an irony with the way he does things.

A blind with nothing has been the luckiest to survive this apocalypse.

And you had kept surviving year after year, running and running, frightful in the dark.

But you had to admit that the fear of it all had all but paralyzed you more and more as time went on. They have mutated, become more frightening and powerful after all this time. You could feel it. You could feel them become worse, you could feel them make everything worse of everything.

Every bit of this nightmare unravels over and over again into a more hideous monster you couldn’t comprehend. It continues to grow hungrier, that monster. And that monster continues to grow hungry, while you cower and run and survive for a little bit longer.

Yet this was all you knew since then.

There was no other life for you to have.

As long as you were alive, that’s all you had.

You have to live, no matter what happens.

So, you ran again despite the fear gripping you in its merciless claws, clawing at your chest and strangling your breath. You ran as fast as you could, even if darkness was all there was ahead. You let your ears, your hands and your feet see for you.

You ran, as though it wasn’t just the fear of death you feel every single day, but the terror of the unknown, of a world turned inside out. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, sweat slicking your palms as your thoughts shattered like fragile glass underfoot. You couldn't think. Couldn't plan. Survival was a foreign concept, buried beneath the weight of your panic.

So you did the only thing you could — you ran.

Again and again, you let your feet burn until they bled.

Again and again until the world you knew was far behind.

Your legs burned as you stumbled through desolate streets, weaving through abandoned cars and piles of rubble. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and every step echoed with the threat of something lurking just out of sight. Your heart pounded like a war drum, each beat a desperate reminder that you were still alive.

But the curses were everywhere.

Their twisted forms slithered and crawled through the shadows, grotesque silhouettes against the broken landscape. Eyes gleamed with predatory hunger, locking onto any flicker of movement. Their growls reverberated through the ruins, low and menacing, promising a fate far worse than death. You could hear them closing in — the scrape of claws against concrete, the sickening sound of flesh shifting unnaturally.

Then they found you.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat.

Time seemed to stretch, each second an agonizing eternity. Your body betrayed you, paralyzed by terror as the curses crept closer. Their misshapen forms shimmered with dark energy, mouths opening wide to reveal rows of jagged teeth.

A scream built in your chest but never made it past your lips.

This was it. The end.

And there was nothing you could do.

Tears started to flood your ghostly eyes, bitterly.

You didn’t want this. You didn’t want to lose your life like this.

You could hear them. You could hear their guttural snarls echoed in your ears as they closed in. The world blurred around you, your body numb with terror. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t fight. All you could do was brace for the inevitable.

And then — he came.

A flash of steel. The curses shrieked, their forms cleaved apart by a single decisive strike. Silence fell, heavy and thick, broken only by your ragged breathing. He stood there amidst the carnage he had ended, a calm figure in his tattered clothes, blood splattered across his person. His expression was unreadable, but his presence was steady, grounding.

He turned to you, caramel eyes sharp but not unkind. But you couldn’t have known that. You couldn’t have known how warmly he had looked upon you. Perhaps that is why you were still ever so afraid as you cowered in your corner.

Tears continued to flow, breaths echoed incoherently. You were shaking uncontrollably, your legs threatening to give out beneath you. Without a word, he was at your side, one firm hand pressing against your shoulder to hold you steady.

“Breathe.” he instructed, his voice low and measured. “You’re safe now.”

The weight of those words shattered something inside you.

The fear, the loneliness, the sheer helplessness, they were recognized.

All that relief suddenly turned into the outpouring heaving of endless sobs.

“It’s okay.” he murmured, his tone unwavering. “Let it out. You’re going to be alright.”

Those were the first words from another human you had heard in a long time. They had been so warm and so tender, so full of kindness. And yet for the longest time, they were words you’ve waited to hear.

They were words of reassurance.

And the truth of it is, you believed him.

You didn’t know why. You didn’t know what he looked like. And yet, you believed him. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to take him as your safe zone, even just for a little while. You clung to him like a lifeline, your tears soaking into his suit. He didn’t pull away, didn’t tell you to stop. He simply held you, anchoring you to reality as the storm within you raged.

That's how you met Kento Nanami. On that warm moonless night, in the fifth year of the tragedy, there was you and there was him. And in a world consumed by darkness, he became your light. And somehow, in that single, fleeting moment, you dared to hope again.

══════════════════

HE UNDERSTOOD WHY YOU HAD TAKEN A DISTANCE FROM HIM AFTER THAT NIGHT. It had been so long since anyone had found another human being by their side, with all of humanity disappearing. With who remained, it was hard not to know what to do, even if they saved your life. You had your reasons, and he didn’t ask about them.

It took time. Days, then weeks — for your nerves to settle enough to even sit near Kento without tension stiffening your body. Trust wasn’t a luxury you afforded anyone easily anymore, not in a world where survival hinged on suspicion and instinct.

Especially knowing your limitations, and the mutation of curses, who knows if they could pretend to be humans. But Kento never found himself forcing a conversation. Nor did he try to go beyond actions that were necessary. If anything, he let you take your time.

At first, silence hung between you like an invisible barrier. He respected it, though, treating it like something fragile rather than uncomfortable. He had a way of being present without demanding attention, moving through the world with a quiet certainty that felt rare in this shattered existence.

Kento understood what fear did to a person. Especially living like that for so long, moreso your entire life under these circumstances, it was hard. He could only imagine how it hollowed you out.

It had left you raw and mistrusting, jumping at shadows long after the danger had passed. You didn’t need to explain that; he had seen it all before. And he has no doubts he would see it for even longer, even by your side.

What surprised you was how well he understood loneliness, too.

He’d never said much about his own past, but it was there in the way he spoke sparingly, in the subtle weight behind his words. The way his tired eyes scanned the world, searching for something he probably hadn’t found yet. He had walked through the same cold, unrelenting darkness as you, trying to carve out a place for himself amidst the ruin.

At night, when the weight of it all became too much — when memories of terror clawed their way back into your mind, he was there. Close but never overbearing, his steady presence grounding you. Sometimes you sat in silence under the fractured sky, neither of you speaking, just breathing.

Kento never offered hollow reassurances or told you to forget the past. What he gave was something more profound to even have, now more so than ever before. The permission to be broken without shame, to be yourself in a world where it was impossible to be. And maybe that was what you needed most.

Gradually, something shifted. You found yourself lingering near him longer, the once-awkward silence now comfortable. Perhaps the thought of someone being there at all comforted you, or perhaps the need to feel safe from the curses perhaps lurking by. You didn’t know which of them was in your heart, in truth. You couldn’t explain it. But he didn’t mind that either.

In that time you both were together, he taught you small, practical things. You sat there, just listening to him go on for hours, quiet enough to ward off curses and yet audible enough for you to hear.

He spoke about how to recognize cursed energy trails, where to find safe shelter, and even how to wield a weapon with steadier hands. He taught you about where to find supplies and how to sleep safely without being caught by curses.

But it wasn’t just about survival, no. It was the moments in between that. When he talks, you could tell that there was a rare glimmer of warmth in his otherwise solemn gaze. You don't know how you could tell, but there was a feeling of it that had made your tummy feel butterflies.

Somehow, with the way he sits beside you, there was less tension in his body to contend with. When he laughs, the sound feels like the beautiful tunes of hummingbirds. You could feel all the tenderness that he had been hoping to express for a long time each and every time.

Those flickers of humanity reminded you that there was still something worth fighting for. This human joy that had been long robbed and long forgotten, with no one to remember it, was now being remembered and lived by the two of you, perhaps who are the last people on earth. The last two people on earth enjoying the last vestige of humanity in each other.

He had been alone just like you, he has said. He has for the longest of time been a wanderer in a ruined world. And he, like you, only lived for survival over and over again. But now, maybe neither of you have to be alone anymore.

As you sat there, you couldn’t help that maybe, just maybe, that was enough to keep moving forward, living for more than survival. Perhaps you two could live for each other.

The ruined city stretched beneath a fractured sky, hues of ash and shadow blending into a wasteland of muted shapes. Jagged remnants of buildings clawed at the heavens, skeletal reminders of what once was. The air was thick with the smell of soot and decay, heavy enough to press against your lungs.

You and Kento sat side by side on a crumbling ledge, the world eerily quiet except for the distant groan of shifting debris. He worked silently, sharpening his blade with deliberate strokes. The rhythmic scrap of metal on stone was one of the few sounds that remained constant in your chaotic existence.

Your fingers absently traced patterns in the dust-covered concrete, grounding yourself in touch as you always did. Though the world had faded into darkness for you long ago, you had learned to navigate its bones through sensation — the brush of wind against ruined walls, the subtle tremors of approaching footsteps, the feel of textures under your fingertips.

But tonight, Kento’s voice broke through the fragile quiet.

“You walk too carefully for someone who can see.”

The statement hung in the air, sharp and pointed.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. "What?"

He set down the blade, turning to you with that same calm, analytical gaze he always carried. “I’ve noticed. You feel your way through the world more than most. Like you're mapping it with your hands and feet.”

There was no accusation in his tone, just observation. But it made you uneasy, like being seen too clearly. You purse your lips into a soft line, blush appearing in the apex of your cheeks. Had he not noticed yet?

"I'm blind." you admitted softly, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "I’ve been this way since it all started."

Kento was silent for a moment, processing the revelation with his usual stoic demeanor. “I see.”

No pity. No awkward questions. Just quiet acceptance.

“I apologize.”

“O–oh, no no. It’s nothing. You didn’t know.”

“And now I know.” He says to you, sighing. “No excuse now, no?”

