#and its more quiet than it is in the game

[carnalcrows]

LAVENDER'S BLUE

summary: You weren’t supposed to be seen. But one night, one dance, and one stolen look from a boy you didn’t know was a prince changes everything. Now the kingdom is looking for you—and you have to decide if you’re brave enough to be found.

pairing: prince charming! gojo saturo x cinderella! male reader

content warnings: 18+, romance, fluff, angst, smut (oral + p in a), bottom male reader, signs of abuse, reader has chronic back pain, rats.

word count: 9.0k --- spotify playlist

best viewed in dark mode

There’s a quiet to the attic that doesn’t exist anywhere else in the house.

It settles after midnight, when the girls are done with their games and their laughter has thinned to silence. When your stepfather’s footsteps stop echoing through the halls. When the fire burns low and the wine is gone, and there’s no one left to perform cruelty for.

It’s only then that the house exhales—and you can breathe.

You sit on the floorboards beside the bucket you haven’t emptied yet. The rag in your hands is damp, skin-roughening with soot. It’s not a real task, not something that anyone told you to do. You just needed something to keep your hands busy. Something that gives shape to the hours between darkness and dawn.

Your fingers are raw. Your knees ache. There’s ash on your sleeves and a splinter in your thumb, but you don’t mind. The attic is cold, yes, but it’s yours. Or at least—it's the one place no one else bothers to climb. That counts for something.

You glance toward the slanted window tucked beneath the roofline. The sky is silver. Cloudless. The moon stares back at you like it knows something you don’t.

You lower your eyes before it can say anything out loud.

⋆｡°✩

There are mice in the attic. They keep their distance.

You’ve never named them—not out loud—but they come and go often enough that you’ve started to recognise them. One of them is missing a patch of fur behind the ear. One always carries crumbs bigger than its body. One skitters in tight circles before settling, like it needs to outrun its own shadow.

You think they must be cold too. Winter came early this year, and the insulation in the upper floors is barely more than memory. The girls have fireplaces and velvet robes. You have a blanket that smells like dust and the long sleeves of your mother’s old shirt, which you’re not supposed to wear but do anyway, under your tunic. Hidden. Just for warmth.

Sometimes, the mice come closer when you hum under your breath. You pretend it’s a coincidence.

⋆｡°✩

The house used to be warm. You remember it that way—brief flashes of your mother’s hands kneading dough in the kitchen, her voice humming off-key while she watered the herb pots by the windows. Back then, the floors didn’t creak like they were grieving, and sunlight used to touch the corners of the room without shame.

Now, it’s Geto’s house. Not in name, maybe, but in power. His daughters move through the rooms like they were born from silk and contempt. They call you by your name when they need something scrubbed, but otherwise, you’re “him.” Or worse.

You used to try to win them over. You tried for a long time.

And then you stopped.

Now you keep your head down and your back straight. You work quickly, quietly. You sleep with your door locked. You speak only when spoken to, and not even always then.

There is safety in silence.

⋆｡°✩

The announcement comes over burnt toast and tea that tastes like bark.

You’re not meant to sit at the table, but Mimiko was too distracted by her own reflection this morning to complain, and Geto likes to pretend he doesn’t see you unless he’s scolding you. You’ve learned to drift along the edges of the room—quiet, invisible, but still useful.

“There’s to be a royal ball,” Geto says, flipping the parchment open with a lazy flick of his fingers. “Every eligible noble and commoner invited. Apparently, the prince is looking to marry.”

You don’t react. You butter the toast without looking up.

Nanako lets out a delighted gasp. “A royal ball! Father, we’ll go, won’t we? We’ll need gowns. Jewels. A carriage—”

“Slow down, sweetheart,” Geto replies, folding the parchment again. “There’ll be time.”

“He shouldn’t go,” Mimiko chimes in suddenly, her voice sickly sweet. “He’ll be there. Can you imagine?” She turns to you with a sharp smile. “You, in the presence of royalty? You’d embarrass the kingdom.”

There’s a pause. Just long enough for the moment to sting.

You don’t look at her. You nod, eyes fixed on your plate. You’ve become good at that—at swallowing down every little hurt before it blooms.

“That’s settled then,” Geto says, as if he were the one being mocked. “He stays home.”

You don’t ask who’ll clean the house before they leave. You already know.

⋆｡°✩

That night, you find yourself standing at the attic window again, forehead pressed to the glass.

It’s a habit you picked up as a child—watching the moonlight slip across the world while you imagined someone, anyone, looking back.

You used to tell yourself that one day, someone would. That someone would see you and know you. Not as a servant. Not as an afterthought. But as a person with a name, and a voice, and a heart that beats just as loudly as anyone else’s.

You don’t really believe that anymore.

But you watch the moon anyway.

Just in case.

The morning after the announcement, the house becomes unbearable.

There are fabric samples strewn across every chair. Shoeboxes lining the hallway. Perfumed letters arriving by raven—twice, even thrice a day. Mimiko and Nanako move through the rooms like glittering tornadoes, screeching over colour palettes and necklines, screaming at seamstresses who pretend not to flinch.

You scrub the floors while they argue about lace.

They barely notice you anymore. You’re just the shape that keeps the house polished. A pair of hands. A name they speak only when something’s spilt.

You try not to mind.

You’ve had practice.

⋆｡°✩

Geto brings in a mirror the size of a door and installs it in the dining room. “For fittings,” he says, waving off the servants as if he weren’t one once himself.

He stands behind his daughters as they twirl and pout, appraising them like fine art he expects someone else to purchase. He corrects posture. Adjusts wrists. Tells Mimiko she’s standing like a peasant. Tells Nanako she’s gaining weight.

You fold linens in the corner and try not to breathe too loudly.

He never looks at you. But you feel his disapproval anyway. It clings to your skin like ash.

⋆｡°✩

The day of the ball arrives like frost.

You wake before the sun, dress in silence, and sweep the staircases before anyone else opens their doors. There’s a rhythm to it now—scrub, rinse, repeat. The ache in your spine is familiar and comforting in its own small way. Pain, at least, is consistent.

By noon, the house smells like citrus oil and powdered sugar. The dresses are hung. The carriage is polished. Everything is perfect.

Except for you.

You stand by the front hall with the box of hairpins still in your hands as Geto makes his final inspection.

He nods once, satisfied. Then turns to you.

“You’ll stay here,” he says flatly. “Don’t open the windows. Don’t leave the house. And for heaven’s sake, stay out of sight.”

You nod. Of course.

The carriage pulls away.

And just like that—you’re alone again.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t cry.

You’re not a child anymore. You don’t believe in being rescued, and you don’t believe in magic. This world is a hard, cold thing, and there’s no use wishing it weren’t.

Still.

You wander through the empty rooms with the kind of quiet you imagine the dead must carry. Your hands drag across polished bannisters, past doorknobs and glass and velvet cushions that were never meant for you.

In the sitting room, a single slice of cake sits abandoned on a tray.

You don’t touch it.

Instead, you climb the stairs. Past the bedrooms. Past the locked study. All the way up to the top. To the attic. To the place you belong.

And when you close the door behind you, the weight settles over your shoulders like it always does—familiar and heavy.

But tonight, it feels just a little bit heavier.

Maybe because you let yourself imagine it.

Just for a moment.

⋆｡°✩

The sound comes just before nightfall.

A knocking—no, not quite. More like a sharp pop, a crack of air and wind and something older than both. It echoes, muffled, through the floorboards beneath your feet.

You freeze.

It happens again. Then silence.

You step cautiously toward the window, half expecting thunder, or maybe fireworks from the palace.

But the sky is clear. The world is still.

And the only thing staring back at you is the moon.

⋆｡°✩

The sound doesn’t come again.

You wait for it. Still, as the dust motes floated in the dying light. Ears strained. Eyes fixed on the floor, as if the silence might shift again, rupture again, give you some kind of sign.

But there’s nothing.

Just your own breath. Just the wind outside, curling soft fingers against the attic window. Just the ache in your knees, the sting in your wrists. The familiar weight of another evening with nowhere to go.

You stand there for a long time.

You think—maybe you imagined it.

Maybe that’s just what happens, when hope slips through the cracks of your ribs and you don’t catch it in time.

You move to sit down.

That’s when the second knock comes.

Not from below. Not from outside. But from within the attic.

From behind the wall.

You freeze.

Not a ghost. You don’t believe in those.

Not a thief. What kind of thief breaks into the attic?

There’s a creaking, low and almost…exhausted. Like the wood itself is trying to speak. Like something ancient is being disturbed, pulled awake by the wrong hands.

And then—

A sigh.

You swear you hear a sigh.

Soft. Dry. Slightly annoyed.

“Alright,” comes a voice. Flat. Unimpressed. “That’s enough dramatics. Move.”

You backpedal so fast you knock over the bucket.

The rag hits the floor with a slap. Water spills into the cracks between the boards. You don’t even look at it. You’re too busy staring at the corner of the attic that had definitely been empty before.

It isn’t empty now.

There’s a woman.

Or—at least you think she’s a woman. Her robes are a little too long and mismatched, and there’s a cigarette tucked between her fingers despite the fact that the chimney doesn’t reach this far. Her boots are muddy. Her expression is somewhere between world-weary and mildly inconvenienced.

She looks like she’s been late to every appointment she’s ever had and hasn’t felt guilty about a single one.

And she’s standing in your attic like she owns it.

You open your mouth to speak.

She beats you to it.

“Don’t scream,” she says, not unkindly. “You’ll scare the mice.”

You don’t scream.

You don’t move either.

Which is probably for the best, because she’s already walking toward you like this is normal. Like you’re the one intruding.

“I was aiming for the cellar,” she mutters. “But nooo, the magic said ‘aim for the heart of the house,’ and look where that got me. Dust in my lungs and you looking like you’ve seen a ghost.”

You finally manage to find your voice. Sort of.

“Who—”

“Shoko,” she says, waving a hand as if that answers anything. “Let’s skip the dramatic introductions, yeah? I’m on a deadline.”

You stare.

She exhales through her nose, then gives you the same look someone might give a plant that’s taking too long to grow.

“You’re him,” she says, lighting the cigarette with a flick of her fingers. No flint. No match. Just…fire, like it was waiting for her.

You don’t answer.

“Don’t do that,” she says. “Don’t look at me like you’ve never seen someone make a dramatic entrance before. I thought all you attic-dwelling waifs lived for theatrics.”

You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know who you are.”

Shoko tilts her head.

“Well, no,” she says. “Not yet.”

⋆｡°✩

“You’ve got the look,” she says, nudging a cobweb out of the way with the back of her hand. “The quiet sort. Watches windows. Hums to keep from screaming.”

You’re still not speaking.

She sits down without asking. Cross-legged right on the attic floor like she wasn’t conjured into existence five seconds ago. Her cigarette smoke spirals toward the beams and settles around her like a crown of ash.

“I know what this is,” you finally say, voice quiet. “You’re a dream.”

Shoko snorts. “God, I wish.”

You don’t answer. The bucket of water seeps closer to your heel, a cold bloom against the wood. You stare at it. At her.

She doesn’t blink.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” she says, softer now. Not gentle, but closer. Like she’s trying. “I’m here to help.”

You shift your weight. Not quite toward her. Not quite away.

“Why?”

She flicks ash from the tip of her cigarette. It disappears before it hits the ground.

“Because you deserve it.”

You blink.

She goes on. “I’m not saying that in the philosophical, vague-fairy-tale sense. I mean it in the plain, unromantic, real-world way. You’ve done the work. You’ve survived. You’ve kept your heart from going sour even when it would’ve been easier to let it rot.”

You laugh. It’s small and brittle.

“I don’t think anyone would call me kind.”

“I didn’t say kind,” she says. “I said whole. You still have a piece of yourself that no one’s broken. That’s more than most.”

She says it so casually that it takes you a second to understand she meant it as a compliment.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You sit, slowly. She watches, but doesn’t comment.

The floor creaks beneath you. The attic is very still.

She speaks again. “Do you want to leave?”

It’s such a simple question.

Do you want to leave?

You stare at her. Your tongue feels thick.

“I can’t.”

She shrugs. “Didn’t ask if you could.”

You swallow.

“I want—” you start, then stop. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Sure you do,” she says, ashing the cigarette onto nothing. “You’ve just been taught not to say it.”

Your hands twist in your lap. She waits.

You say it like it hurts.

“I want to go. Just once. I want to be in a room where no one looks at me like I’m something to step over. I want to be wanted, just for a night. I want to know what it feels like to be seen.”

Shoko nods.

You stare at her. “That’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” she says. “That’s a wish.”

⋆｡°✩

The air shifts.

It’s subtle—but you feel it. Like the attic exhales again, but this time with purpose. Something loosens in the walls, in the dark, in the shadows that have been your only company for years.

Shoko stands.

She snuffs out her cigarette on her palm. No mark. No burn.

When she speaks again, her voice is something older.

Not louder. Not deeper. But ancient. Measured. Like the moment you speak it aloud, it’ll echo.

“Then let’s give you your night.”

⋆｡°✩

She doesn’t wave a wand.

There’s no burst of glitter, no chorus, no sudden wind that tosses your hair back and makes your heart race. Nothing theatrical. Nothing pretty.

Instead, Shoko simply raises one hand—palm open—and exhales.

And the attic breathes with her.

The shadows bend first. Not away from the light, but toward it, curling like they’re waking up from a long sleep. The corners of the room soften, then blur, then ripple like heat above flame. Your breath catches in your throat.

There’s a sound, like thread pulling from cloth. And then—

Light. Dim at first. Then rising, warm and heavy like honey poured slow over your skin.

You don’t flinch.

You can’t.

It wraps around you. Not tight. Not painful. But thorough. Like it’s measuring. Weighing. Choosing.

Your shirt dissolves at the cuffs. Not burns—dissolves, the fabric unspooling into the air like mist. You lift your hands, startled, and they don’t feel like your hands anymore.

Shoko hums. “You’re lucky. Some people resist it. You—you’re letting it in.”

You blink at her, mouth dry. “Letting what in?”

She looks at you then, really looks, and says:

“Yourself.”

⋆｡°✩

The clothes build themselves, stitch by stitch.

It starts at your collarbones—warmth, pressure, then silk. Deep charcoal, almost black, but edged in silver so fine it could be moonlight. It fits perfectly, even before it finishes forming. Like it knew the shape of you before you did.

The sleeves wrap next—long, smooth, elegant. A flash of something translucent near the cuffs. Not ruffles, but something more fluid, like smoke in fabric form.

A jacket follows. Trimmed with silver thread, small accents that catch the dying light from the attic window. The kind of detail no mirror would ever see, but someone who was looking at you—really looking—might.

Your boots reform around your feet. Soft. Sleek. Practical enough to run in, but elegant enough to be remembered.

You don’t know how to breathe.

Shoko watches.

The final piece is a brooch—small, just over your heart. A pin in the shape of a crescent moon. Not garish. Not royal. Just… honest.

“I don’t understand,” you murmur, voice catching.

She doesn’t smile, but her voice is kind when she answers. “You don’t have to. Just wear it like you do.”

⋆｡°✩

The light fades.

The attic returns.

But you don’t.

You’re still you, but taller somehow. Straighter. Shoulders set. Like the weight hasn’t disappeared—but you’ve finally grown strong enough to carry it.

Your hands shake.

You press them against your chest. The fabric beneath your fingertips is real.

“I’m not supposed to be there,” you whisper.

Shoko flicks her cigarette back into her fingers and lights it with a snap.

“You’re supposed to be wherever you want to be,” she replies. “And tonight? You’re going.”

⋆｡°✩

You turn toward the attic stairs.

“Wait,” she says, and you freeze.

She tosses something into your hands.

Shoes.

Polished leather. Silver-buckled. Sleek, precise. The kind of shoes made for palace floors, not soot-stained attics. You run your thumbs over them. They’re real. Solid. One is slightly warmer than the other, like it’s holding onto something the world hasn’t seen yet.

“Enchanted?” you ask softly.

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “One of them.”

You blink. “Just one?”

She shrugs. “You only need one to be remembered.”

⋆｡°✩

The carriage waits at the edge of the estate.

It wasn’t there before. You would’ve heard it. Seen it. But now it sits beneath the moonlight like it’s always belonged—quiet, waiting, wheels perfectly clean despite the muddy road.

You don’t ask questions.

Shoko didn’t explain where it came from, and you didn’t ask.

You step down from the attic, cross the now-silent halls in a suit that doesn’t touch the floor when you move. The house doesn’t know you anymore. The wallpaper doesn’t sneer. The stairs don’t groan in protest. Even the silence has changed—it watches you now, instead of swallowing you whole.

You don’t look back.

Not at the staircase. Not at Geto’s study. Not at the kitchen where you used to stand barefoot and bleeding. That life still lives here, but you’ve stepped out of its skin.

For one night.

The coachman doesn’t speak. He tips his hat. The door opens. You climb in.

And the wheels turn toward the palace.

It’s farther than you thought.

You’ve seen it only from a distance—sharp spires against the horizon, gold-glass windows catching the sun like a promise. But up close, it’s something else entirely. Too large. Too luminous. The kind of place that exists outside time.

You step out into torchlight and laughter.

Music filters through marble arches. Strings and woodwinds. A swell of something grand, something old. People in silks and satin flow up the staircase like water—gloved hands, high collars, laughter polished and practised.

You shouldn’t be here.

But you are.

And no one stops you.

⋆｡°✩

The ballroom doors are wide open.

No guards. No fanfare. Just an invitation in the shape of light.

You cross the threshold on steady legs.

The floor is mirrored marble. Chandeliers drip crystal firelight. The ceiling stretches into a painted sky—cherubs and constellations you don’t recognise.

No one looks at you.

And somehow, that’s worse than the mocking would’ve been.

You drift along the edges at first. One step. Then another. A glass in your hand that you didn’t ask for. A compliment tossed over someone’s shoulder, not meant for you but close enough to sting.

And then—

He enters.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t see his face at first.

Just the way the room bends.

People part. Eyes turn. Laughter softens into interest. Not fear. Not awe. Just something deeper. Like gravity. Like inevitability.

And then he steps forward, and you understand.

White hair, sharp-cut and careless. A smile that looks carved into something ancient and shining. His coat is midnight blue, collar open just enough to be casual, cuffs rolled as if he’s already done dancing and plans to do it again.

There are jewels on half the people here. Gold on everyone else.

But he doesn’t need either.

He is the light in the room.

You don’t know his name.

You don’t even realise he’s looking at you until it’s too late to look away.

⋆｡°✩

You try to look away first.

That’s your mistake.

Because now he knows.

You’re not sure how you know he knows—but you do. It's in the tilt of his head. The slight quirk at the corner of his mouth. Like your gaze didn’t just find him, but called him.

And he’s answering.

He moves through the crowd like it was always meant to part for him. Not fast. Not eager. Just easy. Certain. As if he’s done this a hundred times before and always ends up here.

At you.

Your throat is dry. Your hand tightens around the glass you never drank from.

He stops in front of you.

Up close, he’s worse. Or better. You can’t decide.

His eyes are bright—too bright. The kind of blue people write songs about and then spend the rest of their lives trying to forget. His hair is a mess of silver and moonlight, and his smile is almost too much. Like he knows it is, and uses it anyway.

He glances down at your untouched drink.

Then back up at you.

“Not your thing?” he asks, voice low, amused. Not mocking. Not yet.

You manage a reply. “Wasn’t thirsty.”

“Lucky me,” he says. “Neither was I.”

He reaches out. Takes the glass from your hand. Places it on a passing tray without looking.

Then he holds his hand out to you.

Just like that.

As if you’ve already said yes.

As if you’ve always said yes.

“Dance with me.”

Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an expectation. A possibility.

You stare at his hand. At the long fingers. The pale wrist. The soft flash of a silver cufflink shaped like a star.

“I don’t know how,” you say quietly.

He leans in, just slightly. Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“That’s alright,” he says. “I do.”

⋆｡°✩

The music isn’t loud.

It doesn’t need to be.

He walks you to the centre of the room like it’s normal. Like every person isn’t watching. Like the marble floor doesn’t ache under your feet, trying to whisper, this isn’t for you.

But he holds your hand like it is.

And when you move—when your feet remember how to follow, when your body remembers joy—he doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t lead you like you’re fragile. He lets you catch up. Lets you breathe.

And when you do—

You start to smile.

Not wide. Not bright. Just a little. Just enough.

But he sees it.

His smile answers yours.

And the world keeps spinning.

⋆｡°✩

The music fades into something slower.

Your chest is still rising too fast, but his hand is steady at your back. He hasn’t let go. Not once.

Every step, every turn, he watches you like there’s no one else in the room. Like this isn’t a palace. Like this isn’t a dance among royals. Like you’re not somewhere you shouldn’t be.

Like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

“Still nervous?” he asks, voice low, just under the violin swell.

You glance up. His smile is soft now. Tilted. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t be.

“I didn’t know it would be this easy,” you say.

He raises a brow. “Dancing?”

“Being seen.”

He doesn't laugh. Doesn't look away. Instead, he slows you to a stop, right there in the middle of the floor.

His hand slips from your waist to your wrist.

“Come with me,” he says.

⋆｡°✩

He leads you out through the back hall, past open doors and gilded arches, until the palace swallows its own noise. The music fades behind columns. The warmth of the crowd falls away.

You step into a quiet corridor, and then—

A garden.

Not the one guests passed through. This is smaller. Older. Half-forgotten. Wild vines along the stone. A cracked marble bench. The scent of lavender and something sweeter underneath—like sugar left in the sun.

It’s moonlit and hidden and yours.

You inhale, and it fills your lungs like a prayer.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod.

He lets go of your wrist but stays close. Too close. You feel his breath near your temple. He’s taller than you’d realised on the dance floor.

“Do you bring all your dance partners here?” you ask, not meaning to sound like anything—but it comes out softer than expected. Curious.

His smile quirks, lazy and real. “Only the ones I want to keep a little longer.”

Your heart kicks once. Stupid thing.

“I’m not exactly... worth remembering.”

He looks at you then, full and unguarded.

“Funny,” he murmurs, “I was just thinking the opposite.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you don’t say anything.

His gaze drops to your mouth. Brief. Barely there.

But your breath stutters anyway.

You want to close the space between you.

He’s already leaning in.

His voice is barely a whisper now.

“What’s your name?”

You hesitate. You’d almost forgotten that you hadn’t given it.

“I—”

DING.

The first chime hits like a stone to the chest.

DONG.

You flinch.

He pulls back, startled.

DING.

“No,” you whisper.

The air shifts. Your jacket tightens. Something in the fabric shudders like it’s remembering itself.

You take a step back.

“I’m sorry.”

“Wait—” he starts, reaching for you.

DONG.

“I have to go,” you say, already turning.

“Wait! At least tell me who—”

DING.

You’re gone.

The night is breaking, and the magic is pulling you with it.

You run.

Not elegantly. Not the way you danced.

This is a stumble-sprint, half-flight down the corridor, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to get back to him. The marble floors blur. Gold columns, oil paintings, half-turned faces in distant rooms—none of it matters now. Only the ache in your chest and the way the air grows heavier with every step.

The magic is unravelling.

You feel it in your sleeves first. The seams loosen. The silver edging at your cuffs begins to smoke and vanish, the way dew fades from a blade of grass. You press your hands to your chest like you can hold it all together—but the fabric keeps melting under your fingers.

The music is gone. The laughter behind you is too far to matter. All that exists is the echo of your boots—no, just one boot now—against the floor.

You don't remember when it happened.

Just that you turned a corner too sharp. That your foot slipped. That something caught for a second and then gave way.

You look down.

Your right foot is bare.

The enchanted shoe is gone.

You double back.

It’s lying on the stairs.

You don’t go back for it.

You can't.

DING.

The ninth chime.

The gold embroidery at your hem vanishes mid-step. The jacket fades, thread by thread, until all you’re left with is the thin, patched tunic underneath—too short now. Yours, but not yours anymore. The magic never fully disguised your body. It just made the weight feel lighter.

You grab the stair railing as the garden doors disappear behind you.

The tenth chime echoes off the stone.

You’re almost at the exit.

You think you hear your name.

Not your real name. Not the one Geto calls you with disdain. But yours. The one only someone who sees you might say.

But it’s too late.

You hit the gravel outside barefoot, panting, lungs burning with cold air and regret.

The eleventh chime splits the sky.

You don’t look back.

⋆｡°✩

Somewhere behind you, he stands at the top of the staircase. His gloves are in his pocket. His coat is unbuttoned. He’s not looking at the crowd.

He’s looking at the stairs.

And the single shoe left waiting.

⋆｡°✩

The twelfth and final chime rings out.

Midnight has come.

And you're already disappearing into the dark.

You wake before the sun.

You always do, but today it feels different.

Not because your body hurts—though it does. Not because the air is cold—though it bites.

But because something inside you is too quiet.

Like your chest has been scrubbed hollow.

The attic doesn’t look any different.

The boards still creak when you shift your weight. The frost still kisses the corners of the glass. The mice still rustle softly in the wall like they don’t know anything has changed.

But it has.

You sit up slowly, fingers curled in the edge of the blanket that isn’t warm enough. Your knees are sore. Your palms sting. The magic’s gone, and it didn’t leave anything for you to hold except—

Your breath catches.

You look down.

There it is.

Nestled at the foot of your bed.

One shoe.

Not both.

Just the right one.

Silver-buckled. Unscuffed. A quiet gleam to the leather that doesn’t belong to this world.

The matching pair had vanished with the rest of the suit. But this one stayed.

Of course it did.

You don’t touch it.

Not yet.

You just stare.

Your chest tightens slowly, like the ache has to rebuild itself from the edges in.

You replay the night in pieces.

The ballroom. The music. The boy with the moonlight grin and the storm in his eyes. The garden. His hand on your back. His voice, soft and certain, asking for your name like he’d keep it safe.

You wonder if he’s looking for you.

You wonder if he’s still at the top of those stairs.

You wonder if he’ll know you now, in patched sleeves and soot-stained soles.

If he’d want to.

You press the heel of your hand into your chest, hard.

Just to feel something.

⋆｡°✩

Far from the attic, in a palace where the candles never burn low, a king lies dying.

Not with drama. Not with blood or fury or breathless speeches. Just… slowly.

Quietly.

Gojo sits beside him.

He’s not dressed for grief. Still in the same half-wrinkled clothes from the night before—collar askew, hair a mess, the ghost of the ballroom clinging to his shoulders.

He hasn’t slept. Hasn’t moved since the garden emptied and the last guest was sent away.

He hasn’t spoken.

Not until now.

“I met someone,” he says softly.

The king doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth twitches. Barely there.

“A noble?” he rasps, voice like dry paper.

Gojo almost laughs. “Not even close.”

The king hums. A tiny sound. “Thank god.”

That earns a real smile. Faint. Brief.

Gojo leans forward, fingers curled tight over the blanket. “I didn’t get his name. Didn’t even ask. He ran. Lost a shoe.”

The king’s chest rises slowly. “Romantic.”

“Frustrating,” Gojo says. “He was real. Not… shiny. Not faked. I think he looked right through me and still stayed.”

The king doesn’t speak for a long time.

Then—

“Then go,” he says, hoarse but sure. “Go find the one who saw you.”

Gojo’s throat closes.

The king’s eyes stay shut.

“You’ve carried this crown too long,” he murmurs. “Go be loved, Satoru. Don’t let this place kill that part of you.”

There’s silence.

Then Gojo bows his head.

“I will.”

⋆｡°✩

The king dies two days later.

The mourning bells toll across the city. The gates are draped in black. The court dons solemn silks and speaks in hushed tones.

Gojo buries his father quietly.

No fanfare. No grand declarations. Just a hand pressed to the coffin and a whisper no one hears.

He returns to the throne room with quiet thunder.

No coronation. No applause. Just a man in mourning with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders and something softer clenched between his hands.

A single shoe.

Silver-buckled. Clean as memory. The only piece of the night that didn’t vanish.

The court hushes when he steps to the dais.

He speaks without ceremony.

“I’m not here to celebrate a title,” he says. “I’m here to honour a promise.”

A ripple of confusion passes through the crowd.

Gojo lifts the shoe for all to see.

“This,” he says, voice steady, “was left behind by the person I danced with at the royal ball.”

Murmurs rise. Names, questions, whispers like wind.

Gojo’s next words cut straight through.

“I don’t know their name. Or where they came from. But I know how I felt.”

Silence now. Even the courtiers lean forward.

He breathes in. Then:

“Find them.”

The prince’s men arrive two days later.

They come in pairs—one to carry the shoe, one to carry the threat of a sword.

Some houses greet them with fanfare. Others slam the door. But in every room, they kneel before the hopeful, the desperate, the delusional, and ask them to try it on.

None of them fit.

None of them feel right.

⋆｡°✩

Toji doesn’t really want to be here.

He’s already threatened to eat the shoe twice. Nanami pretends not to hear him.

“You’re not putting it in your mouth,” Nanami says flatly as they stand in front of a bakery.

“I wasn’t gonna put it in,” Toji replies. “Just, you know. Scare the kid a little.”

“No.”

“They’ve got sugar tarts in there.”

“We’re here for the shoe.”

“I can multitask.”

Nanami sighs and knocks.

⋆｡°✩

Three houses later:

“This is a waste of time,” Toji mutters.

“It’s a royal command,” Nanami answers, like that means anything.

They’re standing in front of a weeping blacksmith.

“I swore I saw the mystery person,” the blacksmith says, tears in his beard. “They were in my dream. Had wings. Glowed.”

Nanami pinches the bridge of his nose.

Toji offers him a handkerchief. “We’ll send word if we find them, yeah?”

The blacksmith sobs louder.

Toji pats him on the shoulder.

“You tried, champ.”

⋆｡°✩

Back at the estate, the air has changed.

You don't notice at first. You're doing laundry. Small, quiet motions. Wrists in soap, eyes on the window.

But when you climb back up to the attic, the door is open.

That’s not right.

You never leave it open.

You step inside.

Geto is waiting.

He’s holding something in his hand.

It takes you a moment to register it. To understand what you’re looking at. To realise it’s yours.

The other shoe.

The one the magic didn’t claim.

Geto doesn’t look angry.

Worse.

He looks resigned.

“I knew,” he says, voice low. “The night you came home. I knew it was you.”

You don’t speak.

There’s something brittle in your chest. Like glass.

Geto turns the shoe over in his hand. “It was supposed to be Mimiko or Nanako. Anyone else. Someone who could give this family something back. But you—”

He shakes his head.

“I married your mother for love, you know.”

You flinch.

“I was a servant. Just like you. She didn’t care. She saw me. She chose me. And then she died. And I got stuck. In this house. With bills, and mouths, and nothing to show for it but my hands and my daughters.”

He looks at you then, sharp and quiet.

“You think I hate you,” he says. “I don’t.”

You want to speak. You don’t know how.

“I envy you,” he finishes.

Then he drops the shoe.

And before you can move—before you can breathe—he steps on it.

It doesn’t break.

Of course it doesn’t.

The magic’s long gone.

So he picks it up instead.

And throws it out the window.

You hear it hit the gravel outside.

And then—

Click.

The door locks behind you.

Geto’s footsteps fade down the stairs.

And you’re alone again.

Trapped. Silenced.

But not invisible anymore.

⋆｡°✩

You don’t move right away.

You hear Geto’s footsteps fade, one by one, until the house swallows them whole. Until the only sound left is the wind against the glass, and the beat of your pulse behind your eyes.

The lock clicks again in your mind. Sharp. Final.

And then—

Nothing.

Just quiet.

You sit.

Not gently. Not with grace.

You drop straight to the floor, legs folded awkwardly, palms flat on the cold wood. The air smells like old wood and soap. Like sorrow dried into the beams.

Your hands curl into the sleeves of your shirt. Not to hide. Just to feel something.

The window glows with late morning sun. Too bright to pretend it’s still night. Too soft to call this anything but cruel.

You swallow.

You whisper to no one, “It wasn’t supposed to matter.”

The words hang there.

And then—

A scritch.

Then another.

Soft and quick, like tiny feet against the baseboard.

You blink down.

Yuji, the one with the torn ear, darts into view. He stops near your feet. Sits up on his haunches like he’s checking on you.

You offer him your palm.

He noses it once. Then skitters away to the corner where Megumi and Nobara have already gathered.

There’s a scrap of ribbon there. Frayed. Half chewed.

And a single wooden spool.

You don’t know how they found it. Or why they’re bringing it to you.

But they do.

You exhale.

“I’m not making a new shoe,” you say quietly.

They freeze.

You soften. “...Thank you, though.”

Yuji does a little hop. You can almost hear him say you’re not done.

You lean back against the wall.

You look at the door.

The lock is still in place.

The window is still too small.

Your limbs are still tired.

But something in you is standing up.

You’ve never asked to be found before.

But now— Now you know what it felt like to be seen.

And you’re not letting that disappear without a fight.

Bang bang bang.

Not a gentle knock.

Not the kind nobles use.

The door shakes in its frame.

Mimiko shrieks from somewhere down the hall, “Father—!”

“Coming,” Geto calls, voice too smooth, too fast.

He brushes dust from his sleeves and opens the door with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Nanami doesn't smile back.

Toji doesn’t look like he’s ever smiled at all.

The taller one—Toji, in dark military trim and boots that leave real dirt on the clean floor—looks over Geto like he’s furniture. Nanami, perfectly pressed and sharply polite, holds a velvet-lined box in his hands.

Inside it, nestled like a relic, sits the shoe.

The room tightens.

“We’re here on royal command,” Nanami says, calm as a cut. “Every household within the capital must comply.”

Geto’s smile doesn’t falter. But his fingers twitch at his sides.

“Of course,” he says. “My daughters will be thrilled.”

⋆｡°✩

The twins are anything but.

They stumble into the drawing room in matching silks, half-dressed and sweating.

Mimiko tries to charm. Nanako tries to lie. Both try on the shoe.

The shoe does not fit either of them.

Not Mimiko, who tried to stuff her foot in sideways, biting her lip like pain might be mistaken for grace.

Not Nanako, who screamed at the guards and insisted it was her shoe—until Nanami calmly pointed out it would have to be her right shoe, and she’d shoved her left foot in.

Both of them are red-faced now. Geto looks pale.

Nanami closes the velvet box with finality.

“That’s all,” Geto says quickly, stepping between them and the door. “Thank you for your time, but as you can see—”

“We appreciate your cooperation,” Nanami says, already half-turned. “We’ll be on our way—”

And then— CRASH.

Not subtle.

Not small.

Wood shatters. Something heavy hits the floor above. Then a thud. A clang. Another loud bang, like someone’s trying to tear a room apart.

All three men freeze.

Geto doesn’t blink.

“Old house,” he says lightly. “It groans.”

Nanami narrows his eyes.

Toji’s already turning.

“It came from upstairs,” he says.

“No need,” Geto says quickly. “We told you, it’s just—”

“Storage,” Toji finishes, stepping forward.

And then—

A fourth voice speaks, smooth as silk:

“Open it.”

The knights turn sharply.

So does Geto.

Because one of the guards—the one who had been silent this entire time, helmet shadowing his face, standing too still in the corner—steps forward.

And removes his helmet.

White hair falls loose.

Eyes like the end of a sky.

It’s him.

The prince.

No coat. No crown. Just a low voice and a gaze that could slit a throat with kindness.

“Check the room,” Gojo says.

Toji doesn’t hesitate.

He moves toward the stairs.

And Geto?

Geto stops breathing.

⋆｡°✩

Meanwhile, upstairs—

You’ve already broken a chair.

The window’s too high, and the door won’t give, but fury moves faster than fear.

You threw the table against the wall. You shattered a glass jar. The room is in chaos.

Not because you thought someone would hear you.

But because if you’re going to be locked away again—this time, the walls will remember you were here.

And downstairs, they just did.

⋆｡°✩

The door gives way with a shudder and a kick.

Toji steps inside the attic like he’s seen a thousand rooms like this—and hates every one of them. He doesn’t speak at first. Just scans the broken chair, the shards of glass, the boy standing in the middle of it all like a storm passed through him and didn’t finish the job.

You square your shoulders, fists tight.

“I’m not going quietly,” you say.

Toji raises a brow.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Not until you try on the shoe.”

