#mind the warnings my loves

[ceoofyearning]

I only pray, don’t fall away from me

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: The world feels like it’s falling apart around you, but Azriel finally comes home and helps you hold all the pieces together.

Tags/Warnings: Hurt and Comfort, depressive themes & thoughts, anxiety, nightmares, mentions of a minor character death (not the mc/reader) || please mind the tags.

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: this week was though so here’s a bit of a hurt & comfort fic; hope your days are kind to you guys xoxo

Links: Fic Masterlist | My Art

You’re so damn tired.

The last few weeks have been difficult, to say the least. The healing house has been filled to the brim with the wounded and sick. Altercations with Beron’s soldiers by the border have been increasing at an alarming rate, while countless spies from the continent have been winnowed in after being caught by Koschei’s contingent forces. You can’t even begin to imagine the state of the civilians that might’ve been caught in the crossfire. 

There is tension in the air with the threat of the inevitable war looming on the horizon. It doesn’t help that the winter chill, in all of its foreboding fury, has come to ravage the lands and its people. You love your work as a healer, you really do. Some days, the thought of the good you do, the people you help, is enough to keep you going. But too often, it feels like a thankless job that leaves you drained to the core. 

In your free time, you’ve been parsing through ancient texts in search of information on Death Gods and anything that could be used against Koschei. His looming threat is a cloud of dread that hangs over everyone, especially Rhys. The least you could do is to help carry the burden. It’s not like you could sleep, anyway. These days it is as though your mind adamantly refuses to let you rest. At the very least, the task keeps you distracted when you’re stuck alone in your apartment. 

Ever since Azriel had been sent to the continent for a reconnaissance mission nearly a month ago, the apartment you share has started to feel a little too big, too desolate. Before you knew it, the white walls had been transmuted from your home into what felt like the bars of a cage. 

The two of you haven't been apart for so long since the mating bond snapped. You didn’t think you'd feel his absence as acutely as you did, but it felt like the loss of a limb where the wound refused to heal and you were already bleeding out. His part of the bond is blacked out completely, a devouring void where Azriel’s comforting presence should have been. It’s for your own safety, he said. But you can’t help it. You’re plagued with worry, with imagined hurts and tragedies, amplifying the brewing conflict in your mind. 

It is easier to catch yourself when Azriel is near. When the thoughts begin to swirl like a hurricane around you - winds whipping, oceans rising - it feels like Azriel’s arms are the only safe harbor you can rely on. But Azriel isn’t here now. 

What frustrates you most is that you’ve been better recently. You’ve been good. You ate your meals, slept reasonably, even had a goddamned routine set up. You guzzled down your tonics in hopes of smoothing out the edges of your frayed mind, that perhaps it could lend you some semblance of normalcy. But no. Weeks of being haunted by nightmares, of overextending yourself, of loss and suffering seeping under your skin day by day have taken its toll. 

You are just too damn tired. 

A child died, barely over thirteen years old. She was bastard-born, which meant she had nothing to her name other than the rags on her back and her birthright to suffer generational oppression and cruelty. This is the worst winter the Night Court has had in centuries, and she didn’t even have a decent roof over her head. Needless to say, she hadn’t been in the best health. But despite that, the moment her cycle had come, the men forced her to go through the clipping. In her struggle, the imbeciles accidentally nicked a vital artery. Normally, her Illyrian healing would’ve granted her a strong chance for survival, but she had been so sick, her body weakened by hours spent in the frigid cold. 

By the time you had been summoned to heal her, she no longer had the strength to recover. Numbness washed over you at the image of her unseeing eyes, the same shade as Azriel’s in the right light, trained toward the vast empty sky. You have a feeling it isn’t a sight you’d forget any time soon. 

You don’t know how long it’s been. The room is shrouded with a thick blanket of darkness, the only respite coming from the dwindling candlelight by your bedside. Only silence exists within these four walls, interrupted by the occasional patter of water leaking from the kitchen sink. You burrow deeper into the sheets, inhaling the trace of Azriel’s scent that still lingered like it would somehow quell this ache inside you. 

Despite spending most of the day bedbound, you’ve barely had any sleep. There is no respite to be found in the dreaming, only nightmares lying in wait. It seems your mind has a knack of bringing your worst fears. Azriel bruised, bloodied and utterly alone, lost, somewhere in the vastness of the continent, hazel eyes - his, then hers, then his again - glazing over, crimson seeping into the arid ground below. 

For the last few weeks, you’ve gathered your grief and worry like rocks to wear around your neck. Your body is heavy, the phantom weight sinking and settling within the marrow of your bones, refusing to leave. It feels like you could stay in this bed forever until you dissipate into nothing but sand, smoke and thought.

You managed to send out a request for the texts Rhys needed translated, but not much else. You’re thankful he directly portalled them on your worktable because you don’t think you could brave the journey to the library today. You don’t think you could do much of anything today, in all honesty. 

So there you lay, bundled up in a collection of blankets, at least three inches of cotton and down that never seem enough to warm you. A book rests in your hands, yet your eyes remain unfocused, not truly seeing the words.

You run your thumb over the crisp paper, knowledge older than you, older than this city and yet you couldn't even bring yourself to focus long enough to dissect their true meaning. Your will is liquid in your hands, slipping through the cracks in between your fingers. Accidentally, you tug too hard on a page and it tears easily beneath your touch. If you had your wits about you, you would’ve been horrified by what you’ve just done. But as you are now, it is difficult to care. 

That’s what you feel like at this moment, you realize. These past few weeks have left you feeling spent, worn out, paper thin. Absently, you stretch out your hand towards the candlelight, close enough to feel the warmth lick against your cool skin. The flame casts a brilliant silhouette around your shadowed hand. It’s a wonder why golden light doesn’t seep right through. 

That’s how Azriel finds you.

The front door of your apartment creeks open, letting in a flood of muted morning light. Your first instinct is to retreat beneath the covers to shield yourself. Azriel calls your name in the silence, worry permeating each syllable. No doubt, he is cataloging the mess your shared space had become in your unintentional neglect. 

You say nothing, wondering if you could just close your eyes and pretend to be asleep, anything to escape his scrutiny. A breath of relief escapes him when he finds you in bed. The mattress dips beneath his weight as he sits beside you. 