You hummed to him. But then you tilted your head toward him. “And you?” you asked, hesitant but curious. “Why do you flinch when I speak from behind you? Or why do you never react when the curses roar?”

There was a faint shift in his expression — something almost like wry amusement.

"I can’t hear."

Your brow furrowed. "At all?"

He shook his head. "Haven’t been able to since year 25. It was a curse’s parting gift."

“Then….Then how do you hear what I say?”

“I read your lips.” He admits to you. “It’s the only way I’ll know what you’re saying.”

“And….and you get it right each time?”

“Have I ever been wrong in replying when we talk?”

“N–No…..I don’t think so.”

The revelation hung between you, strange and fragile. Blind and deaf. A pair of misfits stumbling through the ruins of a broken world. You couldn’t help but exhale a hearty laugh, shaky but genuine. His face contorts into confusion.

“Why are you laughing?”

"So let me get this straight: I can't see, you can't hear, and we’re supposed to survive like this?"

"We’ve managed so far, I guess," he said dryly, a sly smile finally wide on his face. "Though I doubt we’ll win any awards for it whatsoever."

Despite the grimness of it all, a smile tugged at your lips. "Guess we balance each other out, huh?"

"Perhaps we do, don’t we?" He stood, brushing dust from his trousers, then extended a hand to you. "Come on. We need to move before nightfall. If we live, we can continue to balance each other out."

You snickered at his words, but when you found his hand, you took it tenderly and without hesitation, his grip firm and steady as always. Slowly but surely, you both navigated the uneven terrain you had rested in. Kento carefully guided you with quiet efficiency, looking back and forth to see if everything was clear.

“You’re sure this path is safe?” you teased, stepping carefully over the uneven rocks as Kento’s hand held yours firmly, guiding you through the trail.

“It’s perfectly safe if you actually listen to my instructions.” he said with a faint smile, his thumb brushing reassuringly against the back of your hand.

“So bossy, aren’t you?” you quipped, earning a soft chuckle from him.

A comfortable silence settled between you, the crisp air brushing against your skin. Curiosity tugged at you as you remembered something he mentioned the other day. “Hey... was what you said yesterday true?”

“About what?” he hummed back, his voice warm and steady.

“You really see in monochrome?”

He was quiet for a beat, the sound of distant birdsong filling the air. “Yes. I do.”

“What’s it like?” you asked, unable to hide your wonder.

“Well, mostly quiet. Static, really.” he said thoughtfully. “It gets hard when it's nighttime. But manageable.”

You mulled over his words, stepping carefully over another jagged stone. His grip on your hand tightened instinctively, steadying you. He softly tells you to be more careful, but you were too into your thoughts that you did not hear him. You gasp, a question entering your head.

“What do I look like to you, then?” you blurted out suddenly, the question hanging in the cool air between you.

Kento’s steps slowed as he considered your question, his lips parting but no words immediately following. He doesn’t think he could answer and he didn’t answer you — not verbally, at least. Instead, his mind wandered before he could stop it.

In the muted, broken world he knew, you were the only vibrant thing he saw somehow. Not in color, but in essence. The way you moved, spoke, and laughed felt like the warmth of sunlight breaking through endless shades of grey that he sees. Beautiful. That’s what you were to him. And he doesn’t think he’ll ever stop thinking that.

But the weight of his unspoken thoughts lingered too long, and you tilted your head curiously, prompting him back to reality. “Kento?”

He cleared his throat, the sudden self-awareness making him stiffen slightly. “You look... fine, I suppose.” he managed, his tone steady despite the warmth creeping into his chest.

“Fine?” you repeated, raising an incredulous brow, clearly unimpressed with his vague response.

“Yes.” he said firmly, though his lips quivered ever so slightly. “Perfectly fine.”

You couldn’t help but roll your ghostly eyes, but the fondness in your expression made his heart lurch all the same. You nodded, accepting his words back to you. You squeezed his hand.

“Well, I suppose I can’t complain. You can’t have it all.”

Kento’s lips twitched, torn between amusement and guilt as he glanced at you. “No, I suppose not.”

“You’re surprisingly bad at compliments for someone so polished, hm?” you teased in response, your steps more confident now as the rocky path evened out beneath your feet.

“Perhaps so.” he admitted without defense. “But honesty is better than empty flattery, wouldn't you agree?”

“Oh? So I’m just fine, huh?” you shot back playfully. “Not even slightly charming or, I don’t know... radiant?”

He exhaled softly, shaking his head as if your wit were both a challenge and a comfort. “If I said anything beyond the word fine, I doubt you’d never let me hear the end of it.” he countered, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

“You might be right about that, I suppose.” you conceded, grinning.

As you walked in companionable silence again, Kento's mind drifted back to what he couldn’t say aloud, the way your presence cut through the static greyness of his world, bringing warmth and vibrancy he hadn’t realized he was missing. There was beauty in that, he thought. More than he had words for.

“You’re quiet again.” you observed, squeezing his hand again.

“Thinking about something.” he murmured, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly.

“Care to share?”

“Not yet, not right now,” he admitted. “But... maybe someday.”

You arched a brow back at him but you think about letting it slide for now, sensing that he was still carrying unspoken truths. And that was okay — you were patient, willing to wait for when he was ready. Just as he was, when waiting for you to be comfortable with him too.

"Then I guess we’ll just have to keep figuring this mess out together." You tell him softly. “That’s the only way I’ll get to know that from you.”

His voice was steady, as resolute as ever. "We will."

“Do you promise?”

He grips your hand back in a squeeze. “I promise.”

And for the first time since the world had fallen apart, the weight on your shoulders felt just a little lighter. Because you weren't alone anymore. And somehow, in this ruined world, that was enough. It was enough to have a reason to survive. No, no. To live.

The road ahead was treacherous, littered with debris and fragments of a world long forgotten. Cracks in the pavement swallowed chunks of asphalt, and twisted metal glinted faintly under the dim light filtering through thick, oppressive clouds. The air smelled of rust, dust, and faint traces of rot.

Kento walked with practiced precision, his movements deliberate as he guided you forward. His hand brushed yours occasionally, subtle but reassuring, letting you know he was there without needing words.

"Step up a bit." he instructed calmly.

You lifted your foot over a jagged piece of concrete without faltering, trusting his guidance. Despite his inability to hear and your inability to see, the two of you moved as one, to a seamless rhythm forged by necessity and understanding, by things that couldn’t be expressed. As you walked, the tension in the air shifted, heavy with an ominous weight. You felt it first, the faint vibration underfoot, subtle but unmistakable.

"Kento, I can feel it." you murmured, your voice low. "Something's coming."

He didn’t need to hear the warning. His body tensed, instincts sharp as he scanned the horizon with those monochrome eyes. His hand brushed your arm, a silent signal to stop. The ground trembled again, stronger this time. The distinct guttural growl of a curse echoed faintly through the ruins, reverberating through your chest.

You clenched your fists, heart racing. "How close is it?"

"Close enough," he said grimly.

He drew his blade, the soft whisper of steel cutting through the thick air. You reached for the makeshift weapon strapped to your side. It was not elegant or beautiful, but it had kept you alive this long.You trusted it enough. You moved forward, trying to ready yourself with the weapon in your shaky hands. But you felt Kento’s warm hands move you, and you grunt as he pushed you behind him.

"Stay behind me." Kento instructed, his voice steady despite the looming threat.

You didn’t argue.

You knew you couldn’t defeat this one.

It was too massive, it was too….monstrous.

The massive curse emerged from the shadows, its twisted form shimmering with dark energy. You could feel your heartbeat as you felt it move forward to your direction. Kento could see its eyes gleamed with malevolence, teeth bared in a grotesque snarl. Even without sight, you felt its presence — a suffocating, oppressive weight that made the air thick and cold.

Kento moved first, swift and precise. His blade sliced through the air, each strike calculated. The curse shrieked, its movements erratic as it lunged toward him. You felt the shift in the air, the curse’s presence moving closer. Instinct took over. Gripping your weapon tightly, you swung toward the sound, the impact reverberating up your arm as your blade connected with flesh. The curse howled in pain, but it wasn’t enough to feel it.

"Kento!" you called, your voice raw with urgency.

He didn’t need to hear your voice to understand. His blade flashed again, cutting through the curse with brutal efficiency. It let out one final, agonized wail before dissolving into ash, the remnants scattering on the wind.

Silence returned, heavy and thick. Your breathing was ragged, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Kento lowered his blade, his posture relaxing slightly.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice steady despite the chaos that had just unfolded.

"Yeah," you managed between breaths. "Thanks to you."

He nodded, wiping the blade clean before sheathing it. "You did well."

A faint smile tugged at your lips. "Not bad for a blind person, huh?"

"Not bad at all." he agreed, a rare flicker of warmth in his tone.

“Then it’s not bad for a deaf person too.” You grinned back at him.

Kento blinks and then he bursts out laughing as he takes your hand. “I suppose not at all.”

As the two of you resumed your journey, the weight of the encounter lingering in the air, a strange sense of reassurance settled over you. In this broken world, you had each other. And somehow, that had made living possible once again.

══════════════════

THIS WAS THE FIRST TIME YOU HAD FOUND YOURSELF IN SUCH A PLACE. But you could only assume that this was one of the last intact and well preserved types of places that had been left behind by the curses and humans.

The silence between you and Kento stretched as you both took in the sight of the old store. Time seemed to slow, the world outside fading into the background as the forgotten relics of a once-vibrant era captured your attention.