⋆｡°✩

You’re still stunned when you’re led down the stairs.

The house feels different now—seen, somehow. You don’t flinch when Geto glares. You don’t look at the twins when they hiss your name like it’s a curse.

Because all you see is him.

Gojo.

Not in a dream. Not behind a mask.

Just him.

And he’s looking at you like you invented music.

⋆｡°✩

“I didn’t know,” you say softly.

His smile curves at the edges. “Good.”

You blink. “What?”

“I wanted to be seen as me, not as—” He waves a hand. “Royal disaster. Golden boy. Walking headline.”

“You’re still ridiculous,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he says, “but you danced with me anyway.”

⋆｡°✩

Nanami brings the shoe.

It still gleams like it remembers the night better than you do.

You kneel.

Your fingers tremble.

You fit your foot inside.

It slides in like it never belonged anywhere else.

A quiet settles over the room.

Nanami exhales, almost like relief.

Toji nods once.

The twins make some sound between a gasp and a wail.

And Gojo?

He takes two steps forward.

Then drops to one knee.

No theatrics. No ceremony.

Just him.

And you.

And the weight of everything you both carried here.

“I don’t know your name,” he says. “But I’d like to learn it every day.”

You swallow.

His hand is warm.

“Will you marry me?”

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, like something new is blooming in your chest—

You smile.

And take his hand.

The palace feels warmer now.

Not because of the sun. Or the gilded windows. Or the three-tiered cake that someone dropped during the reception and tried to blame on the reindeer.

But because of him.

Gojo stands beside you on the balcony, arm loose around your waist, his thumb brushing idle circles against your side like he still can’t believe you’re real.

You’re both still in partial wedding attire—him with his jacket tossed over a chair somewhere, you barefoot, crown lopsided, shirt collar unbuttoned and clinging just a little to your throat. You should probably be inside. The court is probably looking for you.

But the garden below is quiet.

And the air tastes like late summer and the end of something you never thought would happen.

⋆｡°✩

“What happened to them?” you ask, leaning into him just enough to be smug about it.

He hums. “Geto’s under investigation for falsifying noble status. Pretty sure he’s banned from the capital for life. Last I heard, he’s trying to sell spiritual healing potions out of a cart in the countryside.”

You snort. “And the twins?”

“Assigned to community service. Fifteen years of it.”

You blink. “What do they do?”

“Paint fences. Clean royal kennels. Muck out stables.”

You try to look sympathetic.

You fail.

⋆｡°✩

The sky is peach-gold now.

You lean back against the railing, one hand braced behind you, and Gojo’s eyes trace the line of your neck like he’s memorising it.

“What?” you ask, smirking a little.

“You’re too pretty for this world,” he says easily. “I might have to exile you just to stop fights.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re not exiling me. You married me.”

He steps in closer.

“I did, didn’t I?”

His hand settles just under your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. His smile turns softer.

Hungrier.

“Wanna kiss your husband?”

You grin. “Maybe.”

He doesn’t wait for permission.

⋆｡°✩

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice like velvet warmed in sunlight.

You don’t answer. Just let your fingers trail down the line of his collarbone, slow and curious, feeling the heat beneath his skin. You’re still a little dazed from it all—the ceremony, the kiss, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the kingdom.

Maybe the world.

Gojo watches you with a softness that doesn’t match the grin tugging at his lips.

“Still thinking about saying yes?” he teases, tilting his head.

You hum. “I’m thinking I want to kiss you again.”

“Be my guest.”

You lean in. He meets you halfway.

The kiss starts gentle—lazy, even. But there’s something under it now. Something hot and restless curling between your ribs. Your fingers move to his jaw, then to the back of his neck, dragging him just a little closer. He obliges with a pleased sound, deepening the kiss, mouth parting just enough to catch your breath between his lips.

He tastes like sugared wine and strawberries, and you swear you could drown in him.

By the time you break apart, you’re breathing harder than you expected. Your eyes meet, close enough to feel the words before you say them.

“I want you,” you whisper.

It comes out raw. Honest.

Gojo stills. Just for a moment.

Then—

“Yeah?” His voice is lower now. Rougher around the edges. “You sure?”

You nod.

“Then come here.”

⋆｡°✩

He lifts you before you realize he’s moving. Hands strong, steady, one at your back, the other beneath your thighs. You yelp softly, laugh against his throat, and he huffs out a breathless chuckle that turns into something deeper.

The doors to your chambers are already cracked open. He kicks them wider.

The room beyond is quiet. Candlelit. Fresh linens, tossed shoes, and half a glass of wine still left untouched on the bedside table. You don’t see any of it.

Just him.

He sets you down gently, reverent in a way that makes your chest ache.

You sit on the edge of the bed as he leans in, hands braced on either side of your thighs, lips ghosting over your cheek, then your jaw.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, voice low and warm.

You reach up. Thread your fingers into his hair.

“Kiss me like you did that night,” you say. “And don’t stop.”

He grins against your mouth. “Gladly.”

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

The world falls away the second his lips meet yours again.

There’s no crowd here. No music. No kingdom watching. Just the sound of his breath and yours, the rustle of fabric as fingers drag slowly down your back, and the warm press of his palms against your skin like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You pull him closer. He goes willingly.

The kiss deepens. His mouth is hot and sure, moving with a rhythm that makes you dizzy. His tongue brushes yours, and you gasp into him—your fingers clutching the back of his shirt, your legs parting slightly as he slots himself between them.

He presses you gently back onto the bed.

The sheets shift beneath you—soft, crisp, faintly perfumed—and his weight follows, settling against you with a slowness that feels like worship.

His hand cradles your face as he kisses you again, slower now. Lingering. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Still sure?” he asks, voice hoarse at the edges, lips brushing your cheek.

You nod, breath caught in your throat. “I want you.”

Gojo exhales like he’s been waiting to hear that his whole life.

“Okay,” he whispers, “I’ve got you.”

⋆｡°✩

He doesn’t rush.

He undresses you carefully, easing your clothes from your body piece by piece, always watching, always touching, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His hands trail down your arms, your ribs, your hips—every inch of your skin kissed, touched, praised.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, not like a compliment, but like a fact.

His own clothes fall away soon after, and when he kneels above you, bare in the candlelight, you forget how to breathe.

He’s strong. Slender. Scars across his stomach, down his hip—each one traced gently beneath your fingers. His eyes darken when you touch him, a low sound humming from his chest as you explore him with quiet wonder.

He kisses your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thigh. Each press of his mouth is tender, reverent. You shiver when his lips ghost lower—when he parts your legs with one slow sweep of his hand and settles between them like he was always meant to be there.

When his tongue touches you, your fingers curl in the sheets.

He’s slow. Gentle. Languid.

Learning you. Reading every twitch of your hips, every gasp, every whispered plea. He hums when you moan, the sound low and satisfied.

You arch when he wraps his arms under your thighs and pulls you closer.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice rough and thick with want.

And he does.

With his mouth, his fingers, his voice—coaxing you open, unravelling you gently, turning heat into warmth into fire.

By the time you come undone, you’re panting, legs trembling, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

He doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t pull away. Just presses slow kisses to your skin and climbs up to meet your mouth again, breath catching as he feels you cling to him.

You reach for him. Trace the line of his jaw.

“Take me,” you whisper.

And he does.

⋆｡°✩

He enters you slowly, carefully, stopping when you tense, kissing your throat until your body melts into his again. His hand finds yours against the pillow, lacing your fingers together as he presses deeper.

It’s intense. Full. Your breath stutters, and his does too.

“You okay?” he murmurs.

You nod.

He starts to move, and it’s overwhelming.

His weight on you, his breath on your neck, the way your bodies move together—every thrust angled with care, every sound he makes pressed against your ear like a secret. He moans when your hips rise to meet him. Groans when you say his name like you mean it.

He doesn’t look away. Watches you fall apart underneath him. Watches your lashes flutter, your mouth part, your breath hitch.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” he says, voice wrecked.

You pull him down, kiss him hard, gasping against his lips as heat blooms low and deep in your core.

He speeds up—just enough.

The sound of skin on skin, the headboard creaking gently, the rhythm of his hips, your hands in his hair—it all builds into something slow and bright and utterly consuming.

You fall apart first, back arching, thighs clenching around his waist.

He follows with a gasp, pulling out just in time, his hand stroking you through it as he spills onto your stomach with a trembling groan.

⋆｡°✩

After, he’s quiet.

He wipes you down gently, kisses your chest, your temple, your knuckles.

Then he pulls you into his arms, your head tucked beneath his chin, his thumb stroking slow circles into your spine.

You’re half-asleep when he whispers, “I’m never letting you go.”

You smile.

“You better not.”

Later, as the sun dips below the rooftops, you’re sprawled together on the balcony, limbs tangled, cheeks flushed, breath finally slowing.

He presses his forehead to yours.

You close your eyes.

The world is quiet again.

Until—

Scurry scurry.

You open one eye.

Yuji. Then Megumi. Then Nobara.

The mice dash across the stone railing, tails twitching, feet fast, all three heading for the figure standing just beyond the edge of the light.

Shoko.

Still in her boots. Still in her long coat. Still impossibly cool.

She holds out one palm.

The mice leap into it without hesitation.

She glances at you and Gojo, sprawled out and glowing like kings in love.

“Cute,” she says.

You sit up. “You stayed?”

She lights a cigarette with a flick of her fingers.

“Nah,” she says. “I just came to collect my assistants.”

Gojo squints. “Assistants?”

“They picked you,” Shoko says, looking directly at you.

You blink.

She exhales a thin ribbon of smoke into the sky.

“My job’s done.”

And then— She vanishes.

Just like that.

⋆｡°✩

You sit there for a moment.

Gojo’s hand finds yours.

The stars come out.

And this time—

You don’t wish on any of them.

You already have everything you asked for.

Taglist: @zolass @edensrose @tamias-wrld @ilovesugurugeto69 @planetxella @mazettns @longlivegojo @midnight-138 @literallyrousseau @vimademedoitt @useless-n-clueless @flatl1n3 @hikaurbae @lexkou @razefxylorf @abrielletargaryen @coco-145 @eagleeyedbitch @deathofacupid @gayaristocrat @porcalinecunt @whatsaheartxx @thecringes2000 @sageofspades @g4vcat @itsrandompersonyall @blvdprn @blueemochii @sappychat @onyxxxxqq @axetivev

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

[orphicmeliora]

Evermore

PAIRING: Zayne x Non-MC!Reader

SUMMARY: You have spent your life inside hospital walls, your world stitched together with IV lines, late-night alarms, and the quiet acceptance that some things cannot be fixed. You've been passed from one doctor to another, another test, another trial — all chasing a miracle that never came. Somewhere along the way, you stopped waiting for tomorrow.

But life, in its quiet cruelty and unexpected grace, gives you something you never thought to ask for — a glimpse of another world. A different kind of heartbeat, steady and sure, weaving its way into your fragile one. Moments you never believed you could have: laughter, longing, dreams too big for a hospital bed.

You don't know how long it will last. You don't even know if you dare hope for more.

But when the night is quiet and the snow falls just right, you let yourself believe — for one stolen breath — that maybe your story isn't meant to end here.

Maybe, somehow, you are just beginning.

WORD COUNT: 9.5k

You're dying.

For as long as you can remember, you've known more of hospitals than your own house. It's gotten to a point where when you think of home, it's not a cozy living room or the scent of your mother's cooking that surfaces — it's the sterile, cold corridors of Akso Hospital. The beeping machines. The too-white sheets. The antiseptic sting in the air. That's home.

You've been passed from hospital to hospital like a worn file folder, a case study waiting for a miracle. Doctors, researchers, specialists — all curious, all clinical. Some of them smiled too brightly when they poked at you; others barely met your eyes as they dictated notes into recorders. No matter their faces, it was always the same: a child with a heart too fragile for the world she lived in. Congenital heart disease, they'd say, like it was a sentence you had to carry. Words like hypoplastic, cardiomyopathy, degeneration slipped off their tongues without a second thought.

Research papers had been written about you. Trials run, theories floated, hands reaching inside your chest like gods trying to rewrite fate. But there was no saving you. Not really. Only delaying the inevitable.

At some point, death stopped being a frightening monster lurking at the end of the hallway. It became a quiet fact. A gentle inevitability. Like winter following fall. Like the last leaf leaving the branch. Sometimes you even think of it fondly — a release from the endless pricks of needles and the sting of failed hope.

You don't cry about it anymore. You stopped doing that years ago.

But there are still things that ache. Things that death doesn't erase. Like the school uniforms you never wore. The scraped knees you never had from playground games. The friendships you only knew from books and half-forgotten fairy tales read to you by bored nurses. You grew up surrounded by adults: brisk nurses with kind smiles, tired doctors with far-off eyes, other patients far older than you. No childhood secrets whispered under blankets at sleepovers. No first crushes shared during recess.

Just you, and the slow ticking of monitors, and the muted conversations outside your door.

Today is supposed to be your sixteenth birthday. A milestone for most kids — laughter, cake, maybe even a little rebellion. You asked for so little. Just a single scoop of ice cream. Something sweet, something that would make you forget, just for a second, that you're broken inside.

Maybe your body decided it was too much joy. Maybe it was just bad timing. Whatever it was, the chest pain started fast and sharp, a blooming fire that stole your breath and sent the world spinning. They rushed you to the ICU, alarms blaring, voices cutting through the fog of your consciousness.

Doctor Li was there, of course. He's always there. A steady presence when everyone else felt like passing shadows. You caught glimpses of his furrowed brow, the tightness in his voice as he barked orders you were too far gone to understand. He was fighting for you. He always did.

The world blurred. Faded. You remember thinking — distantly — how strange it was to die with the taste of vanilla on your tongue.

You don't die that night. Not yet.

But something inside you, small and bright and hopeful, dims just a little more.

The next few days bleed together in a haze of machines and murmured reassurances. You drift in and out of shallow sleep, tethered to the world by the soft beeping of your heart monitor and the cool, practiced touch of the nurses adjusting your IVs. Doctor Li checks on you more than usual — lingering longer at your bedside, as if afraid that if he looks away, you might simply vanish.

You hear snatches of conversation sometimes. Fragments that weren't meant for your ears.

"She stabilized, but barely." "Should we consider moving her back to the general ward?" "Give her time. Let her rest."

It’s strange how even in survival, you feel like a guest overstaying her welcome.

On the third day, you notice a figure lingering near the doorway. Not a nurse — they’re always in motion, efficient and brisk. Not Doctor Li, either — this figure carries a stiffness to his stance, a sharpness that cuts into the sterile quiet.

You glance over, disinterested. A boy, maybe a few years older than you, dressed in street clothes that look out of place in the hospital’s sanitized world. Dark hair that falls messily into his eyes, a scowl permanently etched across his face like it was born there. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, like he doesn't want to be here.

You recognize the look immediately — resentment barely contained behind a mask of detachment.

You turn your head away. You couldn't care less.

Let him glare. Let him hate. You’re used to people looking at you like that — like you’re an inconvenience, a burden. You’ve spent your whole life apologizing for existing, even when your lips stayed silent.

He says nothing to you, and you say nothing to him.

Good. Silence is easier. Cleaner.

Later, you hear the nurses whispering about him.

"Doctor Li’s son. Came straight from his graduation. Poor kid." "Must be hard, sharing your father with the hospital." "He'll understand someday. Sacrifices have to be made."

You don't understand why any of it matters. To you, he’s just another shadow passing through your world. Another person whose life will keep moving forward, even when yours stands still.

You close your eyes and let the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lull you back into sleep.

Tomorrow will come. Or it won’t. It hardly makes a difference.

Tomorrow comes. And then the day after that.

Somehow, despite everything, you keep breathing.

You're moved out of the ICU eventually, back into the quieter, less urgent wing of Akso Hospital that has become more familiar than any childhood bedroom you never had. The walls here are softer shades of green, the windows wide and bright — an illusion of freedom you stopped believing in a long time ago.

Your days fall into a familiar rhythm: early morning blood draws, midday vitals checks, whispered conversations with nurses who treat you like a little sister they can't protect. You read when you can, mostly battered romance novels left behind by old patients, and sometimes you simply lie there, counting the cracks in the ceiling tiles like they hold some secret map to a life you’ll never live.

And Zayne —he starts appearing again.

At first, it’s just glimpses. A flash of dark hair down the corridor, the low murmur of his voice when he trails after Doctor Li during rounds. He doesn’t look at you. Not directly. He keeps his gaze clipped to charts and clipboards, face tight with the kind of focus you recognize all too well: the kind born from trying to control what can’t be fixed.

You wonder — briefly — why he keeps coming back.

Most people your age would run from a place like this. Wouldn't they? Chase the world outside with hungry hands, desperate to live, to feel something more than fluorescent lights and beeping machines.

But Zayne stays.

He stands at his father's side, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his lab coat, frowning at words too complicated for you to care about. He listens when Doctor Li explains your charts, your declining numbers, the latest tests they want to run. Sometimes he asks questions, voice low and rough around the edges.

You don't bother trying to hear the answers.

You’ve long stopped hoping anyone had any real ones to give.

Still... You notice things.

The way his shoulders stiffen when Doctor Li mentions your heart’s deterioration. The quick, darting glances he thinks you don’t catch when you wince from another IV insertion. The rare moments his mouth tightens in something almost like frustration, or helplessness.

You pretend you don't see. You pretend it doesn't matter.

Because it doesn't. You have learned, through years of slow dying, that getting attached only makes the leaving harder.

And you — you have always been leaving.

It happens on an afternoon like any other.

The kind where the sun slices through the window just enough to make you ache for the world outside — a world you’ve only seen in pictures and half-forgotten dreams.

You’re sitting up in bed, a book resting on your lap, though you haven’t turned a page in what feels like hours. Your IV pole hums faintly beside you, the only real reminder that you’re still tethered here.

You hear footsteps before you see him. Not Doctor Li’s sure, even strides. Softer. Slower. Hesitant.

You glance up without thinking — and there he is. 

Zayne. 

Hovering awkwardly just inside your room, clutching a thick textbook to his chest like a shield. He's not wearing his usual scowl today. Instead, his face is carved into something tighter, more uncertain, as if he isn't quite sure whether he should even be standing here.

You raise an eyebrow, silently daring him to speak.

He clears his throat. It sounds painful.

"I—" he starts, then immediately cuts himself off, glancing away. His hand tightens around the book's spine.

You blink at him, unimpressed.

If he’s here to offer hollow pity or awkward small talk, he can save it. You’ve heard it all before — the forced conversations, the clumsy sympathy from visitors who can't even look you in the eye for long.

You drop your gaze back to your book, pretending he isn't there. Silence stretches thick and heavy between you.

For a moment, you think he’s going to retreat, like so many others have.

But he doesn't.

Instead, after a beat of hesitation, you hear him mumble — so quiet you almost miss it — "…That book’s terrible."

You freeze, your thumb hovering over the corner of the worn page.

Slowly, you glance up again. He’s staring at the battered cover, expression wrinkling in disdain.

"I mean," he says, awkward and stiff, like every word is being dragged out of him by force, "the plot makes no sense. The heroine falls in love with a guy who literally tried to kill her in the first chapter."

You blink once. Twice.

And then, unexpectedly, a small huff of air escapes you — not quite a laugh, but close. You hadn't realized how long it had been since someone your age spoke to you like that. Not like you were breakable. Not like you were already halfway gone.

"Yeah," you say, voice hoarse from disuse, "but it's not like I've got a lot of options."

He shifts his weight, looking vaguely guilty now. Like he hadn't meant to insult your sad little world.

You watch him for a moment longer, studying the way he fidgets — a boy trying very hard not to look like he cares, even though it’s written in every line of his posture.

Without thinking, you extend the book toward him, offering it out like a peace treaty.

"Got any recommendations, then?"

He stares at you, startled. Like he wasn’t expecting you to talk back. Like he wasn't expecting you to choose to talk to him.

Slowly, almost warily, he steps forward. Takes the book from your hand, fingers brushing yours for the briefest second—warm and real and alive.

Something small shifts in the air between you. Barely there. But you feel it all the same.

Maybe tomorrow he'll disappear again. Maybe you’ll still die before you ever really know him.

But right now—for the first time in a long, long while—you don’t feel quite so alone.

The next day, you don’t expect him to come back.

People make gestures sometimes — quick, impulsive things born of guilt or pity. You’ve learned not to get your hopes up. You've learned not to expect anyone to stay.

But late in the afternoon, as the sun dips low and the room fills with that golden, aching kind of light, you hear familiar footsteps outside your door. Slower, more deliberate this time. No shuffling nurses, no hurried doctors.

You glance up from your spot on the bed just as Zayne leans into the doorway, one hand shoved deep into the pocket of his jacket, the other holding something behind his back like a guilty secret.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you, frowning faintly, like he’s annoyed to find you still there. (Or maybe annoyed with himself.)

You raise an eyebrow, a silent question.

He scowls a little deeper — a defense mechanism, you think — and mutters, "You said you didn’t have good options."

Before you can reply, he pulls his hand from behind his back and tosses a book onto your bed.

It lands with a soft thud against the sheets, the cover facing up.

You blink at it, surprised. It’s thick, heavier than the flimsy paperbacks you usually get stuck with, and worn around the edges like it's been read a dozen times. A fantasy novel, from the looks of it — something with sprawling kingdoms and sword fights and impossible magic.

You run your fingers lightly over the embossed title, almost afraid it might disappear.

"I had it lying around," he says quickly, too quickly. "Figured you could use something... less stupid."

You look up at him again, and this time you catch it — the faint pink dusting the tips of his ears, the way he can't quite meet your gaze.

You almost smile. Almost.

Instead, you trace the cover one more time, letting the weight of the book settle into your lap like something precious.

"...Thanks," you say, quiet but sincere.

Zayne shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Like he doesn’t care. But he lingers a moment longer than necessary, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Finally, he jerks his head toward the book. "Page ninety-seven is the best part," he says gruffly. "Don't skip to it, though. You have to earn it."

And with that, he turns and stalks off down the hallway, disappearing before you can say anything else.

You watch him go, your chest feeling strangely full, like someone had opened a window inside you after years of stale, closed-off air.

You pick up the book, flipping it open carefully. On the inside cover, in faded ink, there’s a name scribbled messily: Zayne Li.

You smile — small, private, and fleeting.

Maybe you were wrong. Maybe not everyone leaves.

—

You tell yourself it’s just a book.

One book turns into two. Then three. Each one arrives without ceremony — sometimes left on your bedside table when you’re asleep, sometimes handed over with an awkward grunt and averted eyes. Always worn. Always loved.

And every single one of them — every single page — is littered with traces of him.

Little notes crammed into the margins. Sharp, neat handwriting in black ink. Observations. Sarcastic comments. Underlined passages with a single word beside them — you. Sometimes a whole phrase: this reminds me of you or you'd probably argue about this part.

It’s like Zayne is sitting beside you as you read, muttering in your ear.

You devour the books hungrily. You savor every messy annotation like it’s oxygen.

The strange thing is — the words, the quiet thoughts he left scattered across the pages — they make you feel something. Something unfamiliar and terrifying. A buzzing under your skin, a pressure behind your ribs, too wild and heavy to name.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. You're just imagining things.

Until the night it isn’t.

You’re halfway through another novel — a sweeping, painful story about a dying girl and a boy who loved her too much — when it happens.

Your heart flutters.

Not in the way it usually does — the panicked, stuttering rhythm that sends alarms shrieking and nurses running. This flutter is different. Soft. Gentle. Terrifying.

You freeze, book slipping from your hands onto the bed.

For a second, you can't breathe — not from weakness, but from something that feels suspiciously like hope, like longing.

You panic. You hit the pager beside your bed, repeatedly.

Within seconds, your room explodes into motion — nurses flooding in, monitors flashing to life, Doctor Li himself arriving in a whirl of urgency.

They swarm you with equipment, prick your fingers, measure your heart rhythms. Voices rise and fall in a symphony of concern.

In the middle of it all, you sit there, dazed and mortified.

Because you realize — slowly, stupidly—you’re not dying.

Not yet. Not from this.

When the chaos finally ebbs, when the monitors hum their steady, forgiving rhythm again, Doctor Li kneels beside your bed and presses a gentle hand to your shoulder.

"You’re alright," he says, voice warm and steady. "It was just... an excitement response. A little arrhythmia. Nothing dangerous."

You nod, face burning.

You don't tell him it wasn't excitement about life. It was about his son.

It was the first time in your memory that your heart had jumped not from fear, but from feeling something more.

It was a start.

Time moves strangely after that.

Weeks blend into months. Zayne visits more now — under the pretense of study sessions with his father, but you both know better. He still brings you books, still pretends it's nothing, but sometimes he stays to see which parts make you smile. You argue with him over characters. He rolls his eyes when you get too emotional. You learn the patterns of his dry humor, the sharp warmth hidden under his guarded exterior.

You learn him.

And, quietly, dangerously, you start to want more.

One afternoon, you find yourselves alone. Doctor Li is caught up in surgery. The nurses are busy elsewhere. The hospital is unusually quiet.

Zayne sits slouched in the chair beside your bed, tapping a pen against his knee. You’re thumbing through the latest book he loaned you — a nonfiction this time, something about stars and deep space, endless distances that make your small, fragile life feel even smaller.

For a while, you exist in comfortable silence.

Then, without looking at you, Zayne says, "You know you’re sick. Really sick."

It's not a question. It's a fact, laid bare between you.

You close the book slowly, pressing your palm flat against the cover to keep your hands from shaking.

"I know," you say, voice barely a whisper.

Zayne leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor.

"I want to fix it," he says roughly. "I’m studying to fix it."

You stare at him, heart twisting.

"You can't," you say, almost gently. "Nobody can."

His jaw tightens. His fingers curl into fists against his thighs.

"I have to," he mutters. "Otherwise... what's the point?"

The words hang there between you — raw, desperate, infuriatingly beautiful.

You swallow hard, feeling the sting of tears behind your eyes.

"You don't have to waste your life on me," you say. "You have your own future. Your own world."

Finally, he lifts his head and looks at you — really looks at you. And in his dark, tired eyes, you see it.

The stubbornness. The grief. The terrible, trembling hope.

"I'm not wasting it," he says.

He says it like an oath. Like a prayer.

And for the first time, you let yourself believe — just a little — that maybe, just maybe, you're not fighting alone anymore.

A rustle of cloth. The scrape of a chair being quietly pushed back.

You glance up from your book, startled to see Zayne standing by your bedside, a mischievous glint in his otherwise serious eyes.

He holds out his hand to you — palm up, steady.

"Come on," he says, voice low and urgent. "Before someone notices."

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

"I’m not exactly mobile, in case you forgot," you say dryly, gesturing weakly at your IV stand and the tangle of wires monitoring your heart.

Zayne’s mouth tugs into the smallest, briefest smirk.

"I planned for that," he says.

He lifts a second IV pole from behind him — wheels it forward like a grand conspirator revealing his secret weapon. It’s empty except for a few dummy wires and a hastily knotted hospital gown draped over it like camouflage.

You blink.

He actually planned this.

"You're insane," you whisper.

"Maybe," he says. "But so are you for trusting me."

You don’t trust easily. You never have. But tonight — with the sterile hum of the hospital around you, and the fierce, reckless light in Zayne’s eyes — you find yourself reaching for his hand anyway.

His fingers curl around yours, warm and sure, and for the first time in a long while, you feel something electric under your skin — something alive.

Carefully, painstakingly, he helps you out of bed, maneuvering your real IV to look as inconspicuous as possible. You clutch his arm for balance, and he doesn't flinch or pull away. He just stands there, solid and steady, like he was built to hold you up.

Together, you slip out of your room and into the dimly lit hallway.

The hospital at night is a different world — softer, quieter, suspended in time. The usual sharp edges of sterile life blur into something almost magical.

Zayne leads you through the labyrinth of corridors, past empty nurses' stations and closed doors, moving like a ghost through his second home.

You don't ask where you're going. You trust him.

Eventually, he pushes open a heavy door, and you find yourself on the hospital’s rooftop.

The cool night air hits you like a blessing. Linkon city sprawls out below you, lights blinking like a thousand tiny stars scattered across the dark.

Above you, the real stars stretch in endless constellations, faint but stubborn, refusing to be erased by the city's glow.

You stand there, breathing in the night, the IV pole at your side forgotten for a moment.

Zayne leans against the railing, his arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an unreadable expression.

"This," he says, tilting his chin toward the sky, "is the closest I could get to taking you out of here."

You stare up at the heavens, feeling something bloom painfully in your chest.

"You’re not supposed to do this," you whisper, but there’s no anger in your voice. Only wonder.

Zayne shrugs. "Sue me."

You laugh — a small, broken sound — and he turns his head slightly, like he wants to hear it again but is too proud to ask.

For a long time, you just stand there. Two kids on a rooftop. One dying, one refusing to let her go quietly.

Finally, you glance over at him.

"Thank you," you say simply.

His mouth twitches — the barest ghost of a smile.

"You’re welcome," he mutters.

Then, after a beat:

"You’re not allowed to die yet, by the way."

You blink at him, startled.

"That’s an order," he adds, looking away as if embarrassed. "Doctor’s orders."

You bite back the emotion swelling in your throat, smiling instead. Because you realize, deep down, you don’t want to die yet. Not if there’s still more of this.

Not if there’s still more of him.

After that first night, the rooftop becomes your place.

You and Zayne never talk about it. You never plan it. It just happens — an unspoken ritual.

Whenever the nights are quiet and the staff is distracted, he appears in your doorway with a raised eyebrow and a silent question.

You always nod.

And then you're off again — sneaking past monitors, wheels squeaking faintly, IV pole rattling slightly as you creep through the halls like co-conspirators against fate.

The rooftop feels almost sacred now.

Up there, the air smells less like bleach and more like possibility. Up there, you aren’t just a patient strapped to machines — you’re alive.

Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you sit in silence.

You learn more about him — the way he hates instant coffee but drinks it anyway. His ridiculous sweet tooth. The way he grips the railing a little too tightly sometimes, like he’s afraid of losing control. How his smiles are rare but real, and he saves most of them for you.

And he learns about you — the real you, the one buried under layers of hospital gowns and medical files. He learns you love thunderstorms. That you used to dream of becoming an astronaut before you got too sick to dream at all. That you’re terrified, not of dying, but of being forgotten.

He listens. Really listens.

And something inside you, long frozen, starts to thaw.

You get stronger. Not in the way that matters medically — your charts still fluctuate, your heart still falters sometimes — but your spirit grows stubborn. Fierce. Hungry.

You start pushing yourself during physical therapy. You sit up longer. You fight to stay awake through bad days just so you can catch a glimpse of him passing by.

You want more time. You want more nights under the stars. You want more him.

And even if you don’t say it out loud, you know he wants it too.

But the clock is always ticking.

Some nights, the pain comes back — sharp and sudden, clenching around your ribs like an iron hand. Some nights, the monitors scream and the nurses race in, and Zayne isn't allowed to visit until you're stabilized again.

On those nights, you stare at the ceiling and try not to think about how fleeting all of this is.

You wonder if he knows. If he feels it too — the way the future presses down on you both like a heavy, inevitable sky.

And then one night, when you’re both on the rooftop again, he blurts it out.

"You’re getting worse," he says, voice low and tight.

You don't argue. You don't pretend.

Instead, you lean against the railing, the cold metal digging into your palms, and whisper, "I know."

You expect him to retreat. To shut down the way most people do when confronted with the ugly truth of you.

But Zayne just steps closer.

"You’re still fighting," he says roughly. "Even when it’s pointless. Even when you’re scared."

You laugh — bitter, broken.

"There's no winning this," you say. "No miracle cure. You know that, don't you?"

He says nothing for a long time. Just stands there, breathing hard, like he’s holding back something too big for words.

Then, very quietly:

"I’m still going to try."

You turn your head, meeting his gaze fully for the first time in what feels like forever.

There’s no pity there. No empty promises.

Only determination. Only him.

And for the first time, you allow yourself to lean just a little closer, resting your forehead against his shoulder.

He stiffens — startled — but then, slowly, carefully, he shifts so you fit against him better.

The IV line tugs against your arm. Your heart monitor blips faintly in the background.

But here, in this small, stolen moment, you aren't a diagnosis. You aren't a prognosis.

You're just a girl. And he's just a boy trying to save you.

The night it happens, you’re both too tired to pretend you're fine anymore.

The rooftop air is thick and heavy, the heat of the day still clinging stubbornly to the concrete. You sit cross-legged on a worn blanket Zayne smuggled from the staff lounge, your IV pole parked dutifully beside you, your heart monitor muted to a low, steady pulse.

Zayne lounges beside you, long legs stretched out, arms folded behind his head as he stares up at the stars.

Neither of you say much.

Words feel too heavy tonight. Besides, you don’t need them.

The sky stretches overhead in an endless velvet sweep, pinpricked with faint light. Somewhere far below, Linkon city hums and breathes without you.

You turn your head slightly, watching him.

His face looks softer in the dark — the stern lines of his mouth eased, the tension usually buried in his shoulders melted away. You can see the faint smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, the little crease between his brows he probably doesn't even realize he has.

You realize — with a strange, aching clarity — that you want to remember this. You want to burn this version of him into your memory so you can carry it with you, no matter what happens.

Your eyelids grow heavier with each passing minute.

The monitors hum quietly beside you, a gentle lullaby.

Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, your body leans sideways — just a little, just enough — and without thinking, without planning, you drift closer until your head finds his shoulder.

Zayne goes rigid at first — like someone just pulled a fire alarm inside his chest — but after a long, tense second, he shifts carefully, allowing you to settle against him.

You half-expect him to tease you. To make some snide remark.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he stays perfectly still, perfectly steady, like he’s afraid even breathing too loudly might wake you.

You don't remember falling asleep.

But you remember the feeling —safe, warm, suspended in something fragile and golden —as you sink into dreams for the first time in months without fear clawing at your throat.

You wake up hours later to the faintest touch — Zayne carefully adjusting your IV line, his fingers clumsy with sleep, his eyes still heavy-lidded.

He blinks down at you, caught between guilt and something deeper, something raw.

"Sorry," he mutters, voice rough. "Didn't mean to—"

You cut him off by curling a little closer, burying your face in the crook of his arm.

And for once, he doesn't argue. He just lets you stay.

Later, when you’re both back inside, tangled in warmth and silence, the question slips out before you can stop it.

You’re still curled under your hospital blankets, the faint beep of your monitor filling the room like a heartbeat. Zayne sits in the chair beside your bed, scribbling distractedly in his med school notebook, but you know he’s only half-focused at best.

"Zayne," you say quietly.

He hums in response, not looking up.

"If you could have anything," you whisper, "anything at all… what would you wish for?"

He freezes, pen hovering midair.

The silence stretches so long you wonder if he’s going to answer at all.

Then, slowly, he sets the pen down. Leans forward, elbows braced on his knees.

Looks at you.

His eyes are tired and beautiful, reflecting every terrible truth you both carry.

"I’d wish," he says slowly, like dragging the words out of his chest hurts, "for more time."

You open your mouth — to ask with who, to demand more clarity — but he beats you to it.

"With you," he says, voice breaking just slightly on the last word.

Your heart stumbles painfully in your chest — not from illness, not from fear, but from the sheer weight of him, of this.

You can’t breathe.

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he’s there, wiping a thumb under your eye, the touch so painfully gentle it almost undoes you completely.

He doesn’t ask for anything more. He doesn’t try to kiss you, or make promises he can’t keep.

He just stays.

Because he knows. You both know.

This love—whatever it is, whatever it’s becoming—isn’t about grand declarations or fairy-tale endings.

It’s about now.

It’s about this fragile, fleeting moment where you are still here, still breathing, still together.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

The days that follow feel… different.

It’s subtle at first — a lighter step in your walk, a softer smile tucked at the corners of your mouth — but it’s there.

Hope.

Tiny, fragile, impossible hope.

You don’t dare speak it aloud — not when your body is still betraying you at every turn, not when your doctors still whisper in careful, practiced voices outside your room — but it grows inside you anyway. A stubborn little flame.

And it’s all because of him.

Because of the way Zayne looks at you now — not like a patient he’s sworn to protect, not like a lost cause — but like a person. A girl with dreams worth fighting for.