The urge to curl tighter around yourself is strong. But he repeats your name and, as though he had cast a spell, you unspool before him, your muscles unwinding, one fiber at a time. 

“Can I touch you?” He asks, voice painfully soft.

“Okay,” you croak out from beneath the blankets. 

Azriel gradually draws the sheets away from your body, giving you ample time to protest if you’d like. Then, he rests his hand on your shoulder. Unbidden, a shiver runs down your spine, followed by a stuttered breath. You don’t realize how much you missed his touch until his textured hand begins its soothing path up and down your back, his heat sinking into your skin. 

Shame washes over you despite the bone-deep comfort you find upon his gentle ministrations. You don’t want him to see you this way. Azriel deserves better, the voices in your head insist. He deserves a mate whose mind does not devour itself at every given opportunity, a mate who does not quake beneath the weight of the world and the idea of their own immortal existence.

As though detecting your train of thought, his shadows leave their preferred perch on his shoulders to pool around you instead. Tendrils of darkness brush away the tears on your face, while some thread through your hair like a gentle breeze. 

On the other hand, Azriel urges you to rest your head on his lap. He begins to run his hand through your hair, uncaring of how greasy and tangled it has become. Eventually, his voice pierces the silence, injecting warmth into the distance between you. He hums a tune you do not recognize, but you can't help but cling to each winding note like a lifeline. Azriel has always had a beautiful voice - depthless, silken and soothing. It feels like a privilege to hear the song that he normally reserves for his shadows.

You must’ve been a pitiful sight to behold, and yet Azriel never looks at you like you are. He always treats you like something to cherish, something to love, like you’re someone he’s spent lifetimes desperately waiting for and you’ve been entirely worth the wait. A traitorous part of you feels like you’ll never deserve it, this love.

Azriel must sense the hurricane of emotions waging a one-sided war in your head, despite the mental shields you adamantly keep up. But he doesn’t tell you to stop, doesn’t brush off your worry with empty words and false promises. Instead, he simply says, “I love you.” 

He speaks it as though it is a fact like one would say that the sky is blue, and the grass is green, and the world would keep on turning in peteruity, orbiting the sun the same way you’ll continue to orbit around each other. His chapped lips ghost over your temple, murmuring your name like a plea, a prayer. 

“More than anything in this world,” he adds as he pulls you into his embrace. 

Your body is pliant for him, arms winding around his neck like that is where they’re meant to be. His arms wrap around your waist to hold you impossibly closer. Webbed wings stretch to curl around the two of you, creating a cocoon of darkness that keeps the rest of the world at bay. With your head resting on his chest, you could hear his heartbeat thudding in chorus with yours. 

“I love you too,” you reply after a long stretch of silence. “But sometimes I wish you could’ve had a better mate.” 

“There is no one better,” Azriel insists. “There is only you, my love; through light, through darkness, through whichever end. Only you.” And you feel the truth of his words as surely as the twinned beating of your hearts. Sometimes it’s hard to convince your traitorous mind that you could have this, that someone could love you so deeply despite having seen you at your worst. Azriel presses another kiss against your cheek, and despite yourself, you begin to believe his words.

You don’t know how long Azriel holds you like that, but it finally feels like a stretch of eternity you could bear.

“What can I do to help, love?” Azriel prompts, cupping your face in the cradle of his scarred palms - their texture, a familiar comfort. 

You turn over his question in your head for a few moments, savoring his scent, the sensation of his skin against your own. A part of you is tempted to ask him to lay beside you for the rest of the day, for a week, for an entire lifetime. You know Azriel would if you asked it of him. But beyond this room, the world continues its elliptical path around the sun and time still ticks on regardless of how disconnected you feel from your own reality. 

“A bath,” is all you manage to say.

Azriel nods, before reluctantly peeling himself from you. “Have you eaten?” 

“‘M not hungry,” you mumble as you sink back into the sheets, sighing as the comforter swallows you up. In truth, you can’t remember when your last meal had been. Hunger didn’t seem so pressing in the last few days.

“That’s not what I asked.” Azriel’s tone leaves no room for argument or negotiation. 

“No,” you finally answer, although with much trepidation. “Not yet.” 

He hums, clearly displeased, but says nothing else. You can already imagine the frown that must be stretching across his face. But it seems Azriel’s presence alone is enough to quieten your mind, at least for now. You must’ve been dead tired because it doesn’t take long for the rhythmic sound of Azriel's familiar footfalls to lull you into dreamless sleep.

"Love," Azriel whispers, his hand hovering over your shoulder, rousing you from your shallow slumber. You blink languidly until molten eyes come into focus. The candlelight flickers, and shadows dance across his face. Azriel’s normally sharp features are softened by the tenderness in his expression. You’ll never tire of waking to the sight of him. 

With a groan, you half-roll half-stumble out of bed. Azriel stays an arm’s length away in case you need him, but he’s careful not to crowd you. His shadows have no such reservations, however. The dark tendrils fretfully twine around your arms, making you smile. You thank them quietly, and for a moment, they seem to dance with delight. Regardless of your initial unsteadiness, you manage to pad all the way to the bathroom.

Upon crossing the threshold, the sweet scent of jasmine immediately overtakes your senses. The tub has already been filled up, steam rising from the sun-covered surface. You begin to unbutton your tunic, clumsy fingers tumbling through your first few attempts. Azriel steadies your hands with his firm grip, his shadows gently circling your wrists. 

“May I?” He asks, gesturing to your tunic, and you nod, not wanting to think anymore. His movements are precise, almost clinical, while he undoes the first five buttons, before bunching the garment in his hands and pulling it over your head entirely. Your skin breaks out in gooseflesh once exposed to the cold air. Azriel is careful to keep his gaze on your face, even as you step out of your undergarments. 

Azriel only betrays his composure when he traces your cheekbone, like he can’t quite help himself. From this distance, you have to crane your neck to look up at him. For a moment, the two of you only stare at each other. The bond glows bright between you, the golden thread gleaming as though it hadn't spent the last few weeks completely stretched thin. 

But then, Azriel withdraws, tilting his head to the steaming tub. Obediently, you step into the water’s warm embrace, the heat nearly stinging your skin. Logically, however, you know it’s only because you’ve allowed yourself to stay in the cold for too long. 