The quietness of the store swallowed Kento’s words, leaving only the soft scrape of his boots against the dusty floor as he stepped closer to the mannequin. You could sense the tension in his voice, a touch of reverence mixed with a hint of unease as he looked at it, that strange relic from a life you couldn’t fully grasp.

“What does it look like, Kento?” you asked again, your voice softer this time, a gentle plea for him to bridge the distance between you and the unseen world.

Your ghostly eyes scanned the space where the mannequin stood, but it was like trying to interpret a memory that wasn’t yours. You reached out, fingers trailing through the air in search of something familiar.

“The texture sure is...interestingly odd.”

Kento's voice lowered, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the fragile silence of the store. “They were mannequins, at least from what I read.”

He paused, his hand hovering near the base of the mannequin’s stand, where it met the ground. “They were once used to display clothes, so people could see them before they bought them.”

The quiet of the store wrapped around the two of you like an old blanket, a forgotten relic in itself. You couldn’t see the mannequin, but you could feel the odd coldness that it exuded — like an echo of something that no longer made sense in this world. It was as if you were touching a piece of history, something frozen in time, forever stuck in its own reflection.

“People used to come in and look at things like this?” You asked, still moving your hands slowly through the air, trying to sense what Kento was seeing. "Just... for something to look at?"

Kento’s voice was gentle but thoughtful as he responded. “Yeah. It was how they showed off clothes. You'd walk into a store, see the mannequin dressed in the latest fashion, and decide if you liked it enough to buy it. It was a way of displaying things so people could imagine themselves wearing them.”

A quiet laugh slipped from your lips, though it was tinged with sadness. “It sounds... so trivial now. People worry about what clothes they wore, what things they bought. And here we are, just trying to survive.”

Kento was silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on the mannequin’s frozen hand, still in that unnerving wave. “It’s not trivial, though." he said, his voice quieter now, the words more reflective. "It was part of what made life feel... whole. People had their worries, yes. But they had the luxury of not just surviving, but living.”

Your hand brushed the mannequin's arm gently, your fingers brushing against the smooth plastic. It felt so strange, so cold, a stark contrast to the warm memories that Kento had shared.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever understand it. A world like that... where people could take time to care about things like clothes.”

Kento’s gaze softened as he looked at you, his monochrome vision scanning your face with quiet understanding. “You’ll get there. We will. It may take time, but we’ll find what we need to keep going. Even in this mess, there’s still something worth holding onto.”

The words hung in the air between you both, quiet and almost sacred. The mannequin, still and lifeless, seemed to listen in on your conversation, a quiet observer of the world that used to be. For a brief moment, you wished you could see what it had looked like — the vibrant clothes, the bustling streets, the ordinary lives of people simply trying to get by.

But you couldn’t. All you had were the fragments of stories, the faint remnants of a world that had once been full of noise and color.

“What do you think happened to all of them?” you asked, feeling the weight of the question more than you had expected. “The people who used to buy clothes, and visit places like this?”

Kento’s voice was soft when he replied, like he was speaking to both you and the mannequin, as though the answer was still lost in time. “They became a part of the world we’re in now. Curses, souls... maybe they’re still somewhere, waiting for the world to wake up again.”

You shivered at the thought, your fingers tightening slightly around the mannequin's arm as you felt the weight of the loss that had already come before in the fifty years this has been going on, the irreplaceable loss of those lives, those small, quiet moments of normalcy.

Kento stood beside you, his eyes also fixed on the mannequin. His usually calm expression was softened with a touch of thoughtfulness. “It’s like the whole store is frozen, though.” he mused, voice barely above a whisper. “Like it was abandoned in an instant, never to be touched again.”

"Look at this thing." you murmured, running your hand along the edge of a nearby shelf, trying to feel it to understand it. "It’s like a scene out of some surreal dream."

Kento’s gaze lingered on the mannequin. “Feels more like a ghost town out here. But that’s to be expected.” he said, voice low. He stepped further into the shop, his boots crunching softly against scattered debris. "Everyone left. And now everything is left behind, just... waiting."

You followed, careful to avoid the broken shards of glass near the doorway. The air was thick with dust and carried the faint scent of mildew, but the place was remarkably preserved compared to the crumbling ruins outside. Your fingers brushed against a rack of clothes, light summer dresses with swirling patterns, faded but still beautiful in a way you couldn’t quite describe.

"What do you think this clothing store was for?" you asked, tilting your head as you tried to imagine it full of life. "What sort of clothes were they selling? What I touched earlier felt like feathers. That just seems so….. flashy."

Kento examined a rusting tin sign on a shelf. It read: “Summer Sale: 50% Off All Dresses!” in bold, cheerful letters. He raised a brow.

“Probably some kind of boutique.” he said. “Or a place people came for things they didn’t really need.”

You laughed softly, the sound strange in the stillness. "Things they didn’t need? Like this?" You pointed toward a shelf stacked with peculiar trinkets, a miniature statue of a cat wearing sunglasses, an old snow globe with a tiny city inside, and a mug shaped like a pineapple.

He gave a small, almost imperceptible smirk. “Exactly like that.”

You picked up the snow globe, shaking it gently. The tiny flakes swirled around the miniature city, glittering faintly in the dim light. “I don’t get it. Why would anyone want this?”

Kento shrugged, his gaze shifting to a jukebox in the corner. The once-shiny machine was tarnished and dusty, but it still stood tall and proud, a monument to a world neither of you had ever truly known.

“Maybe it made them happy, you know?” he said after a moment. “Even if just for a little while.”

You set the snow globe back down, your fingers lingering on its smooth surface. “Happiness seemed so… extravagant. Doesn’t it?”

Kento didn’t respond immediately. He was staring at the jukebox now, his hand brushing against the side as though testing if it still worked. "Maybe it was, maybe it wasn’t." he said finally. "But maybe that’s what made it worth it."

The two of you continued to go and wander deeper into the store, pausing by a rack of clunky shoes with impossibly high heels and neon colors that almost hurt anyone’s eyes when they looked at it. You frown as you feel the unfamiliar texture with your fingers. Your frown gets deeper at the edges, touching the heel.

“People wore these?” you asked, incredulous.

Kento raised a brow, a faint glimmer of amusement in his usually solemn expression. “Apparently. Must’ve been hell on their feet.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as your ghostly eyes stared at the mannequin’s polka-dotted dress, delicate fingers touching the brightly colored fabric feeling so out of place in the world you now knew.

“I can’t even imagine a life like that. People worry about clothes, shoes, decorations. It’s so... ridiculous.”

Kento gave a quiet, almost wistful nod, his gaze lingering on the dress for a moment before looking back to you. “It was a different world, you know?” he said softly. “One where they had the luxury to worry about those things. We don’t get that anymore.”

You sighed, the weight of his words hanging in the air, then letting your hands touch the dresses once again. “Should I try some of the clothes?” you asked with a light laugh, the suggestion playful but tinged with a quiet seriousness, as if it was some small rebellion against the ruins of the world you both lived in.

Kento raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement passing through his eyes. “Try the clothes on?” he repeated, almost as if the concept itself was absurd now. “You mean, like how they used to do? Just... because?”

“Yeah, I think I’d like to do that.” you said with a small shrug, smiling despite the heaviness in the air. “Maybe we could pretend, for a moment, that it’s normal. That the world isn’t falling apart.”

Kento looked at you for a long moment, then slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched upward. He shook his head, but there was no judgment in his expression. “You really want to try?”

“Why not?” you responded, your voice lighter. “It wouldn’t make anyone think we stole them. No one’s here to say no! Well….unless you will?”

Kento’s lips twitched in amusement. “No, I won’t.”

“Good to hear. I like that answer!” you grinned triumphantly, releasing his hand to wander toward the racks of forgotten garments. Dust clung to faded fabric, but as you ran your fingers over them, you imagined what they might have looked like once, bright and bold in a world not broken by ruin.

Kento stood nearby, arms crossed, watching you with quiet curiosity. He always observed more than he spoke, and right now, he looked as though he was trying to understand what made this moment so important to you.

“So?” you called back to him. “Should I go dramatic or practical? What would you prefer? Bright and loud or mystique and rogue?”

He huffed softly, shaking his head. “Why not both?”

You laughed, the sound light and rare, and pulled a gown off the rack. It was a flowing deep indigo piece that still held some of its former elegance despite the faded stitching. Turning toward Kento, you held it up against yourself.

“I can’t see it. What do you think?”

“I think it’s missing a sword belt if you’re going for practical, to be sure.” he said dryly, though there was warmth behind his words.

“Oh, so now you do have opinions about fashion, huh?” you teased.

“Only when it involves combat readiness.” he deadpanned.

As you drifted away from Kento, his steady voice followed you. “Don’t wander too far, okay?” he called, firm but gentle, like he always was when concern threaded through his otherwise calm demeanor.

“Yeah, yeah.” you retorted absently, waving a dismissive hand without looking back. “I’m not a child, Kento.”

His faint sigh echoed faintly behind you, but he didn’t press further.

Your fingers danced idly across rows of neglected garments, the fabrics coarse from time and abandonment. Most were stiff, lifeless. They felt like mere remnants of a world long gone. Yet you kept searching, guided by curiosity and a quiet defiance against the bleakness around you.

Then your hand paused.

This one was different. The fabric beneath your fingertips was unexpectedly soft, worn into something tender by time rather than ruined by it. You pulled the garment from the rack, the material clinging slightly as if reluctant to leave its forgotten home. It was a simple dress, muted in color but elegant in its simplicity. The fabric had a subtle sheen, catching the dim light filtering through shattered windows.