One night, when the hospital halls are unusually quiet and the rooftop is bathed in a silver wash of moonlight, you find yourself blurting it out.

Your secret list.

The things you thought you had buried.

"I want to see snow," you whisper, breath misting faintly in the cold. "I want to dance without an IV pole dragging beside me." A soft, broken laugh slips from your mouth. "I want to eat an entire cake without someone telling me it’s too much sugar."

You glance at him, embarrassed, cheeks hot. "And I want someone to kiss me like it’s the end of the world."

You expect him to laugh. Or worse, to pity you.

But Zayne just listens — really listens — every word sinking into him like gospel.

And when you fall silent, when you turn your face away to hide the burning in your chest, he steps closer.

"So we’ll do it," he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. "We’ll do all of it."

You blink up at him, stunned.

"Zayne—"

"I mean it," he cuts in, voice fierce and steady. "Whatever time we have — we use it. Every second. No regrets."

You want to believe him. God, you want it so badly your heart physically aches with it.

But you’ve been burned by hope before. You know how cruel the world can be to people like you.

Still—still—

The way he looks at you now, fierce and soft all at once —the way he says we —you think maybe, just maybe, it’s worth believing again.

"Okay," you whisper, a little breathless, a little terrified.

He smiles then — not the small, careful smirks you’re used to, but a real, breathtaking smile that lights up his whole face.

"Good," he says, offering his hand to you like it’s a promise.

You slip your fingers into his, and the night folds around you, carrying your fragile hopes into the stars.

Later, back in your bed, curled up under warm blankets and still clutching the memory of his hand in yours, you allow yourself to dream. Tiny dreams. Stupid, beautiful dreams.

You imagine catching snowflakes on your tongue with him. You imagine dancing barefoot in a field, laughing until your lungs ache for the right reasons. You imagine frosting on your nose, stolen kisses, clumsy hands trying to twirl you around. You imagine living — even if it’s just for a little while — like you were never sick at all.

You fall asleep smiling.

The night it happens, it’s unbearably hot — heavy, clinging summer air that sticks to your skin and makes the hospital walls feel even more suffocating.

You’re dozing restlessly in your bed when he appears at your door.

Zayne.

His hair is a little messy, his white coat half-buttoned and wrinkled like he’s been moving fast — a little frantic, a little reckless. He’s breathing hard, cheeks flushed from the sprint through the halls.

"Come with me," he says, without preamble.

You blink blearily at him, confused.

He doesn’t explain. He just strides forward, unhooks your IV pole from the wall, checks the portable monitor strapped to your wrist, and mutters, "You’re stable. Good enough."

Before you can protest, he’s wheeling you out of the room, fast and determined.

Your heart kicks wildly in your chest — a mix of fear and excitement and confusion — but you don’t ask questions. You trust him.

You always have.

—

He leads you to the rooftop.

It’s empty, quiet — the city sprawled out below you like a glittering sea.

The sky overhead is a deep, endless blue-black, scattered with stars.

And then —

Zayne closes his eyes.

Takes a slow, steady breath.

And the world shifts.

It starts slowly — a faint chill curling into the warm summer air, the barest shimmer of cold gathering around him.

Then, with a soft, almost imperceptible hum, it begins to fall.

Snow.

Tiny crystalline flakes drift from the sky, swirling in delicate, shimmering patterns.

You gasp — a real, sharp, alive sound — and reach out instinctively.

A flake lands on your fingertip, melting instantly against your warm skin.

"You said you wanted to see snow," Zayne murmurs, voice low and a little shy. "Real snow’s impossible right now, but…"

He trails off, lifting a hand helplessly, as if embarrassed.

As if this miracle he’s created isn’t enough.

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

You can't speak. You can't even think.

You just stand there, under the impossible snowfall, heart thundering in your chest like it might break free entirely.

He watches you — watches the wonder bloom across your face — and his own expression softens, the usual tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

And then—

As if the night wasn’t already enough—

He pulls something out from behind a nearby bench.

A small, messy cake.

Lopsided. Clearly homemade. Icing smeared unevenly across the top.

"I made it," he says gruffly, ears turning pink. "Don’t laugh."

You laugh anyway — a bright, broken sound — and it feels good, like sunlight bursting through storm clouds.

He steps closer, offering you a plastic fork.

You scoop a big, absurdly sugary bite and shove it into your mouth without hesitation, icing smearing at the corner of your lips.

Zayne chuckles under his breath — a rare, breathtaking sound — and reaches out with a thumb to wipe the frosting away.

The touch lingers longer than necessary.

The world slows down.

And you realize — you don't want this moment to end. You don’t want to forget any of it.

Your heart is pounding so hard now it’s probably setting off alarms somewhere inside the hospital.

But you don't care.

Because then—he sets the cake aside.

Takes your hand in his.

The snow still falls around you, shimmering under the rooftop lights.

He doesn’t say a word.

He just pulls you into a slow, clumsy dance — his hand on your waist, your IV line dragging along but forgotten, your feet stumbling awkwardly in hospital socks — and you laugh again, breathless and giddy and so impossibly alive.

You sway together, turning in small circles, the city spinning lazily beyond the rooftop’s edge.

You think maybe your heart is breaking and mending all at once.

You think maybe you’re falling in love.

And when the song of the night winds down to a hush, when you’re standing chest-to-chest and he’s looking down at you with that unbearably soft expression —

You rise up on your toes.

Just a little.

Just enough.

And you kiss him.

Soft.

Gentle.

Trembling with all the things you’re too scared to say.

It isn’t perfect — your noses bump, you’re both a little off balance — but it doesn’t matter.

Because it’s real.

Because it’s yours.

Because it’s every wish you never dared to make coming true at once.

You pull back a fraction, resting your forehead against his, breathing in the cold he summoned just for you.

Neither of you speaks.

You don't have to.

Everything you feel is written in the way his thumb strokes over your wrist, in the way your fingers curl desperately into the fabric of his shirt.

You are here.

You are together.

For however long you have left.

And for now, for tonight, that's enough.

The plan takes a week to set in motion.

Doctor Li is cautious, of course — his worry etched in the lines around his tired eyes — but in the end, he agrees.

Maybe because he sees the way you light up now, the way your charts have stabilized just a little, like your heart has found something worth fighting for.

Or maybe because he remembers — painfully — what life is supposed to feel like outside sterile hospital walls.

Clearance is granted. Nurses fuss and fret, loading your bag with medications and emergency supplies, setting strict curfews and contingencies.

But you don’t care about any of that.

Because when Zayne wheels you out the front doors into the bright, wild world, it feels like stepping into another life entirely.

The city is buzzing, golden sunlight pouring like honey over everything.

And the park — oh god, the park! It's huge and sprawling and alive, filled with the scent of blooming flowers and the sound of children laughing.

Zayne’s hand never leaves yours as he leads you through winding paths, under archways draped in climbing roses, past glittering fountains that catch the light like tiny rainbows.

You’re breathless with wonder. Breathless and alive.

At one point he finds an empty patch of grass, drops a threadbare blanket he must have stolen from the hospital laundry, and you sit side by side under a tree, dappled sunlight dancing across your skin.

For a long time, you just exist.

Breathing.

Laughing.

Watching the clouds drift by like lazy ships.

And then — quietly, almost shyly — Zayne starts talking about the future.

"Our own place," he says, tracing patterns in the air. "A tiny apartment, the kind where you can hear the neighbors arguing through the walls. We'd have to get a cat. Or a dog. Or both."

You laugh, heart aching sweetly.

He grins, warmed by your smile, and keeps going, voice steady and dreaming.

"I'd cook. You'd probably hate it. You’d tease me until I ordered takeout."

You close your eyes, letting his words wash over you like a blessing.

"And someday…" His voice falters, softens. "If you wanted — we could travel. Anywhere. Everywhere. Mountains, oceans. I’d show you real snow."

You open your eyes, finding him already watching you.

There’s a look in his gaze that’s almost unbearable in its tenderness.

"You’ll see everything," he murmurs, like a vow. "I’ll make sure of it."

You smile.

You don't say what you’re thinking — that you’d be happy seeing anything at all, so long as he’s standing beside you.

You just tuck the dream away, precious and impossible, into the quiet spaces of your heart.

You spend the afternoon like that.

Eating terrible ice cream from a street vendor.

Dancing barefoot in the grass even when your knees wobble and Zayne has to catch you, laughing into your hair.

Taking blurry, ridiculous photos with his phone — him pulling faces, you struggling to keep a straight one.

You are tired beyond words when you return to the hospital — every muscle aching, your chest tight with strain — but you are happy.

So unbearably, blissfully happy.

For the first time in your life, you feel like you belonged to the world.

Like maybe you could carve a little piece of it for yourself after all.

But happiness, you learn, is a fragile thing.

Easily shattered.

Easily lost.

It starts slowly.

A missed heartbeat here. A dizzy spell there.

Nothing you haven’t dealt with before.

Nothing serious.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

You don’t want to worry Zayne. You don’t want to darken the light he’s given you.

But soon it’s undeniable.

You can’t catch your breath after simple movements.

Your fingers tremble when you try to hold a fork.

Your chest burns with a constant, gnawing ache that no amount of oxygen seems to soothe.

Zayne notices, of course.

He’s not stupid.

And he’s terrified.

The night you collapse in your room — monitors screaming, nurses rushing in a panic — Zayne shoves through the crowd like a force of nature, wild-eyed and desperate.

He’s the one who grabs your hand as they work frantically around you. He’s the one who keeps whispering your name, again and again, like he can anchor you here just by speaking it.

"Don’t," he chokes out, voice cracking for the first time since you’ve known him. "Don’t you dare give up. Not now."

You’re so tired.

God, you’re so tired.

Your vision flickers, the world tilting dangerously, but you find his face — blurry, beautiful — and focus on him with everything you have left.

"I’m so close," he says, begging now. "I’m almost there. Just a little longer — I swear — I’ll find a way —"

You smile.

Small. Broken.

You feel your heart weaken again — a tangible, physical slip inside your ribcage — but you hold his gaze.

You don’t have the strength for promises you can’t keep.

But you can give him this:

"I’ll try," you whisper.

It’s the truth.

It’s everything you can offer.

And it’s enough to make his fingers tighten around yours like he can hold you here by sheer force of will.

Like maybe love alone could be enough to save you.

It’s snowing again.

But not like before.

Not like rooftop snow under hospital lights, summoned from Evol and desperation.

This snow is real — thick, heavy flakes falling from a grey sky, the kind you can lose yourself in.

You’re standing in the middle of a wide, open field. Everything around you is blanketed in pure white.

And he’s there.

Zayne.

Not in a lab coat. Not with tired eyes and trembling hands. But whole.

Bright.

Smiling that rare, breathtaking smile he saves only for you.

"You made it," he says, voice warm as he reaches for you.

You laugh — really laugh — the sound echoing across the empty field like a song.

Your body moves easily, no wires tethering you, no weight dragging at your limbs.

You run to him.

You run.

He catches you effortlessly, arms wrapping around your waist, lifting you off your feet in a dizzying, laughing spin.

"You kept your promise," you murmur against his shoulder.

"I told you," he says simply, "I'd show you everything."

You don’t want to let go.

You don’t ever want to let go.

And so you don’t.

You stay like that — pressed against him, his heartbeat steady and sure under your palm — as the snow falls heavier, swirling around you like a blessing.

You close your eyes.

You dream bigger.

You see it all — the tiny apartment, the noisy neighbors, the stupid cat knocking over potted plants.

Burnt pancakes in the morning.

Train tickets to everywhere.

Laughing on crowded streets in cities you can't even pronounce.

Wedding rings slipped onto shaking fingers.

A life.

A real, messy, miraculous life.

With him.

Always, with him.

And for one shining, impossible moment—you believe.

You believe you’ll live long enough to see it.

You believe you already have.

The world is harsh when it drags you back.

Cold.

Bright.

Noisy.

You blink against the glare of fluorescent lights, the steady beeping of machines surrounding you.

The familiar, sterile scent of antiseptic stings your nose.

ICU.

Again.

You shift slightly — everything aches — and feel the tug of new wires and IVs threaded into your skin.

And then —

Warmth.

A hand.

Wrapped around yours.

You turn your head with effort.

And find him there.

Zayne.

Slumped in a chair too small for him, still in his hospital scrubs, dark circles bruising his eyes.

Sleeping.

But even in sleep, he doesn’t let go of you.

His hand is firm, steady, fingers laced with yours like a lifeline.

You watch him — your heart aching with something too big, too fierce to name.

You don’t move.

You don’t dare wake him.

Because for now — for this fragile, precious moment — you are still here. He is still here.

And that’s enough.

—

You don’t know how long you just lie there, feeling his hand wrapped tightly around yours, listening to the steady blip of your own heartbeat on the monitors.

You’re so tired. But you're also… at peace.

Eventually, he stirs.

A soft, broken noise leaves him — like even sleep can’t protect him from whatever war he’s fighting inside.

And when his eyes blink open, dazed and bloodshot, they land on you immediately.

For a moment, he just stares. As if he doesn't quite believe you’re real.

As if he's terrified you'll vanish if he blinks again.

"Hey," you rasp, your voice barely more than a whisper.

His face crumples.

He surges forward, pressing his forehead against your joined hands, squeezing so hard it almost hurts.

"You're awake," he breathes, voice wrecked with relief and exhaustion. "God — you're awake."

You manage a smile — small, but real.

"I wasn’t gonna miss your dramatic collapse," you joke, because you have to. Because the alternative — the raw fear in his eyes — is too much to bear.

It works, a little.

A huff of helpless laughter shudders out of him.

"You scared the hell out of me," he mutters against your knuckles, his breath shaking.

"You scare me all the time," you tease, lighter now, though your chest aches with every word. "But I’m still here."

He lifts his head, looking at you like you're something sacred.

"You have to stay," he says fiercely. "You have to — just a little longer —please —I'm so close —I swear—"

Your heart twists.

He’s been saying that for so long. So many promises. So much hope.

You wish you could bottle it up and drink it, let it heal you from the inside out.

You reach up, fingers brushing his jaw, feeling the stubble that wasn't there yesterday.

"I know," you whisper. "I know you're trying. I’m trying, too."

Your hand falls back to the bed, too heavy to hold up.

His hand follows immediately, cradling it again like he can shield you from the whole world.

"I can’t lose you," he says, so quietly you almost don’t hear it.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles, desperate and tender all at once.

"You won't," you whisper.

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

But it’s a kind lie.

The kind you tell someone when love outweighs truth.

His eyes glisten, wet and angry and afraid.

"You’re going to live," he says, like it’s a fact. Like he can will it into existence.

"I'll make sure of it," he vows, fierce and breaking. "I’ll tear the world apart if I have to."

You smile again — soft and sad and full of all the things you don't have the strength to say.

You believe him. You always believe him.

Even now, when your body feels like it’s slipping further away from you with every beat.

Even now, when you know some promises are too big for this world.

You squeeze his hand weakly.

"I love you," you whisper before you can stop yourself.

It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud.

The first and — you know — maybe the last.

He lets out a broken, shuddering sound, and leans forward until his forehead rests against yours.

"I love you more," he whispers back, trembling.

"I love you enough to move heaven and earth if that's what it takes."

You close your eyes.

You let yourself believe it.

Just for a little while longer.

Just until the morning comes.

The days bleed together in a haze of too-bright mornings and too-quiet nights.

Sometimes you’re strong enough to sit up, to laugh a little when he brings you sweets hidden in his bag, the ones the nurses pretend not to see.

Sometimes you can’t even lift your head.

But he never leaves.

Zayne is there through all of it — a constant, stubborn presence.

He drags a battered medical textbook everywhere he goes, flipping through it with growing desperation between moments spent at your side.

You catch him muttering to himself sometimes — notes, formulas, theories — a language only he and the universe seem to understand.

His eyes never lose that fierce, determined light. Not even when the others — the nurses, the doctors, even his father — start looking at you with that pitying softness usually reserved for lost causes.

Zayne refuses.

Refuses to believe you are anything less than a miracle still waiting to happen.

And for a while, you let him.

You let yourself believe it too.

You dream together — quietly, in snatches of exhausted conversation.

Little things.

Trips you’ll take. Places you’ll see. A life waiting just beyond the next sunrise.

You fall asleep with his hand in yours, and for a moment, you almost think you’ll wake up to that future.

Almost.

It happens in the middle of the night.

At first, it's nothing.

A shiver.

A slight breathlessness.

You're used to it. You think you’ll ride it out like all the others.

But then the pain hits.

A blinding, seizing agony in your chest that knocks the air from your lungs.

Monitors shriek. Nurses rush in. The world explodes into chaos.

You’re distantly aware of Zayne shouting — your name over and over—his voice cracking in a way you’ve never heard before.

You try to find him — try to reach out — but your limbs are so heavy, your vision swimming.

You catch one glimpse — just one — of him being dragged back by hospital staff, his face twisted in a raw, desperate kind of terror that tears something deep inside you.

You want to tell him it’s okay. You want to tell him you’re not afraid.

But you can’t speak.

You can’t even breathe.

And as the darkness rushes up to meet you —you think, faintly —

I’m sorry.

He’s still holding your hand.

Hours later, long after the machines have fallen silent.

Long after the nurses have cried quietly behind the curtains.

Long after his father stood at the door, silent and broken, and then walked away because he couldn't bear to watch his son shatter.

Zayne is still there.

Head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Your hand cradled in both of his like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

"Come on," he whispers, voice hoarse and raw. "Come on — you promised. You said you’d try —"

He presses your hand to his mouth, breathing you in like maybe he can still find some piece of you, some lingering spark that he can fan back to life.

"You can't leave yet," he says, broken. "I’m not ready — I’m not—"

The words dissolve into a rough, gasping sob.

It’s not fair.

You were supposed to have more time.

You were supposed to see the world, to laugh and dance and live.

You were supposed to have a lifetime — not just borrowed days.

Zayne buries his face against your cold fingers.

He doesn’t care who sees.

Doesn’t care if it’s undignified or messy or hopeless.

You loved him.

And he loved you.

Enough to move mountains.

Enough to break himself into pieces trying to save you.

Enough to hold onto you, even now — even when the world is cruel enough to have taken you away.

"I’m sorry," he chokes out against your skin. "I’m so sorry — I wasn’t enough —"

It isn't true. You would have told him that if you could. You would have told him he was always enough.

But all that's left is silence.

Zayne stays there, long after the world outside your hospital room forgets.

Long after the snow he once summoned for you has melted away.

Long after the rest of the universe moves on.

He stays. Because love doesn’t vanish with the heart that carried it. It lingers—stubborn and beautiful and devastating —like the first snowfall on a summer night.

Just like you.

The rooftop hasn’t changed much.

The same cracked tiles underfoot. The same rusted railings. The same battered bench, where once — a lifetime ago — two dreamers sat and imagined a future they could almost touch.

Zayne stands there now, a tall figure in a dark coat, hands tucked into his pockets against the cold.

It’s snowing.

Soft, heavy flakes drifting down from a sky the color of mourning doves.

Exactly the way it did that night. The night he made it snow for you.

The night he watched you dance in the middle of summer, your laughter lighting up the world more than any stars ever could.

His throat tightens.

He tilts his head back, lets the snow kiss his skin.

Lets the memories wash over him — sharp and tender all at once.

"You'd hate this," he murmurs to the empty air, a wry smile ghosting across his face. "You always said snow was pretty, but cold was overrated."

The wind whistles softly around him, as if in agreement.

He closes his eyes.

He can almost see you — spinning in the falling snow, hands outstretched, that shy, luminous smile you only ever showed him.

Almost.

Zayne shifts, pulling something from his coat pocket — a small, delicate bouquet.

Not flowers.

Paper cranes.

Hand-folded, each one painstakingly creased.

A thousand wishes, a thousand promises.

He sets them carefully on the bench.

A silent offering to the girl who once taught him what it meant to dream — even if dreams don’t always come true.

"I did it," he says quietly, voice rough.

"I kept my promise."

He swallows hard, staring out into the snowy city lights.

"I couldn’t save you," he admits, the old grief still a raw, tender thing inside him. "But I saved others."

Hundreds of them.

Patients who would have died, now living because of the research, the surgeries, the relentless fire you lit inside him.

Because of you.

Always because of you.

Zayne breathes in deep, the cold burning his lungs, grounding him.

"I hope... wherever you are," he says, soft and sure, "you're proud."

The snow falls heavier now, blurring the edges of the world.

Zayne stands there a little longer, letting the silence wrap around him like a memory, like a prayer.

Finally, he turns to leave.

But before he goes, he glances back one last time —and for just a heartbeat —he thinks he sees you.

Standing there in the snow, smiling. Weightless. Free.

He doesn't blink.

He just smiles back, tears blurring the world into stars.

"Happy anniversary, angel," he says.

And then he walks away, carrying you with him — in every beat of his heart. Always.

[mononijikayu]

multo — fushiguro megumi.

“Do I really seem that broken to you?” you asked, your voice tired, raw. “No, not at all.” he said. “You just seem like someone who’s still looking for the parts they lost.” And something about the way he said that. It was quiet. Almost all too knowing. That had made your heart twist. Because he was looking too. You could see it. And he’d been looking longer than you knew.

GENRE: alternate universe - grim reaper au;

WARNING/S: mythical beings and creatures, aged up megumi, heavy angst, romance, conflicted feelings, hurt/comfort, depression, memory loss, emotional distress, hurt, mourning, loneliness, pain, humor, guilt, pining, conflicted relationship, emotional distress, grief, past lives, reincarnation, character death, depiction of character death, depiction of grief, depiction of complicated relationship, depiction of panic attack, depiction of loneliness, mention of grief, mention of loneliness, grim reaper! megumi, grim reaper! reader;

WORD COUNT: 12k words

NOTE: multo being a prevalent song in the opm sphere right now, i cannot avoid it. and now here we are, a sequel to forg_tful. i think in some ways, this was bound to happen. there was so much more to tell. plus, this is an excuse to write for megumi. anyway, i hope you enjoy it!!! thanks to @areyna for beta reading for this one, as usual!!! i love you all <3

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IT WAS HARD TO DEAL WITH THIS SITUATION, EVEN IF ITS HIS NORMAL. Yet he lived a life of conundrums, after all this time. He was always precise, he liked getting things figured out.

Still, many decades having come and gone, Fushiguro Megumi was still living a life where he didn’t know what to do when it came to you. You, who was the head of the Special Cases Division in the League of Grim Reapers. His subordinate. And he hated it.

You were always there. Not just around but completely and utterly present. Wholly, extraordinarily there. You were at every cursed site. You picked up every urgent late-night call.

Every blood-soaked step he took deeper into the mess of death and decay. Clipboard in hand. Voice like frost. With eyes that saw right through him.

He couldn’t remember a time before you. He wasn’t sure there was one. It wasn’t just the work. It wasn’t even the case. It was you. It was you who consumed his mind at every little mission that needed to be dealt with. It was you whom he couldn’t help but have a glance at. 

The way you tilted your head slightly when he spoke an order, like you were listening to more than his words. The way your beautiful gaze lingered just long enough to make him wonder if you knew. And in the silence of his dreams, you did.

You were always there, too. Just calmly standing in the dark.  Sometimes with blood on your hands. Sometimes with your hand in his. Sometimes you were there smiling back at him. Sometimes you weren’t even looking at him. He never asked what that meant. You never offered in each and every dream. That was the game you played with him.

He hated how you moved like you were made of secrets. How you never flinched when he got angry, or cold, or tired of pretending. How you could sit across from him in silence and make it feel louder than a battlefield.

Each and every time he found himself alone, Fushiguro Megumi was certain that this would be the moment. This would be the moment he’d finally sit down, let the silence devour him, and wish, with everything in him, that it would just stop. All of it. The cases. The ghosts. The dreams. You.

He didn’t know how many times he’d had that thought, curled up in a chair long past midnight, staring at reports he couldn’t bring himself to file. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to forget you.

You who was like a ghost haunting him in each and every dream, every waking flash of memory that made his chest ache and his fists clench. And he tried.

He approached the Head Office. He went in determined, carefully filing the paperwork. Sat across from officials who asked sterile questions in sterile rooms.They called it a memory severance. It was very clean cut. It was clinical. Most of all, it was final.

But it was Gojo Satoru who stopped him. Gojo, of all people. The one who teased him relentlessly, who rarely took anything seriously. He’d gone to him thinking maybe, just maybe he'd understand what he was going through.

Yet, he did not expect the reaction he got. If anything, it was not how it was supposed to go. He remembered the way Gojo had gone unusually quiet.

And he never got quiet, he was not the type to be like that. Megumi remembered the way he took off his sunglasses like something sacred was being spoken aloud.

"You’re really gonna go through with that?” he asked, almost softly.

Megumi said nothing in reply, still looking down on the floor.

Gojo Satoru merely looked at him, sighing heavily.

This was not something that was to be taken lightly, Megumi realized.

“Does she mean that much to you?” Gojo prodded gently.

Megumi’s jaw clenched. “No. That’s the problem.”

“Lying like that can hurt your head.” Gojo tilted his head, frowning just slightly. “Hm….maybe she means too much to you.”

Megumi swallowed hard. “I just… I can’t keep living like this. Every case, every report, every night, she’s there. I’m not even sure if I feel anything real anymore, or if it’s just....something left over from before. Some kind of cosmic echo I’m not strong enough to shut out.”

Gojo leaned forward, voice dropping into something serious—an oddity from him. “You do know what happens when you go through with it, right?”

“I forget her. That’s the point.”

“No, no.” Gojo said, voice tight. “It’s more than forgetting. You’ll break the bond.”

Megumi looked up. “Bond?”

Gojo exhaled, like this was something he’d hoped he’d never have to explain. “Yeah. You didn’t notice that’s why Yuuta doesn’t remember Rika?”

“Yuuta–senpai did that?” Megumi blinked.

“There’s a reason she’s still showing up for you and why Rika doesn’t for Yuuta. There’s a reason she’s tied to your missions, to your life, to your dreams.”

He paused. Then, quietly, he sighs. “You two have something akin to something ancient, well something deep and remarkable. It’s something older than the work, older than this system, older than me—hell, older than you.”

Megumi blinked, cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck. “You’re saying this is fate?”

“I’m saying it’s a thread no one can break, other than you and her.” Gojo said, gazing direct and unblinking. “And if you cut it, that’s it. There’s no finding her again. There’s no being together again. Not in this life. Not the next.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. He felt uncomfortable with those words. It felt unnatural, for him to not see you. Not knowing you. He didn’t want to not know you, in the next life or the life after that.

He was just exhausted. Exhausted from knowing that you were in this miserable life now, just like him. He could see it in the way you handled every soul you took.

Every broken, bloody case. He knew that this was the misery of seeing you slowly slip away from everything you used to be. He knew that it was just everything that wasn't supposed to be.

You were too pure for this. Too good. And here you were, getting your hands dirty in a way that felt like poison to him.You weren’t supposed to be like this.

You were never supposed to be bound by the same fate he was. You weren’t supposed to stand next to him, cold and hollow, covered in blood and the weight of unspoken burdens.

You used to laugh. You used to live. And now, Megumi could see the shadow of that light growing fainter, as if each passing day was pulling you further away from the person he remembered. The person he couldn’t forget. The person he couldn’t stop loving.

He wanted to turn back time. He wanted to do something, anything. Just so he could stop you from becoming this creature you were never meant to be. He didn’t want you here. Not like this. Not with him. And he didn’t want to remember you this way.

But no matter how many times he tried to look away, you always found your way back into his thoughts. Into his nightmares. And he couldn’t figure out why that was. He couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

Fushiguro Megumi tried to speak. He opened his mouth, his throat tight, but the words died on his tongue. Gojo’s voice, low and firm, sliced through the silence like a razor. “You’re going to forget her, Megumi.”

Megumi froze, the weight of those words anchoring him in place. Gojo Satoru was watching him carefully, bright blue eyes behind his sunglasses unreadable, but the seriousness in his tone was unmistakable.

“I can’t stress this enough to you, kid.” Gojo continued, his voice quieter now, almost soothing, like he was trying to make it easier. “This is not a one–time thing.”

Megumi felt the air in the room grow heavier, suffocating. He knew where this was going. He knew the real and bitter truth, but hearing it from Gojo’s mouth made it real. Made it truly and horribly final.

“You’ll break the bond. Forever.” Gojo whispered.

Megumi’s breath hitched. He could feel his heart drop in his chest, heavy like lead. “Stop.”

“Once you say you want to forget,” Gojo continued, his voice a soft warning now, “she’s gone for you.”

“I said stop!”

Gojo Satoru did in fact stop talking when he asked. He felt like he was going to be sick. He felt like he was going to hyperventilate. That word was sickening. Gone. Gone like she’d never been a part of his life. Gone like he had never fallen in love with you. Gone like a thread severed — unraveling and vanishing.

He would lose you, all of you, everything of you. Not just your presence, but the connection. The history he had with you. All the lives. All the memories. Everything. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t even think.

Gojo’s bright eyes softened for just a moment, like he understood. Like he knew what this was doing to him. But the damage was already done. The words were spoken. There was no taking them back.

And Megumi? He was caught between the agony of keeping you, keeping the connection, the pull, the ache in his chest and the horrifying reality that keeping you meant watching you fall further into this fate. This world. This curse.

“I don’t know if I can….I….” Megumi whispered, barely audible, to no one in particular. His voice was raw. “I don’t know if I want to forget.”

Gojo didn’t answer immediately. He just stood there, waiting. Watching. Finally, his voice was soft. “I know. I know.”

But was it? Was forgetting you really the answer? Or would it just be another lie? Another piece of him that would slip away, just like you were slipping from his reach? Would he really do this? Megumi couldn’t help but swallow the bile down his throat.

“It’s up to you, okay?” Gojo says in response to him. “I’m not here to judge you for choosing your peace of mind, if you do.”

Gojo turns to his desk and starts writing something on a small piece of paper. Megumi looks at him. Gojo pushes the paper into his space for him to take. Megumi slowly takes it. He looks at the information written on it in his boss’s neat handwriting. 

“Tell Shoko I said hi. She’ll go and help you.”

Megumi looked at the paper longer than he should have.

He nodded at him absent–mindedly and began walking away.

He doesn’t know what to do.

DESPITE IT ALL, THE PAPER DIDN’T MAKE ITSELF USEFUL. Fushiguro Megumi didn’t go through with the memory severance. Not that day. Not the next. Not even on his next day off. He just couldn’t find it in himself to go and actually make the appointment.

But he couldn’t sleep after that conversation.bEvery time he closed his eyes, he saw your face again. The faint light behind your gaze, the strange sadness in your smile. And every time he woke up, the ache in his chest felt deeper. Older. Like it belonged to someone who’d already lived through this once before.

He hated it. Hated not knowing what to do. He hated how you were everywhere and nowhere all at once. And more than anything — he hated not understanding everything about this. How did you even become a grim reaper? How did you even end up here?

You weren’t like the others. You weren’t even like him, a foolish young man who decided to be unfilial and kill his father to protect his sister.  You didn’t have the cold detachment most of them wore like armor. You weren’t bitter. You weren’t angry. You weren’t dead inside — you just looked like you’d forgotten how to be alive.

There was something off about it. Something is wrong. And he didn’t like it. He didn’t like this feeling. He didn’t like where this was heading in his head. He had to know. He had to understand how you came to be here.

So, he asked.

He caught Gojo Satoru on one of his rare, quieter days seated on the rooftop of a botanical garden, bright blue eyes hidden behind tinted lenses, spinning a lollipop between his fingers. Megumi furrowed his brows.

“I have a question for you.” Megumi said, tone low.

“And good afternoon to you, kid. Seriously, you didn’t even find the time to greet your elders. Do it again.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Much better—”

“I have a question.”

“Only one?” Gojo smirked, fixing his posture. “Getting lazy.”

“I don’t care about that either.”

“Well, that’s just rude.”

“Just answer the question I’m about to ask.”

Gojo sighed. “Alright, alright. What’s it about?”

“It’s about her.” Megumi said.

Gojo’s smile faded. He turned his head, just slightly. Listening. “Okay, but—”

“How did she become a grim reaper?” Megumi asked. “She doesn’t move like someone trained for this. I know she isn’t. Her past lives prove that. She reacts before she thinks. Like it’s muscle memory….like she’s done this before, just not… here. Not like this.”

Gojo was silent for a long time. The wind brushed past them.

Finally, he said, “That’s not up to me to question.”

Megumi frowned. “You know something. You always do. You’re my boss.”

“I always know something, that’s just part of my job.” Gojo said, half–smiling again. “Doesn’t mean I’m allowed to tell you.”

“I want to understand her.” The words came out before he could stop them. Quiet. Honest. Maybe even desperate. “I want to know. Please. You know how much this means to me.”

Gojo exhaled through his nose, slowly. Then: “She doesn’t remember.”

Megumi’s breath caught. “What?”

“Her memories of her past life… they’re gone. I know usually, you get it back once the office processes the paperwork, when you ask. But she…she doesn’t have it.” Gojo said, voice unusually gentle. “That’s the price of what she is. A Reaper that didn’t start off dead. She’s someone taken, not made. Someone chosen.”

“Chosen by who?”

Gojo looked at him. Really looked. “That’s the wrong question, kid.” he said. “The real one is—why her? Why did they all choose her?”

Megumi didn’t answer. 

He didn’t know how to.

Because how could he?

“She probably doesn’t even know why she keeps ending up next to you either. She may think it’s just because you’re her sector boss.” Gojo said. “Doesn’t know what her body’s reacting to. Doesn’t know why you make her so still. So quiet.”

Megumi clenched his jaw. His voice cracked before he could hide it. “Then how am I supposed to let her go?”

Gojo looked away, eyes hidden behind the gleam of glass and the slow, setting sun. “You’re not, I suppose.” he said. “You never were. We learn that the hard way.”

Gojo’s words hung in the air like smoke. You never were. It rang in Megumi’s ears long after the sun dipped beneath the edge of the world. Long after Gojo stood, patted him once on the shoulder, and walked away.

He didn’t follow him, he doesn’t know how to. Instead, he just sat there, with his jaw tight, his hands pressed against the concrete, staring at the empty horizon like it owed him something. Why her?

He didn’t know. He’d never known. But he felt it — in the marrow, in the breath, in the way you voice made his name sound like a memory.  You didn’t remember him. You didn’t remember anything. And still, you looked at him like she’d lost him before.

He hated it all, he just couldn’t help it. He hated how cruel it was. Because he wasn’t built for this kind of pain. The slow, relentless ache of watching someone you love exist beside you, and never with you. 

“Fucking hell.” Megumi whispered into the void, lowering his head onto his hands. “What do I do?”

COFFEE TASTED EVEN BITTER THAN BEFORE FOR THIS SHIFT. Two days later, you were back in the field with him. They didn’t even try to stagger the assignments anymore.

Maybe the office didn’t notice. Maybe it was intentional. Maybe the higher–ups in the main office had seen something in the threads of fate that neither of you had the clarity, or the courage to face.

The location was a run–down district just outside the city perimeter, a place with broken streetlights and water stains curling along the edges of old brick walls. It smelled like rust. Smoke. That strange metallic air before a storm.

It was another violent death. A girl this time. Sixteen. Gone too early, too fast. She’d died in the middle of a fight, unfortunately. The fists clenched, jaw locked, eyes wide with rage. And by the time the team got there… her soul was gone.

Not released. Not processed. Just gone. And that was dangerous. Because a soul left too long in that kind of pain alone, in that raw, fragmented fury, it didn’t stay soft.

It calcified. Morphed. Turned. And there will be no chance for rebirth. Only the certainty of misery, in purgatory or worse, disappears. And then, there will be nothing.

You crouched near the faded chalk outline, fingers pressed to the scorched concrete where the girl’s blood had pooled just days before. “The poor thing, really.”

“It’s a bad case.” Megumi mumbled under his breath.

“She didn’t even realize she died.” you murmured. “This kind… they don’t leave on their own. They get stuck. Trapped between the pulse and the silence.”

Fushiguro Megumi stood beside you, tense as he looked at the entirety.

He was watching the shadows like they could grow claws at any moment.

He was watching you too, when you weren’t looking.

“Her soul’s still in the district, by my estimates,” he said. “It hasn’t registered on any gates.”