A relieved sigh escapes you as you sink further into the tub. One of his shadows rushes to pillow your heavy head as it rests on the tub’s rim. You thank the sweet little thing, and swirls of black sway back and forth like a dog wagging its tail. Meanwhile, Azriel takes his place by the head of the tub, sitting back on his heels. 

“I’d like to wash your hair,” he says and you're touched by the earnest quality his voice takes. 

“Okay,” you breathe. You’ve never been good at denying Azriel anything, nor did you want to. The more the ice beneath your skin thaws, the more you find that you want him near. 

Azriel begins by running his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp as he pours warm water over your head. With a pop of a bottle, the floral scent of shampoo fills the air. He lathers the substance on your head, his touch tender even as his fingers work through the knots in the strands, untangling them with care. 

After a while, he rinses off the suds and coats his hands with oil. He begins combing his fingers through your hair, starting from the ends and working his way up. The rhythmic motion of his fingers is calming as he draws circles against your scalp. You find yourself melting into the moment, feeling utterly content for the first time in what feels like a very long time. 

Once done, Azriel grabs a small towel and asks, “Do you want help washing?”

You shake your head, wanting to do this for yourself, at least. Understanding flashes in his eyes, and he spares you a soft smile. With that, Azriel leaves the towel by the tub and politely excuses himself from the room. With the door left slightly ajar, you could still hear him move around the apartment followed by the lyrical clinking of silverware against ceramic.

It takes you a few minutes to gather the energy to lather yourself with soap, and a few more to finally rise from the bath. But once the grime is off your skin, you feel a bit of the weight wash off with it too. You feel a bit more like yourself.

After drying off, you tug on the silk robe Azriel has left for you, securing it loosely around your waist. Upon exiting, you spy him by the dining table, scooping a generous serving of soup into a bowl. The mouthwatering aroma of rich broth wafts through the room, and you realize just how hungry you are when your stomach growls in protest. You approach him from behind, making sure that each step is audible.

Azriel continues to set up the table, but you can tell he’s aware of your presence from the way his shoulders seem to relax. The sudden urge to have him close is palpable, an instinct so deeply ingrained into your being. So,  gradually, you wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face on his back. You take a deep inhale, breathing him in - a lungful of moontime mist and cedarwood smoke. 

“I’m glad you’re home,” you murmur against Azriel’s back, your voice muffled by his shirt. 

“I’m glad to be home,” he whispers. His hands abandon their task in favor of twining his fingers with your own. 

Azriel turns to face you and holds your face in his hands. Beneath the swathes of sunlight, his eyes are alight with golden flame, flecks of green scattered over his irises like an afterthought. There is nothing but love in his gaze, nothing but acceptance. 

“Thank you,” you say, tilting your head so the words could kiss his lips, not quite touching but close. “For being here, for loving me, for choosing me, everyday.” 

“I will always choose you,” he vows, before planting a kiss on your forehead.

“Today,” another peck on the tip of your nose; “Tomorrow,” one more on your cheek; “And all the days after,” he finishes with a chaste caress on your lips.

Then, he rests his forehead on yours, your bodies slotted against each other like a lock and its predestined key. In Azriel’s presence, you find it easier to breathe, easier to simply be. For the first time in a long time, your mind is clear and your heart beats in a calm, languid pace that matches his own.

“I’d like to kiss you,” you request, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. Azriel’s gaze is searching, scouring for any hint of anything short of absolute certainty. Perhaps you should tell him that in this world of constant change and chaos, he’s the only one you’re certain of.

Azriel must be satisfied with what he finds written across your features because he replies, “So kiss me then,” the ghost of a smirk playing across his lips.

You’re surprised to find that it’s easy to return the playful expression. Your rise to the tips of your toes while your fingers thread through his raven black hair. When your lips touch, it is as though the world breathes a sigh of relief. Reality realigns and everything outside the two of you and your shared breaths turns inconsequential. He moves against you with practiced ease, like the natural ebb and flow of the tide.

An eternity of this, you think, doesn’t seem so daunting after all. 

AN: i’m not sure if that was too much but thank you for reading 💙 As always, i’d love to hear everyone’s thoughts

English isn’t my first language, so if you see any mistakes, please lmk thru dm! 💙

Also, I just wanted to yap about the Az fics im in the process of writing:

1. Vampire!Azriel x Reader (Working tittle: Ashes in my wake)

I just love the idea of cannibalism (or yk, blood drinking) as a metaphor for love in literature so here we are. ( @/annikin-im-panicin this is ur influence) This one is a bit of a dark fic (nothing too crazy tho, I think), so i’m not sure how it’ll be received. But the idea has been haunting me for yonks so I just had to write it.

2. Tattoo Artist!Azriel x Lucien’s Best Friend!Reader (Working tittle: Drink dry the river Lethe)

This one is a multichapter fic (maybe 4-7 chapters, we’ll see) so it might take me a while before I start posting, but i’ve mostly finished writing the first (very smutty) and second (very angsty) chapter. I ‘m not entirely sure what direction to bring this yet but maybe you guys can help me decide?

Unrelated to Az, but i’ve been brainworming a poly dark-ish innocent!reader x Feysand fic, and a slightly less dark and more sappy(?) poly warrior!reader x royal!nessian fic. I’m so excited to start these but my pile of wips is giving me the stink eye 😂

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Just your average male living space.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[egophiliac]

giving the people what they want (jokes about spreadsheets)

anyway, Twst continues to prove that it is aimed at me specifically by giving us not one, but now TWO extended scenes of characters being incredibly difficult about signing an NDA. you just don't get this anywhere else.

[ningadudexx]

who up journeying to they west ⁉️⁉️⁉️⁉️ 🚶‍♂️🚶‍♂️🚶‍♂️🚶‍♂️🐎

the first one is a screenshot redraw of this frame cause it freaking rocks 🔥🔥🔥

the show has been out since 1986 and also the novel has been out since the 16th century.... but ill spoiler warninf just in case... anyone in audience from the 16th century tonite ⁉️🙋‍♂️🙋🙋‍♀️

[sketchy-tour]

I can't see you. Do you see me? 👁️👁️

[isagrimorie]

Star Trek Voyager 4x09 - Year of Hell, part 1

Janeway: We're going through their space whether they like it or not.