You rubbed it between your fingers, testing its texture, half-expecting it to crumble under your touch. But it held firm, surprisingly resilient despite its delicate appearance.

“Huh…..” you murmured to yourself, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t think I’d find anything like this.”

Behind you, Kento remained watchful, his quiet presence grounding even as you wandered. You lifted the dress higher, studying it with a critical eye. It wasn’t perfect — far from it. But something about it spoke to you, as though it carried a whisper of a world where softness and beauty still had a place.

“What did you find?” Kento’s voice broke through your reverie, closer now as he approached.

“Something interesting.” you mused, holding it up for him to see. “Think it’s my style?”

His gaze flickered over the dress, thoughtful as always. “If you like it, that’s all that matters.”

“Diplomatic as ever, aren’t you?” you teased, though warmth curled in your chest at his simple acceptance.

“Do you?” he asked quietly.

You looked back at the dress, fingers still tracing its gentle lines. “Yeah, yeah.” you admitted softly. “I think I do.”

There was something defiant in choosing beauty, however small, in a world that had tried to strip it away. And right now, that felt like victory enough. This felt like reclaiming what had been lost nearly fifty years ago. Just in this one dress.

You went ahead into the other corner, hiding away so you could put the dress on you. Kento asked you if you would be okay, but you reassured him enough and made it through by yourself.

As you pulled the faded dress over your head, the fabric sliding smoothly against your skin, you couldn’t help but smile a little, even though you couldn’t see what it looked like. The weight of the dress felt comforting, and for a moment, it felt as if you were transported to another time.

It felt like a time when life was filled with simple pleasures, like trying on clothes without worrying about curses or survival. You hummed quietly as you ran your hands over the texture, trying to sense its shape, its softness. Everything about it was perfect.

If this were a normal world, you thought to yourself, maybe I would have been wearing something like this too.

The idea of all of that felt like a dream now, something distant and almost impossible, but as the dress settled comfortably around you, a small part of that dream seemed to come alive again, even if just for a fleeting moment.

You moved toward the door, feeling your way carefully with your hands, as you had learned to do in this strange new world. When you finally stepped out into the open space again, you took a deep breath and called out to Kento, your voice light with curiosity. Slowly, he made his way to you and he stopped, seeing you in front of him.

"Kento, what do you think?"

For a long moment, there was silence — an odd, thick silence that made you wonder if something was wrong. Then, Kento’s breath hitched sharply, and you heard him take a step forward, though you couldn’t see his face.

"You..." His voice faltered slightly, and he paused, clearly at a loss for words. You could feel the tension in the air, a kind of stillness that only existed when someone saw something they didn’t expect.

“Me?” You asked, waiting for his reply.

"You look... stunning." He said it slowly, like he was trying to find the right words, and you could hear the astonishment in his voice.

A knot twisted in your chest. You didn’t know what you looked like, couldn’t see the dress at all. You were used to the uncertainty of blindness, but in moments like this, it felt more intense. "What color is it?" you asked hesitantly. "What does it look like?"

There was another long pause, and when Kento spoke again, his voice was a little rougher, like he was still trying to steady himself. "It seems to be….. white." he said quietly. "It’s... beautiful. It would have been something considered for weddings back in the day."

You blinked, your heart skipping a beat as you processed his words. A wedding dress? That was what you were wearing? You couldn’t help but laugh softly, a little nervous but also amazed at how surreal the whole situation felt.

"A wedding dress? But... I’m not getting married."

Kento cleared his throat, his voice sounding more composed now, though there was still a trace of wonder in it. "Yeah, I know," he said, his tone almost shy. "But... it suits you. Very well."

You paused, your fingers brushing over the fabric of the dress as you tried to imagine what it might look like, though you knew it was impossible. Still, there was something in Kento’s voice, something that made your heart flutter just a little.

The weight of the world, the despair that had surrounded you for so long, felt a little lighter now. As if in this moment, just for a second, you could pretend that things were different.

"Are you still there?" you asked, your voice quiet, a little unsure. You hadn’t heard him move, and the silence between you felt strangely thick.

Kento’s voice was steady now, but there was a softness to it that made you smile, even if he couldn’t see it. "Yeah. I’m here."

You took a small breath, still unsure of what to make of the situation, but feeling something warm and comforting growing inside of you. "Thank you, Kento."

There was a long, almost thoughtful pause, and then he said softly, "You don’t need to thank me for anything. You’ve always been amazing, you just didn’t realize it."

His words, simple but sincere, made your chest tighten with emotion. You couldn’t see it, but in that moment, you felt more seen than you ever had before. And for the first time in a long time, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things could be beautiful again.

Even in a world as broken as this one, life can breathe into the surface once again. Even if it’s just between the two of you.

You stood in front of Kento, the weight of your dress still sinking in, though you couldn’t see what it looked like. But you could feel it, the soft fabric, the way it fit you in a way that felt almost... right. A thought crossed your mind, one that made you smile despite the broken world outside.

“Kento, hey….” you said, the words light but carrying a playful undertone. “You should wear something too. Something to match me.”

He blinked, taken off guard by the suggestion, his eyes narrowing as he processed what you said. “What?” His voice was almost a chuckle, but there was hesitation in it. “I—no, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” you asked, your voice coaxing, teasing him gently. “Come on, you can’t let me be the only one dressed up. It’ll be fun.”

Kento shifted uncomfortably, his eyes flicking away as if the idea made him shy. “I really don’t think I should. It’s just... silly. You’re already wearing something... so nice. I can’t just—” He trailed off, clearly unsure of how to finish his sentence, a slight flush creeping up his neck.

You smiled softly, knowing that you were getting to him. “Please, Kento.” you said, your voice low and earnest, a hint of pleading in it. “Just for me? It’ll be like we’re actually living in that other world. For just a moment.”

He looked at you, his expression a mixture of reluctance and something else — something softer that you couldn’t quite place. The silence stretched between you both for a few moments, and for a second, you thought he might refuse. But then he let out a small sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Fine, alright.” he muttered, as if resigning to a quiet surrender. “But only because you asked.”

You couldn’t help the grin that spread across your face. “Thank you, Kento.”

A few minutes later, Kento returned back to you, and your breath caught in your throat as you walked towards him standing there. He purses his lips before he takes your hand. He presses it against the fabric he wore on him.

“Do you like it?” He asks, almost shyly as your fingers wander across the fabric. “It’s….It’s the best one that matches you.”

He was wearing a suit, a dark one with fine tailoring, the fabric sleek and smooth. And it matched your dress perfectly. The same shade of white, that’s why he chose it. Though with slight variations in texture and cut, as if you two had been made to complement each other.

The tie he wore was a darker shade, but still complemented the subtle elegance of the suit all the same. His sandy hair was slightly tousled, a few stray strands falling out of place as if he hadn’t spent time fixing them.

He stood still for a moment, caramel eyes shifting uncomfortably, as if he didn’t know whether to expect praise or criticism. But there was a quiet softness in the way he stood, as if he was waiting for your reaction. As if he was waiting for your approval.

You couldn't stop the quiet gasp that slipped from your lips. “Kento...”

The word carrying his name came out in a breathless whisper, as you took in the sight of him. The suit fit him perfectly, and something in you fluttered at the sight of how effortlessly it seemed to match with your own dress.

Kento’s face reddened, but he tried to play it off with a soft chuckle. “You really wanted me to wear this, huh? You like it?”

You nodded, your voice caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “You seem so….amazing. We match, don’t we?”

He scratched the back of his neck, awkward but still slightly proud, his gaze flicking down to the suit, then back to you. “We do…. We do match.” he said, trying to downplay it, though there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice. “B–but it’s nothing. It’s just a suit, it's not something—”

You stepped closer to him, your hand gently reaching out to adjust the collar of his jacket, a small gesture that made your heart flutter. A small gesture that makes his own heart skip a beat.

“It’s not just a suit, Kento. It’s... you. And it looks perfect.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. He just stood there, as if unsure of what to say, his gaze softening as he took you in. Then, finally, he sighed and let out a small laugh, a real one this time, the tension easing from his shoulders.

“Well, if you’re happy, then I guess that’s all that matters.”

You smiled up at him, feeling a warmth in your chest, the world outside for once not feeling so cold. “I am happy, very much so.” you said, your voice soft but full of gratitude. “And I think we make a pretty good pair. Don’t we?”

Kento didn’t say anything for a moment, but the softness in his tender eyes spoke volumes. He looked at you like he could almost see what you couldn’t — like he understood the weight of the moment. And for once, you didn’t feel blind. It was as if you could see for the very first time. And all the same, you finally felt seen.

And for a moment, you weren’t just surviving.

You were like all the people who had walked in these walls.

You finally were living the life that could have been.

“Yeah.” Kento finally said, his voice quieter now, almost fond. “I think we do.”

You took a step toward him, your heart fluttering with anticipation. The room around you, the empty storefront, the dusty mannequins, the crumbling world outside — everything that surrounded you, that existed, all of that seemed to fade as you found your skin touching his own.

"Kento." you said softly, your voice carrying a new kind of confidence. "Dance with me."

He blinked, his gaze flickering with surprise. For a moment, he looked like he might laugh it off. "Dance?" He shook his head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "I can't even hear anything, let alone am I knowledgeable at that. How am I supposed to dance?"

You tilted your head, a smile pulling at the corners of your own mouth. "You don’t need to hear. We can still feel it, and that’s better, don’t you think? You don’t need the sound to make it real."

Kento opened his mouth to say something, but paused, clearly unsure how to respond. The gentle warmth in your voice, the simple conviction in your words, seemed to stop him in his tracks. You reached out, your hand finding his, and for a moment, everything seemed to still.