“Then we’re running out of time, senpai.” you replied. “How long do we exactly have?”

He looks at his watch for a moment. “Before the sunrise. But that’s being too generous.”

You stood, brushing your coat back with a practiced flick, already walking toward the alley’s edge. “I can certainly do it in one hour.”

“That’s overconfidence in you, isn’t it?”

“Well, Reapers don’t get second chances, senpai.” you added, like you were reminding yourself more than him. “And lost souls don’t either.”

Fushiguro Megumi finds himself unable to say anything.

When he looked at your eyes again, there was no shine.

Perhaps that broke him more than the thought of a soul dying out.

Your hunt unfortunately started slow. But that was not your fault. Before and after dawn are the peak hours of souls, looking for the gates of the afterlife. That also means the influx of the Reapers all around the neighborhood is throwing you off. You couldn’t help but sigh. 

Perhaps the biggest hindrance spiritually is your boss, who couldn’t stop looking at you. His aura is overwhelming your senses. But you couldn’t say that to him.

You weren’t here to find yourself in the disciplinary ward, after all. Yet you were sure that even if you tried, you wouldn’t be able to say it to him. And you didn’t know why.

You moved through the backstreets with quiet precision. Two shadows in a city that had forgotten the names of the dead. You passed windows that hadn’t seen light in years. Fences curled with rust. Shoes on telephone wires, spinning like memories.

And then, there was a flicker. You could feel the heaviness of the cold air. It was static along your spine. You froze. So did Megumi. You couldn’t help but frown at the feeling. You hated moments like this. You knew that this wouldn’t be something good. 

“There, senpai.” you said under your breath. “Did you feel that?”

He nodded, eyes narrowing. “She’s close.”

You turned the corner into an abandoned courtyard. And there she was. The girl’s soul was standing dead center, arms wrapped around herself like a shield. Her skin was pale and cracking, edges fraying like her form was struggling to hold.

Her frigid eyes were wide and unblinking, locked somewhere between now and a moment she would never escape. A moment that would forever trap her, frozen in this misery.

“No, no—don’t come near me, please.” she hissed when you approached, voice warped by grief. “Don’t touch me!”

Her pain rolled off her in waves. It was thick, bitter, and raw. It made your chest ache. Your purse your lips in a flat line. “She’s starting to mutate.”

“No, she’s already halfway gone. She’s passed that.” Megumi said quietly beside you. “Another hour and she’s not coming back.”

“I can reach her, senpai. I think I can do something.” you murmured, stepping forward.

“Hey! You know you can’t. This is against protocol, she’s already progress to—”

“But I have got to try!” You tell him, determination in your eyes. “How else will we know if we don’t at least give it a shot?”

“Do you think I would risk my subordinate to harm? Are you that stupid?”

“Senpai—”

But something about her gaze caught you.

The way her eyes skipped past Megumi to rest only on you.

There was so much hatred in her eyes.

“I know you.” the soul whispered.

You stopped cold. “Huh?”

She took a step back. Then forward. Fingers twitching. “You don’t remember me.” she said, voice trembling. “But I know your face. I saw it before I died.”

Megumi’s voice was sharp, controlled. “She’s displacing. She’s too far gone, I told you! She’s confusing you with someone else!”

“No.” The soul looked between you both, eyes going glassy. “You’re the reason. You’re the one who saw me and didn’t stop it.”

The moment your hand stretched out, the air turned still. Not quiet at all, no. It was still. Like the world was holding its breath. Your coat stirred in the stagnant wind. The flickering edges of her soul glowed dimly, like embers under ash.

“Don’t move, [last name].” Megumi warned, voice low, blade still at the ready. “She’s past saving.”

You didn’t listen. You couldn’t. The way she looked at you. It wasn’t desperation anymore. It was recognition. Like some part of her soul saw you the way you really were.

Like whatever spark that lived in the heart of all things dying had seen your name written in its final seconds. You stepped closer. Your hand didn’t waver.

“I can help you.” you said, gently. “But you have to let me. I can’t reach you if you turn away now.”

But the black hollow in her chest pulsed. It was thick, violent, pulling outward like smoke curling from the inside of a burning house. She clutched her head, breathing fast. She started to scream over and over.

“I don’t want to forget—!” she screamed, staggering forward. “I was someone! I know I was someone!”

Her body jerked, the dark mass inside her twitching, warping. “I remember my mother’s voice! I remember the sound of the TV in the morning! I remember what it felt like when I thought someone might love me—”

Her hands curled into fists again.“—and now it’s all fading! It’s gone, it’s gone—”

And then, something cracked in her. It sounded like the first break in a dying tree, right before the whole thing crashes down. She lunged. Fast. Vicious. But not at you. At herself.

She reached into her own chest like she wanted to tear the rot out. Like if she could just find the memory, the warmth, the piece of herself she’d lost—she could make it stop.

And that was what did it. The darkness snapped free. Swallowed her whole. A burst of energy surged outward in a shockwave. You stumbled back, the weight of it slamming into your ribs like guilt made physical.

Megumi moved without hesitation, his arms braced in front of you, body between you and the explosion. “Move back!” he barked, but his voice was already too far.

The girl was no longer a girl. You knew that much, even with much denial. What stood before you was twisted. Bone-white limbs extended too far, mouth open in a scream that had no sound.

Her eyes were now massive voids, leaking black tears. Her sorrow had become a shape, deepening into something of a monstrosity. Her grief had become a weapon to wield against you. And still....still, you stood there, looking at her with pain in your heart. You took one shaky step forward.

“Please….” you whispered. “You don’t have to become this.”

But she was gone. Megumi knew it before you did. He shifted, blade raised. “This has to end, now.”

And your voice cracked as you reached for his wrist. “Wait—Senpai, don’t—”

His jaw clenched. But he didn’t move yet. “This is beyond the protocol, you know this! We have to–”

“Look at her, senpai!” you begged. “She’s scared. She’s just scared.”

“She’s not her anymore, [last name].” he snapped. “This thing? It’ll take you with it.”

“I know that!” you said. “But just—just give me one more second.”

Fushiguro Megumi’s grip faltered. Just barely. His blue–green eyes looking at you, trust blossoming in the corner of his eyes. You nodded at him, thankful. You turned back toward the girl and looked at the echo of her and stepped forward. 

The creature, at least what remained of her, was writhing now. Flickering between the memory of a girl and the monstrous thing her grief had carved from her. Her mouth opened again, distorted and shaking, but this time… this time she spoke.

"Please, please….." she rasped. The sound wasn’t from her throat. It was from her soul, raw and breaking. “I don’t want to stay like this. I don’t want to forget—but I don’t want to be like this either.”

You froze. That voice. That ache. It hit something deep in you. Deeper than instinct, deeper than memory. Something older. Something permanent. Your head started to hurt little by little. But you kept it together. You had to. 

“Then let me help you.” you said, stepping forward slowly.

Her body trembled, a broken silhouette against the rotting skyline. Her hands were shaking like she still didn’t know what they were for. Fists, weapons, or prayers. She reached for you with one, the other still clenched tight by her side.

“I don’t remember who I was, I….I don’t remember!” she whispered. “But I know I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not anymore. Please... just let me go.”

And something in you had clicked. That quiet place, deep down, where the echoes of the past lived. The place you didn’t have the key to. Suddenly, it didn’t matter if you remembered her, or if she remembered you. 

What mattered was that she was asking you. To free her. To end this. You took a breath, steadying your hand. Your reaper’s seal burned faintly across your palm. She didn’t flinch at the sight of it at all. She had all but accepted her fate.

The blink of morning dawn was starting to come little by little, the darkness of the night slowly swallowed up. This was not how you wanted it all to go. You didn’t want to lose another soul like this.

But this had to be done now. You had already broken protocol for this. You couldn’t bring yourself to make her suffer anymore than she already has. This is the only mercy she could get in the hands of heaven and hell.

“I’m sorry.” you said, voice low, trembling. “But I promise… this won’t be for nothing.”

You stepped close enough to touch her forehead with your fingers.

Her eyes fluttered shut. A single tear fell—black, then clear. “Thank you.” she whispered to you, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you.”

And with that, light appeared as bright as the rising sun. It was ever so blinding and yet it was a silent light. A silent light that brings the deliverance of peace. You purse your lips as you watch it all. Her form dissolved like ash into sunrise, scattering upward. Gentle. Final. Not gone, but freed.

When the last of her vanished into the air, the wind returned. Soft. Barely there. You stood still, hand out, arm shaking. Fushiguro Megumi hadn’t said a word back as he sheathed his weapon back. He looks at you, concern casting down from the peripheral of his eye. 

When you turned back to him, he was staring at you like you’d split him in two. Like he was watching the exact moment your soul remembered how to ache. The morning sun finally hit the two of you. You took a breath. You opened your mouth for a moment, but nothing came out. 

“Are you alright?” Your subordinate asks you.

“I didn’t save her.” you said, quiet.

“You did. Don’t say that.” he answered. His voice was rough. “You just didn’t get to bring her to the gates. It’s okay.”

“But I…..”

“No, don’t think too much about it.” Megumi says as he gets closer to you. His figure towers over you. He looks at you with a softened gaze. “Please. You did what you could. You brought her peace. You saved her, okay?”

Your face contorted at his words. Suddenly, your brows were drawn, lips trembling, your shoulders pulled tight like your body didn’t know whether to collapse or run.

But the tears came anyway. They slid down your cheeks soundlessly, shameful and uncontrollable, like a crack in a dam that had held too long.

“I just—” Your voice faltered, hoarse. “I just wanted her to feel safe.”

Fushiguro Megumi stepped in without hesitation. Not with words. Not with orders. Just warmth. Just him. He reached out, careful and steady, and his hand came to rest against the back of your neck. 

It was gentle. Too gentle, like he was holding something precious to him. Yet it was the very thing that was grounding you. His other arm wrapped around you like a shield. A quiet one. Something steady enough to hold grief without needing to fix it.

“You gave her that, okay?” he murmured. His voice was low now, close to your ear, the kind of softness he didn’t show anyone else. “She left remembering that someone heard her. That someone stayed.”

Your fists curled into his coat. Your forehead dropped to his chest. He didn’t move an inch. He didn’t even pull back. Instead, he stayed there with you. He let his warmth envelope you when you needed it. He just held you there, close and certain as the sun kissed your skin even more.

“She was just a kid, senpai.” you whispered, your breath hitching.

“I know.”

“She was alone. I was alone. If you hadn’t been here—”

“I am here.” he said, more firm this time. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Your breath shook again, and then again, until it steadied. Just enough. 

Megumi’s hand brushed the back of your head slowly, his touch almost reverent. “You don’t have to carry it all, [last name].” he added. “Not alone.”

You stayed like that for a long time. Long enough for the blood on the pavement to dry. Long enough for the light to shift between buildings.

Long enough for the ache to settle instead of sharpen. Eventually, you pulled back just slightly, just enough to see his face. His jaw was tight. His eyes hadn’t left you for even a second.

“Do I really seem that broken to you?” you asked, your voice tired, raw.

“No, not at all.” he said. “You just seem like someone who’s still looking for the parts they lost.”

And something about the way he said that. It was quiet. Almost all too knowing. That had made your heart twist. Because he was looking too. You could see it. And he’d been looking longer than you knew.

For a moment, you felt the weariness of it all come to you. You were just standing there in the alley, your shoulders slack, your eyes red and all the sudden a little too distant for someone who just found their job done well.

The morning light caught on your uniform, smearing silver against the black. And for the first time since arriving, you didn’t look like the head of the Special Cases department. You just looked…tired. Almost so small. All too far away.

Megumi said nothing. Just stood there, quiet across from you, waiting like he always did. Because he knew better than to fill that kind of silence. The kind where memories try to surface but never make it to shore.

You take out a cigarette from your coat and bring a cigarette to your lips. Lit it with a snap of your fingers. Inhaled. Exhaled. The smoke curled around your face like something trying to stay. Then, finally, you turned to him. 

Your eyes were strange. Not confused. Not pained. Just old. Like something from another lifetime had turned over in your chest and was watching him from behind your lashes. For a moment, it didn’t even look like you were having a bad migraine.

“Do you believe in déjà vu?” you asked, voice low, almost idle.

He blinked, startled. “…What?”

You glanced up at the sky. Smoke slid from between your teeth. “It’s just a thought, from observation.”

“.....What brought this on?”

“Sometimes….I can’t help thinking about it.” you said slowly to him. “When you look at me, senpai…”

The word felt foreign in your mouth — formal, yet intimate. “…I feel like I’ve already grieved you, or maybe you’ve grieved me. I don’t know which. But….it’s just like that.” you said. “And I don’t know why.”

Megumi’s breath stilled. His throat closed around the sound of your voice. And his heart, it was a traitorous little thing. And it surged once again in a violent way against his ribs.

Because that was you. Not the reaper. Not the officer. You. That was a sliver of something that remembered him, even if you didn’t know it. The first time you’d said anything like that.

The first time your body remembered what your mind had let go. He stepped forward. It was slow, like something might shatter if he moved too quickly. His boots scraped against gravel. You didn’t flinch. Your reddened eyes never left his blue–green gaze.

Fushiguro Megumi said your name. Just once. Your actual name. And it made you feel something. Something you weren’t supposed to feel. Your breath takes a hitch. The way he said it, you knew that it cracked at the edges.

And for a second, just a second, you looked like someone who knew what it meant. Like someone who’d said his name before, in a world that had long since died. The silence stretched between the two of you.

None of you break the silence. Instead, it just deepened.It was now too dense and too impossible to ignore. The kind of silence that remembers.Megumi’s breath held still, lodged somewhere behind his ribs, as though letting it go would undo whatever fragile thread was pulling you toward him.

Then he said it again. Your name. Not your title. Not your designation. Your name. Your actual name. He had spoken it in a low, careful, way. Perhaps more than the first. It was like it meant something dangerous. Something forbidden.

And the way it echoed in your chest. It was almost… familiar. And it just made your head hurt even more. Your breath caught. A tremor ran through you, subtle but sharp, and your eyes. Those tired, shadowed eyes had locked onto his own, like they’d done this before. Like they’d found him before.

Something changed in your expression, you were sure. Even if you couldn’t see it, you knew something had changed. Not recognition. Not quite. But something old. Something that haunted the space between memory and instinct.

“…Why did that sound like a goodbye?” you asked, voice rough, uncertain.

Megumi swallowed, jaw flexing. His gaze never left yours. “Because it might be. Our work is always full of goodbyes, after all.” he said.

You blinked. That was the moment. The flicker. A beat of stillness that didn’t belong to this life. A feeling that didn’t have a name. And you felt it. Deep down. Like a ripple in still water. The ache of having known someone, and the agony of not remembering how.

“Who are you to me?” you asked, softly. You weren’t sure you even meant to speak. The words came from somewhere else.

Megumi didn’t answer. Not with words. He stepped forward, slow and sure, and the scrape of gravel beneath his boots sounded louder than it should’ve.

The air felt heavier now, charged with things he cannot put together. His presence filled the alley like a shadow cast from something much older than the buildings around you.

“You don’t have to say anything.” you whispered. “But something in me… it reacts to you.”

Your hands trembled slightly as you looked at him, your fingers flexing like they were supposed to be holding something they’d already lost. Something they had been waiting to find. Megumi’s voice, when it finally came, was quiet.

“I think you were someone I couldn’t save.”

That silence returned once more. It was ever so dense, knowing. Not a void. A presence. You looked at him then. Really looked. And your heart gave a low, uncertain beat like it recognized the shape of him. Not the face, not the name. The weight of him. And then, quietly, your lips parted.

“…Why does it feel like I’ve cried for you before?” You whispered back to him. “I didn’t just mourn or feel sad. But I cried. Bitterly.”

Megumi’s expression didn’t change. But his hand twitched at his side. Your name sat between you like a secret that refused to die. And neither of you moved. Because something ancient had just stirred awake. And neither of you knew what would happen if it opened its eyes.

“Maybe.” He whispers to you. “Just maybe.”

The cigarette burned slowly between your fingers, the smoke catching faint dying gold from a nearby streetlight. You were still watching him, gaze heavy. It was not in weight, but in the way it pressed into him, like you were trying to figure out something that wouldn’t come.

Something that hovered just behind your ribs, just beyond your reach. And then, all at once, you looked away. Your head hurts even more than before. You let the cigarette meet your lips once again. 

You cursed, soft under your breath. “Fuck.” you muttered. “Forget it. I don’t remember.”

Megumi flinched like you’d slapped him. The shift was instant. Your voice closed off, a door slammed shut in the space between you. Your shoulders tensed as if embarrassed to have said anything at all.

You turned slightly, dragging one last inhale from the cigarette like it might anchor you back into this life. The one you knew, the one where he was your commanding officer and not something deeper, older, buried beneath centuries of silence.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird, senpai.” you added. A shrug. Casual. Too casual. “I’ve been overworked lately. It’s probably just… nerves.”

But Megumi couldn’t breathe. Because he remembered.He remembered every second of that moment when you looked at him like you knew him.

Not the version of him standing in front of you now, but the boy he used to be. The one who held your hand in another lifetime, who once promised you peace.

And now you were brushing it off like smoke in the wind. He opened his mouth to say something to you, at least anything that would make it better. But his voice caught in his throat. So he just stood there, hurting quietly like he always did.

“…It’s okay.” he said finally. Low. Tired. “It happens.”

You gave him a look, unreadable again. A flicker of something he couldn’t name. And then you nodded. As if that was the end of it. As if there shouldn’t be anything more to be said. As if it never happened.

You dropped the cigarette. Stepped it out with your boot. “We should head back. The office will want a full report.”

“Yeah.” 

He watched you walk ahead, back straight, hands tucked into your coat pockets like it was just another night, just another mission. But Fushiguro Megumi’s chest still ached with everything you didn’t say. 

Everything you almost remembered.

YOU ONLY FOUND OUT TODAY THAT SOMETHING WAS WRONG. You got in and you looked at the office. It was too quiet. Usually, people were bustling and hustling, putting in reports in and out of the sector head’s office. You were confused, very confused. Until you checked your emails. The report was never filed. At least not by him.

You noticed that his office was cold, his coat still hung on the hook by the door. There was no answer. No note. No explanation. Just silence. Nothing from his secretary. Nothing from his other subordinates. 

The first thing you did was check dispatch. The second was the morgue. By the third hour, you were in a rage. Something inside you wouldn’t calm down, wouldn’t sit still.

Not until you stormed the massive head of operations wing and grabbed Gojo Satoru by the collar in front of six stunned Reapers reporting to him and hissed.

“Where the hell is he?”

Gojo Satoru, for once, didn’t smile. He didn’t joke at all. He didn’t even pretend. He just looked at you, something strange and guilty swimming in the corners of his bright blue eyes. That had made you even angrier.

“I asked you a question!”

“I’m your boss, don’t you know that?”

“I don’t really give a fuck about proprieties right now.” You reiterated, brows narrowing deeper. “Now answer my question.”

“He’s in the Hall.”

The words didn’t register. “What? Which hall? There’s many halls in this place!”

“The Hall of Discipline.”

Your stomach dropped. “What? Why?”

Gojo sighed. Quiet. Tired. “For the obvious.”

“What, this is not making sense—”

“He falsified the report, [last name].” he said, more clearly this time. “Said the soul’s corruption was his mistake. Claimed he delayed the purge protocol. Said it was all on him. The office found a dozen violations in his write-up and he didn’t fight it. Took the blame.”

You couldn’t breathe. “That’s….”

“He’s your superior, as much as I am.” Gojo added, softer now. “When things go wrong, the system comes for the one in charge.”

“But I was—I stepped in, I—”

“I know that, kid.” The blue eyed man said. “We all know. But Megumi made it so no one else could touch you. He rerouted everything.”

Your hands were shaking. “He shouldn’t have….This is stupid!”

“It is. But he still did.” Gojo Satoru put a hand on your shoulder. His voice dropped. “He did it for you.”

You moved almost instantly. Your legs moved like a blade through the halls. You did not care for anything else. You had to get there fast. You didn’t care if you were going to get in. You’ll force your way in. You didn’t carry any clearance, nor were there orders for you to be there. But that also didn’t matter.

All you had to do was walk in. The guards didn’t dare stop you. They felt it in the air around you. The storm. The promise. They saw your eyes, your fists clenched into fists. It was all too much, that energy flowing from your body.

Down below, the stones whispered. Every step rang against old bones. The torches bent away from your passing. You stopped there soon enough, at the seventh row. You knew that cell. The worst one. Your throat felt dry.

You opened the door almost immediately. And you saw him, you saw everything. He was there. Fushiguro Megumi. Chained. Bruised. Slumped in shadow.

One eye was swollen. One hand red with dried blood. He didn’t lift his head at first. Not until you said something. Not until you called his name like it still meant something.

Then slowly, his gaze suddenly found you. His breath caught. “…….You came.” he murmured. A rasp, not quite real. “......Why?”

“I should be asking this question.” Your throat burned. “Why did you do it?”

He blinked once at your words. Then again.

As if the answer had teeth. As if it lived behind his ribs.

And then he hitches a breath, trying to speak despite the pain.

 “You weren’t supposed to be here.” he said softly. “Not in this life. Not like this.”

You stared at him. “…What does that mean?”

But he didn’t answer. Only looked at you like you were a secret he’d buried centuries ago and couldn’t stop digging up. And for a moment, for just a breath, your skin remembered him. Not your mind. Not your soul. Just the body.

The instinct. The shape of something familiar in the dark. A voice you’d followed into fire before. You didn’t know why your hands moved.

Why you reached him with everything in you. Why he let you. But you touched him. Gently. His jaw. His cheek. The side of his throat where something still beat, still fought.

“You should’ve let me take the fall.” 

Your voice was low, splintering at the edges. A whisper only the walls and the dust could hear. Your hand cupped his cheek tenderly, carefully as you could, your soft palm against the warmth of bruised skin. 

“It was my fault.”

“I couldn’t. ” Megumi breathed. Not because it hurt. Not because he was bleeding. But because you’d said it. That. The one thing he’d wanted to protect you from.

“You could have—”

“You know that I wouldn’t.” he added. A little more fragile now. Like he was trying not to fall through the space between you. “This is the only choice.”

Your grip trembled. Not because of fear, that was for sure. But because somewhere in your body, in your bones, you did know. You didn’t remember, not truly. Not all of it. Not clearly. But it seems your body did. 

You could feel the ache. There was an instinct. The way your fingers ghosted over the edge of his jaw like they'd memorized the path long ago. The way your eyes were clouded with concern. That was real. That was yours. That was surely warm. Only for him.

“I didn’t want this, senpai.” you whispered. “I didn’t want you like this.”

His lashes lowered. Eyes half–lidded, jaw tight. “I know.”

Silence pressed in from all sides. The stone, the iron, the weight of what couldn’t be said. What wasn’t supposed to be remembered. But it lingered anyway.

Between you. Like a curse. Like a vow. You leaned in, forehead resting against his skin. The light flickered overhead. Shadows crawled across the cell floor like old ghosts.

“I keep feeling it.” you murmured, almost to yourself. “That something's missing. Like I'm half–awake. And when I see you... it’s like I almost know what I’m supposed to say. Like I’ve said it before.”

Megumi didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you. 

Like you were sunlight bleeding through a locked door. 

Then, he speaks to you with laboured breaths.

“I used to dream of you.” he said. Soft. Low. Carved in smoke. 

“Before you ever put on the uniform. Before the office took your name. There’s too much to say….Too much to speak on.” 

“Senpai, don’t speak too much—”

But Megumi didn’t stop. He felt feverish, lost in the pain. He was losing his mind. “You’d show up in places you shouldn’t have been since that first life. Under sakura trees. In the middle of winter. At the edge of a battlefield.”

You blinked at his words.

Your heart clenched.

Your lips pursed into a line.

“You always smiled. Always left first.”

Something twisted inside your chest. A flicker of grief you couldn’t place. “Senpai….”

“I think I was supposed to follow you. Everywhere…..” Megumi whispered. “I just… never got there in time.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your fingers curled tighter against his skin. And deep in the marrow of your soul, something remembered. Something screamed. But the name wouldn’t come. Nothing would come to you. Even if you wished there was.

His blue–green eyes fluttered, glassy and dark, lashes trembling like he was fighting sleep—or memory. And then, like something pulled from the bottom of a well, his voice returned. Distant. Drenched in fever.

“She always leaves first…” he mumbled, barely audible. “Still wears the ribbon… said it meant ‘home’…”

You froze. The words hit you like a blade behind the ribs. Because you’d heard them before. Your head started to hurt once again. You bit your lip, trying to not let the pain win. You turned to look at Megumi, but the words continued to echo in your head. 

It was too familiar. It was like you remembered it. Yet it was not here. Not in this life. Somewhere else. A dream, maybe. A voice calling across some great divide. The ribbon was real, but you couldn’t explain how. Couldn’t remember ever being given one. And yet, suddenly your hand was moving.

You reached beneath the folds of his tattered coat, down the neckline of his uniform, like something was guiding you and there, tucked against his collarbone, warm with his fevered skin. 

A ribbon. Frayed at the edges. Crimson. Your breath caught in your throat. So you don’t forget me. The words weren’t yours. Not yet. But they echoed in the hollow of your ribs like they belonged. 

And you knew. You knew he’d been holding on to it across lifetimes. A part of you broke, almost instantly. But a deeper part of you awakened. It was like a ghost coming to you, haunting you with something you couldn’t even remember, mockingly.

“Come back to me.” you whispered, voice trembling. Copying the words in your head. The pain is becoming more and more prevalent. “Wherever you are… whatever this is… come back.”

His body stilled in your arms. His head lolled gently, eyes barely open. “…don’t let them take you again…”

It wasn’t a plea. It was a warning. The shadows around you shifted. The air thinned. Something old was listening.  The Hall of Discipline groaned faintly above you, its stone bones creaking under memory and magic. 

The red ribbon pulsed against your fingers. It was soft, steady. Like a heartbeat. Like a tether. It felt so familiar. And you hated it. Because you couldn’t understand it. You purse your lips, the thundering hurt hammering in your head.

Fushiguro Megumi had slept into feverish slumber. 

Soon enough, you knew you were also going to.

You pull out your phone and call Gojo Satoru.

“Bring medics down here.” You whispered to him. “Now.”

You hung up and leaned against Megumi, holding the ribbon.

THAT BITTER NIGHT, YOUR SLEEP CAME IN MANY FRAGMENTS. It all came in so many fractures you could not understand. And when it did, when your body finally gave in to exhaustion, you dreamed. But not like before.

This one was... different. You were standing in a garden. Quiet. Cracked stone beneath your feet, dust curling around the hem of robes that felt too heavy, too ancient to belong to the present. Trees loomed tall overhead, but they were wilted. Hollow. Like something had long since abandoned them.

There was a shrine. Or maybe a ruin.

Something half–buried and forgotten.

And he was there. Megumi. But not quite.

He didn’t wear black. He didn’t look like the version you knew. His hair was longer, tied back. His eyes were the same. But older somehow. More haunted. He was standing at the edge of a small pond, hand resting on a stone marker.

And when he turned to you, your heart lurched so violently in your chest it almost woke you. “You always find me here, you know.” he said.

You blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“No, I don’t suppose so.” he murmured. “You never do. Not the first time. Not even this time.”

You stepped forward, compelled by something you couldn’t name. You looked down at the stone marker. It was worn smooth. The name had faded from it. All except one character. Yours. And then, a hand gripped your wrist. Familiar. Steady. Warm.

But when you looked up, he wasn’t standing beside the stone anymore. He was behind you eyes narrowed like he was afraid of what, you couldn’t tell. You were confused. This was not reality. You were sure of that. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t true.

“You’re not supposed to be here yet, not just yet,” he whispered. “Not this time.”

“Why not?” you asked, your voice trembling.

He didn’t answer.

The dream shattered like glass.

You felt like you were falling.

The weight of the world blinked away as you landed. And when your eyes opened again, you were in a hospital room. The light was pale. Blurred at the edges. Machines hummed like lullabies gone wrong. Outside the window, snow fell against the glass in slow motion. It was too slow, like time had stopped to watch.

You looked down. You were in the bed. IVs in your arms. Tubes at your side. Everything white and wrong. The door creaked open. And there he was. Megumi. But younger, still tired. His hair damp from the rain. His Reaper uniform still clung to him. Another version of him from another time. 

You were once more confused as he looked at you, so tenderly, so warmly, so devotedly. He stepped inside quietly, as if any noise would wake something that wasn’t supposed to rise. His eyes met yours, and the pain in them was older than anything the world had a name for.

“You’re not supposed to be here yet.” he whispered.

Your throat felt tight. You tried to sit up, but couldn’t. The ache in your chest told you something was ending. “Why not?” you asked, voice trembling. “Why can’t I stay?”

He didn’t answer right away. He came to your side, and sat in the chair like he’d done it a thousand times. Reached for your hand like it had always been his to hold. His thumb brushed over your knuckles.

"You weren’t meant to see this. You weren’t supposed to see the end, your end." he said, finally. Voice low. Fragile. “But you did. And it broke something.”

“What did it break?”

Another pause. Then, his voice broke too: “Me.”

The lights above flickered. You looked down and saw the ribbon again, tied loosely around your wrist. “I’m sorry.” you whispered, not knowing why.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to your temple. “You always say that.” he murmured.

And then suddenly, that sound again.

You can hear the shattering glass.

That horrific, sharp sound.

The world split open, the hospital room disintegrating into fragments. White light, falling snow, the beeping machines all swallowed by black. You fell through it like water. And then you woke up. Sweating. Shaking.

The real Fushiguro Megumi still lay unconscious in the cot beside you, fever cooling slowly under your watch. The red ribbon was still in your hand. But now, you remembered the feeling of  snow. You remembered the feeling of dying. And you remembered him, at your side.

Every time.

Every lifetime.

Every chance.

And you still didn’t know why.

You sat up, feeling the sweat cold at the back of your neck, breath caught in your throat. And across the room, far from you and Megumi, you could feel the faint, flickering, like a phantom.

For a moment, you thought you saw a shadow move. It looked like someone standing just at the edge of your perception. Watching with such precision. Such intent. Such desire.

Gone when you blinked. But you felt it. The same ache from the alley. The same weight in your chest. The same name, unspoken but circling your ribs like a storm waiting to break. You didn’t sleep again that night. Instead, you watched Fushiguro Megumi breathe.

YOU WERE EXHAUSTED WHEN YOU CAME INTO THE OFFICE. But that was because you were still feeling sick.That’s what they told you, anyway. That’s why you were still officially on medical leave. That’s why you weren’t supposed to be on–site today.

It’s why they hadn’t even processed your last mission report yet, which you were sure said something about "emotional trauma recovery" whatever that meant in a place like this.

But you didn’t care about that at all. You woke up before the sun that morning, throat raw from another dream you couldn’t quite shake, your fingers still curled around the edge of Megumi’s spare coat, left behind on the couch.

So you came in. You took the high elevator to the top deck, to what used to be an observatory before the league converted it. Now it was all reinforced glass and glowing panels, quiet enough to think and empty enough to breathe. 

You stood there, staring out over the city that doesn’t even know you exist. The wide world is still asleep below you, blanketed in blue and grey. For a moment there, you thought you were alone. Until the reflection shifted.

Division Head Gojo Satoru’s tall frame emerged behind you in the glass, arms folded casually, his usual blindfold replaced by tinted lenses. He looked half like a ghost, and half like someone who never really slept.

You didn’t hide your surprise. “You’re up early, senpai.”

“Old habit, I suppose.” he said, stepping closer. “I used to crash here when the paperwork got unbearable. Not much has changed.”

You looked at him. “You still do?”

He didn’t answer directly. Just gave a small smile and joined you at the glass, the mundane city lights painting dying soft gold across his jaw. He studied your face for a moment. He hummed soon after.

“You shouldn’t be here, no?” he said eventually, voice gentler than expected.

You scoffed. “Says the guy who’s technically been dead a million times.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. “Touché.”

A long silence passed between you at that moment.

The kind that felt full, not at all like a blank canvas. 

The kind only people who’ve shared enough pain can understand.

“Did you see him?” you asked suddenly, without looking.

Gojo’s smile faded. He exhaled through his nose.

“He’s still recovering, in his apartment.” he said. “Stubborn as ever.”

You nodded. Your reflection looked pale, eyes a little too hollow. “He shouldn’t have done that.”

“He didn’t see another way. Especially as your boss.”

“I would’ve taken the punishment.”

“He knew that.” Gojo turned to face you now. “But the system doesn’t work that way. And you—”

He paused. Something unreadable flickered in his gaze. “You’ve always been meant for something else, aren’t you?”

You turned toward him, brows drawing. “What does that mean?”

Gojo tilted his head, a grin returning but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not the one who gets to answer that. Sorry”

A pulse of unease tightened in your chest. Like something was circling you in your own skin. Like something remembered.

“Gojo–senpai—” you started, stepping forward without thinking. But he was already moving, already backing away, like he’d said too much or just enough.

“Get some rest, kid.” he said, his voice lighter now, but not soft. “And don’t do anything stupid. Or at least… not without backup.”

The doors behind him hissed open. He turned.

But then he stopped. Just for a second.

His head angled over his shoulder, voice low now. Real low.

“You saw something, didn’t you?” The words slipped through the quiet like a needle. 

Your mouth opened. Closed. “What?”

“In your dreams, when you were knocked out.”

“I don’t know….” you said. “It felt like… like a memory. But not mine.”

Gojo’s voice dropped, serious in a way he rarely allowed. “Some memories don’t belong to just one person.”

You glanced at him. “So whose was it?”

He looked at you carefully. His tone was impossibly gentle. “Yours.” he said. “And his.”

Gojo Satoru turned back toward you fully, no grin this time, no swagger. Just those pale lenses catching the dull ceiling light. His face was unreadable for a moment as he ended up deep in his thoughts.

“In your dreams, sometimes…..” he said. “You remember things. Not clearly. Not yet. But something’s waking up.”

You stared at him.

Your stomach turned.

Your lips pursed deep.

“Megumi…” you whispered. “Was it because of me?”

Gojo didn't respond. Didn’t need to. The silence cracked between you like ice underfoot. And then he walked away, hands in his coat pockets, disappearing into the flickering lights of the hallway. You turned back to the glass. The city hadn’t changed. The light was still dull, the sky still gray.

But your reflection was different now. Because in your own eyes, something else looked back. And this time, it blinked with you. Like something had decided. Like something in you had finally opened its eyes.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He says, smiling at you. “Go on. Back home.”

You were going to argue but you gave in and nodded.

He turns around and walks away, his face drops.

He takes his phone from his pocket and the phone rings.

“She’s going to remember soon.”

YOU DIDN’T WANT TO DO THIS, BUT YOU ENDED UP HERE ANYWAY. Far above, tucked away in the forbidden archives of the League of Reapers, a forgotten case file blinked awake, its lock peeling open, quietly, like something old had just been permitted to stir.

The records room wasn’t supposed to be open after hours. Especially not the forbidden wing. You weren’t sure how you got past the first two sigil locks. You didn’t stop to question it. Your hands just moved, like they knew what they were reaching for.

Down long aisles of dust and dead magic, your footsteps were the only sound. The further in you walked, the more the air changed. It was heavy, old, metallic. Like the stillness right before a storm. You passed the shelves that should’ve had your file. Yours and Megumi’s.

But there was nothing. Just blank ledgers. Burnt corners. Redacted names. Your existence. It was odd. It was fully cleaned off the paper like a sin no one wanted to confess. You stood there in front of the empty space where the file should be, hands trembling.

“…Why?” you whispered. “Why can’t I find anything?”

The lights overhead flickered.

And then, without warning, you stopped.

You felt that endless burst of energy.

“Because you were never meant to.”

The voice came from behind you. Calm. Controlled.

Beautiful in a way that makes your skin crawl.

You turned, slowly to see that face you had longed to see.

Geto Suguru. The Keeper of the Forgotten. The guardian of records sealed by the gods of this realm. He stood with his hands behind his back, black robes pooling like ink around his boots. His purple eyes gleamed golden in the dark.

“You shouldn’t be here, reaper.” he said, voice smooth like a blade sliding into silk. “These files are sealed for a reason.”