[dukeofthomas]

"Jason just needs to see things from his family's perspective and understand how much they love him (despite them never actually communicating or showing him through their actions)" is out. "The batfamily putting a single bit of effort into understanding Jason and reconciling with him on his own terms" is in.

[vaguely-concerned]

severing the connection of the titans to themselves, each other and their children, to the world, and with it severing the connection of the dwarves to their true nature, the basic state of love and belonging that should be their birthright. ("our children, orphaned".) severing the connection between rook and the reality and true memory of varric, and thus from themselves and their own healing grief AND love. (do we spot the echo, perhaps?) severing (mostly accidentally this time, I'll give him that) the connection between the fade and the real world, dream and reality.

the scale we're operating on varies from the mythic, the cosmic and existential, to the individual and deeply, nauseatingly intimately personal, but it's the same pattern every time. solas keeps committing the same act of enforced dissociation, of creating orphaned pain that cannot even know itself, estranged from its own history, origins and coherence, unhealable in being impossible to recognize for what it is and thus unreachable. (hello lucanis in the minrathous saved route btw. this theme echoes everywhere when you look for it. I do love this game.) making others strangers to themselves for his own purposes and being surprised when it blows up in his face horrifically once more even when it's his same indelible original sin repeated, again and again and again. dissociation is a natural process the mind uses to protect itself from unbearable pain, but to knowingly cause that in someone, to play around with their connection to themselves and reality so fundamentally, to further your own cause... yeah, I'm not surprised the fabric of the world keeps tearing apart in protest in response to that, there's something so unspeakably insidiously wrong about it. forget snacking down on apples and knowing yourself to be naked or whatever, that sounds like a perfectly blameless if presumably slightly chilly afternoon to me -- force-feeding someone else their own fragmentation for your own gain, however ostensibly worthy your final goal, feels much closer to what real sin would be to me. and even worse because *buries face in hands* he just keeps doing it!!! he should know better, but he keeps doing it!!!!!!

I know I keep joking that solas only has the like three basic moves he keeps rearranging to invent new and spectacular ways of doubling down on making the same mistake yet again, but looking at it like this it's almost not even funny anymore haha. (almost. there is a hysterical amusement and affection that rises within me every time I see his smug little face, we cannot choose who we love only what we do about it.) and the worst thing is that I think he could learn! I do believe he has the capacity, the depth of empathy and soul and intellect, to learn from this, had he chosen to do so, had he let himself pause and truly listen at any point. but at the end of the day, even all these thousands of years later and with the mountains of guilt he lugs around, he chooses not to. and I suspect it's because he fundamentally does not actually understand what he did wrong. on his way to, ostensibly, fix one of these splits he caused, that of the veil, he basically goes and does to rook's mind what he did to the titans, and without the hand of mythal guiding it or anyone else culpable in it with him this time, as if to underline twice that in all these thousands of years he has learned absolutely nothing! almost to an impressive degree! does he even recognize that it's the same thing he's doing? does he even actually afford rook and their internal world that much thought to begin with, aside from what purpose they can serve for him? I'm not so sure. and to do it all with varric's face, with the person he took from them, making them feel complicit in it when they find out, the same way the dwarves will have to grapple with the fact that their whole economy is based in unwittingly selling the blood of like. god. their parents. themselves. solas. babe. what the fUCK. what the fuck. what the fuck.

perhaps part of the blind spot comes down to the way it's the inverse of his own trauma. solas knows exactly what happened to him because it's the endless ache at the center of his existence, the thing -- the first mistake -- he can't escape or undo or forget, nor bring himself to accept: he became real, one coherent set self, with no way back to what and who he was. and what he does with that pain, his one move, is to make others not-real. to himself, and more alarming still to themselves. he makes them forget, as he cannot forget. does he think it's mercy, in some way? does he realize how and why that makes it all so much worse??? and... not quite the same thing, but when mythal dies the structure of his own inner world falls apart catastrophically, and in his vengeance for that, even unintentionally, he imposes that same unravelling on the world. we've all heard the lines about spirits mirroring the real world and what you bring into your relationship with them being what you get in return, but how about the tragedy of the inverse -- the world being brought to mirror you, despite what your intentions might have been going in. no one should have that power, but you claimed that power yourself to do something else and now you have to look into that mirror forever. no such mercy as forgetting yourself for you. you are everywhere now, this broken mirror of a world will reflect yourself back to you no matter where you look. perhaps it would feel easier to simply close your eyes and walk on willfully blindly. AGH it's all so delicious and fucked up and makes me feel absolutely nuts

dissociation is something that's also central in iron bull's character and internal conflict, so presumably this is simply a deep theme trick weekes keeps returning to/is interested in exploring in their writing! and the elegance with which it's done and how inextricably yet subtly embedded in the narrative it is both with bull and overall in veilguard means it's not always engaged with or recognized as I feel it deserves, but to me personally it is Everything and gets at it in ways that feel weirdly real and authentic.

[maikhiwi00]

TRANSFORMERS: RISE OF THE BEASTS 2023, dir. Steven Caple Jr.

[kusanagihaku]

and i will hold onto you

⭢ haku x mc, 9.6k

n is for new year's day. ˖⁺‧₊⟡ alphabet series | ao3 thinking always about this headcanon; also i know graduation is usually in march but like, artistic license, haha…?

The cheers in Tokyo Dome are deafening. 

You watch as families stream down from the corners of the dome to the field, swarming their loved ones in congratulations as graduation caps are knocked to the floor with the force of their hugs. 

There is a vague current of wistfulness in the air, amidst the celebratory cheers, as is common in most graduation ceremonies. As you stand alone looking around at all the families, you wonder how much of that wistfulness is your own. 

It’s been a little over three years, after all, since you’ve entered Darkwick. Three years since the curse was placed on you and consequently broken, three years since you’ve last seen any of your family. Three years since you’ve found a new one, strange as they are, and two years since they’ve left you, one by one, to take on the world outside Darkwick. 

And now it is your turn to leave. 

“Honour roll,” comes a familiar voice, from behind you, and you turn, hand on your cap, to see Leo’s smirk and the camera in his hand. 

Despite yourself, you laugh. “Leo.”