"Please, Kento." you whispered, the request sincere, almost pleading. "Just for a moment. Let’s pretend."

He couldn’t help but feel hesitant as he looked at you, still feeling unsure about what to do. But then, as if something inside of him shifted — he let out a soft sigh into the air. His large hand moved toward yours, his fingers wrapping around yours with a quiet steadiness. Somehow, your hands fit so well together.

"Alright. Just this once." he said, his voice softer than before. "I’ll give it a try."

You smiled brightly, the excitement bubbling up inside of you. Without waiting for another word, you closed the distance between the two of you, placing your other hand gently on his shoulder.

You took a slow, deep breath, letting the stillness of the moment wash over you. The world outside, the curses, the madness, none of it seemed to matter in this space. It was just you and Kento — two souls, finding something simple and beautiful.

Then, with a quiet hum, you began to move, the melody born from within you, an instinctive rhythm flowing through your body. The tune wasn’t anything familiar, just something you felt, something deep inside that had always been there, waiting to be shared. Your feet moved slowly at first, tracing gentle circles on the floor, and Kento followed you, his movements tentative but steady.

You hummed, the melody shifting like a soft breeze, flowing and floating between you both. And though Nanami Kento couldn’t hear the music, you knew he could feel it, in the way his body moved with yours, in the way his gaze never left yours, soft and filled with something unreadable.

Kento’s caramel eyes were fixed on you the entire time, studying you with an intensity that made your breath catch. He wasn’t just following you; he was there, fully present, every part of him connected to the moment. His handsome face was serene, you knew that even if you didn’t see him.

Everything about him was something you admired. And he could see it, in the way your ghostly eyes gazed at him like he was the only one that could ever belong to you. And all he knew was that he was looking at you like that too.

The two of you moved together, your steps blending, your rhythm in perfect sync, though there was no sound to guide you. It didn’t matter. The silence was filled with everything you both needed. The soft pressure of his hand against yours, the gentle pull of his presence, the warmth that grew between you as you danced in the quiet.

At one point, you let yourself close the gap even further, your head resting lightly against his chest. You couldn��t see his face, but you could feel his breath, steady and calm, as he held you close. His arm tightened around you slightly, a silent acknowledgment of the fragile beauty of this moment.

You continued to hum, lost in the stillness of it all. And for once, you didn’t need to say anything. Kento’s presence, his quiet understanding, was enough. There was no need for words. All you needed was the steady movement, the connection between two people who had found something beautiful in the middle of so much chaos.

When the hum finally faded, and you slowly came to a stop, neither of you said anything. Kento didn’t move away. He simply stood there, still holding you, his hand gently resting on your back as if savoring the feeling of the moment.

"That... was different." he said quietly, his voice low, almost like he was still trying to process the experience.

You smiled softly, your fingers brushing against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. "Different good?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Kento took a deep breath, his gaze softening as he met your eyes. "Yeah... different good."

And in that moment, the world outside seemed just a little farther away, as if for a brief instant, you and Kento had created something of your own. It was a fleeting, beautiful moment that the darkness outside couldn’t touch.

Kento’s hand lingered on your back for a moment longer before he gently pulled away, his fingers brushing against your skin. He looked at you, his expression soft, almost as if he were contemplating something. Then, his voice, low and tender, broke the silence.

“Do you want to stay here for the night?” He asked, his tone so gentle, like he was offering you a place to rest, a space to just... be.

You looked up at him, your chest warm with the lingering comfort of the dance, the quiet intimacy you’d shared. You didn’t have to think long. The world outside was too dangerous, too harsh, and the last thing you wanted was to leave the safety of this little corner of peace you’d found.

You nodded at him, your voice soft but sure. “Yeah... it’s getting late.”

Kento studied you for a moment longer, his eyes searching yours, before he nodded in agreement. “Alright. We’ll stay here.”

There was a quiet understanding between you both. Neither of you needed to say more. It wasn’t just about the safety of staying inside. It was about the unspoken connection you shared — the comfort of being in this moment, of finding solace in each other’s presence when everything else was broken.

Kento moved toward one of the old, dust-covered chairs in the corner of the shop and set down the bags he had been carrying. He looked around the abandoned store, his expression thoughtful as he took in the strange stillness of it all.

"We’ve got everything we need right here.” he said with a small smile, his voice steady despite the chaos of the world outside. "It’s not much, but it’s enough for tonight."

You smiled back at him, feeling the weight of your body relax as you sank down onto a nearby bench. "It’s more than enough." you said quietly.

You could feel your ghostly eyes following Kento as he began to rummage through the remnants of the store for anything that might make your stay more comfortable. He returned a few moments later with a blanket. It was old, but it was still capable of warming the body.

The simplicity of the moment felt surreal. In a world where survival was the priority, where every day was a battle, you had found a small, fragile slice of peace. And it was with him. No, no. It was him. He was your piece of peace.

Kento draped the blanket over the two of you and settled beside you. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence enveloping you like a comforting blanket of its own. The outside world, with all its curses and destruction, felt like a distant nightmare — a reality that, for now, you could escape.

You hummed as Kento leaned back against the wall, his arm resting behind you, his fingers lightly brushing against your shoulder. You closed your ghostly white eyes, leaning into the warmth of his presence, the quiet safety of being with him.

"I’m glad we found this place, Kento." you murmured softly, your voice barely a whisper in the stillness of the room. "It feels like... like we’re living, just for a little while."

Kento didn’t answer right away, and you couldn’t see what expressions he had in his face in the meantime. So, you waited as your ghostly eyes slowly gathered itself to slumber. When he did speak, his voice was steady and calm, a quiet comfort in the midst of it all and most of all, you were already asleep.

"Yeah." he said, his hand resting lightly on yours. "For tonight... we are."

══════════════════

THERE WAS MUCH TO SEE HERE, AND THAT’S WHY YOU STAYED. The next morning, the two of you wandered deeper into the abandoned storefront, curiosity leading you through the quiet, forgotten aisles.

The building seemed to stretch on, revealing layers of time that had been sealed away, waiting for someone to discover them. There was an odd beauty in the decay. A sense of history woven through the dust and shadows, waiting to be remembered by someone.

As you walked with care, your fingers brushed along the old shelves, feeling the cold, faded remnants of what had once been. Then, you turned a corner, and there it was — a fine dining restaurant. At least that’s what Kento says it was.

The tables were set in an almost eerie stillness, the chairs pushed back from the tables as if the patrons had simply walked out. Dust covered the countertops, but there was something oddly peaceful about the place, as if it had frozen in time. Plates, some cracked and chipped, sat on the tables. It’s remnants of meals long gone cold, long forgotten by the people who had wanted to taste it.

You and Kento sat down at one of the tables, the deafening silence between you almost natural. It felt strange to see these abandoned places, as if they held echoes of lives once lived here — stories that had been left unfinished. Plans left unattended to. Lives left to nothing.

The plates before you were strange, the food half-eaten and hardened by time. You picked up a fork, turning it in your hand as you observed the scene, then glanced at Kento, who seemed just as lost in the moment. The sight of the old food, of meals that had once been shared between people, felt like a ghost from the past.

Kento broke the silence first, his voice quiet but thoughtful. "I wonder what it was like for all of them." he said, his gaze moving over the plates. "Food... before all this happened. Do you think people took it for granted?"

You thought for a moment, trying to imagine a world where food was plentiful, where people sat together at tables like these, laughing, talking, sharing. A world where they didn’t have to fight for every meal. A whole world where they were enjoying what was there to be had.

“I don’t know, really.” you replied, your voice soft. “It’s hard to imagine. Everything feels so different now. Back then... people must have had so many choices. So much variety.”

You reached forward and gently poked at a plate of dried food, a cracked piece of what might have been bread, now hardened with age. "You could just walk into a place like this and have whatever you wanted."

Kento nodded, his hand resting on the table as he stared at the plate before him, his expression distant. "I imagine there were so many things... dishes people cherished. Foods that reminded them of home or celebrations." His eyes flickered to the faded menu on the wall, barely legible but still hanging there, frozen in time. "I wonder what it would have been like to taste something like that."

You smiled faintly, leaning back in your chair as you thought about it. "I think I would have liked sweets. You know, cakes, candies, things that people probably shared on birthdays or special occasions."

Kento raised an eyebrow, glancing over at you. "Sweets, huh? I can picture that. You always seem to know how to make the best of things... even when everything else seems so... dark."

You shrugged, a small laugh escaping you. "Maybe. But I think everyone had their favorites, right? Some people liked savory, others liked sweet. And meals were always a reason to gather. I bet... I bet it was different back then."

Kento leaned back in his chair, his eyes scanning the empty space around you, as if he were trying to piece together the history that had been lost. “I bet there was laughter, too. People talking about their days, making plans. It wasn’t just food. It was about the company.”

You nodded, glancing at the empty chairs surrounding you, imagining them filled with life. “Yeah. It’s not just the food. It’s the people. The moments. The sharing.”

For a few seconds, there was a quiet understanding between the two of you — a shared longing for something that no longer existed, something that felt out of reach. Fifty years ago, that could have been your life. Had you both been born much earlier, enjoying what was normal. You could only wonder who you could have been then?

“I wish I could’ve tasted it. Or at least cooked it.” Kento said, his voice softer now. "I wish I could've lived in that world... just for a little while."

You looked over at him, the sincerity in his tone reminding you of the weight of it all. "Me too." you whispered. "I think we all wish we could’ve had more of it... more of the little things that make life worth living."

