#curses of decay AU

[sunnida-y]

Instead of a new chapter, I decided to re-write an old fic this week :3 “Sickness Be Upon Ye”

"Their hesitant to label what followed as a symptom, as that would be calling their condition a sickness of sorts, but a simple sickness is far to tame to describe what their going through. But whatever symptom, or curse perhaps, had followed days later, started off rather simple."

»--•--«

Four bishops, four curses placed upon the lamb that slowly drives them to insanity

»--•--«

Or, I came up with an idea of the four bishops cursing the Lamb and decided to role with it

Writing this was super fun, I tried to give the Lamb more emotions then in the original version, so I really hope you all enjoyed

[uhhlifeig]

part 1 - word count: 249 - for @slut-4-remuslupin :D

It was quiet, now.

It was never quiet in the flat.

Sirius sat at the table, face in his hands, the chipped mug that Remus loved sitting in front of him.

It was the only thing the other hadn’t packed when he left.

He regretted it.

Not the relationship, no- he could never regret Remus. But he did regret what had been said that day.

It had just… fallen out of his mouth. The months of paranoia, of anxiety- they had built up and up, eventually falling over and drowning Sirius in his guilt, burying him six feet below the ground.

So he’d watched Remus leave.

He was like his parents. Remus was right. It was just that Sirius never meant to hurt anyone- he just did.

Like in fifth year, that awful prank he’d pulled on Severus that could’ve costed James and Remus their lives. He hadn’t meant to hurt them, but he did anyway.

It didn’t matter how hard he tried. 

Once a Black, always a Black.

Remus was right. He was cursed, a scourge on humanity. He wasn’t better than them- his actions proved it.

But if Sirius Black was anything, it was determined. 

He was determined to prove his family wrong, determined to prove to Remus that it was only the paranoia and the fear and the sleepless nights that made him say the things he did.

He would hunt down Voldemort a thousand times over, if it meant he could have his moon back.

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 1

Parts: Characterizations | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, soulbonding without full consent, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, mild stalking, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, non-graphic threats of harm from a third party (Gwi Ma).

Author's notes: Hey guys! My first fic on Tumblr. I've been deep in a hole for Saja boys x Reader fics and have been inspired by all the ones currently out. Thought I'd give it a go and make my own. This is also just me purely projecting my fantasies (lol). But will post more on this story and will make more parts!

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

A Sudden Encounter

You’re just… tired.

You work long shifts at a cramped little gallery café in Hongdae. Your boss forgets to pay you on time. Rent’s due. Your roommate’s a ghost (figuratively). Your family doesn’t call.

It’s not tragic. Just quietly heavy. Most days are filled with the same mundane routine. The stress of adulting weighs in on you most nights making you feel more fatigued than you should.

Your art is the only thing that feels like yours—until it doesn’t. Lately, even your sketches look like someone else’s memories. The past few weeks of downtime have been spent sketching images you vaguely recognize from dreams you forgot you even had. 

You walk through life like it’s background noise.

Then, one afternoon, on the way to grab milk and instant ramen…you hear music on the street.

Lugging your grocery trolley (because god knows you don’t have the strength to carry a week’s worth of grocery bags on your arms), you spot that a crowd has gathered in the plaza. The atmosphere buzzes with excitement. People are pushing each other to get a view of whatever it was that was making the crowd go nuts. Curiosity gets the best of you, and next thing you know you’re walking towards the center of the square. Grocery trolley rolling behind you. Someone steps on it, warranting a quick “Sorry” and they scurry to the front. You turn your head forward to see whatever it was they desperately wanted to see.

You stop.

Up on a raised platform, five boys move like a single body—synchronized, supernatural, magnetic. Their colorful outfits shimmer under the lights, a kaleidoscope of sugar-rush perfection. The crowd is screaming, but all you hear is the song—“Soda Pop”—sickeningly sweet and pulsing like thunder in your chest.

You don’t recognize them.

Were they new? A secret debut? A niche group you missed? 

And then you see them.

The Saja Boys. Five gorgeous faces, carved out of dreams and danger, singing like they already know you.

Your heart stutters.

Front and center is the one with the jet-black hair and fire behind his smile. His eyes sweep the crowd like he owns it—until they lock on you. And then it’s like the world tips sideways.

You can’t breathe.

Something ancient uncoils in your ribcage—a thread pulling taut, like it’s found its anchor.

The stage beneath them morphs—no, rises—into a giant soda can, and the absurdity nearly makes you laugh, but the pressure in your chest is louder.

The song ends. The crowd erupts. They strike their final poses like gods frozen mid-conquest. And still—he’s looking at you. Right at you.

He lifts a hand, brushes off his shoulder like he’s dusting you into place. “That’s it for now,” he says to the crowd.

His speaking voice slides down your spine like silk dipped in fire. Familiar. Impossible.

“See you tonight on everyone’s favorite variety show…” His gaze doesn’t waver.  “Saja Boys love you!”

You don’t know how you’re still standing. The other members turn too—one by one, their expressions shifting. Eyes no longer playful. They’re looking at you like they remember something you haven’t yet.

And then—pink smoke.

They vanish.

You’re left in a sea of people, lungs hollow, skin prickling like it’s just been marked.

You don’t know who they are. You don’t know what just happened. But your hands are shaking on the trolley handle. And you’re sprinting home like something inside you just woke up and started screaming.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

They apparated back into the apartment in a burst of cold smoke.

Jinu collapsed first.

Not into a chair. Not onto the couch. He sank straight to the floor.

Hands tangled in his hair, breath shallow. Like the air couldn’t reach deep enough. Like he’d been holding it for centuries. His voice cracked like something ancient being unearthed.

“It’s her.”

Romance was already pacing the length of the living room, long strides restless, fingers tugging at his shirt collar like it was choking him. “I—I thought I was hallucinating,” he muttered. “Some kind of cruel glamour. A mirage. But the bond—” His voice shook. “The bond snapped tight.”

Abby dropped into the couch, the cushions barely softening the weight of his frame. His knuckles were white, gripping his thighs. “I felt her heartbeat.” He looked up, dazed. Wild. “During the bridge—our hearts matched. I know it was her.”

Mystery hadn’t moved. He stood near the window, face shadowed, fists clenched so tight his nails carved into skin. His lips were moving in a near-silent whisper—over and over like a broken prayer.

“She’s scared… she doesn’t remember… but she felt it. She felt it.”

Baby sat furthest from them all, on the floor beside the armchair.  Blood dripped from his palm—he didn’t seem to notice. Eyes wide. Hollow. Haunted.

Like seeing you broke the silence inside him. Like he’d finally found the ghost that’d been crawling under his skin for lifetimes.

No one breathed. The room felt cracked. Like a single touch would shatter it.

Abby ran a hand down his face. “What do we do?” He was still staring at his hands. Still disbelieving. “Is this a trick? Is Gwi Ma playing with us again? Using her face to haunt us?”

Jinu looked up slowly, lashes damp, lips pale. He bit the nail of his thumb, the taste of anxiety sharp on his tongue.

“We wait,” he said softly. “We plan.”

Romance scoffed, but there was no humor in it. He was trembling as he smiled.

“We charm.”

Mystery let out a low snarl. “We go to her. She’s alone. She’s hurting. I can feel her.”

And then—finally—Baby spoke. Just one line.

Quiet. Final. Unshakable.

“We take her back.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You curl up on your couch with a microwaved dinner, phone propped up on a cushion. You don’t normally watch idol shows. But…

You press play.

They’re charming. Playful. Competitive. Too beautiful. Too perfect. You watch them struggle with the hot sauce challenge, lips curling upwards at some of the boys’ faces. 

Your chest aches.

You don’t know them. But you can’t look away.

When they joke, you laugh. When they flirt with the camera, your stomach flips. When Baby stares dead into the lens, you freeze. 

You watch as Baby wins the spicy challenge, somehow a part of you knew he would. You couldn’t explain why. You watch as Huntrix makes a surprise appearance. You weren’t a crazed fanatic or anything, but you did enjoy their music. When they bowed at each other, a part of your chest ached. You don’t know why, but something didn’t sit well with you seeing the boys interact with the girl group. Why? You had no claim over them. You felt like you were going crazy.

You don’t sleep that night.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Later that night, after filming wraps…

The Saja Boys find themselves ambushed by Huntrix—Rumi, Zoey, and Mira—demon-hunting girls who are too fast, too smart, and too close to the truth.

The boys run, Jinu being caught into a fight with Rumi which leads to him finding out her secret. A Hunter who’s part demon. He gives it some thought as he walks out of the bath house. Then, his thoughts shift to you.

Did you watch the show tonight? What were you doing right now? Did you remember him at all?

Then suddenly he’s pulled into Gwi Ma’s chamber.

Smoke. Fire. Screams locked in stone. The demons are cheering for the boys, now in their demon forms. Gwi Ma sings the chorus of Soda Pop. 

“It’s catchy” 

He brings up Rumi- the hunter who bears his mark. He tells Jinu he has no control over her. Jinu remains curious, telling him that he can find out her shame and use it against her to bring the Hunters down. 

Then, Gwi Ma’s flames rise. The tension in the air thickens as the four other boys on the ground below are brought to stand next to Jinu before the Demon King.

“However, I sense that you’ve lost your focus,” the Demon king hisses. His flames grow —and conjures a mirage image of you, asleep in bed, cheek pressed to your pillow. The boys tense at the sight of you. 

Their anger rises. They don’t like that you’re being presented to them like this- in front of all demons to see. Of course- everyone else in the Demon realm had an inkling- an idea of what you were to the five. It was unspoken, a rumor that spread throughout the years - that they had tied their ancient souls to a human hundreds of years ago. But no details of that pact had been known. And now, the boys were livid as every demon knew your face.

Abby grit his teeth, immediately standing and stepping forward. He didn’t want any other demons seeing you, gazing at what was his. “Don’t-!”

Jinu grabbed his shoulder back, willing his friend to calm down, even though he was struggling to contain his own anger. 

“That girl... is she going to be a problem? A… distraction?” His voice was teasing. A sickeningly playful tone meant to mock them.

The boys bristle, their jaws clenched as they see the demon king’s image of you. You- who was so precious to them. Jinu steps forward, eyes hard. “She is ours. You made it so. The pact cannot be undone.”

Gwi Ma’s image of you faded and the boys all visibly relaxed, though still tense.

Gwi Ma spoke once again, voice teasing. “You remember, don’t you, Jinu? How you came crawling to me, weeping like a child the moment she died in your arms.”

Jinu’s eyes widened, haunted at the memory.

Gwi Ma continued. “You begged me to bring her back. But I gave you something better.

A deal.

Bind four others to her soul. Trap their power. Anchor her across lifetimes—and I’d let her return.

And you did it.

You found them. Broken little things. Monsters like you. You forced the bond. You made her the center of your madness.

You cursed her to be wanted. Needed. Torn apart by obsession.

All for what?

To share her?

To watch her slip through your fingers again and again?”

The boys visibly grew more tense with every word he uttered. Romance grit his teeth, and Baby’s nails dug so deep into his palms they began to bleed again. They were monsters who desperately clung to the only light they had. Demons who tainted the purest thing they had ever laid eyes on. The guilt. The shame. All weigh heavy on their hearts, but not as heavy as their deep desire for you. 

Gwi Ma continued. “No matter how close she gets… she’ll never truly be yours.

But if you succeed—if you finish what I told you to—maybe I’ll give her to you.

All of you.

For good.”

Their heads snapped up at that. Disbelief and false hope gleaming in their yellow demon eyes. 

Gwi Ma’s flames shift to a smile as he saw their non-subtle desperation. “Then here’s my offer.”

“Succeed. Harvest the souls before the Honmoon seals, bring down the hunters. Do your job. And I’ll let her live.”

“Fail… and I rip her from the cycle. She’ll never be reborn again.”

The boys snap their heads up. Shock, desperation, and fury ablaze on their faces. He wouldn’t dare. The boys don’t speak. But silent thoughts race through their heads. They wouldn’t have to wait centuries for you? All the endless years of loneliness and suffering… if they succeeded, they’d be gone. And you would be theirs. Fully. No more dying, no more waiting. Theirs, for all eternity. 

The offer was weighing heavy in their minds. But it wasn’t even a question. How far would they go to have you? The answer was that there were no limits. No lines they wouldn’t cross. No world they wouldn’t burn to keep you.

They just kneel, a silent agreement. 

They’ve waited centuries. They can wait a little longer.

But this time, they won’t just protect you.

They’ll possess you.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The boys apparated back to their apartment in silence.

No music. No lights. Just the faint, cold glow of Seoul’s skyline spilling through the penthouse glass like a wound that never closed.

They didn’t speak. They couldn’t. The memory of Gwi Ma’s offer still echoed like ash in their throats. The price was steep, yes—but the reward?

You. Untouched by his claws. Unwatched. Unmanipulated. Free.

If they could ensure your soul was yours—and theirs—forever… they would pay that price a thousand times over. So they agreed. Without hesitation. Without question. Now they sat in the dark, five demons and the shape of a girl in their hearts.

It was Abby who cracked first. “She looked cold,” he muttered.

His elbows rested on his knees, large hands clenched together so tightly the skin over his knuckles had gone pale. He wasn’t looking at the others. Just the floor. Somewhere past it. Somewhere where you had been.

“She looked cold in that vision. Like she hadn’t been held in years.” He swallowed thickly. “I’d keep her warm. She’d never feel cold again. Not even for a second.” His voice broke near the end.

“She should’ve been with us.” Romance was standing by the tall windows, framed in moonlight, arms crossed tight like he was holding his chest together. “She doesn’t even remember us,” he said softly. “We’re strangers again.”

He tried to sound nonchalant—but his voice cracked on ‘again’.

Baby didn’t move from the couch. His legs were crossed, jaw tight, nails digging crescent moons into his thigh. “Then we make her remember.” He looked up. Eyes black.

“Tie her down if we have to.”

No one told him to take it back. Because all of them had thought it.

From the corner, curled on a throw blanket like a resting animal, Mystery breathed out a long, aching sigh. He was clutching something close to his chest. Your scarf. One from a lifetime ago. The threadbare edges frayed, carrying a scent only he still recognized. He’d stolen it then, kept it hidden through each century. He never let it burn.

“She cried last night,” he whispered. The room went still. “I felt it.”

They turned.

“She misses us,” he said. His voice was too soft for the size of his pain. “Even if she doesn’t know why. Even if her brain doesn’t remember—her soul does. She sees us in dreams. She reaches out.”

No one doubted him. Mystery had always been the tether. The first to feel you across lives. The first to know. He curled tighter around the scarf like it could bring you back. “She reaches,” he whispered. “But we’re not there.”

Silence again.

Then Jinu stood. The weight of four centuries in every breath he took. He moved like a monarch of grief—shoulders squared, spine straight, eyes dark and steady.

“We need a plan,” he said. The words dropped like stone. “No chaos. No claiming. Not yet.” His gaze passed over each of them, firm.

“We woo her. Win her. Make her feel safe.”

Abby let out a bitter snarl. “I don’t want to pretend. I want to take her.”

Jinu’s jaw tensed.

“So do I,” he said. “But not if it means she runs. Not if she thinks we’re monsters.”

“Are we not?” Baby asked coldly. But it wasn’t really a challenge. It was despair.

“We’re hers,” Jinu replied. “That’s all that matters.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was thick with agreement. Each boy looked down. And one by one, they nodded. For now, they’d wait. But not forever.

You would remember.

You would come back.

And when you did— You’d never be allowed to leave again.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You didn’t know why you were out this late.

You told yourself it was for a snack. The cold night air. The glow of convenience store signs. But the truth was burrowed beneath your ribs—tight, restless, and waiting. Something inside you itched, tugged. Like an invisible string pulling you down familiar streets.

You turned the corner and froze.

“Y/N?”

A voice. Soft, velvety, soaked in a sadness you didn’t understand. You looked up.

Jinu.

Standing beneath a flickering streetlight like a secret carved out of the night. Hoodie loose over his frame. Hair tousled, moonlight catching in the strands. His eyes locked with yours. 

Your breath caught.

He took a step forward, hands raised slightly—like approaching a wounded animal. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said gently. “I just… recognized you.”

Recognized? Your heart began to pound. Hard. “How do you know my name?” you asked.

Jinu smiled. But it wasn’t cocky or flirty. It was aching. “Because it’s the only name that ever mattered to me.”

And that’s when it happened. A flicker behind your eyes. No—it wasn’t a flicker.

It was a memory. A feeling. A lifetime cracking through your skull like thunder.

You saw him.

Not here. Not in this hoodie, not on this street. But in crimson silk beneath a palace moon. A hanbok embroidered in gold, eyes lined with kohl. He reached for you across a garden of foxglove. Your name spilled from his lips like scripture.

And then—

“Y/N.”

Another voice. Close. Too close. Romance stepped beside you, holding a book. One from your wishlist. The exact one you’d looked at two days ago online and never bought.

You took it in trembling hands. His voice dropped to a murmur. “Because I’ve been whispering it for hundreds of years.”

The world spun.

Another vision. His fingers on yours. A past version of you, crying. Him kissing your knuckles in the candlelight.

“Because I’ve never stopped saying it,” Abby said now, appearing at your side, holding— Your scarf. The one that went missing days ago. “Even when you weren’t alive to hear it.”

FLASH. There was blood on his hands. A blade meant for you. Abby standing between it and your body, screaming your name.

Your knees went weak. You staggered. The breath in your lungs turned jagged. 

A gentle touch. Behind you.

Mystery. Quiet. Wide-eyed. Fingertips brushing the sleeve of your coat like he was afraid you’d dissolve.

“I’ve known your name longer than you have,” he whispered.

You blinked—

And you were in the mountains. Your hands small. Younger. A fox curled against your legs. You were humming. He was warm. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.

Across the street— Baby. Still. Watching. Eyes black as obsidian. And then—

The fire.

A palace burning. Bodies. You, screaming. Baby dragging corpses away with one hand while shielding you with the other.

You gasped. Your vision blurred. Your hands shook. You didn’t know if you were crying. But you felt like you were breaking.

Romance reached out, arm around your shoulders, steadying your frame.

“She’s remembering,” Mystery said, voice trembling. “She’s starting to remember.”

You didn’t hear them clearly. Your ears rang. Your body pulsed like a struck bell. Romance’s forehead pressed to yours, voice like velvet and ashes. “We missed you,” he breathed. “So much it drove us mad.”

Abby was pacing now, unable to stay still. His eyes burned. “You smell like home,” he choked. “I forgot what that felt like.”

Baby hadn’t moved, but he looked like he might lunge. His fists were clenched. His shoulders tight. His jaw locked.

His eyes were nothing but shadow.

He wanted you.

Jinu stepped forward, palm raised like a commandment. “Stop,” he said. Sharp. Firm. “She’s scared.”

He was right. You were. Tears blurred your eyes. The world spun again. “Who… who are you?” you asked, barely a whisper. “What do you want from me?”

Abby took one step. “We’re yours,” he said, voice low.

Jinu caught his arm. “Abby—”

“You were ours,” Romance added, lips brushing your temple. “You will be again.”

“No—no, this isn’t real—this can’t be—” You backed up. “You’re crazy.”

You looked into their eyes for the first time. And your blood ran cold. 

Not human.

They were glowing. Amber. Topaz. Garnet. Glasses of gold and rage and want. 

You didn’t think—you ran. Your footsteps slammed into the alleyway pavement. Breath heaving. Vision swimming. You ran like your soul was on fire.

And behind you— They didn’t follow.

They stood, the five of them, like statues in mourning. Longing. Rage. Grief. Hunger.

Mystery whimpered once.

Baby’s fists dripped blood from his own grip.

“We scared her,” Jinu muttered, teeth grit. Shame painting his face. “We were supposed to make her feel safe.” His voice was raw.

“She looked at us like we were monsters.” Abby slammed a fist into the wall. “She didn’t even recognize me.” 

Romance still watched the alley’s end where your shadow had vanished. His lips curled into something bittersweet. “Not yet,” he said. “But she will.”

The other boys turned. He smiled wider. Devastating. Determined. “Now?”

His voice dropped.

“We seduce her.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You don’t remember getting home. One moment you were running. The next, your apartment door slammed shut behind you. You locked it. Bolted it. Double-checked it.

Then you fell.

Not gracefully—like a collapse, like a marionette whose strings had been severed. You’re curled on the floor now, your fingers tangled in the hem of your clothes, your back pressed to the side of the bed. Shaking. Silent. Your chest is heaving, but the air doesn’t reach your lungs. You’re not crying because you’re sad.

You’re crying because you’re losing your mind. Every time you close your eyes… they’re there.

Jinu in royal silk, kneeling in the blood-soaked courtyard of a Joseon palace—his eyes hollow, your lifeless hand in his lap.

Romance cradling your head by a lake turned black from poison—screaming into your mouth like he could breathe life back into you.

Abby roaring over a field of corpses—his armor cracked, clutching you as smoke swallowed the sky.

Mystery baring his fangs at priests dragging you away—his form shifting between beast and boy, voice howling your name like a prayer.

And Baby—oh god.

Baby in a burning chamber, crawling toward your corpse through ash. His smile was carved wrong, twitching, shattered—his arms cradling your body like a doll as fire devoured the world around him.

You cover your ears. You curl tighter. Your bones ache. “These aren’t mine,” you whisper. “They aren’t mine—”

But they feel like they are.

The grief. The rage. The longing. The love. Too much love. It presses against your ribs like a dam waiting to crack. And deep—deep—within your chest… something stirs. Something ancient. Something hungry.

You drag yourself under the blankets. Trembling. Numb. You don’t sleep. Sleep claims you.

And you never hear the figures outside your window. Five of them. Silent on the balcony.

Jinu’s hand is on the glass, forehead pressed lightly to the cold. His eyes are shut, breath fogging the surface. He had to see you. Just once more. Even if it killed him.

Romance stands beside him, one hand in his coat pocket, the other pressed to his lips like he might say something—but doesn’t. He just watches. Unblinking.

Abby paces behind them, boots scuffing against concrete. Every noise inside your room makes his head whip toward the door. He wants to kick it down. Drag you into his arms. Keep you warm. Keep you close.

Mystery is curled beside the potted plants. His ears twitch. His claws dig into the concrete. He hears your breathing. He knows when your sleep shifts. He knows you’re dreaming.

And Baby— Baby stands furthest from the glass. He doesn't move.Just stares at your sleeping form through the sheer curtain. His eyes are too wide. His hands are in his pockets, but the blood dripping from them gives him away. He clenches his jaw. He had wanted to go after you. To hold you. To punish anyone who scared you. But Jinu made them promise.

No chaos. Not yet. They all told themselves they were here to make sure you got home safe. But deep down, none of them believed that. They were here because they needed to see you one last time. Because you were in their veins now.

Because the bond was waking.

And soon—you’d be theirs again.

───────── ༺🜃༻ ───────── Author's note: Let me know if you guys enjoyed this? I plan to expand more into the backstories as their relationship develops. I've got characterizations up just for a teaser that I might post tonight. :) With love,Willa x.

[demonic0angel]

Possessed AU: Danny and Dani Edition

Similar to this possessed AU and the OG possessed AU, where Batfamily members are possessed by the Phantoms, except make it Danny and Dani! (Click for clarity)

I’ve mentioned it before, but I feel as tho the other possessed AUs probably wouldn’t exist in the same world due to the crazy backstories, but with Danny and Dani, I think there could be a chance?

Notes:

+ Cass is possessed by Danny, and it resulted after his body was destroyed in a fight. In a panic, he chose the nearest person who could handle him overshadowing them, but his raw power was too much for a human body to handle. As such, Cass’ body is deteriorating as she hosts him.

+ Cass has accepted the fact that her body is wasting away from Danny’s powers. In her mind, it’s better for her to be hurt than an innocent civilian. I imagine that they’re strangers prior to this, and Danny is distraught over the fact that she’s willing to sacrifice herself. Danny is constantly trying to leave her body, but Cass stubbornly keeps him in order to avoid killing other people, since she’s stronger than most. He can’t leave until his body heals or there’s a better host anyways.

+ Danny’s possession of Cass causes internal bleeding and for her to bleed from the orifices of her face. Nosebleeds, migraines, and coughing up blood is common.

+ Stephanie is possessed by Dani, and I imagine it occurred in a freak accident of some sort? Possibly a curse, where Dani had to flee and find somewhere to hide while she was vulnerable. She accidentally found Steph and although they freaked out at first, Steph eventually accepted Dani’s presence.

+ Steph thinks of Dani as a little sister, despite it being a very strange roommate-parasite situation. Both have become quick friends and Dani likes telling her gossip and secrets that she’s picked up.

+ There have been no irreversible negative effects on Steph from Dani’s possession, but she has gained a slight reputation for talking to herself and giggling at the air lmao.

+ Dani barely has the ability to take over Steph. Steph has a strong will and Dani is a rather weak ghost. As such, she just attaches herself to Stephanie and is visible as a misty area.

+ Unlike Jazz, Danny does not need permission from his host to take over the body. It’s similar to the situation between Dan and Dick’s dead body, and Cass cannot resist against Danny’s overshadowing. Danny barely takes over tho, due to how guilty and sad he feels.

+ Danny and Cass communicate via dreams. Dani and Steph communicate normally, but Dani sounds like a voice in her ear.

+ I’m not sure what outcome I want from this, but eventually, the Batfam gets wind of Cass’ possession since she tries to hide it. A solution is quickly found for Danny’s situation, but until then, they both suffer as one involuntarily hurts the other and the other just takes it. No one really finds out about Dani and Steph situation until much, much later when Dani is revealed in the middle of a fight.

+ While Cass is literally dying and decaying from Danny’s powers, Steph is having the time of her life with a new friend 💀

+ You may be wondering why I chose these characters specifically and not Tim or something. That is bc in my mind, there is something very deliciously angsty about Tim and Damian being the only ones left, forced to watch their older siblings be possessed by strangers while working together to find a solution despite their differences. I want to see them struggle as they stare at the people wearing their big siblings’ faces while only having each other :)

[timmydraker]

Thinking about Vampire Tim AU and him saving Bruce via turning.

None of the Drakes are actually Vampires, at least not permanently. It was a very strange instance that occurred out of pure chance and coincidence.

A pregnant Janet Drake in a foreign country having a run in with a starving vampire rouge that bite her just a few days before she gave birth.

Instead of the curse spreading to her, the labour of her child pushed and the spreading of lifeform spread to her baby as it was born. The child looked healthy, had no inhuman features, and they assumed her being so sick was simply the fact she was about to give birth.

Tim doesn’t realise what he is for a while purely because his parents are vegan and, until he was seven and had some beef from a classmates lunch, hadn’t had any blood enter his mouth.

Having to teach himself everything, Tim learned to manage both his hunger and abilities as quickly as he could. He studied history and mythos and did several test to figure out the limits to what he needed and could do.

He learnt that he could heal via blood, that he could go without air for days, and that his hearing was normal though his sense of smell was enough to distinguish blood types.

He learn that he could go two weeks without blood before it became a problem, but if he pushed it past three weeks he would start to experience literally decay.

Tim disconcerted his saving grace was that the hunger wasn’t as uncontrollable as people made it out to be in movies and books. At most, it was just like normal human hunger or thirst, and he was aware there was a huge variable in him being raised rather poorly.

He keeps it hidden for years, but then when he’s nineteen Bruce dies.

Not Batman, Bruce.

They got in a car crash of all things, the other drive running after they drove them off the road on the extremely rare instance that Alfred wasn’t driving.

Tim watched the tree branch in his foster father’s chest for several minutes as he thought about his options. Bruce was dead upon impact, gone with only the last wisps of life hanging to him.

Bruce was a father.

Batman was needed.

Even though it would out what he was, Tim forced his several sharp teeth out, all needle sharp and long enough his jaw had to unhinge slightly, and bit into his own wrist. The fangs, an inch long each, dug into his skin painfully before moving to dig into each of Bruce’s wrist and then finally his neck.

Tim smeared the blood into all three wounds and then squeezed as much as he could into Bruce’s mouth.

He had no idea how he knew what to do, trusting the instinct the curse seemed to just… give him.

When Bruce begins to breath again, Clark finally shows up. It’s been a total of eleven minutes and Tim only realises that the other took so long because he had been off planet, yet he is grateful because if he had been there…

Tim instructs Clark on how to cover up the scene, removing the cars and getting Bruce to the cave.

Dick is freaking out, worrying over his brothers ripped clothes and Bruce’s clear injuries, but Tim is quiet.

He takes Bruce’s medical cot and leads them both into a containment cell and then seals it, implementing his own lock as well as one of Bruce’s so no one can open it. He can hear someone banging on the glass a few times but he ignores it to stand over his father’s side and wait for him to wake up.

Naturally, when the older man does he’s panicked and screening Tim’s name.

Tim smiles at him sadly before taking hold of his hand, which Bruce immediately process as wrong.

“Why aren’t I dead?”

Smile growing sadder before fading to an almost formal look, Tim squeezed his hand before pulling away.

“I know you’ve had your suspicions and I thank you for trusting me regardless, but you are right. I’m not human Bruce, and now… you aren’t either.”

He lets the worlds settle for just a moment before continuing, knowing the other will want all the information he can. They’re both so similar in that way.

“I was born a vampire, I will always be a vampire. I will explain that all to you soon, but what you need to know is this: you do not need to drink human blood, you will not loose control over your thirst if you allow me to train you, and yes I had no choice. Gotham needs Batman and I-… I need my father. I will not apologise for my selfishness, but I am sorry you have to be like me.”

Bruce is quiet but he doesn’t move to kick Tim out, nor does he shout at him or cry in betrayal.

He’s surprised, but not more than Tim had ever seen before.

It’s almost an hour of silence between them before Bruce speaks again, “You… you are actually nineteen?”

Tim scoffs and Bruce glares, which makes Tim smile more, “I am. My body will age until around twenty five, at least that’s my hypothesis. If you are turned you stay the age you were, but I was born.”

Bruce nods and after a moment reaches out for his son’s hand.

Another silence before he squeezes it, “Have you told the others about… this change?”

Tim winces, “I tried to keep us separated because I knew you would worry for hurting someone, but I knew Damian would break in if he couldn’t listen so…”

“Ah. Understood.”

Then, in another rare instance that Tim thought he wouldn’t see for at least another few years, Bruce opens his arms to him for a hug.

Naturally, Tim crumbles into his father’s arms and sobs louder than a war drum.

Bruce kisses his head and holds him tight, a vampire embrace.

[dixons-sunshine]

The Archer’s Girl | Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Summary: When the world ended, you and Daryl narrowly escaped the clutches of the dead and found yourselves in a quarry camp with Merle and some other people. Unwanted, someone in the camp took a weird liking and disliking to you, and it made you extremely uncomfortable. Luckily, Daryl was there to stand up for you.

Genre: Fluff, some angst.

Era: Outbreak day; The Quarry.

Part of the Shopping Spree, Hangout Dreams AU but can be read as a standalone.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of morning sickness.

Word count: 4.4k.

A/N: Damn, I love when two requests correspond with each other and I can get them both into one fic. It’s my favourite thing in the whole world. I feel like Daryl is kinda ooc in this, but I tried to imagine how he’d be with a woman he just met at the quarry and started forming a relationship with vs how he’d be with someone he’s been with since he was a teenager, and in my mind, he’d totally be softer regarding someone he already knows and loves vs one he’s just started getting to know. So soft!Daryl in this, it is! Anyways, I hope you like this!

“Daryl!” you called out, attempting to push past the stampede of people trying to hurriedly evacuate the store you were in. You were abruptly shoved into one of the shelves, a sharp pain shooting up into your ribs. A loud curse escaped your lips as you clutched your side.

Barely one minute prior, you had strayed from Daryl’s side to go grab some milk. You had told him that you would be right back, but with all the chaos that had suddenly unfolded in front of you, you highly regretted leaving him at all. With everything going to hell, you could be separated from the man you loved. That thought terrified you.

However, as you turned around, nothing terrified you more than the sight that beheld you.

On the floor, a woman was screaming in pure, unadulterated agony. On top of her was a man whose body appeared to be decaying, and he ripped a huge chunk of her flesh from her chest. His grimy hands were clawing at her stomach, and with little to no effort, he tore her stomach open. The sight was truly mortifying, and it would never be erased from your mind.

A hand grabbed your wrist from behind. You flinched and tried to rip your hand from the person’s grip, but the familiar voice of your husband calmed you down. However, when you looked at him, you were surprised to note the splatter of dark blood all over his clothes and face.

“S’me! S’jus’ me!” he hurriedly explained. He cast one glance to the horrific sight in front of you before dragging you along with him, the two of you moving quickly. He stopped momentarily in front of one of the shelves to grab two knives, carefully pushing one of them into your hold. “Ya see one’a these dead motherfuckers, ya stab ‘em in the head, alright? S’the only way they drop dead.”

“What? I don’t—”

“Dun’ think ‘bout it, Peach!” he cut you off, pulling you with him out of the store again. “They ain’t alive. The news weren’t lyin’ to us ‘bout the dead risin’. We got a real fuckin’ problem on our hands now.”

Choosing to trust his judgement, you nodded and hurried next to him. The two of you ran down the sidewalk, heading in the direction of your apartment. As you continued onward, you highly regretted deciding to walk to the store instead of taking Daryl’s truck. It would have been a whole lot easier to escape the mess surrounding you if you had a vehicle.

Just as the two of you arrived at your apartment building, about a dozen of the undead people were stumbling out of the door. Daryl quickly pulled you with him to the parking area instead, making a beeline for his truck. However, more of those things flooded the area and a couple of them were heading straight towards you, and it was clear that the two of you weren’t escaping without a fight.

“Ya got yer knife?” Daryl questioned, shooting a glance at you over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” you told him, gripping the knife so tightly your knuckles started turning white.

“Good,” he replied, stepping forward to plunge his knife into the skull of one of the monsters. He withdrew the knife, holding it ready to use at a moment’s notice. “Ya gotta stab ‘em in the head as hard as ya can, alright? Dun’ think ‘bout ‘em bein’ alive. These assholes ain‘t livin’ no more.”

“Don’t worry about me trying to talk them out of eating me or something,” you scoffed, replicating the way he was holding his knife with your own. “I’m not that stupid. All these fuckers are getting from me is a fatal blow to the head. They’re not touching me.”

“That’s my girl,” he praised you with a small smile. However, his attention soon got diverted back towards the flood of the undead stumbling around in the parking area.

As the two of you continued onwards, Daryl repeatedly stabbed the heads of the monsters. By some miracle, the two of you made it to his truck without you having to do anything. However, just as Daryl was getting into the driver’s seat and you were opening the door to the passenger seat, a slimy, blood-covered hand gripped your arm tightly in its clutches.

You let out a small cry of terror, instantly alerting Daryl to your horrifying predicament. However, as you struggled against the literal death grip of the monster, its teeth trying desperately to take a chunk of your flesh, you realized that you couldn’t wait for Daryl to come to your rescue. By the time he would have managed to make it towards the other side of the truck, you would already be doomed. You had to take matters into your own hands.

Shakily, you drew your hand that held the knife back and plunged it deep into the thing’s skull with a sickening force. The monster miraculously fell limp with the first blow, its hand falling from your arm. However, before you could fully process that you had just killed something that was once human, Daryl took your face in his hands and checked you over, his eyes filled with fear. You had never seen him with as much terror in his eyes ever before.

“Are ya okay?” he asked in a hurried manner, his voice shaky as his blue eyes searched your body for any signs of hurt or discomfort. “Please tell me the prick didn’t get ya. No bites, no scratches, nothin’.”

“I’m okay,” you assured him, watching him calm down somewhat. “But we have to leave. Right now.”

“Yeah, let’s g—”

The deafening sound of a gunshot echoed through the area, followed closely by the rumble of a motorcycle. When the motorcycle came into view, you were both simultaneously relieved and disappointed to see none other than Merle Dixon. He stopped his motorcycle once he saw you, an exasperated look on his face.

“Y’all jus’ gon’ stand there and get eaten or get in the fuckin’ truck? I did not risk my life gettin’ here jus’ to watch y’all become a mid-day snack.”

Daryl opened the door to the passenger side and quickly ushered you in, shouting over his shoulder at Merle. “What the fuck are ya even doin’ here?!”

“Helpin’ yer sorry ass!” Merle exclaimed, shooting at another oncoming monster. “C’mon, let’s go!”

Daryl did not need to be told twice. He rushed to the driver’s side and hurriedly got in, starting up his truck and speeding out of the parking area, following behind Merle’s motorcycle. With all the chaos that had unfolded, the two of you hadn’t even managed to go grab some clothes from your apartment. However, by some stroke of luck, as you glanced towards the back of the truck, you noted that two duffel bags were resting there, as well as a bag with everything needed to construct a tent, as well as Daryl’s crossbow. You thanked your lucky stars that the two of you had gone camping for his hunting trip two days prior, and forgot to remove everything from his truck. The clothes were dirty, sure, but once you found a body of water, you’d be able to wash them. And Daryl’s crossbow would more than likely come in handy.

“Are ya okay?” Daryl asked, snapping you out of your thoughts. He was nervously chewing on his thumbnail, his eyes darting between you and the road.

You nodded at him, trying to calm your racing thoughts. In a matter of thirty minutes, your life had flipped upside down. You had killed someone, whether they were dead or not. The blood from the kill coated your skin and made you feel sick at your actions, but you tried to remind yourself that the thing you killed was not human anymore. If you didn’t kill it, it would’ve killed you. It would’ve killed—

Gasping, you sat upright and clutched at your stomach. Daryl looked at you worriedly, his eyes trailing to your stomach. His eyes widened in terror, his grip on the steering wheel tightening even more, if that was even possible.

“What’s wrong?” he questioned in alarm. “Oh, god. S’somethin’ wrong with Peanut? Did those pricks—”

“No! No, nothing’s wrong,” you reassured him, your hand resting on your stomach. “It’s just... With everything going on, I forgot about the baby. I forgot about my own child, Daryl. What kind of future mother does that make me?”

Daryl moved one of his hands to rest on your thigh, his thumb rubbing reassuring circles on the fabric of your jeans. He sent you a small smile, hoping to bring you some comfort.

“S’okay,” he told you. “Yer not gon’ be a bad mom. With everythin’ goin’ on, yer body went into fight or flight mode. S’cause of it that ya managed to keep the baby in yer belly safe. And once they’re here, I know yer gon’ do yer absolute best to protect ‘em. They’ve got the best damn mama ever.”

“I hope so,” you mumbled, resting your hand that wasn’t on your stomach over his hand that rested on your thigh. “I really hope so.”

One month had passed. One month since the dead had started walking. One month since everything you knew had gotten destroyed. One month since you had stumbled upon a quarry camp filled with other survivors with your husband and brother-in-law. One month since your life had been turned upside down.

You sighed as you washed one of Daryl’s jeans, subtly listening to the other women making conversation, the women sitting quite a distance from you. Most of the ladies in the small camp you were in tended to keep their distance from you, deeming you damaged goods due to the people you were with. Well, more so because Merle was your brother in law. You and Daryl tended to keep to yourselves, with Daryl only speaking to others when absolutely necessary, but the same couldn’t be said for his hotheaded older brother. Merle had made quite the first impression on your fellow survivors, and not a good one. And automatically, by mere association, they had deemed you and Daryl the same. Most of the women simply referred to you as the archer’s girl, and you were pretty sure they didn’t even know your actual name.

Most of the women didn’t even bother acknowledging your existence most of the time. The only exception was a sweet woman named Carol Peletier, who offered you her kindness whenever she saw or spoke to you. She offered you advice on how to properly scrub stains from jeans, on how to fix up the holes in your husband’s socks, and so much more than that as well. She was the only one who you had felt comfortable enough sharing the secret of your pregnancy with, and even though she promised not to tell anyone, she silently offered you her support, and gave you advice regarding your pregnancy by telling you stories about her own pregnancy with little Sophia. Carol was your only true friend there, and you appreciated her on a profound level.

Without her, you probably would have snapped at the other women there for the judgemental looks they threw your way, so you deeply cherished the friendship you had formed with her.

The touch of a calloused yet gentle hand drew you from your thoughts. You looked up and locked eyes with your husband, his blue eyes staring down at you with a softness reserved only for you. You sent him a smile and dropped the pair of jeans you were washing on the ground, standing up to face him better.

“Ya know all’a that washin’ s’now ruined ‘cause ya dropped it in the mud, right?” he told you playfully, sending you a small smile.

You smiled and shrugged. “It’s your jeans. I’ve never heard you complain about a little mud on them before, considering those kills you have to skin that stained these jeans in the first place.”

Daryl chuckled and shook his head. “Yeah, yer right,” he replied, before his smile fell and he adapted a more serious tone. “I have to go huntin’.”

“Again?” you asked incredulously, your mood visibly deflating. “You went on a hunt not even two days ago.”

“Yeah, I know,” Daryl said with a heavy sigh, fidgeting with his hands. “But that Shane prick demanded that I go on another hunt again for some reason. I dun’ know why, ‘cause we have enough meat to last us another week or so, but he threatened to throw us out’a the camp if I didn’t go now. We can’t leave. ‘Specially not now.”

Your lips formed into a small smile as Daryl’s eyes trailed down to your stomach, his eyes softening slightly as he thought about the life that fluttered there beyond the skin, the life that he had helped create. His very own son or daughter. A small being that he would go to great lengths to protect, even if they weren’t born yet. His little Peanut.