His smirk melts into something gentle, genuine. “Congratulations. Really. You’re free from this hellhole, once and for all.” 

You dip your head at the Vagastrom captain, “Can’t wait for it to be your turn.”  

“One year to go, then,” Sho says, appearing behind Leo. He grins, waving a sunflower stalk at you. “One year without our precious senpai coming to bother Vagastrom.” 

“You better appreciate that one year.” 

“You bet we will,” Leo says, without any real heat, and you share a laugh as Sho presses the sunflower into your hands. 

Its stem is wrapped with a stiff yellow ribbon printed with the name of their house. You rub it between your fingers. “Which poor first year did you torture into doing this for you?”

Leo shrugs. “Bunch of ‘em. Said it was for the seniors, and they jumped at the chance.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, unconvinced, but before you can probe further Sho’s eyes flicker somewhere behind you. 

A smile unfurls across his face, large and mischievous, and he bobs his chin to your left. “Someone’s waiting for you.”  

You turn around, eyebrows furrowed – who is there left in this school who would look for you, Ritsu, Ren? – but then you see him. 

He’s holding a small bouquet of sunflowers and white roses, laced with baby’s breath and bells of Ireland. There are whispers from some of the students around you, a gasp of recognition from a Hotarubi student or two as he steps forward. The purple Darkwick tie, never once worn when he was still a student, is loosely tied around his collar, slanting slightly to the right like he has tugged on it more than once under the dark grey suit he has chosen for the occasion. 

You don’t notice the pinpricks in the corner of your eyes until he blurs into a mess of green and white and grey. “Oh,” you gasp, and he is there instantly, fingers brushing traitorous tears from your cheeks. 

He laughs, palm still cradling your cheek, and even though you knew he was coming, the aw-shucks grin he gives you still puts an all-familiar lump in your throat. 

“Congratulations, princess,” Haku says, soft and warm. “Well done.” 

-

December 29 - Darkwick Academy  Distance left to destination: 464km 

It is eight thirty-four in the morning. 

Haku stands, hands on his hips, in the middle of your dorm room. There are two duffle bags by his feet.

For what amounts to two years of living in the cathedral, you have fairly little belongings. 

You’ve given most of your items away, of course, in preparation for your move cross-country. All that are left are your clothes, stuffed neatly into a nearly-bursting medium-sized suitcase waiting by the door, and the gifts from various ghouls you’ve accumulated over the years. 

“Ready?” Haku asks. He gathers both duffle bags in one hand. In one of them is a notebook, given to you by Zenji before he, too, left. 

You turn to survey the bare room. You wonder, for a moment, who the next person to inhabit the room will be like - what they will be cursed with - before you turn back to face Haku. 

He is glowing, almost, in the morning light. His grey Hotarubi sweatshirt is rumpled, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms and creased slightly where his overnight backpack is hung on his left shoulder. He looks at you, head cocked to one side, fond, sleep lines from where he slept on your pull-out sofa the night before etched into the soft of his cheek. 

If you haven’t already been planning this road trip for the past two months over text you’d think he came straight out of a dream. 

“Ready,” you say. You pick up your winter coat and his, and sling your backpack over your shoulder. The bouquet he gave you the previous day peeks out from the top. 

Haku nods. He holds the door open for you as you wheel your suitcase over the threshold of the room. The door clicks closed behind the both of you. 

He takes the suitcase from you, then, carrying it easily in one hand down the rickety old staircase. The third step from the bottom creaks beneath his weight like you knew it would. 

It creaks beneath your weight, too. You fish the key to the cathedral door out of your pocket as you reach the first floor. You leave it on the side table leading into the kitchen – the worker cats will retrieve it later today – and head towards the front door. 

You expect something to change, then, some shift in the air that tells you your time in Darkwick is over, but nothing happens as you emerge out into the watery grey sunlight. You wonder why you expected it to. 

Haku’s car is parked, slanted, on the driveway outside the cathedral. The bright yellow permission slip you obtained from Professor Hyde the week before for Haku flaps flimsily in the wind, held back by the wiper on his windshield. 

He unlocks the car, loads your belongings into the trunk. The wind brushes his bangs away from his face. 

It is eight forty-three in the morning. He looks at you, again, patient, understanding, like he always does. 

You exhale. You look back at the cathedral, one last time. 

Then you walk over to where Haku whisks you away from Darkwick, as swiftly and as kindly as he did whisking you in. 

-

December 29 - Hakone, Kanagawa  Distance left to destination: 365km 

It starts snowing a little before Haku pulls into the parking lot. 

Being in Darkwick for most of the year means you’ve forgotten what the weather outside is like, sometimes. The powdery snowfall encases the both of you in silence as you shake out your winter coats and trudge up the stone steps, bowing your heads as you pass under the red torii. 

The shrine is deserted. Whether it is because of the snow or the time of year you’re not really sure; after all, why come out to a shrine a few days before the end of the year when you’re going to visit again on the first day of the new year? 

But it is peaceful and quiet, something you have no complaints about, and before long you’ve made your way up the long stairs and are standing in front of the main hall, heads bowed in respect. 

This is the reason why Haku suggested a road trip instead of taking the Shinkansen down to Kyoto – to bring you to all his favourite shrines around the country on the way down. Your stops, carefully mapped out over Wickchat and Google Maps, are few but meaningful to him, planned out so that you’ll move into your new apartment before Subaru’s first performance of the year at Minamiza Theatre. 

Haku hasn’t told you the reason for any of the stops, but you can more or less guess his reason for this one; as you descend a different set of stone steps, a tall red torii comes into view, half-submerged in water. Snow drifts into the darkness swirling around the feet of the gates, blurring into the red paint before disappearing on contact with the lake. What lies beyond the gate has been shrouded in mist, a white haze obscured by the oncoming snow. 

It looks like some path to the afterlife, almost. Maybe some sort of adventure into the unknown. God knows you’ve had enough adventures to last a lifetime, though. 

You hear Haku exhale. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

You nod. Perhaps it looks like something out of a myth. 

He points, off to the side, at a strangely shaped rock a distance away from the main path. “Remember when you asked about the scar on my knee? Scraped it right there, running away from my grandfather.” 

You huff a laugh at the image of a little Haku, eyes alight with mischief, dancing out of the grasp of adults. “Didn’t manage to run too far, I guess?”