Kento nodded slowly, his eyes distant but filled with something almost wistful. "It’s strange, isn’t it? To think about all the things we took for granted. We never thought we'd lose them. And even stranger….to mourn something we never had."

You let out a soft sigh, reaching across the table and resting your hand on his for a moment, a silent gesture of understanding. "No. We didn’t."

For a while, neither of you spoke, both of you lost in the quiet, the memories of a world long gone. The food before you, abandoned and forgotten, was just another symbol of everything that had been lost.

But there, in the midst of the silence, you found comfort in knowing you were together. Maybe it wasn’t food or laughter that you had, but you still had this, this quiet company, the shared understanding of what the world once was. And that, for now, was enough. You don’t have to wallow in the past alone.

You leaned back in your chair, your hands absently moving to the side, brushing against something solid that wasn’t part of the table or plate. Frowning, you felt around a little more, your fingers gliding over something cold and metallic.

You furrowed your brow and lightly touched it again, your fingers tracing the shape. It was oddly smooth, but with little ridges. You couldn’t make sense of what it could be, but it certainly felt out of place among the dust-covered, abandoned plates and old utensils.

Curious, you gently pulled the object closer. "Kento... what is this?" you asked, a bit of wonder in your voice as you continued to feel it. "It feels like... a box with a lens. Could it be some sort of device?"

Kento, who had been watching you with a slight smile, moved in closer as you gently prodded at the object. His brow furrowed as he examined what you were holding. With a slow exhale, he gently took it from your hands and held it up to eye level, his fingers brushing over the device, his expression thoughtful.

“That…” He paused, his tone a little more serious now as he inspected it. “That’s a camera."

"A camera?" you echoed, your mind trying to piece together what that could possibly mean.

You had heard of cameras, at least from the radios that were blaring in the human settlements. They were things that captured moments, or so you’d been told — but you’d never really seen one, at least not in this way. You felt a little thrill run through you at the thought of it, but you were still unsure of how it all worked.

“Yeah.” Kento continued, his voice soft, as he examined the lens carefully. “They were used to taking pictures... to capture moments. People would use them to remember things — memories, places, people.”

He glanced back at you, a soft, almost nostalgic expression crossing his face. “It was one way for people to hold on to things they didn’t want to forget."

Your fingers tingle with excitement. "So... it takes a picture of... of anything?"

"Yeah." Kento looked down at the camera, still running his fingers over it with a careful curiosity. “This particular one is an old model, but I think I can still make it work." He adjusted a few dials, his brow furrowing slightly as he tried to remember how to operate it. After a moment, he gave a small nod. “Alright. I think it’s working. It just needs a film roll inside, but I can still try."

Your heart skipped a beat at his words. “Can you take a picture with it?”

Kento’s lips twitched up at the corners, his eyes twinkling with something that almost felt like amusement. “Yeah, I think I can. But it’s not exactly instant — you'll have to wait for it to develop later."

You didn’t care about the developing process. The thrill of the idea made your chest tighten with excitement. You leaned forward eagerly, your voice a little breathless, “So... Can you take one of me? Right now? Please?”

He glanced up at you with a hesitant smile, his gaze soft. "You sure? I mean, it’s kind of old. It might not turn out the way you expect. It might not even work.”

You were already grinning, already imagining what the moment could be like. "I don’t care! It’s a picture. A memory. And... I don’t know when I’ll ever get the chance to do something like this again."

Kento’s expression softened, and despite the chaos and uncertainty of the world outside, he nodded slowly. "Alright." he said, his voice almost teasing. "Just hold still, then."

You sat up straighter, smiling even wider as you tried to pose, though you had no idea what you were doing. The world outside, the endless darkness, the curses — all of it felt so far away in that moment. All that mattered was this fragile little piece of normalcy, a snapshot of something real.

Kento adjusted the camera, looking through the lens with a concentrated expression. “You ready?”

“Yeah!” You replied with a little too much enthusiasm, your hands folding neatly in your lap.

For a brief moment, the world felt still. Kento’s tender caramel eyes met yours, soft yet steady, before his finger pressed down on the shutter. The click of the camera filled the empty, and you felt a surge of excitement at the sound of it. It works.

“Did you get it?” you asked, practically bouncing in your seat. Your smile was practically glowing, the joy in your chest making the air feel lighter.

Kento lowered the camera, his eyes lingering on you for just a moment longer. “I think so.” he said, his voice laced with a soft smile of his own. “But we’ll have to wait to see.”

You leaned back, your heart fluttering with the thought of it, as if something small, yet precious, had been captured in that moment. You sat back in your chair carefully, your hands still buzzing with excitement as you imagined what the picture might look like — if it even worked at all.

The thought of having something tangible, something that captured this fleeting moment between you and Kento, filled you with a warmth that had been absent for so long. You couldn’t help but be so giddy and joyous about all of it.

“So... now we just wait, huh?” you asked, glancing up at Kento, your voice full of wonder.

Kento nodded, still looking at the camera in his hands with an expression that was a mix of nostalgia and curiosity. “Yeah. It’s not an instant thing like the ones they have in the old stories, where the picture just pops out. It takes time to develop.” He turned the camera in his hands thoughtfully. “It’ll be a while before we see the result.”

You nodded, though a small part of you wished it could happen right away. Still, the thought of it being something you would both share, something real and permanent, even if it took time — was enough to make you feel like you were on top of the world.

The quiet of the restaurant settled around you again, but it felt different now. The stillness no longer seemed like a reminder of what had been lost; it was a space where you could be present, where you could hold on to a memory that was yours, even if only for a brief time.

Kento looked over at you, his gaze thoughtful. “You know... we could make a habit of this. Taking pictures, I mean. Maybe not with this old thing, but...” He trailed off, then gave a small shrug. “Maybe we can find another way.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “You’d really want to keep doing this with me?”

Kento chuckled softly, a warmth spreading across his features. “Why not? It might be the one thing we can do that feels... normal.” He hesitated, glancing down at the camera again before meeting your eyes. “It’s nice. Having something to hold on to, something to remember.”

You smiled, the weight of his words settling in your chest. The world outside might be in ruins, and everything might feel uncertain, but right here, in this moment, there was something beautiful about it. The idea of creating memories with Kento, the promise of even more of it in the future and being able to capture those fleeting moments — that had made everything seem a little less overwhelming.

“Maybe we could take more pictures later, you know?” you said softly, the thought of it making your heart a little lighter. “Maybe of the things we find. The places we go.”

Kento's eyes softened, and he gave a small nod, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah. We’ll make our own memories, even if the world around us keeps changing. Maybe those will be the ones that matter the most. For as long as this can exist.”

For a while, neither of you spoke once more. Kento busied himself with getting to know the camera. You sat there, surrounded by the remnants of a life you’d never fully experienced but could now, in some way, hold on to. The old, abandoned restaurant felt a little less lonely. The world, too, seemed just a little bit kinder.

When the moment finally stretched long enough, Kento looked over at you with a thoughtful expression. “You know... even if we never develop the picture, I’ll always remember this.” He paused, his voice quieter now. “This moment. With you.”

You looked at him, your heart full as you whispered back, “Me too, Kento. Me too.”

And in the quiet of that old, forgotten place, you both sat together, with the promise of more moments to come.

You had finally made a move on from the storefront. After a full day’s walk, you found yourselves at the river crossing. The river stretched ahead of you, winding its way through the landscape like a lifeline. It was a quiet flow that mirrored the stillness of the world around you. The sky, an endless gray, hung over everything, casting a dull sheen across the scene. But it didn’t matter. Not really.

You walked side by side, each step taken in unison, even if the weight of the world outside tried to press down on your shoulders. It was strange, how you could both walk through the ruins of this broken world and still find something like peace in each other’s presence.

The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. If anything, it was now a language that existed between the two of you. The silence wasn’t that terrifying anymore. Now, it was a silence that was a friend, a loved one. It had become familiar, one where no words were needed to fill the space. The world had become so still, so void of sound, that even the river's gentle flow felt like a soft murmur in the distance.

But then, something inside you stirred. You turned your face toward Kento, your ghostly eyes distant, yet sharper than usual, as if the weight of everything you were feeling suddenly found its way to the surface. It felt important, this moment — like you had to say it.

“You know…” you started, your voice soft, but enough to break through the stillness, “Sometimes it feels like you’re all I can hear.”

Kento, who had been walking beside you, glanced at you with a small frown, his brow furrowing slightly. He slowed his pace, unsure of where you were going, his expression focused on understanding your words, making sure he didn’t miss anything. He didn’t speak right away. He never did, always giving you the space to explain, always waiting until you were ready to say it all. That’s how it was. That’s how he wanted it.

“What do you mean?” he asked gently, his voice laced with curiosity, the same care he always took to hear you out.

You let your gaze drift ahead again, looking at the river, but your mind felt far beyond it. “In this world… everything else is so quiet.” you said, your lips curving upward slightly, though it was bittersweet.

You continued, smiling back at him. “The birds are gone, the hum of life has faded. But you… The sound of your breath, your voice when you choose to speak. It cuts through the silence. All the time. It always keeps me sane.”

As you finished speaking, Kento’s hand found yours, slow and steady, the rough warmth of his fingers curling around yours, grounding you. His gaze didn’t leave your face. You felt his eyes searching you, trying to understand, trying to hold on to the weight of your words. You knew he couldn’t hear the exact meaning behind them, but you could feel that he understood — he always did.

His eyes softened, and there was something unspoken in his gaze that made your chest ache. Kento didn’t need to hear you to feel the depth of your thoughts. He’d always been able to read you, even without the sound of your voice.