You stepped forward and pressed a chaste kiss against his cheek, before withdrawing again. You giggled at the blush that spread across his face, and you did not miss the way his lips twitched up into a small smile. He could say whatever he wanted, but he secretly loved your little public displays of affection. It was never something big, like some passionate kiss or a full-blown make out session or something along those lines. It was always something small and sweet, something quick to show your affection without drawing too much attention to the two of you. A subtle graze of your hand against his, quick pecks on the cheek, a gentle squeeze on his shoulder, you name it. You knew how to show him love in public without making him uncomfortable, and he loved you for it.

“How long will you be gone?” you asked, nervously fidgeting with your fingers.

Daryl noticed and subtly took your hands in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “Ain’t no tellin’. Walsh demanded that I find some venison, and that might take me a while. Dun’ even know if there are any deer here.”

You pursed your lips and nodded. “Stay safe, okay? I love you.”

Daryl nodded. Stepping out of his own comfort zone, he leaned down and pressed a feathery light kiss to your lips. When he pulled back, he gently caressed your cheek. “Always am. And I love ya more, Sweetheart.”

With that, he turned around and left, leaving you standing alone with the unfinished laundry. Watching his retreating figure, you smiled fondly, completely missing the envious looks the other women were sending your way.

They had not heard your conversation, the two of you being too far away to overhear anything, but they did see the way the archer interacted with you. It was so vastly different from the way he talked to anyone, including his own brother, his own flesh and blood. It was clear there was a lot of history between the two of you, good and bad, and it made the two of you a strong couple. From what Merle had let slip in his high state once, the two of you had been together since you were both merely seventeen years old, and by the looks of it, the two of you were still going strong. The two of you radiated love for one another, and that’s more than most could say about their own past relationships.

It was clear the two of you shared something special, a deep, profound bond that went beyond what the naked eye could see, and it felt unfair to them that they couldn’t find love like that. And with the world at its end, they doubted that they ever would be able to.

Three days had passed. Three days where Daryl was nowhere to be found. Three days where you had to deal with Merle’s disgusting attitude on your own. Three days where you had to sleep alone in your shared tent, wishing, praying that he was there beside you.

It seemed like Baby Dixon noticed their father’s absence, and they weren’t a fan of it. For the past three days, you had not managed to keep anything down in the depths of your stomach. Any and all food you ate came right back up again within a few hours, and it was not exactly pleasant. Thankfully, nobody saw you whenever you rushed to the bushes behind the RV to spew out the contents of your stomach, so nobody knew of your pregnancy just yet.

And you had Carol by your side whenever your stomach rebelled against you, so that was a major plus for you.

“God, I hate this so much,” you groaned in frustration, eliciting a laugh from the woman gently rubbing your back.

“It’s what comes with the joys of pregnancy,” she laughed lightly, continuing the circular motion on your back until you felt better. Once you stood upright, she handed you a bottle of water, encouraging you to drink as much as you needed to. “Drink up. You need to stay hydrated.”

Once you had enough to drink, you handed her the bottle again. “Thank you,” you thanked her, giving her a small smile. “How’d you handle it? The morning sickness, I mean.”

“I was lucky enough to only experience a mild case of morning sickness,” Carol explained, wrapping her arm around you and starting to walk with you back to the main campsite. “You know, and I’m not saying this to pressure you at all, but maybe you should tell everyone about your pregnancy. It would be good for Glenn to be on the lookout for prenatal vitamins.”

“I can’t,” you denied instantaneously. “Then everyone will look at me like I’m carrying the black plague and see me as just another liability. I can’t have that. Daryl and I can handle things on our own until we absolutely have to tell everyone.”

���Okay,” Carol replied, before shifting the conversation away from something that quite obviously stressed you out, and she knew that stress was not good for the baby. “I drank a lot of herbal teas when I was pregnant. That seemed to really work for the nausea.”

“Just great,” you sighed, shaking your head. “Where the fuck are we supposed to find that?”

Carol smiled and gently rubbed your shoulder. “I’ll see if Dale has some. I remember him mentioning something about ginger tea.”

“What if he asks why you need it?” you asked hurriedly with worry evident in your tone.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell him,” she reassured you. “I’ll just tell him I’m feeling nauseous. That something I ate isn’t corresponding with my stomach. Trust me, he’ll believe it.”

You sent her a smile. “Thanks, Carol. I mean it.”

She smiled at you before disappearing into the RV, on a search for Dale. You stood waiting outside, staring ahead at the treeline. You hoped that by continuously looking at it, your husband would appear from the trees with a deer over his shoulders, dirty but unharmed. Alas, as you had learned over the last few days that has passed, that did not work, and you wished you could go out there and look for him yourself, but you knew he’d be beyond mad if you did.

No, your main priority was your baby at that moment. Your husband had shown time and time again that he could take care of himself, so you chose to believe that he would be fine. You had to believe that, otherwise you would spiral into an abyss you did not want to go down.

The feeling of somebody standing next to you startled you. You stumbled and nearly fell, but the hands of the mystery person caught you. Looking up, you locked eyes with the self-appointed leader of the group, Shane Walsh. His brown eyes were staring down at you, a small grin on his face.

“Sorry, girl. Didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologized, slightly rubbing your arms.

Feeling extremely uncomfortable, you shrugged his hands from your arms and took a step back, putting some distance between the two of you. You sent him a tight-lipped smile. “It’s okay,” you replied, hoping that he would end the conversation with that. However, the man had other plans.

“What’s your story, lady?” he asked curiosly, leaning back against the metal of the RV, his eyes trailing over you in a way you did not like.

“My story?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “What’s a pretty girl like yourself doing with a low life nothing like Daryl Dixon? I mean, you could have anyone you want, but you chose him, the good-for-nothing redneck. Why?”

“Because I love him,” you stated matter-of-factly, sending him a harsh glare that only seemed to spur him on even more.

“Bullshit. There’s gotta be something to it,” he disagreed, chuckling at the glare on your face. “There’s no way that a guy like that managed to pull someone like you. It goes against all the laws of the universe. So tell me, what’s he got to offer? Is he paying you? Are you some prostitute he keeps around for his own pleasure or something? You certainly look pretty enough to have a guy pay you for something like that.”

Before you could stutter out an angry reply to Shane’s deeply offensive, deprecating accusation, a hand gently gripped your shoulder and pulled you aside. Looking up, you saw Daryl, an angry look in his eyes. Without a word, he stepped forward and viciously connected his fist with Shane’s nose, hearing the satisfying crack of the bone there.

“Son of a bitch!” Shane exclaimed, bending over to clutch his nose in his hands. “What the fuck, Dixon?!”

Daryl gripped Shane by the collar of his shirt and shoved him against the side of the RV, a threatening glare on his face. Terror filled Shane’s eyes, something unusual for the for the former sherrif’s deputy. Everyone started gathering around the fighting pair, and Carol, who had rushed from the RV once she had heard the commotion, pulled you back from the battle ground, holding you firmly against her side.

“Listen’a me real fuckin’ close, Walsh,” Daryl spat angrily, his voice dangerously low. “I dun’ care what ya say ‘bout me, but if ya ever talk ‘bout my pregnant wife like that again, I’ll do so much worse than jus’ break yer nose. Ya dun’ talk to her, ya dun’ look at her, ya dun’ even breathe the same fuckin’ air as her. If ya do, I’ll skin ya alive and feed the remainin’ pieces of ya to the walkers. Do I make myself clear?”

“Fuck you,” Shane groaned out.

“Yer venison’s on the table. Next time, go hunt for it yer fuckin’ self.”

Without waiting for a response, Daryl shoved Shane harshly and turned around, meeting your eyes. Instead of finding fear in your eyes from his actions, he found adoration instead. You stepped out of Carol’s hold and took Daryl’s hand in your own, dragging him to your shared tent. You didn’t even spare a glance at the people, so you missed the way all of their eyes widened at the realization that you were pregnant, that they had been unnecessarily rude to a pregnant lady that had done absolutely nothing wrong to them. They had been harsh to an expecting mother and father, and for no reason at all. Everyone felt guilty, but the groan that Shane emitted caught their attention once again.

Back in your shared tent with Daryl, you were stood busy, gently cleaning the blood from his split knuckles whilst the man sat on the cot. Daryl was avoiding your eyes, feeling ashamed of his actions. In all the years that you had been together, you had only seen him lash out like that once—one time when you were drinking together in a bar when you were twenty-four, a guy had grabbed your breast without your consent, and Daryl had completely lost it. After that, he swore he would never act like that around you ever again, but Shane had made him break that promise.

“I’m not mad, you know,” you finally broke the silence, watching the way his ocean-coloured eyes flickered over to you, the confusion evident in them. “Shane got what he deserved. Quite honestly, I planned on punching him, too. You just beat me to it.”

“M’sorry,” Daryl mumbled, ducking his gaze to the floor. “I know ya can fight yer own battles. S’jus’... Hearin’ the way he talked ‘bout ya, like ya were some object whose worth he could judge... I dun’ know. It made me pissed. Ya dun’ deserve to be treated like that, ‘specially not when yer carryin’ a baby in yer belly.” He sighed and placed his good hand on your stomach. “Speakin’ of, m’sorry I revealed that yer pregnant. I know ya wanted to keep that hidden for as long as possible.”

You smiled and gently lifted his chin with your finger, gazing deeply into his eyes. “It’s okay. They would’ve found out eventually,” you told him, gently cupping his cheek. “Look at you, always so considerate about everyone else except yourself. You’re amazing, Daryl Dixon.”

Daryl blushed. “Yer the amazin’ one,” he countered, leaning forward to rest his forehead on your stomach. He placed a small kiss to the clothed skin. “Peanut’s gon’ have one hell of a mama.”

“And one hell of a daddy,” you replied, bringing one of your hands to thread through his hair. “I love you, Daryl.”

“Love ya more, Peach,” Daryl murmured, closing his eyes at the comforting feeling, his head still resting against your stomach. “Love ya too, Peanut,” he whispered to your belly, and it made you smile.

The serene moment was soon interrupted. The soft calling from Carol grabbed your attention, and you giggled at the groan Daryl let out.

“Y/N?” she called out. “I’ve got that ginger tea I promised you.”

“Ginger tea?” Daryl questioned, looking up at you.

“Yeah. I got a bunch of morning sickness without you around for some reason. It seems like Baby Dixon doesn’t like it when their daddy’s not here.”

“Good,” Daryl chuckled, rubbing your stomach affectionately. “Then I guess ya won’t mind if I stick ‘round.”

“Hmm,” you hummed, pretending to think about it before letting out a light giggle. “I guess I’ll keep you around.”

“That’s real good to hear.”

Before you could respond, you heard the bellowing voice of your brother-in-law. You groaned in frustration, praying that Carol had gotten out of the line of fire, because your tent was about to become a war ground.

“When the fuck were ya plannin’ on tellin’ me ya got that lil’ whore’a yers pregnant?”

Daryl visibly tensed up at his brother’s words, anger flaring up in his eyes, and you knew that another beating was about to commence. “The fuck did ya jus’ say, Merle?!”

“Ya heard me, boy.”

God, you hated Merle with a fiery passion, and you doubted that it would ever change. But you loved Daryl, and you knew that as long as you had him by your side, you could face anything.

Yeah, your little Peanut was gonna have the best father ever.

[jungkoode]

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 01, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: first sight, obsessive observation, ballet practice scene, initial fixation development, mirror dynamics, ritual beginnings, sensory fixation, internal monologue, self-loathing, self-discipline, cleanliness obsession, OCD, asocial/antisocial behaviors.

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.9k

➔ A/N: Before we even begin, let me say this loud and clear: This story explores dark themes, toxic dynamics, and morally fucked behavior. If that’s not your vibe or you’re in a vulnerable place right now, please prioritize your mental health and click out. I have a trigger warning + author intro linked above in pink—read it before diving in. Know what you’re getting into. Once you scroll past this note, you’re responsible for engaging thoughtfully. This is not an endorsement of anything. This story is an exploration, not a statement of belief. Don’t absorb it at face value. Think critically. Or log off. Either works. Okay now that the serious voice is out of the way—WELCOME TO ASW. Yes. We’re doing this. Yes, Taehyung. No, I don’t know why either. He just… is. This fic has been rotting in my brain like a cursed wine cellar, and he fit the flavor of psychological mess I needed. It’s the velvet-soaked, morally gray, low-light, mid-cigarette kinda vibe. And you’re invited. This isn’t a longform fic like Fuck Me Up—it’s a series, a slower, tighter pace, same chaos engine running under the hood (hi, it’s me, Kiki Nation). If you’ve read my stuff before: buckle in. If you’re new: …I swear I’ve written fluff before. Maybe. No but seriously, if you like character-driven, trauma-informed, unhinged-but-meticulous messes with literary undertones, welcome. You’ve found your swamp. Also. I beg you to listen to the ASW playlist I linked. It’s essential. Think: Paris—but not “Emily in Paris.” More like the kind of Paris where you haven’t slept in three days and your eyeliner’s smudged and some man with secrets is staring at you across a neon-lit dive bar while Edith Piaf plays from a busted speaker. That Paris.

See you on the other side. You’ve been warned.

➔ SERIES : NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Worthless.

The word sits in Taehyung's skull like a rotting tooth.

Not painful anymore—just there, decayed into the bone, a permanent fixture. Worthless. His mother's voice, twenty-something years later, still echoing.

Sometimes he imagines cutting into his brain, finding where that word lives, and scrubbing it clean. But nothing ever gets clean enough.

Paris is outside—pavement slicked with cold, the breath of a morning rain barely dried. In here, the air is flat. 

Fluorescent. 

Everything smells faintly of mop water and dying batteries. 

He exists behind the counter, with his wrists tucked close, thumbnail grinding against the seam where the plastic laminate splits. It’s not a conscious movement. The itch just collects there—under his skin, inside his jaw, everywhere his mother’s voice ever landed. 

(worthless)

The shelf by the door coughs out its contents: a can rolls, then a bottle, another bottle, a clatter that jars the pulse behind his eye. Sticky leaks on the tiles. No one looks at him—customer, manager, pink-haired girl behind the second register sketching with a dried-out pen. He’s the quiet one. The shadow. The clean-up.

He counts the droplets on the ground. One. Two. The stain widens. Beer and cola. A chemical amber, eating its way along the grout. His fingers twitch for the cheap blue rag balled up under the till. Sticky spots, dirty dots, broken thoughts. Three. Four. Five. It’s spreading. Marcel’s voice always comes before the panic does.

“Kid! Clean that shit up, come on! Clients don’t have all day.”

He sees the world in surfaces and stains. Every footprint etched in last night’s grime. Chewing gum slicked flat under a boot near the cooler. The way someone’s fingernails left half-moons in the tape over the torn cereal box. Small atrocities. He is intimately acquainted with the way filth lingers—in the cracks, yes, but also in his chest, in the language of his own hands.

He moves without thinking: rag in hand, knees bending. The bottle neck is sticky. His palm leaves a ghost on the glass—oily, ugly. 

(dirty, dirty, dirtydirtydirt)

He swears he can hear her voice; the echo that raised him sharper than any cradle song. 

He wipes too hard, more circles than necessary, like there is any chance of making the world new.

One. Two. Three. Seven. Seven. Seven again. If the number is right, the feeling dulls. 

Nothing makes it right. 

The rag soaks up sugar, cheap wheat, that thin acrid scent that reminds him of old men on metro benches. The stickiness clings to his fingers, seeping past skin and nail, as if he’s absorbing the world’s waste molecule by molecule. 

If he had a choice, he’d bleach the whole city. Himself first.

Someone steps around him—he feels the shadow before the person—a grunt, a grumble in French about the mess, about incompetence. He shrinks into the crouch. Tries to take up less space. 

Sometimes, he wonders what it would take to be truly invisible. 

Sometimes, he thinks he’s halfway there already.

(worthless) 

He doesn’t know when the word started looping. Was it, really, at two years old? Maybe three. Maybe four, when he dropped a bowl and she made him hold the shards, blood trailing into the grout as proof of his clumsiness. 

‘If you were worth anything, you’d be clean. You’d be careful. You’d be quiet and good and wanted.’

He’s quiet. He’s careful. He’s so good at disappearing he startles himself when Marcel barks his name—the only time he hears it, sandpapered into a reprimand. 

Sometimes the sound of it makes him nauseous.

He presses the rag into the floor. Bleach sting in the back of his throat. Nails scrub until knuckles ache, the line between diligent and desperate lost years ago. He likes this better than standing—the way knees grind bone against bone, the ache that says he’s solid, present, here. 

It almost feels like penance.

He glances up—Sophie sketches him again, glancing once, twice, pausing on the curl of his neck. He will become a line in her notebook, a story she tells at parties, a tragic fixture in the background of her real life. He hates that he has thoughts about being observed. If anyone really saw, they’d peel back layers until nothing was left but the word. 

(worthless)

The store’s radio coughs static. Some old pop song limping its way through a broken speaker. The world blurs at the edges—what is Paris, if not concrete and piss and distant sunlight, leaking slowly across linoleum? He wishes the tiles here would just dissolve. 

Wishes his skin would too.

He wrings the rag out in the bucket, watches beer foam swirl with grime down the cheap plastic drain. His hands are pink, raw, stained with the same feeling that never quite leaves. His fingertips burn. Sometimes they bleed. That’s good. 

Pain is clean. Pain is honest.

Marcel doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t look at him. Sophie tucks her drawing away, eyes flickering elsewhere. Taehyung straightens, wipes his palms on his trousers, and returns to the counter. He exists to erase.

Counting in his head—seven steps to the end of the aisle. Seven minutes until the shift ends. Seven letters in the nine his mother wrote under his skin:

Worthless.

Sometimes he thinks it’s the only word he’ll ever earn.

And outside, the city is gray. Inside, he is nothing. Inside, he is clean.

(For a moment. For seven counts. That’s all.)

The water makes patterns like fractured light.

His shift ends like they always do—uneventful, almost unregistered in the library of his mind. 

Paris is set in a brooding mood, rain stalking down the windows carelessly. Taehyung watches each droplet make its slow descent, leaving dirty trails on the glass he'd scrubbed this morning. 

Seven hours ago. The bleach has worn off. Everything wears off eventually.

He'll have to clean the windows before going home. Marcel doesn't really care. Clean windows mean cleaner space. Cleaner space is good for Marcel's business. Or its reputation at least. Not that Taehyung cares about reputation or lack thereof, he just needs to quiet down the bubbling pressure that builds in his chest when the water droplets remove the bleach he's injected into the glass this morning.

The streak marks form constellations he doesn't know the names of. Names have never mattered much to him. Except when they belong to ghosts.

(worthlessworthlessworthless)

The register drawer sticks when he pulls it, a metallic scrape that makes his molars ache. He counts the bills by sevens—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. Again. The rhythm is comforting, like a metronome he can set his pulse to. His fingers leave no prints on the paper. He's careful about that. So careful.

Sophie comes by his counter, as she usually does at this time. Her hair is wet at the ends, dripping onto her shoulders. The moisture makes him twitch. He knows the pattern, knows how her hand raises to pat him in the shoulder, so he moves. Just lightly. A shift to the left. His body tilting away from contact like a plant bending from shadow.

She notices. She always notices. But she never says anything about it.

"Marcel left early," she says, tapping her pen against her lower lip. "Something about his daughter's recital. You know how he gets about that little prodigy of his."

Taehyung doesn't respond. He doesn't know what it's like to have a father proud enough to leave work early. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone watch you with anything but disappointment.

Sophie sighs into the silence. The sound scrapes against his eardrums. He counts the register one more time, even though the numbers are perfect. They're always perfect. He makes sure of it.

"You should really come to the dinner tonight. Would do some good for you to socialize," she says with a grin that shows too many teeth. 

Her lipstick is smudged at the corner. Imperfect. He wants to hand her a tissue but his hands stay where they are, counting, ordering, fixing what isn't broken.

He doesn't blame her for trying. He doesn't blame her for the invitation that comes every Friday, the same words in slightly different arrangements. He doesn't blame her for not understanding that socializing feels like drowning with an audience.

Taehyung doesn't respond, simply nods. He's learned the minimum requirements for human interaction. Nod. Blink. Breathe. Exist without being noticed.

She sighs, signals two fingers over her forehead as she exits the store, all while saying, "Don't stay too late, and close before you leave!"

Taehyung didn't need the reminder. He always checks seven times before he leaves, that the door is closed. 

Sophie knows. He knows she knows. He still doesn't say a word, just nods. Then, Sophie is gone.

Solitude, at last. 

Empty store, peace restored.

His fingers move to the cloth under the register. It's damp from earlier, beer and soda and whatever else the world tracked in. He should get a fresh one. Clean things with clean tools. His mother taught him that, at least, between the lessons about worthlessness.

The rain comes down harder now, drumming against the glass. The windows will need extra attention. He can already feel the itch building under his skin, the need to make everything spotless before he leaves. Before he walks through the rain and into his apartment, where everything is already clean but never clean enough.

He moves methodically. Counts each step. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. The mop bucket rattles as he pulls it from the back room. Water sloshes against plastic sides. He measures the bleach precisely. One cap. Two caps. The smell burns his nostrils, familiar and comforting. It smells like absolution.

The store is empty now. Just him and the endless task of erasing evidence that anyone was ever here. He likes it this way. Prefers it. People leave messes. People notice things. People try to touch his shoulder and invite him to dinners where he would have to speak and be seen and remembered.

No one remembers the person who cleans up after them. That's the beauty of it.

The mop makes wet streaks across the floor. He counts each stroke. Seven in one direction. Seven in the other. The pattern matters. The rhythm matters. If he gets it wrong, something terrible might happen. He doesn't know what. He just knows the fear tastes like metal at the back of his throat.

The windows come last. He saves them because they're the worst. Because they connect inside to outside. Because they're never truly clean, no matter how hard he scrubs.

He sprays the glass, watches the solution drip down in rivulets that mirror the rain on the other side. Seven sprays. Seven wipes. Seven circles clockwise, seven counterclockwise. The ritual matters. The counting matters.

When he's done, the store gleams under the harsh lights. No evidence that anyone has been here. No evidence that he exists at all, except in the absence of dirt.

Then, a sound.

 It comes from behind the door nobody opens.

Not the storeroom where Marcel keeps the cigarettes he thinks no one knows about, not the employee bathroom with its perpetually damp floor—the other one. The abandoned space where even Marcel refuses to go.

Taehyung freezes mid-wipe, cloth suspended against glass. The sound isn't loud. Just different. A disruption in the pattern of silence he's grown accustomed to.

He finishes the seventh circle, completing the ritual. Can't leave it unfinished. Bad things happen when rituals break. His mother taught him that—one of the few lessons that wasn't delivered with a slap or that word.

(worthless)

The sound comes again. Not a crash or a thud, but something lighter. A scrape, perhaps. The shuffle of something being moved after years of stillness.

His bleach bottle is nearly empty. The level has dropped below the label, and the thought of finishing his cleaning without it makes his chest cave inward. The supply closet—the forbidden one—holds what he needs. Marcel put the cleaning supplies there because no one else wants them. Because Taehyung is the only one who uses them. Because Marcel knows he'll go, no matter how much it terrifies him.

The handle feels wrong under his palm. Not cold or hot, but somehow both. The metal leaves an impression on his skin that he'll need to scrub away later. Seven times. With soap that smells like nothing.

The door creaks—not dramatically like in films, but with the quiet protest of hinges that have forgotten their purpose. The smell hits him first: dust and mildew, ancient paper, and something underneath it all that reminds him of childhood. 

Not his childhood—someone else's. Someone who was allowed to be happy.

Taehyung doesn't step fully inside. He hovers at the threshold, one foot in darkness, one in light. Liminal. The word appears in his head unbidden. He knows it from somewhere. A book, maybe. Something he read in the quiet hours when sleep refused to come.

The bleach is stacked against the far wall. Seven bottles. Always seven. Marcel orders them in sevens now without being asked. It's the only kindness Taehyung has ever noticed from the man.

He'll have to cross the room to get there. Step fully into the space that feels wrong. 

His skin prickles with contamination.

One step. The floor creaks.

Two. Dust motes dance in what little light filters through a grimy window.

Three. His breathing shallows.

Four. The sound comes again, clearer now. Not from this room, but beyond it.

Five. His hand twitches at his side, wanting to count on fingers but knowing better. Counting out loud is for children. Counting visibly is for the insane.

Six. He sees the wall isn't solid. There's glass embedded in it, cloudy with years of neglect.

Seven. He stops, right where he needs to be. The bottles wait, patient as saints.

He crouches, careful not to let his knees touch the floor. It's filthy here. Beyond salvaging. The kind of dirty that lives in the bones of a place, too deep for even bleach to reach. He imagines gutting the room—tearing out floorboards, scraping walls down to bare structure, burning it all and starting fresh. The fantasy calms him enough to grab a bottle.

That's when the melody starts.

Piano notes, distant but clear. A practice scale, then something more complex. The music doesn't filter through the wall—it seems to emerge from it, as if the plaster itself remembers a tune.

Taehyung stands, bottle clutched to his chest. His eyes find the glass panel naturally, drawn by the sound. It's a mirror, he realizes. Or it was meant to be. Years of grime have turned it into a cloudy barrier between this space and whatever lies beyond.

Curiosity is dangerous. His mother taught him that too. But the music pulls at something in him—a thread he didn't know was loose.

He approaches the glass, steps measured in sevens. The closer he gets, the clearer the sound becomes. Not just piano now. There's movement.

Without thinking, he raises his free hand—the one not clutching bleach like a lifeline—and wipes a small circle in the grime. The action is so automatic, so ingrained, that he doesn't register the contamination until it's done. 

His palm is gray with dust. He'll need to wash it. Scrub it. Make it clean again.

But then he sees through the cleared space, and everything else falls away.

The room beyond isn't abandoned. It's alive with light—not the harsh fluorescence of the convenience store, but something softer. Golden. The floors are wood, worn but cared for. Barres line the walls. A practice room.

And in its center, a figure moves.

You don’t dance to the piano. 

You are the music. 

(worthyworthyworthy)

Your body creates shapes he doesn't have names for. Arcs and lines that make his breath catch.

Taehyung doesn't know ballet. Doesn't know dance at all. But he knows beauty when he sees it. Knows holiness. Recognizes glory.

The glass, he realizes, isn't just dirty. It's one-way. A mirror on your side, a window on his. You can't see him watching. Don’t know you’re being witnessed.

The knowledge makes him feel profane. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be seeing this. It's too intimate, too sacred for someone like him.

(worthless)

But he can't look away.

Your hair is pulled back, severe and perfect. No strand out of place. Your leotard (is that the word? he thinks it might be) clings to a form that seems impossible—all angles and curves existing together in defiance of what bodies should be able to do.

When you turn, your face catches light. Features like a doll. But your gaze is nothing like that. Eyes focused on nothing but your reflection. On perfection. On control.

You are everything he is not.

Clean. 

Worthy.

Then, a series of turns that make his head spin just watching. You’re counting, he realizes. Your lips move slightly with each rotation. One, two, three... he can't tell how high you go. Can't follow the complexity of it.

The bleach bottle is cold against his chest. His palm still dirty. His breath fogging the small clear spot he's made in the glass.

He should leave. Should run. Should take his bleach and go back to his world of sticky floors and meaningless tasks. Should never come back here again.

But even as he thinks it, he knows he will. Knows that he'll return tomorrow, like he has to now. And the day after. And every day the store is open. Just to stand in this filthy room he can't bear to be in. Just to watch you move like water, like air.

Like everything pure in a world of contamination.

goal: 150 notes.

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw

© jungkoode 2025. | banners and dividers by dailynnt

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

[mahowaga]

THE TRAGEDY OF SOFT THINGS | G.S.

SUMMARY: some people rot like fruit. suguru was more delicate–he fell apart like silk unraveling, quiet and beautiful. by the time you noticed the first thread had frayed, it was too late.

PAIRING: geto suguru x fem!reader CONTAINS: romantic decay, hurt/comfort (kind of?), there's more hurt than comfort tbh, doomed romance, no curses au, college au, angst, hanging onto something long gone, really, denial, a failed attempt at portraying suguru's break down WC: 22.0k WARNINGS: implied abuse/violence, depictions of grief and loss

I. THE BEFORE – the stillness before the storm Before Geto Suguru, there was silence. Not peace. Just a silence you didn’t know you were drowning in.

You met Geto Suguru on a Tuesday.

You remember because the campus bookstore smelled like old wood and ink that day, and the light slanted through the dusty windows in thick, golden bars–the kind that made you think of slow afternoons and things that didn’t quite hurt yet. The air was warm but shy of oppressive, caught in that strange seasonal limbo where summer hasn’t ended, but autumn has already begun to whisper against your skin. It was the kind of weather that makes people linger in doorways. In aisles. In silences. And you’d lingered–at the back of the line, behind someone tall with ink-dark hair tied back into a smooth, neat tail that gleamed like polished obsidian beneath the sunbeam caught in the skylight.

He stood still with his head slightly tilted, reading the spine of a book like it was a person he didn’t want to interrupt. His body language didn’t shift, didn’t twitch–not a finger tap, not a foot shuffle, not even the absentminded hums so many others carried like background static. He didn’t glance at his phone. He didn’t sigh. He simply existed–calm and quiet, like a still pond untouched by wind.

There was something striking about that. Something unnerving, even. As if he was waiting for a thought to finish forming before the world could resume.

He wasn’t beautiful in the way most people notice–not sharp-jawed or golden-skinned or chiseled. It was quieter than that. The kind of beauty you only notice if you, too, are quiet. The kind that hides in the slope of a nose, the line of a neck, the thoughtful furrow between brows as he’d turned over the philosophy section like a priest inspecting relics.

You’d watched as he picked up a copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed, thumbed through the opening chapter, then tucked it under his arm with something that wasn’t quite reverence, but close.

You bought a refill pack of notecards and a secondhand copy of The Bell Jar. The irony didn’t hit you until later.

There was no conversation. Not then. You didn’t speak, didn’t even look at him properly when he paid, just the flicker of movement as he passed a bill to the cashier, voice low and smooth, syllables wrapped in velvet.

You stepped out a moment after him, the bell above the bookstore door giving its usual tired jingle. A gust of wind blew down the sidewalk–just strong enough to stir the world without truly moving it–and a loose paper leaflet came spinning from somewhere, catching in the air like a reluctant bird.

It collided with his chest–fluttered, folded, stuttered against the fabric of his coat–and stuck.

He looked down at it. Didn’t flinch. Just pinched the paper between two long fingers and examined it the way someone might a fortune from a cookie. His eyes moved slowly across whatever was printed there. Then he turned slightly and offered it to you with a soft-spoken,

“Yours?”

His voice startled you–not because it was loud, but because it wasn’t. It was the kind of voice that didn’t force you to listen but made you want to. Like the last line of a poem murmured before sleep.

You shook your head, surprised by how dry your throat had suddenly become.

“No,” you said. “Not mine.”

He nodded once–not disinterested, just matter-of-fact–then folded the leaflet in half. Once. Twice. Precise as origami. Then stepped aside and slipped it into the metal bin bolted to the sidewalk, careful not to crush it, like it deserved more than just to be discarded.

You stood there for a moment, both of you, as the paper disappeared from view. Neither of you spoke, but something about the silence felt ceremonial–like a moment held its breath between two strangers.

You smiled, small and unsure, caught between amusement and curiosity.

He did not smile back. But he looked at you–really looked–and something passed behind his eyes. Not recognition, not yet. But attention. Like you were worth remembering. Like something about you had registered.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, the black ribbon of his hair tie gleaming faintly under the sun. A single strand threatened to slip loose near his temple, but didn’t.

You watched him until the crowd swallowed him. You didn’t know then that you’d just met the axis around which your world would gently, inevitably tilt.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Suguru was a sociology major, minoring in education–a combination that made perfect sense, once you got to know him. He wasn’t interested in studying things just to name them. He wanted to understand why they broke. Who they broke. And whether or not they could be fixed.

He didn’t talk much in class. Not unless he had something to say. And when he did speak, it wasn’t to fill silence or impress the room–it was because something had troubled him. Because he had turned it over in his head like a river stone and wanted to offer it up to the rest of you. People listened when he spoke, but not in the way they listened to loud voices or charismatic leaders. Suguru had no desire to dominate a room. His voice was low, sure, but steady–and more than that, certain. Each word felt like it had passed through a dozen internal checkpoints before it made it past his lips.

There was something surgical about the way he used language–a kind of quiet discipline that suggested he understood the weight of every syllable. It was never arrogant, never overbearing. It just was. Like he had taught himself how to wield precision where others wielded volume.

He thought with his head, always. He had the posture of someone who had spent years thinking before speaking, watching before reacting. But you noticed–quietly, privately–that he felt with his hands.

His fingers lingered on old book spines, brushing the faded lettering like they were braille. He ran his thumb along the edge of his notebook when he was listening closely. He tapped twice on the corners of desks when he finished reading, like punctuation. You once watched him, absentminded, pick a thread from a stranger’s sleeve in the middle of a group discussion. Not because it bothered him, but because he noticed it. Because he couldn’t not notice. And he smoothed the fabric down after, gentle and unassuming, like kindness lived in his fingertips rather than his words.

Geto Suguru existed like someone who did not want to take up too much space, but had too many thoughts to keep inside. He moved like he was trying to stay out of life’s way, and yet–it bent toward him anyway.

You were quiet, too. Always had been. You lived on the edges of conversations, the margins of group projects, the gaps between loud parties and louder people. The world around you was too fast, too sharp. It moved in jagged motions, demanded too much. You’d learned to survive by staying soft, by going unnoticed. But around him?

Around him, silence wasn’t absence. It was shared space.

With Suguru, quiet wasn’t something to fill–it was something to keep.

You remember sitting across from him in the student lounge once, both of you reading, neither of you talking. His leg brushed yours. He didn’t move it. Neither did you. An entire hour passed like that. And somehow, it felt like a conversation.

It made you brave. He made you brave.

You asked him to walk with you once. Just once. After class, when the sun was slanting low and the sky was the color of soaked lavender. You said it like a joke, like a shrug, so he’d have an out. You were already bracing for a polite refusal when he looked at you–eyes half-lidded with soft surprise–and said,

“Alright.”

Not like it was a favor. Not like it was a decision. Just like… of course. Like walking with you was already part of the plan.

That walk didn’t lead to anything dramatic. There was no kiss, no confession, no moment of cinematic tension. You just walked. Shoulder to shoulder. Your footsteps fell into rhythm without trying.

He asked about your book. You asked about his essay. He spoke more than usual, but still slowly–like he was measuring not the words themselves, but the space they’d take up in the air between you.

He told you he hated talking in groups. That he found it hard to know when it was his turn. That sometimes, he got tired just thinking about how many ways a conversation could go wrong. That it was easier to listen. To study. To wait.

And then–softer–he added, “But I don’t feel that way around you.”

It was said so plainly, so absent of performance, that it took you a moment to process. You didn’t know what to say. You only nodded, smiling and warm, and kept walking.

Later, long after you’d parted ways, you realized: he had just given you something rare. A sliver of himself. And you had tucked it away like a pressed flower between pages.

You didn’t know it yet, but that was how it would always be with Suguru.

He wouldn’t hand you his heart all at once. He would give it to you bit by bit, in wordless gestures and half-lit moments. A thought. A glance. A brush of fingertips against yours when reaching for the same door.

And somehow, you would come to treasure those more than anything loud ever could.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You’d both sit on the stone bench near the library courtyard–the one tucked behind the foreign language department, mostly forgotten except by the squirrels and the occasional smoker. A willow tree loomed there like a sleeping giant, its long green strands brushing the top of your heads like fingers in prayer. Its roots had cracked through the pavement over time, crawling out in thick, tangled webs like veins beneath skin, reminding you that nothing–not even concrete–could truly contain what wanted to grow.

The bench was always cold, no matter the weather. But Suguru never seemed to mind. He’d sit with one leg folded over the other, fingers draped loosely around the paper cup of coffee you’d sometimes bring him. Always black. Always two sugars. Sometimes he’d drink it. Sometimes he’d let it go cold beside him, forgotten while his thoughts wandered.

He spoke more with you. Never all at once. Never casually. It started with small things–a comment on a passage you’d underlined in your copy of Brave New World, a dry observation about a professor’s mismatched socks, a brief murmur about how odd it was that people always talked during movies, even when they claimed to love them.

You didn’t know it at the time, but those small things were Suguru’s way of reaching across a void he didn’t quite know how to cross.

And when he did start to speak–really speak–it was slow. Cautious. Like testing the weight of his own voice. Like he was trying to remember how to be a person who trusted someone else with the shape of his thoughts.

He told you about his childhood.

He didn’t dramatize it. Didn’t say it with bitterness or grief. Just with a kind of observational distance, like he was explaining the growth pattern of a plant he’d once watched through a window.

“My parents weren’t bad. Just… busy. I was a quiet kid, so they let me be.”

He said it like a fact. Not a wound. But you heard the ache in it anyway–the subtle way his mouth tightened on the last syllable, how his eyes didn’t quite meet yours when he said let me be.

He told you about the first time he saw someone die.

“It was on a subway platform. I was fourteen. An old man just collapsed. Right in front of me. No one moved. Not at first. People just kept looking away. Or pretending they hadn’t seen.”

His voice didn’t shake, but his hands curled slightly on his knees.

“Eventually, someone called for help. But it was too late. I kept thinking, how many of them were thinking someone else will do it?”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

He looked down at his shoes for a long moment before saying, softer this time,

“That moment did something to me. Twisted something. I started noticing it everywhere–the ways people look away. The ways they don’t get involved.”

And then he asked you:

“Why don’t people help each other? When it matters?”

You thought for a long time before answering. He liked that about you–that you didn’t rush to fill silences, didn’t treat questions like contests.

“Do you think that’s something that can be taught?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at the willow branches swaying above, their leaves hushing the sky.

“I hope so,” he said. Then, after a pause that felt heavier than the rest, “That’s why I’m studying this.”

That was the first time you saw the shape of his hope. Not loud, not idealistic, not romantic. It was quiet. Worn down around the edges like something he’d been trying to keep alive with sheer will.

He told you about his plans. He wanted to teach. Maybe high school. Maybe middle school. Younger, maybe, depending on where he could make the most difference. He wasn’t interested in private institutions, prestigious names, or cushy salaries. He wanted the kids who slipped through cracks. The ones no one bet on.

“I want to be the kind of adult I didn’t have,” he said. “Someone who actually listens. Who notices. Who doesn’t write them off just because they’re tired or angry or quiet.”

You didn’t realize you were smiling until he gave you the smallest glance–half amusement, half embarrassment.

“That’s idealistic, isn’t it.”

“No,” you said. “It’s rare.”

He looked at you then, like he was trying to decide whether he believed you. Eventually, he gave a short, quiet hum and turned back to the sky.

“People are just… so busy surviving,” he said. “They forget how to be kind.”

You never forgot that line. Even long after, even when kindness was no longer part of the equation–you remembered that. Because it wasn’t cynical. It was weary. It was someone trying to understand why the world didn’t match the softness they still wanted to believe in.

He never said any of these things in class. Not in seminars. Not to the boys who sat with him in the back row. Not to the baristas who flirted when they handed him his change.

But he said them to you. Like you were a clearing in the forest. A place he could stop to breathe.

That mattered more than anything else he’d given the world.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You learned the rhythm of him.

It was never announced. It arrived slowly, like sunlight easing across your bedroom wall in the morning–quiet, certain, irreversible. It wasn’t something he taught you, but something you absorbed through presence, through repetition, through the kind of noticing that love trains you into without asking.

He took his coffee black with two sugars. Not one. Not three. Always two. And not stirred too much–just enough for the sweetness to settle like a secret at the bottom of the cup. He never used bookmarks–he said they were a crutch. Instead, he folded the corners of the pages with the kind of deliberate care one might use folding origami or sacred letters. Precise creases. No rush. Always the top-right corner, never the bottom. You once asked him why. He said it just felt wrong, folding the bottom.

He got headaches when he read in moving cars, but he tried anyway. You saw him once, on a bus ride back from a student conference, eyes pinched against the sun-streaked window, a paperback half-open in his lap. He’d looked like someone trying to win a battle with his own body–stubborn, patient, losing.

He hummed under his breath when he thought no one could hear. Never full songs–just fragments. Themes. Melodies. You recognized Chopin’s Nocturne in E-flat Major once, so faint it felt like a memory more than sound. When you asked him if he played, he shrugged and said no. When you pressed, teasing, “Then how do you know Chopin?” he blinked like the question surprised him. Then he said, “I don’t,” and never brought it up again.

And always–always–there was the hair tie.

He wore it like a promise, a ritual looped around his dark hair, black and slightly fraying at the edges. It was thin, overstretched from habit. You never saw him buy a new one. You wondered if he ever had. His hair was always tied back–sleek, disciplined, not a strand out of place. It gave him the air of someone who needed order, who kept parts of himself bound and tucked away, not out of vanity but necessity. His hair was his armor. His control.

You never saw it down. Not in class. Not during study sessions. Not even that time he got caught in the rain without his umbrella. His tie had held.

Until midterms.

You met him at the campus cafe–the one with terrible lighting and off-brand espresso that somehow still tasted like comfort. The place was humming with anxious energy: people murmuring definitions into cups, highlighters uncapped like weapons, professors pacing in and out with stacks of exam sheets. The world had taken on that sharp, caffeine-shimmered sheen of academic survival.