Haku laughs. He retracts his pointer to rub at his ear. “Not at all. Cried all the way back to the shrine before they bandaged me up.” 

You stuff your hands deeper into the pockets of your coat so you will not reach for where his fingertips are turning red with the cold. 

“I haven’t been back here in a while,” Haku continues, softer. His eyes are fixed on somewhere beyond the gates. “Not since he passed away.” 

You watch as his breath clouds in the cold air. You stay silent. 

He glances at you, eventually, small smile tugging on his lips and blinking the snowflakes out of his eyes. “Let’s go?”

After a second of thought you take your hand out of your pocket to loop your arm through his. You feel him shift in surprise, before he presses himself against your warmth. “Yeah.” 

-

December 29 - Shimizu, Shizuoka Distance left to destination: 295km 

It stops snowing a little after Haku pulls out of the parking lot. 

The rest of the car ride to your next stop is filled with idle chatter and green grape gummies that you picked up from the general store on your way out of Darkwick. Haku keeps his eyes on the lightly frosted road as you feed him, lips barely brushing your pointer and your thumb. You keep your eyes on him. 

You just finish telling him about a mission you did with Ritsu before he slows down, turning off the highway into Shimizu. 

“We stopping for lunch?” You seal the pack of gummies. 

He hums. “Sort of. There’s someone I want you to meet.” 

You wince, and finger-comb through your hair. “I’m dressed for a car ride, not for meeting people.” 

Haku sneaks a glance at you. “You’re beautiful, princess, don’t worry.” 

You flush. “That- you-“ 

He laughs, light and warm, as he makes a right turn. “Just as easy to tease, after all this time.” 

“Shut up,” you say, but his offhand compliment has already burrowed its way under your cheeks and heated them up the same way they always did back at Darkwick. Damn him and his smooth tongue. 

You watch as the train stations flash by – Sakurabashi, Kitsunegasaki, Mikadodai – before he slows down next to Kusanagi Station. You glance at him in surprise. Are you heading to the Kusanagi shrine?

Before you can ask, however, he stops next to a nondescript beige building, throwing the car into park. 

“We’re here,” he announces, and laughs again when you peek doubtfully at your reflection in the side-view mirror. “You look fine.” 

He reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. 

If his fingers linger longer than they should on the shell of your ear, you pretend you do not notice. You pretend your ears do not blush, pretend your breath does not catch. 

You exit the car. 

There is an old, stooped lady by the restaurant counter when Haku slides the rickety wooden door open, back turned to you as she mops down a wooden table with a bright yellow cloth. All you can see is the checkered bandana resting atop a mop of curly white hair, and a faded red apron sash around her waist, wrapped tight around a stout figure. 

“Miyami-san?” Haku calls out. His voice is soft, reverent. 

“Ah?” There is obvious shock as she turns around. A startled delight washes over her face the moment her eyes alight on Haku, and she hobbles over immediately, hands outstretched and eyes waned into teary crescents. 

“Haku, my dear boy,” she cries. She reaches forward to clasp his hands in her own, wrinkled and gentle. “My, my, you’ve grown taller, haven’t you?”

Haku half-laughs. “I haven’t grown since I last came back.” 

The old lady laughs, too. “Perhaps it’s me who has grown smaller. And who’s this?”

“A friend, from Darkwick. I told you about her over the phone, remember?” Haku’s hand is warm on your elbow through your coat. 

The old lady turns to you, peering kindly. “Yes, I do remember…”

You wonder briefly what Haku has said about you, but under the scrutiny of the old lady you hurriedly introduce yourself, bowing. 

She claps, delightedly. “You both must be hungry, coming down from your school. I’ll whip something up for you real quick, shall I?”

“Anything you make will be delicious,” Haku intones, and he shoots her a charming smile that would have turned half of Hotarubi silly. 

It works on her as well, evidently, as she pats his cheek and makes her way to the back of the room. 

“I used to come here all the time to hang out with her grandkids,” Haku says, removing his coat. His eyes follow her as she disappears into the kitchen, humming brightly. “They moved away when I was fifteen, though, but I just… kept coming. She’s more like a grandmother to me than my own grandma.” 

He sweeps his fringe behind his ear, and rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. His earrings brush the line of his jaw. “I stay here, sometimes, when I don’t want to go back to my family.” 

You blink, looking around the restaurant. There are wooden panels lining the room, black ink on rectangle blocks to indicate the menu, but little else by way of decoration. “Here?” 

Haku chuckles. He points to an entrance hidden by an egg-white curtain, tucked quietly into a corner by the back. “She has guest rooms, upstairs. She usually lets them out, but there tends to be no guests, at this time of year.” 

You both agree on taking your overnight bags out from the car while Miyami-san is cooking, if only to save time. Haku stands, as if to help you, but you swat his hand. “Stay here. If she comes out and finds us both missing, how will that look?”

Haku just laughs, sitting back down in acquiescence, and looks up at you, chin in hand. He looks adorable, like this, adoring, and you are suddenly filled with a desperate wish that you could capture this image, forever. “Like we ran off like a couple of hormonal teenagers?”

You flush, and leave him without a response. 

It doesn’t take long for you to gather his backpack and your duffel bag from the car, and as you slide the wooden door closed and toe off your shoes you hear murmuring voices low enough to make you still before the entrance curtain. 

“Are you going to show her the shrine, then?” 

A pause. “They’re going to be too busy preparing things for the New Year’s ceremony.” 

She hums. “That’s true.” 

“Miyami-san–” Haku starts, but she hushes him. 

“I know, I know,” she says. “I won’t tell them you stopped by.” 

Haku laughs, then, something soft and young and grateful. “Thank you. As always.” 

There is a beat of silence, and you prepare to move, but her voice sounds again. “Who is she, to you?”

You hear the grin in Haku’s voice. “Why?”

“You know… you’re of age… it’s about time you bring someone home for me to meet.”

There is a rustle as Haku shifts around in his chair. “She’s one of the strongest people I know,” he says, slowly, “but she hasn’t had much control over her past few years. Now that she’s free of all that, I’d like to leave as much up to her as possible.” 