“I had a dream, keeper.” you said. “I saw a version of myself. I—remembered something. And I…..I don’t know. I need to—”

“That wasn’t a memory.” Geto cuts you off. “That was residue. Massive chunks, it would seem. It's a massive leftover of emotion trying to piece itself into something. It’s dangerous to mistake echoes for truth.”

Your voice sharpened. “Then what’s the truth?”

Geto tilted his head, dark hair falling over one eye. “It’s not your place to ask.”

Something inside you flared. “It’s about me. How is it not my place?”

He took a step forward to you, his beautifully decorated robes flowing as he did. You backed up instinctively and suddenly hit the shelf behind you. His presence closed in like mist under a door. After all, he was not one to challenge.

“You died, reaper.” he said softly. “And you weren’t chosen to come back. But something refused to let go. Something broke the cycle. Your soul was taken, not guided. That makes you… an anomaly.”

You swallowed. “So someone stole me?”

Geto Suguru didn’t answer.

But his silence was confirmation enough.

That had made your chest constrict.

“I deserve to know what I have forgotten.” you said, a low shake in your voice. “Please.”

Geto’s purple haze darkened. It was not unkind, but far too knowing. “Reaper, it is not your place to ask.”

“Keeper—”

“You had made your choice a hundred years ago. The choice is final. You have chosen this life.” he said. “You believed you deserve peace. And we have given it to you.”

He raised a hand. You felt the air around you thicken, magic curling tight around your lungs, around your mind. The archives blurred from you all of the sudden. Your eyes widened as you looked at him.

“No—wait—” you started.

“Go back to your sector, reaper.” Geto said gently, stepping back into the dark. “Before the parts of you that are still whole begin to remember why they were broken in the first place.”

And with that, darkness.

WEEKS LATER, IT WAS HARD TO DEAL WITH THE SILENCE. Fushiguro Megumi wanted to look for you. But it was like you vanished into thin air. It was stupid, how he went into a frenzy when he came looking for you.

Yet that was all he could know. He couldn’t stand it, going into silence. He hated that more when you appeared in his nightmares. It was raining when Megumi found you again.

He didn’t find you until it was already late. It was way too cold, even for a reaper. Outside headquarters, where reapers weren’t supposed to linger this long in the mortal veil.

You stood beneath the overhang of a closed shop, arms folded over your chest, face lifted slightly to the sky like you didn’t know where else to be. Like you didn’t know how long you'd been standing there.

He almost didn’t call out to you. Almost let you stay like that—just standing there at the edge of the platform, watching the clouds roll over the city like ash. The back of you looked like someone else. Like someone older. Like someone trying to remember what it felt like to be whole.

But your aura....it wasn’t sitting right. Fushiguro Megumi knew the shape of you in every room. Could pick you out from a mile away, even in crowds, even in battle. But this? This wasn’t your usual rhythm. 

Your energy was jittery, off–beat. Like someone had burned out the center of you and filled it with static. The aftershock of a dream you couldn’t shake. Something was rattling inside of you and he felt it in his bones.

“…You okay?” Megumi’s voice was low. Careful.

You flinched. And that did something to him. Made his gut twist. Made his jaw tighten. You never flinched around him before. Not like that. He stepped forward, slowly, like he might spook you if he didn’t. His coat rustled against the silence.

“Shouldn’t you still be resting? You’re still injured.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it, just let the words slide out with the smoke that curled from your cigarette. It was slow, unbothered.

Like maybe you weren’t worried sick about him for the past two nights. Like maybe you hadn’t checked his office three times today already. Like maybe your heart wasn’t still racing from that dream.

But Fushiguro Megumi saw the tension in your fingers, how they trembled just a little when you flicked the ash. He saw how you stood slightly off–balance, weight shifting like you didn’t want to be caught hoping.

“I wanted to see you.” he said simply, honestly. The words came quiet, unfiltered. “You disappeared for the whole day. Gojo told me.”

You exhaled, sharp through your nose. “Why is he snitching on me?” you muttered, flicking your cigarette to the side, watching the embers die as they scattered. “Old man’s bored, isn’t he?”

Megumi shrugged one shoulder. “Probably. He said you looked ‘haunted’ and then told me to handle it before he had to get emotionally involved.”

You snorted softly. “That sounds like him.”

A beat of silence passed between you. Then another. The wind picked up and pushed at the hem of your coat. You rubbed your arms. It was feeling more from nerves than cold, you were sure. But you hated that. You would have rather it was the cold. 

Finally turned to look at him. His hair was still damp. His knuckles were bandaged. His blue–green eyes were dark under the weight of whatever hell he’d just been through. But he was here. He came.

“…You shouldn’t be up and about just yet.” you said again, quieter now. “You’re still recovering. You look like shit.”

Megumi’s gaze flickered to yours, sharp but soft, like a blade dulled at the edge for your sake alone. “And you look like you haven’t slept in three days.”

You didn’t respond.

He stepped closer.

You didn’t look up.

“You weren’t there after the mission for today.” he said to you. “And I kept thinking….if you were alright. If you were doing well. You were having bad headaches too.”

Your chest tightened. “How did you—”

“It was obvious.”

Because it was. And you did realize it, how obvious it was. That you were in pain. Yet you didn’t know what to tell him what it was all about. You didn’t know what to tell him. When it was all horrible things. 

But you didn’t know how to tell him that every time you closed your eyes, you heard him whisper your name in a hospital room that didn’t exist. That some part of you knew that voice before your brain ever caught up. That it made your heart twist in ways that didn’t make sense.

“You came all this way just to check on me?” you asked, forcing a wry smile.

Megumi didn’t blink. “I’d cross the veil if I had to.”

Just like that, your cigarette burned out between your fingers. Your eyes met his and lingered. “I think I lost something.” you said.

His heart kicked. “What do you mean?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. “I went to the archives.”

Megumi stiffened. “What?”

“I had to.” Your voice was soft. “I needed to know why I keep dreaming things that feel like memories. Why I remember voices that don’t belong to me. Why you… why I keep—”

You stopped yourself. Jaw locking. 

Megumi’s gaze never wavered. “What happened?”

You looked away. “They weren’t there.” you whispered. “Our files. Everything I was looking for—it’s gone. Or hidden. Or… I don’t know.”

Silence. “And then…” Your voice faltered. “He was there.”

Megumi’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

You hesitated. “Geto Suguru. The Keeper.”

Megumi swore under his breath. Stepped toward you. “What did he say?”

“That it’s not my place to know.” you said, bitter. “That I was taken. That my soul wasn’t meant to be here. That someone pulled me from the cycle and forced me into this life.”

Megumi’s breath stopped when you mentioned those words. You didn’t see the way his hands curled into fists. Didn’t see the fear creeping up his throat. You didn’t know how much anguish this was putting him through.

“I tried to remember after that.” you continued. “But something’s wrong. Like there’s a hole in my head. I can feel it. I was so close, and now it’s just…”

You looked at him again, more desperate now. “Why does it feel like you’re the only thing I remember?” you asked. “Like my soul keeps walking toward you, even when I don’t want it to.”

Megumi couldn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself too. Because he knew that feeling. Knew what it was to ache for someone you weren’t supposed to keep finding. Know the exact weight of your gaze. The way his name used to sound from your lips.

He took one slow step closer.Then another. He didn’t touch you. But he stood close enough for you to feel the heat of him beneath the rain. His bright blue–green eyes locked to yours, solemn, endless.

“I’ll find out what they’re hiding,” he said. “I swear it.”

“…Why?” you whispered.

Megumi's voice was quiet, but it hit like thunder: “Because your soul isn’t the only one that remembers.”

You looked at him confused and uncertain.

The scent of the cigarette left your lips.

You nodded at him, letting everything slip by.

Later, the tension in the air thickened, like a storm pressing down on the heavy silence between them. Fushiguro Megumi’s resolve, forged from year after year of restraint and quiet determination.

Now felt like a chain binding him to the past and the future that Geto Suguru had hinted at. A future where the woman he loved was something more than human.  More than what he could protect.

Geto Suguru, the Keeper, stepped back, the hint of amusement in his voice masked by something far older, more knowing. "You think you’re the one holding the key, don’t you, reaper." he said, almost as though to himself. "But the door was never locked to begin with. You’re just too stubborn to see it."

Fushiguro Megumi’s gaze never wavered. He knew the risks of going here. He knew the stories buried beneath the names in those forbidden files. But none of it had ever mattered more than you. You were more important than anyone to him in this world.

“I’m not afraid of what’s in that file, you know that. I remember everything, even if you blank it out.” Megumi said, his voice hardening. “You may think I’m blind to the danger, but I’m not. I’ll tear down every wall you put up between us.”

Geto’s smile returned, just a little—cold and calculated. “You can try. But the truth always catches up.”

Megumi didn’t flinch. His mind was set, his path clear. The years of unanswered questions, the weight of a thousand lost memories, had led him here. To this moment. To this man who seemed to hold all the pieces of a puzzle Megumi could never finish on his own.

“You’re wrong about one thing, keeper.” Megumi added, his voice softer now, but no less firm. “I’m not the only one who remembers.”

Geto’s eyes flickered, just for a moment. Then, with a shift of his body, he turned, as if dismissing the conversation entirely. "We'll see."

Fushiguro Megumi stood there, unmoving. It wasn’t over. It wasn’t nearly over. Not as long as she still came back to him. Not as long as the past, and the memories they shared, remained anchored to their souls.

The door behind him closed with a finality that echoed. But the bond was already there, and nothing Geto Suguru said or did could sever it. And Megumi would make sure of that.

[ghostlynightpanda]

hellooo!!, could I mabye request an AIB x reader where reader falls asleep on their lap, love ur posts btw!

AIB Characters react to Reader falling asleep on their lap 

content/warnings: Ann, Kuina, Mira, Aguni, Niragi, Last Boss, Chishiya, fem!reader, canon typical blood and violence, fluff, 4.670 words

Ann

The basement of the Beach was cool, dimly lit, and forgotten by most. Tucked beneath the chaos of pool parties, power plays, and egos, it had become Ann's quiet haven. It was more functional than cozy—lined with medical supplies, an old cabinet of charts, and a beat-up cot—but somehow, it suited her.

She liked this place. Down here, she didn’t have to be on edge. Down here, she didn’t have to be the cold, calculating ex-cop always watching her back. She could breathe.

And now, you were here too.

You’d wandered in claiming a slight headache, but Ann had known better. The way your eyes had softened when you saw her, the way you lingered just a little too long at the edge of the room before coming over—it wasn’t just about needing rest. You needed her. That simple truth settled quietly in her chest.

Ann sat with her back against the cold concrete wall, one leg tucked under the other, the weight of a heavy old book in her lap. She was reading—something dense and dry, a textbook on emergency procedures left over from some previous visitor to the Beach. It was the kind of thing most people would ignore, but she soaked it in. It kept her sharp. It kept her safe.

You were curled up at her side now, head resting on her lap, knees drawn slightly to your chest. She hadn’t expected you to get so close, but she hadn’t minded either. In fact, when your fingers brushed against her thigh as you got comfortable, something warm and strangely protective flickered through her.

“You okay?” she had asked, voice quiet, nearly lost in the steady hum of the old light fixture overhead.

“Mmhm,” you’d murmured. “Just comfy. What are you reading?”

She turned the book slightly so you could see, giving a small shrug. “Not exactly thrilling.”

“You like it, though,” you said with a sleepy smile.

Ann didn’t answer right away. Her eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than she meant them to. The softness in your features, the trust in your voice, the way you leaned into her without hesitation.

“I like learning,” she finally said. “And… I like when it’s calm like this.”

You nodded, barely a motion, eyelids already getting heavy. “It’s weird, but… nice. You and me and the quiet. I feel like I can breathe here.”

She didn’t say anything then—just let her hand rest in your hair, brushing it gently back from your face.

“I could fall asleep like this,” you mumbled.

Ann glanced down at you again. You were already gone, lost to sleep, breathing slow and even. Her hand stilled in your hair, resting lightly against your temple.

She closed the book quietly.

Her thoughts wandered as she looked down at you. You were softer than the world you’d fallen into. A little sun in a city of shadows. And somehow, she felt calmer with you here. She didn’t let people in easily—not since arriving in this place—but you had snuck through the cracks. No questions. No force. Just presence.

She could feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest against her thigh, the warmth of your hand curled loosely near her own. Vulnerable. Trusting.

Why do you trust me so much? she wondered.

She shifted just slightly, careful not to disturb you, and leaned her head back against the wall. Her eyes stayed on you, lingering on the curve of your cheek, the soft rhythm of your lashes fluttering against your skin.

I should be sharper, she told herself. More alert. There’s always a game. Always a risk.

But she couldn’t bring herself to move.

Instead, she stayed right there, in the quiet basement with its hum of stillness, one hand resting gently against the side of your head as if anchoring you both. For now, there were no numbered cards. No alliances. No missions.

Just you. And her. And the rarest kind of peace the Beach had to offer.

Kuina

Kuina’s room wasn’t big. It wasn’t fancy, either—just four walls, a mattress on the floor, and a scattering of her clothes and personal things that made the space feel like hers. A few stolen string lights from the main floor wrapped around a metal pipe overhead, casting a soft amber glow over the room, warm and private.

Outside, the Beach was still alive with movement. Music echoed from down the hall. Voices laughed, argued, shouted. But here, in her room, none of that reached you. Here, it was only her.

Kuina sat with her back against the wall, one knee up, the other stretched out along the mattress. You were curled against her side, head resting against her chest, legs tangled loosely with hers. She had one hand resting on your back, the other lazily running through your hair, fingers moving in soothing, absent-minded patterns.

She wasn’t used to this.

Not the closeness—you gave that freely—but the comfort. The stillness. The quiet heartbeat of something gentle that she hadn’t thought she’d get to have in the Borderlands.

You’d fallen asleep like this, tucked into her after a long day. You hadn’t said much—just looked at her with that soft little smile, the one that made her ribs tighten and her throat go warm. Then you curled up into her space, trusting her completely, and within minutes, you were out.

Kuina let her eyes drift over you. There were bruises on your arms from the last game, faded now but still real. A scratch on your cheek from crawling through a narrow vent. But your face was peaceful in sleep, body loose and relaxed against hers. Her thumb brushed against your temple, slow, featherlight.

You’re always putting yourself on the line, she thought. Even for people who wouldn’t do the same for you. But here you are, letting me hold you like you know I never would’ve let anything happen to you in the first place.

She leaned her head back against the wall, lips quirking slightly.

Then came the soft creak of her door.

She didn’t flinch, but her hand paused.

The door opened a crack, enough for a familiar pale head of hair to peek through. Chishiya.

Kuina didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just lifted a brow in calm defiance.

Chishiya’s eyes dropped to you asleep on her chest. Then to her hand in your hair. Then back up to Kuina’s face.

He sighed, barely loud enough to be heard. “So that’s how it is,” he murmured, his usual dry tone intact. “You’re getting sentimental.”

Kuina rolled her eyes and went back to stroking your hair. “Shut up, Chishiya.”

His lips quirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You know caring for someone like that’s a weakness, right?”

Kuina didn’t even blink. “Then I guess I’ll be weak.”

There was a beat of silence. Just the hum of the lights, your soft breathing, and the weight of unspoken meaning.

Chishiya tilted his head slightly, regarding her with an unreadable expression. Then, with a faint shrug and an even fainter smirk, he stepped back and pulled the door shut behind him.

Kuina exhaled slowly.

He’s not wrong, she thought. This world doesn’t reward softness. It chews it up and spits it out.

But as she looked down at you—so still, so trusting, so completely hers in this quiet moment—she knew she wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not even safety. Not even certainty.

Because whatever this was between you, whatever this fragile, beautiful thing blooming in the cracks of a broken world, it made her feel human. And that was something worth holding onto.

Even if it was a weakness.

Especially if it was.

Mira

There was a garden in the courtyard of the hotel.

Not a real one—no flowers, no vines—but someone, once, had tried to make it beautiful. A few broken pots were scattered along the edge, filled with cracked soil and stubborn little weeds. A rusted trellis leaned against a far wall, hinting at something that might’ve bloomed in another life. And a wrought-iron bench sat in the corner, aged with salt air and time.

It was quiet here. Most people at the Beach never bothered to go this far. There was no reason to, unless you were looking for solitude.

Or, as it turned out, Mira.

She sat gracefully on the bench, her legs crossed elegantly. The sun had just begun to dip, setting the clouds ablaze in soft pinks and oranges. Her gaze was distant, fixed somewhere on the horizon—but her hand was resting gently on your back, her fingers moving in slow circles between your shoulder blades.

You lay curled on the bench beside her, head resting in her lap, eyes closed.

You’d been talking earlier—about nothing and everything. The kind of soft conversation that didn’t need structure. The kind that drifted like leaves on water. You told her about dreams you could barely remember, about the time before all this, about books you used to read when the world made sense.

She had listened with a faint smile, never interrupting, just watching you with those unreadable eyes.

Then, slowly, your voice had trailed off, your breaths deepening, your hand relaxing where it had been gently tangled in the edge of her shawl.

Now, you were asleep.

And Mira… was still watching you.

Not in the calculated way she looked at others. Not like you were a puzzle or a threat. Just… watching.

You looked softer like this. Younger. Kinder. Like something untouched by the Borderland’s cruelty.

She brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek with the backs of her fingers, the motion tender and impossibly light.

It was strange, the way you made her feel.

Mira was no stranger to masks. She wore them with grace, each one tailored and precise. Sweetness, detachment, charm—tools, not traits. And yet, with you, the mask felt thinner. Not gone, not entirely. But lighter.

You didn’t want anything from her. Not favor, not power. Not even protection. You just wanted her, exactly as she was, even if you didn’t know the whole truth.

Especially because you didn’t.

That thought made her chest ache in a way she couldn’t explain. Would you still lie here so peacefully if you knew the cards she held? If you saw the Queen beneath the silk?

She sighed softly, her gaze drifting back to your sleeping face.

She could pretend. For now. For just this moment.

The wind stirred her hair, and she shifted slightly to shelter you more from the breeze. Her hand resumed its slow rhythm, fingers gliding gently through your hair, her other arm wrapped loosely around your side, steady and sure.

“I don’t deserve this,” she whispered, so quietly even she barely heard it.

But still, she held you.

Because in a world built on deception and fear, you were the only thing that felt real.

And Mira, who had never once allowed herself to need anyone, found herself afraid of the day you might open your eyes, look past the softness, and finally see her for what she really was.

But until then—

She closed her eyes too, resting her chin lightly on the top of your head, letting the fading light wash over you both.

Here, in the garden nobody tended, something fragile and beautiful still found a way to grow.

Aguni

The trees didn’t ask questions.

They didn’t want your name, your number, your alliances. They just stood, silent and tall, swaying gently in the breeze as if they didn’t know the world was ending a little more every day.

It was why you chose the woods. The streets were a warzone now—bloodstains on pavement, smoke in the sky, the sharp echo of gunfire still ringing in your ears sometimes even when there was none.

The King of Spades had made sure of that.

You hadn’t meant to stray this far out, but your legs kept moving. Branches cracked underfoot. A bird startled somewhere above you, flapping away into a canopy of grey.

You were tired. Not just physically, but in the bone-deep, soul-heavy way that didn’t go away after a nap or a full meal. Tired of seeing people die. Tired of losing. Tired of pretending you were okay after Aguni.

After he fell.

You’d watched him vanish into smoke and blood.

And then there was nothing.

No body. No final word. Just fire and silence and a piece of you torn clean away.

Still, you kept walking. Because grief didn’t stop the games. Because standing still got you killed.

You were so caught in your head—so deep in the fog of memory and fear and missing him—that you didn’t even realize someone was approaching until the brush snapped a little too close.

You turned fast, hands ready, knees tensed.

But then you saw him.

Aguni.

Standing there like a ghost. Solid and real and so much more than a memory.

His shoulders were slumped with exhaustion. His arm was bandaged, shirt torn, dirt and dried blood streaking his skin. But he was alive.

And for one long, aching second, neither of you moved.

Then you were running.

He didn’t brace for impact, just opened his arms the second you reached him, wrapping you up in them like he’d been waiting for this moment the whole damn time. You buried your face against his chest, your fingers clutching his back so tight it almost hurt.

“You're alive,” you whispered, over and over. “You’re alive. You’re here.”

Aguni didn’t speak at first. He just held you. Grounded you. His hand came up to the back of your head, strong and steady, fingers threading through your hair like he was reminding himself you were real too.

“I thought I lost you,” you said into his shirt, voice trembling. “I saw you. There was blood, and fire, and I—”

“I know,” he said quietly, voice low and rough. “I know. I almost didn’t make it.”

You pulled back, just enough to look at him. His face was worn—lined with grief, the same kind that haunted your own—but his eyes… they were the same. That unwavering steadiness. That quiet promise:

I’m still with you.

He glanced around, then gently guided you off the path to a fallen tree, the only seat in sight. He sat first, legs stretched out, and pulled you down beside him. You settled into the crook of his side, your arms still clinging to his torso like he might vanish again if you let go.

For a while, the two of you just talked.

Not about the Beach, not right away. But about the silence of the forest. About the ache of surviving. About the dreams you both kept having when you did sleep. You told him how you kept expecting to wake up in that moment where he disappeared, over and over. He listened, quietly, like your words mattered more than the passing time.

Eventually, you leaned your head against his shoulder, your voice growing quieter between sentences. The rhythm of his breathing, the steady heat of him beside you—it all became too much comfort for your exhaustion to resist.

He felt your weight shift as your words faded into stillness.

You were asleep, your head resting gently on his shoulder, your hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his shirt.

Aguni turned his head slightly, catching the faintest glimpse of your face. Peaceful. Worn out, but soft in a way he hadn’t seen in you for a long time.

A flicker of worry crossed his brow. He didn’t want you to wake up with a crick in your neck or your back sore from the angle. Not after everything. Not when he'd finally gotten you back.

Carefully—so carefully he barely let the branch beneath them creak—he shifted.

One arm moved to support you, and the other gently guided your head down, easing you into his lap with practiced gentleness. His large hand cradled the back of your head, fingers sweeping a few loose strands away from your face. Once he was sure you were settled, he rested his hand lightly in your hair, thumb stroking a slow, unconscious rhythm.

You sighed in your sleep, shifting slightly, but didn’t wake.

Aguni leaned back against the tree, exhaling slowly. The tension he’d been holding in his chest for days—for weeks—finally loosened.

You were here. You were safe. And you’d fallen asleep in his lap like you had nothing left to fear.

He’d keep it that way.

As long as he was breathing, you’d never be alone again.

Niragi

The Beach was loud.

Always was.

Laughter that didn’t feel real, music too fast for the mood, flirtation twisted with fear, bodies in motion because if they stopped, they’d have to think. About the games. About the deaths. About the clock that kept ticking louder every day.

You hated the parties. You hated the way they tried to make the place feel like a vacation when it was a cage.

And tonight, you needed to get out.

You slipped away while no one was looking—no one but him.

Niragi was leaning against the railing on the second floor of the hotel, half-shadowed, cigarette glowing at the corner of his mouth, watching everything and nothing with that sharp, unreadable stare. Like a wolf too restless to sleep.

He didn’t say anything when you passed him in the hallway, just flicked his eyes in your direction.

But you felt him follow.

Not close. Just… there. Like he was curious. Or maybe bored. You never could tell.

You ended up outside, in the little service area behind the kitchens—quiet, secluded, lit by a single flickering bulb and the distant pulse of party lights from the pool. There were crates and an old bench back here. You sat on one of them, arms wrapped around your knees, trying to find stillness.

Then you heard the click of boots on concrete.

You didn’t even have to look.

“You lost?” you murmured, not unkindly.

Niragi stepped into the edge of the light. “You’re the one hiding.”

“Not hiding. Breathing.”

He made a low sound that could’ve been amusement or just a grunt. “You’re weird.”

You shrugged, resting your chin on your knee. “Takes one to know one.”

That got a small smirk. Barely there, but you saw it.

He stayed standing at first, pacing a bit, like he didn’t know what to do with stillness. But eventually, he dropped down on the crate beside you, long legs stretched out, arms resting over his knees.

You sat there together for a while. Not talking. Just letting the quiet hang around you like a secret.

And then something changed.

You leaned sideways without thinking, maybe out of exhaustion, maybe just because you’d been holding so much in—and Niragi didn’t move away.

Didn’t snarl or snap or shove you off.

Instead, he stiffened for half a breath… then let you stay.

Your head ended up on his thigh. Your body curved against the side of his leg like it was the most natural thing in the world. You could feel the heat of him, the tension still thrumming in his muscles like he didn’t know how to relax—but he didn’t stop you.

“Seriously?” he muttered, but it came out softer than usual. Not annoyed. More… surprised.

“Just… for a second,” you mumbled, already half-asleep.

He looked down at you, lips parted like he had something else to say. But the words never came.

Instead, after a long minute, he leaned back on his hands. Let his eyes drift up toward the stars. And one of his gloved fingers—just one—slowly brushed your hair out of your face.

He kept doing it.

Like it grounded him.

Like you grounded him.

No one else got this. No one else would believe it if they saw.

But for some reason, you did.

You, who looked at him like he was more than just the anger he threw around like fire.

You, who wasn’t afraid to sit beside him in the dark.

You, who fell asleep with your head in his lap like he wouldn’t dare let anything happen to you.

And the crazy part? He wouldn’t.

Not tonight. Not ever, if he had anything to say about it.

“Freakin’ idiot,” he murmured, but there was no bite in it. He looked down at you, face softened by sleep, and shook his head.

But he kept playing with your hair.

Kept watching the shadows like they were prey.

And stayed exactly where he was.

Last Boss

The game hadn’t lasted long. Short, sharp, and brutal. Just like the world these days.

You and Last Boss were the only ones who walked away.

The others… didn’t.

You hadn’t spoken since the final bullet hit the ground, still red with someone else’s blood. The car ride back to the Beach had been silent—windows down, wind rushing in like it was trying to scrub the violence off your skin.

Last Boss had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose in his lap, fingers still stained from the fight. His face was unreadable as always, masked behind the sharp lines of his tattoos and the quiet weight of someone who’s seen too much.

But he glanced at you. Once. Just once.

And it was enough.

So when you finally said, quietly, “Can you pull over for a minute?” he didn’t ask why. Didn’t need to.

He just turned the wheel, guided the car off the broken road and into a patch of gravel beside the sea.

There was a bench, half-forgotten, facing the water. The kind of place someone might’ve come to smoke a cigarette or think about life in a world that still made sense. You sat down first, feeling the ache in your limbs from the game, the weight in your chest heavier than your steps.

Last Boss followed, silent as ever.

You sat together, side by side on the bench. A soft breeze came off the water, brushing over your skin like a ghost’s touch. The moon hung low and full, its reflection rippling faintly across the surface of the ocean. You watched it shift and shimmer like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Some people needed noise to fill silence. Not him. Not you.

You let yourself lean a little against him, your shoulder brushing his arm. At first, he tensed—not out of discomfort, but as if unsure how to receive something so… gentle. But then he allowed it. Settled into it. His body shifted just enough to meet yours, a quiet offer of shared stillness.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But it crept in slowly, like the tide. The exhaustion, the quiet, the lull of the waves, and the strange, impossible safety of being next to him. Your head slipped down against his thigh, your breath evening out as the weight of the day finally dropped from your shoulders.

Last Boss looked down, brow furrowed faintly.

Not annoyed. Just… caught off guard.

No one touched him like this. No one rested against him like they trusted him not to move, not to run, not to hurt.

But you did.

And that did something strange to his chest.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even shift his leg, though it was already starting to go a little numb. Instead, he leaned forward just slightly, brushed your hair away from your face with two calloused fingers, and let his hand rest loosely in your hair.

The stars reflected faintly in the water. The moonlight turned your face silver. And the quiet between you felt sacred—like a moment stolen from a different world.

He looked out at the ocean, his other hand resting on the bench beside you, close enough to feel your warmth even through the silence.

No one at the Beach would look for you yet. There was time.

So he sat there, still and steady, with your head on his lap and the night around you like a secret. And for once, he let himself feel something other than anger.

Something calm.

Something warm.

Something he would never say aloud—but something that felt an awful lot like peace.

Chishiya 

The Beach had fallen, and the games had… stopped.

No timers. No announcements. No cards.

Just silence.

You didn’t trust it.

None of you did.

You, Chishiya, and Kuina had slipped away before the blood dried, taking nothing but what you could carry and each other. No plan—just instinct and movement and the need to survive one more day.

You found shelter in an old, half-crumbling building near the edge of the city. Some kind of abandoned storehouse, reinforced with steel doors and concrete walls. No obvious traps, no surveillance. At least, none that you could find.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

But it was shelter.

Kuina was on the roof, crouched low, her eyes scanning the streets below like a hawk. Her silhouette barely moved against the night sky—watchful, alert, breathing steady.

You and Chishiya were inside.

The room was lit by a single candle set on the floor between you. A halo of gold surrounded the small flame, flickering against the concrete walls and catching in the silver-blonde strands of his hair as he sat, legs stretched out, back against the cold wall.

You sat beside him, your shoulder brushing his arm, wrapped in one of the thin blankets you’d found in the storage bin. Not much warmth to it, but it was something.

He didn’t speak. Not unless it mattered. But his presence was steady—unflinching, sharp without being cruel, calm in a way that made it easier to breathe.

You were still trying to stop shaking. The aftermath of it all—the Beach, the betrayal, the games, the unknown weight of what came next—it had wrapped itself around your spine like a vice. But sitting here, with him… things didn’t feel quite so impossible.

You tilted your head toward him slightly.

“You think it’s over?” you asked softly, voice barely a thread.

Chishiya didn’t answer right away. He just glanced at the candle, then at you.

“I think we’ve been given a pause,” he said eventually, voice low and even. “Not an ending.”

That sounded about right.

You didn’t push the conversation further. The silence between you wasn’t awkward—it never was. Chishiya’s quiet wasn’t the kind that asked to be filled. It was deliberate. Measured. Comfortable, in its own strange way.

Eventually, you shifted. Your head found his shoulder first. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away.

The tension in your body slowly bled out as your weight leaned against him.

And then, without quite meaning to, you slid lower, resting your head against his lap. The edge of his coat softened the contact, and the slow rise and fall of his breath, steady and unfazed, began to lull you.

He looked down at you.

Not with surprise. Not with annoyance. Just a quiet kind of assessment—like he was trying to understand how he got from cold manipulation at the Beach to this. Your head on his lap. His hand, eventually, hovering just over your hair before he let it settle there, gently stroking through the strands.

You were already half-asleep.

He didn’t wake you.

Didn’t move.

There was still time before dawn. Still hours until you’d have to move again, to dig deeper into the mystery of the games, to decide what to do when the quiet broke.

So for now… he let you rest.

The candle flickered lower.

Kuina’s shadow still moved on the roof above.

And Chishiya, who never let anyone close without a reason, kept watch.

Not because he had to. 

But because something in him wanted to.

Masterlist

[leirastar]

New World | Chapter 12

Pairing: Ot8 Ateez x reader AU: fantasy AU | stranger -> mates Summary: In Hala, a house of eight kingdoms, each boasting its own wonders, you never imagined that amidst the pain, you would also fall—this time, in love. Word Count: 2.6 k | 11 minutes Warning: none

It had been a few days since you arrived at the castle, and in that time, you had rejected every dinner invitation Seonghwa had sent. You didn’t know why, but each time the invitation arrived, a strange, inexplicable fear would settle in your chest. The thought of sitting in that grand room with all of them—the rulers, the powerful, the untouchable—was enough to make your stomach twist.

A flicker of guilt passed through you. Seonghwa had been nothing but kind, offering polite invitations with a softness that almost made you feel welcome. But you couldn’t bring yourself to walk into that room and face them all. What if you said something wrong? What if your nerves betrayed you and you said so mething foolish in front of the 8th?

You told yourself it was simply the unfamiliarity, the pressure of being watched under their piercing gazes. But there was something more, something unspoken that made your skin crawl. Maybe it was Yunho, his cold presence always lingering in the background like a storm waiting to break. Or perhaps it was the subtle, dangerous expectation in the air—the weight of being a guest in a place where every word could have consequences.

Avoiding Yunho had become second nature, though it required more effort than you cared to admit. You weren’t sure if he had noticed your deliberate distance—or if he even cared—but the tension between you lingered, thick and unspoken.

And this damn castle didn’t help. Even after days of roaming its endless corridors, it still felt like a maze, one designed to keep outsiders like you feeling lost. It was a constant reminder of how small and insignificant you were in this world—how easy it would be to disappear among the shadows, unnoticed, forgotten.

God, I hate this maze.

It made you feel stuck, as though you were a mere spectator in a game you didn’t understand.

That was the only reason you had ended up here—standing uncertainly in the middle of a long hallway, straining to hear the faintest sound of movement.

In your defense, you had only been trying to find the library. But you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to ask for directions. The fewer conversations, the better. So, you had wandered instead, following the most well-lit paths, hoping you’d stumble across something familiar.

Your footsteps were light against the marble floor as you hesitated, unsure which way to turn. The hallway stretched endlessly in both directions, its towering walls lined with ornate sconces that flickered against the dark stone. You were just about to take another step forward when something—someone—caught your eye.

A tall figure in the distance, moving with purpose.

Your breath hitched. Even from afar, you recognized the cold grace of his stride, the unyielding presence that made the air feel thinner. Yunho.

Panic surged through you. Had he seen you?

You didn’t wait to find out. Spinning on your heel, you darted toward the nearest door, heart hammering as you pushed it open and slipped inside.

For a moment, all you could hear was the rush of your own breathing. You pressed your back against the door, exhaling softly as you listened for approaching footsteps.

Silence.

Only then did you dare to look around.

The room you’d stumbled into was quiet, heavy with the scent of aged parchment and something faintly woody—cedar, maybe, or sandalwood. It wrapped around you like a cloak, calming your nerves just enough to pull you back to yourself.

Dim light filtered through a tall, arched window, casting long shadows over the space. This was no ordinary study—it was vast, stretching farther than you expected, its walls lined floor to ceiling with dark mahogany shelves, each one overflowing with books. Thick tomes and weathered manuscripts leaned against one another, their spines faded from time and handling. Some titles were written in old, unfamiliar scripts, while others were embossed in gold leaf, glinting faintly in the low light.

A large desk sat near the window, carved with intricate patterns and cluttered with maps, opened books, and a few quills resting in a glass inkwell. Scrolls were tucked into corners, half-unrolled as if someone had been searching for something in a rush. A worn leather chair was tucked neatly behind it, its cushion slightly indented from use. This space was lived in—used often, but meticulously kept.

The atmosphere was rich with quiet intellect and mystery, like the air itself was thick with secrets.

On the left wall stood a ladder affixed to a rail, allowing access to the higher shelves. Notes were pinned here and there between the books—some handwritten, others sealed with wax, as though this was both a place of reading and of strategy. An entire corner was devoted to records, their spines numbered and dated.

A single globe sat in the far corner, beside a tall armchair with a velvet throw folded over the back. It looked like the kind of chair you could disappear into for hours, lost in a book, if not for the tension still clinging to your chest.

You didn’t know whose study this was, but something about it felt like a sanctuary—a quiet place carved out of the cold, echoing vastness of the castle.

For now, it would do.

Tucked into the far right corner of the study was a small cubby—a cozy alcove almost hidden by the larger shelves. It was lower to the ground, framed by curved woodwork and slightly dimmer than the rest of the room, as if meant for quiet, private reading. Rows of books lined the little nook, most of them older, dustier, forgotten. But one caught your eye.

Bound in deep blue leather, its surface was smooth and cool beneath your fingertips. The title was etched in delicate silver lettering that shimmered faintly under the dim sconce above—words you didn’t fully recognize, but felt weighty somehow. You pulled it from the shelf and held it for a moment, the cover humming with a strange kind of gravity.

When you opened to the first page, your breath hitched. In elegant, sharp script, it read:

"For the Future King."

The rest of the writing was in an old tongue—archaic, looping, and unfamiliar. You couldn’t quite read it, not fully, but the pages held a strange allure. Margins were filled with handwritten notes—some underlined passages, others commented with short phrases and translations. The ink varied in color and style, as if several people had once studied this book, passing it between them like a sacred artifact.