Suguru was already at the table when you arrived, hunched slightly over his notes, one hand curled around a steaming mug, the other pressing his pen hard enough into the page that the indentations were visible from where you stood.

He looked tired–more than usual. Not the kind of tired that came from a bad night’s sleep, but the kind that clung to the bones. His eyes were ringed with the purple shadows of too many nights thinking when he should’ve been resting. His collar was wrinkled. His shirt was one button too high. His fingers had ink smudges.

And there, for the first time, a single strand of hair had come loose.

It fell from the tie, slow and deliberate, curving down the side of his face like a silk ribbon unfurling in protest. It wasn’t messy. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just undone–the first note of a song that hadn’t yet realized it was a lament.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and didn’t care.

You didn’t say anything, but your eyes lingered. Just for a moment. Because something about it–the softness of the strand against his cheek, the way it moved when he tilted his head–felt like a secret. Not a scandalous one, but a quiet, sacred one. A crack in the carefully composed surface of him. The kind of detail that only you noticed, and didn’t want to give back.

It was the smallest thing. And yet you remember it more clearly than the words you exchanged that day. You remember the way your fingers itched to tuck it behind his ear, and how that instinct startled you. Not because it was romantic–but because it was tender.

Because that was the moment you realized: he was letting things go. Not just that strand of hair. Not just sleep. Something deeper. Something internal.

You didn’t have a name for it yet. Not then. But later, when you looked back, you marked this moment as the first time Geto Suguru began to unravel.

And you–foolishly, lovingly–told yourself it was just a strand of hair.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You weren’t dating. Not yet.

There were no confessions. No gestures. No lightning strikes in the street. No spilled drinks and rushed apologies. No breathless declarations beneath a night sky heavy with stars.

But there were long walks home that neither of you needed to take.

His dorm was in the opposite direction. You knew that. He did, too. But neither of you ever mentioned it. He walked beside you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, his steps always half a beat slower than yours–as if matching your rhythm required effort, but one he was willing to make.

There were shared umbrellas in sudden rainstorms, the canopy small enough that your arms would brush with every step. You remember the warmth of his sleeve against yours, the damp scent of the world around you–wet pavement, wet leaves, the smell of Suguru’s cologne bleeding faintly into the cotton of your shoulder.

There were shoulder brushes in crowded hallways. Shared glances during lectures. The quiet thrill of finding him already at your favorite table in the library, a second cup of coffee–black with two sugars–waiting beside him like a bookmark made of steam and intention.

There was the warmth of him beside you on library couches, his thigh close enough to yours that the fabric would catch and hold, pulling gently when one of you shifted. He always smelled like cold air and books, like something you didn’t know how to want yet but already missed when it was gone.

There was the way he said your name when no one else was listening. Softly. Not possessive, not dramatic. Just deliberate. Like your name was something he’d thought about before saying. Like it mattered that it was you.

You learned that Suguru didn’t need big moments. He was the quiet kind. He moved in undercurrents. He offered pieces of himself the way some people offered tea–carefully, attentively, waiting to see if you would sip or turn away.

And you–you took everything he gave you and folded it into the hollow beneath your ribs like it had always belonged there.

You didn’t notice how much he’d started to mean until the night he stood outside your dorm building in the rain.

It was late–late enough that even the cars had stopped growling down the roads, and the streetlights hummed like lullabies. The rain had begun as a mist, turned to a drizzle, and now lingered in that strange threshold between rainfall and silence. The world smelled clean and cold, and your coat was too thin for the season, but you hadn’t cared. Not with him there.

He’d walked you all the way again–his coat buttoned all the way up, hands deep in his pockets, hair pulled back neatly despite the damp. You stopped at the front step. Said goodnight. Waited for him to say the same.

But he didn’t. He just stood there. Looking at you the way he always did–like he was trying to memorize something without letting you know he was studying it.

And then, without shifting, without warning, he said:

“You make it easier to breathe.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t even romantic, not in the conventional sense. It was simply honest. Bare. A truth laid out between you, untouched by expectation.

You didn’t know what he meant. Not really. Not then. You didn’t know the weight he carried, or how rare it was for him to say something that vulnerable without retreating into silence right after.

But you nodded. Not because you understood–but because you wanted to. And something fragile took root in the space between you.

Not love. Not just yet. But the soil was there. The rain had come.

And somewhere beneath the surface, the first thread of something soft and unspeakable began to pull taut.

It began, like all tragedies do, in a moment so quiet you almost missed it.

II. THE BLOOM – when love feels like spring Love with Suguru was a soft unfurling–like petals after frost, like warm hands on cold skin.

Falling in love with Suguru isn’t something that happens all at once.

There’s no shift. No sudden acceleration. No dizzying realization that leaves your chest hollow and gasping. Nothing cinematic. Nothing loud.

It’s quieter than that. Slower.

It’s brushing his knuckles by accident in the hallway and not pulling away. It’s noticing the way he opens milk cartons like they’re puzzles–fingers pressed gently at the seam, folding the corners down with practiced precision. It’s waking up in the middle of the night and wondering what his voice sounds like before he’s put the day on like armor.

It’s watching how he reads. Not just the words, but the white space between them.

It’s learning his pauses. The way he inhales before asking a question. The tilt of his head when he’s listening. How he twitches his pen cap between his fingers while thinking, then snaps it back on with a quiet click that always feels too final.

You fall in love slowly, like a house warming to the morning sun–windows catching golden streaks, floors holding footprints. It’s not something you notice in the moment. It’s something you realize retroactively, like a bruise that blooms hours after the impact.

And the strangest part is–it’s mutual.

You don’t expect it. You don’t look for signs. You’re just sitting beside him in a seminar, your desk a half-inch too close, your sleeve brushing his. You’re halfway through pretending to take notes when he reaches into his bag without looking and places something beside your notebook.

A granola bar. Oat and honey.

You glance at him. His eyes stay forward, watching the professor explain something about systemic poverty and generational responsibility.

There’s a folded note under the wrapper. Neat. Slanted handwriting.

You looked tired today. I brought an extra.

You don’t even remember mentioning you liked this kind. You didn’t think he noticed, even if you had. But he did. Suguru notices things like that.

You learn, in that moment, how he gives affection: not in declarations or dares, not in loud laughter or flirtation. He gives it through presence. Through consideration. Through small, deliberate offerings–each one a thread in the quiet tapestry of his regard.

He doesn’t fall in love like most people. He falls in love the way he exists–softly. Silently. But all at once.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The change in him is small at first.

So small, in fact, that if you weren’t already watching him the way you do–with the kind of attention that feels like prayer–you might miss it.

He’s still reserved. Still purposeful in his speech. Still someone who listens more than he talks, thinks more than he reacts. But something inside him has shifted. A gentle tilt. A redirection of light. And it’s not loud, not dramatic–just new.

You see it in how he lingers after lectures to help the TA collect handouts and erase the board, sleeves rolled up, fingertips smudged faintly with dry-erase marker. You see it in how he straightens stacks of papers with too much care, tapping them against the desk edge twice–that same quiet rhythm he always taps with when he finishes a book. A pattern his hands remember before his mind does.

You see it in how he joins group discussions again. Not with the sharp certainty he once used–that scalpel-precise logic that cut clean through questions like he was afraid of being misunderstood. No, now it’s different. Softer. He still disagrees, still challenges people, still hates them, but there’s less armor in it. Less tension. When someone pushes back, he doesn’t tense–he tilts his head. He listens. He hums in thought, runs his thumb along the edge of his notebook.

He laughs, sometimes. Not often. But more than before. A dry, surprised sound, usually at something you’ve said–and when it happens, it feels like striking gold.

He starts carrying a second pen in his pocket. Not because he needs it, but because you always forget yours.

He begins to fold his sleeves to the elbow, even when it’s cold.

“I think people can change,” he says one afternoon, walking beside you down the path near the south quad. The air smells like rain-soaked concrete and pollen. The trees above are shedding blossoms in soft, aimless waves–pink petals falling like the breath of something sleeping. One catches in his hair and stays there. He doesn’t notice.

“Even if it’s hard,” he continues, brushing his fingers along the wrought-iron railing as you pass, the tips ghosting over it like he’s measuring the chill of the metal. “Maybe especially then.”

You blink. Not at what he says, but how he says it. There’s hope in his voice. Not imagined. Not crafted for you. Not rhetorical. Real. Whole.

He means it.

It catches you off guard. The Suguru you first met–the one who spoke of the world like it was a patient flatlining on a table no one remembered to staff–wouldn’t have said that. Not even hypothetically. But this Suguru? This one beside you?

He sounds like someone who’s found a reason to try again.

The darkness in his eyes–that tired ache, the one that used to pull his gaze inward when the world disappointed him–it hasn’t disappeared. You don’t think it ever could. But it’s dulled. Softened around the edges like a wound that’s no longer raw. Like a scar healing into something he no longer minds looking at.

He isn’t trying to save the world anymore. Not all of it. He’s simply learning how to live in it. Do what he can.

And you–somehow, impossibly–are a part of that lesson.

Sometimes you catch him watching a child in the courtyard across campus. A girl with thick braids trying to drag a stick through the mud. She stumbles. He starts to move–just a twitch–but she steadies herself. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile, but he holds very, very still. Like witnessing that mattered. Like it reminded him of something worth keeping.

His hands are more restless now, but not anxious. Just engaged. Present. He picks grass from the hem of your coat when you sit together. Runs his thumb along the length of your pencil when he borrows it. Lifts a fallen leaf off your shoulder and inspects it like it holds a secret he almost remembers. You don’t think he realizes he’s doing it–but you do.

He’s coming back to his body. Letting it move without fear. Letting it reach.

And for a while–a golden stretch of time that neither of you name aloud–he looks like someone who’s learning how to be held without bracing for pain. Someone who is learning, maybe for the first time, that it’s okay not to carry everything alone.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You start spending most of your time in each other’s dorms.

Not because you talk about it. Not because someone asks–but because it happens the way rain creeps into the seams of windows–quiet, natural inevitable.

His dorm is on the third floor, the one that overlooks the library courtyard. It’s smaller than yours, older, with a radiator that clicks when it’s cold and windows that fog up even when the heat is off. But it smells like him–eucalyptus soap, paper, clean cotton–and you find that you like the sound the floor makes when he walks barefoot across it. Like it remembers him.

Yours is tucked behind the campus gardens. Quieter. South-facing. The kind of space that holds sunlight a little longer in the afternoons, the kind that smells faintly of basil from the planter box you keep on the sill. You both keep your own keys, your own shelves, your own drawers.

But then your books begin to migrate–stacking themselves at the corner of his desk, slipping into his shelves. His hoodie ends up draped over your chair, long sleeves brushing your calves when you sit. Your toothbrush appears beside his one day–not in a cup, not in a drawer. Just resting. Waiting. Like it belongs.

It’s not official. It just is.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The first time he kisses you, it isn’t under starlight or in the hush of some moment built for significance.

It’s a Sunday. Mid-afternoon. The light outside is grey and diffused, bleeding through thin curtains like spilled milk. It’s warm inside, but only because the radiator has been running nonstop for three days.

You’re sitting cross-legged on his dorm bed–the one with mismatched sheets and a lopsided stack of unread books piled high beside it–hunched over an article he recommended. Something about institutional ethics and generational poverty. You’re highlighting quotes with too much color, writing sarcastic comments in the margins. You’re halfway through circling the phrase post-capitalist hierarchy of dependency when you mutter something dry and vaguely mean about the author’s overuse of theoretical jargon.

You don’t remember what you say, only that it makes him laugh.

Not a polite chuckle. Not a breath through his nose. A laugh. Sudden. Warm. Startled. His hand presses lightly to his stomach as if it caught him off guard.

It’s the sound of something opening.

You glance up, a little surprised, and find him watching you–glasses pushed back into the half-tired crown of his hair, a red ink pen forgotten between his fingers. His hair is loose at the bottom, falling over his shoulders in soft, tangled strands, catching at the edge of his collar. One lock slides over his cheekbone. He doesn’t brush it back.

His eyes hold you like a secret.

Something shifts. Quiet. Immediate.

He leans in.

There’s no question in it, no pause for confirmation–but not because he assumes. Because something in the air between you already knows.

And then he kisses you. Not careful. Not hesitant. Real, like he’s been carrying this want in his chest for weeks without a name, and only just realized what to call it.

His lips are soft, but certain. His free hand–the one not holding the pen–drifts up to your shoulder, then stops. Hovers. As if touching you would make it too real, too fast. But he doesn’t pull back, either.

He just breathes against your mouth for a beat longer than he should. And when he does finally draw away, his gaze flickers, almost sheepish.

“Sorry,” he says, voice low. “That was–”

You don’t let him finish.

You kiss him again, and this time you lean in, and his hand finds your jaw without hesitation, thumb brushing the curve of your cheek like he’s trying to remember how it feels. His fingertips are warm. His touch is careful–not from uncertainty, but reverence.

You feel him relax into it. You feel him choose it.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Later, neither of you talks about what it means. Not because you’re unsure, but because it’s understood.

That’s how it is with Suguru. He doesn’t fall in love with spectacle or proclamations. He falls in love with the moments that don’t get written down. In the spaces between laughter. In the margins of annotated pages.

He leaves a hand on your knee now when you study together, thumb moving absentmindedly in slow circles. He rests his head against your shoulder when he’s tired, lets you play with the strands of hair that slip from his tie when the half-knot loosens. You notice, lately, that he doesn’t tighten it anymore. He lets it fall. Lets it stay.

He starts wearing his hair down more often. Not always. Just sometimes. When it’s just you.

You never mention it, but you find yourself watching the way it moves–how it brushes the line of his throat, how it tangles when he sleeps, how he huffs when it gets in his face while cooking. You don’t reach for it.

Until the day you do.

You’re sitting on his floor, legs stretched out, sun sliding low through the windows. He’s talking–softly, absentmindedly–about a dream he had. Something about walking through a school where no doors opened, only windows. You reach out, without thinking, and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

He stills, but he doesn’t pull away. He turns, slowly, and meets your eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.

And he’s smiling. Really smiling.

You don’t say anything. You just smile back and lean your head on his shoulder, and he presses his cheek against your hair like it’s something he’s done a thousand times before.

And maybe–in another life, in some soft version of this one–he has.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Suguru is gentle with his love.

Not fragile. Not shy. Intentional.

He loves like someone handling rare books–with reverence, with patience, with a kind of awed curiosity that makes you feel like something sacred. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t reach too quickly. He touches you like he’s trying to learn you, page by page–not just the beautiful parts, but the worn ones too. Especially those.

His hands map you slowly. Never the same way twice. Fingertips skim your jaw when you’re quiet. Trace circles between your shoulder blades when you can’t sleep. Smooth over your wrists like they’re answering questions he’s still too polite to ask aloud.

He learns what makes you laugh–not just the easy jokes, but the strange things. The patterns. The way you snort when something’s too funny too fast. He starts saying things just to hear that sound. Pretends not to notice how your eyes soften when he does.

He learns what makes your breath catch. A thumb grazing your spine. His mouth on the space beneath your jaw. The low murmur of your name spoken into the hollow of your throat like a benediction. He never uses it for power. Only wonder.

And he learns how your eyes go soft and glassy when you’re overwhelmed with love–too full of it to say so. He watches for it. Waits for it. You don’t know how, but he always catches it before you can look away.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You like to hold him.

You didn’t that that’d be the kind of person you become, but with Suguru it’s different.

You like to press your palms to the sharp blades of his shoulder and feel the slow rise and fall of his breath. You like to tangle your legs with his under the covers, to pull him into your chest while he reads, to kiss the back of his neck while he’s pouring tea. You like to lie beside him with a hand against his ribs just to feel that he’s real–that he’s there, that he’s still choosing this.

You like to touch his hair, too.

You’re not sure when it started. Maybe the day you tucked a loose strand behind his ear and he didn’t flinch. Maybe the day he rested his head in your lap and said, “If I fall asleep like this, don’t wake me.” But now it’s a ritual. A language of its own.

His hair is always half-tied now. Some days more deliberate than others–a low twist at the crown, a simple clip holding it back, a single elastic coiled three times at the base. But always, always with something loose. Something falling. As if he’s decided that a little disorder doesn’t threaten the structure. As if being seen doesn’t make him less whole.

You thread your fingers through it often. Sometimes gently, sometimes absently–while he’s reading, while you’re talking, while music plays in the background and neither of you feels the need to speak. You learn where the strands curl slightly. Where the nape of his neck is sensitive. You learn how he tilts his head into your touch when he’s tired, and how, if you’re quiet long enough, he’ll sigh like the day is finally over.

You kiss him too, of course–often, and with care. But more than anything, you hold him.

You hold him like you’re trying to give him something back. Something the world forgot to offer. Something no one told him he was allowed to have.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You catch him watching you once from across the dining hall. It’s late. You’re laughing with friends about something dumb–a meme, a spilled drink, someone’s typo in the group chat. And when you look up, he’s already watching.

Head tilted just slightly. Elbow on the table. Chin in his palm.

His hair’s half-down again, loose at the ends, catching in the harsh cafeteria lights like black gold.

You mouth, What?

He doesn’t look away.

“I like watching you exist,” he says. Not loudly. Not for anyone else to hear. Just for you.

You throw a napkin at him. He dodges it, smirking.

Your cheeks stay warm for the rest of the evening.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

He starts writing again.

You don’t notice at first, not until you see the back of a receipt left on the floor–half a grocery list, half a quote: People are not lost causes just because they hurt differently. The pen ink is fading. There’s a fingerprint smudge at the corner.

After that, you find fragments everywhere. In the margins of his notebooks–tiny sentences blooming in the white space beside statistics. On the backs of old envelopes. On sticky notes pressed between textbooks. Even once on the bottom of your coffee cup, when he forgot to take the sleeve off before handing it to you.

Little things. Observations. Seeds of thought. The outline of a curriculum. A hypothetical school where grief is a subject, and kindness is a skill, and no one is made to feel like too much. A lesson plan with no due date. A list of values. A dream.

What I want to teach: that kindness is strength. That softness isn’t a weakness. That people are not burdens just because they carry pain.

You don’t bring it up. You don’t want to spook it–don’t want it to vanish if you name it too soon. So you fold the paper gently, carefully, and place it in the drawer beside his desk like it’s a flower you accidentally found blooming.

And maybe, in some way, it is.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

One night, curled up in your dorm room with the lights dim and a film flickering across the wall, Suguru talks about something he read that morning.

You’re wrapped in the blanket that always lives at the foot of your bed–soft and old and slightly frayed at the edges–and his arm is heavy around your shoulders, his legs stretched out long beside yours. The movie isn’t loud, some art-house thing with watercolor animation and not much dialogue. It’s playing more for atmosphere than anything else. You’ve both seen it before.

He shifts beside you, adjusting the way your body fits against his, and says quietly, without preamble,

“There was an article this morning.”

His voice is low, even. Not tense. But there is something in the way his hand stills on your arm.

“A kid. Twelve years old. System failure across the board. Everyone knew. Teachers, case workers, neighbors. They all looked the other way. And now–”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just exhales, slow and controlled. You turn your head slightly, resting your cheek against his shoulder. You don’t say anything yet. You know him well enough to let him finish at his own pace.

“Now it’s too late,” he murmurs. “And people are pretending to be shocked. Pretending to mourn.”

He falls quiet again. His thumb resumes its movement over the fabric of your sleeve–long, slow passes, like he’s petting something that might spook. He doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound sad, either. Just tired. Like he’s been carrying that story in his chest all day, weighing it against everything he believes.

You press your hand gently over his chest, where the collar of his shirt has slipped open. You feel his heart beating beneath your palm. Steady. Unhurried.

“Suguru,” you whisper.

He hums, low.

“You’re trying. You make a difference. You–you notice. That matters.”

For a long moment, he doesn’t say anything. Just keeps his gaze fixed on the soft light flickering across the wall. Then he turns slightly, and kisses your temple. Slow. Thoughtful. His lips linger there longer than usual, like he’s trying to say something through that small point of contact.

You melt into him.

The room feels warmer with him like this–half-wrapped around you, hair loose and falling against your neck, chest rising with each even breath. You listen to the movie’s score swelling, a soft piano drifting through a sequence of paper birds taking flight on-screen. It’s lovely. Everything is.

You feel safe.

After a while, when the movie dips into quiet again, you tilt your head and look up at him.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask.

Your voice is hushed, but not hesitant. This is what you do, these nights–drift into gentle conversation like turning pages in a book.

He blinks, eyes flicking down to you. For a second, he doesn’t answer. Then his fingers find your hand beneath the blanket, sliding between yours.

“Thinking I like this,” he murmurs. “You. Me. Like this.”

He brings your joined hands to his lips and kisses your knuckles. One, then another. Then another.

“It’s nice,” he says. “Isn’t it?”

You nod, your smile small, sleepy. “Mm. It is.”

“We should do this more,” he says softly. “Stay in. Watch old movies. Fall asleep on each other. I don’t need much more than this.”

You lean into him again, burying your face into the space between his neck and collarbone. He smells like clean linen and cedar, like the kind of quiet comfort that never asks too much. His hair is tangled slightly against your cheek, the half-tied bun he threw together earlier now loosened by time and gravity. You reach up and run your fingers through it, gentle and slow, untwisting the strands until they fall free down his back.

He lets you.

He tilts his head slightly, giving you more space, and you feel him exhale–not heavy, not burdened. Just there. With you.

“You’re good at that,” he murmurs.

“At what?”

“Touching me like I won’t break.”

You smile, nuzzling into his shoulder. “You won’t.”

“No,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “Not with you.”

You stay like that for a long time. His fingers curled loosely around your wrist. Your hand resting over his chest. The movie ends, but neither of you move. The screen fades to black. The room dims further.

He shifts eventually, gently easing you down onto the bed, sliding under the blanket with you. His hands are warm as they pull you close, arm slipping around your waist.

“I like you here,” he whispers. “Next to me. Just like this.”

Your breath catches, just for a moment. You kiss his throat. Let your fingers drift through his hair. Let his lips find yours again, slow and familiar and full of promise.

And when he pulls you into his arms, tucks your head beneath his chin, and breathes you in like he needs it–you think,

God, I love him.

And you do. More than anything. More than makes sense.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The bloom is gentle. Golden. Full of warmth tucked into corners.

It’s waking up to the smell of black coffee already poured into your favorite mug–the chipped one with the constellation pattern that he’d bought for you–because Suguru remembers which mornings you have class early. It’s his hands sliding along your waist as he passes behind you in the kitchenette, stealing a kiss just beneath your ear, murmuring, “Morning looks good on you” before the world has even finished yawning open.

It’s breakfast together on weekdays, the kind that’s more ritual than necessity–toast and eggs, or sometimes just shared slices of pear on a plate, drizzled with honey, eaten in companionable silence. It’s the way he always saves you the softest part. The smallest gesture. The one you never have to ask for.

It’s poetry readings on weekends–him slouching in a cafe chair with his legs sprawled, eyes half-lidded, listening to someone read about heartache or hunger while his hand curls around yours beneath the table, hidden from view but always present. Sometimes he murmurs a line he likes into your ear. Sometimes he won’t say anything at all–just squeeze your fingers in rhythm with the words.

It’s the buzz of his electric shaver against your wrist when he lets you trim the back of his neck. His head bent forward. Your hand resting lightly on his spine. His breath catching when you touch the wrong spot–or maybe the right one.

It’s his favorite playlist playing low while you study together, a medley of mellow jazz and slow instrumentals, the occasional spoken word track tucked between songs. He doesn’t need lyrics. He likes songs that let him feel. You like watching him feel. Feet tangled under the table. Shoulders bumping. Notes passed on napkins.

It’s falling asleep with his hair spread across your pillow. Waking up to find he’s pulled the blanket up over your shoulder while you slept. It’s the way his hands always know where you are, even in dreams. The way he reaches for you before opening his eyes.

It’s laughter in the dark–breathless, open, reverent. The kind of laughter that comes from joy, not humor. From knowing someone this well. From being known.

It’s long kisses that don’t ask for anything but closeness. His mouth on yours like a silent poem. Like gratitude. Like the answer to a question neither of you have spoken aloud.

And when he touches you, it’s never hurried. Never thoughtless. He holds you like you are an answer he’s been afraid to ask for. He kisses you like you’re something he can’t believe he gets to keep.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

And if some days he stares too long at nothing–if his gaze lingers past the point of stillness, if his eyes stay fixed on the same patch of ceiling, the same window, the same point in the air–you tell yourself he’s thinking. That it means he’s deep. That it means something good.

If his touch is slower, more distant, you chalk it up to fatigue. If the words come with more silence between them, if his laugh takes a second longer to arrive, if his smile doesn’t always reach his eyes–well.

Everyone gets tired sometimes.

He’s still showing up. Still kissing you in the morning. Still holding your hand under tables. Still breathing the same air.

Besides, he always comes back. Always. Even when he goes quiet. Even when he forgets to answer a question. Even when he blinks at the sound of your voice like he didn’t realize you were there–he always smiles, eventually. Always kisses your wrist. Always brushes your hair behind your ear and says your name like it means something.

You never question it.

Why would you? You’re in love.

And it feels like he is, too.

You called it happiness, because it was warm–even as something colder began to press against the edges of it.

III. THE WILT – where the slow ruin begins Some loves rot from the inside. You only notice the bruises when it’s too late.

He leaves the laundry unfolded.

Just once.

It’s a Wednesday, a little after noon. You’re coming back from a workshop with a headache and a half-scribbled page of notes you’ll never look at again. Your backpack’s too heavy. Your keys are buried in the wrong pocket. You let yourself into his dorm expecting quiet, maybe the faint smell of citrus detergent and old books.

What you find instead is Suguru’s laundry, half-done, piled in a soft heap on his bed. A warm, crumpled slope of shirts and socks, still smelling like lavender-softener–not the typical citrus–and machine heat. His drawers are cracked open. His towel’s draped over the chair. He’s not here.

It’s strange. Not in a worrying way. Just unfamiliar.

He’s usually methodical with this sort of thing. Precise. He folds with the care of someone who once learned to iron his uniforms at twelve and never shook the habit. Socks together, sleeves tucked in, edges lined like he’s preparing an offering.

You run your hand over the laundry. It’s still warm. You sit.

You fold one shirt, then another. Tuck his hoodie into a neat rectangle. Smile at the way he always leaves his undershirts inside-out. You don’t think too much about it–you just hum something under your breath, that playlist he likes playing low through your phone speaker, and let the quiet wrap around you.

You tell yourself he must’ve been called into a meeting. That he left in a rush. That he forgot. That it’s sweet, really–that he’s comfortable enough now to leave things undone. That it means he trusts you to be here, to take care of the space you’ve come to share.

You open his drawer further. Stack the clothes. Close it.

Later that night, he comes back. Late. The sun’s already long gone. The hallway is quiet.

You’re sitting on the floor in his hoodie, reading something for class you won’t remember. When he opens the door, his shoulders are slouched. His hair is half-falling from its knot. His hands are in his pockets.

You look up and smile. “Hey, stranger.”

He smiles back–slow, tired. His eyes are shadowed beneath the soft overhead light.

“Sorry,” he says. “I forgot to fold the laundry.”

You shake your head. “I did it. You’re good.”

He steps in. Drops his bag. Doesn’t say anything else.

You expect him to come kiss your cheek, like he usually does. To slide down beside you, stretch his legs out, let you play with his hair. But instead he just moves around the room, quiet, deliberate. Checks his phone. Rubs his forehead. Stares at the window for a few seconds too long.

Then–like a habit that finally remembers itself–he walks over. Sits down. Lets his thigh press against yours.

You lean into him, head to his shoulder. His arm curls around you, loose. Familiar. But his hand doesn’t move. No absent thumb brushing your wrist. No tracing letters into your skin. Just stillness.

You tilt your head up and kiss his jaw.

“Long day?”

He nods. You wrap your arms around his torso and hold him tighter.

“I missed you,” you murmur.

This time, he kisses the top of your head. Whispers something like me too. You close your eyes and let yourself believe it. You don’t ask why his fingers don’t fidget anymore. You don’t ask why they rest so flatly on your hip–not pushing in, not holding back, just… resting.

You convince yourself this is what closeness looks like when people get used to each other. When comfort replaces urgency.

You nestle against him and say nothing, but in the back of your mind, something taps–a faint echo of a past version of him, of how his hands always did something. How he once pulled a thread from your sleeve without thinking. How he used to run his knuckles across your palm like a secret.

Now they’re still. And you, too in love to question it, press your hand over his and call it peace.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

His hair is getting longer.

Not by design. Not even in the way that people grow it out on purpose–with intention, with shape in mind. Suguru’s hair is just being left alone.

It’s subtle. The ends start to curl. A lock or two always slips loose from his half-tie and stays there, grazing his cheekbone like a question no one’s asked yet. You notice him pushing it behind his ear more often–the same motion, again and again, without thought. You watch his fingers thread through the same pieces absentmindedly during lectures, when he’s pretending to take notes but his eyes are fogged with something far away.

And slowly, it becomes clear. He’s stopped tying it up properly.

Once, his bun was clean. Precise. Every strand tucked in like he was protecting something fragile–an image, an order, a sense of control he never wanted to name. Even the extra tie on his wrist, thin and stretched, felt ritualistic. Sacred. A thread that kept him tethered.

Now, it’s different. Now, he twists it once–maybe twice–and lets it sit crooked at the nape of his neck, loose and sagging before noon. Some days he doesn’t tie it at all. Just leaves it half-down, flowing over his shoulders in soft, dark waves. He shrugs when you mention it. Says it doesn’t matter. That it’s just hair.

But you remember what it used to mean.

Still, you say nothing. You only touch it more.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You find excuses. Casual ones.

In the mornings, you brush the tangles out with your fingers while he drinks his coffee, legs folded under him, the room golden with light. He doesn’t stop you. He closes his eyes and leans into your touch as your fingers comb through the strands at the base of his skull. You find yourself memorizing the texture–the coarseness near the ends, the silk of new growth near his scalp. You find yourself wondering if he knows he sighs when you reach the nape of his neck.

One night, while you’re sitting on the floor and he’s stretched out on the bed reading, you reach over without thinking and start separating the strands–idle, quiet. You begin to braid it, slow and loose. He doesn’t ask what you’re doing. Just keeps reading. You braid it all the way down to the end, tie it off with the tie from your own wrist.

“There,” you say. “Now you look like a warrior monk.”

He lifts his gaze, meets your eyes for a moment, and smiles–but the smile doesn’t quite touch the corners.

“You think so?”

“Mhm. But hotter.”

“Is that a scholarly opinion?”

“A sacred one.”

He chuckles, brief. His fingers move to the braid and tug at it gently, undoing it without looking down. The strands fall loose again–soft, messy, uncontained.

You reach forward and smooth them back once more. He catches your wrist. Presses his lips to the skin just above your pulse.

You let the silence settle like dust.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

On weekends, when he sits on the floor between your legs to work on something, you absentmindedly part his hair and run your nails lightly against his scalp, drawing little lines. You trace constellations. You hum a song he likes. He leans back into you like instinct.

“You always do that now,” he murmurs once.

“Do what?”

“Touch my hair.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “No. Never.”

You kiss the top of his head and braid another small section, only to undo it seconds later.

You don’t know what it is you’re trying to fix, but your hands keep moving.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

There’s a photograph of the two of you on your desk–taken by a friend, one of those accidental, unscripted moments. You’re curled into his side on the bench near the willow tree, head on his shoulder, eyes closed. He’s leaning his head against yours. His hair is loose. Wind-blown. Tangled slightly in the collar of his coat. His expression is unreadable.

You keep it anyway. You tell yourself it’s romantic. You tell yourself it’s him.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

There’s a day–a Thursday, maybe–when you get caught in the rain on the way back from class. You burst into your dorm laughing, soaked, shivering. He’s already there, lying on your bed, flipping through one of your textbooks.

You strip your jacket off, kick off your shoes, and crawl in beside him.

“You’re wet,” he says mildly.

“I know. Hold me anyway.”

He does. You press your cold cheek to his neck. He hums. His hand moves to your back.

His hair is wet too. Not from the rain, but from the shower–you can smell your shampoo in it. The one you know he likes. You reach up and gather it gently, twisting it loosely to get the water out. He closes his eyes. Says nothing.

Your hands find the ends–long now, brushing his ribs.

“You should let me trim it,” you murmur.

“Mm.”

“Just a little. I’ll be careful.”

“Maybe.”

He doesn’t say yes. But he doesn’t say no either.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Some days, you wake before him and find his hair spread across the pillow between you, catching light like black silk. You reach out and smooth it down, gather it into a makeshift bun with your fingers, just to keep it out of his face. You do it gently, reverently. Like you’re tending a wound.

He shifts in his sleep, murmurs your name, then turns his face into the pillow.

And you smile. Because this is love. Because this is still soft. Because he lets you hold him like this.

Even if his hands no longer hold back. Even if he never ties his hair up anymore. Even if you are the only one who does.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

He sleeps facing the wall now.

Not always. Not every night. But often enough that it catches in your throat, sharp and quiet like a splinter. It happens gradually–the same way a window starts letting in cold, not with a crash or a draft, but with a subtle breeze that you tell yourself is nothing.

It’s Thursday. Late. The rain’s tapping against the glass, soft and inconsistent, like a thought struggling to form. You’re both tangled under your blanket, limbs touching, but not curled into each other the way you used to. His spine is to you. His breathing is slow. You know he’s still awake.

His hair is fanned out over the pillow, loose and unbrushed. You reach for it. Gently comb your fingers through the strands.

“Suguru?” you murmur.

A pause. Then: “Mm?”

You press your hand to the space between his shoulder blades. “Tell me about your day?”

At first, you expect him to say later, or tired, or nothing worth saying. That’s what he usually does now. But this time, he exhales–long, quiet–and rolls onto his back. Not toward you. Just away from the wall. You take it as a victory.

He stares at the ceiling for a moment, then says, low:

“There was this boy in the class today. Thirteen. Smart as hell. Sharp. I gave him a worksheet and he looked at me like I was insulting him. ‘Is this really what you think I need right now?’ he asked me. Deadpan. Right to my face.”

You give a small smile, imagining it. “Sounds like someone I know.”

He huffs, and continues. “I said no. I said it was just a warm-up. But I could tell–he was already tuning out. Like he was deciding I was another adult who wasn’t going to see him properly.”

He shifts, one hand coming up to rub his temple. “He told me he doesn’t believe in school. That he’s just waiting to be old enough to drop out and get a job. ‘No one in my family graduated anyway,’ he said. ‘What’s the point?’”

He says it softly, but not without feeling. The cadence changes. Slows. Thickens.

“He’s thirteen,” he repeats, voice quieter now. “He’s already done. Already convinced the world won’t make room for him.”

Your chest tightens. You move closer. Your hand finds his, resting on his chest. You lace your fingers together.

“What did you say?”

He shrugs, gaze still fixed upward. “Told him I get it. That the system’s broken. That people like him slip through the cracks all the time.”

He pauses.

“And then I told him that even so, it’s worth trying. That there are people who will help. That he’s not alone.”

You wait for him to say that the boy smiled. That the boy softened. That something changed. But he doesn’t. Instead, he closes his eyes.

“He laughed at me,” Suguru murmurs. “Said I was naive.”

You try to catch his gaze, but he doesn’t offer it. His eyes stay shut, like he’s watching the conversation happen again behind his lids.

“Maybe he’s right,” he says.

You blink. “Suguru…”

“It’s just–” He shifts, not away from you, but not toward you either. “I go in there thinking I can help. That if I listen enough, try hard enough, I can make some kind of difference. And sometimes I do. I think I do. But other times…”

His voice trails off. His hand clenches once in yours, then relaxes again. “It feels like putting tape over a cracked dam.”

You don’t know what to say. So you say what you always say.

“But you’re trying.”

“Yeah.”

“That counts.”

“Yeah.”

It’s barely audible now.

He turns his face toward the wall again. Not harshly. Just with the finality of someone who’s done talking.

You shift behind him and slide closer. Press yourself into his back. Wrap an arm around his middle and hold him tight–tighter than before. Your palm flattens against his stomach. You press your forehead between his shoulder blades. He’s warm. Solid. Here.

“You matter, Suguru,” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but his hand finds yours again, and for a moment, it’s enough.

You listen to his breathing. Still slow. Still deep. But you don’t fall asleep. You stay awake long after the rain softens to a drizzle. You stay awake and hold him like he’s going to vanish if you let go.

And in the morning, you don’t mention it. You braid his hair while he scrolls through his phone. You kiss his temple before he leaves. You hold the shape of his silence in your chest and call it a win. Because he talked to you. And you held him. And that’s enough. It has to be.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You see it in your conversations–small hesitations, abandoned sentences, silences growing slowly like vines across an old wall.

You’re sitting together on the bench near the library courtyard one afternoon, a shared coffee between you. The willow branches overhead sway gently, the late afternoon sun filtering through the leaves in scattered, golden patterns across Suguru’s knees.

He speaks casually at first, just a low murmur beside you, his fingertips tracing absent circles on the sleeve of your jacket. You’re talking about your professor–about how you can’t quite understand her lectures, about how the readings never seem to match the class.

“I think she just likes hearing herself talk,” you say lightly, nudging Suguru with your shoulder. “Think she might secretly hate us.”

Suguru chuckles quietly, the sound more automatic than sincere. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe she’s just tired.”

You glance at him, brow knitting faintly. “Of what?”

He shrugs slowly, thoughtful gaze drifting towards the grass. “Trying to explain the same thing again and again. Trying to get people to care when they just–” he pauses abruptly. His fingers go still on your sleeve.

“When they just what?” you prompt softly.

His eyes flicker briefly, as if he’s pulled back from a thought he didn’t realize he’d spoken out loud. “Nothing,” he murmurs. “Forget it.”

You watch him closely, waiting, giving him space to continue. He doesn’t.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, eyes returning to a point somewhere distant. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah. Just tired, I guess.”

You slip your hand into his, linking your fingers gently. “Want to talk about it?”

Suguru squeezes your hand lightly, almost reflexively. His thumb brushes your knuckles twice, a quiet reassurance that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he repeats. “Just been thinking lately.”

“About what?”

He stays quiet a moment longer. The breeze rustles gently through the leaves, softening the silence. “About choices, I suppose,” he says finally, voice barely audible, distant. “About how we decide what’s worth doing.”

“That’s deep for a Thursday,” you tease.

His lips curve upward briefly, but the smile doesn’t fully form. “Yeah. Sorry. My head’s in a weird place.”

You nudge closer, rest your chin on his shoulder, and murmur softly, “Tell me anyway.”

He sighs, more breath than sound, and shifts his position slightly. You hold him tighter, subtly coaxing him back.

“I keep thinking,” he starts, “about how everything I do–everything I’ve tried to do–seems so small now. Like trying to change things feels naive. Like that boy was right.”

Your heart dips. You shake your head against his shoulder, voice earnest. “But it’s not. It’s brave. You’re doing good, Suguru. You have no idea how many people look up to you–”

He interrupts gently. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

“What do you mean?”

His thumb stills again, fingers slackening around yours, just a bit, then tightening again as if he realizes he’s pulling away. “I used to think I had some kind of answer. That if I cared enough, listened enough, worked hard enough, it would make a difference.”

“It does,” you insist, voice small but firm.

“But does it really?” he whispers. He isn’t arguing–just wondering. Genuinely uncertain. “There are moments when I believe it. And then… times when I look around and see all the way things stay the same. Like I’m standing in the middle of a river, trying to stop it with my hands.”

Your heart aches. You twist toward him, reaching up to gently turn his face to you. “Hey. You’re making more of a difference than you realize. You’re just one person, Suguru. You can’t expect to fix everything alone.”

His eyes soften, weary and fond. “I know that.”

“Then why does it sound like you don’t?”

He pauses, lips parted slightly, words half-formed on his tongue. But then he closes his mouth, shakes his head faintly. “I don’t know,” he murmurs finally. “Forget it. It’s just a mood. It’ll pass.”

You tilt your forehead against his, eyes slipping shut for a moment. “Let me help,” you whisper. “You don’t have to carry everything on your own.”

His breath hitches almost imperceptibly, and for a brief moment, his shoulders relax. “I know,” he says. “I know you’re here.”

You let silence sit between you a few moments longer, breathing in the scent of his hair, feeling his steady heartbeat beneath your palm. When you open your eyes, he’s staring again into the distance, expression mild but unfocused.

“Suguru,” you whisper softly.

“Mm?”

“Look at me.”

He does, slowly. His gaze settles onto yours with careful intention, his dark eyes quietly intense beneath the tangled fringe of his hair. You brush it back from his cheek, letting your fingers linger.

“You’re allowed to rest sometimes, you know,” you say. “You’re allowed to let things go.”

He searches your eyes for a long moment, as if looking for something he’s afraid he won’t find. Finally, he whispers, barely audible, “Am I?”

Your heart tightens painfully, twisting in your chest. You cup his face with both hands and kiss him softly, almost desperately. He kisses back, tender but quiet, reserved.

When you pull away, he breathes out slowly, eyes half-lidded. “You always do that.”

“What?”

“Kiss me when you don’t know what to say.”

“Because I love you,” you murmur gently, thumbs brushing across his cheekbones. “Because sometimes words don’t feel like enough.”

He nods, leaning forward to press his forehead against yours. “Maybe they aren’t.”

You hold him there for another heartbeat, your lips ghosting across his temple. “We’ll be okay,” you whisper.