He exhaled, taking a moment before speaking again. “And you… You’re all I can see.”

Your heart skipped a beat, the way he said it so simply, so truthfully, made the air around you feel charged. Kento stopped walking, and for a moment, you both stood still, the only movement being the gentle pull of the river’s current.

“The rest of the world….” he continued, his voice low but steady. “It’s gray. Empty. But you… You’re vivid. You’re technicolor. You’re… everything.”

He trailed off, and a faint flush spread across his cheeks, but it was the quietest of moments, where the world felt like it had paused to let those words sink in. Kento’s voice was always steady, but now, there was a soft vulnerability in it, a quiet tenderness that made your chest tighten with something you couldn’t quite name.

Your fingers squeezed his, and your heart felt full, full in a way that only moments like this — quiet, soft, and real — could make you feel.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. There was nothing more needed. The weight of the world could wait. In that instant, you both had each other. And that, in this broken world, was everything.

The two of you stood there for a moment, the world silent around you, but the connection between you both felt louder than anything else. The emptiness of the world, the stillness that had replaced what was once alive, couldn’t touch the bond between you. It was as if time itself had slowed to give you both this moment — this quiet, profound space where nothing else mattered.

You didn’t need to hear him to understand how deeply he cared. You could feel it in the way his hand held yours, steady and strong, as though he would never let go. You could feel it in the softness of his gaze, in the way he looked at you like you were something irreplaceable, something worth protecting in this broken world. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t empty. It was full of everything that had never needed to be said.

And he didn’t need you to see it to know the same. The way you leaned into him, the way your presence filled the space between you, made it clear. He saw everything in your small, quiet gestures, in the way you trusted him, in the way your fingers curled around him like they had always belonged there. You didn’t have to speak to tell him that he was everything to you. He felt it, loud and clear, through the warmth of your touch, the stillness of your eyes.

It was a rare kind of quiet. One that was full of everything that mattered more than anything else. The world around you had long since been swallowed by shadows, but here, in this moment, with him by your side, it was like you had created a new world of your own. One that couldn’t be broken, even by the silence, even by the ruin.

It wasn’t about what was lost. It was about what you still had. And, for now, that was enough.

You stood there beside him, the silence enveloping the two of you, and something about the stillness felt like the perfect moment to say the words that had been lingering in your heart for so long. Your voice was soft, almost as if you were afraid the world would swallow your words before they could reach him.

“I’m… I’m really happy, you know?” you said, turning your face toward him, the warmth of his hand still holding yours. “I’m happy that I’m here with you. Even in all this… darkness. Even when everything’s falling apart. I’m happy to have you by my side.”

Kento blinked, his caramel eyes softening as he looked down at you, his hand squeezing yours just a little tighter. He didn’t say anything, just waited for you to continue, but you could feel the weight of his gaze, a silent invitation for you to speak your heart.

“I know that if the darkness ever… consumes me….” you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper. “I’d want to have you with me again. In the next life. I’d want you to be by my side, even then. Even if everything was different.”

Kento’s brow furrowed, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes as he processed your words. His voice came out in a soft, almost unsure tone, “Even if I look bad? If I’m different…?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes, always.” you said, your voice steady, unwavering. “It doesn’t matter. I’d still be happy to sit beside you. No matter what. Even if you were just… a rock I had to carry. I’d be happy.”

His lips parted slightly, and for a moment, it seemed like he was struggling to find the words. But there was something in his eyes. It was a mixture of gratitude and something deeper, something almost vulnerable — that made your heart flutter.

He pulled you a little closer, his hand cradling yours gently, and his voice, when it came, was softer than you’d ever heard it. “I don’t need to be anything else, then. I’ll be your rock, as long as you’ll have me. You’ll never have to carry me alone.”

You smiled, a small, quiet thing, but it was enough. Enough for both of you to know that no matter what this broken world threw at you, you had each other. And that, in the end, was more than enough.

And if you did find yourselves reborn, in another life where everything was new and different, you'd carry this with you. The love, the quiet moments, and the promise to always be there, side by side.

══════════════════

ONLY DARK DAYS TRULY CAME AND WENT, EVEN IF YOUR SPIRITS WERE HIGH. The days had grown darker again. The curses had become more relentless, their presence more suffocating.

It wasn’t just the way they twisted and tore through the remnants of civilization, but the way they seemed to feed off the very air. It was as if the fear, pain, and grief of those still left in the world had reached a boiling point.

Kento’s face had hardened with the growing realization that the curses had started to evolve. They were bigger now, more dangerous, more ferocious than ever before. It wasn’t just that the world had broken.

It was that the darkness was feeding off every lost soul, every fragment of hope that had been shattered along the way. It was as though every bit of suffering, every tear, was fueling the very monsters that stalked the earth.

He glanced at you, his expression grim but resolute, as you both stood in the ruins of what had once been a safe place. The walls around you had cracked and splintered, the air thick with the residue of battles fought and lost. Both of you were bruised and bloodied, wounds that had become all too familiar over time.

“They’re getting stronger, I fear.” Kento murmured, his voice tight with the weight of the words. He was staring into the distance, eyes clouded with concern. “The curses… I think they’re feeding off the grief. The fear. The pain. It’s like… it’s escalating. The world’s been broken, and now it’s feeding them.”

You didn’t need to say anything. The truth was written on your face — and in every ache in your body, every breath that rattled in your chest. The world was closing in, suffocating you both. The curses weren’t just hunting anymore. They were becoming the shadows that swallowed everything.

You looked at Kento, your eyes hollow from exhaustion, and the weight of your thoughts threatened to drown you. Maybe this is the end, you thought. It was hard to escape the creeping feeling that all of it — the fighting, the running, the hope you both clung to. It might soon slip through your fingers like sand.

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep doing this…” you whispered, your voice betraying the fear you tried so hard to suppress.

You could feel your heart hammering in your chest, and despite everything, you could still hear the silent, insistent whisper of doubt clawing at you. Is this how it ends?

Kento turned toward you, his gaze softening, though his own fear was buried deep beneath the surface. He took a slow breath, as though trying to steady both of you with the quiet strength he always carried.

His hand found yours, and though the grip was firm, it carried an unspoken promise. That no matter how bad things got, he would never let you face it alone.

“I don’t know either, I really….” he said quietly, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. He stops himself before nodding with resolve. “But we’ll face it together. We’ve made it this far, right? Even when things got hard. We’ll keep going… Whatever comes next, we’ll deal with it. Together. Okay?”

You nodded back at him. But even his words, as reassuring as they were, couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was closing in. The curses were out there, bigger and angrier than ever, and the weight of it pressed down harder with every passing moment. Still, Kento held your hand tightly, as if his touch could be the anchor in this storm.

But deep inside, you couldn’t help the growing fear.

What if this was the end? What if there was no more fight left in the both of you?

Would the darkness truly, finally swallow everything that had been?

As you held tighter to him, letting him be close to you, letting his warmth rule your cold fingers — you prayed to whatever god there is. You pray that It wasn’t the end yet. You hadn’t given up yet. You prayed for more time. You prayed and you prayed.

But you know that perhaps there was no god.

And everything was a miracle that had run out of luck.

Yet, even then, you found yourself holding firm.

If this was the final stretch, if the end was truly coming… You would face it together. No matter how hard it got. You have to. You will not part from Nanami Kento, not in this life. Not in the next. You would not let that happen. Not ever.

Kento’s hand tightened around yours, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. The sudden screech of a curse, followed by the sounds of pounding footsteps, cut through the air, and your heart seized with panic.

Before you could process what was happening, Kento was already moving, urging you forward with him. You stumbled behind him, trying to match his pace, but every part of you screamed in terror, the distant snarls of the curses closing in, faster than you'd ever imagined.

Your breath came in short, ragged gasps, your heart hammering against your chest like it was trying to break free. The world blurred around you — not just because of the adrenaline, but because you couldn’t see the way Kento could. You could only hear them coming.

The deafening sounds of claws scraping against stone, of hissing, snarling voices, and the unmistakable thud of massive feet hitting the ground. Fear blossomed in the pit of your stomach, threatening to overwhelm you.

The noise behind you grew louder, closer, and you felt your body freezing in place for a brief moment, the weight of it all trying to drag you under. Kento’s voice cut through the panic, steady and firm, pulling you from the storm of your thoughts.

“Don’t fear it.” he said, his tone strong but gentle, like a lifeline thrown into the chaos. “I’m with you. Trust me.”

His grip on your hand tightened, a silent promise that he would never let you go. You could feel the reassurance in the way his fingers locked with yours, as if he was willing you to find courage again, even when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

You barely had a chance to respond before he looked over at you, his brow furrowed in intensity. “Do you trust me?” His voice was clear and unwavering, despite the chaos surrounding you.

You swallowed hard, your breath shaky but steadying as you forced yourself to focus on his words. His presence was grounding, the only thing that remained familiar in this world of terror. You nodded, gripping his hand even tighter, your voice raw but certain.

“I do.”

It wasn’t just a promise; it was a truth that felt like it was carved into you, deep into your bones. In a world that had been shattered, Kento was the one thing you knew you could count on.

“Then we’re getting out of this.” he said, his voice low but filled with an unshakable confidence. “I swear to you.”

Without waiting for a response, he pulled you forward, running faster than before. You focused on matching his steps, not daring to think about what might be behind you. Every part of your body screamed to stop, but you held onto the certainty that Kento was right beside you, leading you through the storm. The curses were closing in, but you didn’t have to face them alone.