You tense. Your heart hammers in your chest, tight and painful, as his words trip over themselves, over and over in your brain. Does he mean–

“–she’s also listening around the corner, so I refuse to say anymore.”

You don’t think your cheeks have experienced this much blood-rush in a while. You poke your head out from behind the curtain. “How did you know!” 

“The door isn’t exactly silent,” Haku points out, and the three of you dissolve into laughter. 

There is something light and warm, there, born in the small of the room. It expands, a golden sort of feeling that stretches beyond the four wooden walls and settles, stardust-like, in the space between Haku’s hands and yours; it collapses, cools under your tongue into a memory bright and sweet and precious. 

If you don’t give it a name, you think, perhaps you can continue pretending that being by Haku’s side does not feel like home. 

-

December 30 - Shimizu, Shizuoka Distance left to destination: 295km 

There is a saying – what is a handspan away feels most like a world apart. 

Haku sits, two handspans away. He is looking up at the ceiling, squinting against a lightbulb he changed prior to breakfast. It’s a different colour from the rest, a cool white against the warmth of the other, older bulbs in the restaurant, and it washes him in a faint crisp light. 

“Well, at least it’s not blinking anymore,” Haku says. His elbows rest against the table. 

Miyami-san sighs, forlorn. “I’ll have to write down the model number so I can buy the correct bulb next time. What time are you planning to head out?” 

Haku leans over to you, taps the screen of your new phone you both spent an hour setting up last night. It lights up, displaying a blurry photo of Haku trying to take a selfie with you, overlaid by the time in white. 

“In about twenty minutes? I’ll wash up before we go,” Haku insists, getting to his feet. “You’ve been more than lovely making us breakfast.” 

He sweeps everything up into a pile before she can protest, and disappears, whistling, into the kitchen. 

“Haku’s a good boy,” she sighs, as you watch him go. She stretches, and leans backwards. “Before he left for school he always helped me with all the odd jobs around the house. Changed all my lightbulbs for me, too.” 

You laugh. “Sounds like Haku.” 

She adjusts the strap of her apron. “He’s so smart, too. Made the top of his class whenever he put his mind to it.” 

You suppress a smile. If you didn’t know better you’d think she was a grandmother eager to market her bachelor grandson off to the next available singleton.

“And responsible, too,” she continues. “Good thing he is, what with the shrine business.” 

She peeks at you, and you quickly school your widening smile into something more presentable. “Has he told you about the shrine?” 

You nod. You can hear Haku, more than a few handspans away, soft humming barely audible over the sound of running water in the kitchen. “The Kusanagi shrine.” 

She hums. “He’s going to take over from his family one day. He’s going to be a better leader than his father is.” 

A silence lapses over the both of you. They’re both true statements, you know, and yet there is something nagging at you about the mention of his father. 

“Miyami-san,” you start, carefully. “If I may ask… what’s his family like?” 

“His family?” She turns her head thoughtfully to the curtain that hides the kitchen from the restaurant, and is silent for so long you wonder if you’ve overstepped. 

You are about to mumble a hasty apology when she turns back to you. 

“They expect a lot from him,” she says, softly. “There’s a great many responsibilities that fall your way when you inherit a shrine. His father had to shoulder it, and his father before that, and so on. He may be running away from it now, but eventually it’ll have to be his turn, and I think in the back of their minds they all know it.” 

You want to nod, but it feels like the wrong thing to do. Running away… except he isn’t, not really. Everything Haku did at Darkwick, every skill you’ve seen him practise and every responsibility you’ve seen him manage in Hotarubi, felt like he was building himself to take over the shrine – from his artifact to the research for his missions to all the summer festivals he helped manage. Even now, from what you understand of his work, it seems like what he has chosen to do is in preparation for him to take over. 

“He’s more prepared than they think,” you say. “He works hard, even though he acts like he doesn’t.” 

She looks at you a little more sharply, then. There is a cool appraisal behind her squint, before it melts into something like approval. “He does, doesn’t he.” 

Before you can respond, though, Haku emerges from the kitchen, running a hand through his hair. “Talking about me?”

“You wish,” you say, and are rewarded immediately with the sparkle of his laugh. 

He pauses next to your seat before picking up his backpack. His hand nearly brushes yours. “Ready to head out?” 

You stand. Your hand nearly brushes his, a world apart. “Ready.” 

-

December 30 - Nagakute, Aichi Distance left to destination: 175km 

“Hard disagree – we turn left here – you’re only saying that because my name is Haku.” 

You squint at the alleyway in front of you dubiously. It’s bathed in the last rays of evening, a dying honey from the setting sun that does nothing to ward off the winter chill, and it seems to lead to yet another street that looks oddly similar to the one you’re about to leave. “Are you sure?” 

But Haku is already stepping forward, Google Maps winking into sleep on his phone screen, and so you follow behind. The thrift shop he is searching for is supposed to be a mere ten minute walk from where you left the warmth of the Ghibli Park, but you swear you’ve been wandering around for at least twenty minutes. 

“Anyway, no, it’s because he’s a river spirit–“

Haku glances at you, eyebrow raised. “I’m not a river spirit.” 

“-and he’s supposed to know a lot about the spirit world.” You huff at him, and he laughs in acquiescence. You reach the end of the alleyway; Haku squints against the reflection of sun on his phone and directs you to turn right. 

“And he spent a lot of the movie using that knowledge to protect and save Chihiro, didn’t he?” you continue. You look down at your feet even though the evening light is no longer shining directly into your eyes. The worn grey of the road winks at you as you cross residential street. “Like you did with me.” 

Haku is silent for a beat, before he says, lightly, “I think I’m much more like Howl.” 

You cannot hold back your snort. “Because how he gets all the girls?” 

His responding laugh is startled and bright. “C’mon now, princess. Howl only ever loved Sophie, in the end.” 

He looks at you, brows raised, like there is something you are supposed to understand, but after a moment of expectant silence too laden for you to consider you swallow the whiskey-burn of his eyes and turn away. 

“Is it nearby?” you ask, instead. You push the ice blocks you used to call hands deeper into your coat pockets, and push your gaze back down to the grey asphalt under your feet. 

Haku unlocks his phone in response. “One more block to go. Sorry, you must be tired.” 

You shake your head. 

“We’ll get dinner after this, then crash out,” he decides, anyway. “We had an early start today, and we’ve done a lot.” 