You don’t let yourself notice how he doesn’t answer. You simply pull him closer, arms wrapping tighter around him, burying your face against his neck. He sighs softly, breathing you in like comfort, and you let yourself believe it’s enough.

It has to be, because loving someone means believing you can carry them through whatever silence they’re caught in.

You kiss his jaw, his throat, holding on as if holding him might keep whatever’s inside him from coming loose. And when his silence stretches quietly into evening, you pretend it doesn’t mean anything at all.

That you’re enough.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You’ve never not spent a Saturday with him.

It’s unspoken–a quiet kind of ritual, Saturday mornings are yours. Whether it’s a cafe with crooked chairs and too-loud music, or a slow walk through the park, or a street fair that makes Suguru complain about overpriced food while still buying you two cones of mango sorbet, it’s always the same rhythm.

You wake up. You text. You meet. You exist together.

But today, there’s nothing. No message. No knock. Not even a half-hearted meme dropped into your chat like a breadcrumb.

You try not to panic. Try not to assume.

You tell yourself maybe he’s sleeping in. That maybe he’s in the library, that maybe his phone died, that maybe he’s just tired. Still, the silence wraps around your shoulders like a too-heavy coat.

By midafternoon, you give up pretending it doesn’t bother you. You pick up your bag, grab him a smoothie–mango, his favorite, a quiet peace offering–and make the familiar walk to his dorm.

The hallways is silent. The air feels stale. When you knock, your knuckles make too much sound. There’s a long pause before he answers.

“Yeah?” His voice is soft. Tired.

You push the door open slowly. “Hey. I brought you something.”

He looks up from his desk, blinking like he’s been pulled from far away. His notebook is open. His hair is loose, falling over his shoulder in tangled waves. He’s still wearing the hoodie he had on yesterday.

“Shit,” he says. “I forgot.”

You step inside. The room smells like paper and him. “It’s okay,” you say quickly, brushing it off like it doesn’t sting. “You were probably busy.”

“No. I just… lost track.” He sounds apologetic. Distant. Like someone returning from a long trip and realizing they left the lights on.

You offer him the smoothie with a crooked smile. “I brought sugar.”

He takes it gently. His fingers brush yours–warm, comforting. Something in him softens when he sees your face. He sets the drink down.

“Come here,” he says, and when you step forward, he pulls you into his lap with both arms around your waist.

You settle easily, legs folded over his, your nose brushing his temple. “I missed you,” you murmur into his hair.

He exhales through his nose, like he’s been holding something in. “You’re so good to me,” he whispers. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

He tucks his head against your shoulder. You run your fingers through his hair, untangling the ends with soft little strokes. It’s a mess today, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“I don’t want to forget you,” he says suddenly.

You freeze. “What?”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes are steady. “I mean–I don’t want to get so wrapped up in everything else that I forget how much you matter to me.”

The words hit you like wind against the back of your throat. You blink slowly, unsure of how to answer, so you reach for his face instead–cradle it between your hands and kiss him, slow and deep.

He kisses back with more hunger than usual–not urgent, but intentional. Like he’s anchoring himself to the shape of your mouth.

When you part, breathless and warm, you rest your forehead against his. “You won’t forget,” you whisper.

“You think?”

“I know.”

He laughs under his breath. “You sound sure.”

“That’s because I am.”

You curl into him, head tucked into the crook of his neck. He smells like faded cologne and your shampoo. His fingers trail down your back slowly, just lightly enough to make you shiver. He kisses your hair. Then your temple. Then your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“You’re it for me,” he whispers.

You close your eyes. “Suguru…”

“No, really. I think about it a lot. All of it. You. Me. The future.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You smile, impossibly full. “Tell me.”

He shifts, holding you closer, so close your heartbeat sounds like it might echo through his ribs.

“We’ll live somewhere quiet,” he murmurs. “With soft lighting. A kitchen that always smells like something sweet. You’ll leave books all over the place. I’ll complain about the mess and read them anyway.”

“Mm. Sounds realistic.”

“We’ll adopt a dog.”

“You hate dogs.”

“I hate loud dogs.”

You laugh, the sound curling through the air like a ribbon. “What else?”

“You’ll keep trying to cut my hair, but I won’t let you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you only want to do it when you’re mad at me.”

“Lies.”

“You braid it like you’re keeping me from unraveling.”

You go quiet. Your hands still in his hair.

“And I like being kept,” he adds softly. “By you.”

You lean in. Kiss him again, slower this time. He hums into your mouth. His hands trail down your spine. You feel him breathe–deep, even, steady–like he’s pulling in the smell of your skin, the warmth of your shirt, the sound of your voice saying his name.

“Don’t disappear on me again,” you whisper.

“I won’t,” he says. “I promise.”

You don’t ask how long he means. You don’t ask what’s been pulling him away, or why it’s been winning, because this–his arms around you, his lips on your cheek, his heartbeat beneath your palm–this feels real. Present. Here.

And that’s what love is, isn’t it? Choosing to believe.

He kisses your wrist, your throat, your shoulder. You laugh again, breathless and full of him.

You fall asleep in his bed that night, tangled in limbs and whispers, your legs across his lap, his fingers threaded through yours, his hair in soft waves over your collarbone. And when you wake in the morning, he’s already up, already dressed, already gone.

There’s a note by the pillow.

You looked too peaceful to wake. I’ll see you tonight.

You smile. Press the paper to your chest.

Love, you think, is this.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

Monday. It rains.

Not a soft spring mist, but a steady curtain of grey–the kind of rain that settles into the bones of the campus and makes everything smell like pavement and moss. The windows fog from the inside. The dorms are quieter than usual, muffled by the weather, the air thick with the hush that only comes when people are trying to wait out the world.

You come back to your dorm later than usual–drenched from your walk across campus, shoes squelching softly against the tile. Your umbrella broke halfway. Your fingers are stiff with cold. Your hoodie’s soaked through. You’re expecting Suguru to laugh, to reach for a towel, to murmur “you always forget the forecast” when he comes by later.

He’s there when you open your door. He’s curled up on the edge of your bed–hair damp, pulled into a half-twist that’s already slipping loose, eyes distant. His hoodie hands off one shoulder. A book lies beside him, open but untouched. The room smells like jasmine tea and wet fabric.

“Hey,” you say, closing the door behind you. “You’re early.”

He looks up like he didn’t hear you come in. Then his gaze softens, just barely. “You’re soaked.”

“Caught in the storm.” You smile, shaking off your sleeves. “What else is new?”

He doesn’t answer. You kick off your shoes and pull off your hoodie, shivering slightly. You don’t expect help undressing–he’s not the kind of partner who hovers–but you do expect a joke. A look. A kiss.

Instead, he just watches you in silence, his hand resting on his ankle, fingers twitching against the fabric of his sweats.

“Everything okay?” you ask, softer now.

Suguru exhales through his nose, almost a laugh. “One of the kids at the practicum got suspended today.”

You pause in the middle of peeling off your wet socks. “What? Why?”

“He pushed another student,” he says. “And when the principal asked him why, he said ‘Because nobody listens until you hurt them.’”

You straighten slowly. “That’s…”

“True,” he says. Blunt. Immediate. “Pain gets attention. Grief gets sympathy. But kindness?” He scoffs. “Kindness is background noise.”

You walk toward him, cautious, heart cracking quietly. “Suguru.”

“They called his mother,” he continues, voice low, bitter. “She didn’t even sound surprised. She just said, ‘Boys act out’. And the principal nodded like it was gospel. Like of course–why try to understand him?”

He leans back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. Rain drums softly against the window. You sit beside him, wet fabric clinging to your knees. “What did you do?”

“What could I do?” he murmurs. “I’m not a teacher yet. I’m no one. Just another adult taking notes. Watching the system do what it’s always done.”

His hand flexes once on his thigh. You reach out instinctively and lace your fingers through his. His skin is warm. Steady. But his grip doesn’t tighten.

“You care,” you whisper.

“So what?” he snaps–softer than anger, but sharper than he’s ever been. “Caring doesn’t fix anything. It just makes you hurt more.”

The words sting. More than you expect. You pull your hand back slowly. Not because you want to, but because it’s the only thing your body knows how to do.

“I’m sorry,” he says instantly. The moment he sees your face shift, his voice changes. Softer. Regretful. “I didn’t mean that. Not like that.”

You say nothing. You reach for the towel on your desk, dabbing at your wet sleeves, heart thick in your chest. You want to tell him about your day. About the advisor who told you your thesis was ‘lacking structure’. About how you spilled tea on your notes. About how you stood in the rain with your umbrella turned inside out, waiting for someone to offer help–and no one did.

But you don’t. Because he’s already spiraling. Because this isn’t about you. Because you love him.

“You’re just tired,” you murmur instead. “It’s been a long week.”

He nods once, like that gives him permission to fall apart. Then he reaches for you–slow, open-palmed–and gathers you into his arms. You let him.

You fold against his chest, the rain still pattering outside, the warmth of his body already undoing the chill in your skin. He buries his nose into your damp hair. Kisses the crown of your head like an apology.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” you breathe.

“I love you.”

You close your eyes. Press your cheek against his chest. Listen to the slow, steady beat of his heart–the one you swear you’d follow anywhere.

“I love you too,” you say. “We’re okay.”

You say it like it’s a prayer. A spell. A promise you can make true just by saying it enough times. His hands slide up your back. He doesn’t say anything else, but he holds you tighter, and you let that be enough.

You let the sting of his words sink deep and settle. You call it a mistake. A slip. The product of stress and heartbreak and fatigue.

You let it go. Because he’s warm, he’s here, and this still feels like love.

Even when it hurts.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

It’s late, but neither of you are asleep.

The desk lamp is dim. The rain from yesterday has tapered off into mist, and the windowpane is still streaked, still speckled with the memory of water. The whole room smells faintly of jasmine and graphite, your shared blanket still folded at the end of the bed, untouched.

You’re studying. Or trying to. Suguru sits beside you on the floor, back against the bed frame, knees drawn up, one hand curled loosely around a mug gone cold. His textbook is open in his lap. Yours is splayed out beside him, pages weighted by a highlighter that’s long since dried out.

You’ve both been sitting here for hours. Reading, scribbling notes, reaching out occasionally to squeeze each other’s hand or brush a shoulder in passing. It’s quiet. Comfortable.

But also–not. Because you’ve read the same paragraph four times and can’t remember a word of it. Because Suguru hasn’t touched his page in almost twenty minutes. Because his hair, once pulled back in a loose, half-tidy twist, has fallen completely down his back now–thick, unbrushed, strands tucked behind only one ear, the rest spilling in disarray over his hoodie. He doesn’t seem to notice.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, the soft profile of him lit in gold. The gentle slope of his mouth. The hollow curve of his collarbone. The stillness.

It’s not unusual for him to be quiet. Suguru lives in quiet. But this silence feels different. Tired. Heavy.

And still, when you nudge his knee with yours, he turns toward you instantly–like muscle memory. Like you’re still the one he’ll always look for.

“You okay?” you ask, voice soft.

He nods. Smiles, but it’s small. Faint. The sort of smile that doesn’t move the eyes.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Just… saturated.”

“Too much reading?”

“Too much thinking.”

You offer him your hand. He sets his mug aside and takes it. His palm is warm. Familiar. You trace your thumb along the base of his fingers–a ritual now, one of many. But tonight, his thumb doesn’t move in return. No circles. No tapping. Just stillness.

You kiss his knuckles anyway. “Want to take a break?”

He shrugs. “Don’t need to,” he says. But he doesn’t reach for the book again.

You tug his hand gently. He lets you pull him toward the bed. You sit against the headboard and open your arms. He settles between them without resistance, his head resting low against your chest, knees bent, hair falling forward like a veil.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders. Pull him in. It feels like holding something fragile. You press a kiss to the crown of his head. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he exhales and says, “I used to think being in love would make everything easier.”

You pause. Your hand stills where it had been gently stroking his back. “It hasn’t?”

“No, it has,” he says quickly. “You have. I just–” He shifts, bows his head deeper into your shoulder. “I think I expected it to fix something in me.”

Your arms tighten. “Love doesn’t fix,” you whisper. “It holds. It shares.”

“I know.”

Your hand finds his hair, and you begin to gather it, brushing it back from his face, then letting it fall again. The strands catch in your fingers. They’re silk-warm and familiar. You braid one section loosely, then undo it. Braid again. Undo.

“You haven’t trimmed it in a while.”

“Mm.”

“Let me?” you offer, quiet, teasing. “Just a little. So you can see again.”

He hums in reply. Doesn’t say yes. Doesn’t say no.

His hands drift along your waist. They’re moving now, but barely–more resting than reaching. You want to ask him what he meant. About being fixed. About what still hurts. But the words sit too sharp in your throat, so you don’t. Instead, you kiss his temple.

“I love you,” you say, more than once.

“I know,” he whispers, forehead still against your collarbone.

And when he lifts his head and kisses you–soft, slow, real–you let yourself breathe. His mouth is warm. His hands have found your face. He’s saying your name like it still means something.

“You’re the best part of my day,” he says, voice steady but low. “I know I don’t always say it. But it’s true.”

Your eyes burn. You laugh through the tightness in your chest. “Say it again.”

“You’re the best part of my day.”

You pull him closer. He lets you. His arms fully wrap around your waist, pulling you into his lap. You bury your face in the space between his neck and shoulder, breathing him in like oxygen. And when he sighs–long, quiet, tired–you don’t ask what it means.

You just hold him tighter. You don’t know how else to keep him there.

He falls asleep in your arms that night. His breathing is even. His face is soft. His hair spills over your chest and arms like ribbon. You watch the rise and fall of his back. The gentle twitch of his fingers.

And even as your throat aches with something unnamed–a weight that presses just behind the bone–you let your hand rest over his heart.

You fall asleep that way.

You held him like a promise, even as he stopped reaching back–and told yourself that maybe if you loved him hard enough, it would count as both of you.

IV. THE HOLLOW – the love that is no longer returned There is nothing crueler than loving someone who has already given up.

You start talking more, because he starts speaking less.

It’s a rainy day, but not the romantic kind–not the kind you could write into a love poem and read aloud in the candlelight. This one is grey, low, heavy. The clouds don’t roll in with drama. They just arrive. And they stay. The kind of weather that settles like dust in your lungs. The kind that makes everything feel farther away.

The window is cracked an inch for air. The rain drizzles against the glass with no rhythm. No passion. Just persistence. Like even the sky has grown tired.

You’re in your dorm, and he’s here too. His body in the room. His presence? Not quite.

He’s curled into the armchair near your desk, legs pulled up beneath him, hoodie sleeves pushed to the elbows. His laptop glows faintly in his lap, a document open but untyped. His eyes are on the screen, but not focused.

You’re sitting on your bed, a half-finished book in your hand. One you’ve been trying to read for days now–rereading the same lines, the same paragraphs, over and over. Each sentence sits in your mouth like paper.

Outside, a car passes. Its tires send water spattering against the curb. The clock ticks. Your coffee is cooling. There’s a soft buzzing from somewhere–maybe your phone, maybe the old radiator. And there’s him. Just sitting. Too quiet, too still. Like a cathedral with no choir.

So you speak, because someone has to.

“Do you remember that curry shop near the train station?”

No response.

“The one with the mint rice and the stupid little bell on the door? The bell that always rang three seconds after the door closed?”

His eyes shift. A beat later, he murmurs, “Yeah.”

You smile. Carefully. “We should go back.”

He nods. That’s all.

You reach for your mug and sip your now-lukewarm coffee, throat closing slightly around it. You stare at him for a second longer than you mean to. He’s not upset. Not withdrawn. Not cold. He’s just not here.

You keep going. Voice low, as if you’re speaking to a skittish animal.

“There’s a bookstore I found online,” you say. “New. It’s a bit of a walk. But the owner leaves handwritten recommendations on index cards and hides them in the jackets.”

Another pause. Another soft reply: “Sounds nice.”

You wait for him to say let’s go. Or show me. Or when? But it doesn’t come.

You smile again, even though it doesn’t reach your eyes. You nod like he’s agreed, then you put the book down and climb off the bed. The room is cold against your skin as you step barefoot across the rug and sink down beside him on the armchair, pressing your shoulder to his.

He shifts. Just slightly. But he doesn’t pull away. You take that as a win.

You lean your head on his shoulder, like always. He tilts his head toward yours, like always–but it’s slow now. Delayed. As if he forgot for a moment that you were there. As if it’s something he has to remember to do.

You don’t mention it. 

You reach for his hand. His fingers are warm, familiar. You stroke your thumb along his knuckles, searching for something–tension, response, anything. He breathes out, slow. Leans further into the chair. And still doesn’t squeeze back.

“You’re quiet today,” you say softly.

“Mm.”

“Thinking?”

“Always.”

You pause. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

You turn your face into his shoulder. His sweatshirt smells like laundry detergent and rain. Like someone who used to come home at the end of a long day with stories to tell.

“I miss your voice,” you whisper.

“I’m still using it.”

“Not on me.”

He stills. You lift your head, look at him. His face is a shadow in the low light. The planes of it more pronounced somehow, like his grief has taken shape and settled into his bone structure.

“I miss you,” you add. Your voice barely carries.

“I’m here.”

“That’s not the same.”

He looks at you then, and for just a moment–a moment–you see it. The pain. The flicker. The echo of the man who once told you he’d never let the world break him.

He opens his mouth like he might say something. He shifts closer instead. Wraps an arm around you. Pulls you to his chest.

You let him. It’s all you’ve got. Touch is the only language he still speaks fluently, and if he holds you like he means it, then maybe the rest of him will come back eventually.

Later, you lie side by side on the floor. The rain hasn’t stopped. His hair is down, draped over the collar of his shirt like a curtain.

You reach for it. You don’t even think. You just gather a few strands and begin to braid them, clumsy, loose.

“You used to keep it neater,” you say.

He hums. “No one to impress.”

“I’m someone.”

“You’ve already seen the worst of me.”

You pause. Then, softly: “I’ve seen all of you. That’s not the same.”

He’s silent. You finish the braid. Undo it immediately. Start again. You could do this forever–touching him, tending him, filling the silence between you with all the softness he no longer gives himself.

You think if you love him hard enough–long enough–he’ll speak again. That one day he’ll look up and say thank you for waiting. I’m back.

But all he says is, “You’re good to me.”

And your voice cracks when you whisper, “So be good to yourself.”

He doesn’t answer. So you hold his hand again, and let the silence stretch.

When he sleeps beside you that night, breathing steady and deep, you lie awake, holding his hand like a lifeline, whispering little nothings into the dark.

“I’ll wait,” you murmur. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

“Come back.”

“Come back.”

“Please.”

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You’re still holding him, but he’s already letting go.

Sunday comes quiet and heavy, like morning fog after a long night. There’s no warmth in the sunrise today–just a pale wash of grey seeping softly through the windows, painting everything in muted shades of silver. It’s a morning that hushes you without reason, silence that’s not peaceful, but cautious–afraid of waking something that’s already restless.

You’re tangled together on Suguru’s dorm bed, backs against the headboard. The covers are pushed down to your ankles, forgotten. He sits stiffly, knees pulled halfway up, his arm loosely around you as you tuck yourself into his side. Your textbook lies open, spine-up, pages spread face-down on the sheets–abandoned again. Your tea is going cold on the desk, untouched.

At first, you think he’s fallen asleep again. His breathing is slow, steady, and you hold perfectly still–watching the rise and fall of his chest beneath the faded cotton of his hoodie, counting the quiet rhythm. You trace your finger over the faint lines of the fabric, half-smiling to yourself at the sleepy softness of it. You wonder if he’s dreaming.

But then he shifts a little, his fingers twitching softly where they’re tangled with yours. His hand tightens briefly, releases again. You glance up at him.

“Suguru?”

His eyes aren’t closed, after all. He’s staring upward–at the ceiling, at nothing, at everything.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, softly, “You changed me.”

The words hang between you like smoke, weightless and heavy at once. You don’t move; you barely breathe.

He sighs gently, a hollow sound that seems too big for his lungs. “Before I met you,” he continues, voice low and achingly calm, “I didn’t think trust was possible–not really. It always came at a cost. A price. A sacrifice. No one was kind unless they wanted something.”

He pauses. The words fall slowly from his lips, like each one hurts a little more than the last. “Kindness,” he murmurs bitterly, “felt like manipulation. Like every good deed had a hidden reason. A catch.”

You move slightly, turning your head against his shoulder to look up against him. He’s still staring at nothing. His gaze is distant, searching through memories he hasn’t let you touch before.

“And then you showed up,” he says, softer now. “You didn’t want anything. You just–cared. You loved me before you knew whether I deserved it.”

“I love you because you deserve it,” you whisper gently. “You always did.”

His eyes flicker, glancing at you for a second before drifting away again. He shakes his head, as though you’re missing the point.

“You made me believe things could be better,” he says quietly. “You made me think that maybe people were good, after all. That maybe it was worth it–to try, to hope, to care.”

“It still is.”

He exhales slowly, the sound heavy in his chest. “I thought so, too.”

You reach up, fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw, then move slowly upwards to touch his hair. It’s loose again, falling around his face in long, tangled waves that always soften when you comb them back. It’s become second nature–to brush his hair behind his ear, twist it carefully into a messy knot, braid little strands when he’s distracted. You’ve done it countless times before, always welcomed, always soft.

This time, when your fingers skim his hair, he tenses.

It’s subtle–a small tightening of his shoulders, a quick breath, a gentle shift away from your touch. But you feel it immediately.

Your hand freezes mid-motion. You pause, heart twisting a little. He doesn’t look at you.

You let your hand fall slowly back into your lap. Your fingers curl there, empty. You try not to show the way it aches inside your chest.

After a silence that feels far too long, he speaks again, voice quieter, rougher around the edges.

“There was a student,” he says, softly, like a confession. “He was bright. Curious. The kind of kid who could do anything if someone just let him.”

You stay very still, heart hammering in your chest.

“He started skipping classes,” Suguru continues. “He started coming in with bruises he wouldn’t explain. I tried to report it, tried to do something–but no one listened. They told me to stay out of it. Told me the system would handle it.”

He laughs bitterly, a feeble, shattered sound. “And then one day, he just… stopped coming. Nobody cared. Nobody noticed. The world just–kept going.”

His voice cracks quietly. “It’s always like that. The kids who need the most are the ones nobody fights for. They’re the ones nobody sees.”

You reach for him again, carefully, sliding your hand gently into his. His fingers grasp around yours reflexively, and you breathe out at the reassurance of his touch.

“I wanted to save them,” he says. “All of them. But how can you save someone when the world just wants to forget?”

“You’ve helped more people than you know,” you murmur. “You’ve done so much already.”

“But it’s never enough,” he whispers back, almost to himself. “There’s always someone else. Someone slipping away.”

“Suguru…” you breathe, lifting your hand again–slower this time, wary of rejection–and reach again towards his hair. You pause hesitantly, hand hovering.

He notices. He notices the way you pause, the uncertainty in your gesture. He sees your doubt, your hurt. And it breaks something small inside him.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, catching your wrist, guiding your hand back to him–slowly, carefully. “It’s okay. I–I didn’t mean…”

He trails off, unable to say it. You brush your fingers through his hair once more. This time he lets you, leaning into the touch like someone starved of tenderness.

“You don’t have to do it all alone,” you whisper, letting the strands of his dark hair slip through your fingers like ink. “You don’t have to carry everything by yourself.”

He closes his eyes. “But if I don’t, then who will?”

“We’ll figure it out,” you say quietly. “Together.”

His shoulders tremble slightly beneath your hands. He bows his head, face hidden by the long strands of his hair falling forward. You catch them, tucking them behind his ear. But even as you do, you feel it–an unspoken distance between you. The space he’s already begun to place between himself and the world. Between himself and hope.

“I’m so tired,” he whispers finally, voice barely audible. “Of trying to fix things. Of losing.”

“Then let me help,” you whisper back. “Please.”

He turns into your touch, breathing shakily against your palm. “I don’t know how,” he says, so muted it barely carries. “I don’t know how anymore.”

You hold him close, wrapping yourself around him as if you can shield him from the weight of everything he’s tried to carry. You stroke his hair reverently, whispering soft words you wish could heal.

But somewhere deep down, you already know. He’s started letting go.

You’re not sure your hands alone can hold all of him together anymore, but you hold him tight anyways. You press your face into his shoulder, listening to his heartbeat as if memorizing the rhythm. You whisper softly, “It’s going to be okay. We’ll be okay.”

You know you’re trying to hold back a storm with two open palms, but you stay there with him regardless, wrapped in quiet grief and stubborn love.

Maybe if you stay, he’ll stay too, and right now, keeping him in your arms feels like the only kindness you have left to give. Because, despite everything, you can’t yet admit to yourself that kindness might not be enough.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You keep talking about forever. He has already stopped picturing it.

It’s almost midnight when you bring it up.

The room is dim, draped in that low amber hush that only happens when a lamp is left on too long and no one wants to admit the day is over. The walls are half-bare now–the art prints rolled and tucked away, the photo strips from your first year clipped off the board. A mug sits cold on the windowsill, next to a planter long since emptied of the basil it used to hold. Everything smells faintly of cardboard and lavender dryer sheets, and something else you can’t name–something like the ache of a place you’ve already begun to mourn.

You’re sitting on the floor, legs folded beneath you, wrapped in your favorite blanket. You’ve had it since before Suguru. He used to tease you for it, calling it your ‘emotional support cocoon’. Now it feels like armor. Your laptop is open in front of you, the screen glowing soft and blue, tabs stacked like a half-built life: apartment listings, furniture inspo, a recipe blog, a budget calculator you haven’t had the heart to open.

Suguru is lying above you on the bed, stretched out on his side, facing the wall. His hand rests limply under his cheek, his dark hair spilling over the pillow like ink across paper. The room is quiet, save for the occasional click of your trackpad and the sound of his breathing–slow, even, distant.

You hesitate before speaking, but the words have been sitting on your tongue all week, and they taste heavier the longer you hold them in.

“This one has a backyard,” you say, softly. Like offering something sacred.

He doesn’t answer right away. You can’t tell if he’s heard you or if he’s just thinking, which feels like the same thing these days.

“South-facing,” you continue, scrolling. “So it gets good light. We could put a little table out there. Or a bench. You could drink coffee outside on Sundays.”

Still nothing. Just a small, indistinct sound–something between acknowledgement and apathy. You wait, but nothing more comes. So you try again.

“Remember when you said we’d get a dog?”

That stirs him. His gaze shifts, and he rolls over, faintly, slowly. You catch it out of the corner of your eye.

“You said you didn’t like dogs,” you remind him, with the ghost of a smile. “But you’d make an exception. For me.”

There’s a pause. Then, finally: “A quiet one.”

Your heart lifts. “Low energy,” you echo. “Soft ears.”

“We were going to name her after a flower.”

“Aster,” you say.

“Or Dahlia.”

You smile, and for a moment–just a moment–it feels like you’re still in the dream. You rest your hand on the mattress near his, not quite touching. The space between your fingers and his feels impossibly wide. You don’t press into it. Instead, you look back at the screen.

“We could still do that,” you murmur. “That backyard would be perfect for her. And you could take her on walks when you don’t feel like talking to people.”

His gaze drops again. His face is unreadable in the low light.

“You said you’d build me a bookshelf,” you continue. “Even though you didn’t know how. You said you’d learn.”

He says nothing. You press on.

“You said we’d make the kitchen smell like oranges. That we’d argue about dishes. That we’d grow old being ridiculous and ordinary. Together.”

Still, no reply. You turn your head, look at him fully now. There’s a shadow of something behind his eyes–pain, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of something long gone.

“And you promised you wouldn’t disappear on me,” you whisper. “You said you’d stay.”

That’s when he closes his eyes. Slowly. Like it costs him something. Like this is the part he’s dreading.

And then–silence. Not heavy. Not sharp. Just… quiet. An absence so vast it fills the whole room.

You stare at him, your hands folded in your lap now, clenched tight. The moment stretches. Suspends. Breaks.

“You should move in with a friend,” he says. Soft. Measured.

Your breath catches. The words don’t register at first. They’re too at odds with the softness in his voice, the gentleness of his expression. It’s like being handed a blade wrapped in velvet.

“What?”

He looks at you fully now, and you wish he wouldn’t. Because his eyes are tender, too tender. Like he’s already grieving you.

“Just until you figure things out,” he says. “So you’re not alone.”

You close your laptop. The hinge clicks shut like a final sentence.

“I thought we’d move in together.” Your voice doesn’t shake. It floats. Weightless.

His face folds slightly at the edges. Regret. Maybe even love. But no denial. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I already am.”

He’s too calm. Too steady. Like he’s been rehearsing this.

You blink at him. Once. Twice.

“You’re planning a future I can’t give you,” he says, softly. Almost lovingly.

You swallow. The burn in your throat rises fast–too fast. Your hands clutch tighter at the edge of the bedsheet, knuckles white. “I’m not asking for much,” you whisper. “I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for you. That’s all I ever wanted.”

“I know.”

“Then why–”

“Because I still want you,” he says. And the way he says it breaks you, because his voice is steady. Honest. “But I can’t want anything else.”

And then the tears come. Not loudly. Not with sobs. But with quiet. The kind of crying that comes from somewhere too deep for sound. You blink and blink and they fall anyway–slow trails of salt down your face, one after another, pooling at the edge of your lips before falling to your lap.

He sits up. Reaches for you. You flinch–just barely. But he notices, and he stops. His hand hovers. Withdraws.

You wipe your face with the back of your sleeve. You don’t understand why he’s saying all of this. He was getting better. Your cheeks are wet. Your eyes are burning. Your chest feels like it’s been cracked open just wide enough to let something holy bleed out.

“It’s okay,” you say, through sniffles. Your voice is too small. Too bright. Too false. “I get it.”

“Please–”

“I get it.”

You rise to your feet slowly, setting your laptop down on the floor. You cross the room with slow, deliberate steps and kneel beside one of the open boxes you’ve started putting your belongings into. You pretend to fold a sweatshirt that was already folded. Pretend to sort your notes. Pretend your hands aren’t shaking.

Your back is to him. You don’t ask him to follow. He doesn’t speak again. He doesn’t move.

In the silence, something delicate between you finally dies–not loudly, not with drama, but like a candle extinguishing after burning too long. Quiet. Inevitable.

By morning, nothing will be different. But everything will.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

You love him loud, and it still isn’t enough.

You’re sitting across from him in your room–the air thick, unmoving–and the silence has gone on too long to feel like anything but surrender. The light outside is dusky, purpling into blue, and the lamp on your desk doesn’t reach the corners of the room. Shadows stretch wide beneath your bed, beneath his eyes.

He’s been distant for days now. Weeks. Months, even. His words rationed like water in a drought, his touch feather-light and far between. He leaves early, returns late, stands in your doorway like he’s a guest in his own life.

But tonight, he came in and stayed. Sat down without a word. Draped himself into the armchair with that quiet, heavy stillness that feels like resignation.

You watch him. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t look at you.

The storm has been waiting in your throat for days. You swallow it one last time and then finally say–

“We need to talk.”

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t blink. Just lets the words hang there. You don’t move closer, nor do you soften. You’re tired.

“You can’t keep doing this.”

A pause.

“Doing what.”

He says it flat. Not curious. Not accusatory. Just empty.

“Shutting down,” you answer, voice sharpening. “Drifting through every day like you’re not in it. Saying nothing and pretending I won’t notice.”

That’s when he looks at you. And something in your chest clenches–because his face is calm. Too calm. Like this is just another conversation. Like you haven’t been aching next to him for weeks. Like he hasn’t already been breaking your heart in increments.

“I’m still here,” he says quietly.

“No, you’re not,” you snap. “You’re around. You exist. You breathe next to me. But you’ve already left, Suguru, and I’m the only one who’s still trying to pretend that’s not what’s happening.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes harden. There’s a shift, perceptible–a flicker of something defensive. “I’m doing the best I can.”

“Your best is silence,” you fire back. “Your best is turning your face away when I say I love you. It’s letting me dream out loud while you stare through me.”

That hits something. He sits up slightly, tension gathering in his shoulders like thunder. His voice comes out colder. “That’s not fair.”

“You’re right,” you say, laughing bitterly. “It’s not. None of this is fair. You, loving me and still leaving–that’s not fair. You building a life with me in your words, then walking away from it in your actions–that’s not fair.”

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Didn’t mean to what? Let me fall for a future you never intended to live in?”

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. But you don’t stop. You’ve waited too long.

“Do you remember what you said? That day you told me about the dog, the backyard, the oranges in the kitchen? You made it sound like you could see it. Like you wanted it. With me.”

“I did,” he says, and there’s frustration now. Frustration and pain and something old. Something weary.

“Then why are you walking away from it? And don’t give me the same excuse you gave me last time.”

“Because I can’t give you that anymore.”

The silence that follows is sharp. Like something splintering. You stare at him, heart pounding in your chest, blood roaring in your ears.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have it in me,” he answers. “Because I’m empty. Because every part of me that used to believe in that kind of life is gone.”

You shake your head, standing now, your hands clenched at your sides.

“No,” you whisper. “No, you don’t get to say that. You don’t get to stand here and tell me you can’t give me anything–me, of all people–when I’m the one who’s stayed. When I’ve been here through everything.”

He stands too–slowly, carefully. But he doesn’t reach for you.

“This isn’t about you.”

The words are soft. Matter-of-fact. But they gut you, and you freeze.

It’s not a shout, not an accusation–it’s worse. It’s detachment. It’s resignation. It’s him drawing the line you thought you could erase.

You laugh, but it breaks halfway out of your mouth. “God, do you hear yourself?”

He doesn’t speak. Of course he doesn’t.

“You think that makes it better?” you say, voice trembling now. “That this isn’t about me? That I just happened to be here while you burned out? That I just coincidentally get to be collateral damage while you decide the world isn’t worth hoping for anymore?”

“I didn’t ask for you to carry this.”

“But I wanted to!” you shout. “I wanted to carry it. I wanted to fight for you, for us. But you never gave me a chance. You just started fading. Slowly. Quietly. And I noticed, Suguru. I noticed every time you looked away. Every time you let go first.”

Your voice is cracking. Splintering. Shattering. You feel it reverberating in your chest, in your ribs.

“You didn’t want help. You didn’t want to believe in anything anymore. You just wanted me to stop trying.”

He doesn’t deny it. You feel your heart break.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

The storm is dying.

Not outside–outside, the sky is still quiet. No thunder. No wind. Just clouds sitting low over the city, heavy with the weight of something waiting to fall. But in here, between the walls of your small dorm room, between you and him–the storm is ending. Or maybe, more truthfully, it’s entering its quietest stage. The one where no one yells. Where no one moves. Where only grief remains.

You’re both still standing, raw from what came before. Your voice still echoes in the corners of the room. His hands are clenched at his sides, but his expression is unreadable. There is no rage left in him. Only something muted. Suppressed. Heavy.

You take a shaky breath. Then another. And when you speak, it’s not with anger anymore. It’s with everything you’ve kept folded inside your chest like prayer.

“I still believe in the world.”

The words are small, but they carry. They land in the space between you with the weight of truth.

Suguru flinches. He looks at you like that’s the saddest thing you could’ve ever said. His shoulders lift, slightly. He breathes in like he wants to argue.

You don’t let him.

“I still believe that people are capable of good. That they can grow. Change. I believe that kindness is more powerful than cruelty. That softness is not a weakness.”

He looks away, his eyes moving toward the floor. You don’t follow them.

“And I believe in you.” You say it clearly. Not whispered. Not as a plea. A truth.

He exhales slowly, his chest falling.

You take a step forward. Cautious. As if you’re approaching a wild animal that used to come when you called, but now looks at you like a stranger.

“You told me once that you wanted to teach. That you wanted to be the kind of adult you never had. Someone who listened. Someone who noticed.”

Another step. He says nothing.

“You still are that person,” you say. “Even if the world is heavy. Even if it hurts. You are still good. You are still doing good. You’re still the boy who helped strangers carry their groceries, who stayed after class to ask if someone was okay.”

His lips part, but no sound comes out. He just looks at you like his heart is breaking into pieces and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

“You don’t have to save everyone,” you say. “You don’t have to believe in the entire world. Just believe in one thing. One person. One reason. And if you need that reason–”

You press your hand to your chest. “Let it be me.”

He blinks, eyes focusing on you properly. And god, he looks like he’s already halfway gone.

You pretend not to notice. You keep going.

“I’ll stay,” you whisper. “I’ll stay with you. Even if you’re tired. Even if you’re angry. Even if you stop talking and you forget how to hold me and you don’t want to get out of bed. I’ll still stay.”

He closes his eyes. His hands curl into fists.

“I met you when you were at your lowest,” you continue. “And I loved you. I never asked you to be whole. I never needed perfect. I just needed you.”

You’re crying now, but you don’t feel embarrassed. Not anymore.

“I still do.” You step closer, so close now you can feel the heat of his body. “I can take care of you. If you let me. If you stay.”

The silence between you deepens like a wound. And then–he speaks. Softly.

“The world is broken.”

“Maybe,” you say. “But that’s why we stay. That’s why we love. That’s why we try.”

“You’re idealistic,” he murmurs, almost gently. “You always have been.”

“I’m hopeful,” you correct him. “I have to be. Someone has to be.”

“It’s not enough.”

“It is.”

He shakes his head. “You’re so naive.”

You go still. He says it gently. Kindly. But it cuts like a blade all the same.

“It’s never been about you,” he says. “This–this darkness, this weight. It started long before you. And no matter how much I love you, it’s not something you can fix.”

Your voice cracks when you answer. “But I want to try.”

“And I love you for that.”

Your eyes search his face, and what you see there breaks you. Because he’s not cold. He’s not cruel. He’s not pushing you away because he stopped loving you.

He’s doing it because he still does.

“Then tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me I was enough.”

He steps forward. Cups your face in his hands. “You are.”

“Tell me you loved me.”

“I love you,” he says. “I love you.”

And then he pulls you into his arms. His body folds around yours like something holy. His fingers slide into your hair, trembling. His breath is hot against your temple.

“I want you,” he whispers. “I want you. Only you. Nothing else. No dreams. No future. Just–you.”

Your arms wrap around him like instinct. You bury your face in his shoulder. “Then stay,” you whisper in return. Your voice is shaking. “Please, Suguru. Stay.”

He doesn’t answer. He holds you tighter instead.

•──────────────────────────────────────────•

It’s after graduation. A Tuesday.

The cap you didn’t want to wear is hanging by a pushpin near the door, half-crushed from the rain that fell as you walked home that day. You haven’t taken it down. There’s a part of you that thinks maybe it deserves to stay where it is–limp and damp and uncelebrated. Like everything else that was supposed to feel like a beginning.

Your room is almost empty now.

A box sits in the corner filled with folded sweaters and things you don’t want to remember owning. There’s another by the door, filled with books Suguru lent you over the years–some dog-eared, some annotated, one with a sticky note still pressed between the pages where he once wrote, You’ll like this one. It’s gentle.

Your laptop rests on the bed. The apartment listings are still open. You haven’t closed the tabs. You haven’t packed the charger. You haven’t even touched the envelope marked LEASE OPTIONS sitting on your desk–the one you once filled with printed tours and scrawled notes in different colored pens.

Because none of them matter now.

He’s standing in the doorway. He hasn’t said anything yet. He doesn’t have to.

You’re sitting on the bed, knees pulled to your chest, one hand resting on a balled-up hoodie–his. He’s wearing the other one. The black one. The one you said made him look soft around the edges. The sleeves are a little too long. He doesn’t push them up.

You look up at him.

His bag is slung over one shoulder. His hair is tied, but loosely. Too loose. Strands are already slipping.

You spoke the night before–barely. There were no more arguments. No more tears. Just the quiet weight of knowing. You had curled beside him on the bed with your fingers buried in his shirt and your face tucked beneath his jaw. He hadn’t said anything. He had just held you. Tighter than usual, but not tight enough.

And now it’s morning. And he’s leaving.

You open your mouth. Close it. Try again.

“You’re really doing this.”

He nods. Your throat closes.

“I thought maybe,” you whisper, “maybe you’d wake up and change your mind.”

He looks at you then–really looks–like you’re the last soft thing he’s allowed himself to look at. His face is unreadable–not because it’s blank, but because it’s everything at once. Grief. Love. Fear. Guilt. All of it wrapped into silence.

“I thought maybe you’d stay,” you say.

“I want to.”

The way he says it cracks something inside you.

“Then stay.” You sound too quiet to be begging. But you are. You are.

He closes his eyes. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” you ask. “Why not just… try? We don’t need a perfect plan. We can take the smallest apartment. Eat cheap takeout. Sleep on a mattress on the floor. I don’t care, Suguru. I don’t care. I just want–” Your voice breaks. “I just want you.”

He sets his bag down beside the door. Steps toward you. And you think, for a heartbeat, that this is it. He’s changed his mind. He’s choosing you. He’s staying.

He kneels in front of you and takes your hands into his–god, they’re warm–and holds them like something breakable. His thumbs move in small, trembling circles over your knuckles.

“I love you.”

You start crying. Not suddenly. Not loudly. Just a soft, shaking sound that comes out of your chest like the ending of a song.

“I love you,” he repeats, eyes locked to yours. “I love you so much it hurts.”

“Then don’t leave.”

“I have to.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Because if I stay,” he whispers, “I’ll rot in front of you. And you’ll keep calling it love. And one day, you’ll forget what real love is supposed to feel like.”

“Don’t say that.”