You flipped through the pages slowly, entranced by the patterns of the letters, the careful notes scribbled in between. Despite not understanding it, there was something soothing about the way the words moved, like a secret waiting to be understood.

But before you could turn another page, a sudden motion startled you.

The book was snatched from your hands.

You gasped and looked up—heart lurching—only to realize that you weren’t alone.

You froze, pulse hammering in your throat as your gaze met his.

A book rested in one gloved hand, the very one he had just taken from your grasp. His other arm hung loosely at his side, but there was nothing casual about his stance. He stood tall in deep emerald robes, the fabric simple yet refined—like him. Subtle silver embroidery traced along the hems, catching the dim light in quiet glints. At his collar, serpent-shaped pins fastened the folds in place—small, unassuming, yet unmistakably regal.

Yeosang.

The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jawline, the cold, unreadable expression in his dark eyes.

You had grown up on stories about him—tales of his ruthless nature, his discipline, and the icy demeanor he had inherited from his father. He was said to be a man who did not forgive, who ruled with an iron will and expected nothing less than perfection. Yet, as you stood there in the dim glow of the library, watching the candlelight dance across his features, all those whispered warnings felt distant. In this moment, all you could focus on was how undeniably beautiful he was.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Yeosang’s gaze lingered on the book in his hand for a beat longer, the candlelight catching on the silver lettering like it was something sacred—and maybe it was, to him. He held it as though your fingers on its cover had been an offense, a trespass. But still, something compelled you to speak.

“Your Majesty.” Your voice was quieter than you had intended, almost uncertain.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” you added, swallowing hard.

“You did,” he said plainly.

That stopped you. Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you instinctively lowered your gaze.

“I was just curious. The book... it caught my eye.”

He glanced down at the book, fingers tightening ever so slightly around its spine.

“That,” he said flatly, “isn’t part of the public collection.”

Your stomach twisted. “I—I didn’t know. I swear.”

“You should’ve.” His response was sharp, immediate—like a strike meant to cut, not linger. No softness in his tone, just that chilling calm that made you feel small again.

You lowered your gaze. “I wasn’t trying to steal it, I—”

“I know,” he cut in, voice low and final. “Still.”

The words should have stung, but oddly, they didn’t. There was no malice in his voice—only observation, like a teacher quietly stating a fact. But still, your cheeks burned.

He stepped away from you then, slow and deliberate, moving back toward the desk near the window. You thought that was it—that he’d leave you standing there, dismissed and chastised. You wouldn’t have blamed him.

But instead, he stopped beside a nearby shelf.

His gloved fingers skimmed across the rows of old spines until they paused at a book tucked between thicker volumes. It was smaller, the leather soft and worn at the edges, bound in a faded green-blue that shimmered slightly when he pulled it free.

Without a word, he turned and extended it toward you.

You blinked, surprised. “…What’s this?”

He didn’t answer right away, merely waited until you hesitantly reached out and took it. The leather was warm from his touch.

“It’s written in the same tongue,”

“That one,” he said at last, “you’re allowed to read.”

The cover was cool to the touch, and the letters, though still in that same looping, old language, were softer somehow—less heavy.

For a moment, you just stared at him, waiting for an explanation that never came. He didn’t justify why he had brought you here, didn’t elaborate on why he thought you would be interested in these books. It was as if he expected you to simply understand.

Something about the gesture, the quiet offering of something so rarely shared, left a strange warmth in your chest. Yeosang was not kind—at least, not in the way most people would recognize. He did not speak softly, did not offer reassurances, did not try to make you feel comfortable. And yet, this— was something.

“It’s… beautiful,” you murmured, running your fingers along the delicate, looping letters stamped into the front.

“It’s a collection of parables,” Yeosang said, as if discussing the weather. “Meant for noble children to begin their education.”

You flushed, unsure if that was a quiet insult.

But when you glanced up, his gaze wasn’t mocking. It was neutral. Observant. And somehow, that was worse. You didn’t know what to do with neutrality. At least anger, mockery, or scorn had clarity. This—this unreadable stillness—left you breathless.

He turned from you again and walked to the desk by the window. Pulling out the chair with one fluid motion, he sat, retrieving a set of scrolls from the pile. He didn’t look at you as he spoke next, but his words stopped you cold.

“Sit.”

Your breath caught.

“I… what?”

He gestured vaguely toward the armchair in the far corner, near the globe and the velvet throw. “You clearly won’t leave, so you may as well sit. I have work to finish.”

There was no invitation in his tone. No warmth. And yet, it didn’t sound like a command either.

And yet, your heart—fluttered.

Still stunned, you moved slowly to the chair, your fingers brushing the book’s spine as you sat. It enveloped you instantly, the velvet soft and warm beneath your palms. You tucked your legs beneath you instinctively, like muscle memory from childhood reading corners, and balanced the book on your lap.

Yeosang, meanwhile, returned to his desk. The only sounds were the faint rustle of paper, the scratch of his quill, and your own breath as you opened the book and began to read.

You read, occasionally speaking—soft comments, fleeting thoughts—but Yeosang only responded in small, almost imperceptible ways. A glance. A nod. A shift of his posture. Once or twice, you asked about a few words you couldn’t quite decipher. His answers were short, clipped, but never impatient. Each one delivered without hesitation, as though he'd known you'd ask. And yet, somehow, it felt like a conversation. Time blurred, the soft rustle of pages and distant flicker of candlelight lulling you into a quiet comfort you hadn’t expected. The world outside darkened, shadows creeping along the stone as night fell.

The candle had burned halfway down when Yeosang stood. His movements were precise, his posture tall and unwavering as he walked to the far side of the room, barely a glance in your direction. You could hear the soft scrape of his boots on the stone floor, but it was the sudden absence of his presence that made the quiet seem even more profound.

But as he reached the door, he stopped.

Without hesitation, he turned, his sharp gaze locking onto yours. His expression was unreadable, as always, but beneath the icy exterior, there was something else—a telltale flicker of expectancy, so subtle you might have missed it had you not been watching him so closely.

And then, his next words sent a strange tug through your chest.

“Dinner is in the hall if you wish to join,” he said, his voice steady, even. There was no warmth, no invitation—only a statement, as if the decision had already been made for you. But then—just barely—you caught the slightest pause, a hesitation so faint it almost didn’t exist.

But then—barely—came a pause. So slight it almost slipped past you.

"I’ll be waiting for you."

For the first time, his voice wasn’t entirely detached. It was quiet, careful. But there was weight behind it—something held back, something uncertain.

Your heart ached at the realization. You had been so consumed by your own turmoil, by the wounds that had yet to heal, that you hadn’t considered how this bond tethered you all together. No matter how much you wanted to resist it, to reject the ties fate had woven between you, they were still there.

They were still yours.

And at the end of it all, you had to at least try.

Even if you hadn’t forgiven.

Even if you hadn’t accepted.

So you smiled—small, hesitant, but real.

And just like that, he was gone.

The air felt colder without him, heavier somehow. You stood there for a moment longer, the silence wrapping around you like a second skin.

Then, slowly, you turned. The books in your arms held close, a fragile shield against the uncertainty ahead.

His words lingered, echoing in the quiet:

"I’ll be waiting for you."

And though you knew exactly where he meant, part of you clung to a different hope—

That no matter how long it took, he would wait. they would wait.

Not just for dinner.

But for you.

Masterlist

eleven | thirteen

A/n: my..has it been a while stars. i am pleased to say that i have begin writing again. but due to the new schedule i have it might take longer to update. i have been feeling burnt out my love, apologies. i do not want you to keep waiting, but i kept on thinking if i should just erase all my chapters but then again, i would like to see where the story goes just as much as you do. do not fret, i will be back and always here. enjoy my stars.

Taglist (CLOSED):

@pinkpearlstar @deltamoon666 @kyra1205 @hecateslittlewitchling @dumplingsyum @caratiny-latte @seongwars @halloweenbyphoebebridgers @angelqueendom

@ffenjoyerdazme @lostxxgirl @xh01bri @neemaxx @furfoxsake22 @Thejentheredhead @soulphoenix1618 @pixie0627 @hannahdinse8

@laurtiny112 @innocygnet @the-first-mate @miniverse-zen @katyeongs @nuggiesnuggetdog04 @sweetmoonlight9 @staytinyluv @bluesiebirdie @kaqua @ateezaddict24 @bamdoe @kandy108 @pixie0627 @bunnii-dolls @kheartost @xlilehx @lalelol @Tiny2018 @salnovna @roryy95 @fairylover68 @meowmeeps @awkward-fucking-thing @blackandgreenandblue @moniesmoon @skteezcursed

[moon-creates]

Touchstarved Updated Demo Review

(Spoilers, obviously. You have been warned!)

I love the new Demo!

Obviously, after a whole year of knowing the old version and loving the characters in it, any changes will take a bit to get used to.

Now that I have given myself 24 hours to digest it properly, I can fully say the new version feels less like a demo and more like a great Introduction to a intriguing story. It almost felt like a "Chapter 1" of a multi-chapter story but I will reserve that title for the real chapter one (once we have chosen which route to follow).

Right off the bat we see that The Hound is no more, replaced by the new backstory "The Exile". But fret not, dear reader! Nobody is forcing you to take your blorbos out the back of your local seven-eleven and shoot them in the back of their heads. Your Hound blorbos shall continue to live on. It seems pretty easy to adapt the Hound MC's to the Exile. And if that is too much of a task, there is an ancient tradition of fan fiction, to scratch the itch that canon cannot scratch for you!

(My personal Opinion: Writing a Main Character that everyone will be happy with is already impossible. Every OC will have a trait (or multiple) that canon just cannot accommodate without alienating other readers. I understand the upset over the change, but I don't think that means its a bad change. I do hope to see more fanart and fanfiction from people, to highlight what exactly makes your MC special.)

Lets move on to the Pacing of the Demo. I really liked that they cut the old demo into two parts, making our MC experience the Intro over the span of two days instead of one. It does give us a pause to breathe and consider our options.

What are our options? Lets talk about the Love Interests!

KURAS

Mr. "So rude to ask about the surgery I performed on you". His introduction isn't much different to Version 1, though I enjoyed the evening route with him! I mean, he bought us food! (Honey Pistacio cookie YUM!) The new background is fucking beautiful and it fit the more calming, quiet vibes that Kuras has. (I cannot wait to see the monstrosities this man has committed.) I wished we actually got to touch his hand with the red option but maybe that would've been too much of a spoiler? It did gave me major Jesus vibes (and, weirdly, I don't mean that in a negative sense). It makes me wonder if he actually could cure us.

LEANDER

Leander got the most changes compared to his V1 counterpart. While he is still the Leander we mock and fear love, he has gotten so much better at manipulating us. All of his new expressions also show why he is so good at what he does - He seems so earnest. I had a hard time distrusting him at some points, even though I knew he wasn't to be trusted. He is so suspicious and I love that the MC can voice their suspicion and be so professionally and elegantly manipulated back into a place of trust and comfort. (Also I would've absolutely ridden that fucker on that bed. RSS why did you clitblock me so much-)

I like that the Adderstones (rip Bloodhounds) seem more like an organized network now rather than a street-fighter gang. Leander being more busy and access to him being restricted also adds to show just how important he is in Lowtown. He always seemed like a threat but now the danger has been dialed up a significant amount and I am SO here for it.

VERE

That blush was very cute! Personally I find Vere to be the hardest to decipher. His personality and what he actually wants from us is harder for me to place with him than with the others. He is playing with us, sure, but I wonder if he himself knows what he wants with us. Maybe I should take Ais word for it and pay more attention to his ears than what he is actually saying. I might understand him better then. But either way, he is a very intriguing character and I hope we get to see him fight in the full game! I also like that the Dev's are fully leaning into him expressing thing with his tail and ears. It's weirdly endearing for such a bloodhungry menace like him.

AIS

I just love this man. I love that the red-eyed woman got a name and much more personality now. She feels like a full character. I am fucking DEVASTATED that we didn't get a Princess sprite and I refuse to believe that she is not important enough for the story to get a sprite of her own. RSS, CHOP CHOP! His was the first 'route' in the demo I played and I just know it will be the first full route that I will play once the full game is released. Not much to say about him because he was already perfect to begin with and I thank RSS daily that we get to bite him [insert praying hands emoji].

MHIN

The changes fit them so well. Talking to themselves is such a fitting thing to do for someone who has no-one to truly talk to. You get more of a sense of their social awkwardness around others. Not in a shy sense but in a sense of struggling to connect with people. I love that we got to hear their inner thoughts about how the soulless body functions, wondering if they could see out of all the eyes and so forth. This time they told us they grew up in Eridia! So I am very curious to see what their story is and how our path with them might look like. Every time they glare at us I just wanna smooch them.

I feel like the Demo fulfilled its purpose fully. It introduced each Love Interest to us, showed us a peak of who they are and what might be in store for us down the line, without telling us too much. We get a feeling for our Setting (Eridia) and I hope MC gets to settle in more over the course of the story. We have great lines, beautiful art, expressive characters and Intriguing stories to follow. The amazing new music tied it all together perfectly.

So in conclusion: Good Update. Almost perfect! However, where is my girl princess, tho?

[dxrlingluv]

hihi, can I have Hermes x reader where reader outricks and suprises him half of the time(I have no idea how reader does that) and he's just there with shock pikachu face but at the same time with the heart eyes and he's DEFINITELY going to get the reader back next time

A Challenge

A/N : Eek! Now this is something. Heart dividers belongs to @cafekitsune ! Hermes art belongs to Zieru, from yt ! Thank you so much for requesting <3 Lemmie tell ya’ll a little secret. I don’t know where I’m going with this especially since there’s no major plot(like a series fic) so I literally just went like- “Yeah whatever, throw this, throw that… Yeah good enough.”

WARNING : Remember, I imagine Hermes’s design as Zieru’s but I don’t think I’ll ever be mentioning his appearance in my fics other than what he wears so this should be a warning! You are still free to imagine him as anything you desire. GN!Reader implied but no gender was mentioned. This is platonic, but if I were to make a part two, that’s where I will establish their rs.

The halls of Olympus were alive, as they always were, with a symphony of divine activity. Gods and goddesses rushed about their business, celestial music drifted through the divine halls, and the scent of ambrosia wafted from unseen kitchens. Among this vibrant chaos, you moved with an air of quiet confidence, a subtle smirk playing on your lips.

You were a divine being of considerable power and even greater cunning, a fact well-known – and perhaps slightly dreaded – by some of your more mischievous counterparts.

Especially Hermes.

The messenger god, with his lightning-fast speed and even faster wit, considered himself the trickster par excellence. He reveled in elaborate schemes, cunning deceptions, and the sheer thrill of outsmarting anyone who dared to challenge him. But you, with your own unique brand of subtle manipulation and unpredictable strategies, had become his favorite — and most frustrating — opponent.

It had started small, a playful game of one-upmanship that had quickly escalated into a full-blown divine rivalry. Hermes would devise an intricate plan to, say, "borrow" your prized artifact — perhaps a celestial object of immense power, only to find you several steps ahead, having replaced it with a remarkably convincing replica made of enchanted stardust.

Or you might "accidentally" redirect his deliveries, sending a shipment of ambrosia to the Underworld or switching the lyrics of his latest bardic composition with a series of increasingly absurd limericks.

The best part? You always managed to maintain an air of innocent detachment, a serene composure that drove Hermes absolutely wild. He'd be left sputtering in disbelief, his golden eyes wide with a mixture of shock, grudging admiration, and a healthy dose of competitive fire.

Today's challenge involved the theft of his Caduceus, the symbol of his authority. He'd been particularly smug about its security, boasting of layers of enchantments and a particularly nasty sphinx guarding its resting place.

You had, of course, taken that as a personal invitation.

The plan had been meticulously crafted, a delicate dance of misdirection and illusion. It involved a fake distress call, a strategically placed illusion of yourself, and a rather persuasive argument with the sphinx — who, it turned out, had a soft spot for riddles about particularly dense clouds.

Now, you stood before him, the Caduceus casually resting on your shoulder, its twin snakes hissing a greeting. Hermes, predictably, was a picture of stunned disbelief.

His jaw hung slightly open, his usually sparkling eyes wide with an expression that could only be described as a "shocked Pikachu face" if such a mortal concept could be applied to a god.

He stared at the Caduceus, then at you, then back at the Caduceus, his mind clearly struggling to process the sheer audacity of your actions.

"H-How..." he finally managed to stammer, his voice a bewildered croak. "But... the sphinx... the enchantments... I even put a self-replicating ward on it!"

You tilted your head, your expression the picture of innocent inquiry. "Oh, that? I found a loophole in the ward's temporal displacement matrix. And the sphinx was quite reasonable, once I offered her a riddle about the migratory patterns of thunderclouds."

Hermes blinked, his brain clearly overheating. A faint blush began to color his cheeks, a mixture of embarrassment and something else... something that made his heart pound a little faster than usual.

"You... you outsmarted me," he said, the words slowly dawning on him. It was a statement, not a question, and it was laced with a strange combination of annoyance and awe.

You inclined your head in a gesture of acknowledgement. "It would appear so."

A slow grin spread across Hermes's face, replacing the stunned expression with something much more... mischievous. His eyes sparkled with renewed determination, and there was a definite glint of... dare we say, affection in them.

"Alright, Y/N," he said, his voice regaining its usual playful lilt, though with a slightly husky edge. "You win this round. But mark my words, this isn't over. I'm DEFINITELY going to get you back next time."

He took a step closer, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than strictly necessary. There was a warmth in his eyes, a spark of genuine admiration that transcended the usual competitive fire.

"In fact," he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "I've already got a few ideas brewing..."

He didn't elaborate, but the look on his face promised a challenge of epic proportions. And you, with a matching smirk, knew that you would be ready for him. After all, the thrill of the game was only half the fun. The other half was the undeniable pull you felt towards the infuriatingly charming, endlessly inventive, and surprisingly captivating messenger god.

“Alright, Hermes,” you challenged with a chuckle, “Let’s see what you have in mind.”

[androoline]

John Price's Project

Trigger Warning: This fanfic contains themes of psychological manipulation, unbalanced power dynamics, dubious consent, +18 content, and descriptions of anxiety and self-punishment. Please read with care.

Notes: This fanfic explores a complex and intense dynamic between the reader and Captain Price, featuring elements of power and submission, psychological pressure, manipulation, and a questionable relationship. It will be a short fanfic, with a maximum of 5 chapters, and I will also post it in English. I’d greatly appreciate comments and reblogs. This is my first fanfic posted on Tumblr.

Summary: In a military base where order is absolute and every mistake feels like a verdict, a new recruit struggles to prove herself under the piercing gaze of Captain John Price. Every report becomes a battlefield, every error a noose tightening around her neck—and Price, with his unrelenting authority, knows exactly how to wield it against her. Amid suffocating deadlines and the base’s cutting silence, she realizes the true challenge lies not in the paperwork or the rules, but in the internal war she wages: to prove her worth or surrender to the dangerous allure he ignites. How much will she sacrifice for recognition? In this game of control and desire, the answer may cost more than she ever imagined.

The base was quieter than usual that morning, as if the world had held its breath.

You passed through the metal detector for the seventh consecutive time, the device remaining silent, as always. You adjusted the collar of your blouse, restless fingers brushing the fabric, your nervousness betraying the calm you tried to project.

The badge, still warm from the printer, hung around your neck, your smiling photo clashing with the stern words "Temporary Visitor" in bold letters. The official badge, the one that would confirm your position, hadn’t arrived yet—your real boss, the man who was supposed to sign off on your hiring, had been on a mission since the day you set foot here.

You had arrived early, as always. In the car, your fingers drummed on the steering wheel as the base’s gate opened with infuriating slowness. Your eyes fixed on the dashboard clock: 07:42. Six minutes ahead of your usual time. Too early. You took a deep breath, trying to calm the pulse that quickened for no apparent reason. The smell of spilled coffee—a remnant of a rushed accident on your way out of the house—still clung to the upholstery, a reminder of your own disorder in a place that demanded perfection.

The main corridor was deserted when you entered, your high heels echoing with cautious precision on the worn floor. You knew every detail of that path: the coffee stain on the third tile to the left, the distant sound of weapons being loaded in the courtyard, the metallic scent of the air conditioning that never seemed to rest.

The base was a living organism, but today it was too quiet, and you felt like an intruder in its silence. As you passed the communications room, he was there. Ghost, still as a statue, occupied his usual post. The mask covered his face, but you felt the weight of his gaze, a pressure that made your skin prickle. Today, though, something was different. His gloved fingers, which usually tapped on the arm of his chair, were still. Completely motionless.

You slowed your pace without meaning to, your throat dry. “Don’t try to talk to him,” Kate’s advice echoed in your mind. “Ghost doesn’t like civilians. Or soldiers, for that matter.” But for the first time, he moved—a slight tilt of his head, almost imperceptible, without breaking eye contact. It was enough to make your stomach churn. You quickened your pace, your heels echoing louder in the empty corridor.

In that first week, you had learned three things about this place:

John Price was an almost mythical figure, revered in a way that made even the most hardened soldiers lower their voices when mentioning him. No one spoke openly about his actions, but the fragments you caught—“The Captain sorted out the issue in Kyiv,” “Price doesn’t tolerate mistakes”—painted a picture of someone who operated with lethal precision, always one step ahead.

His office was a sanctuary of military order. Every object was in its place, every map and document aligned with an obsession that bordered on unsettling. You had never seen him in person, but his habits were etched into the reports he left behind, marked with red ink annotations as sharp as a blade.

And, as strange as it was, you liked it. The rigid routine. The hierarchy that eliminated any ambiguity. The rules that kept you anchored in a world that otherwise seemed ready to swallow you whole.

But today, something was different. Price’s office—always locked during his missions—had its door slightly ajar. The light spilled into the corridor, a warm glow that contrasted with the coldness of the environment. Your heart raced. He was back.You hesitated, your fingers gripping the folder you carried until your knuckles turned white. The door was both an invitation and a trap. Before you could decide, his voice cut through the silence.

“Come in.”

It was rough, laced with fatigue, but carried an authority that allowed no hesitation. You swallowed hard, pushing the door open with a careful movement, your steps measured as if walking on a minefield.

The office was exactly as you had imagined: impeccable. Military maps covered the walls, dotted with classified documents pinned in place. On the desk, three folders aligned at perfect right angles, as if daring any misalignment. In the center, a single report—the one you had submitted the previous night—now marked with red circles that felt like silent accusations. The smell of cigar smoke, woody and heavy, permeated the air, mingling with leather and metal.

Price didn’t look up when you entered. He kept reading, his broad, calloused fingers turning the pages with a slowness that seemed calculated to heighten your anxiety. The cigar rested between his fingers, smoke rising in slow spirals.

“Sit.”

It wasn’t a request.

You obeyed, the chair too low, forcing you to look up at him. When he finally raised his face, you understood why John Price was so feared. His blue eyes were cold, clear as ice under winter light, and they seemed to dissect every detail of you—every tremble, every hesitation.

“You made mistakes.” He pushed the report toward you, his voice cutting. “Three times.”

Your pulse quickened, heat rising to your face.

“I reviewed—”

“Not well enough.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, the space between you shrinking dangerously. “Did you know your father called me yesterday?”

You froze, your throat dry.

“No, sir.”

“He asked if you were… settling in.” He smiled, but it was a sharp smile, one that knew exactly where to cut. “Do you think he’d be proud to know his daughter nearly leaked classified information?”

Your fingers clenched in your lap, the weight of the accusation crushing any defense.

“I didn’t—”

“Do it again.” He tossed another dossier onto the desk, the impact making you flinch. “And when you’re done, translate this. It’s in Russian.”

You opened the file, the first words jumping out—приказ (order), наказание (punishment). The rest was a maze of encrypted military jargon, a test as cruel as his gaze.

“I… I know the basics, but this—”

“So now it’s ‘the basics’?” Price picked up the cigar, examining the glowing tip with an air of cold amusement. “Your file says ‘fluent.’ Just like it said you had experience with confidential documents.” He took a slow drag, the smoke enveloping you like a subtle threat. “Or was it your father who… embellished your qualifications?”

The blood froze in your veins. He knew. Every word was a rope tightening around your neck, and you had no escape.

“I can learn,” you said, your voice steadier than you expected, despite the hammering in your chest.

Price studied you for ten seconds of silence, the weight of his gaze almost physical. Then he nodded, as if reaching a conclusion you weren’t allowed to understand.

“18:00 hours. I want everything corrected and translated.” He turned his back, the gesture a clear sign you were dismissed. “Show me you’re here on merit, not favors.”

You left, your steps hurried in the empty corridor. The silence of the base seemed to swallow you, the echo of your heels the only sound accompanying you. The weight of that encounter—Price’s eyes, the veiled threat, the impossible challenge—stayed with you, like a shadow that wouldn’t leave your side. And somewhere, the memory of Ghost’s gaze, that slight tilt of his head, still made your skin tingle.

The clock on your cubicle wall read 17:43. The hours had passed in a blur, and you hadn’t even noticed. Lunch—a vague idea—had been completely forgotten. The knot in your stomach, fueled by adrenaline and the weight of Price’s words, made any thought of food impossible. Since leaving his office that morning, you hadn’t crossed paths with anyone else. The corridors, usually alive with muffled voices and hurried footsteps, were deserted, as if the entire base had emptied, leaving only you and the suffocating pressure of the work.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed, the blinking cursor a silent accusation. You reviewed the report four times, correcting each mistake Price had pointed out with near-obsessive precision. A mistranscribed date, an ambiguous line of translation, a misaligned paragraph—each flaw now felt like a personal judgment. How had you not noticed?

The Russian dossier was a nightmare of its own. The words danced in your exhausted mind—приказ (order), наказание (punishment), слежка (surveillance). You knew enough to understand the document was more than confidential; it was the kind of thing that, if misinterpreted, could cost lives. And Price knew that when he tossed it onto your desk with that icy stare.

A low, almost inaudible sound made you freeze. Footsteps? No, just the hum of the old air conditioner, tricking your senses. You glanced at the slightly open door of your cubicle, your heart racing, but the corridor remained empty, steeped in shadows. The base’s solitude seemed to amplify every noise, every thought.You returned to work, forcing yourself to ignore the emptiness in your stomach and the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders. When you finished the translation—or what you hoped was an acceptable translation—the clock read 17:58. Two minutes. You grabbed the documents, aligning them with almost compulsive care, and rushed to Price’s office.The corridor was dark, the automatic lights already off. Your heels echoed too loudly, each step amplified by the oppressive silence.

At Price’s office, the door was ajar, like a silent invitation. The golden light from the desk lamp spilled into the corridor, mingling with the lingering smell of cigar smoke. You knocked softly, the sound almost swallowed by the pulsing in your ears.

“Come in,” came his voice, as firm as it had been that morning, but with a tone you couldn’t quite decipher. Fatigue? Curiosity?

You pushed the door open, the documents clutched against your chest like a shield. Price was standing this time, his back to you, examining a map on the wall. His rolled-up shirt sleeves revealed muscular forearms, scarred in ways that told stories you’d never dare ask about. He turned slowly, his blue eyes locking onto you with that intensity that made your legs weak. He was, without a doubt, a formidable man.

“Punctual,” he said, almost as if surprised. “Put them on the desk.”

You obeyed, placing the documents carefully, aligning them perfectly with the edge of the desk. He didn’t move to take them. Instead, he stepped closer, stopping just inches away. Too close. The heat of his body and the smell of tobacco and leather were suffocating.

“Explain,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “Why should I trust this is right now?”

You opened your mouth, but the words caught. The emptiness in your stomach seemed to climb to your throat, and the exhaustion of a day without breaks weighed like lead. He raised an eyebrow, waiting, his arms crossed. Each second of silence was an eternity.

“I… corrected the mistakes you pointed out,” you managed, your voice weaker than you’d hoped. “And the translation… I did my best with the deadline. I checked every term twice.”

He picked up the dossier, flipping through the pages with deliberate slowness. You held your breath, bracing for the next blow. But then he closed the file and set it aside, his eyes returning to you.

“You work well under pressure, pet” he said, and there was something new in his voice—approval, perhaps, but laced with something darker. “But pressure’s nothing. Not here.” He took a step forward, closing the distance even further. “Do you know what happens to those who truly fail?”

You shook your head, unable to look away.

“They don’t come back.” He let the words hang, heavy, before stepping back and sitting at the desk. “Go. Be back tomorrow, 07:30. No mistakes this time.”

You nodded, your legs trembling as you left the office. In the corridor, the silence of the base seemed to swallow you, the echo of your own footsteps your only company. The feeling of being under Price’s scrutiny lingered, as if he were still watching, even from so far away.

[yumelatte]

Of All The Things, I Became A Priestess In Amphoreus - Chapter One

The Way To The Male Lead's Heart Is By Staying Away From It

In which you wake up to find yourself being a priestess in an otome game, and Phainon is the knight commander at the temple.

Phainon’s the true male lead; you’re not the female lead, but it sure feels like it.

Otome Isekai AU

AO3 Link

Masterlist

Chapter 1: The Way To The Male Lead's Heart Is By Staying Away From It | Next Chapter ->

Kephale.

One of the twelve gods that shaped the world of Amphoreus.

The god that you worshipped.

…Or learning to worship… 

The truth was that you were not from this place. 

Blinking away your thoughts, you tried to focus on the priest’s monologue during the morning ceremony. You were not a particularly religious person back in your home world, so this was new to you. 

Your roommate, Lydia, had saved you from being scolded for being late to your first morning ceremony by shaking you awake—bless her heart. But in addition to figuring out what the heck a morning ceremony was, you had to grasp the concept of being in an entirely different world. There were many tasks you had to quickly learn how to do and when to do them. You had gotten whiplash from the duties that were brought upon you. You had to do them efficiently while having an identity crisis. Needless to say, it took a while for you to get used to the responsibilities. 

The different language also threw you off, but you were relieved to find out that you could read and write it. Learning a new language was not in your plans, so you were grateful for your knowledge. Being brought into another world was not a part of your plans either, but that's besides the point… 

Armed with an understanding of the world’s language, you had isolated yourself and had spent most of your breaks in the library. The quiet and relaxing atmosphere aided you in your journey of learning about Amphoreus. 

This world put a great emphasis on the twelve gods that formed its eternal land. There were three gods of fate, three gods of foundation, three gods of creation, and three gods of calamity. Kephale was one of the gods of creation. Kephale gave life to the first humans of Amphoreus, becoming known as the Worldbearing God. You had learned that Chrysos Heirs existed, and they were chosen to uphold their God’s wills. 

And then shortly after coming to terms with your new life, you had found out you had healing capabilities. That was another thing to add to your pile of responsibilities. Upon discovering your ability, the archbishop had been delighted and had immediately put you to work. It was a rare occurrence to have someone blessed from Phagousa, the Ocean God—one of the foundation gods. Phagousa’s blessing was so rare that there were only two healers in this entire area: You and Zayne. 

Baths with the benediction of Phagousa could heal wounds, but in Aedes Elysiae, there were no such bodies of water. 

You could not blame the archbishop for your new job; healing was a coveted power. Zayne was more than thrilled with helping you in honing your newfound ability. He was happy that there was someone else who he could share his knowledge with. He was growing tired of talking to people with no understanding of how healing worked. It was not as simple as a wave of a hand, and wounds were cleared. 

Besides the temple’s residents, many people in the city came to the sanctuary to get treated by you and Zayne. It was not in the nature of Kephale to turn away the living, so you both put forth your best efforts in helping them. There were rumors that Phagousa’s blessing could heal wounds from souls, and there were people who came to seek out that kind of healing. Zayne hadn’t figured out how to heal mental wounds yet—neither had you. With a heavy and guilty conscience, those people had to be turned away. 

Honestly, you didn’t mind being useful in your new life. You could have denounced your religious status and moved on from being a priestess when you came here, but you didn’t know where else you would go. Plus, there was nowhere else that would help you harness the power that you just recently found out you had. 

You reasoned that it was fine that you were uprooted from your previous life…

…Who were you kidding?

It was not fine! 

Curse whoever has put you into this new world!

You barely had your previous life together. How do they expect you to figure out everything by yourself? Where do you even start? 

In the middle of your ponderings, you had accidentally locked eyes with the tall, white-haired man next to the talking priest. Noticing your gaze, he gave you a small, subtle smile with closed eyes. 

You did mind that, however. Crap! You quickly looked away from him and tried to focus on the priest’s words again. The last thing you wanted was him knowing you existed. 

You had been doing so well in not attracting his attention, and now you completely blew it. Let’s think about this rationally. Surely, one small eye contact would mean nothing. It was just a tiny interaction of barely any significance. 

Yes, it didn’t mean anything that he smiled at you when he met your eyes. 

Here was another dilemma: The truth was that you had found yourself in an otome game you had been playing before, and the man that you were trying to avoid was one of the love interests. It could be said that he was the true male lead from the events that played out in the game. 

Phainon was the head knight at the temple and the true male lead, and you didn’t want anything to do with him. You were not the main character, so getting attached to him would only lead to heartbreak in the near future. He was destined for someone else, and you didn’t want to get in the way of them. 

Why couldn’t you have been the main character?! 

Instead, you were transported into this world as an extra character! You remembered seeing a faceless female figure in one of the scenes in the game. The developers thought she was unimportant enough to not be given a face even with her rare gift of healing. She even healed the main character at Phainon’s insistence. 

Just how important and great the main heroine has to be for her to be insignificant?

Unfortunately, that trivial and lowly woman is now you, and thank Kephale you were given a face. You were lucky she had also shared the same name as you, so that was one less thing to worry about.

You had been playing Phainon’s route, but you didn’t get to finish because you woke up in the game before you could. Sighing wistfully, you thought about how it was such a waste that you had to avoid Phainon even though he was just your type. 

Oh, you were staring at him again… but he didn’t notice as he was focused on the priest’s sermon. Score! You were avoiding him, but it didn’t mean you couldn’t admire from afar. 

As the morning ceremony came to a close, you and everyone else bowed heads to pay respects to Kephale. Squeezing your eyes shut and hands clasping together, you prayed that you wouldn’t blow your cover and identity. You also needed to study more about the world you found yourself in. There were too many things to keep track of, and you needed to integrate yourself into Amphoreus as smoothly as possible. Not being able to finish the game you had been playing has greatly impacted your survivability, and you needed to fix that.

With your eyes closed and mind clouded with worries, you had missed one of Phainon’s blue eyes peeking open to steal a glance at you. 

Phainon didn’t know how to feel about you. 

It seemed like you wanted to speak with him, but at the same time, you didn’t. It must have been something important for you to keep sneaking looks his way, and your hesitance must be because he was somewhat unapproachable, especially due to his high status. 

Regardless, he had given you many opportunities to come forward to him, and all those times had been turned away. He didn’t know why you were shying away from him. All things considered, he would think that he was a good man with an understanding heart. Anything you had to say to him, he would have fully listened and do his best in guiding you to the perfect solution. 

Normally, the young head knight wouldn’t let something (or someone) like this bother him, but Phainon had realized that you were actively avoiding him. 

You, one of the priestesses in the Worldbearing God temple, went out of your way to steer clear of him—the Chrysos Heir of Kephale. 

In the cafeteria, Phainon had been sitting by his lonesome with all the other seats occupied surrounding him. He had spotted you looking around for an empty seat to eat your lunch, and looked at the spot beside him before waving at you. He knew you saw him because your wide eyes met his, but to his surprise, you averted them immediately. Instead of heading his way towards the spot he was offering, you had turned in the opposite direction, sat on the floor, and munched on your meal. 

…Phainon assumed you were not the friendly type. He knew you kept your circle close, with those people being your roommate, your fellow cleric, and the archbishop, but would it kill you to take a hand when offered to you sometimes? 

There was an important meeting with the archbishop, and these meetings were vital to the temple’s prosperity. As the knight commander and a Chrysos Heir, Phainon was required to attend them. Certain people in leadership roles were expected to be in the room as well; this included the two resident healers. 

Phainon had been the last to walk into the meeting room, only seeing one of the two clerics. Zayne had greeted him with a nod, and the archbishop had carried on with the conference like nothing was wrong. 