You and Kento barely made it to the clearing, your breath ragged and desperate as the curses closed in behind you. But to your horror, it wasn’t just a safe haven. The place had been overtaken by the same dark creatures that had been chasing you. The curses were everywhere — larger, more monstrous, their grotesque forms looming in the distance, ready to swallow everything in their path.

There was no escape.

There was nowhere to run.

This was it.

You felt the ground beneath you tremble as the curses’ twisted forms approached, a guttural, bone-rattling growl filling the air. Your heart pounded in your chest as you looked around, panic setting in. But then your eyes found a sharp metal pipe on the ground. Without thinking, you scrambled toward it, adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Before you could grip it tightly, however, Kento was already there. His hand shot out, grabbing the pipe before you could. His movements were swift, but there was a sharpness to his focus that only came from years of training, years of survival in a world that had long lost its sense of safety.

With a swift motion, Kento swung the pipe toward the nearest curse, the metal screeching through the air as he lashed out. He was a blur of controlled force, using every bit of his strength to push back against the wave of curses.

You could feel the shape of his mouth, his jaw tight as he screamed, though the sound was lost in the chaos. His breath came in harsh gasps, sweat dripping down his face as he fought to keep the monsters at bay.

But it wasn’t enough.

It was never going to be enough.

Time had run out.

Kento’s movements slowed, exhaustion and pain taking over as the curses relentlessly advanced. He stumbled, his knees buckling beneath him, and in that moment, it was clear, the battle was too much. Overwhelmed, he fell to the ground, landing hard against the cracked earth.

You rushed to him, heart dropping into your stomach as you knelt beside him. The curses were drawing closer, their forms massive and powerful. Fear rushed through you, but you refused to leave him.

You took his hand, his fingers trembling as they grasped yours. The world around you felt like it was closing in, the suffocating weight of everything pressing down on you both.

Kento’s face was deathly pale, his body trembling as he lay there, clearly drained. But he didn’t let go of your hand. He clung to it like a lifeline, his eyes flicking to you as though searching for something — anything — to hold onto.

Tears welled in your ghostly eyes as you held his hand tightly, trying to be strong for him even as your heart shattered. The curses continued to grow, becoming more monstrous, their bodies glowing with an ominous, fiery light. The world around you seemed to twist and ripple, the air thick with the stench of their power.

Without thinking, you leaned down, your hand moving to gently cover Kento’s eyes. The light from the curses was blinding, and you didn’t want him to see it — the chaos, the terror, the overwhelming explosion of destruction that was coming. You didn’t want him to see the world collapsing around you.

A tear slid down your cheek as you held your hand over his eyes, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your fingers. You could hear his soft, ragged breath beneath you, the quiet tremor in his body as he clung to you, needing you just as much as you needed him.

“I’m here.” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the growing chaos. “I’m here with you, Kento. Always.”

Kento’s grip on your hand tightened even more, and you could feel the wetness on his cheek where a tear had slipped down. He was scared, just like you were. But in that moment, all you could do was hold him, hold onto each other, as the world seemed to shatter around you.

The curses were growing, the air crackling with their power. You didn’t know how much longer you had. But in this moment, as Kento’s trembling form pressed against you, you felt a quiet resolve settle in your chest. No matter what came next, you would face it together. You would never let go. Never, never never—

The moment stretched on, suspended in the chaos, as time seemed to slow. The curses were closing in, their eerie glow illuminating the world around you, painting everything in hues of fire and decay.

Their twisted, grotesque forms swayed like shadows, blotting out everything that once was beautiful. There was no escape now. You could feel the cold, suffocating weight of the inevitability pressing down on you both.

But in the midst of it all, in the suffocating grip of the approaching darkness, you held onto Kento as if he were the only thing that made sense in this broken world. His hand, though trembling, was still strong in yours, anchoring you in a reality where the two of you existed. It was where love still mattered, even if the world had crumbled around you.

You could feel the heat from the curses, the air thick with their power, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you drew him closer, pulling him into your embrace as if to shield him, even though you both knew there was no way to protect each other from the inevitable.

The space between you vanished, leaving only the steady thrum of your heartbeats, both wildly racing in their own way. Your pulse was loud, drowning out the sound of everything else.

His face was near yours, the pain in his eyes apparent but mixed with something else. A sense of peace. A quiet acceptance, as though the words you had shared were all that mattered now.

“I love you.” you whispered, the words slipping from your lips like a prayer.

Your heart was raw, wide open, vulnerable in a way it had never been before. You couldn’t hold back anymore. You couldn’t pretend that you weren’t afraid, that you didn’t fear the end. But with him here, with his presence filling your world, you knew that you had lived a life worth living.

Kento’s gaze softened as he looked into your eyes, and for a fleeting moment, it was as if the chaos outside melted away. His hand, now pressed firmly against your chest, was the only thing you could feel. His breath, warm against your skin, was all you needed.

His words were soft, but they carried the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. “I love you too.” he said, voice cracking just slightly. “I always have.”

The words hit you like a wave, sweeping away any lingering doubt. The world might have been breaking around you, but here, in this moment, with his hand in yours and his body against yours. Nothing else truly ever mattered. No curses. No impending doom. Nothing. Just him. Just you. Just the love of his life.

And even as the ground shook beneath you, even as the curses closed in, your hearts beat together, a rhythm of shared understanding. It was the final, beautiful connection in a world that had forgotten what peace felt like. The darkness outside didn’t matter. It couldn’t touch the bond you shared, not even in its final moments.

Kento’s eyes, though filled with fear, also held a quiet determination. He wasn’t going to leave you. Not without making sure you knew. Not without making sure you both had one last, shared moment of peace. His grip on you tightened, as though trying to hold onto you with every ounce of strength he had left. He didn’t need to say more. His actions spoke volumes.

“I’ll always be with you.” he whispered, the promise hanging in the air like a fragile thread, one that neither of you were ready to break, even if the world around you was collapsing.

You pressed your forehead against his, the world fading into the background as the reality of the moment settled in. This was where you were meant to be. And no matter what happened next, you knew you’d be okay as long as you were together.

The world around you seemed to close in, the curses drawing nearer with each passing second. The ground beneath you cracked and groaned as though it, too, could feel the weight of the inevitable end.

But in that small, fragile bubble between you and Kento, time stretched out, holding you in a quiet eternity. Everything else blurred and dimmed, leaving only the two of you, holding onto each other as tightly as you could.

His breath was shallow now, but it was still there, still warm against your skin. You could feel the faint tremor in his hand as it grasped yours, the weight of the world pressing down on him, just as it was on you.

Yet, even in this moment of impending loss, there was a strange kind of peace. The peace that came from knowing that you had found someone who truly understood you — someone who had walked with you through the darkest of times and had never once turned away.

“I don’t want this.” you whispered, your voice trembling, but it was a truth you couldn’t hide. "I don't want to leave you, Kento. Not like this. I don’t even have a name.”

Kento’s eyes fluttered shut, his forehead still resting against yours, his voice soft but steady. “I don’t want it either. But we’ve come so far. We’ve been through hell together... and even if this is where it ends, I’m glad it was with you. I’m glad it was with someone who understood me.”

Your heart felt as though it might burst, the love you felt for him growing beyond what words could express. The gravity of the moment hung in the air between you, but instead of feeling like a heavy weight, it felt like a lightness, a quiet acceptance of the journey you’d shared. There was no regret. There was no what ifs. There was no hesitation. Just the certainty of love.

And then, in the silence, you heard it. Not the sound of the curses or the chaos surrounding you, but a faint, barely perceptible shift. The ground rumbled, and for a split second, it seemed as though the air had thickened. It was a strange kind of stillness that felt almost like a breath held in the universe itself.

“Love.” He whispers to you, causing you to look at him. “That’s your name.”

You could feel the tears rush from your ghostly orbs. “Thats….That’s a beautiful name.”

“Yeah, it is.” Kento smiles at you, tears too rushing down his face. It's warm orifice falls on your hand. “Because it’s who you are. My love.”

You couldn’t breathe as you pulled him closer to you, tears rushing more than ever before. “I know.”

You felt Kento’s grip tighten, his voice a whisper against your ear. “We’re not alone, are we?”

A strange energy seemed to pulse through the air, vibrating with intensity. You couldn’t see it, but you could feel it. Something was changing. Something was happening. It was something you couldn’t quite place, but it was there. The curses loomed closer, but in that moment, you felt... something else. The possibility of something more.

It was then that you realized — you hadn’t given up. Even if it was the end, there was still courage in you. You had held onto each other so tightly, to the very end, that maybe, just maybe, that love was powerful enough to change things.

The world outside might have been consumed by the darkness, but in this small, intimate space, the light between you was enough to push back the overwhelming weight of the curse. You looked at Kento, his caramel eyes shining even in the face of the inevitable. He was holding you. He was still there, still fighting with you. And that was enough.

“Maybe we’re not meant to go out like this,” you whispered, almost as if speaking the thought aloud would make it real. “Maybe... maybe we get another chance.”

He presses a kiss on your temple. “Maybe in another life, my love.”

Kento met your ghostly gaze, his eyes soft with a mixture of hope and acceptance. He didn’t speak, but the way his thumb traced circles against your palm told you everything you needed to know. Even in the face of the world’s destruction, in the face of everything that had been lost, you were still together.

And maybe, just maybe, that was all you needed to face whatever came next.

The curses grew louder, their grotesque forms now within arm’s reach, but there was no fear left.

You had each other. And that was more than enough.

A camera glimmers in the silence of the rubble.

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