He squeezes your hands. “You’d carry me until your legs gave out,” he says. “And I’d let you. But I can’t let you do that.”

“You promised–”

“I know.”

“You said you wouldn’t disappear.”

“I tried.”

You shake your head, tears slipping freely down your cheeks now, your throat threatening to close up. “I waited,” you cry. “I fought for you.”

“I know,” he says, voice wrecked, ragged. “You were the only thing that kept me here as long as I stayed.”

He leans in. Presses his forehead to yours.

His hair falls into your face. You smell the lavender shampoo you made him try last month. The one he pretended to hate. You never told him you knew he kept using it.

“I’ll think about you,” he says. “Every day. Every time I see something soft. Or kind. Or almost beautiful. I’ll see you in all of it.”

“You can still have me.”

“No. You deserve someone who wants more than survival.”

You close your eyes, taking a shaky breath. “You were my more,” you whisper.

He kisses you.

Not quickly. Not like goodbye. Like memory. Like something he wants to seal into the corner of your mouth and carry with him forever.

And then he pulls away. His hands fall away from your face, his fingerprints burned into your skin.

You reach for him–not because you think it will stop him, but because your body doesn’t know how not to.

“Don’t forget me,” you whisper.

His voice breaks when he answers. “I couldn’t. Even if I wanted to.”

He stands. Lifts the bag. Walks to the door.

You don’t watch him go. You stare at the laptop instead. The listings still open. The cursor still hovering over a link. As if the future is waiting for your input.

The door clicks. Softly. And the silence that follows is louder than any scream.

You bury your face in your hands and cry.

He didn’t slam the door. He folded himself out of your life like he never wanted to hurt you.

You lose Geto Suguru on a Tuesday.

You think that that’s the worst thing he could have ever done to you.

When he left, he didn’t take his clothes. He took the light. And you’re still looking for it in every room he isn’t in.

V. THE ECHO – where grief is soft, and memory is louder than silence Some people leave like a storm. Suguru left like silence after music–sudden, unkind, irreversible.

The apartment is quiet.

Not peaceful. Not tranquil. Just quiet in that dull, hollow way that settles around the bones like smoke and never quite clears. The kind of silence that doesn’t soothe but stretches. It clings to the corners of your furniture. It lives in your coffee mugs and inside the jackets hanging by the door. It waits in the seams of things. You don’t remember what anything sounded like before he left–only that it’s been quieter ever since.

You live here now. That truth doesn’t sting like it used to, but it still aches. Not like a wound anymore, but like a healed break that never reset properly. The apartment isn’t much: one window, cracked tiles in the bathroom, a fridge that hums when it thinks no one is listening. The radiator creaks every time it turns on, like an old man sighing in his sleep. You’ve memorized the sound of this place. The way it breathes differently without him in it. It doesn’t carry echoes well. Maybe that’s a blessing. Maybe that’s why you chose it.

Still, sometimes you think you can hear him. Not his voice, exactly. Just the shape of him. The memory of a presence. The phantom weight of a gaze that always saw you like you were more than you believed you were. You sit in the chair by the window and you feel it–the ghost of the way he used to look at you. Like you were the answer to a question he had been trying to ask his whole life.

You have a routine now. Mornings begin with silence and coffee–two sugars. You water the plants. All three are still alive, against all odds. You whisper to them. Not because you believe they understand, but because you’re tired of hearing nothing speak back. You read when you can, though most days you just turn the pages and let the words drift past you like fog. You work. You walk. You buy groceries for one. You learn to sit with loneliness without trying to feed it.

And sometimes you cry. Not with drama, not in torrents. But with the soft, startled grief of realizing you’ve reached for him again. The phantom muscle memory of laying out two mugs instead of one. Picking up a book and wondering if he’s read it. Feeling laughter rise in your chest and turning to share it before remembering that you can’t.

It’s strange, loving someone who left gently. There’s no hatred to cling to. No betrayal to burn your way through. Just the steady knowledge that they loved you, and left anyway. That they were kind. And tired. And breaking. And that you couldn’t save them without losing yourself. That maybe they knew that before you did.

He didn’t take everything. He never would. But the things he left behind are worse. His handwriting on a receipt tucked into the drawer. The coffee you only bought because he liked it. The scent of his shampoo lingering in your towels long after you stopped using them. A playlist that still plays when your phone forgets it’s supposed to forget him. A stray hair tie at the bottom of your drawer.

Some days, you pretend you’re fine. You move through the world with the grace of someone who has practiced the choreography of grief so long it looks like living. You smile. You hold conversations. You even laugh. And no one asks, because you’ve become very good at dressing your ache in language that passes for okay.

But some nights, you sit on the floor, back against the radiator, and remember that loving him was the most honest thing you ever did.

You don’t try to forget him. Some days, that feels like the only promise you can still keep. You let yourself remember. You let yourself mourn. You light a candle on the windowsill, even though he never believed in that kind of ritual. You write down things you wish you’d said aloud. You whisper his name into the steam of your coffee. You open the drawer where his spare toothbrush would’ve been and close it again.

It helps. Sometimes.

Today, you open the box you never meant to touch. The one he left, labeled in his handwriting: “misc”. The letters tilt forward like they were written in a hurry, but still carefully enough to be legible. You sit on the floor, cross-legged, and lift the lid like it might still breathe. Inside: the scarf from your first winter together, itchy and beloved. A dog-eared book with annotations in two colors. A hair tie. A list.

Just one page.

Just one set of words he never read aloud, but you’ve seen before.

things to teach – kindness is strength – silence is not always peace – you are not too much – softness is not fragility – no one is unlovable – the world is hard – love anyway

You trace each line like a prayer. These were the things he wanted to teach. Maybe the things he wanted to believe. Maybe the things he couldn’t carry anymore. Maybe that list was his last act of faith, scribbled into existence before the light in him went out.

You fold the page. Not tightly. You tuck it into the book you still read sometimes, when you need to hear his voice in your head. And you sit there, on the floor, surrounded by things he left behind, and let the ache in your chest widen without resistance.

You think about the way he used to touch you. Gently. Like you were made of smoke and paper and prayer. The way he would hesitate before holding your face in his hands, as if reverence was a language best spoken without words. You think about the way he never spoke of the future like it was owed to him, only borrowed.

This is what it means to love someone like Geto Suguru: it means gentleness. It means holding grief in your hands like water. It means remembering that sometimes people break even when they are loved. That sometimes love isn’t enough to keep someone from walking into silence. That sometimes the kindest thing someone can do is leave before they make you watch them disappear in pieces.

But it also means this:

It means you were seen. Known. It means you were held by someone who understood what it meant to be tired and still soft. That for a time, you got to witness someone who tried to believe in the world and loved you while they could. You were chosen, even while he was unraveling. You were the thing he wanted to keep safe from himself.

You will keep loving. That is what you choose.

You’ll move again someday. To a bigger place. One with more sunlight. Maybe a dog, if you’re brave enough. You’ll meet people who make you laugh. You’ll love again, maybe differently, maybe less fiercely. But you’ll never forget what it felt like to love someone who carried their sorrow so quietly, it took you years to realize they had already let go.

And when you light the last candle that burns down in the bowl you made with him once in a pottery class neither of you liked–you whisper:

“I hope you found somewhere soft to land.”

Some things don’t end. They just change shape. And some people don’t leave. They stay quietly–in the places you don’t look at too often.

A/N: thank you for reading! i've been feeling really down lately and i just automatically started thinking about suguru and here we are. (yes i cried writing the last part) (art by risujuju on X)

[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

masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

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.

[sunnida-y]

Winded up writing a one-shot because I had an idea for a new cult of the lamb au, so, good people, I present to you, “Sickness Be Upon Ye” (this is not related to my cotl au Floreo btw, also just in case I do write for this au again, I’ve decided to name it the Curses Of Decay au)

“Damned creature,” The bishop’s raspy voice came out of his mouth, barely reaching their ears, “From the moment you rip my heart out of my chest, may your feeble mind never feel a moment of peace ever again,” They had paid the words no mind, slicing open the fallen bishop and taking his heart as a gift to their god. They could not have imagined the repercussion that would have followed.

Might write more, might not, idk

[hxney-lemcn]

Ancient Love — deity! Malleus Draconia x gn! reader

summery: you find yourself blessed by the God of magic, don't worry dear reader, he'll take care of you.

tw: mentions of death (he speculates about you growing old). Power dynamics once again (he is a literal god so...yeah).

a/n: another deity au fic. Idk why it's got me in its grasp at the moment. Once again, props to @ceruleancattail for the au. also ik in Greek myths gods 'loving' humans was a reoccurring thing but still, for the sake of this fic its taboo.

wc: 0.8k

Master List

This was wrong. Taboo. So why did it feel so right? Why did you long for him to run his fingers through your hair, or to caress your skin? Why did he give in to your wishes? Malleus, the long forgotten deity of magic and creatures of the night has graced your being time and time again. You had stumbled upon his shrine, the old temple crumbling from centuries of decay and erosion. The gargoyles had stared down on you as you entered, depictions of dragons, reptiles and bats laid upon a mural with the paint cracking. Unlike most ancient temples that are uprooted, this one held no statue, only an altar with melted candles, bones, and decaying papers that you could barely make out. 

Malleus showed himself after your third visit. You hadn’t come to worship him, but instead to document the crumbling temple and what his old followers had come to him for. So what better than to speak to the God himself? At first he didn’t tell you who he was, not wanting you to look at him differently or to scare you off. You always had an inkling of doubt about the mysterious man. He had come from seemingly nowhere and his attire was outdated, not to mention he talked more regal than what you were used to, but you didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Malleus on the other hand found you quite amusing. You were unknowingly speaking to one of the most powerful ancient gods yet you spoke to him like any other mortal. He had always been a lonely God, even when he was in his prime he wasn’t as popular as the others. He didn’t offer prosperity, love, or good harvest. People feared him and his ability, humans weren’t too fond of magic and came to him for protection from curses or evil spirits. So you, a mortal who didn’t cower in front of him had his heart melting. Your curiosity about him, his temple, his powers, and his past had him rambling for as long as you’d let him. 

Don’t question why you feel safer at night, or how bats and reptiles are more fond of you. Don’t question why people who wrong you never treat you terribly again or how you always feel watched when the moonlight shines down upon you. Unlike how Malleus was portrayed, he was a deity who cared about his people, and you had wormed your way into his heart. Yet he found himself loving you on a level he’s never had before. Your smile warmed his chilled bones, your laughter was better than any prayer he’d received before, your love greater than any worship he’d ever had.  

A deity falling for a mortal was taboo. It was wrong. It goes against all boundaries. Gods were better than mortals, they were stronger, more powerful. A God's only purpose was to be worshiped, they were not the ones to worship. So why, why did Malleus find himself wanting to bow before you, wanting to pray for your love and care, for you to never leave his side. When you found out his true identity at first you were flabbergasted, you had been speaking to a deity this entire time…but that soon fizzled when you realized he was still the same person you had been talking to. 

You found yourself in the ancient shrine more and more with Malleus’ fingers tangled in your hair as he explained why gargoyles stood post throughout his temple. Or the nights that you both shared under the stars as he explained the meanings of old constellations that had shifted over time. Or when he wrapped you in his embrace when you found yourself with troubles, wishing he could fix everything for you so you never had to shed a tear again. Yet he found himself enjoying the moments you brought him gifts, not out of worship, but out of care. Or when you’d be the one to caress his face, or how your hands always seemed to wander towards his horns but stopped an inch short. Or the moments your eyes would take him in and you’d murmur his praises that he always managed to hear. 

Over time, Malleus started to think of your future. Even though you were nothing like his past followers, you would meet the same fate. Your hair will turn either gray or white, your skin will start to sag and droop, your mind will deteriorate, and one day you’ll return to the Earth. A fate that tore his heart apart. He knew he was thinking selfishly, but he wanted to keep you by his side. He wanted to be with you until time ended, and even then, he’d find a way to be with you. And as a deity, there was a way to turn you immortal, to raise your title of mere mortal to deity. You both could rule the empty temple together, taking care of the geckos and bats that resided there. 

What do you say, dear? Won’t you rule by his side for eternity?

[furioussheepluminary]

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

Pairing: vampire!Felix x afab!reader, strangers to potential lovers, vampire au

synopsis: to prove that you are once again always the brave one, you take one a dare. But meeting a cursed attractive vampire wasn't part of the deal.

Warnings: blood, angst?, curses, Felix falls in love easily (esp. with blood), but hes a meanie, dead people

A/n: this was a request made a while ago by a beautiful angel that I can't remember..but I know it was a request 😔 I'm sorry love! Please enjoy the story as it's my first time writing a supernatural au even though it's not my type. If you have extra eyes for errors, no you don't.

It all started with a bonfire and a bottle of cheap vodka.

The night was unusually cold for early autumn, and the wind that howled through the trees felt almost like whispers brushing against the skin. The fire cracked in the center of the clearing, surrounded by seven dare-hungry souls seeking thrills in a town where nothing exciting ever happened. Except for the one thing no one dared talk about—except in jest, when the alcohol flowed and the night felt invincible. The abandoned mansion at the edge of Marrow’s Hollow.

“It’s just an old ruin,” one of the boys, Devin, said, passing the bottle. “Creepy? Sure. Haunted? Nah. You’d die of boredom before any ghost got you.”

“But people have died there,” Margo whispered, her voice trembling just enough to sound like a challenge rather than fear. “Five kids from Cresthill went in last year. Never came back.”

“Because they ran off to the city. Typical runaway story,” someone laughed, brushing it off.

Then came the dare. Drunk on adrenaline, firelight, and fermented courage.

“Y/N,” Margo grinned, eyes glittering in the dark. “You’re always bragging about how brave you are. How about you prove it?”

Y/N raised a brow, the fire’s glow casting sharp shadows across her face. “Oh? And how exactly do I do that?”

“Spend the night in the mansion.”

The group erupted in shocked laughter, some clapping, others gasping, but all eyes were now on her.

“You’re kidding,” she scoffed. “That place is sealed off.”

“Nope,” Devin replied, digging into his backpack and pulling out a rusted old key. “Found this in my grandpa’s shed. He was a cop back when the town tried to shut the place down. This opens the back gate.” The air shifted then. Like something had turned to listen.

“The rules are simple,” Margo continued. “Go inside before midnight. Stay until sunrise. No phone. Just you, your flashlight, and whatever you find inside.” Everyone expected her to say no.

But Y/N smirked, heart racing with the thrill of being challenged. “Fine. I’ll go.”

None of them knew she’d return with eyes wide, blood on her leg, and a name carved into her skin.

Felix.

She packed her bag as the sun dipped below the hills, smearing the sky in shades of bruised violet and blood-orange. No phone—part of the dare. They claimed it was cheating, that the spirits “didn’t like tech.” Instead, Y/N grabbed a flashlight, a small notebook, two protein bars, a lighter, a flask of water, and a silver pocketknife she didn’t usually carry. Just in case. Her heart thundered like a drum, but her face remained calm, stoic. She’d accepted the dare. She wasn’t backing out. By the time she reached the edge of Marrow’s Hollow, the sky had turned black, and the wind carried the sharp scent of decaying leaves and something fouler, metallic, damp, like blood soaked into ancient wood. Her boots crunched over dried twigs and gravel as the path narrowed, twisting through skeletal trees that clawed at her jacket like they wanted to drag her back.

The mansion loomed in the distance like a corpse propped upright. Gothic spires stabbed the sky, and its shattered windows stared outward like blind, furious eyes. The iron gates stood crooked, rusted with time and something darker. Moss clung to the stone fence that wrapped around the property like a noose.

That’s when she saw them.

The graves.

Dozens no, hundreds of them. Scattered around the mansion in irregular rows, half-swallowed by the overgrown earth. Some headstones were cracked down the middle, others too weathered to read, and some… disturbingly fresh. The dirt on a few was still unsettled, as if the earth hadn’t finished claiming what was inside. Her breath caught in her throat as she counted at least seven graves marked only by wooden stakes, their surfaces smeared with what looked like dried crimson.

She swallowed.

“Just theatrics,” she muttered to herself. “Someone’s sick idea of a prank.”

The beam of her flashlight trembled as her hand shook, breath shallow, every instinct screaming to turn back—but she forced herself to step further into the mansion. The air inside was colder, as though the house itself had forgotten what warmth felt like. The scent of mildew, rotting wood, and something iron-like clung to her lungs, thick and suffocating.

Her footsteps echoed through the empty, crumbling foyer. A grand staircase loomed ahead, shrouded in shadow, its once-elegant banister now splintered and dark. She panned the flashlight upward, slowly.

That’s when she saw it.

Hanging upside down like some twisted bat from the rafters, a figure motionless. Pale skin, platinum-blond hair matted with streaks of red, arms hanging limp, face partially obscured by the tangled mess of bloodstained mesh fabric. At first, she thought it was a corpse strung up in some sick ritual. But then—the light caught his face.

She didn’t scream.

Not yet.

His eyes snapped open.

Crimson.

Not the dull, dead kind of red, but burning like fire and fury trapped behind his irises. Y/N gasped, the sound too loud in the dead silence of the house. Then he moved. In one fluid, inhumanly fast motion, the figure dropped from the ceiling—landing directly in front of her with a soundless grace that chilled her blood.

She screamed and fell backward, scrambling on the cold, dusty floor. Her flashlight clattered away, spinning wild beams of light across the walls. Her hands scraped against jagged floorboards as she kicked herself back until her spine slammed into the wall behind her.

Trapped. Frozen. He was crouched in front of her now, head tilted slightly, hair casting jagged shadows across his face. His mouth curled slowly into a smirk, fangs glinting in the dim light, and he leaned in—too close.

“Why did you come here?” he whispered, voice like velvet dipped in danger.

And Y/N… couldn’t speak. He was crouched in front of her like a predator—still, coiled, every inch of him humming with danger. His head tilted slowly to the side, platinum hair falling messily across one glowing eye, the other hidden in shadow. His lips curled into something that might have been a smile… if it weren’t so cruel.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice low and velvety, but with an edge like a blade dragged across bone. “This place doesn’t welcome the living.”

Y/N’s mouth was dry, her chest heaving. She could barely form words. “I—I was dared… I didn’t think it was real. I didn’t think you were real.” He leaned in, so close now she could see the blood dried along his jawline, the faint twitch of his lip as if the word ‘dare’ had amused him in some feral, irritated way.

“A dare?” His voice deepened, colder. “You risked your life because some idiot told you to? For fun?”

Her breath caught as he rose, standing over her now. “Leave. While you still have your limbs attached,” he growled. “Or stay, and regret it for however long I let you live.”

She stared up at him, trembling but unmoving. Her body was screaming to run—but her heart refused. Something in her, deep and stubborn, latched onto the way his voice wavered on the edge of warning and loneliness. She could’ve crawled away. But she didn’t.

“No,” she whispered.

Silence. The air thickened around them like molasses. His eyes narrowed, burning red. Then—pain. Sharp and sudden. He dug his nails into her thigh, not just pressing but sinking in—deep enough to tear through her jeans and into flesh. She cried out, her back arching from the wall, her hands scrabbling at his wrist in shock and agony.

“Do you want to die?” he snarled, voice close to her ear now. “Or are you just this stupid?”

Tears welled in her eyes from the pain, but still—she shook her head. “I just… I couldn’t leave. Not yet.”

His expression flickered something dangerous, but almost curious. He stared at her a long time, then slowly removed his hand, his fingers now painted in her blood. He brought them up, inspecting the crimson smeared on his skin with idle interest.

“Not yet?” he echoed, voice low, dangerous.

Y/N winced as she sat up straighter against the cold wall, her hands trembling against the floor. “I-I have to stay the night. That was the dare. I can’t leave until sunrise.” At that, the vampire actually chuckled.

A dark, guttural sound slipped from his throat, followed by a slow shake of his head as he crouched again in front of her this time more relaxed, his elbows resting on his knees. “You humans are so entertaining,” he drawled, tone thick with sarcasm. “Stay the night? What is this, some sadistic version of hide-and-seek?”

She didn’t answer.

He leaned in, eyes flicking downward and that’s when he saw it. Blood. A slow, lazy smile stretched across his lips, revealing just a hint of fang. “Oh…” he purred, as if delighted by a surprise dessert, “You're bleeding.”

Y/N followed his gaze in horror to the gash on her thigh—right where he’d dug his nails in earlier. It was deeper than she’d realized. Crimson soaked through the fabric of her pants, trailing in a warm line down her skin.

He didn’t ask permission.

He slid forward smoothly, his hand gripping her injured leg—firm, cold, and possessive. Before she could pull away, his head dipped low. His lips met her thigh, and she gasped—whether in pain or shock, she didn’t know. His tongue traced the blood in a slow, deliberate motion, warm and terrifyingly intimate. A groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her skin.

“Sweet,” he murmured. “So very… sweet.”

Y/N’s heart thudded violently in her chest, panic twisting with something else, something she didn’t want to name. She finally found her voice, strained and fragile. “W-Who are you…?”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, licking the remaining blood from his bottom lip, the tip of his fang glinting in the dim light. “You don’t know who I am?” he asked finally, voice hushed, but heavy with something ancient and cruelly patient. His crimson gaze locked with hers.

“Felix,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “The thing that haunts this house. The monster they warned you about.”

He leaned in closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear.

“And darling… you just walked into my cage.”

Felix didn’t pull away completely. He stayed close, crouched like a predator who wasn’t done playing with its prey. “You want to know how I became this?” he asked suddenly, his voice lower, weightier. His eyes didn’t glow as brightly now. There was something old in them—haunted, even.

Y/N swallowed hard but nodded.

He leaned back slightly, hands resting on his thighs. “A curse,” he said simply. “From someone I trusted. Loved.” He tilted his head, lips curling into a bitter smile. “She didn’t like that I left her. So she took everything from me. My soul. My time. My death. Gave me this… thirst instead.” His nails idly traced a line on the dusty wooden floor. “She said I’d rot in this mansion forever—feeding, waiting, watching. Everyone who comes through here ends up in the ground.” He glanced at her then, eyes flicking to the window, to the graves just beyond the overgrown glass.

“I didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to come in.”

Y/N kept her face as neutral as she could, though her heart was hammering in her chest.

She breathed in shakily, brushing her hair back from her face. “Well, I didn’t come for you,” she muttered. “I came to explore the house.” Felix blinked, stunned for a second then broke into a low, amused laugh. He stood slowly, fluid and graceful, brushing the dust from his pants. “That so?” he said. “And here I thought I was the main attraction.”

He stepped back, letting the distance grow between them. “Go on then,” he said, voice still rich with mocking humor. “Explore.”

Y/N’s leg throbbed, the cut still fresh. She gathered her bag and stood, wincing as she tested her weight on the wounded limb. The stairs loomed ahead, worn and shadowed. She took a step. Felix’s voice drifted behind her, casual. “Need help limping, sweetheart?”

“No,” she bit out, without looking back.

Her hand gripped the railing, jaw clenched as she pulled herself up step by step, trying not to let him see the pain with every movement. She was determined, stubborn, stupid she knew all of it. But she wasn’t going to run. Not yet. The stairs creaked under her weight. She could hear his footsteps below but when she turned, he wasn’t there. She took another step.

He was suddenly behind her—no sound, no warning—his breath ghosting the back of her neck. She spun around, startled, but he had already vanished again.

“Ghosts aren’t the only ones who haunt,” his voice echoed faintly from the upstairs corridor.

She gritted her teeth and kept walking. Room after room stretched out before her each one dust-covered, untouched by time yet heavy with it. Cobwebs swayed in the cold air. Mirrors were cracked and warped. A child's doll sat in a corner, its porcelain face fractured like it had screamed too long.

And every time she stepped into a room… he was there. By the window. On the ceiling. In the reflection of a broken mirror. Watching and following.

She tried to pretend she didn’t see him. Tried to act like the shadows weren’t moving with him. But her fingers trembled on the edge of the doorframe as she entered the master bedroom. She whispered to herself, more for courage than belief.

“I’m just here to explore the house…”

A deep chuckle echoed from the wall.

“Keep telling yourself that, little lamb.”

The room she finally settled in was at the end of a long corridor its once grand double doors hung slightly ajar, one barely hanging onto its hinges. The air inside was thick, still, like it hadn’t been stirred in decades. Dust swirled in lazy circles through the beam of her flashlight as she hobbled in, limping more heavily now. She didn’t care. Her thigh burned with each step, but her body was too exhausted to keep moving.

The room had a tattered armchair near the fireplace, a velvet couch that had long since given in to mold, and faded wallpaper that peeled at the corners. Moonlight filtered in through shattered glass, casting silver puddles across the wooden floor.

Y/N slumped into the armchair with a pained sigh, letting her head fall back. Her fingers grazed the torn fabric of her jeans where his nails had sliced her earlier. It was still bleeding. Dull, hot pain flared through her nerves, but she welcomed it. It meant she was still alive.

Still human.

She didn’t hear him enter, but she knew. The air shifted. Warmer. Closer. She opened her eyes, and sure enough Felix was there, lounging across the arm of the ruined couch like he’d been waiting for her all along. His boots were kicked up, his dark eyes locked onto her, lazy but alert.

“Done exploring already?” he teased.

“Shut up,” she muttered, leaning her head against the chair’s backrest. “I’m bleeding and tired.”

He smirked. “You should’ve left when you had the chance.”

“I already told you. I’m not going anywhere.”

A beat passed. Silence, except for the ticking of an old grandfather clock down the hall.

“Do you ever get bored?” she asked suddenly. Her voice was softer now, tired but curious. “I mean… being here. Alone.” His smirk faded just slightly. “Sometimes.”

“You have friends?” she asked, tilting her head to look at him. Felix’s gaze shifted to the ceiling, then back to her. “I did. Once. But time… time isn’t kind. Not to mortals. Not to memories.”

There was something sad beneath his words something that slipped between the cracks of his usual sarcasm. Y/N let the silence stretch again before speaking. “I had a brother,” she said quietly. “He used to dare me into dumb things like this. Climb towers. Break into abandoned schools. He died a few years ago.”

Felix didn’t say anything. He just watched her, expression unreadable now.

“I guess I kept doing it. The dares. The exploring. Because I didn’t want to forget the rush.”

He leaned forward slightly, interested now, his elbows resting on his knees. “And vampires,” she said, a breath of a laugh in her voice, “I always thought they were… I don’t know. Lonely. Tragic. Kind of romantic in a twisted way.”

His head tilted slowly. “Romantic?” he echoed, something sharp glittering in his eyes. She nodded. “Yeah. There’s something sad and beautiful about someone who can live forever but never really live again. Always hungry. Always chasing something they can’t have.”

Felix didn’t move for a long moment. Then he rose slowly, his movements fluid, predatory.

“You’re strange,” he said quietly, stepping toward her. “Most people scream. Cry. Beg me not to kill them. And you… sit here bleeding, talking about tragic romance.” She watched him approach, heart thudding loud in her chest, but she didn’t flinch. Not this time. He crouched in front of her, his face close to hers again.

“Careful,” he whispered. “You’re starting to sound like someone I might like.” And though every instinct told her to be terrified, something in her stirred drawn in, caught in the storm of his presence.

She didn’t look away. “Maybe that’s the problem,” she whispered back.

The silence between them grew heavier. Not awkward—no, something more dangerous than that. It pulsed in the air like a heartbeat, slow and charged. Y/N shifted in the armchair, the dull ache in her thigh impossible to ignore, but what really unsettled her was the way Felix was watching her now. His eyes weren’t just curious anymore they were hungry.

His tongue ran along the sharp edge of his teeth, deliberate and slow. “Do you want me to take care of that wound?” Her breath hitched. The question lingered in the air, heavy with implication.

“You mean like… disinfect it?” she asked, though she already knew the answer.

He tilted his head, a crooked smirk playing on his lips. “Not exactly.” There was a long pause. Her heart pounded against her ribs, but then she nodded small, cautious. “Okay.”

His smile deepened, something dark and pleased glinting in his crimson gaze. “You’re brave. Or reckless.” He crossed the room with a smooth, predatory grace and knelt before her. Without asking, his fingers ghosted over her torn jeans. Then, with a soft rip, he tugged at the fabric, exposing more of her thigh. The skin was slick with blood, the wound still fresh and tender. She winced, but didn’t pull away.

His lips hovered above the gash.

“This might sting,” he murmured, almost like a tease. Then his tongue touched her skin.

It was warm. Slow. Precise. He licked up the blood in gentle, deliberate strokes like he was savoring every drop. His hands anchored her leg, firm but not painful. And when he moaned softly against her flesh, she shivered. “God,” he whispered, pulling back just enough to look up at her. “You taste sweet. Like dusk and danger.”

Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were glowing brighter now, pupils blown wide with something that looked disturbingly close to desire. And still, he didn’t move away.

He stared at her, lips stained crimson. Then his voice dropped, lower, almost pained. “You should stay away from me, you know.” She blinked, lips parting to ask why, but he spoke first—his voice raw, quiet, like a confession.

“Because if you don’t… I’m going to fall in love with you.”

Y/N’s heart stopped.

Before she could say a word, Felix stood, licking the last trace of blood from his thumb. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer searching, maybe hoping she’d stop him. But she didn’t. And he was gone. The door creaked shut behind him, and she was left alone, her wound clean, her pulse racing, and her mind echoing with the words she hadn’t expected to hear from the monster in the mansion.

…

The room was warm when Y/N stirred, the kind of warmth that only sunlight could bring the soft kind that seeps through worn-out curtains and brushes against the skin like a memory. She blinked slowly, her lashes fluttering, head heavy and sore. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Then the dull pain in her thigh reminded her.

She sat up, realizing she was no longer in the chair from last night. She was on a bed now, tucked beneath a thick, dusty quilt that smelled faintly of old wood and faint cologne. Her eyes darted around the room. The lamp was off. Her bag was still against the wall. But the window to the side was cracked open, golden light pouring in. The sun had risen.

She gasped and threw the covers off, adrenaline kicking in.

“I overslept—damn it,” she muttered, quickly limping to her things and throwing everything into her backpack with shaky hands. Her heart was racing not just from panic, but from everything that had happened. The wound on her leg was bandaged now—probably by him—and she didn’t know how to process the fact that a vampire had basically confessed to her hours ago.

As she zipped her bag shut, a voice from the darkest corner of the room, cloaked in shadow, interrupted her.

“You’re in a rush,” Felix said softly.

She startled, turning to the voice. The far corner was untouched by the sun’s rays, but his silhouette was unmistakable leaning against the wall, arms crossed, as if he’d been standing there for a while.

“How long have you been there?” she asked, breath catching.

He shrugged lazily, one brow lifted. “Since before you started dreaming. You talk in your sleep, you know.” Her cheeks flushed despite herself. “I didn’t mean to sleep in,” she said quickly, strapping her bag on. “I need to get going.” She turned to leave, but something about his silence made her pause. She glanced back and that’s when she noticed it.

He looked… sad. Not dramatically so. Just the subtle downturn of his lips, the slight slump of his shoulders, the way his eyes didn’t quite meet hers. It was the kind of sadness that came quietly, like a bruise blooming under the skin.

“I was just starting to love you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She froze. It wasn’t said with charm or seduction. It was said like it hurt to admit like every time he let himself feel, the wound from his past reopened. She turned fully, letting her bag fall from her shoulder, and stepped closer into the shade.

He looked different in the dark. The edge to him was softer, the menace stripped away. She hadn’t seen him fully before not like this. His skin was pale but not lifeless, like marble kissed with moonlight. His hair, tousled and shadow-drenched, framed his face like a halo of ink. And his eyes—those haunting red eyes—weren’t glowing now. They were watching her quietly, searching. She reached out, touching the sleeve of his shirt gently. “You say that like it’s a curse,” she said.

He gave a dry smile. “That’s because it is.”

Her breath hitched. Her fingers brushed his wrist, just barely, and still he didn’t pull away. He looked down at where she touched him, then back up at her face—taking her in like he was trying to memorize her.

“You really have to leave?” he asked, voice low.

She hated herself for saying it. The words slipped past her lips before she could stop them, fragile and foolish and far too human.

“I’ll come visit,” she whispered, eyes not quite meeting his. “Every other day… if you want.”

Felix didn’t answer at first. His red eyes remained unreadable, shadowed by the darkness of the corner he stood in. But the silence stretched, heavy and uncertain. Finally, he let out a low, dry laugh—one that barely sounded amused.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not,” she insisted, taking a step closer, heart hammering painfully in her chest. “I don’t break promises.” His eyes narrowed slightly, scanning her face for a hint of insincerity. Whatever he found, it seemed to shake him a little. His shoulders relaxed. Just a bit.

“I never got your name,” he said, quietly.

She blinked, realizing she never told him. “It’s Y/N.”

He repeated it softly under his breath, like tasting it on his tongue. Then he moved slow, deliberate, and with the kind of grace that didn’t belong to anything human. He stepped out of the shadows, careful not to touch the spill of sunlight on the floor. When he reached her, he stopped just a breath away. His hand came up, ghosting against her cheek before he leaned in and pressed his lips to it. A kiss; soft and fleeting but it lingered like heat.

When he pulled back, he hovered there, his lips close to hers. Close enough to feel her breath stutter against his mouth. His gaze dropped to her lips, then lifted back to her eyes, searching.

He didn’t want to overstep. Not after everything. Not when he wasn’t sure if she truly meant what she said.

So, he leaned in… slowly. Hesitant. Shy. A boy hiding beneath a monster’s skin.

And Y/N… Y/N closed the distance. Their lips met gently, mouths molding together like they were made for this one moment in time. It was cautious at first, full of question and fear, but it didn’t stay that way. Her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt, and he angled his head slightly, deepening the kiss with a hunger that had nothing to do with blood.

When he kissed her jaw, she tilted her head, giving him space. His lips found her neck.

She gasped softly as he trailed slow, reverent kisses down the side of her throat, each one more possessive than the last. When he found the spot just above her pulse, her breath hitched, and his lips paused there.

He inhaled sharply, and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. Her blood sang to him.

His fangs throbbed with temptation. His hands tightened on her hips. But he pulled away just in time. He turned his face from her neck, lips parted, a shiver of restraint trembling through him.

“You need to go,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with longing. “Now… before I forget how to be gentle.”

His eyes glowed faintly, raw with emotion and desire. And he stepped back into the safety of the shadows, watching her like a secret he was too afraid to keep.

“I’ll come back,” she promised again, softer this time, as if saying it any louder might break whatever fragile thing had just formed between them.

Felix didn’t respond right away. He stood a few steps behind her in the dim shadows of the mansion’s doorway, the place where the light ended and he could no longer follow. His red eyes were softer now, less hungry, less dangerous just… quietly watching her like he didn’t want to forget what she looked like. Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder, her fingers trembling slightly as she turned away from him. Her legs still ached, the memory of pain clinging to her thigh, but she didn’t look back just yet. She didn’t trust herself to.

The wooden door creaked as she pushed it open, a harsh contrast to the soft silence behind her. Sunlight greeted her like a slap—too bright, too warm—reminding her she was back in the world that made sense. She stepped outside and paused on the stone steps of the mansion, the cold air brushing against her skin. Then slowly so slowly she turned around.

The building loomed behind her, still and ancient, its windows like tired, sun-dulled eyes. The vines clinging to the stone looked like veins frozen in place, and the old wood creaked under the wind’s touch. And there he was. Felix stood in the shadows, just behind the doorway, his form half-ghosted by the dark. He didn’t speak. He didn’t wave. He just watched her his head tilted ever so slightly, as if he was memorizing her all over again. There was something vulnerable in his stillness, like a statue that longed to move.

She offered him one last look, her eyes lingering on his, before finally, reluctantly, turning away.

Her footsteps were slow at first, each one echoing against the cracked stone path that led back to the world. Then, quicker. Further. Her heart pulled back with every step, but she didn’t stop.

And Felix… he stayed at the threshold, his fingers curled around the edge of the doorframe like he wanted to follow but couldn’t.

Not yet. Not in the sunlight. Not in the world she belonged to.

…

When YN finally reached the edge of town and stumbled through the gates of her dorm, the weight of the mansion still heavy on her, she was immediately met with wide eyes and frantic voices.

“YN?! Oh my God—what the hell—where were you?”

“You actually went through with it?”

“Are you okay? You’re bleeding!”

The voices of her friends swirled around her like a whirlwind. Arms guided her inside, and she was gently eased onto the common room couch, blankets thrown over her shoulders, questions raining down before she could even catch her breath.

She winced. “Guys, I’m fine—seriously.”

“Fine? You look like you just crawled out of a horror movie,” one of them said, pointing at the tear in her pants and bandaged wound. They demanded answers.

“What did you see in there?”

“Was the mansion really haunted?”

“Did something attack you?”

Y/N’s lips parted, her throat dry. She could still feel Felix’s lips brushing her neck, the ghost of his voice in her ear, the aching sweetness of his presence. But she couldn’t tell them that. They’d never believe her.

So she lied, believably.

“There were... graves,” she started, voice low and steady. “Dozens of them, some old, some more recent. The place is completely overgrown. Windows shattered, furniture still inside, like everyone left in a hurry.” Her friends leaned in.

“I think I tripped on one of the broken floorboards. It was dark I didn’t have a good flashlight. I cut my leg on something… maybe glass or rusted wood. I panicked, stayed in one of the rooms till sunrise, then came back.” They stared at her, wide-eyed.

“You stayed the night there alone?” Margo whispered, half in awe, half in horror.

She gave a small shrug, eyes lowered. “I didn’t really have a choice.”

None of them questioned her further not about the wound, not about the strange tiredness in her eyes, not about the way she kept glancing toward the window as if expecting someone or something to be there, watching.

She never mentioned Felix. Not his name. Not his eyes. Not his curse. That part... was hers alone.

@pixie-felix @pessimisticloather @necrozica @sh0dor1 @leeknow-minho2 @jitrulyslayyed @igotajuicyass @bbokvhs @katyxstay @maisyyyyyy @day138 @katchowbbie @imeverycliche @yoongiismylove2018 @morkleesgirl @rockstarkkami @alisonyus @whatdoyouwanttocallmefor @lillymochilover @idol-dream-catcher @iknow-uknow-leeknow @maxidential @ebnabi @ari-hwanggg @rossy1080 @hanniebunch @tricky-ritz

Check out my pinned if you want to be added to the taglist!

~kc 💗

[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 2

Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, mild stalking, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, a little dirty talk (if you squint), dark romance, sick!reader, mild supernatural body horror (bond sickness), demons, comfort and control.

Author's notes: Thank you guys so much for all your comments, reposts, and likes! I'm definitely motivated to continue this story and have some plans in mind for the future chapters. 🥰

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 2:

Tethered in Silence

You wake up every morning feeling… better. But it doesn’t make sense. Because during the day, you feel sick. Nauseous. Lightheaded.

Your skin prickles like you’re wearing clothes that don’t belong to you. Sometimes you forget where you are mid-thought. Your body feels too heavy for this life.

But at night?

You sleep deeply. Without nightmares. Without fear.

It started the day you ran from them.

And you don’t understand it. You’ve done nothing different. No medicine works during the day. But when the sun sets… Your body calms. Your breathing evens out. You feel—safe.

You tell yourself it’s just exhaustion. You don’t know that each night, one of them watches over you.

Sometimes it’s Mystery, curled up outside your window, nose pressed to the glass like a loyal animal waiting to be let inside. He never scratches. Just listens for your breathing to steady—then smiles softly in the dark.

Sometimes it’s Romance, leaving rose petals beneath your balcony, humming one of the songs he swore he wrote just for you. The same one you’ve caught yourself humming without realizing.

Sometimes it’s Jinu—who, when your fever spikes, slips silently into your room just to stand near you until the bond calms. He never moves. Never speaks. Just watches you with reverence and restraint, fists clenched tight to keep himself from reaching for you.

And sometimes—only sometimes—it’s Baby. Not close. Just nearby. Leaning against the wall across the street. Eyes glowing faintly under his hood. Unmoving.

Watching.

They never touch you. Only witness. Only ache.

Your light. Their everything.

They hate to feel your suffering during the day—a consequence of the bond forming without proximity. But they hope that this pain you carry is what drives you toward them.

Because every night, you sleep because they’re there. And you don’t even know it.

You wake up on a Wednesday, feeling well rested—though you know that won’t last long. It never does. You sit on your counter, chewing breakfast slowly, staring off at nothing. Your eyes drift to the shelf.

Romance’s book.

It’s been sitting there for days. Untouched. Daring.

You don’t want to admit you’re curious. But your hand moves anyway. “How did he even know I wanted to read this?” You mutter around a mouthful of bread.

You waddle to the couch and crack it open. Your heart’s not ready, but you flip through the pages. And then—

You freeze.

A passage, underlined in neat black ink:

“Love that spans lifetimes is never gentle. It devours slowly.”

Your breath catches.

The creeping feeling in your chest tightens. Longing. Yearning. You don’t even know for what.

Nope.

You slam the book shut.

Not today.

You work overtime at the café the next few days, thinking you’ll outrun whatever this is. But the nights remain the same. Each one of them leaves something. A new sketchbook on your doorstep, the paper thick and expensive, with a note from Mystery:

“For when you draw us again.”

You haven’t seen him. But your heart races every time you hear footsteps outside. You swear you hear purring through the window once, but shake it off.

The day after, you come home late, too tired to even stand. You drop your bag. Your stomach growls. But your apartment smells like miso and spice. Your favorite ramen sits warm on the stove. No signs of forced entry. No windows broken. Your locks were fine. You tell yourself you must’ve made it before and forgot. You try not to look at the empty bowl already set out for you.