When everyone dispersed, Phainon had questioned the archbishop about you. The archbishop waved him off, saying that you weren’t feeling well, so it couldn’t be helped that you weren’t here. 

…But how is it that you felt unwell before every meeting?

During times when there were intense sparring activities, he had gotten a minor injury and had seeked you for mending in your shared clinic. Your empty desk was across from Zayne’s, and he thought that it was weird that you always seemed to be missing when he was hurt. Phainon thought that you were not doing your job, and he was ready to chide you about your absence; however, he had asked around the sanctum about you, and they all complimented your diligence and healing prowess, so he had concluded that you were there in the clinic. Just not when he was around. 

…He had chalked it up to coincidence. 

Zayne had no qualms with treating him every time, and he didn’t question why you were always gone with Phainon around. In return, Phainon didn’t question you either, but he was starting to get worried that he did something wrong. 

He was not used to such behavior as he was the human that was chosen to represent Kephale—not used to such behavior especially in the god’s own temple. Everyone went out of their way to welcome him even though he told them they didn’t have to do that. 

Everyone except you, and he wanted to know why. You had not been like this before. It was a recent development. Your weird behavior had begun when you had first awakened your power. Before you worked as a cleric, he had seen you around and minorly interacted with you. You used to keep your head down when around him, but at least you didn’t ignore him. 

There must be something you knew that he didn’t. He must have wronged you in some way. Why else would you be this meticulous in your avoidance? 

Operation: Avoid the Male Lead at All Costs had been very successful. You were glad the archbishop and Zayne didn’t hinder your operation. If they had caught on to your disappearing acts, they never brought it up to you. You wondered why they had been so lenient with you, and you were starting to suspect they trusted you too much. 

Lydia was a different case, altogether. She had noticed you never coming into contact with Phainon because she knew with your profession, you had to have some stories with him, but you never did. 

When the both of you were getting ready for bed, she would ask about him because she wanted to live through you. To her disappointment, you never had anything about him to tell her about. 

She had asked you why you haven’t been running into Phainon. You had told her that there weren’t many chances in seeing him. After all, he was Kephale’s Chrysos Heir. He had more important things to worry about than some insignificant healer being unable to see him. Zayne was a better cleric than you were, anyway. You had opened one of your eyes, glancing at her to gauge whether she was convinced by your words. 

Lydia couldn’t hide her unsatisfied expression, and you had snickered at her—unwilling to tell her anymore than that. 

You had asked her why she was interested in hearing about him, and she had replied that he had been her hero. Caught in the crossfire of the war with Castrum Kremnos, she and her family had been close to the hands of Thanatos, the Death God—one of the calamity gods. Phainon, who was a normal knight-in-training at the time, had pulled them out of their burning home and fought to bring them to safety. She had joined the temple because of him, and she wanted to know how he was doing. 

“Why not just chat with him like a normal human being?” you had teased her. “Give your gratitude in person like with cookies or something. He seems like the type of guy who wouldn’t turn down your thanks.” 

Lydia had blushed as if she couldn’t fathom what you had suggested. “He wouldn’t remember me. I look different than how I was before.” 

Her crush on the head knight was so obvious; you wished you could be that obvious. 

Sadly, Phainon was not meant to be with her or with you. 

In Aedes Elysiae, there was a saying: Everything flows and nothing abides. 

You could hide from one of the main characters of the game only for so long. 

No matter how hard your attempts were in staying away from Phainon, you knew your luck would eventually run out. 

You knew that, but why were you in the arms of the man you had been trying to avoid? 

One of Phainon’s arms was under your legs, and another was on your back—his pretty, unique eyes boring down into yours. With your arms around his neck, you blinked up at him—caught unawares by the position. 

This seemed like the type of situation where the fated meeting was happening between the main heroine and the main hero, wouldn’t it? 

So, why was it happening to you?!

[plotbunnysyndrome]

More Than Honour

Chapter 27: To Win, To Lose, To Choose

Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Introduction: The rules were simple: play to win. But no one warned them what it would cost. Between stolen glances, scattered compliments, and the quiet hum of something unspoken, alliances frayed and affections cracked open wide. The games were always meant to end with applause—but none of them expected heartbreak to sneak onto the scorecard. And somewhere in the chaos, with a lemon tart in one hand and a scandal on the tip of their tongue… someone realized this wasn’t just about victory anymore. This was about who would survive the final round with their heart intact.

The bell chimed across the garden like the sigh of a house catching its breath.

The judges stood from their shaded pavilion. Violet, ever the composed matriarch, gave a subtle nod. “That concludes the morning events,” she declared. “You may all proceed to the west lawn for lunch. Try not to duel anyone on the way.”

The competitors—still reeling from the deliciously unhinged chaos of the Compliment-Off—moved like soldiers to temporary ceasefire. The competition had paused. The tension had not.

Long trestle tables awaited under white-draped canopies, adorned with silver trays of lemon tarts, fresh bread, roast vegetables, soft cheeses, glazed ham, and pitchers of cool elderflower lemonade. The place settings sparkled. The air was thick with the scent of late-summer roses, freshly mown grass, and unresolved feelings.

Each team gravitated to one another instinctively, still locked in their alliances.

Team 1 — Lucien, Simon, and Hyacinth claimed the central stretch of the long table with the ease of people who knew they were winning. Lucien settled into his chair with unhurried elegance, pulling off his gloves and setting them beside his plate. Simon leaned beside him with a military casualness, letting Hyacinth launch into a monologue about the next round’s sabotage potential.

Team 2 — Anthony, Edwina, and Kate were quiet as they claimed a spot opposite them, slightly more reserved. Anthony’s jaw remained set. Kate’s eyes moved between him, you, and Lucien like she was solving a complex puzzle. Edwina, chipper and oblivious to the subtext, reached for the lemonade with a bright, “What a lovely day for lighthearted competition!”

Team 3 — You, Benedict, and Eloise chose seats slightly off to the right, near the edge of the canopy where the ivy filtered the sunlight. You didn’t say much at first, distracted by the memory of Lucien’s words—you scare me—still humming like a bell against your ribs. Benedict refilled your glass before you asked. Eloise was still furiously muttering her last line from the Compliment-Off under her breath, as if determined to outdo herself over sandwiches.

Team 4 — Colin, Daphne, and Gregory formed a bright, boisterous hub down the table, gleefully reenacting Gregory’s emotional collapse during All Too Well. Gregory had clearly leaned into the persona. “It was the scarf line,” he sighed dramatically. “It unraveled me. Literally.”

“I thought you were going to faint,” Daphne said, pouring water with one hand and patting Gregory’s back with the other. “Mother was on the verge of sending for smelling salts.”

Colin smirked. “If he performs like this in the next event, we’ll need to drag him back to the field in a wheelbarrow.”

You found your appetite slowly returning as a tart was passed around, though your attention drifted—not to your food, but to the easy way Lucien laughed at something Simon said, the glint in his eye when Hyacinth whispered conspiratorially into his ear.

He didn’t look at you. Not at first.

But when he did, it was deliberate. And quiet. Like a thread tugged gently between you.

You looked away first.

Anthony, three seats across, did not.

He hadn’t spoken since the last round. Not to Edwina. Not to Kate. Not even to Benedict, who had made a valiant attempt at goading him with an offhand comment about Lucien’s cravat being sharper than most of Anthony’s retorts.

His silence wasn’t calm. It was control in freefall.

“I’ve decided,” Hyacinth declared mid-chew, “that if the next event doesn’t involve physical contact or a slingshot, I’ll be disappointed.”

Simon raised a brow. “Do you always weaponize your leisure time?”

“She was practically born with a saboteur’s manual,” Lucien murmured, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. “I’ve merely encouraged it.”

Eloise, from your end of the table, gestured toward them. “There. Right there. That’s collusion, is what that is.”

“It’s charming,” you said, sipping lemonade. “In a terrifying sort of way.”

Anthony, still not eating, said nothing. But he shifted slightly in his chair when you spoke. As though he could still feel the echo of Lucien’s words during the compliment round — you could’ve had her,  and didn’t.

Kate tilted her head at him. He didn’t notice.

But she noticed everything.

Benedict stood halfway through the meal to refill his plate, and as he passed Lucien’s end of the table, he tipped his head in mock acknowledgment. “Lovely compliment back there, Blackbourne. Didn’t know you had restraint in your arsenal.”

Lucien raised his glass. “One must conserve energy. The day’s still young.”

Gregory piped up from the far end. “He’s saving it for whatever Hyacinth throws at us next.”

Lady Danbury, passing behind them toward the pavilion, murmured under her breath, “Poor boy doesn’t even know.”

Dessert was light—just as Violet intended. Fruit tarts. Slices of sponge with sugared petals. Something sweet to contrast the slow build of tension back into the air.

“Has anyone noticed,” Daphne said idly, “how no one’s spoken to each other across team lines since breakfast?”

“Battle lines have been drawn,” Eloise replied. “But the lemonade is a temporary treaty.”

“Temporary,” Lucien echoed, his voice low.

You didn’t meet his gaze this time. But you didn’t need to.

Across the table, Anthony set down his fork with precision. “Shall we prepare for the afternoon events?”

Violet, having returned to her seat with an expression of perfectly polite foreboding, stood once more. “Indeed. You have ten minutes to regroup. I suggest you use them well. Your judges are feeling... generous.”

Lady Mary raised a single brow.

Lady Danbury simply smirked.

Event Four: The Great Scandal Pitch

The sun had shifted to its peak, casting warm light over the terrace as luncheon cleared, replaced by sweetened tea and a hint of mischief in the air. The garden was dappled in sunlight and secrets, as the teams returned to the field with renewed energy and questionable morals.

Lady Danbury rose once more, her cane striking the ground like a gavel.

“Welcome back,” she said, with the theatrical grace of someone introducing an execution. “Our next event is one of tradition, truth, and—above all else—timely defamation.”

A ripple of laughter followed, the kind that always preceded danger.

“This,” she declared, “is The Great Scandal Pitch.”

Gregory nearly whooped with delight.

Lady Mary rose beside her, reading from the rules. “Each team must now invent a scandal. One for each member of every other team. That’s three teams, multiplied by three targets… nine glorious opportunities to destroy reputations in under thirty minutes.”

Violet, calm as ever, added, “Each scandal will be judged on creativity and delivery. One to three points in each category. If the audience gasps—” she smiled, gently, “—you earn two bonus points.”

Daphne clapped, almost sweetly. “So basically, lie as dramatically as possible.”

“No,” Hyacinth grinned. “Lie convincingly.”

Violet added with a faint smile, “Do remember that this is all in jest.”

Lady Mary, from her seat beside her fellow judges, smiled far too serenely. “Yes, of course. Nothing said here will leave the garden.”

“And I,” Lady Danbury said, cane tapping, “will personally ruin anyone who repeats a word at supper. Understood?”

The teams nodded.

The scores, prior to the event, were recited by Hyacinth in dramatic tones:

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 12 points

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 9 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 4 point

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 3 points

You exchanged a glance with Benedict and Eloise. There was a sparkle of war behind all three of your eyes.

The teams huddled briefly, heads bent together in whispers, grins and gasps exchanged in confidence. And with that, the destruction began.

Team 1 – Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth. Targeting: Anthony, Edwina, Kate | Benedict, Eloise, You | Colin, Daphne, Gregory

Lucien stepped forward like a man about to give a sermon — or deliver a eulogy. “Let us begin,” he said, “with Anthony Bridgerton.”

He gestured with one elegant hand. “It is said, and I quote, that the Viscount once mistook a goat for his fencing opponent during a duel, and still lost.”

Gasps. One judge dropped her pen. Violet pressed her fingers to her lips.

Hyacinth took over for Edwina. “Miss Sharma was once overheard calling Lord Bridgerton ‘inspirational’ for his decision to marry only out of duty. In Latin.”

The room collectively winced.

Simon, clearing his throat dramatically, addressed Kate. “It has come to our attention that Miss Sharma’s boots have steel tips—not for practicality, but for duels at dawn. Three confirmed wins. One decapitated lawn statue.”

Kate’s smile barely twitched. But her eyebrow did.

They moved on.

For Benedict: “Disguised himself as a statue in Vauxhall Gardens to overhear a rival artist’s critique. Was there for three hours. Pigeons were involved.”

For Eloise: “Wrote an anonymous pamphlet promoting political unrest. Accidentally signed it with her real name. Twice.”

For You: “Reportedly broke six proposals in one season—not by refusal, but by out-arguing the suitors until they fled crying.”

Your mouth dropped open. “That’s not even exaggerated—”

Lucien winked. “You’re welcome.”

Now, for Team 4.

For Colin: “Secretly operates as Whistledown’s wine columnist under the pen name Baron Bubbles.”

For Daphne: “Once elbowed a viscount’s wife in the stomach during a waltz and claimed it was ‘a moment of spiritual reckoning.’”

For Gregory: “Owns a journal titled The Art of War: Flirtation Edition. Illustrated. Annotated. Multiple editions.”

The audience was gasping between laughter. Gregory looked vaguely proud.

Total Gasps: 3

Total Points Earned: 23

Team 3 – You, Benedict, Eloise. Targeting: Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth | Anthony, Edwina, Kate | Colin, Daphne, Gregory

You stepped forward with a demure smile. “Lord Blackbourne,” you said, voice syrupy, “was once found locked in a greenhouse at midnight. Alone. With two bottles of wine and a parrot who, for weeks after, only repeated the phrase, ‘Again, but slower.’”

Lucien looked positively delighted.

Benedict pointed to Simon. “Rumor has it the Duke of Hastings once faked an engagement to avoid dancing with five debutantes in one night. Ended up married. No regrets.”

Simon raised his hands. “Accurate.”

Eloise grinned. “Hyacinth has been banned from three apothecaries for ‘experiments.’ One involved a frog, a lemon tart, and a nobleman’s wig.”

Gasps.

You turned to Anthony.

“Lord Bridgerton,” you said innocently, “once recited poetry to a potted plant, thinking it was Miss Edwina. The plant was more moved.”

Anthony’s fork twitched where he held it behind his back.

Eloise cleared her throat. “Miss Sharma—Edwina—once offered to help a suitor adjust his cravat. She accidentally choked him unconscious. It was ruled an accident. Was it?”

Kate’s scandalized laugh almost startled her own sister.

Benedict’s smile was razor-sharp. “And Kate once bribed a footman to fake a fainting spell so she could escape an eligible marquess. The footman now owns a tailor shop.”

For Colin: “Once tried to sell autographs of himself to foreign tourists. Claimed he was a prince in disguise.”

For Daphne: “Has never lost a game of croquet. Ever. Suspicious? Maybe. Rigged? Definitely.”

For Gregory: “Accidentally proposed to two girls in one night by blinking too slowly.”

More gasps

.Total Gasps: 4

Total Points Earned: 25

Team 4 – Colin, Daphne, Gregory. Targeting: Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth | Anthony, Edwina, Kate | You, Benedict, Eloise

Colin opened with flair. “Lord Blackbourne is currently banned from five ballrooms for the crime of weaponized flirting. One hostess fainted.”

Daphne took Simon. “He once disappeared at a country ball and was found hours later teaching toddlers how to smuggle pastries into the library. They still write him letters.”

Gregory, beaming, raised a finger. “Hyacinth once made a clergyman cry. No one knows what she said. He doesn’t know what she said.”

Lucien laughed, full and loud. “I want that framed.”

Then came Anthony.

Colin took a breath. “Viscount Bridgerton was once seen sprinting down Bond Street in pursuit of a hat. Not his own. Rumor says it belonged to the Modiste’s assistant. No explanation was ever offered.”

For Edwina: “Refused three suitors in one afternoon, citing lunar incompatibility. One was a Sagittarius.”

For Kate: “Once made a grown earl return a book to the library. She didn’t work there.”

And now, Team 3.

Gregory went for you. “Once sent a gentleman caller home crying just by correcting his grammar.”

Daphne added, “Eloise once pretended to be Lady Whistledown for an entire week. Fooled everyone except the dog.”

Colin finishes, “Benedict painted a nude portrait of a woman once. Months later, realized it was a self-portrait with a wig.”

Gasps. Violet actually dropped her handkerchief.

Total Gasps: 4

Total Points Earned: 24

Team 2 – Anthony, Edwina, Kate. Targeting: Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth | You, Benedict, Eloise | Colin, Daphne, Gregory

Kate stepped up first, eyes scanning her targets.

“Lucien Blackbourne once had a duel cancelled because his opponent fainted before the first shot. From his smirk.”

Edwina, quietly vicious: “Simon once tried to write a romantic letter to Daphne. Accidentally sent it to the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

Anthony’s voice was tight but clear. “Hyacinth once forged a marriage certificate between two footmen for practice.”

Now, Team 3.

Kate went for you. “Y/N once convinced an entire house party that she was engaged to a French nobleman. The man didn’t exist. He had a name. And a tragic backstory.”

Anthony turned to Benedict. “Painted a scandalous mural in a country inn. Claimed it was a ‘visual metaphor for longing.’”

Edwina blinked. “Eloise made a matchmaker cry. In four minutes.”

Final targets.

For Daphne: “Has been using the same ‘lost glove’ excuse to flirt with men since 1813.”

For Colin: “Tried to pass off a sheep as a racing horse to win a bet.”

For Gregory: “Spotted in Hyde Park, wearing lavender and quoting Shakespeare…to a goose.”

Gasps: 3

Total Points Earned: 22

Scores After Event Four

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 35 points

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 34 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 28 points

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 25 points

As the last of the laughter faded, and the judges scribbled down their final tallies, Anthony stood still—arms crossed, jaw tight, clearly seconds away from exiling all of you.

Lucien turned toward you and whispered, “You did convince a house party of a fake fiancé?”

You smiled sweetly. “Of course. He died tragically in a dueling accident.”

He gave a low whistle. “Remind me never to disappoint you.”

And the day wasn’t over yet.

But for now, they had survived the scandal.

Mostly.

Event Five: Fashion Duel – Walk of Unshame

It begins, as all disasters at Aubrey Hall do, with Violet Bridgerton’s soft, amused voice over the garden’s low murmur.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she calls with impeccable grace, “your next event is what our dear Hyacinth has coined—‘The Walk of Unshame.’”

There is a pause. A beat. A rustle of wind through linen and lace.

And then: laughter.

Real, unrestrained, full-bodied laughter.

Hyacinth grins devilishly from the sidelines, already sketching something onto a napkin. Possibly a diagram. Possibly Benedict in heels. She won’t say.

Rules: Each team must select one member to dress in the most outrageously impractical, scandalously mismatched outfit using only repurposed items from the estate. Bonus points awarded for drama, flourish, and refusal to feel shame. Each walk will be judged out of 5 for:

Creativity

Cohesion (or the deliberate lack of it)

Confidence of the catwalk strut

Audience reaction

Overall unshamefulness

Contenders:

Team 1: Lucien

Team 2: Anthony

Team 3: Benedict

Team 4: Gregory

And so the dressing begins.

Backstage (read: the drawing room)

It’s chaos.

Hyacinth is pinning an entire lace curtain into what she calls “regency-Venetian flair with masculine disillusionment.” Simon is doing something very serious with Lucien’s collar. It may involve a brooch. It may involve violence.

Anthony is being dressed with alarming efficiency by Edwina and Kate, who are arguing about whether cravats can be layered. Anthony stands like a man awaiting execution.

“I don’t see the purpose of this,” he mutters.

Kate tightens a belt under his arms. “That’s the point.”

Across the room, Benedict is trying to thread ribbon through a repurposed military jacket while you and Eloise debate whether or not feathers are too subtle.

“You’ve worn worse,” Eloise argues. “Remember your self-portrait phase?”

“You’ve worn worse,” Eloise argues. “Remember your self-portrait phase?”

Gregory, meanwhile, has voluntarily wrapped himself in two layers of taffeta, a hunting vest, and a sash made of garden bunting. Colin and Daphne are beside themselves.

“You look like a ceremonial goose,” Colin says helpfully.

“Perfect,” Gregory beams.

The Runway (read: the garden path)

First to walk: Gregory Bridgerton.

He emerges to a roar of disbelief.

Draped in pale yellow taffeta, tartan socks, fencing gloves, and a bonnet with a single daffodil, Gregory struts like he owns Versailles.

He pauses mid-walk to bow. Then spins.

Lady Danbury’s monocle falls off.

Violet covers her mouth.

“Three points for confusion,” murmurs Lady Mary. “Two for commitment.”

Score: 5/5.

Because somehow, it worked.

Second up: Benedict Bridgerton.

Benedict appears looking like an absurd fever dream of a royal guard, crossed with an opera ghost. Velvet jacket. Lace cravat. A belt as a headband. No one knows where the pearls came from.

You call after him, “Should we mention the boots are on the wrong feet?”

“I’m making a statement!” he shouts, spinning.

He throws a wink at you on the way back down the path.

The judges are both impressed and alarmed.

Score: 4.5/5.

Next: Anthony Bridgerton.

He walks out looking… surprisingly put together. A formal tailcoat inside-out, two waistcoats layered over one another, and a sash made from Edwina’s discarded shawl.

He walks with military dignity, because that is the only way he knows how to walk.

Kate whispers something as he passes. He visibly falters.

Someone snorts—maybe Eloise. Maybe Lucien.

Hyacinth stage-whispers, “You look like a haunted groomsman.”

Simon folds his arms. “That’s generous.”

Still, the elegance cannot be denied.

Score: 3.5/5.

And finally: Lucien Blackbourne.

You weren’t prepared.

Nobody was prepared.

He appears like a storm. Floor-length curtain cape, open fencing jacket with no shirt beneath, a satin sash in the most scandalous shade of plum, riding boots, and a flower tucked behind one ear. The man is a problem.

He does not walk. He prowls.

Every step calculated. Every glance deliberate.

Simon leans over to Hyacinth and mutters, “Did he just flirt with a hedge?”

Hyacinth is too stunned to answer.

Lady Danbury grips her cane harder than necessary. “Five.”

“Five,” says Violet.

“Five,” says Lady Mary, sighing.

Lucien returns to his seat like nothing happened.

You are definitely not breathing.

Score: 5/5.

End of Event Five: Final Scores

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 40 points

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 38.5 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 33 points

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 28.5 points

There’s applause. Laughter. Whispers about Lucien’s cape physics.

But beneath the joy and mockery, something else stirs.

Anthony looks away.

Lucien catches your eye. Winks.

You?

You just exhale, your pulse somewhere near the clouds.

Because one event remains.

And it might just break everything.

Event Six: Emotional Chicken

Sunlight streamed like a spotlight over the sprawling lawns of Aubrey Hall, where the last remnants of the Bridgerton Olympics were still fluttering through the air—stray ribbons, a few feathers, a glittering trail of confetti courtesy of Hyacinth’s “ceremonial touch.”

But all of that paled in comparison to the current setup.

A narrow stage—cobbled together from crates, carpet runners, and a hastily repurposed chaise lounge—had been arranged in the center of the garden. Benches and chairs were drawn into a rough semicircle around it. The audience was restless, murmuring, shifting in their seats. Some fanned themselves, some clutched scorecards. A few—namely Colin and Gregory—had already begun placing bets.

This was it.

The Final Event. The Crowning Chaos.

Emotional Chicken.

Lady Danbury stood at the center of the chaos like a storm eye in a silk turban, her cane angled before her like a scepter.

“Each team,” she announced crisply, “has nominated one player—secretly. They will face off in pairs. The goal: fluster your opponent through any means of verbal flirtation. Swoon-worthy lines, seductive whispers, outrageous declarations. The one who falters—breaks, blushes, looks away, or gasps—loses. The winning teams for this event will be awarded 20 points, which could mean winning the entire tournament.”

The crowd was already buzzing.

Lady Mary and Violet sat at the judge’s table with straight faces and sparkling eyes. Violet’s teacup trembled once, ever so slightly, when Hyacinth blew her a kiss from the crowd.

Danbury raised one hand.

“Let the flirtation... begin.”

The crowd roared.

Lady Mary opened a velvet pouch and pulled the first matchup slip.

“Team Four… versus Team One.”

Another hush. All eyes snapped to the players.

Daphne Bridgerton rose slowly.

Elegant. Poised. Radiant in her soft blue dress that fluttered in the breeze like something out of a fever dream.

Across the stage, Lucien Blackbourne adjusted the cuffs of his dramatically impractical fencing blouse and rose with the kind of smug grace only a man too aware of his effect could muster.

The cheers that followed were deafening.

“I would pay to watch this,” Eloise muttered. “Oh wait. I am.”

Hyacinth, already at the edge of her seat, whispered to Simon, “Your wife’s about to kill him.”

Simon, arms folded, grinned. “He’s earned it.”

ROUND ONE: Daphne vs. Lucien.

Daphne stepped onto the makeshift stage and curtsied. Lucien bowed in return, one hand over his heart, eyes full of mischief.

Daphne started.

“I hear you make women faint with a single glance,” she said softly. “Is that your specialty, or just a side effect?”

Lucien smirked, circling her slowly. “Only if I want them to fall into my arms.”

The crowd “ooh’d.”

Daphne stepped closer. “And do they usually land there willingly?”

“Eventually,” Lucien said, voice velvet-smooth. “But I prefer the ones who fight it.”

Daphne’s smile sharpened. “Then I suppose you enjoy disappointment.”

Lucien chuckled. “Never. Only delay.”

She tilted her head, stepping even closer now. “You know, I once told my husband I’d never be tempted by a rake.”

Lucien leaned in, almost brushing her ear. “Then I hope he doesn’t mind exceptions to the rule.”

The crowd lost it.

Lady Danbury didn’t move—but one brow did quirk upward.

“You flatter like a poet,” Daphne said sweetly, her breath a mere whisper between them, “but I’m afraid I’m immune to theatrics.”

Lucien, without missing a beat, pulled a rose petal from behind her ear and placed it delicately on her shoulder. “And yet, I’ve been told I turn immunity into addiction.”

Someone actually screamed.

From the judge’s table, Violet sipped her tea. “Heavens.”

Daphne blinked once.

Lucien saw it. He smiled.

And then she struck.

“Well then,” she said, taking one step closer—nose to nose—“If I were to fall, Lord Blackbourne, I’d only ask that you ensure my reputation remained intact.”

Lucien opened his mouth.

Daphne leaned in, just barely—then whispered: “Like you did for the Marquess of Elbourne’s wife?”

Lucien’s breath hitched.

The audience gasped.

Simon let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“Did she just—?” Benedict looked stunned. “That’s a real scandal, isn’t it?!”

Lucien raised both hands and stepped back with a deep, respectful bow. “Well played, Duchess. I concede.”

Daphne curtsied once more—serene, composed, victorious.

Team Four wins the round.

Daphne and Lucien had burned the air with their charm. The garden was still echoing with whistles and gasps. Simon was fanning himself dramatically with Hyacinth’s sketchbook. Benedict swore his wine had turned to steam.

And then — silence.

Violet stood, clipboard in hand. “Next up—Team Two versus Team Three.” Her eyes sparkled. “Anthony Bridgerton will face…” she checked her page with mock surprise, “Y/N.”

As Violet announced the final round, and your name was called alongside Anthony’s… a different kind of energy pulsed through the air.

The air shifted.

Hyacinth actually gasped.

Eloise sat up straight.

And somewhere near the back, Lucien stilled.

The two of you stepped forward — you from your team’s side, Anthony from his.

Neither of you smiled.

No theatrics. No strut. Just… gravity.

You stood across from each other, feet planted in the same grass that had been trampled by laughter and chaos mere moments ago. But here, now — you might as well have been standing on the edge of something ancient and unspoken.

The rules had been repeated already, but they barely mattered anymore.

Flirt. Charm. Fluster or falter, and you lose.

Except this wasn’t about winning.

Not anymore.

ROUND TWO: You vs. Anthony

Anthony went first.

Of course he did.

He stepped forward, just a little — a respectful distance, the kind a gentleman keeps. But his voice didn’t follow suit.

It dropped low, warm, close.

“If I met you at a ball — no family obligations, no sisters or rules or titles — I think I’d still find you in every room.”

You blinked. The world narrowed.

“I’d pretend not to notice you,” you replied, voice light, teasing, stepping in with the smallest smirk. “Let you suffer. Watch you fumble for my name.”

Anthony’s eyes glittered. “I’d get it wrong on purpose. Just to hear you correct me.”

Your breath caught.

He stepped closer.

“One dance,” he said, soft now. “That’s all it would’ve taken. And I would’ve been yours.”

There was movement behind him — Edwina smiling from the sidelines, utterly unaware. And next to her… Kate.

Watching.

Calculating.

Lucien stood behind your team, arms crossed, unreadable — except for the way his eyes never left your face.

You tilted your head, lips twitching. “Would you have asked me? Or would you have stood by the wall all night, brooding?”

“I would’ve asked,” Anthony said instantly. “But only once I was sure I’d memorized your laugh.”

Your heart thudded.

That felt too real.

You swallowed, willing your composure back. You weren’t done.

So you stepped forward. Just a little.

“You know,” you said, voice softer now, “I think I would’ve said yes. Not to your title. Not even to your face.”

He raised a brow. “No?”

“No,” you murmured. “But to the way you always look at me like you’re trying to memorize the shape of my joy.”

Anthony’s expression fractured.

Just a flicker — but it was there.

And suddenly the air wasn’t just thick with tension — it was tender. Private. And public. And wrong. And yet so, so right.

From the sidelines, Benedict whispered to Colin, “Are we… intruding?”

Lucien didn’t move. His jaw tightened slightly. His gaze never wavered.

Edwina clapped lightly, like this was all good fun.

Kate didn’t.

She watched Anthony like she was seeing something for the first time.

And then—

Anthony leaned in, voice a velvet blade.

“You ruin every plan I’ve ever had,” he whispered. “And I would still choose you. Every time.”

The sound that left you wasn’t quite a gasp.

Not quite a breath.

It was something in between.

Your hands curled slightly at your sides. You couldn’t look away.

So you stepped closer — barely inches between you now.

“I’m not asking you to,” you whispered. “I never did.”

Anthony’s eyes dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, and for a moment, you thought — God, he’s going to kiss me.

But he didn’t.

Because he couldn’t.

Because everyone was watching.

So instead—

He stepped back. And bowed.

It was graceful.

It was final.

And it was his surrender.

The crowd broke into cheers, hoots, gasps, applause — no one entirely sure who won, only that something happened.

The judges tallied scores with wide eyes.

Lucien hadn’t moved.

But when you turned, finally, to face him — he smiled.

It didn’t quite reach his eyes.

But when you walked back to your team, he took your hand. Not possessive. Not threatened.

Just a silent reminder: I’m still here.

And you held on.

Because it was true.

Anthony had looked at you like you were everything he’d ever wanted.

But Lucien…

Lucien reached for you anyway.

Event Six Results

Team 4: 20 points (Daphne wins her round)

Team 3: 20 points (You win yours)

Final Scores

Team 3 (You, Benedict, Eloise) – 58.5 points

Team 4 (Colin, Daphne, Gregory) – 53 points

Team 1 (Lucien, Simon, Hyacinth) – 40 points

Team 2 (Anthony, Edwina, Kate) – 28.5 points

You didn’t just win the games.

You became the story.

And as the final event ended, and the crowd erupted into applause, you stood there — one foot in the wreckage, one hand still held — and let the applause wash over the war you’d just survived.

And the one you hadn’t. Yet.

Taglist: @bollzinurmouth @drewstarkeysrightarm @thorins-queen-of-erebor @yearninglustfully @khaleesibeach

[reclusiarch-orm]

Just want to say I have mad respect for you. When I entered the tumblr wh fandom I did not expect that amount of tradwife x reader material

love and peace on planet earth and all that but I think we should be allowed to get mad when you have x reader, x oc, canon x oc tags blocked, and then you see tradwife x reader content on your dash of some astartes guy whose name you’ve seen maybe once, and it is only tagged [character’s first name] x reader, and some variation of this happens everyday

i was a lurker in fandoms as a teenager (i never used even the reblog feature lol) and i remember it not being this prominent even back then. it's crazey. culture shift, honestly. when i was a kid, selfship was more, for One Direction fandom, things like this. self INSERTS definitely existed but this, tradwife wave? i never saw it. it probably existed but it was not the main chunk of fandom content which it absolutely is now. you'd be forgiven for thinking 40k was an otome game if you knew nothing about it and just looked in the tumblr tags.

i have been thinking a lot about fandom culture. i think this is a space deeply marked by its users mainly being female socialized. the consensus of "don't ever voice your discomfort, or someone might feel bad". bruh.

the fallout from me, on my own blog, crashing out. i have said this now 50 times but NONE of that was TAGGED! and yet it was immediately chastised to hell and back. which, i'm cool with fighting. but it's also very interesting that fandoms seem not only to rely on the TAGS being kept hostility free (i get that, that's good) but also users PERSONAL blogs being kept free of opinions? because they might hurt someone's feelings? i got a lot more anons than i published, telling me variations of "block and filter" and "DON'T LIKE DON'T READ, DON'T SPEAK BAD". if i had not found likeminded people i'd have fucking left this site long ago lol. i enjoy drawing for you all, but this mentality of silence, eugh.

people raised to be women are very much told their whole lives "there's no need to say what you're feeling, other people might feel hurt! just be quiet. tolerate it". that really shows in how these fandom spaces handle themselves. it's a massive exercise in female social governance. and people who constantly feel uncomfortable and overburdened, but can't vent it, they'll leave! personally i'm not about that life myself. this is how i choose to handle my internet experience. uncomfortably combative for a lot of people but alas

[mysticasrandomhorde]

*kicks down the door*

..........

I HAVE LORE FOR THE PROTAGS FOR NOBLE'S WILL AU.

My silly brain cant decide of wether I wanted Rei or Akari to be the protags for this, so SCREW IT.

ITS BOTH.

In this Au, instead of Akari and Rei being sent to Hisui from some other timeline like in canon, they were made from Arceus THEMSELVES, a pair of clones made to resemble a protag from other timelines past, tasked to fix the rifts affecting the region, who other word but just "SEEK OUT ALL POKEMON" , as soon as they were brought to life.

They have NO memories of who they were based by, just have their faces. They dont know they were created at first, just knowing the other kid beside them is their sibling and they are a pair. They know they arent a part of this region, but wanted to know where they come from.

Akari claimed herself as the older one of the pair (by a mircosecond), and is very passionate for exploring and battling, only amplied by her twin being there. A wild child at heart, adores her sibling dearly. Tends to run into trouble, but always looks for the bright side of things.

Rei on the other hand is the younger twin, is a lot more shy and quiet then his sister, but is very creative with his hands. Loves gift giving, and exploring with his twin. Considers himself to be a scaredy skitty, but his heart is as brave as a Luxray.

Along being gifted their affinity to catch pokemon with ease and underdtanding of their types and weakness, Arceus gifted them with a "blessing" of their own.

(featuring my art)

(My art -Akari with her eevee, Ebony)

The twins have this glowing " halo" effect on their heads, allowing them to communicate with pokemon. This halo causes a calming effect to any pokemon they encounter, making it easier for them to befriend and catch pokemon to join their team. It also helps them sense danger is nearby.

Also, they were given the ability to copy pokemon types and features (similar to the wardens), and can switch between them. But its only the ones matching the missing plates they collect. Catch Akari and Rei swimming in the ocean with Iscan, while having little fins and gills to match.

Mostly everything in game happens in this Au, but with a few tweaks:

Akari and Rei tend to hide their abilities when living in Jubilife Village, having been told it makes the villagers "uneasy" and unsettled. Having been told it makes them stand out a bit too much. Both of them are VERY naive and being so, so young (Chronologically, theyre mentally and physically between 12-14), they believe it.

Instead of starters from Captain Cyllene, they collect their first pokemon when exploring.

Rei found a Shinx runt in an abandoned hunter's camp, saving it from the cold night. He named it Bolt.

Akari found a Shiny Zorua sneaking around their home in Jubilife, living off scraps and hiding from guards. She fed it her mushroom cakes daily until it just decided to follow her around. She named them Blackberry.

Both Clans recognize the twins as "blessings" from Sinnoh, seeing their shared abilities to with their wardens and as a way to help comfort the frenized nobles, they all see them as found family.

Only one warden has a true claim to them (Imma let y'all guess the obvious...)