After that, it becomes a pattern.

Groceries show up on your doorstep. Snacks you forgot you liked. Drinks you told no one about. Sometimes a sticky note:

“Don’t skip meals, brat.” (You know it’s from Abby. You roll your eyes… and smile.)

They don’t push. But they never leave.

Letters. Tickets. Handwritten invitations. Concerts. Fanmeets. Award shows. You never go. But you read them all.

The private session ticket with your name in looping calligraphy stays on your desk. You’ve moved it twelve times. You’ve never thrown it away.

Then, on Friday of the next week, comes a final envelope.

No ticket.

No flower.

Just a single sheet of paper, torn at the edges. The ink slightly smudged like someone had been holding it for too long before sealing it. You unfold it slowly.

‘You don’t have to believe us.Just let us prove it.’—J

You sit back on your couch. Everything aches. You’re tired. Dizzy. Burning with fever in the afternoon, freezing by night. It’s getting harder to deny what’s happening. You keep telling yourself it’s a prank. A stunt. A delusion.

They’re famous. Rich. Beautiful. They have no reason to want you.

You met them once.

But the bond doesn’t care about logic. The bond wants what it wants. And as you stare at that letter in your trembling hands… You start to wonder if maybe—just maybe— you want them too.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

By Sunday, you’re fed up from feeling so sick and decide to go and buy new medicines. You’re pale. Shivering. Oblivious to the way demons on the street stop in their tracks when they see you.

One begins to follow you.

From the shadows, Rumi, Zoey, and Mira spot it.

“Target marked,” Zoey whispers.

“No incident,” Rumi replies. “Quiet takedown.”

They move in—silent, lethal. Weapons at the ready.

But then the demon sees your face.

It freezes.

Eyes wide. It backs away, trembling, then flees like it’s seen a god. You never notice. You’re inside buying Tylenol.

The girls stare after you.

“What the hell?” Rumi questions, watching as the other demons in the area back off and run somewhere else.

“That’s… not normal,” Mira mutters.

“Is it her?” Zoey questions, watching your sick form drop a vitamin jelly and curse pathetically. Pity erupts in her chest. “She seems pretty normal to me…”

“Something’s off.” Rumi states, analyzing you. You seemed like a very normal person. No markings whatsoever. Why did they flee? “Maybe we should look into it a bit more..?”

“We can run a background check.” Mira suggests. “Though it’ll just be for precaution. We shouldn’t- ZOEY?”

The rapper of the group was slowly walking towards you with the intent of engaging in conversation. 

The fluorescent lights above hum louder than usual.

Your head is pounding. Your limbs feel like lead. Every movement takes just a little more effort than it should.

You shuffle toward the over-the-counter shelf, fingers grazing through boxes of headache meds and nausea tablets. You’ve been here too many times this week.

“You okay? You look like the flu’s winning.”

The voice is light, teasing, warm.

You glance sideways and nearly drop your medicines again. Cool. Effortlessly pretty. The kind of girl who belongs on your feed—not in front of you, talking like you’re friends.

You know her face. You’ve seen her before. Not in person. But in clips. In edits. She’s Zoey—one of the girls from Huntrix.

“Sorry,” she says, flashing an easy grin. “Didn’t mean to startle you. You looked like I did last week when I thought I had the plague but it was just anxiety and kombucha withdrawals.”

You nod stiffly. Your throat is dry. “Yeah. I’ve just… been off…sorry, you’re Zoey, right? As in from Huntrix?”

She giggles nervously. “Yeah, I just need to grab a few things too.” She steps closer to the shelves. Casually, like she’s just browsing. “Cold stuff’s over there, but if it’s more like… migraines or vertigo? These work way faster.” She taps a pack of fast-acting tablets and hands them to you.

You take them without thinking, a little starstruck. “Thanks.”

She studies you—not overtly. But it’s there. Her eyes linger too long on your face. “No problem! I hope you feel better! Uh... I, sorry I didn’t get your name-”

“Y/N” you nodded with a nervous smile. 

“Great to meet you, Y/N! Maybe when you feel better we could hang out sometime. Get your instagram?”

You stammered, mouth gaping then closing. What was with all these pop stars approaching you as of late? “Uh, yeah, sure…” You said blinking. You were too sick for this. Why did you have to meet one of the most famous people in the country now when you looked this shitty? And she wanted your instagram? Is this real life?

You told her your instagram handle and she smiled. “Awesome! Well, I hope you feel better.” she started to walk away and you raised an eyebrow. “Uh… weren’t you supposed to get something?” 

Zoey turned red and laughed nervously. “Oh- right! Silly me. My memory is so bad. Thanks for reminding me!” 

You nodded, still a bit shocked at this whole encounter and went to pay for your medicine. 

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The next day, You see a clip on TikTok. It was the Saja Boys at a fanmeet. Laughing with the Huntrix girls, though the girls seemed less enthusiastic. You scroll through more of your feed and stop when you see an image.

It was Jinu and Rumi playing footsies.

You feel a pang in your heart and scroll on.

Zoey playfully hitting Mystery and his little pout after that.

Romance and Abby fanart with Mira.

"Miromabby is real!"

"Zoestery supremacy."

"Rujinu playing footsies? They’re the cutest!"

Your stomach drops.

You turn your phone off. Then on. Then off again.

“They’re not mine,” you whisper to convince yourself. “They were never mine.” You feel yourself getting weaker. A sinking feeling in your gut. It’s unexplainable. You were the one avoiding all of the boys and their madness. Why would something like this upset you? You were the one rejecting their invites.

And then something just breaks.

The next weekend, your coworkers drag you out. They mean well. You look like you haven’t slept in days, and so when one of the girls invited you to come out with them after work on a Saturday, you accept. 

They take you to a club. Loud music. Glittering lights. Free drinks. You tell yourself you deserve it.

But deep down, you feel wrong. Like you’re doing something unforgivable.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The boys are in their studio, practicing choreo for an upcoming show when Mystery jolts upright mid-step. His head whips toward the door. His pupils dilate. And then—

He growls. Low. Deep. Animal.

They freeze.

Romance is the first to stop moving, lips parting as he slowly lowers his mic. Abby drops into a ready stance like he’s about to charge into something. “What? What is it? What is she feeling now?”

He’s been on edge for days. Every time Mystery whimpers about your nausea or fever, he paces like a caged beast. Every time your scent spikes with sadness, he throws something across the room. It’s taken both Jinu and Baby to restrain him—twice this week alone. Once when Mystery said you slipped in the shower. Another when your heart rate flatlined in fear while walking home alone. He hasn’t stopped shaking since.

“Tell me,” Abby grits. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Mystery’s hands twitch. “She’s not alone.”

Romance is already unlocking his phone, screen flipping up to your page—he checks it a hundred times a day. Sometimes a thousand. He breathes in sharply.

“She posted. Or—no, someone tagged her.”

A nightclub. Low lighting. Your smile—nervous. Shy. And then—other men.

Hands brushing your waist. A stranger whispering in your ear. Your head tilting back in a laugh that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

The phone screen burns in Romance’s hand. His smirk dies. “Is that her?” he asks. But he already knows the answer.

Abby doesn’t bother replying. He rips the phone from Romance’s grip and snarls, muscles tensing beneath his shirt as he glares at the video. “Who the fuck are those guys?” he growls, loud enough to shake the chandelier above. “Why is he touching her? Why is she letting—”

A teacup shatters.

Baby hadn’t moved. But his hand had clenched just enough to crush the porcelain in his grip. He stands at the edge of the room, statue-still. His pupils blown wide, pitch black. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. His breathing is slow—too slow—as he watches the clip loop.

He’s memorizing the men’s faces. So he knows who to kill first.

Mystery lets out a sound—not human. It rips from his throat like a guttural whine and a growl, high-pitched and wet. His claws are out, twitching. 

“She’s letting strangers touch her,” Baby says softly. But it’s not soft. It’s dangerous.

Romance’s voice is velvet-wrapped venom. He’s smiling again, but the smile is hollow—like a cracked mask. “She’s trying to forget us,” he murmurs. “Trying to pretend she doesn’t belong to us.” His voice dips. “It won’t work.”

There’s a snap. A shift. Something ancient uncoils in the room. The temperature drops. Power hums in the air like static before a storm.

And then—they move. No plan. No hesitation. No words. Just instinct. Baby’s already calling Jinu. The leader’s in a meeting—still gathering intelligence on Rumi, on the Hunters, on the fragile balance between war and reunion.

The phone rings once. “Yes?” Jinu’s voice is curt, sharp with authority.

“She’s at the club,” Baby says calmly.

Jinu doesn’t respond at first. There’s the sound of footsteps. A tiger’s whine. Then Baby adds, like a bullet to the heart:

“Men are touching her.”

The phone crackles. Not with sound, but with energy. Dark, feral, electric. Baby can feel the shift through the line. Something old stirs. Something broken. Then—

Jinu’s voice returns. But it’s not Jinu.

It’s the voice of the thing that crawled to Gwi Ma 400 years ago, begging to bring you back. It’s older. Colder. Hungrier.

“Where is she?”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You're tipsy. Laughing. Warm. The club pulses like a heartbeat beneath your skin—bass thudding through your ribs, lights smearing color over your vision. You haven’t felt this loose in ages. Not since university. Not since before the dreams started. Before the headaches. Before the boys.

Your coworkers sway around you, drunk and shouting. One of them pours you another shot. You take it. You let it burn. It’s easier to blame the sick feeling in your chest on the alcohol now. Easier than admitting that you’ve been haunted.

You don’t notice the guy your friends brought getting too close. Not at first. He presses against your back under the excuse of helping you keep balance. His hand slides to your waist. You laugh it off. You don’t want to make a scene.

Another drink. Another dizzy smile. Another moment where you forget who you are. “Come on,” he says, too close to your ear. “Let me walk you home.”

You nod. You shouldn’t have.

He throws his jacket over your shoulders like it’s a favor. Wraps an arm around you. Guides you through the club’s glowing mouth into the alley beside it.

The world tilts sideways. Your pulse buzzes against your skull. And then—you round the corner.

And they're there.

Five shadows cut from the dark like carved obsidian. They don’t speak. They don’t have to. Your breath hitches in your throat. The bond snaps into place like a noose and for the first time all night—you can breathe. The ache behind your eyes disappears. Your limbs go steady. Your nausea evaporates. And even in your drunken haze, you know it’s because of them.

The boys who haunt your dreams. The demons who ruin your peace. The monsters who feel like home.

Abby moves first. He doesn’t speak to you. His full, furious attention is on the man still touching you. “Touch her again,” Abby growls, voice low and venomous, “and I’ll shatter every bone in your body.”

Romance steps into view, golden eyes gleaming like firelight. He tsks, slow and mocking. “Naughty girl,” he murmurs, eyes trailing down your body like he’s savoring the view of you in your dress. “Out here, letting strangers paw at what isn’t theirs.”

His gaze lingers on your thighs. The hem of your dress. Your dazed expression. You see the muscle in his jaw twitch. “She forgot us,” he says with a small, cruel smile. “So she let herself be touched.”

Romance leans in with a sickly sweet smile aimed at the guy by your side. “She’s not yours to protect,” he whispers. “So if you would so kindly… fuck off.”

The guy squares his shoulders. “Who the hell do you think—” His voice dies the moment his eyes land on the figure behind them all.

Baby.

Still. Silent. Watching. His pupils are blown wide, pitch black. Shadows crawl up his arms like smoke.

The guy’s bravado crumples. “Hey, hey—I didn’t know she was spoken for…” He stumbles back. Your balance wavers. 

Mystery darts forward, catching you in his arms like you were made to fit there. He buries his nose in your neck with a shaky inhale. Like it's the only thing in the entire world that could calm him down. You don’t push him away.

“Y/N? You know these guys?” your friend calls weakly.

“Uh huh,” you mumble. Your voice is slurred, but you don’t miss how Romance is staring—burning holes through your clothes. Your spine prickles. He rakes his eyes over you slowly, like memorizing every inch. You remember the way he said you belonged to him. And for a second, you want to.

Abby moves closer again, jaw tense. His eyes flick from your dazed expression to the guy who dared to touch you earlier. He sees red.

“Take care of him,” Baby says, the words barely audible—but they’re a death sentence. Abby cracks his knuckles.

“With pleasure.”

“Don’t look, baby,” Mystery whispers into your ear. You shiver. His voice is soft, but it carries heat. Danger. Something low coils in your stomach, and lower still. His hands tighten around your waist and you melt. You don’t even notice the scream behind you.

“You came,” you slur, eyes glossy. “I… feel better now…”

“Is that so, princess?” Romance frowns, stepping closer. He tilts your chin with two fingers. The bond flares. A moan slips from his throat before he can stop it. His eyes fall lower—to the swell of your chest in that too-short dress.

“Did you wear this for them?” He asks through gritted teeth. “For all those men to see you like this?”

His jaw tenses. His hands twitch. Mystery’s fingers dig into your hips and you gasp. It’s too much. You whimper. And it breaks something in all of them.

Romance yanks his hand back like he’s been burned, turning away with a curse. Marks rise on his skin, glowing faintly. You don’t even notice.

But then—

Jinu steps from the shadows. His gaze is ice. Piercing. Regal. He spares no glance for the man Abby dragged away. Only you.

“You’re drunk,” he says flatly.

You flinch.

“You’re reckless.”

Tears prick at your eyes. You know you shouldn’t have gone out. You know you shouldn’t feel better just because they’re here. But you do. Jinu’s hand reaches for your jaw, and you go still. The moment his fingers graze your skin, the bond explodes between you. You can’t breathe.

He leans down until your noses almost touch.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “So reckless. So breakable.”

Jinu trails his nose on the side of your neck causing a shiver to erupt down your spine.

“If you’d stopped pretending this wasn’t real, you’d be spread across my lap, begging us to forgive you.”

You suck in a breath. Every nerve in your body screams. You squeeze your thighs together. This is wrong. This is insane. You should be running.

But you’re not.

You’re melting.

He lets go. You nearly fall forward—but he catches you. Of course he does.

They don’t ask.

They don’t wait.

They take you home.

Theirs.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

From the rooftop nearby, Mira watches the scene unfold.

The way the boys surround you.

The way you lean into them like they’re the only thing keeping you alive.

And then—

They vanish in smoke. With you.

She presses a finger to her earpiece. “She’s not normal,” she whispers. “And she’s gone with them.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The sheets are silk under your touch. A splitting headache forms and you groan, last night’s party flooding back like a cruel wave. You decide you’re never drinking again.

Your eyes open—and your stomach twists. The ceiling isn’t yours. You bolt upright, heart pounding. And they’re there.

All five of them. Beautiful. Dangerous. Familiar in a way that makes your soul ache. They’re watching you. Some with concern. Some with reverence. Some like they want to devour you.

“Where am I?” you breathe. Your voice shakes. “Why am I here?”

You look around wildly, mind racing. You remember the latter events of the night. Romance’s gaze. Mystery’s breath on your ear. Abby’s voice like thunder. Baby’s black eyes. Jinu’s warning...

“You took me,” you gasp. “You took me.”

Abby steps forward first—hands raised like you’re a spooked animal. “You were in danger.”

“I was out with my friends,” you argue.

Mystery whispers from where he kneels near the door. “You’re always in danger when you’re not with us.” His voice is soft, but it cuts like glass.

Romance kneels beside the bed next. Too graceful. Too close. “Let us explain.”

You scramble back, trembling. “No. No more dreams. No more tricks.” Your hands press to your temples. “I’m not yours.”

You say it like you need to believe it. Like it’s the only thing keeping you sane.

Baby finally speaks from the shadows. “Then why do you feel safer here than you’ve felt in your entire life?”

His voice is emotionless. Clinical. But something about it makes your skin erupt in chills. You freeze. Because he’s right. And that terrifies you.

Abby sits at the edge of the bed, watching you like a kicked dog. “You must be tired. How about a bath first, hmm?” His voice is too gentle for someone so strong.

You flinch. He notices.  And it kills him.

“I should go home—”

“Please, stay,” Mystery pleads. His voice is almost a whimper. You look at him and feel your heartbeat falter. Then Jinu approaches. Deliberate. Measured. The pull in your chest pulses harder.

“We would never hurt you,” he says, voice steady. “Please allow us to explain.”

You glance around. Five sets of eyes. Each one begging for the same thing. Not obedience. Not fear. A chance.

You sigh. “Fine. But I need a bath first.”

They release a breath like they’d been underwater for hours. Romance smiles. “Thank you, baby.”

So there you were, sitting on the edge of a couch that costs more than your rent. Hair damp and in clothes way too big for you. Based on the scent, you hate how you could tell they were Jinu’s. Unbeknown to you, the guys had drawn sticks to decide who’s clothes you would wear after your shower. 

Velvet cushions. Mahogany floors. Tall windows draped in gauzy silk that sways with no wind. You don’t know where you are.

But it smells like them. Like rain on stone, smoke, citrus, old paper, and heat.

You’re in their apartment.

And they’re all still here.

Watching.

Waiting.

Like wolves circling their starved mate—but trying to look civilized about it.

Abby comes up from behind you, handing you a glass of water and two painkillers. “For your pretty little head. It must be pounding right now” 

You noticed his extra caution and nervousness and it broke your heart a little bit even if it shouldn’t. You take the medicine. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, princess.” 

The room is bathed in silence after you take your medicine. Five pairs of eyes staring at you with longing and another emotion you were too afraid to acknowledge. Fondness? 

Love?

You shake your head at the thought. 

All of them couldn’t believe you were here. In their clothes sitting on their couch in their apartment. It was almost too good to be true. They had to be careful. They couldn’t afford to have you run like last time. 

Because they knew they wouldn’t just let you go now. Now that you’re here in their clutches. They’d make you stay.

Romance is the first to speak. “You’ve been dreaming of us.”

It isn’t a guess.

You swallow. Hard. “How do you know that?”

Mystery, curled up on a cushion across from you, answers in a low murmur. “Because we feel it when you do.”

You flinch. “That doesn’t make sense.”

Jinu steps forward slowly, crouching down like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. “The bond is active again.”

You cock your head to the side like a puppy. It was the cutest thing they’d ever seen. 

Baby’s fists tighten, resisting the urge to pounce on you.

Jinu speaks. “Your soul remembers. But your mind doesn’t. That’s why you feel sick during the day. Why you sleep like you’ve finally come home.”

He doesn’t touch you—but he gestures to the sketchbook on their coffee table. “You’ve been drawing us, haven’t you?”

You glance down. The sketchbook you didn’t bring with you. The one Mystery must have brought you. The pages are full of lines you don’t remember making. Faces. Threads. A burning palace. A blood moon. And five boys who all look like them.

“These don’t mean anything,” you say quietly. But your voice shakes.

Abby leans against the far wall, arms crossed. “You feel cold during the day. Like you’re not in your own skin.”

You nod slowly. “And you’ve been dizzy. Unsteady. Like something inside you is pulling.”

More nods. “That’s the bond, too.”

Romance sits down across from you, not too close. For once, he looks serious. “You don’t have to believe everything right now. But you feel it. Don’t you?”

“The thread. Between us.”

You try to speak.

Nothing comes out.

You stand up abruptly, putting the coffee table between you and all of them. They all flinch like they’re ready to catch you if you run. “I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m having dreams that don’t feel like mine. I’m drawing with a hand that doesn’t feel like mine. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Baby’s voice cuts in—calm and sharp. “You’re not losing your mind.”

“You’re remembering what was taken from you.”

You turn to Jinu, eyes wet with frustration. “Then explain it. Really explain it. No more riddles.”

Jinu takes a breath like it hurts to speak the words. The others go quiet. You feel the room shift—heavier. Like the bond itself is listening.

“You died.”

His voice is low. Steady. But grief hums under every syllable. “Four hundred years ago. You died. And it was my fault.”

He doesn’t blink. “I sold my soul to Gwi Ma for fame. I thought I wanted luxury, adoration—immortality. I got it. But then I met you.”

“You were just a girl. Bright. Human. Good. You saw me for what I was—a demon. And you stayed anyway.”

Your eyebrows raised at the mention of demon, but listened on, letting him finish.

“But I was selfish. And you paid the price. When you died, I begged Gwi Ma- the demon king to bring you back. He said no.”

His fists clench on his knees. And you began to think maybe he was crazy. A demon king? Really?

“So I made a deal. If I could bind other demons to your soul—build a tether strong enough to pull you back across lifetimes—he’d let you be reborn.”

He looks at you now. Really looks.

“And I did. I found them. Each one of us—Abby, Romance, Mystery, Baby—we lived lives tied to you. Not all at once. Not always together.”

“In every lifetime, you met one of us. You fell in love. You died. Again and again.”

Your breath catches in your throat and fear grips you. I died? Multiple times? Are they crazy? Every rational thought within you told you to reject this explanation. This Fairytale and yet…

When you looked into each of their eyes they were sincere. Jinu’s eyes holding so much truth so much anguish. Either they were psychos who believed their lies or…

It was all the truth. And that terrified you.

“You’ve lived dozens of lives, and in every one, your soul was trying to return to the pact.”

“Now… we’re all here. Together. Finally.”

“And your soul remembers.”

You sit frozen. The blood drains from your face. Your voice comes out broken: “So… I’m not me.”

Jinu’s expression shatters. He moves toward you slowly—like you’ll flee again. “You are you. You’re this lifetime’s version of her. But you’re more than this moment. You’re all the love, all the pain, all the choices you made to find your way back to us.”

Questions began swimming in your mind. Demons? They were demons? There was a Demon king, this Gwi Ma… it was all so crazy. Too crazy. Maybe too crazy to be a lie… How else would you explain this tether to them, this bond. How you’ve been feeling. The dreams, the sketches, the visions. It lines up with this story. 

Mystery whispers from the corner, cutting through your thoughts. “We missed you every time.”

There was a pain in his gaze, and you looked around to see that same pain reflected in everyone’s eyes. 

You needed more details. More explanations. Them not being human made sense, that was clear to you. But everything else, just seemed so bizarre to be true. Demons were real? You had been reincarnated? And they had loved you throughout those lifetimes? Their souls were tied to yours? 

Well, that last bit had you believing, because at least that last bit you actually felt.

It was all too crazy and you sighed, rubbing your temples. You didn’t want to believe them but somehow you just did. Like it all made sense. And deep down you knew it was the truth. 

You let the silence stretch. Something hot stings behind your eyes. “So what now?... You expect me to just—fall in love with you all?”

Baby answers this time. Voice low. Final. “No.”

“We expect you to remember that you already did.”

Your head is pounding. Not in a normal way. It feels like something is unraveling behind your eyes—memories that don’t belong to you pressing against the inside of your skull like water through cracked glass.

You close your eyes. The room spins. You hear a voice. Soft. Familiar.

“Don’t push her,” Jinu murmurs to the others. “She’s at the edge.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. You want to argue. Scream. Say it’s all ridiculous. Say you don’t believe in past lives or demons or fate.

But your heart won’t let you. And neither will the thread quietly tugging behind your ribs. You don’t realize you’ve sunk back onto the couch until Mystery is gently placing a pillow behind your head, his touch featherlight. He doesn’t speak. Just hums something low and wordless as your eyes flutter shut.

Your head still hurts, but less. The weight of everything presses down—and still, for the first time in days, you don’t feel alone.

Romance crouches nearby, hands on his knees, watching you through his lashes. “We’re not asking you to love us today.”

“We’re asking for a chance.”

Abby, his arms crossed, finally uncrosses them. “A chance to take care of you. Like we were supposed to.”

You open your eyes. The ceiling above you glows faintly with soft reflected light. There’s no sound but their breathing. And your own heartbeat.

“Just… a chance?” you whisper.

Jinu kneels beside the couch again. “That’s all.”

“And if I don’t remember?”

He smiles—small. Sad.

“Then we’ll give you a thousand new reasons to love us again.”

You don’t say yes.

But you don’t say no.

You close your eyes.

And this time, when the bond pulses gently at the base of your spine like a heartbeat that doesn’t belong to you…

You let it.

TO BE CONTINUED ───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

Author's note: Wahhh I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter as much as I did writing it! Things are picking up now and the ball is rolling. I sprinkled in a little bit of naughtiness there just to hint on eventual spice down the line... eventually, when it feels right! But let me know if you guys liked this one, reblog, comment, and like if you wish too! <3 Love y'allWilla x.

───────── ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆ ─────────

Tag list: @faerie-soirxx@strayharmony943@ibby-miyoshi-nerd@anonymousewrites@cottonheadedninnymugggins@apelepikozume @moonlight-rosevine @yepitsmesendhelp @lovely-maryj @nonetheartist @ateezswonderland @sarah22447 @zuhaeri @enerofairy @littlemissfix-itfic @meeeegaaan

[brokenengene]

rip my heart out {chapter one}

pairing: park jay x f reader, jake sim x f reader, yang jungwon x f reader

genre: zombie apocalypse au, slow burn romance, found family, action, dystopian

content warnings: intense themes, cursing/profanity, violence, weapon usage, dark themes, brief mention of past abuse, love triangles, angst, blood, injuries, death, kissing, sexual tension, suggestive content, smut possible in later chapters

word count: 3.9k

soundtrack: eyes on fire- blue foundation

'Still Breathing'

You wake up from yet another excruciating nightmare. At this point, you're not even surprised. Nightmares can't scare you anymore; at this point, it's a miracle you're even alive. You sit up, the bedsheets already damp from the hot, humid air. The faint sounds of birds chirping and soft rain are another painful reminder that you've lived to see yet another dreaded day. 

Kicking the loose sheets off your body, you let the musky air cool off the expanse of your skin. They always warned that this day would come. That one day, temperatures would soar to excruciatingly uncomfortable heights. Not enough to kill us, but enough to make every single day feel like waking up in hell. You roll out of bed, letting your bare feet hit the rotting wood of the bedroom floor. Your eyes glance around the abandoned farmhouse. Walls chipping apart, and floors decaying beneath your toes. You know you can't stay here another night; it's a death wish to stay in one place too long. Not in the wastelands of what this country once was. 

It can be beautiful when you think about it. The soft mountains, the greenery of ferns and shrubs growing on the riverbank as the water flows south. The towns and cities are now abandoned and overgrown with any tree or plant that can survive the heat. You never know who or what will come at you from that greenery. Aware that you need to exit soon, you hop off the dirty mattress and start to pack. 

Guns, knives, bullets, canned peaches, and a small first aid kit. Anything you can fit in your backpack that you possibly could need. Having been on your own so long, you’ve gotten used to taking good care of yourself. In return, you can't even vividly remember the last time you talked to another human. It's been years. Years of just you, your weapons, and your nightmares.

You lace up your boots, letting them come up just past your ankle, before taking your pistol and strapping it to the holster around your thighs. Most of your bare legs are exposed to the elements from your shorts. The flesh marked with various scars and bruises. The hellish heat forced you to cut the sleeves of your top and the edge of your shorts even shorter. If you're not careful, this heat will kill you, so its best to keep your attire minimal. With your knives and guns strapped to your body, you step out of the abandoned farmhouse. 

The sun is already beating down on your skin, a river of sweat already starts running down your back.  Swinging your backpack over your shoulder, you begin to trek through the overgrown forest. You step over logs and rotting tree trunks. The heat starting to get to you as you make your way into town, following the broken asphalt of the road that used to run through the middle of this broken town. 

You weave in and out of abandoned cars, most of them already turning to rust. It hurts to see, knowing that this country was once full of thriving cities and vivid life. It all fell apart because of the Neurocorpse outbreak five years ago. You feel a painful tug at your heart, realizing that the country you once loved was a distant childhood memory. 

You prioritize staying on high alert as you make your way into town. Keeping your hand rested over your pistol. You never know when or where the Infected lurk, and it's a known fact that they are damn near impossible to kill. You've encountered a handful in your five years of surviving alone. Fully convinced that the only reason you got away is that you happen to be quick enough on your feet. It's funny when you think about it, in no way in hell should you even be alive. But here you are, still breathing, alive and well, ready to trek through another dreadful day.

 You walk through the abandoned main street, vision already starting to blur from the heat and dehydration combined. Looking for relief,  your eyes catch on an abandoned convenience store just right of the main road. A few black letters remain on the yellow brick sign, the windows and glass doors already smashed through. You climb through the glass, careful not to cut the exposed skin of your midriff and thighs. The store looks like it's already been searched and run through, but still, it's worth a shot. 

You wander through the aisles on high alert, the shelves broken and empty, with mostly expired food remaining. You thoroughly search, dropping your knees to the cold tile to look under the bottom shelves. To your surprise, you find a half-full bottle of water. You reach your hand under the shelf, fingertips brushing against cobwebs, and worse, to grab the plastic bottle. You swiftly stick it in the side of your backpack as you continue to rummage through the store looking for medicine, rope, or anything that could come in handy. 

A half hour later, you finish your scavenging. Your findings are less than impressive, but it's enough to get you through another day. You screw the top off of the cobweb covered bottle and drink the less than refreshing liquid. Gulping it down with a sigh, you look through the broken store windows, assessing the sun's high position in the sky. It’s about noon, from what you can tell. In turn, you start roaming back through the woods looking for some shade and hopefully another place to sleep tonight. The dead leaves crunch beneath your boots, and the sound of animals rustling in the trees fills the quiet air. 

You've come to know the familiar sounds of the squirrels and deer, so much so that an unfamiliar rustling catches you completely off guard.

You immediately stop in your tracks, your heart pounding in your chest as you hear the unfamiliar sound again. Your hand instantly draws the pistol from your holster. It can't be a Neurocorpse, can it? Your mind prepares for the worst, hands shaking as you hear the sound of the crunching of leaves nearing closer.

‘‘Hey!’’ 

You hear an unfamiliar but human voice call out. Your stance falters slightly, but you keep your weapon raised. 

“Who's there? Don't get too close, I’ll fucking shoot you!” you yell back cursing yourself for how shaky your voice sounds. Your eyes widen as you watch the figure come into view.

 “Woah woah I'm not Infected, you can put the gun down..” Says the figure. Your eyes adjust as he comes into view. A young man who appears to be about your age steps through the foliage, stopping about ten feet in front of you.

You keep your weapon drawn; you can't trust anyone, especially these days. He’s probably trying to rob you, or worse, you assume. You let your eyes rake over his figure. Noticing he's got a toned build, his shirt, ripped and stained, fits his form perfectly. The rest of his appearance was distressed. He appears not to have any visible weapons on him. He doesn't move an inch, his arms still up in surrender. 

Your heart rate starts to slow as you realize he's not an immediate threat. You assess his appearance thoroughly, eyes narrowed, it’s almost like you want to find a reason to shoot him. But your intuition reassures you that he’s not a threat. You start to lower your gun, praying to whatever God is out there that you're not wrong.  “Who are you?’’ You ask the young man, eyes narrow with suspicion. 

He chuckles softly before looking you in the eyes and responding softly. “I’m Jay.” He says as the corner of his lips tug into a soft smile. He lets his arms fall casually to his side. “And might I ask who you are, Miss?” He adds, raising an eyebrow.

You're breathless as you tell him your name, letting the pistol in your hand drop to your side. Your eyes stay locked on Jay. Eyes still narrowed with suspicion. You take a few steps closer, the dead foliage crunching beneath your boots. Your expression is curious as you approach him.

“What exactly are you doing out here?” You question as your wide eyes lock onto the dark velvet color of his. The sun soaks into the jet black of his hair, and you notice how his bangs stick to his forehead from the sweat.

“Probably the same as you, Miss,” he replies casually before hesitantly taking another step forward. “Just tryin’ to survive out here, tryin’ to stay out of trouble and prayin’ I don't run into one of those goddamn Infected..” he says playfully. He bites his lip softly as he gives you a quick glance up and down. “So glad it's a pretty girl instead of one of those monsters. It's been ages since I last saw a girl, especially one as pretty as you.” He says truthfully with a flirtatious ring in his voice.

You scoff, rolling your eyes at his comment. His words further prove that he shows no immediate signs of being a threat. You sheath your gun back in the holder strapped over your shorts. Letting out a low rumble of annoyance, noticing Jay’s gaze lingering on your movements. You clear your throat before responding strongly. “And how long is that exactly? How long have you been alone?’’

“Since I was seventeen? I think I'm coming up on twenty-two one of these months.” Jay replies with a husky tone.

Only seventeen? He’s just like you, a once-teenager forced into the gruesome reality of this world. Your heart tugs with sympathy. Your shoulders visibly loosen as you let out a soft hum of interest.

“You are about the same age as me, the outbreak happened when I was sixteen. I'm coming up on twenty-one now,” you say with a soft, nervous smile. You're now standing face to face with Jay. His eyes shamelessly looked over your less-than-ideal appearance. Your hair is styled out of your face, sweaty from the heat, and pieces are falling on your face and sticking to your skin. Your body glistened with a thin layer of sweat from head to toe, dirt smudged across your face, clothes torn and stained. The bags under your eyes are dark and prominent from the lack of sleep, yet Jay seems enthralled.

His dark raven eyes take in every detail he can. “You've been on your own since you were sixteen?” He asks, his eyes still locked onto your features as he speaks. You nervously clear your throat again as you respond. 

“Yes, it's quite a coincidence or a miracle if you ask me,” you replied.

“You must have some ridiculously thick skin.” He says with a hint of admiration in his tone.

“Thick skin or some good fucking luck,” you say with a soft smile. Your heart starts to race. It's been so long since you've talked to another human that you have completely forgotten how it felt. It strangely seems warm, comforting even. You don't want this to end so soon, and by the look on Jay’s face, he doesn't either. 

After an awkward pause, he speaks gently, addressing you like wildlife that would quickly run away. “You got any food in that bag of yours?’’ Jay asks kindly. His voice was warm, different from the cold memories of your past. You look him up and down, noticing again that he doesn't have anything on him besides the clothes on his back. You hesitate, debating if you seriously want to give a stranger you just met any of your rare supplies.

You sigh, feeling like a string is tugging at your heart, encouraging you just to say yes. You smile softly, letting out a soft scoff of disbelief before replying. "Well, I do have some canned peaches, they should still be alright.” 

You swing your bag over your shoulder and unzip the main pouch. Pulling out the can of peaches as you draw one of the knives holstered at your side. Using your arm strength, you pry the can open and stand up to drain the juice. You reach inside the can, grabbing one of the slices with your bare hands before offering the rest to Jay.

He accepts with a weak smile, taking a few steps back to sit on one of the fallen tree trunks.

“If you don't mind me asking, Jay..What exactly are you doing out here?” You ask. He looks up at you, his eyes soft. Peach juice dripped down his chin.

“Probably the same as you. Just trying to survive out here.” He says as he munches on the peach slices with bare, dirt-covered hands. 

“Do you have any supplies or anything?” you ask,  slightly confused. There's no way in hell he could survive this long with no supplies.

“Yeah, I do.” He replies, his words muffled by the food in his mouth. “I've got a whole base set up just south of here by a few miles.” Impressive, you think to yourself.

 The sun is at its peak in the sky, rays melting into your skin.

“You know, I came all this way to try and find a stream or something to cool off in. Maybe we could team up? Go for a quick swim, and then you can stay at my base tonight? No pressure, of course, I just want to thank you for feeding me and not shooting me.” Jay says as he finishes his can of less-than-appetizing fruit. Licking his calloused hands clean.

You hesitate. Team up?  Are you hearing him correctly? Jay watches your brow furrow as you think over his words. The threat of the Infected is on the rise, and having someone to watch your back isn’t a terrible idea. But there’s always a possibility he’ll be the one stabbing you in the back one of these days. 

Your gaze shifts again to Jay, and  a strange heat spreads across your cheeks as you lock eyes with him again. Figuring you have nothing to lose, you let out a deep sigh before replying.

“I’ll join you. Two is better than one, am I right? You can watch my back and I’ll have yours.” You say with a hesitant smile as you swing your backpack over your shoulder and extend your hand, offering Jay to take it. He looks down at it, noticing how you're practically shaking before taking your trembling hand in his, squeezing it gently. The firm handshake represents an unspoken agreement to trust each other, even if the words aren’t said out loud. 

“Well, it’s not getting any cooler..let’s get going, shall we?”

You look Jay in the eyes as you start following him, tracking through the woods and foliage again. You step over dead rotting logs and thorns as you two weave in and out of the vast canopy of green. 

It’s mostly quiet as you follow Jay, the crunching of the foliage beneath helps to break up the uncomfortable silence. You both walk for what feels like miles before you hear rushing water in the distance. 

It’s not long before the leaves and grass turn to dark sand at the edge of the river stream. The riverbend is a few feet wide and equally just as deep. The sight is nothing short of refreshing. 

“Finally looks like we’re here,” Jay says as he stops at the edge of the riverbend, You shortly follow, dropping your backpack of belongings on a rock launched in the sand beneath you. 

“Ready for a dip?” Jay says with a playful smile. Before you can reply, his large hands find the edge of his stained t-shirt, pulling the tattered fabric up and over his head with no hesitation. You let out a nervous laugh, turning away as he shamelessly strips bare in front of you. Your cheeks are burning hot, as you keep your back facing him.

“Don’t look, Don’t even think…” You whisper to yourself as you hear the rest of his clothes drop to the sandy shore of the riverbank. Soon after, you hear the water rippling as he gets in. The water was deep enough to come up to his shoulders.

“Come on! The water is refreshing!” He says cheerfully as he playfully splashes around. You cant help but smile at the scene as you remove the weapons from your side. Jay tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, the sight of you removing your guns visibly turning him on more than it should. Jay turns around, the ripple noise of the water ringing through the humid air as he keeps is back facing towards you. “Alright, I won’t look until you’re ready, just say the word.” 

You double-take over your shoulder twice. Checking to see if he is peeking before you slide off your clothes. You let the fabrics join your weapons on the sand with a soft thud.

You cant help but sigh with relief as the sun is hits your bare, exposed skin. You swiftly then step into the creek. The water is warm from the heat, but still refreshing nonetheless. You let the water come up to your shoulders before nervously swimming towards Jay.

“You can turn around now.” You whisper softly

Jay does exactly that, turning around and swimming closer to you. His eyes half lidded as he watches droplets of water drip from your hair to the softness of your cheeks. You feel much-needed relief as the water cools your aching skin.

You take a deep breath before plugging your nose and dipping your head under the cooling water. You come up for air, swiftly wiping your eyes and brushing your hair out of your face with a gasp. Your heart skips a beat as you realize just how close you are to Jay.. The only thing separating your naked bodies is the lapping current of the stream.

You don't move, but neither does he.

There's a comfortable silence, the only thing breaking it being the chirping of the wildlife in the distance. Jay gives you a soft look as he moves even closer, his gaze locked on your face.

“May I?” He whispers softly, the sound of the waves against the riverbank louder than his spoken voice. He lifts a wet hand towards your face. You hesitate before giving him a soft nod, your breath shaky at the unfamiliar feeling. His thumb gently rubs against your cheek, right underneath your tired eyes. 

“Sorry, you have some dirt on your face...” he whispers intimately. His fingertips wipe away the smudges that have been there for who knows how long.

Afterwards, he traces his fingers down your jawline. He drops his hand, quickly pulling away. Visibly nervous at the tension as he puts a few feet of space between you. He awkwardly turns his back, his large hands to wipe the dirt and grime off his own body.

You turn and do the same. After a few moments, you don't know why, but somehow you anxiously want to break the tension. So you ask him a lingering question. “You know Jay, you're the first person I've met that hasn't wanted to kill me, take my shit, or infect me with their rotting brain disease..”

Jay lets out a soft chuckle. His hands roam all over his muscled body, rinsing his skin clean. He turns around, and you follow suit as you hear the rippling in the water. Locking eyes again, you continue to slide your hands down your shoulder and chest, trying to break down some of the sweat stuck to your skin. Jay gives you a look of appreciation as he answers. “Well, I could say the same for you. It's exhausting, you know how it goes.” He says with another weak laugh.

“Yeah, I do..” You say with a softness to your tone. Just conversing with him feels like a weight is starting to be lifted off your shoulders. You let out a deep sigh, another question dangling on the edge of your tongue, you try to hold back, but nervously blurt the question out.

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like to be our age and not have any of this?” you ask with a painful laugh. “All the killing, stealing, hiding…you ever just daydream about how life would be if none of this happened?” You say, voice shaking with emotion as you cross your arms over your bare chest to hide it from the lowering tide.

“I always imagined that at twenty-one, I would be in college, getting drunk at a house party, and waking up next to a guy I didn't even know the name of…But I guess bathing naked in a river stream with a guy I just met during the apocalypse can be just as thrilling.”

Jay lets out a playful chuckle in response. The moment lighthearted as we both silently mourn over something lost that we both know, we can never go back to.

“I always wanted to be a mechanic, probably living out of some shitty apartment, getting drunk at the bar with my old friends..” He says his voice is shaking a bit at the painful memories of the company he once had. “But hey, now I'm covered in bruises, also naked, trying not to stare at the most gorgeous thing I've seen in years..” 

You open your mouth to rebut, but your breath is taken away. His eyes look over you with affection that usually doesn't come from a stranger. You hold your arms over your chest nervously, still aware of the intimate nature of the moment. You don’t want to expose more of yourself and make the moment even more intense. 

“I mean it..you've just got this halo around you..you're gorgeous., Jay says, his voice lower and deeper as he tries to keep his eyes from dropping down to see the exposed skin of your chest. His cheeks were already flushing at the thought, but he’ll quickly blame it on the sunburn.