(Rei and Akari after a tough battle. Ft. Their aces)

Of course, not everything is easy for the duo. Along with fighting frenzied pokemon, dodging terrifying alphas, and nasty people, they have to deal with the idea that they are different.

They see a lot of kids their age or even younger than them running and playing, spending time with family and friends, and enjoying their lives. Which.. makes them question why they were here in the first place. Did they have family? Friends they left behind? They didnt know.

One day, they asked Arceus after the rifts turned for the worst, causing them to be blamed and cast out my Commqnder Kamado himself, being seen as "monsters" than actual children by most if the villagers

They begged the Alpha pokemon for an answer, only to be given a sad but honest message:

"My chosen pair, I afraid you have no previous home or origin. No kin besides each other. I had created you both to help this fix this stained region, yet witheld this information from you, for not to weigh you down. I have no hand in the fate that had fallen upon you, my vessels. And for that, I am sorry."

And that's the basics of it so far.

Akari's team:

Rei's Team:

Sometimes they swap pokemon for their teams.

hope yall enjoy!!

( @creatingnonsense come get your Noble's will au food)

[islakaliko]

— Birthdays

disclaimer: a/b/o universe, alpha john price, male omega reader, very self indulged

< previous | next >

The house had never been louder.

Streamers hung from the ceiling in shades of pale pink, soft lavender, and gold. There were balloons tied to every chair, tissue-paper flowers taped to the walls, and a giant banner over the fireplace that read Happy Birthday, Luna & Mia!—each letter carefully hand-painted by the kids the night before.

The twins, now eleven, had insisted on blowing up all the balloons themselves. Oliver had orchestrated the party games like a drill sergeant with a clipboard. Emma and Isabella had worked together to frost the cupcakes (with more icing on their cheeks than the cakes), and Benjamin had taken his role as “official gift inspector” very seriously.

TF141 was there too, of course.

Gaz had arrived early with party hats and matching tutus for the babies (“Don’t blame me, Soap dared me”), and Soap had turned face painting into a full-blown competition, leaving Ghost with a little butterfly on his cheek he hadn’t realized was there until it was too late.

“It’s not coming off,” Ghost muttered later, dabbing at it with a napkin as Luna squealed happily from his lap. “She likes it. I’m not moving.”

John had stood back at one point, watching it all—his children, his team, his mate. Laughter in the air. No guns, no danger. Just cake and sticky fingers and soft little squeals from two one-year-olds surrounded by their people.

It was perfect.

————————————

Later, when the sun had dipped below the horizon and the house had gone quiet, John found (y/n) on the porch swing, wrapped in a blanket, hair messy and eyes soft. Luna and Mia had been fed, changed, and tucked in, their new stuffed toys nestled beside them. The rest of the kids were piled in the living room under a fort of pillows and blankets, courtesy of Soap and Gaz.

John walked up with two mugs of tea, setting one down before sinking beside (y/n) and tugging him close.

“Successful mission?” he asked with a crooked grin.

“Complete chaos,” (y/n) murmured with a tired, dreamy smile. “But the good kind.”

They sat in silence for a while, sipping tea as the stars came out, the breeze cool against their skin. John’s hand found its way over (y/n)’s, fingers tangling without thought. They didn’t need to speak. Not really.

But (y/n) eventually leaned his head against John’s shoulder, turned just slightly, and asked in a voice full of warmth and mischief:

“So, Captain… have you finally had enough kids?”

John choked on his tea, coughing and laughing, and looked down at him with that half-wild, half-in-love look he always saved just for (y/n).

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and teasing. “You’ve always been very persuasive.”

(y/n) gasped dramatically, swatting his chest. “You menace.”

John leaned down, kissed him slow, sweet, and deep, and whispered against his lips:

“I’ve got everything I ever wanted right here.”

(y/n) smiled into the kiss. “Good answer. Because I really like the quiet phase of parenting.”

John smirked. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”

Inside, the house was warm with the quiet breath of sleeping children. Outside, under the moon and stars, two soulmates sat together—surrounded by love, laughter, and the soft possibility that maybe, just maybe… there was always room for one more.

[astrids-blog333]

A Ruin of His Making Chapter Two

Lucius Verus Aurelius x Reader

Fandom: Gladiator II

Summary: Marriage was supposed to make you friends. Instead, it made you worse. After a Senate meeting explodes into political warfare, the emperor and his new empress find another outlet for their frustrations, one that is far more dangerous than words.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ power imbalance, rough sex, overstimulation (fem!reader), dom/sub dynamics (light), light degradation/possessiveness, mild emotional hurt/comfort, period typical misogyny.

A/N: I'm so sorry I've been slow this past week, I'm swamped with exams at the moment. This is the sequel to A Ruin of His Making, so check that out first. I got a couple of requests for this, so thanks for reading my stuff guys :) @okyeeaaahhhh

MASTERLIST

WC: 4.0k

It has been a short, brutal few weeks since the engagement, and since you married the emperor.

Since you and Lucius crossed that line; first with words, then with teeth and bruising kisses, then with his arms locking you against him in full view of the palace corridors.

The rumours have not stopped since.

Neither have the politics.

The marriage was rushed, scandalous in its swiftness. Some called it passionate. Others, desperate. You and Lucius know the truth, it was neither. It was necessity. A spectacle of unity for a court eager for weakness, for gossip, for cracks they could pry open and widen.

You have not made it easy for him.

He has not made it easy for you.

You are still learning how to rule together, how to bruise each other without drawing blood, how to clash without setting the empire aflame.

Somewhere between you, something more dangerous is taking root; it's not love, not yet, but something that makes it harder to look at him without remembering the way his hands feel on your skin, the way he looks at you when he thinks no one else is watching.

Today, though, there is no room for that. Today is politics. Today is war by other means.

And you sit beside him now, a silent witness to the games men will play with crowns and swords and words.

The Senate chamber is grand. Stone columns stretch high into the ceiling under which the senators sit in their long rows of cushioned chairs, each one with a wealth of experience and ambition behind their eyes.

Lucius sits at the front, his posture regal, his gaze sharp, but there is an air of tension surrounding him, one that has been steadily growing since the morning. Beside him, you sit silently, hands folded neatly in your lap.

The meeting begins, as they always do, with the boring and routine matters of the empire. Grain supplies, taxes, and the defence of the borders.

The topic of discussion inevitably veers toward the eastern campaign and Lucius’s bold strike against the rebel forces that had threatened the provinces, a decision that seems to have ignited a fierce debate.

Your attention drifts in and out of the conversation. You know the Senate is a house of power, but it’s also a house of whispers and backstabbing. Suddenly, Senator Valerius’s voice rings out, clear and cutting.

"Emperor," "While I do of course respect your military achievements in the East, I must question the strategic wisdom of your recent campaign. Was it necessary to engage so quickly? Surely, a more cautious approach would have saved the empire much grief."

The chamber quiets.

The question, innocuous as it may seem, is a challenge, a reminder that no ruler is without critics.

You turn to Lucius, but his face remains an unreadable mask. His fingers tap lightly against the arm of his chair, a signal of his thoughts but also a sign that he will let the conversation unfold.

Senator Valerius presses on, he is a man who has many years of experience in the Senate and also has a tendency to be vocal with his opinions. "The cost of that campaign was steep, Emperor. And while your victory is commendable, the risk we incurred, was it worth it? Did we truly need to shed so much Roman blood to secure the region?"

Lucius doesn’t answer immediately. You feel the tension mount in the air, the kind of tension that comes before a storm.

“Senator,” your voice rings out. “I fear you are mistaken. The emperor’s decision was not based on rashness or risk but on the necessary action to preserve the empire. If we had waited any longer, the rebels would have only grown stronger. Inaction would have cost us far more than the bloodshed you speak of."

Valerius’s eyes narrow at you, his expression one of thinly veiled disdain. He was expecting Lucius to respond, but you, a woman, had inserted yourself into the conversation, and not just as a silent observer.

He leans forward. "Ah, the empress speaks," he says with a mocking smile, a deliberate attempt to belittle you. "I did not realise that women were so well-versed in military strategy."

The room falls silent at his insult. It’s a subtle jab, but one with teeth.

You don’t flinch. “I may not have commanded legions, Senator, but I know enough about the empire to understand the stakes. More than enough to recognize that the Emperor acted with the full benefit of the council’s advice and military expertise."

Valerius scoffs, clearly unnerved by your unexpected intervention. “And you presume to know more than our generals, do you? More than those who have spent their lives in service to Rome?”

"Senator," you respond, "if the generals had opposed the strategy, the emperor would have listened. But they did not. What you fail to recognize is that the strategy was sound, and it was the only choice that would safeguard Rome’s interests. If you have a different perspective, I welcome you to share it. But, by all means, let us not pretend that your personal animus is what drives this concern."

The room goes still. There’s a murmur of approval from some corners, but Valerius, to his credit, does not immediately retreat. He has built a reputation on his wit and his insults, and now it is clear he is trying to regain some ground.

"Perhaps," he sneers, "the empress is more capable than I thought. But it still doesn’t change the fact that your husband’s decisions have cost us dearly."

You turn to Lucius, who has remained silent during the exchange. His jaw tightens slightly, but his gaze never leaves Valerius.

“I will not sit here and allow you to belittle my wife, Valerius,” Lucius’s voice is low but unwavering. "If you have a problem with my decisions, you will speak directly to me, not through veiled insults and jabs at her intellect.”

Valerius's eyes flick to Lucius, and the senator’s bravado falters.

Lucius continues, his voice sharpening. "If you wish to debate strategy, I welcome it. But you will not mock the empress in this chamber, not while I am present."

With a slight bow of his head, Valerius retreats to his seat.

The Senate hall is still fresh in your mind as you walk side by side with Lucius through the grand corridors of the palace, the murmurs of the council echoing in your thoughts. He’s silent, his hand resting at your back, guiding you with a firmness that matches the tension radiating off him.

The grand doors to your chambers close behind you with a soft thud. Only when you’re inside does Lucius finally speak. His voice is low, and controlled, but there’s an unmistakable edge to it.

“You could have left it alone.” His words cut through the air, sharp like a blade. “I didn’t need you to speak up.”

You turn to face him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief. “I was defending you,” you reply, your voice steady, but you can feel the fire burning in your chest. “I won’t let them insult your decisions, not for the whole empire to see.”

He shakes his head, pacing in front of you. “It wasn’t your place. You put yourself at risk, publicly, and for what? To prove a point?” His eyes narrow, his jaw tight with frustration.

You step closer, not backing down. “I don’t need you to protect me, Lucius. I know the consequences as well as you do. But what I won’t stand for is some senator questioning your judgment, especially not when he has no right to do so.”

He freezes for a moment, his eyes darkening, and when he speaks again, his tone is tight, almost threatening. “You should have stayed quiet.”

The sting of his words hits you harder than you want to admit. He’s telling you to play the quiet, submissive part.

“I’m not here to be a figurehead,” you say, your voice sharp. “I’m here because I earned it. I’m not just your wife, Lucius, I’m your equal in this. Don’t forget that.”

He steps closer now, his presence towering over you. But then his lips curl into a slight smirk. “You’re not my equal in this, darling,” he murmurs, the words dripping with amusement.

“You may hold the title, but you’ll always be my wife. And that means you’ll do what I say.”

His voice is low, a warning, but one you refuse to take lying down. You don’t let the insult land.

“You think because we’re married, that means I should be silent? No. If I were silent, I’d be no better than a servant.”

Lucius’ eyes darken further. He’s angry, that much is clear. And you can feel the way the room shifts, the tension thickening. He steps toward you, closing the space between you in a heartbeat.

“I didn’t want you to speak, because I didn’t want to see you in danger,” he snaps, his voice rising slightly. “Every time you open your mouth in that council, you make yourself a target. I can’t always protect you.”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your breaths, both ragged, both angry. The tension between you is palpable, thick as smoke. You can feel the heat radiating off him as he stares down at you.

He grabs your arm roughly, pulling you to him in a swift motion. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice low and commanding.

“You don’t get it,” he growls. “You think you’re invincible? You think you can just play this game, make decisions that could cost you everything, and I’ll sit back and watch?” He presses you against him, his hands sliding up your sides. “I won’t have it. Not when it comes to you.”

You’re pressed against his chest now, his fingers digging into your skin with an almost painful intensity. His body is rigid with anger, his gaze searching your face as if looking for a crack, a sign of weakness. But you don’t give him one. Instead, you stare right back at him.

“I’ll take care of myself,” you say, your voice just as low, your chest rising and falling rapidly with the adrenaline coursing through your veins. “I always have. You don’t need to control everything.”

Lucius doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he leans in, his lips brushing against the side of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

His lips press harder against your neck, and you gasp, the sound coming out softer than you intended. His hands tighten on your body, pulling you closer as if there’s nothing else in the world but the two of you in this moment.

“You’re testing me,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice strained with frustration. “And I don’t think you know how dangerous that is.”

“You’ve made your point,” he says, voice thick. “But don’t ever do that again.”

And then he kisses you like he’s furious with you.

Because he is. You feel it in the way his hand fists your hair, in the bruising press of his mouth; this isn’t a kiss, it’s a reprimand. Punishment. You barely manage to catch your breath before he breaks away, glaring at you like you’ve spat in his face.

You’re both breathing hard now. The chamber’s quiet, save for the sound of it, your sharp exhales, his heavier ones.

In one swift movement, Lucius grabs your wrist and spins you, pressing you back against the edge of your desk. The wood bites into your spine, but you don’t flinch.

You look up at him, daring him. Daring him to lose control.

“You liked it,” you say, cool and sharp.

He leans in close, his breath hot on your face. “I liked watching you put that bastard in his place.”

A beat.

“But that doesn’t mean I’m letting you get away with it.”

Your mouth curves. “So this is your retaliation?”

He smiles, but there’s no humour in it. “This is me reminding you who you belong to.”

“And what?” you hiss, teeth bared. “You think you can fuck the disobedience out of me?”

“Can't hurt to try.”

He grabs you by the waist and hoists you up onto the desk with a brutal sort of grace. Papers scatter, ink threatens to spill, and a scroll snaps in two under you.

“You’d better make it worth the mess,” you mutter, dragging your nails down his chest as he steps between your legs. “I’m not cleaning this up.”

“You won’t be able to walk,” he growls, pressing you flat against the wood, his hands already dragging at your skirts. “That’s your punishment.”

You smirk, lifting your hips to meet him. “Then you’d better stop talking and start proving your point, Emperor.”

You tug at the clasps of his armour, but he catches your wrists and yanks them above your head.

“Oh, no,” he growls against your throat, already kissing down it. “You don’t get to be in control. Not after today.”

“You didn’t seem to mind my control when I was saving your arse-”

His teeth sink into the skin just beneath your jaw. Hard. Enough to make your breath catch, enough to shut you up. “You’re still talking?”

You grin, even as heat floods your core. “What was it you said? Something about not being able to walk?”

His hand spreads over your abdomen, pinning you in place as his thigh pushes between yours, keeping them wide. “You’ll wish I only meant that.”

He lifts your skirts with unnecessary force, baring you to the cool air. You gasp when his fingers drag up the inside of your thigh.

“Already soaked?” he says mockingly. “Was that speech of yours really for me, then? Or do you just get wet showing off?”

You glare up at him, furious and aching. “Go to hell.”

Lucius laughs and sinks two fingers into you with a thrust that punches the breath from your lungs. “Tell me again?” he says, voice too soft to be safe. “Where I should go?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Not when he’s already curling his fingers inside you, finding the spot that makes your hips buck and your pride dissolve. His other hand spreads your thigh wider, holding you down, keeping you open as his thumb circles your clit.

“You made them look like fools,” he mutters, almost admiring, but his movements don’t slow. “And you made me look weak. You think that won’t cost you something?”

Your breath hitches. Your hands scramble against the desk, searching for anything to ground you. “You’re angry because I was right.”

“I’m angry,” he snarls, “because you’re mine. And you put yourself at risk.”

He withdraws suddenly, fingers slick with your arousal, and you whine before you can stop yourself. That earns you a wicked smile.

“Oh, you’ll be begging by the end of this.”

He grabs your hips, flipping you onto your stomach with little effort, dragging you so your toes barely touch the floor. You’re still gasping when he hikes your skirt up over your waist, and you barely have time to brace yourself before you feel the hard press of him against your entrance.

He doesn’t ease in.

He takes you, deep, hard, and furious. You cry out as the breath rushes from your lungs.

The desk creaks beneath the force. His hand tangles in your hair, arching your back until your spine curves beautifully for him, and he pounds into you like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of both of you.

“You like giving speeches?” he hisses against your ear. “Let’s hear one now.”

You try, you really do, but the only sound you make is a desperate, broken moan as he thrusts deeper, unrelenting.

You want to defy him. You want to taunt him. But the angle is devastating, the pace punishing, and the way his fingers slip between your thighs again makes your vision blur.

“That’s it,” he says, smug and breathless. “Take it.”

Your whole body tightens, trembling with the warning of release. And just when you think he’ll let you have it-

He stops.

He pulls out. You almost sob, reaching back blindly. “Lucius-”

“I said,” he growls, flipping you back over, “you don’t get to be in control.”

Your legs are shaking. Your mouth is parted in disbelief. But he just lowers himself onto the desk, spreading your thighs again, and dips his head between them like he owns you.

His mouth is hot, punishing, relentless. You’re already too close. Too raw. And when his tongue flicks just right you come.

Hard.

Without warning. With a noise you’re embarrassed to hear come out of your mouth.

But he doesn’t stop.

Lucius pins your hips down, licking you through it, pushing you higher, past reason, past sense, until you’re clawing at his hair, trying to push him away even as your body begs for more.

“Too much,” you gasp.

His eyes flash up, triumphant. “Good.”

He slides back up your body, catches your mouth in a messy kiss, and thrusts back into you again.

You're sensitive, too full, too raw, but it doesn’t stop him. It only spurs him on. His body is flushed with sweat, muscles taut with control he’s barely holding onto. The sound of skin meeting skin echoes in the room, obscene and punctuated by your breathless whimpers.

You try to brace yourself, but your legs are already trembling. Every thrust punches the air from your lungs.

“Count,” he says roughly.

You blink up at him, dazed. “W-what?”

“Every time you come,” Lucius growls. “You count.”

He’s already circling your clit again, the pad of his finger quick and ruthless. Your body jerks at the sensation.

“You want to play the clever empress? Let’s see how clever you sound when you’re coming on my cock.”

You don’t last long. He thrusts deeper, hits that spot that scrapes every thought from your mind, and you shatter with a strangled cry.

“One,” you gasp.

“Louder.”

You glare at him, breath heaving. “One!”

His smile is wicked. “Good girl.”

You don’t get a moment to recover. He just keeps going.

The next one takes you by surprise. You’re already writhing, moaning through gritted teeth, and then your body convulses again.

“Two,” you whimper.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hisses against your throat, his voice ragged. “You look so good when you break.”

You curse him. You try to shove him off, try to slow it down, but he pins you harder, arms caging you in, his mouth dragging heat across your collarbone as he drives into you.

The next orgasm crashes through you without warning. Your thighs clamp around his hips. Your nails dig in. Your head falls back, vision blacking at the edges.

“Three,” you sob.

“Say it again.”

“Three!”

He doesn’t stop.

Your mind slips. Your body doesn’t know what to do. You don't know if you should curl into him, run from him, pull him deeper. It’s too much. It’s all too much, and still, he keeps going, fingers tight on your throat now, just enough to control.

“Lucius, please-”

His thumb returns to your clit and your whole body jerks.

“Four,” you cry. “Please-”

His mouth is on your ear now, dark and furious. “Not done.”

You don’t remember the next one. Or the one after. You only remember the sting in your thighs, the sweat on your skin, the pain-blurred pleasure that starts to bleed into each other, until you can’t separate one climax from the next. You’re a mess beneath him, limp, shaking, drenched.

He’s still holding himself together by sheer force of will. You can hear it in his voice when he mutters, “That’s it. Take it. Take all of it.”

Your hips tremble with the effort of staying grounded, your breath sobbing from your throat.

And finally, his rhythm falters.

He thrusts one more time, deep enough to punch the air from your lungs, and spills inside you with a low, guttural sound against your skin.

He holds you through it, his forehead pressed to yours, arms locked around your waist, panting like he’s just fought a war.

Your entire body is humming, raw and sated and stinging from too much.

The desk is a disaster. The air stinks of sex and ink and power.

And then, as if nothing just happened, Lucius exhales against your jaw and murmurs, “Next time, keep your mouth shut in the Senate.”

You let out a hoarse, broken laugh. “Fuck you.”

His smirk is all triumph, all bite. “You just did.”

The quiet stretches long.

Lucius doesn’t move at first. His body is heavy over yours, his breath ragged, hair sticking to his brow. For a moment, the only sound in the room is your breathing, which is shaky and uneven against his chest.

Then he pulls back just enough to look at you.

Your lips are parted, cheeks flushed, a smear of ink across your collarbone where something must’ve tipped mid-rage. Your eyes, though glazed and dazed, don’t look away from him. And for once, you’re not trying to win.

He brushes a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness, knuckles grazing your cheek.

“You’re trembling,” he says quietly.

“No shit.”

He huffs, the ghost of a laugh, then lifts you from the desk like you weigh nothing. You hiss when your thighs press together, muscles worn thin, and he pauses, eyes flicking to your face and reading it.

“Too much?” he asks.

You glare at him. “Didn’t stop you.”

“Didn’t hear you say stop.”

You don’t reply, and he takes that as a win. Smug bastard.

Lucius carries you to the lounge near the fire, settling with you in his lap like you’re the spoils of battle. One arm anchors around your waist. The other dips between your legs.

You flinch.

“I’m checking,” he says, and his voice, though still rough, isn’t mocking this time.

You go still.

His fingers are careful now, gentle, tracing the ache he left behind. His brow furrows, and you watch the satisfaction in his features fade into something more thoughtful, even… regretful?

“Did I hurt you?”

You arch a brow. “You wanted to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

You don’t give him one.

Instead, you lean into his chest, letting the heat of him soothe your trembling body. You listen to the thud of his heartbeat beneath your ear. Fast, but steady.

“I’m not porcelain,” you murmur.

“No,” he agrees, his voice low.

He presses a kiss to your temple, still catching his breath.

“I didn’t want to stop,” you admit after a beat. “Even when I should’ve.”

Lucius’s hand slides slowly up your back. “You don’t have to prove yourself to me, you know.”

You scoff. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.” He looks down at you, something unreadable in his eyes. “Just… next time, say when.”

You nod once. It’s all you can manage.

Silence settles again, this time warmer.

He pulls a throw over your bare skin. Tucks you closer, one arm still around your waist, thumb stroking the back of your thigh. You wonder if he even knows he’s doing it.

“You meant it,” he says eventually, quieter now. “What you said. In the Senate.”

Your eyes lift to his. “Of course I meant it.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. Guilt, maybe. Or something dangerously close to affection.

“I don’t need protecting,” he says.

“Neither do I,” you reply.

He smiles then, faint and rueful. “Yet here we are.”

You shift against him, a small, weary sound escaping your throat as the ache flares again.

Lucius looks down at you, and something in his expression changes—softens around the edges, though his mouth still curves with amusement.

“I warned you,” he says smugly. “You wouldn’t be able to walk.”

You slap his chest, but your strength’s long gone. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You don’t.

But you’re not about to say that aloud.

So you close your eyes instead, nestled against him, and let yourself be held.

Again, so sorry for being a little slower than usual. I've got another request in my drafts which should be out in the next few days 🫶

[cemeterylights4]

Some of my fave The Raven Boys quotes !

•With a jerk of his chin, Declan spit blood at the pavement. His lip was bleeding, but his teeth were still good. "Fine. He's your dog, Gansey. You leash him. Keep him from getting kicked out of Aglionby. I wash my hands of him."

•It didn't escape Blue that his (Adam) slightly accented voice was as nice as his looks. It was all Henrietta sunset: hot front-porch swings and cold iced-tea glasses, cicadas louder than your thoughts.

•Success meant nothing to Adam if he hadn't done it for himself.

•A wrinkle formed between Adam's eyebrows as he looked away. Not at the double-wides in the foreground, but past them, to the flat, endless field with its tufts or dry grass. So many things survived here with really living. He said, "It means I never get to be my own person. If I let you cover for me, then I'm yours. I'm his now, and then I'll be yours."

•Ronan had gotten the intricate black tattoo that covered most of his back and snaked up his neck, and now the monochromatic lines of it were stark in the claustrophobic lamplight, more real than anything else in the room.

•Ronan replied, "Strange like the psychics daughter. Things feel bigger. I don't know what I'm saying. I thought you would believe me, of all people.

"I don't even know what you're asking me to believe."

Ronan said, "It's starting, man."

•Maura had once told a client hotly, I am not a witch. And once she had said sadly to Persephone, I am not a witch.

•Today, Blue thought, is the day I stop listening to the future and start living it instead.

•"Because I'm not pretty. Not in the way that Aglionby boys seem to like."

"I go to Aglionby," Adam said.

Adam did not seem to go to Aglionby like other boys went to Aglionby.

"I think you're pretty," he said.

•She asked, "Is this thing safe?"

"Safe as life," Gansey replied.

•He smelled like summer and cheap shampoo.

•While I was sitting outside with one of my half aunts."

This seemed to satisfy Ronan as well, because he asked, "Where’s the other half of her?"

•"I'm going to need everyone to be straight with each other from now on. No more games. This isn't just for Blue either. All of us."

Ronan said, "I'm always straight."

Adam replied, "Oh, man, that's the biggest lie you've ever told.

Blue said, "Okay."

Gansey suspected that none of them was being completely honest with their replies.

•"I think they're here because I thought they ought to be here," Gansey said.

Blue replied sarcastically, "Okay, God."

•Not a little red, but bright red, sunset red, red as a dream. Like they had never been any other color.

•She closed her eyes. Almost at once, she could smell rain --- not the scent of rain coming, but the living shifting odor of a storm currently waging, the wide-open scent of a breeze moving through water.

•What happened was they drove to Harry's and parked the Camaro next to an Audi and Lexus and Gansey ordered flavors of gelato until the table wouldn't hold any more bowls and Ronan convinced the staff to turn the overhead speakers up and Blue laughed for the first time at something Gansey said and they were loud and triumphant and kings of Henrietta, because they'd found the ley line and because it was starting, it was starting.

•As Adam stared at his lap, penitent, he mused that there was something musical about Ronan when he swore, a careful and loving precision to the way he fit the words together, a black-painted poetry.

•”Are we invited?” Adam asked.

“I think,” Noah replied, “you invite yourself.”

He was the first to step in. Ronan muttered angrily, probably because Noah — Noah — had more courage than any of them.

•”Arbores loqui latine,” Ronan replied. “The trees speak Latin.”

•For a moment, they were all quiet, then, looking at one another. It was a lot to take in. Because it wasn't merely that the trees were speaking to them. It was that the trees themselves were sentient beings, capable of watching their movement. Was it only the trees in this strange wood, or did every tree observe their movements? Had they always been trying to speak to them? There was no way of knowing, either, if the trees were good or bad, if they loved or hated humans, if they had principles or compassion. They were like aliens, Gansey thought. Aliens that we have treated badly for a long time. If I were a tree, I would have no reason to love a human. It was happening. All of these years, he had been looking for this.

•In her small voice, Persephone said, “I have nothing to add.” After a moment of consideration, she added, however, “If you are going to punch someone, don't put your thumb inside your fist. It would be a shame to break it.”

•He strode over to the ruined church. This, Blue had discovered, was how Gansey got places — striding. Walking was for ordinary people.

•Blue found the church eerier in the daylight, as she always did. Growing inside the ruined walls among collapsed bits of roof, knee-high grass and trees as tall as her strove towards the sunlight. There was no evidence that there had ever been any pews, or any congregation. There was something bleak and meaningless about it: death with no afterlife.

[lura-valentine]

Hi, sweetheart 😘 I'm not sure if you're currently taking requests, but if you are, I'd really love and appreciate something comforting. I had a really painful tooth removal this evening, and I’m still not feeling quite right — physically or emotionally. I also saw that someone had asked for Kaji and Haru, which gave me an idea. Would it be okay if I requested something with the two of them together? Just spending time, being soft and sweet with each other, the way teenagers in love are. I’d really love to see them just enjoying one another’s company — gentle, warm, and full of quiet affection. Thank you in advance 🌸

Catch me, Blue~♡

MHA / BNHA random AU OC-Story

Kaji and Haru

Son of Dabi, daughter of Shigaraki

With the exception of Kaji and Haruki, all characters belong to Kōhei Horikoshi

➡️ click for Kaji's profil #kaji black character profil

➡️ click for Haru's profil #shigaraki haruki oc character profile

Please note that English is not my first language. So forgive me for mistakes

Author's Note:

I don't usually like writing exclusively about OCs. The reason for this is that without the characters of the manga/anime, it no longer feels like that world. No Dabi, no Shigaraki, no Hawks, but names that only the people who read my blog know, and I don't want that.

However, this is a small exception because my @doumadono is suffering right now and I just want to do her this favor. I hope you feel better soon, sweetie❤️

The evening hung heavy and warm over the city, as if the sky itself had held its breath. In the light of the flickering streetlamps, the small park seemed stuck in time, its playground equipment casting long, distorted shadows on the damp ground, while the distant roar of cars mingled with the chirping of crickets. There was a hint of nostalgia between the old swings and the carousel, but also something inexplicable, a crackling that came from more than just the warm summer air.

Kaji stood with his hands in his pockets beneath a leafless chestnut tree, his gaze half-obscured by a strand of black hair that stirred at the slightest breeze. The dim lamplight refracted off the white strand that ran through his hair like a glowing promise, while his turquoise-blue eyes followed Haru – or rather, glued to her.

She moved with the casual elegance of a cat whose territory no one questioned. Her white hair fell over her shoulders like a veil, shining like silk in the pale light, while her red eyes sparkled with life – and there was something innocent in them that didn't quite fit her last name.

"Kaji, how about a game? Catch me if you can," she breathed with a smile that was tantalizingly gentle, as if the world were no longer dangerous for that moment.

She turned around, letting him catch just the faintest glimpse of her gaze, then she ran off, not exactly fast, more prancing, teasing, the sound of her footsteps on the sand like a timekeeper. Kaji raised an eyebrow, slowly, as if he were deliberately delaying each movement, then he exhaled softly through his nose and began to follow her, his steps silent and controlled – like a predator stalking its prey.

Haru giggled softly as she reached the spiral slide, placing a hand on the cool metal that crackled almost softly under her touch. She pulled herself up in one fluid motion, half-turned, and looked back over her shoulder, her gaze a silent challenge.

"Come on, Blue... you're usually faster."

Kaji stopped briefly, his wings fluttering slightly; a gust of wind caused them to unfold subtly, but he left them unused. Instead, he reached for one of the metal supports, a glow in his eyes now slowly turning into a ember.

"You want to play, Haru?" His voice was deep, almost hoarse, laced with an underlying laugh. "I could catch you... and then you'd be mine."

"Oh, now I'm scared," came from her lips, dripping with mock shock, while she could barely suppress a laugh that felt like warm summer rain – light, fleeting, yet carried with a seductive undertone that ran deeper than she wanted to admit.

She had already climbed a good distance up the spiral slide, whose structure resembled a bizarre, twisted jungle gym more than an actual slide. Her fingers glided confidently from bar to bar, each movement accompanied by a slight tension that spread all the way to her shoulders.

Kaji followed her with a calmness that didn't match his hunting instinct, but when she half-turned, he was suddenly there – not behind her, but opposite her, on the other side of the bars that stretched between them like a spider's web. Their eyes met, the air crackled, not just from the approaching storm that thundered somewhere in the distance.

His gaze had darkened, concentrated, and the hint of a smirk appeared on his face as he reached for one of the upper crossbars, his body pressed tightly against the metal, his muscles tensed beneath the black fabric of his shirt.

"If I had climbed right behind you..." His voice was a weighted whisper, a dark timbre that pushed between the bars like smoke. "...then I'd have you by now."

Haru blinked, her lips parting in a smile that was brief and quiet, almost like a secret answer. Then she stretched forward, her fingers curled around a crossbar, pushing herself a bit through the narrow bars until her face was barely an arm's length from his. Her red eyes sparkled, her voice a mere whisper.

"But you didn't," she said, and before he could react, she leaned forward, briefly touching his lips with hers, like a shadow, like a promise just true enough to burn more than soothe.

Then she was gone again, pulling herself further up, her legs deftly between the bars, the fabric of her skirt riding up a bit, but she didn't care – she wanted to be seen, felt, and wanted.

Kaji remained still for a moment, his eyes following her, and something inside him tensed, deeper than muscle, darker than desire.

His gaze was fixed on her silhouette, the way her movements transformed into a play of light and shadow in the dim lighting, the way her shoulders tensed as she pulled herself up onto one of the upper poles, the way the fabric of her skirt slid gently over her thighs, a little higher with each climb, promising a little more than he wanted to bear.

Kaji began moving again, smoothly, but noticeably faster now, his fingers gripping the cold metal with a certainty that showed he wouldn't let her escape. Beneath his palms, the metal seemed to tremble, not from the wind, but from something deeper, rising within him like an urgent current that could no longer be contained.

Haru was just a few poles away from the highest platform, her fingers gliding over the metal, her breathing quickening, not just from the climbing, but from the certainty that he was behind her. Noticeably close, almost tangible, his shadow beneath her.

When she reached the top, she stood up, a gust of wind blew through her hair, making the white strands dance like loose silk ribbons as she gasped for breath – not from exhaustion, but from excited anticipation.

Then she heard him.

A faint noise that began metallically, then abruptly stopped –silence– and the next moment, a dark beat of wings, barely audible, more sensed than heard.

And there he was.

With predatory elegance, he landed on the narrow surface next to her, his wings closing behind him like silent shadows. He stood close, too close, his presence like a wave rolling over her, warm and demanding, and as he pressed himself against her, close, almost hungry, she felt his breath on her temple.

"Got you," he murmured, harsh, deep, and she closed her eyes for a moment, lost in the density of his voice.

Haru sank against him, soft, familiar, and her forehead rested on his chest, while his arms wrapped around her, as if this was exactly what he wanted – not the kiss, not the game, but this moment when they wouldn't separate again.

"That was close," she whispered, her voice barely audible, her fingers gliding gently over the fabric of his shirt, searching for his closeness.

"You wanted me to catch you."

"Yes..." She raised her head, her red eyes met his, open, calm, and then she smiled. Not teasingly this time, but genuinely.

A smile crept across his lips, slowly, as if born from deep within his chest, from where something stirred that he didn't want to name because it was too precious to be spoken aloud. The sky above them had opened, as if pushed aside by an invisible hand, and in that open expanse sat the full moon. Silvery, majestic, with an almost impudent clarity, as if it knew exactly what was happening between them.

"Turn around," Kaji murmured against her forehead, his voice gentle, no longer hunting, but almost reverent.

Haru frowned slightly, but allowed herself to be led, turning, her back now against his chest, his arms still around her, loose and protective. Her eyes followed his gaze, and then she froze for a heartbeat that felt like a breath too long.

Before them, hidden among the trees, lay a small lake. The moonlight fell on it like silver oil, liquid light that made every wave, every movement, sparkle. The wind had died down, making the surface of the water seem almost perfectly calm, like a dream into which no one but them was allowed to enter.

Tiny dots began to glow among the grasses on the shore – fireflies, one after the other, a flickering whisper of light that soon settled over the darkness like a living veil. They danced as if they were searching for each other and touching each other – fleeting beings surrendering to the moment, unafraid of passing.

Haru held her breath.

"How...?" she began, but her voice trailed off, lost between wonder and touch.

"I discovered it a few days ago. While training," Kaji said softly, his chin now resting on her shoulder, his words brushing her ear. "I saved it for a special moment."

Her fingers gently reached for his, encircling them, and in that grip lay something unsaid, something that pulsed between heartbeats, not with words, but with the silence between them.

"You're cornier than I thought," she finally whispered with a crooked smile, but her cheeks were flushed, her voice soft.

"Don't say it so loudly," he replied, chuckling as he snuggled closer to her. "I have a reputation to lose."

"Not with me."

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