After a few more minutes of cooling off in the river stream, you glance at the sun's position in the sky. Taking it for early afternoon, you know you need to find shelter soon. “We should probably get going, don’t want to get stuck out in the Wastelands after dark, that never ends well.”

Jay nods. Wiping his eyes with his wet hands and running his fingertips through his hair one last time. He swims towards the shore.

You look away, not wanting to see anything that would linger inside your mind later. After he’s dressed, you do the same. The hellish sun is drying your body as you slip your shorts and tank back on. 

“So, how far away is this base of yours?” You ask as you continue to strap your weapons back to the sides of your legs. Jay glances up as his fingers tighten the brown belt around his hips.

“About six, maybe seven miles. It’s a bit of a walk, but we’ll make it before sunset.—I promise.” He concludes confidently.

Once you’re both fully dressed and armed, you throw your backpack over your shoulder. Boots sinking into the dark sand of the riverbed as you glance one last time at Jay. 

Your chest tightens, but not with pain.

For the first time in years, you don’t feel safer alone. You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding before whispering.

 “Lead the way.”

note: Chapter One of my first fic ever is done! I wanted to keep things short for the introduction. Don't worry, the other members will be introduced soon! I hope it was entertaining enough. Plan on more angst and drama to come. The next part is already in the works. It's a little longer, but I hope to have that out shortly! Let me know if you liked it or want to be added to the taglist! Also, the entire fic is based on this! song if you want to give it a listen <3

xoxo kate <3

For more chapters- click here!

taglist: @kyunlov

[kibermonakh]

durgetash postcanon forced retirement au

" FREEDOM "

Gortash had a bad trip vision in which Bane strangled him with a leash on a chain and at the end grabbed him by the hand, causing decay with his touch as a punishment for failure and for the fact that Gort generally allowed the destabilization of control over the Netherbrain

Gort woke up and rushed into the backyard in the middle of the night to radically get rid of Bane's curse... and the durge woke up from the noise and smell of blood...

[tsukumomei]

AFTER ASHES | Itoshi Sae

Alice in Borderland AU | PART 1

Tags; •fem + afab!reader, •forced proximity (friends to lovers-ish) •nsfw •softcore •sae doesn't know how to communicate •rare sweet sae at the end Summary: when you suddenly find yourself in a deserted Tokyo, where participating in deadly games is the only way to survive, your mind is consumed by one goal: to escape and return to the comforts of the real world. Survival demands wit, courage, and the willingness to face unimaginable challenges. Yet, amidst the chaos and despair, something unexpected happens. You meet Sae. What starts as a reluctant alliance blossoms into something deeper. CW: •wc; 17k •MDNI •aged-up •violence •gore •murder •death games •psychological distress •depictions of survival scenarios •betrayal and manipulation •themes of isolation and despair •graphic injuries •explicit sexual content •coercion and power dynamics PART 2

You were being chased. 

The frantic pounding of footsteps behind you left no doubt, they weren’t even trying to hide their presence. Judging by the heavy thuds, four, maybe five people were tailing you through this decaying amusement park. 

Each breath burned your lungs, the metallic taste of adrenaline bitter on your tongue. The broken key to your escape dug into your palm as you clutched it tightly, cursing your bad luck. Why did it have to be you holding this thing? Why not Chigiri? He could’ve easily outrun them; this was his element, not yours.

The pressure of the past few days crashed into you as you stumbled over cracked asphalt, the haunted screams of distant animatronics mingling with the mayhem in your mind. 

How did it come to this? 72 hours ago, you were still walking the familiar, lively streets of Shibuya, laughing with your best friend Kaede like everything in the world was perfectly normal.

“Come on!” Kaede had teased the previous day, her eyes alight with excitement as she tugged at your arm, weaving through the crowds, her beautiful blonde hair catching the breeze like a golden veil. “We’re going to miss the movie if you keep walking this slow!”

If only. If only that best-friend date hadn’t been interrupted by that blinding flash at the crosswalk. If only the world hadn’t tilted sideways in that unexplainable moment.

Now, here you were; desperate, breathless, and running for your life. Nothing had been normal since that day.

You thought back to the moment you regained consciousness, laid flat on a nearby bench. Shibuya, once alive with its bright lights and crowded streets, had turned into an eerie ghost town. No cars. No chatter. Not even a stray breeze to rustle the leaves.

“Kaede?” you had called, your voice trembling as you blinked into the unsettling void.

“I’m here,” Kaede had replied, her fingers gripping your arm like a lifeline. Gone was her usual confidence, her eyes darting around the empty city like a cornered animal.

You clung to her then, just as you do to her memory now, forcing your legs to keep moving. Kaede, with her bright spirit, was your anchor in a world turned on its head. Two halves of a whole. You’d survived the initial shock together. You’d survived the first game together. You’d survive this, too.

Wouldn’t you?

The snapping of twigs behind you killed your thoughts and solidified that this is reality. You tightened your grip on the jagged piece of the key. It felt like a joke. So small and incomplete, yet capable of deciding your fate. If you wanted to live, you needed the rest of it.

Just as your legs threatened to give out, a familiar flash of red streaked toward you.

“Y/N!” Chigiri’s voice cut through the chaos, his figure appearing out of the shadows. He skidded to a stop beside you, holding out two more fragments of the key. “I’ve got them. Kaede’s right behind me.”

Before you could respond, Kaede stumbled into view, breathless but determined. She waved the final piece triumphantly. “We’re not dying here, not today!”

Relief washed over you like a wave, but there was no time to celebrate. The pursuers were still on your heels, their shouts growing louder.

“This way!” Chigiri called, taking the lead as Kaede grabbed your hand. The three of you sprinted through the winding paths of the amusement park, dodging rusted rides and shattered glass.

When you finally reached the exit, Bachira was already there, as usual, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You guys sure took your time!” he called out, eyes scanning the horizon. “Hurry, they’re right behind you!” To think he still had the urge to joke around is absurd.

You quickly fumbled with the key pieces, hands shaking as you fit them together. It clicked into place just as the first pursuer burst into view.

“Go, go, go!” Bachira urged, holding the gate open as Chigiri pushed you and Kaede through.

The heavy metal gate clanged shut behind you. On the other side, the shouts of your pursuers were abruptly silenced, replaced by the mechanical voice declaring “Game over” and the sickening, wet sound of blood splattering against the wall. 

For a moment, no one moved, the reality settling like a suffocating weight—to live is to take away someone else’s life.

The four of you crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. Your chest heaved, your body coated in dirt and sweat. The metallic tang of fear lingered in the air as you exchanged fleeting glances, each face pale and hollow. But you were alive, though barely.

For a moment, no one spoke, the weight of your escape settling over you. Then Kaede broke the silence with a shaky laugh, attempting to mask her conflicted feelings. “That was way too close.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, clutching the now-complete key. It was over. 

Bachira flopped onto his back with a grin that could only belong to someone completely unbothered by narrowly escaping death. “Man, that was fun! Let’s do it again sometime!”

“Fun?” Kaede shot him an incredulous glare, her voice still breathless. “We almost died back there!”

Before Bachira could retort, your phones vibrated simultaneously, a sharp buzz breaking through the tense atmosphere.

With trembling hands, you reached into your pocket, pulling out the device. The screen flickered to life, casting an eerie glow in the dim surroundings. On it was a single message, stark and bold:

GAME CLEAR7 of Clubs Complete

The realization hit you hard. You’d done it. Somehow, against all odds, you’d survived.

You nodded. “We wouldn’t have made it without each other.”

“Especially me,” Bachira chimed in, holding up his phone with a triumphant grin. “I totally nailed that waiting-by-the-exit thing.”

Kaede groaned, shaking her head. “Don’t push your luck, Bachira.”

Despite the tension, you couldn’t help but let out a small, weary laugh. For a brief moment, the brutality of this world seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile sense of victory.

But as you looked back at the eerie silhouette of the amusement park, the gruesome reality of your situation settled in once more. This wasn’t over. The games would keep coming, each more brutal than the last.

“Let’s get back,” Chigiri finally said, rising to his feet and offering you a hand. His grip was steady, and it gave you reassurance. “We need to get this to Isagi.”

He held up the 7 of Clubs card, its edges catching the faint glow of the moonlight.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

You first met Isagi Yoichi’s team when you stumbled out of your first game with Kaede, a horrid game that left only the two of you as survivors.

Isagi was the one who approached you first. His calm demeanor gave him an air of leadership. “You made it through your first game. A heart one at that, impressive,” he said, offering a hand.

Kaede, though reluctant, shook it firmly. “We didn’t have much of a choice.”

Bachira, back then, was perched on the edge of a badly beat up, ripped couch, grinning widely. “I like them already. They’ve got guts.”

“Guts won’t keep you alive here,” Barou said flatly from the chair he was sitting at, his piercing red orbs assessing you and Kaede. His kingly demeanor added an edge to the room, making you instinctively cautious of him.

As you and Kaede settled into the group, you quickly found your rhythm. You worked well as a team. Your background as a high diver gave you focus and stamina, while Kaede’s part-time experience as a stuntwoman gave her an edge in high-pressure situations. The others didn’t make a big deal out of it, but it was clear that your skills were definitely a significant advantage when it comes to survival.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

Back at your safe house, you sit with Kaede, reflecting on how drastically your lives have changed. You both knew you might have gone insane if you hadn’t found another person that day. Luck had led you to be saved by a group. Still, you’re acutely aware that this community is anything but permanent. Danger always lingers, yet the relief it offers is undeniable.

Then, without warning, a deafening explosion shakes the building. The walls rumble violently, plaster rains down in chunks, and smoke billows from cracks in the structure.

“Move!” Isagi shouts, his voice cutting through the confusion.

You barely manage to grab Kaede’s arm as the two of you bolt for the nearest exit. 

Around you, the others scramble, coughing through the thick smoke and dodging falling debris. You and Kaede are among the first to break through to the outside, gasping for air in the cold night. Behind you, the safehouse collapses further, its frame buckling under another fiery explosion.

Shidou stumbles out, his eyes darting like an animal’s. “Well, that’s one way to clear out!”

“Where do we go?” Kaede demands, tugging you closer to her as the group gathers on the street.

“Anywhere but here!” Chigiri retorts, his reddish-pink hair catching the firelight as he scans the dark streets.

Before anyone can decide, the low growl of an engine tears through the air. A massive Jeep Gladiator skids to a halt in front of you, its steel frame glinting in the orange glow of the flames. 

Its appearance makes it look as though it could withstand just about anything. A fortress on wheels.

The passenger-side window rolls down, revealing a man with sharp, mismatched eyes that glimmer even in the dim light. One eye is a distinct, almost hypnotic green, while the other is a deep, ocean blue. The contrast between them is unnerving, but there’s something about the way his gaze sweeps over the group that speaks of experience. His face is partially obscured by shadow, but his voice is steady and commanding.

“Get in.”

You and the others freeze, the tension thick as everyone exchanges wary glances. The man’s tone leaves little room for argument, but suspicion hangs in the air.

“Who the hell are you?” Reo snaps, stepping forward but keeping his distance.

“Does it matter?” the man retorts, his mismatched eyes narrowing. “Unless you’d rather stick around and wait for whoever bombed your hideout to come back.”

Bachira, standing slightly apart from the rest, tilts his head, his grin faint but noticeable. “I dunno about you guys, but this feels less explode-y than staying here.”

“Right?” Shidou adds, his wild demeanor returning as he strides toward the Jeep. “I love explosions but I’m not about to die all pretty like this.” Without waiting for anyone’s approval, he climbs in the back of the truck.

“Shidou!” Kaede snaps, her vexation boiling over.

“What?” he says with a shrug. “They’ve got wheels, and I don’t wanna walk.”

Bachira follows him without hesitation, jumping into the back of the truck as well. “Guess I’m going too. This thing kinda looks fun.”

You glance at Kaede, who glares at the vehicle as though willing it to disappear. “Kaede…” you murmur, gripping her arm. “We don’t have a choice.”

Yukimiya adjusts his glasses, his usual composure faltering just slightly. “They’re right. Out here, we’re vulnerable.”

Chigiri faces Kaede and nods reluctantly. “I can’t outrun another explosion. I’m in.”

Kaede curses under her breath, dragging you along as she heads for the Jeep. “If this is a trap, I’m throwing you out first,” she mutters.

The man with mismatched eyes watches silently as one by one, you all pile into the Jeep. You end up wedged between Kaede and Chigiri, the interior cramped but enough to offer a strange sense of protection.

As soon as Kaede slams the door shut, the driver with salmon locks floors the accelerator, and the vehicle lurches forward, speeding away. Inside, the air is thick with tension. 

The man in the passenger seat finally speaks, his voice steady. “Whoever targeted you knows what they’re doing. If you want to stay alive, stick with us.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Reo mutters, his tone sharp. “Why should we trust you?”

The man glances back, “You don’t have to trust me. But I’ll remind you..” his mismatched eyes gleaming in the dim light. “Trust isn’t what keeps people alive here. It’s survival instinct that does.”

His words hang in the air as the truck roars down the deserted streets, leaving the destruction behind. You grip the edge of your seat, your heart pounding as you stare out the window, wondering if you’ve just escaped one danger only to run headfirst into another.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

It turns out they were taking you to another safe house. What was once a luxurious resort in the real world. Known as The Beach. The pristine pools glimmer and the sleek modern design of the resort still carries an air of opulence. People mill about in swimsuits and casual clothing, but the carefree appearance felt like a facade. 

The atmosphere is heavy with tension, the invisible threads of hidden agendas simmer beneath the surface, you had just gotten there, but that much is obvious.

Your getaway driver from earlier, who introduces himself as Sendou, walks alongside you and Kaede, guiding you toward the heart of the Beach. It’s unbelievable how he’s unable to hide the fact that he has a thing for Kaede.

He’s grinning, his easy going demeanor the exact opposite of the nerves shivering in your chest and sweaty hands. “Welcome to the Beach,” he says, gesturing to the bustling crowd. “It’s not much, but it’s home, at least for me.”

At the center of it all stands Ego Jinpachi, the enigmatic leader of the Beach. Dressed in a crisp white shirt and sunglasses, he exudes control and intellect. His assertive tone cuts through the murmurs as he addresses the crowd from a raised platform.

“I created the Beach to bring order to the chaos of the Borderland,” Ego declares, his voice rising with conviction. “Here, we don’t rely on blind luck or brute force. We rely on strategy, intelligence, and teamwork. But none of that matters if you don’t recognize your own worth. You must believe in your ability to rise above the games. Because if you don’t, you’re already dead.”

If you’re being completely honest, you have no idea what this man is going on about—Ego this, Ego that. Sure, you get that he’s trying to give a pep talk to lift the spirits of a crowd that’s clearly beaten down, but wow, he does get carried away.

Beside him, Anri Teieri speaks next, her calm tone providing balance to Ego’s uncompromising tone. “The Beach’s structure is designed to give everyone a chance to survive,” she explains. “But cooperation and loyalty are non-negotiable.”

She pauses, letting the weight of her words settle before continuing. “There’s one more rule,” she says, her voice steady but firm. “All participants must adhere to the dress code. That means beach attire—swimsuits, casual clothing, leaves little to the imagination.”

The murmurs in the crowd grow louder, confusion and unease rippling through the participants. Anri doesn’t flinch, her gaze unwavering, determined. “The reason is simple,” she explains. “It ensures transparency and trust. No one can hide guns, knives, or any other weapons in beach clothes. This rule is about survival. The fewer opportunities for treachery, the safer we all are.”

Sendou gestures toward the raised platform where the Beach’s most prominent figures stand. “Let me give you a quick rundown,” he says, leaning in. “These are the big shots, the ones who keep this place running. Knowing who’s who can mean the difference between survival and, well, death.”

He nods toward the man who saved you all earlier, the one with the mismatched eyes. He was leaning casually against the railing. “That’s Oliver Aiku. Looks chill, doesn’t he? Don’t let it fool you, he’s got a brain that works faster than most, and he’s the guy you want on your side in a tight spot. If you’re lucky, he might even flash you that charming grin of his.” Kaede isn’t impressed.

Next, Sendou gestures toward the man with bleach-blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and a self-assured smirk. “That one? That’s Michael Kaiser. The ‘I’m better than you’ aura? Yeah, that’s not just for show. He’s got a sharp tongue to match his sharp mind, and he doesn’t care who knows it. You’ll know you’ve done something right if he even acknowledges you exist.”

Sendou’s hand shifts to the figure standing close to Kaiser. “And that’s Alexis Ness, the guy with purple hair and a quiet vibe. Don’t underestimate him, he’s really loyal to everything that Kaiser does. When you deal with Kaiser, you’re dealing with Ness too.”

He then points to a man with tan skin and a buzz cut. “That’s Julian Loki, the ‘God Sprinter.’ When it comes to spade games, he’s the best there is. Fast on his feet and  always one step ahead.”

Finally, his gaze lands on a towering figure with distinctive gold teeth (actual gold), exuding a laid-back demeanor. “And that’s Don Lorenzo. Big, quiet, and scary as hell when he wants to be. He’s the enforcer here, the guy who makes sure no one steps out of line. If you’re smart, you won’t give him a reason to look your way.”

Sendou pauses, his grin faltering slightly as his tone grows colder. “And then, there’s him.” He gestures to a figure seated at the edge of the group, his posture relaxed, but his presence commanding. His reddish-brown hair catches the light, his sharp gaze fixed like he owns the place.

“See that guy with the thick under lashes? Sae Itoshi. Quiet, deadly smart, and not someone you want to mess with. His eyes? They’re already sizing you up, figuring out what you’re worth before you even open your mouth.”

Sendou’s expression darkens, a trace of bitterness slipping through. “Sae doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He’s the type who’d throw you to the wolves if it benefitted him. Arrogant prick thinks he’s better than the rest of us, and honestly? He probably is, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.” 

He shakes his head, as if trying to shrug off his own words. “Trust me, if you can avoid dealing with him, do it. Life’s easier that way.”

Sendou steps back, folding his arms as he surveys the group. “That’s the crew keeping the Beach alive. Stick to the rules, show your worth, and you might just make it out of this place in one piece. But cross any of them?” He whistles low, shaking his head. “Well, you won’t be around long enough to regret it.”

You take a mental note on each executive, their demeanor, and the subtle dynamics among them. However, as Ego’s commanding voice thundered across the gathering, your focus began to waver. Not out of disinterest, but because your gaze had been drawn to someone among the Beach’s elite.

Seated near the edge of the platform, he was striking, like his face had been carved with meticulous precision. Itoshi Sae had an air of unshakable confidence. 

Despite the chaos of the Beach, he remained unbothered, like none of it mattered enough to warrant his full attention.

His mere presence seemed to create a gravitational pull of a sort, and before you realized it, you were caught staring. How does someone carry themselves like that? you thought, barely processing Kaede nudging you to pay attention to Ego’s speech. Sae’s gaze flicked across the crowd like a predator surveying prey, but there was no malice in his eyes. Just cold detachment.

You knew better than to let anyone at the Beach intimidate you, but he wasn’t intimidating. No, he was something else; aloof, perhaps? The kind of person who made you want to know more, even if you sensed that getting too close might burn you.

“Y/N.”

Kaede’s sharp whisper pulled you out of your thoughts. You blinked and realized Ego was looking directly at you now, waiting for an answer to a question you hadn’t even listened to. Heat rushed to your face as you forced your attention back to the leader’s speech, inwardly cursing yourself for getting so distracted.

Still, as Kaede elbowed you again, mouthing, focus, you couldn’t help but let your gaze flicker towards the redhead one more time. He was watching Ego now, his expression unchanged, and utterly captivating.

As the crowd disperses, Ego’s sharp eyes land on you and Kaede. He gestures for the two of you to approach, and now you wonder where the boys had gone? Heart pounding, you step forward, Kaede close beside you.

“New arrivals,” Ego says, his tone neutral but probing. “What do you bring to the Beach?”

Kaede speaks first, steady despite the weight of his attention. “We’ve survived five games so far. We’re quick thinkers and adaptable.” A very basic textbook answer, but you figured it was better than just keeping your mouth shut.

Ego’s lips curl into a faint smirk. “Adaptability is a good start,” he says. “But remember, knowing your worth isn’t just about survival. It’s about domination. If you don’t seize control of your narrative, someone else will.”

You exchange a glance with Kaede, both of you silently resolving to prove your place here. As the Beach’s dynamics unfold, one thing is for sure; Ego’s philosophy of self-worth and survival will test every fiber of your being.

The blonde man, who you understood to be Kaiser, strides forward before anyone can speak, his icy blue eyes locking onto you with an intensity that sends a jolt through your chest. His lips curled into a playful grin but all you could notice was the distinct blue rose tattoo that adorned his neck.

“Well, well,” he drawls, his voice smooth and teasing. “I didn’t expect the Beach to get so much brighter today. Tell me, are you here to play the games, or just to distract the rest of us?”

Kaede stiffens beside you, protective instincts flaring, but you keep your composure. “I’m here to survive, just like everyone else,” you reply firmly, refusing to let him get under your skin.

Kaiser chuckles, clearly enjoying the exchange. “I like that fire! Don’t lose it, it’s rare around here.” He leans in slightly, his voice dropping just enough for only you to hear. “But if you ever need an ally, I can make things… interesting for you.”

Ness sighs softly, his gaze sharp as it flickers between you and Kaiser. “Kaiser,” he murmurs, his tone holding a note of warning.

Kaiser smirks but steps back, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer. “Think about it,” he says before turning away.

Kaede leans in, whispering sharply, “What was that about?”

“I have no idea,” you mutter, catching a glimpse of the executive with reddish hair making his exit.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

The nearby river feels like an entirely different world, away from the city chaos. The stars sparkle brightly in the cloudless sky, untouched by the glare of city lights. 

You stand at the edge, mindlessly skipping stones, each bounce rippling across the water's surface.

Despite the hope that the presence of companions can provide, moments like these remind you of the need for solitude. 

In the real world, this place would be off-limits—a restricted area—but that never stopped you from sneaking in at night. Here, the only sounds were the soft splashes of stones meeting shallow water, a perfect place to clear your thoughts.

You were distraught. Grief clings to you like a second skin. The pain of witnessing death after death, the desperation etched on the faces of those who gave up, and the stifling feeling of uncertainty. You were a med student just fresh out of university, with dreams and plans that now felt like whispers from some past life. This was your life now.

The questions flood your mind, relentless and unanswered. Where are you? Did some God pluck "chosen" people and leave the rest behind? Had the rest of the world simply ceased to exist, or was this some distant, desolate future where humanity had burned itself out? Did you travel through time? There was no logical reasoning for any of this. All these theories haunted you until it was cut off by a voice you had never expected to hear so close to you.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he called out to you, carrying a tinge of curiosity.

Startled, you turned to see Itoshi Sae himself standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets. 

His calm presence was almost jarring against the backdrop of your inner turmoil. After remembering Sendou’s description of this man, you opted to be casual, respectful but not too friendly. “Something like that,” you reply, turning back to throw the pebble in your hand. “It’s hard to relax in a place like this.”

Sae steps closer, his movements measured, until he’s standing beside you. His gaze follows yours, scanning the city lights that flicker like dying embers.

“You get used to it,” he says, his tone devoid of comfort but not entirely unkind.

There’s a sharpness to him, a precision that feels as if it could cut through the hardest of stones. But beneath that, you catch glimpses of something else, something you couldn’t quite explain. 

If you had just nodded at him, you knew there'd be a 99% chance he wouldn't ask a follow up question, but against your better judgement, you keep the conversation flowing. “Do you ever think about what’s next?” you ask softly, breaking the silence.

Sae doesn’t answer immediately. “No point in dwelling on it. What matters is surviving the next game.”

His pragmatism doesn’t surprise you, but it frustrates you nonetheless. “And after that? Do you even want to go back to the real world?”

This time, Sae turns his head to look at you. “Does it matter?” he counters. “The real world wasn’t much better than this one.”

You frown, his words striking a chord. “That’s not true for everyone. Some of us have people waiting for us out there. Lives we want to return to.”

Sae’s gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he looks away, his jaw tightening. “That’s a dangerous mindset to have here. Hope gets people killed.”

His words ignite a spark of defiance in you. “Hope is what’s keeping me alive.”

For the first time, Sae’s lips twitch, almost forming a smirk. It’s not mocking, though, if anything, it feels as if… he’s impressed.

“You’re stubborn,” he remarks, his tone neutral but carrying a trace of amusement.

“And you’re cynical,” you shoot back, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Word of advice, Miss?” Sae asks, his voice casual but laced with an unspoken question.

You pause for a moment, then give a slight nod, understanding the subtle request. “Oh, it’s Y/n. Y/n L/n.”

“Miss Y/n,” he repeats, testing the sound of your name, and there was no reason for it to sound that nice rolling off his lips.. "Don’t let your guard down," he says, his tone steady, “even out here” more of a warning than just a statement.

You meet his gaze, nodding in acknowledgment, but you don’t say anything. It’s enough that you understand. And just like that, he turns and walks away, leaving you alone on the riverside. The faint echo of his footsteps fades, but his words linger, intertwining with the stillness of the night.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

The air felt heavy as you stepped out of your room. You had to wear a swimsuit as per the beach’s rules so now you were donning a dark blue two-piece. As a former high diving athlete, you were used to wearing little to no clothing but it still felt uncomfortable in a place that attempted to claim your life every time,  so you decided to drape yourself with a thin, white cover-up.

The lingering buzz of last night's encounter with Itoshi Sae stayed in your thoughts. Shaking the distraction from your mind, you focused on what lay ahead.

Ego’s summons had come at sunrise, summoning all of you to the main hall. He stood at the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, with Anri by his side. His voice rang out, sharp and calculated. “Today, we move forward with strategic assignments. Each of you will participate in a game tailored to your potential. Success strengthens the Beach, and failure...” 

He paused, his glasses catching the light ominously. “...is not an option.”

Kaede, standing beside you, shifted uneasily. “They’re really splitting us up,” she murmured under her breath.

You didn’t reply, your stomach twisting as Ego continued.

The room buzzed with soft murmurs as people digested the assignments. Some whispered reassurances to their teammates, and others exchanged uneasy glances.

Itoshi Sae, as usual, stood apart from the group, his detached expression giving him an almost otherworldly air. He gave the list a brief, disinterested glance before turning to leave, exuding an air of quiet authority that seemed to draw attention effortlessly.

Kaede leaned closer. “I’ve got Aiku, and you’ve got…” She trailed off, following your gaze to where Sae had been standing. “...That guy.”

You tore your eyes away from him, giving her a small shrug. “Yeah. Lucky me.”

Kaede tilted her head. “Just stay on your toes. He seems… intense. Hot, but intimidating.”

“Don’t worry about me,” you said, trying to muster confidence. “Just focus on your own game.”

She gave you a lopsided smile, though the concern in her eyes lingered. “Deal. But you owe me a debrief after.”

“And you?” you countered, the thought of her under Aiku’s command making you uneasy.

Kaede smirked, the shadow of her usual bravado returning. “Aiku’s charming, but I’ll be fine.”

As the crowd began to break apart, you both exchanged a quick nod, a silent promise to make it through the day.

You found Sae waiting near the lobby, his tall, lean frame leaning casually against a pillar. Dressed in a white, button down shirt, the sharp angles of his features were only emphasized by the dim light. His teal eyes locked onto you as you approached, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

“You’re here,” he said simply, pushing off the pillar with a fluid motion. “Good. Let’s get this over with.”

His tone was as detached as ever, but the way his gaze lingered on you betrayed a flicker of acknowledgment.

“Do you even know what we’re walking into?” you asked, trying to mask your nerves.

A ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You’ll either keep up or you won’t.”

Annoyance flickered within you, but you swallowed it down. “I’ll hold my own.”

He regarded you for a moment, his expression neutral. “We’ll see.”

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

The meeting point for the game was deep in the woods, where a cliff loomed over a crystal-clear lake. The stillness of the forest made the setting almost serene, but the stark drop of the cliff and the ominous instructions on the digital board at its base shattered any illusions of peace.

Sae stood at the edge of the cliff, his features lit by the soft light filtering through the trees. His piercing gaze flicked from the board to the lake below, then back to the group. He hadn't spoken much since you arrived, but his quiet, commanding presence spoke volumes.

The other participants—Renji, Ayaka, Kaito, and Yumi—gathered near the base of the cliff, their faces a mix of unease and dread. Renji, tall and broad-shouldered, paced anxiously, while Ayaka clung to her jacket, her eyes nervously darting toward the drop. Kaito, who had seemed confident at first, now wore a deep frown, while Yumi, silent and trembling, struggled to mask her fear.

The holographic screen flickered and steadied, displaying the game rules:

5 of Diamonds: The Plunge

Setup: A button is located at the bottom of the lake, 20 meters deep. Pressing this button will deactivate the laser blocking access to the pathway on the shore, which must be solved to escape. A single participant must dive from the cliff into the lake and press the button.

Conditions: Only one participant can activate the underwater button. Time limit: 20 minutes. If the button is not pressed, or the number panel is not solved within the time limit, all participants will be eliminated.

The mechanical voice echoed through the clearing: “Select the participant to perform the dive.”

The tension in the air was palpable. Renji stepped back, shaking his head. "No way. That’s too much. I’m not risking my life like that."

Ayaka winced. "I can't swim well enough for this… I'd only slow everyone down."

Kaito crossed his arms, trying to mask his nervousness with bravado. "Look, I'm a decent swimmer, but that’s a long way down. If I panic, we’re done for."

You were genuinely appalled by this game; there was no reason for it to be classified as a diamond when it so clearly demanded physical dexterity—high diving, the skill you excelled in particularly. In this world, you’d learned to be cautious about revealing your strengths too soon, because your allies could easily become your enemy overnight—a lesson you learned the hard way when Kuon betrayed your former team.

The others looked desperate, their eyes darting around, but no one dared to step forward. The weight of their indecision pressed heavily on your chest, tightening the air around you. At the edge of the group, Sae stood still, watching, calculating. You could tell he’d already set a mental timer, ready to step in if no one volunteered.

But you weren’t naïve. This wasn’t just a test of courage; this was a test to all of you. This setup was all a part of Ego’s plan. This was your chance to prove your worth to the beach’s executive.

Before the silence could stretch any further, you stepped forward. "I’ll do it."

All eyes turned to you. Renji looked surprised, Kaito skeptical, Ayaka relieved, and Yumi scared.

Sae's gaze settled on you. "You?"

"I’m a high diver, I know the form." you said firmly, meeting his piercing eyes. "I can handle this."

Sae stood, scrutinizing you. "You understand the consequences if you fail?"

You nodded, your eyes unwavering. "I understand."

"Then don’t." His words were simple, yet carried the weight of command.

The words hit harder than expected, but you didn’t flinch. Taking a deep breath, you moved to the edge of the cliff. There was no need to strip down; the bikini you wore was already practical for the dive. The murmurs from the group faded into a dull hum, the pounding of your heart the only sound in your ears.

For a moment, you froze, staring down at the lake. The faint glimmer of the metallic button at the bottom felt like a distant star, unreachable. 

The stakes were impossibly higher than anything you’d ever faced before. Fear clawed at the edges of your resolve, but you clenched your fists, trying to force the doubt away. You can do this. You’ve trained for this. This is just like the nationals, only colder, higher, and with no room for error. You’ve got this.

The wind whipped around you, tugging at your clothes as if trying to pull you back, but you planted your feet firmly. The world around you seemed to shrink until there was only the abyss in front of you and the target at the bottom of the lake.

With a final, steadying breath, you silenced every doubt and counted to three. Then, without hesitation, you launched yourself forward, leaving the solid ground behind cutting through the air in a smooth arc. 

Plunging into the void below with precise, practiced grace, the splash barely audible over the sound of the group’s frantic breathing.

The lake was darker than it had seemed from above, the sunlight barely piercing the surface. You kicked downward, your lungs burning as you searched for the button. Finally, your hand brushed against the cold metal. You worked quickly, your fingers trembling as you pressed it.

From the cliff, the others rushed down the shore toward the number panel. Renji’s and Ayaka’s cheers barely registered as you swam toward the shore, your arms trembling with exhaustion.

Sae stood there, his sharp eyes watching as you pulled yourself out of the water. His expression was as composed as ever, but there was a faint glimmer of approval in his gaze.

Renji, Ayaka, Kaito, and Yumi gathered around you, their relief palpable. "You were incredible," Ayaka said, her voice shaking.

The tension from earlier had faded, replaced with a moment of shared relief, though the game was far from over.

The number panel needed a 6 digit number as the code, only flashing the following symbols as a clue: ◆-⏲-↕

Sae’s gaze flicked over the symbols. This was a level 5 diamond game, after all, and he knew the answer immediately. But before he could speak, Yumi suddenly slipped, losing her footing on the rocky shore. Her scream echoed in the air as she fell into the lake with a splash.

Without a second thought, you dove back into the water, quickly focused on reaching Yumi. The cold water was a shock again, but you pushed through it. Yumi was struggling beneath the surface, thrashing as she tried to stay afloat. You reached her, grabbing her tightly and pulling her toward the shore.

But as you made your way back, a sharp, unexpected pain shot through your foot. You tried to shift, but the rocks beneath you were unstable, and your foot became wedged between two heavy stones. The pain was intense, and it felt like the world was closing in.

With every effort to free yourself, the water began to overwhelm you. You gasped for air, but your head felt heavy. Your body was giving out. The heaviness of the lake, the pressure in your chest, and the darkness creeping at the edges of your vision were too much.

Then, everything went black.

The group stood on the rocky shore, the tension thick as Yumi sputtered and coughed, water pouring from her lungs. She had barely been pulled from the lake, her body trembling from the cold and the near-drowning. Renji and Ayaka crouched beside her, trying to help her sit up, while Kaito paced nervously, his eyes darting toward the dark, rippling water.

"Are you okay?" Ayaka asked, her voice tinged with panic.

Yumi waved her off weakly, water streaming from her mouth as she struggled to catch her breath. "I..." she started, only to be overtaken by another fit of coughing.

Sae stood nearby, his expression cold but his sharp eyes locked on Yumi, watching her closely. "Spit it out," he ordered, his tone cutting like a blade.

Yumi coughed again, clutching her chest as she finally managed to speak. "Y/n…" she gasped, her words broken. "She… she’s stuck!"

The group froze.

"What do you mean, stuck?" Kaito demanded, his voice rising in alarm.

Yumi shook her head, struggling to get the words out. "The rocks... under the water," she stammered, her voice hoarse. "They're falling apart… trapping her… she can’t get out!"

Ayaka let out a horrified gasp, covering her mouth with trembling hands. "Oh my god. She went back for you," she whispered.

Renji stood abruptly, panic flashing across his face. "What do we do? We can’t just—"

Sae cut him off, his voice sharp and commanding. "Enough." His patience had worn thin. Not only were the others incompetent; they were actively ruining their chances of survival. And now, their uselessness was putting the only other capable member of the group at risk. 

He barely restrained the insult that threatened to escape his lips, his jaw tightening with the effort of doing so.

But his tone left no room for debate, “The code is 056020. Go.” There was no hesitation, he didn’t even wait for their acknowledgement, already turning towards the lake.

The group exchanged uneasy glances, their fear mounting as Sae began peeling off his shirt, his expression colder and more resolute than ever. The intensity in his eyes silenced any protests before they could form.

"You stay here," he commanded, fixing them with a glare that made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate dissent. "She doesn’t have time for your panic."

Renji, Ayaka, and Kaito scrambled toward the number panel, their hands trembling as they keyed in the code. The pressure of the timer and Sae’s scornful words hung heavy over them.

Without another word, he dove into the lake. The cold didn’t faze him. The lake seemed to swirl and writhe around him as he dove deeper, and in moments, his hand gripped your unconscious form. He pushed the rocks away from you, caring not to graze your bleeding leg any further as he tugged you closer.

He lifted you from the depths, your limp body weightless in his arms, as though you were nothing more than a plush doll. His voice was soft as he whispered, "You did well." The words, barely more than a breath, carried an unspoken admiration.

As he carried you to shore, the others, trembling and terrified, finally entered the code.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

When you finally regained full consciousness, the scent of disinfectants filled the air, waking your racing thoughts. The chaos of the game was gone. There was only silence.

You blinked, your vision foggy as you tried to process everything. As it cleared, you found Sae sitting beside you, his eyes focused on you with an intensity you weren't used to. There was an unfamiliar flicker in his gaze—concern, maybe, though it was quickly masked by his usual coldness.

You tried to sit up, but your body felt heavy, and a sharp pain shot through your leg. Looking down, you noticed your lower leg tightly bandaged. The weight of the game, the stress—it all clung to you like a second skin. 

You were back at the beach, in your shared quarters with Kaede. 

Sae was sitting beside you, his gaze focused on you. He handed you a glass of water, his cold fingers brushing against yours briefly. You drank deeply, the cool liquid soothing your parched throat but doing little to ease the lingering ache in your body.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice hoarse and unsteady. “What time is it?”

Sae didn’t respond right away. His eyes flickered to the side for a moment, as though weighing his words carefully. When he finally spoke, his tone was as neutral as ever, stripped of any emotion,

“You were unconscious when I found you. You did your part,” he said bluntly.

Your brow furrowed at his cryptic response. “And… my leg?” you pressed, glancing down at the bandage.

“I cleaned your wounds,” Sae replied flatly, his expression neutral. “It wasn’t deep, but you bled a lot. Someone had to make sure you didn’t get an infection.”

For a moment, you stared at him, caught off guard by his admission. From what you’ve heard from the others, he wasn’t one to say things like that, let alone do something so… considerate. “Thank you,” you murmured, the words feeling heavy on your tongue.

Sae’s lips twitched, but whether it was the hint of a smile or a grimace, you couldn’t tell. “Don’t make a habit of needing help,” he said coldly, standing abruptly. “You’re lucky this time.” 

With a final glance in your direction, he left without another word.

Just then, Kaede entered the room. The worry was clear on her face, and before you could react, she jumped onto your bed, pulling you into a tight hug.

“Hey, Kae,” you groaned, wincing at the pressure on your aching body. “I missed you too, but I’ll die of suffocation if you don’t let go soon.”

Kaede pulled back slightly, her face filled with concern. “I was so worried about you, Y/n. How could you be so reckless?! Putting others before yourself like that.”

“Now, now, I couldn’t just ignore someone who needed help,” you replied with a tired smile. “But hey, how was your game?”

Kaede’s expression shifted slightly, a heaviness settling in her eyes. She quickly masked it, but you caught the subtle change. Any other person might have missed it, but you and Kaede shared a bond that no one else had. You knew her well enough to see when something was off, even if she wasn’t saying it aloud. You weren’t gonna push the subject since it clearly bothered her.

“It was fine,” she said, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. “Nothing new.” She was quick to change the subject, though, her teasing tone returning as she raised an eyebrow. “But word is running around that you made the ‘oh-so-self-centered’ Itoshi Sae save you.”

You blinked, taken aback. “What?”

Kaede chuckled, clearly amused by the rumors. “Oh, yeah. Apparently, you had to get saved by him. Way to go, Ms. Irresistible, looks like you still have it in you.”

You sighed, sinking back into your pillows as you fought off the lingering exhaustion. “It’s not like that,” you muttered, but she wasn’t convinced and continued badgering you for answers about the game.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

The following morning, you walked into the lobby, only to notice your name wasn’t on the assigned list and neither was Sae’s. 

Instead, Ego had written you a personal note informing you that you’d been given a month off due to your injuries. Since you’d just completed multiple games, you had more than a month left on your visa. The news was a relief.

You headed toward the dining area, the scent of freshly prepared food filling your nose. There, at the end of a long table, Sae was seated, quietly eating his breakfast. 

“Good morning,” you said, your voice low but steady. 

Sae glanced up, nodding in acknowledgment but saying nothing. You stood there for a moment, feeling the unfamiliar quiet around you before you added, “Mind if I join you?”

With a minimal gesture, he motioned to the empty seat across from him, his eyes still fixed on the medium-rare steak in front of him. You slid into the seat, the sound of the chair scraping lightly against the floor filling the space between you.

The silence was awkward, different from the usual noise of Kaede and Bachira's constant chatter. It was strange, uncomfortable even. 

You picked at your food, the eggs on your plate still warm but not particularly appetizing. The room hummed with soft voices from other tables, but the two of you remained quiet.

Finally, Sae broke the silence, his voice low and sharp. His words caught you off guard. “Why did you do it?” he asked, his gaze never leaving yours. You weren’t expecting such a direct question this early in the day. “Why put yourself in danger yesterday? It wasn’t your responsibility.”

You stole a quick glance at him, acutely aware of the weight of his gaze. His conversations were always so unpredictable, you thought. Still, you answered, keeping your tone steady, not wanting to sound defensive. “Someone had to save her,” you said simply. “I couldn’t just stand there and do nothing.”

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze slicing through you. “You had nothing to gain,” he pointed out, his voice turning colder. “Most people here wouldn’t lift a finger unless it benefited them. Why are you any different?”

You let out a slow breath, this was starting to sound like a job interview. Your gaze drifted to the window, where the first light of day was creeping over the horizon. “Because I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t do what felt right,” you answered, your voice quieter now, less certain but resolute. “I don’t just want to survive, Sae. I want to remember who I am, even in this place.”

The words hung between you, and for a moment, Sae said nothing. His expression was neutral, his eyes fixed on his plate. He didn’t respond right away, as if weighing your response in his mind. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost introspective. “You think that’s enough? Being yourself?”

You met his gaze now, steady but thoughtful. “Maybe not,” you admitted, “But it’s the only thing I have control over.”

He studied you for a moment, and the tension in the air seemed to shift, as though cogs had clicked into place. “You’re either brave or foolish,” he said finally, his tone still sharp but with the faintest hint of interest. “I can’t decide which.”

You let out a small, almost amused sigh. “A bit of both, probably.”

Sae huffed, his lips curling into the faintest of smirks, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Idealism isn’t going to keep you alive.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, a trace of a smile playing on your lips. “It’s not idealism,” you countered, meeting his gaze directly. “It’s just… who I am.”

“Who you are won’t matter if you’re dead.”

You held his gaze, unflinching. “Then why did you pull me out?”

The question made Sae pause. His jaw tightened for just a moment, and you could see a flicker of emotion—frustration? It was gone before you could fully catch it. He answered simply, his voice low, almost hesitant. “I didn’t want to waste the effort of watching you throw it all away.”

You smirked, a hint of sarcasm creeping into your tone. “Sure,” you replied dryly. “Because that’s all it was; effort.”

Sae’s expression shifted, his control slipping for just a fraction of a second. It was subtle, but you saw it. “Don’t misunderstand. You’re interesting, but interest doesn’t mean trust.”

“I wasn’t asking for your trust,” you said quietly, your voice softer now. “Just… trying to understand.”

For a long beat, he studied you. When he finally spoke again, it was with a quieter, almost distant tone. “If you want to survive here, don’t make decisions based on feelings. The only thing that matters is winning.”

You set your fork down, and with a probing question, you asked, “And what happens after you win?”

Sae didn’t answer immediately. He stared ahead, his gaze distant, as if considering something far beyond the confines of the dining hall. Finally, when he did speak, his voice was quieter. “I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it.”

You chuckled, the corners of your lips twitching with amusement. “Just so you know,” you said, setting your glass of water down with a soft clink, “You really suck at making casual conversation.”

His expression remained neutral, but his tone softened slightly. “It was genuine curiosity.” 

This was likely the beginning of your unlikely friendship with Mr. Genius. He was different from the rest of them after all. Perhaps Sendou had been wrong about him, or maybe he had only scratched the surface of Sae’s complexities. 

It intrigued you, drew you in, even if you weren’t entirely sure why. You wanted to get to know him, not as a means to secure your survival or win his approval, but simply as a person. A normal connection in a world where everything felt anything but that.

Still, whatever lay hidden beneath his icy exterior wasn’t something you could grasp. Not yet, at least.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

“For the record, this isn’t part of the Beach’s all-inclusive package,” Sae said dryly, stepping aside to let you in his room despite his comment.

Even with the comfort and relief your month off afforded you, the boredom had crept in faster than expected. Kaede was frequently assigned tasks and spent most of her time with Aiku, leaving you with long, uneventful hours to fill. 

By the second day, you’d already exhausted your limited entertainment options and that’s how you found yourself standing outside one of the Beach’s exclusive suites. The one occupied by a certain red-haired executive.

“Really? I thought hospitality was included in the package,” you quipped, striding into the room without hesitation.

He raised an eyebrow at your boldness, closing the door behind you. “And here I thought you’d find better ways to waste your time.”

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” you shot back, scanning the room. It was impeccably tidy, with no sign of personal clutter, no books, no scattered clothes, not even an empty glass on the counter. “But since you’ve got all this space to yourself, I figured I’d grace you with some company.”

Sae gave you a flat look, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. “Company? Or are you just here to entertain yourself?”

“Can’t it be both?” you countered with a smirk, flopping onto one of the couches. “Besides, you owe me for saving your reputation as the cool-headed genius. Imagine what people would say if they knew you pulled me out of that game.”

He scoffed, but the faintest twitch of amusement tugged at the corner of his lips. “Let them talk. I don’t care about their opinions.”

You leaned back, folding your arms behind your head. “So, what do you do for fun, Mr. Itoshi? Or is brooding your only hobby?”

“I don’t brood,” he replied, his tone neutral but with a hint of defensiveness. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant distraction.”

“Oh, right, because you’re too busy being a weirdo,” you teased.

He stared at you for a moment, as if debating whether to respond, before finally speaking. “If you’re going to sit here and bother me, at least make yourself useful.”

“Useful?” you echoed, feigning offense. “I’m the most useful person in this room right now. Without me, who’d remind you to lighten up?”

Sae let out a quiet huff, almost a laugh but not quite. “You’re insufferable.”

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

Surprisingly, Sae Itoshi could be quite agreeable.

It started small, like quiet conversations in his suite, debates about the pointlessness of certain games, and occasional sarcastic jabs that somehow felt less biting each time.

You discovered that, despite his aloof demeanor, Sae had a surprisingly talkative side when the mood struck him. Through one of those rare conversations, you learned he was a professional football player. While your football knowledge was that of a toddler, your adventurous nature wouldn’t let such an opportunity go to waste.

If only there were a football field somewhere in this eerie city, you’d have eagerly asked him to join you. But since there wasn’t, you settled for dragging him to the Beach’s bowling alley instead. 

You figured he might enjoy a ball-related game, even if it wasn’t quite the same. Of course, you didn’t dare mention your “logical reasoning” to him; he’d probably take offense at the idea that you associated bowling with his beloved soccer. 

Instead, you framed it as something to pass the time, though his skeptical glance suggested he saw right through you.

“You think rolling a ball at pins is a worthwhile way to spend time?” he asked, unimpressed.

The irony wasn’t lost on you, though you held back the urge to point it out directly. And yet you play in a team that kicks balls for a living, you thought to yourself with a smirk. “Better than sitting in your room sulking,” you shot back.

The competitive glint in his sharp eyes became unmistakable, and his precision started to show.

Neither of you had paid much attention to the scoreboard until a sudden burst of confetti erupted from the ceiling, startling you. The sound of clinking mechanisms followed, accompanied by an unexpected jingle of triumph. 

A small chute dispensed the prize: a plump seagull plush, its goofy expression and floppy wings entirely out of place in the empty, unenthusiastic bowling alley. You both stared at it for a moment before Sae picked it up, his expression a mixture of confusion and faint embarrassment.

“Here,” he muttered, thrusting it toward you without looking in your direction. His usual composure wavered.

You blinked, surprised. Your lips quirked into a small smile as you tilted your head slightly, leaning in just enough to catch a glimpse of his face. He was stubbornly avoiding your gaze, his ears suspiciously red at the edges.

“Are you going to take it or just keep staring?” he said, his voice gruff but lacking its usual bite. Finally, he turned to face you, his teal eyes flickering.

Biting back a laugh, you reached out and took the plush from his hands. It was soft and silly in design, a stark contrast to the brooding atmosphere Sae carried with him. Clutching the toy against your chest, you grinned. “Didn’t think I’d leave here with a souvenir,” you teased lightly, your tone laced with genuine gratitude. “Thanks, Sae.”

He scoffed, turning his head slightly, but not fast enough to hide the faint tint of red creeping over his cheeks. “It’s just a stupid plush. Don’t make it a big deal.”

Holding the seagull plush tighter, you couldn’t help but think that, goofy as it was, it might just be the thing anyone has ever given you.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

You wondered if he’d actually warmed up to you. It didn’t feel as one-sided as it had at the start. Maybe this really had turned into a friendship—or something close to it. But the question remained: what exactly did you mean to him? Because you knew he wasn’t someone you could force into anything he did not want to do.

Sure, he complained. There were sighs, eye-rolls, muttered insults. But in the end, he always went along with it.

You were being delusional. Maybe, for him, this was nothing more than a way to pass time in this strange world. And if that’s the case you’d make the most of it.

That’s how you came up with the idea of dragging him to the karaoke rooms. It was stupid, sure, but the thought of getting someone like Sae to stand under disco lights with a microphone was too tempting to resist.

But when you opened the door to one of the karaoke rooms, you froze. 

Lounging on the plush couch was Oliver Aiku, a girl straddling his lap. Her laughter rang out as Aiku whispered something into her ear, his grin as smooth and shameless as ever.

Your gaze quickly darted to the girl’s face, and you nearly choked on your surprise—it was Kaede.

Kaede, on the other hand, looked like a deer caught in headlights.

Aiku glanced up, his expression as smug as ever. Kaede flushed bright red, quickly scrambling off Aiku’s lap.

Still laughing, you waved Kaede a quick goodbye and followed Sae out of the room, unable to resist one last quip.

If you’d learned anything that day, it was that no matter how mundane or pointless he claimed a situation to be, he would still follow you. Yet, you couldn’t fully bring yourself to believe it, knowing that if you were wrong it would only crush the growing feelings in your fragile heart.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

The night air seeped through the thin cracks of your window, the cold brushing against your skin as you sat cross-legged on the floor of your room. The faint hum of the Beach’s generators was the only sound. Kaede was sprawled across the bed, her head resting on her hand as she stared at you with a look that was far too knowing.

The conversation had started innocently enough, idle talk about the games, the people here, and the way life seemed to teeter constantly on the edge of chaos. But then her words shifted, growing softer, heavier with meaning. 

“You know,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “I think I’m falling for him. For Aiku.”

You blinked, her words pulling you from the depths of your thoughts. Aiku, the ever-charming executive with his disarming smirk. The way Kaede spoke, her voice tinged with an unfamiliar vulnerability, made it clear she was serious.

“I didn’t expect it,” she admitted, her gaze dropping to her lap. “It’s not like he’s been anything but himself—cocky, annoying, impossible to ignore. But there’s something there, something more to him.”

Her confession sent a ripple of recognition through you. That sense of being drawn to someone, of being unable to shake the weight of their presence—it wasn’t foreign to you. You felt it too, for Sae that is.

Kaede must have noticed the change in your expression because she lifted her eyes to meet yours. Her gaze was perceptive, and far too knowing. “And you,” she started, her tone gentler now. “Don’t even try to deny it. You like him, don’t you? Itoshi Sae.”

The words hit you like a blow, and your breath caught in your throat. You wanted to shrug it off, to laugh at her assumption, but the sincerity in her voice disarmed you. The cold of the room felt even sharper against your cheeks as heat crept up to them. 

You bit your lip and gave the smallest of nods, your hands clutching the edge of your blanket like a lifeline.

Kaede’s expression softened, and she sat up, her hair falling messily over her shoulder. “It’s okay, you know,” she said, her voice quieter now, as if afraid to shatter the fragile admission you’d just made. “This place… it’s cruel. It makes us cling to things, to people, to anything that feels real. You’re human. So am I.”

A laugh bubbled out of you—soft, strained, almost bitter. “Yeah, but falling in love? Now? That’s not exactly the smartest move, is it?”

Kaede tilted her head, studying you. “Maybe not. But I think he cares about you more than you realize.”

You looked away, your gaze fixed on the open windowpane, it’s a bit far-fetched. “Even if he does… I can’t risk it. What we have now—it’s good. It’s safe. I don’t want to ruin that. If I say anything, if I… admit it to him, I might lose it.”

Kaede reached out, her hand covering yours, warm against the chill of the room. “You’re scared,” she said softly. “I get it. But don’t let fear stop you. We don’t know when this nightmare is gonna end, we might as well start living it.”

Her words lingered long after she’d fallen asleep, her breathing steady in the silence. You stayed by the window, staring out into the night, your heart heavy with the truth you couldn’t bring yourself to share with him. Fear wasn’t just stopping you—it was paralyzing. Because the thought of losing Sae, even in the smallest way, was unbearable.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

The Beach, with all its illusions of safety and utopia, could only hold back reality for so long. If your visa runs out, no matter where you hid, you’re dead. Today marked your last day of time off—and you already missed most of it.

When you opened the door to your room however, Sae was already standing there. His expression was unreadable, his arm extended toward the door indicating that he was one second away from knocking it himself.

“Missed me?” you teased, leaning against the doorframe.

He quirked an unimpressed brow, his voice dry as he replied, “I just wanted to check if your idiot ass didn’t accidentally get flushed down the toilet.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at your lips. Without much thought, you suggested skipping stones by the nearby river—a callback to the night you first met him. You wouldn’t admit it to his face, but you’d been longing to see him, to spend time with him, no matter how mundane the activity, as long as it was with him.

Sae, predictably, was skeptical. His gaze fell to the smooth pebbles in your hand, his brow furrowing slightly as if they were alien artifacts.

You gave a small smile, clearly unfazed. “It’s therapeutic,” you countered, tossing a stone with a flick of your wrist. The stone skittered across the water’s surface, bouncing three times before it sank beneath the surface with a soft plop. “See? It’s about finding rhythm.”

Sae stared at the smooth, round stones in your hand as if they were strange objects. “Therapeutic? It’s a rock. And water,” he said, his tone more skeptical than anything else.

“Come on, show me what you’ve got,” you prodded, tossing him a stone with a playful smirk.

His first attempt was, to put it mildly, clumsy. The stone barely left his hand before it plopped straight into the river with no grace, no finesse. You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and genuine. 

“The great Itoshi Sae, defeated by a rock,” you teased, leaning against the riverbank with a wide grin.

His gaze flickered over to you, he really did hate losing. “Don’t push it,” he warned, though the sharp edge usually present in his tone was absent. It was almost as if your laughter had softened him, or at least caught him off guard.

Determined to prove himself, he picked up another stone, his jaw set in concentration. This time, his flick of the wrist was smoother. The stone skimmed across the water—one, two, three, four, FIVE times—before it sank with a soft ripple.

You blinked, genuinely impressed. “Not bad for a beginner,” you said, a slight, almost reluctant nod of approval following the words though betrayed by your most beaming smile.

He didn’t respond, but you caught the faintest flicker of satisfaction in his expression.

“I used to come here whenever I felt overwhelmed,” you shared, breaking the silence. Then, with a teasing grin, you added, “I’m sure you already knew that, since you were stalking me my first night at the Beach.”

His gaze flicked to you, and with practiced indifference, he replied, “I was just passing by.”

“Sure, sure,” you said, letting the topic drop as you idly tossed a pebble into the air and caught it in your palm. Your gaze drifted toward the river, your tone shifting to something quieter, more reflective. “So, it’s our last day, huh?”

“It’s not like we’re going to die tomorrow or something,” he replied casually, but his words faltered when he noticed your eyes glistening.

“We could,” you said, your voice trembling. “That’s what’s terrifying—we could die.” You buried your face in your palms, your quiet sobs breaking the night’s stillness.

The month had passed in a blur. Your moments with Sae had become a comforting routine—quiet conversations, playful banter, and a silent understanding that grounded you in this surreal reality. But as the end of the month loomed, so did the overwhelming fear of what lay ahead.

What he did next was something you never expected. Sae stepped closer. Without a word, he pulled you into his arms, his embrace firm yet careful, as if you were a fragile piece of glassware, afraid you might break. The cool night air nipped at your skin, his warmth wrapped around you, calming your frayed nerves.

“We’ll be fine,” he murmured, his voice low but resolute. “And if it helps, I’ll look out for you. Whenever I can, always.”

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him through tear-streaked lashes. “You promise?”

His response caught you off guard—not the nod or silence you expected, but a firm, steady, “I do.”

The sincerity in his voice and the gentle pat on your head made your heart ache in a way that was both painful and reassuring. For now, it was enough.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

Returning to the games, you found yourself shuffled between other executives.

One day, it was Kaiser and Ness, leading a Diamond game that required intricate strategy and manipulation. The next, you were paired with Don Lorenzo for a Spade game that pushed your physical limits, his menacing smiles exhibiting his golden teeth giving you constant discomfort. Even Loki’s charm couldn’t soften the brutality of a Club game that demanded relentless cooperation among strangers who knew nothing about each other.

No matter the variation in challenges or how cunning the leaders, the truth remained constant: this place was designed to break you.

During the times you were assigned to Sae, however, things were different. The casual interactions you once shared had shifted into something more professional. He was focused, sharp, and detached in front of others. Yet, even then, he didn’t fail to show that he cared. His gestures were subtle—an extra moment of consideration, a quietly murmured “be careful,” or the way he placed himself between you and danger without hesitation.

You were certain the others noticed the faint special treatment, even if Sae masked it well. But when no one else was watching, he dropped the pretense and treated you like a friend, like he always had.

It was during one of these unguarded moments that he handed you a bottle of water after a grueling game. His tone was brusque, but his actions were anything but, pushing it into your hand before walking off.

Or the time he lingered by your side after a particularly taxing Spade game. You’d been injured. It was just a scrape, really—but his gaze had darkened when he saw the blood. Without a word, he’d torn a piece of his shirt to wrap around your arm, his movements quick and efficient.

And then came that day.

One you could never have prepared for, no matter how much time you had.

In the Borderlands, there were no police, no FBI, no medics to retrieve the bodies. Death was final, and corpses were left to rot where they fell. But this time, it was different. This time, there was an attempt at retrieval—but it was far from professional. 

The body was wrapped hastily in stained, reeking cloth, its outline grotesque, the pungent stench of death wafting through the air like a cruel mockery.

The sight offended every fiber of your being, not because of the lack of care but because of the unmistakable shade of blonde hair peeking out from beneath the blood-soaked fabric.

Kaede.

Your best friend.

You didn’t just cry—you wailed. Your voice tore through the air, a raw, guttural sound of anguish that clawed at your throat and left your chest heaving. The sobs wracked your body, a visceral release of the horror and grief that threatened to consume you whole.

It felt like the world had taken a blade and plunged it into your chest repeatedly, then run you over with a bus as the cherry on top. Your knees buckled, but you couldn’t fall. Not yet.

Bachira had explained the horror of the game she’d been trapped in, though you hadn’t needed the details to piece together the nightmare. A Heart game—vicious, cruel, and unforgiving. One player had been chosen to harbor the 9 of Hearts card, concealed within their body by the twisted hands of the game master; they would have to kill that person. 

That player had been Kaede.

She had known. 

They had all known. 

Aiku, Reo, and Bachira himself had tried everything to protect her. Even if it meant fighting and shedding blood for her sake. But she had made the ultimate choice. By slitting her throat herself to spare them, she couldn’t bear to be the sole survivor in that awful, awful game.

Her life had ended by her own hand, but the horror didn’t stop there. 

The card was needed to end the game. It was stuffed inside her lungs, to force the survivors to desecrate her body in the name of their own survival. Anri Teieri, a surgeon, was the only one capable of performing the task of retrieving it without as much as ruining her perfectly maintained corpse.

“No! Stop! Don’t touch her!” you screamed, thrashing in the lobby as they prepared to take her body away. Everything about it is sick, disgusting. Your voice cracked, and your struggles were wild, desperate, animalistic.

Sae had rushed toward you as soon as he heard the news. He was the only thing keeping you from collapsing completely. He held you back, his arms a steady force as you fought against him with everything you had.

“I’m sorry,” Reo muttered, his voice thick with tears. His face was battered, one eye swollen shut, his body covered in cuts and bruises. He cradled Kaede’s lifeless form in his arms as he carried her toward the basement where Anri waited.

“Where’s Aiku?” you screamed, your voice raw and broken.

Reo’s steps faltered. He didn’t look at you as he answered. “Unconscious. He’s in a coma… in the clinic.”

You felt like you were shattering, splintering into a million irreparable pieces.

You wanted to scream, to curse the world, to make it all stop, but Sae’s arms never left you. He had kept his word, that he’d always look out for you. He was your anchor, the only thing keeping you from being swept away by the tide of despair.

And even as the world seemed to crumble around you, his presence was the only thing that kept you standing. 

That night, Sae didn’t leave you to face the hollow void of your shared room with Kaede. Instead, he let you stay in his. The silence between you was heavy, but not unbearable, it was better than the oppressive emptiness that awaited you in yours.

That night, as you lay curled up on his bed, you asked him, your voice trembling, if he swore he’d never leave you, cause you just lost Kae, and you couldn’t bear to lose him too. 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled you close, his arms encircling you in a way that felt both protective and fleeting. You buried your face in his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, and for a brief moment, it was enough.

He was still there for you in the ways that mattered most. When a game pushed you to your limits and you stumbled back into the lobby, bruised and battered, he was always the first to offer you water or silently leave a pack of bandages on your table. When nightmares jolted you awake in the dead of night, he would come moments later, as if sensing your distress, and sit beside you until you fell back asleep.

One evening, after a particularly brutal Club game, you found yourself limping back into the beach, blood trickling from a gash on your arm. Sae was waiting, leaning against the wall with his usual composed demeanor. He caught sight of your injury and immediately took your arm, leading you to a seat.

“Hold still,” he said, his voice low and steady as he cleaned the wound with practiced care.

“Thank you,” you murmured, searching his face for any sign of the warmth he once had. But his expression was unreadable, his eyes focused solely on the task at hand.

His gestures started to feel… distant. Like he was fulfilling an obligation rather than offering genuine care.

Later that night, you found a bowl of steaming soup left at your door, but when you sought him out to thank him, he was nowhere to be found.

More and more, it became harder to find him outside of games. He stopped lingering in the lobby after debriefings, his presence becoming increasingly scarce. Even during the times you were paired together, his demeanor seemed colder, more professional.

You tried to bring it up one night, catching him in a rare moment of quiet. “You’ve been distant lately,” you said, trying to keep your tone light, though the heaviness in your chest made it hard.

“I’ve been busy,” he replied curtly, his gaze fixed on the horizon rather than you.

“But—”

“You’re strong. You don’t need me hovering over you all the time,” he interrupted.

It was a contradiction, you realized. He was still there when you needed him, but he was pulling away in every other sense. It was as if he was trying to keep you safe while also building walls around himself.

You didn’t know if it was out of guilt, fear, or something else entirely. But as much as it hurt, you couldn’t bring yourself to confront him fully, not when you knew how much he’d already done for you.

And so, you let the distance grow, even as it tore at the fragile connection you still clung to.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

You had always believed it would remain that way. No matter how distant he became, no matter how much he avoided you, he would never truly leave you. There was a fragile comfort in that thought, a belief that despite the growing space between you, some invisible tether still connected the two of you.

But now, curled up in your blanket after that one day, the truth weighed heavy on your chest. You had assumed wrong.

It was late that day. The Beach had settled into its uneasy quiet, the faint hum of electricity in the hallways the only sound. You had been in your room, lost in thought, when a knock startled you.

When you opened the door, Sae was standing there. His expression was unreadable, his teal eyes darker than usual, shadowed by something you couldn’t quite name.

“Sae?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t say anything, but he had sad eyes. 

He stepped forward, closing the distance between you in an instant. Before you could process what was happening, his hand cupped your face, his touch surprisingly gentle, and his lips were on yours.

The kiss was sudden, and yet it felt like the culmination of every unspoken moment between you. It was rushed, desperate, as though he were trying to say something words couldn’t convey, as though he were racing against time, as if the moment were his only chance. 

As if it was goodbye.

Your heart was pounding, your thoughts spiraling, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

And just as quickly as it started, it was over.

Sae stepped back, his hand falling to his side, his expression once again closed off. He looked at you for a moment—just a moment—and then he turned on his heel and walked away without a word.

You stood frozen in the doorway, your fingers brushing your lips, still warm from his. A thousand questions filled your mind, but no answers came. 

The door clicked shut behind you as you sank onto the bed, your thoughts a tangled mess. Whatever had just happened, it had changed everything. And yet, as much as you wanted to chase after him, to demand an explanation, you stayed where you were, uncertain and unsteady.

Sae Itoshi had kissed you, and then he walked away.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

If you had the slightest idea of asking him for any sort of clarity, you couldn’t, not because you didn’t want to, but because you literally couldn’t. 

He shut you out. 

It wasn’t just the silence that stung, it was the absence of his presence, the subtle shift in the air when he was no longer around. He hadn’t spoken to you since that day, and the changes that followed were probably his doing as well. 

You no longer saw him during games. Instead, you were constantly assigned to other executives. 

At first, you thought it might be a coincidence, but as the days turned into weeks, it became painfully clear that it wasn’t. It was as though a door had been quietly, irrevocably shut between you.

The shift didn’t end there. The small gestures—those fleeting moments of acknowledgment or shared silence—became rarer. The places you’d once walked together were now foreign, empty. 

Even the odd shared glance was gone. You couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at you with any semblance of interest, let alone spoken to you. The brief connection you had once shared seemed to be slipping away, eroding, until all that was left was a hollow echo of what once was.

And for the first time, you felt what it was like to be truly alone.

The loneliness crept in slowly at first, like a shadow you couldn’t quite shake off. 

There was a heavy emptiness in the spaces he used to occupy—his absence a constant reminder that whatever bond had existed between you had been severed. 

The laughter, the fleeting moments of understanding, the quiet companionship in a world that felt too loud—it all felt like a distant memory now.

The others? They weren’t the same. Conversations with the other executives were strained, more transactional than meaningful. They didn’t ask about you in the same way, didn’t seem to care in the same way. You were a cog in the machine to them, just another role to fill.

Even the quiet moments you used to cherish—standing at the river, skipping stones, the comfort of being near someone without needing words—felt impossibly far away now. Those moments were yours and his, but now they felt like they belonged to someone else, to a version of yourself that no longer existed.

Each day, you woke up with the sense that something was missing, but you couldn’t put your finger on what. And maybe you didn’t need to. 

The truth was already clear: you were alone. And you had no idea how long it would be before you could find your way back to something that resembled the connection you once had.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

It was around 2 in the morning when you heard the knock on your door. Groaning, you rolled out of bed, still caught in the haze of sleep. Stumbling toward the door, you swung it open, expecting a false alarm or maybe your overzealous roommate. Instead, your breath caught in your throat.

It was Sae.

He stood there, his usually composed demeanor fractured, discomfort etched across his face. His shirt sleeve was soaked with blood, the dark stain spreading ominously. 

"I need your help," he said, his voice low but urgent.

His fatigue was unmistakable, and the rigid tension in his posture only made him seem more vulnerable—a version of Sae you had never seen before. 

In all honesty, you were mad at him, no, you were furious. The audacity he had to show up now, seeking your help without so much as an explanation for his sudden and complete avoidance. Every ounce of anger you’d suppressed threatened to bubble to the surface, but you weren’t a petty person. You saw the blood, the pain he tried so hard to conceal, and that was enough to silence your protests. Instinctively, you stepped aside to let him in, but the sight of your roommate fast asleep on her bed made you pause.

Sae’s gaze flicked to her, and for a moment, his teal eyes softened, understanding the situation without you saying a word.

"I’ll wait for you," he said quietly, his voice uncharacteristically patient.

Grabbing the first-aid kit from your dresser, you followed him down the hall to his room. The silence between you was almost suffocating, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the walls.

When you reached his room, he was already sitting on the couch by the window, his back turned to you. The faint glow of the streetlights filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. He unbuttoned his sleeve, rolling it up to reveal the source of the blood—a deep, jagged gash carved into his upper arm.

The sight made your stomach twist, but you forced yourself to focus. Sitting beside him, you began to clean the wound. Sae didn’t flinch, but you noticed the faint tightening of his jaw whenever the antiseptic touched raw skin. His silence was heavy, as though he was holding back not just pain but words he couldn’t bring himself to say.

"What happened?" you asked softly, breaking the quiet.

Sae hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It was a difficult one. spade game,” he said finally, his voice clipped and distant. “Got slashed during the final round.”

The weight of his words hit you like a wave. This wasn’t just about the gash on his arm—it was a brutal reminder of the relentless stakes in this world, where survival demanded more than just physical endurance. Every wound, every scar was a testament to the unforgiving cost of staying alive.

You gathered the first-aid supplies with steady hands, though your heart pounded in your chest. Sae sat silently, watching you prepare a needle and thread. The sharp metallic scent of antiseptic filled the air as you cleaned the wound, your fingers brushing against his skin.

“This is going to hurt,” you murmured, glancing up at him.

He nodded, jaw tightening as you began stitching the wound with precise, practiced movements. Each pass of the needle through his flesh was met with his silent endurance, though his sharp intake of breath betrayed the pain. 

The room was heavy with quiet, broken only by the soft rustle of bandages and the subtle rhythm of Sae’s breathing. The tension between you felt almost palpable, lingering like an unspoken truth neither of you dared to voice.

When you tied off the final stitch and leaned back to inspect your work, you let out a small breath of relief. “That should hold,” you said softly, your voice breaking the silence. But as your eyes met his, the gratitude and something deeper in his gaze made your chest tighten, leaving you wondering what words he was holding back.

Sae’s teal eyes flicked to yours. For a moment, they softened, and the tension in his shoulders eased. "Thanks," he murmured, his voice stripped of its usual sharp edge.

You stood to return the first-aid kit, the sound of the latch snapping shut echoing in the stillness of the room. When you turned back, the air in the room seemed thicker, charged with unspoken tension.

Something unspoken hung between you, growing louder in the silence.

The weight of it finally broke you.

“Am I really just someone for your convenience?” Your voice trembled, the question carrying the burden of weeks of uncertainty. “It’s unfair, you shut me out, you drop me, and then you come to me for help like nothing happened. Everything you’re doing is so unfair, Sae.”

His expression faltered, guilt flickering across his face like lightning through a darkened sky.

You pressed on, your words spilling out like a flood you couldn’t stop. “One moment, you’re prince charming—pulling me aside, whispering, ‘Come, let’s get lost for a while,’ making me feel like I’m the only person in this godforsaken hellhole who matters. And the next? You vanish. Like none of it meant anything. What am I supposed to make of that kiss?”

Tears welled in your eyes, the ache in your chest tightening like a vice. Frustration and heartache bleeding into every syllable. “If I’m wrong, just say it. Just say the words, and I’ll walk away. We can forget all of this, if that’s what you want.”

Your voice cracked, the weight of your emotions making it difficult to steady yourself.

You clenched your fists at your sides, fighting to maintain your composure.

“I’m not asking for some grand declaration of love,” you continued, your tone softer now but no less desperate. “I just can’t keep going like this, stuck in this limbo, with all these questions in my head.”

The soundproof walls of the room seemed to hold your speech, amplifying the vulnerability in every syllable as the silence around you pressed in.

Sae’s gaze fixed on yours, intense, but he remained silent. His normally detached expression was etched with shame, regret, and something you couldn’t quite place.

“Why don’t you say something?!” you exclaimed, your hands gesturing wildly, to fill the void of his silence carved into this very room.

His eyes darkened, brows knitting together as if fighting some invisible war within himself. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his neck straining as though he were holding back an eruption of words. For a moment, it seemed like he might walk away, leave you drowning in the sea of your own emotions.

But then, without a word, he reached out, catching your balled fists in his hands.

He brought them to his lips, his kiss soft but weighted with unspoken apologies. “I’m sorry,” he finally murmured, his voice barely audible. His jaw clenched, as though struggling to get the words out. “I can’t tell you everything right now. I just… I need you to trust me.”

Trust him? The thought was ridiculous, a bitter sting rising in your chest.

Your hands trembled as you shook your head, voice cracking under the weight of unshed tears.

"You don’t care about me, Sae," you choked out, the words laced with raw hurt. "You just use me... like you do everyone else." Each syllable felt like tearing open a wound, exposing the ache you’d tried so hard to bury. 

"No," he said sharply. "You don’t get it."

"Don’t I?" you shot back, your voice rising. "You act like I’m expendable, but here I am, falling in love with the most detached person in the world." 

The words lingered in the charged air, your confession landing like a stone thrown into still water.

Sae’s eyes widened, shock flashing across his face. But beneath it, there was a flicker of longing, of pain.

Sae was never a man of words. You knew that all too well. But as you turned, the weight of the moment threatening to crush you, his hand caught your wrist, keeping you from running away.

Before you could protest, he stood, the quiet intensity in his eyes rooting you in place. In one swift movement, he pulled you into his arms, his embrace firm and unyielding, as if holding you was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart.

The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, chasing away the cold ache in your chest. His hands rose to your face, trembling slightly as they cupped your cheeks, thumbs brushing away the tears that fell freely now. His gaze locked onto yours—raw, unguarded, and so painfully human it stole the breath from your lungs.

“Sae…” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the thundering of your heart.

He said nothing. He didn’t have to. The honesty reflected in his teal eyes spoke louder than words ever could—a silent confession, a unspoken yet undeniable promise.

And then, with agonizing slowness, he leaned in, his lips brushing against yours.

This kiss was everything the first was not.

It wasn’t rushed or desperate, it was soft and sensible, filled with a quiet intensity that made your heart ache. He kissed you as if trying to tell you everything that he couldn't quite put into words. A deep apology for the agony and isolation you went through. 

You knew you should pull away, demand answers, cling to the anger that had simmered inside you. Instead, you let yourself fall deeper, surrendering to the emotions that you held back for far too long. Your hands found their way to his chest, then to the back of his neck, fingers trembling slightly as you kissed him back with equal intensity.

His touch was soft against you, one hand cradling the back of your head as the kiss deepened , the other resting lightly on your jaw. Each passing second melting into and the world around you dissolved into a hazy blur until all you could see, feel, and breathe was him.

You'd be lying if you said you haven't been with anyone else before, but it had never felt like this. A conflict between your rational mind and the rest of your body craving for his touch.

Slowly, you felt his hands move to cup your ass, gently squeezing the plush skin as you moaned against his mouth. He took this as an opportunity to slide his tongue into your eager mouth, gliding alongside his own like sweet honey.

His hands travelled lower, grabbing your thighs to lift you up and proceeded to carry you towards the bed, not daring to break that heated kiss.

The soft dip of the mattress against the small of your back sent a jolt of awareness through you, but you didn’t stop him, not when he was on the bed hovering over you, his lips trailing down, brushing lightly against your jawline, to the curve of your neck, nipping at the soft skin. 

The thin fabric of your white silk cover-up had been tossed away in one swift motion. Not that you had much clothing left underneath, you had the beach to thank for that, feather-thin yet still an insurmountable barrier separating you from him.

His fingers carefully pull down the strap of your bikini, slipping away inch by inch. 

But then he hesitates. 

His breathing hitched as he pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours, guilt flickering across his face. “Sorry,” he whispered, starting to shift away, his apology tumbling out in fragments, but you caught him before he could retreat any further.

“Don’t,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm, pulling him closer, your hands clinging to his button-down shirt as you brought him back to you. “It’s okay.’ 

It was the first time you saw them so closely—eyes the shade of teal sapphires, a treasure just as rare as the man who bore them. Guilt in his gaze was evident, but so was the yearning, emotions he couldn’t bring himself to voice. He hovered over you, his weight supported by his arms on either side of you, his expression conflicted.

You'd been the one who pulled him back, lips pressing against his, as he kissed back with a new intensity.

Sae’s fingertips gently went back to undressing you, this time he didn't falter, quickly pulling your straps down, your breasts bouncing as it came free from its confines. He gropes your breast, fingers pulling at your nipple, caring not to neglect the other and presses open mouthed kisses till he feels the hardened bud against his lips. 

You desperately cling to him, one hand tangled in his hair, pulling and tugging wildly at his reddish auburn locks. Your teeth sinking on your lower lip, a futile attempt to stifle the moans threatening to escape you right this second, but a needy whimper slips out as Sae sucks one pert nipple. 

Another hand slowly and steadily pushes the flimsy fabric of your panties to the side, exposing your glistening folds. tracing your slit with the pad of his thumb, and slides two fingers into your entrance and pushes it in. 

You’re tight, it was unreal. Clenching and throbbing against the fingers he gradually pumps inside you.

He takes your hand gently, lifting it to give a quick kiss to your knuckles and lowers his face to your inner thighs, lips pressing against it, leaving behind a trail of dark purple marks. A reminder of his unadulterated desire etched on your soft flesh.

You were utterly helpless against the wave of sensations as he held your throbbing core close, devouring your slick folds. Head tossing back, and breath hitching as the intimacy of the moment left you feeling exposed yet cherished in a way that stole the very air from your lungs.

The bed beneath shifted with every movement. messy—wet, hungry, and filled with a raw urgency that lust ignites.

He just couldn’t get enough of you.

Sae pulls away to peel his shirt off, you peer up at him through half-lidded eyes. His hair is messy, courtesy of all your pulling and grabbing, the only source of light in the room coming from the soft glow of the moon.

He wants to do you just like this, appreciating the work of art that you are, eyes lingering on your flushed face, breaths coming in shallow, panting gasps.

You start pawing at your own panties, impatiently trying to yank the piece of clothing down mewling, “Nngh. Sae, need more of you”, voice trembling with such fervor from the depth of your need.

Who was he to deny you?

“Shh baby, I got you.” He stills your squirming, quickly discarding your underwear and his, throwing them aside, as if nothing more than an afterthought. 

He lets you rub his leaking cock with your soft palm. He's holding back subtle groans when he feels you stroke up and down the length of him. You felt him nudge your legs apart, aligning his cock with your entrance, pressing his forehead against yours, waiting for a nod, or a squeeze of his hand— anything that would tell him that he could move. 

The only response you could give was an impatient roll of your hips to meet his.

Your approval was all he needed to slowly ease into your dripping cunt.

"Don't ever say I don't care about you," he whispers softly between your ragged moans, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Because every second in this fucked up world," he murmurs, brushing his lips over your cheek, "my thoughts are plagued." His kiss lingers on your neck, his voice a tender, loving murmur as he gently nibbles your ear. "by you.” and fully sheaths himself into your tight heat.

You’re tossing your head back from the sting of the stretch. But he was quick to whisper sweet nothings in your ear and kiss you stupid to catch your soft gasp.

His words, sweet as lullaby, a stark contrast to the rough way your walls are stretching to accommodate the length of him. You were utterly speechless by his bold expression.

This same man that never spoke so much more than blunt statements, now telling you just how much you really mean to him.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, you were desperately craving for him to be closer, as if he wasn’t already knocking on the gates of your cervix.

Your silent pleas didn’t come unnoticed, enticing him to lock one arm around your upper back, holding your thighs open as he began to rock into you. At this point he had his face buried on the crook of your neck, pushing his cock deeper and deeper into you, lost in the sweet euphoria of your tight, soaking core.

Your arms flew across his back, nails pressing into the firm muscle beneath your fingers. The look on your face made the corners of his mouth turn up. A rare smile that reached his eyes. You knew you looked just as intoxicated on this wave of pleasure as he did.

It felt perfect, heart pounding with so much adoration for the man you’re connected to at this very moment, making up for all the lost time.

“I missed you.” Sae whispers, each word laced with unguarded intensity that sends shivers down your spine. His voice is low, almost trembling, as if confessing a secret too precious to be spoken out loud. 

“You idiot,” you replied, a shaky laugh escaping through the tears streaming down your face. Your voice wavered, caught between the weight of your emotions and the flicker of relief his words brought, the ache in your chest softening ever so slightly.

You feel yourself nearing your climax, a cracked moan broke from your throat, skin tingling with electricity as your body succumbed to pure ecstasy. He felt your cum all over his length as he chased after his own release. With one final thrust, as your velvety walls clench around him, and teeth grazing his shoulder. Emptying himself completely inside you. A warm sensation flooding your insides.

You felt him gently pull out, the warm fluid slowly seeping out your used hole. 

You gently wiped the sweat from his forehead with the palm of your hand, a light chuckle escaping his lips as he leaned down to kiss you softly, before collapsing beside you, his breath steadying as he nestled you closer.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

Sae never falls asleep before you, not even during those nights when you stayed in his room.

He always waited for you to drift off first.

But this time was different.

As you glanced over at him, you saw the lines of tension that usually creased his face had smoothed out. His features, typically stoic and guarded, now seemed calm—peaceful even.

It was a serenity you hadn’t seen before, as though the burden he always carried had, for a fleeting moment, been lifted.

The soft moonlight seeped through the curtains, casting a gentle glow over his face and highlighting the faint rise and fall of his chest.

“I love you,” you whispered, the words slipping effortlessly from your lips, barely more than a breath in the stillness of the room. You knew he couldn’t hear you, he was fast asleep. 

You lay nuzzled against him, head resting on his arm wrapped securely around you. Your fingers grazed absentmindedly over his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your touch.

It was a moment you didn’t want to end, your own weariness slowly pulling you under as his warmth enveloped you.

Despite the intensity of the love you had confessed to him earlier that night, he hadn’t offered you an explanation. No words, just this. But this was enough. For now.

A/N: If you've made it to this point, all I wanna say is; Thank You so much for taking the time to read this story <3

This is the most shocking fic I’ve ever written! Honestly so surprised by the outcome and the amount of time, I poured into it (was even more than my college essays). Though I barely had the time to edit it :<

17k words wow, I had so many instances in which I felt like I just wanted to drop this fic all together because it wasn’t connecting the way that I wanted it to, but every time I read the drafts, there’s this feeling like a silent sense of accomplishment waiting if I do finish it, and I’m glad I pushed through, because I’m proud of the result.

This was actually a challenge from a friend—play with the tropes of forced proximity (but not really) and friends to lovers with Itoshi Sae. I thought it was such an outrageous request, but then an idea struck when I was rewatching Alice in Borderland and binging Blue Lock. Out of nowhere, I thought: What if Sae were in this setting?

I hope I did justice to blending tropes, but either way, I really hope you all enjoyed reading it!

It was intentional on my part to leave readers feeling confused in this part—after all, if you were in that kind of situation and environment, and he treated you this way, you’d be confused too. 

Should I write Part 2? If I do decide to write a second part it will start from Sae’s POV to explain his side of the story.

───🃁🃜🃚🃖🂭🂺🃁───

if you enjoyed my work please consider donating on ko-fi ^^

PART 2