(You stopped earlier in the day at Atsuta Shrine to pay your respects before heading down to Ghibli Park, and briefly heard a guide explain about the great Kusanagi sword supposedly stored in the halls.

“Oh, my Kusanagi sword is great, alright,” Haku snorted under his breath; you smacked him on the shoulder and dragged him, holding back giggles, towards the exit before you got struck down for blasphemy.)

After two more minutes of sleepy residential buildings, you spot the orange signboard of the thrift store, hanging from a black rod above a shuttered flower shop. There is a chalkboard leaned against the side of the flower shop with carefully scrawled yellow letters and arrows directing you to a staircase around the back. Going up the concrete steps leads you to a wooden door with a heavy handle. 

Haku tugs the door open, and gestures for you to go inside. 

The store is swathed in yellow and orange, thanks to the narrow spot-light beams installed on the ceiling. The wooden shelving look old but well-cared for under carefully stacked clothes, a small contrast to the adjacent metal frames sagging with hangers of coats and jackets. There are mirrors gently leaned on the walls at strategic places throughout the store, reflecting the warm light from the ceiling and making the space look bigger than it actually is. 

A man in a beanie looks up from where he is slouched over the cashier, and waves a silent welcome that you both acknowledge. 

“One of my seniors told me this place has a good curation of sweaters,” Haku says, turning to study the racks. He picks up a bomber jacket in olive green, inspects it, then sets it down. “You’ll probably need more winter wear too, now that we don’t get climate control. But we’ll also stop at another place when we get to Kyoto, just so you can get some new clothes to wear around Subaru.” 

You nod, and dutifully turn your attention to the racks, fingers running across the soft fabrics draped neatly on dark metallic hangers. 

You’re looking at a cardigan the colour and texture of dawn clouds when Haku appears again at your elbow. “Look at this one.” 

He holds up a sweater in washed out sage. It’s slightly fluffy, sleeves softly melting into a cream. When you reach out to touch it it’s impossibly softer than it looks. 

“It’s cute,” you say. Its sloped shoulders are wide; you hold the pale green fabric up to his shoulders. “It looks your size, too.” 

Haku hums in agreement. He takes the sweater, gently, from your fingers, and turns it around, lining the edge of its shoulders up with yours. 

“I think it looks cuter on you,” he says. The honey of his eyes sparkle with mirth as he nudges you to face the mirror. “Like you’re stealing your boyfriend’s clothes.” 

You feel a fire climbing up your cheeks immediately, and you glare at Haku, heatless and helpless, as he bites back a laugh. He shifts away, grinning brightly, and leaves you staring in the mirror with the sweater folded between your hands. 

There is barely any evening light left over from golden hour, the last of the sun’s rays having died shortly before you stepped indoors, but the green of Haku’s hair is still dyed a soft copper by the warm lights of the store. He stands, turning glasses frames over in his hands, under a spotlight beam and the drifting strains of jazz, blurred only slightly by the fingerprints in the mirror and the irregular bump of your heart. 

The scene is so mundane it feels almost unreal – this Haku, suspended in glass and glow. His long fingers are not wrapped around his flute or dusty research tomes, but between folded jeans; his movements are slow and languorous, no longer bound by the urgency of missions or threat of curfew. 

You could stare at him like this forever. 

It is suddenly easy, so easy to imagine him elsewhere, you think – sorting through vegetables at a supermarket, folding laundry on the floor of his bedroom, doing anything and everything far and away from the drizzle of Hotarubi. 

This Haku has all the time in the world. 

So do you. So do you. 

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. 

“How does this look?” 

The heat of his vowels slide across the shell of your ear, and you jump slightly, eyes flying open. 

You are vaguely aware of a chunky grey frame, translucent acrylic that slips low on his nose bridge and blobs shadows on his cheeks, but his eyes have locked onto yours in the mirror as he leans down over your shoulder to peer at his reflection, cheek dangerously close to yours, so close that if you just turned, if you just—

It sends your heart crashing, thundering painfully, cruelly, through your throat, a weight and an untethering from the hypnosis of the moment all at once— 

“You look stupid,” you say. Or think you do, anyway. You can barely hear yourself over the thunderous rushing in your ears. “Try– try this one.”

Your fingers scrabble for the closest frame on the shelf next to you, and hold them up to the mirror. 

Haku laughs, a gentle huff that blows by your cheek as he lifts the frame out of your hand, and straightens back up to slip them on. 

It’s gold-rimmed, this time, a thin wire frame that catches the warm spot-lighting of the store and soaks a glow into his skin. The rounded rectangular shape sits well on his cheekbones, faded gold temples disappearing into his messy green hair. 

You blink, and there is a fleeting glimpse of sun-spots and crow’s feet, of salt-and-pepper hair melting into green, of laughter creasing itself into deep-set wrinkles in the corners of his smile. He is looking at you, still, in the way he always has, this old-man-mirror-Haku, and something blooms, choking and sweet, in the hollow of your ribs. 

Something shifts, then.

Eddies of a future you’ve never thought possible sing like the wind through the holes in your heart; they crash into you, a merciless tangle of relief and frustration and hope that steals the breath from your lungs you didn’t realise you were holding since leaving Darkwick. 

The tremble of it’s over and your curse is well and truly over courses through the map of your veins, and winds its way across where your eyes meet Haku’s through the mirror. The words crack themselves in half, split to show you a future so wide and open and yet so certain it threatens to swallow you whole – of you, alive and un-cursed and getting to grow old. Of you-and-Haku, hand-in-hand, getting to growing old together, looking up at the same sky. 

“-what do you think?” Haku is saying. His eyes are crinkled up in something you think might be fondness or affection, or something equally hopeful and terrifying. 

It looks good on you, your mouth moves on its own accord, you should get it, but that is as far as you get before he blurs together in a sear of tears. 

Haku moves immediately, hand on your elbow spinning you around to face him. His eyes search yours in alarm and concern and confusion, but to both your surprise a laugh bubbles out of you, quiet and free. 

You raise a hand to brush his bangs away from his forehead, and he leans into your touch, in spite of his bewilderment. 

“It looks good,” you say again, and you mean it. 

(He buys the glasses, of course, and three sweaters you said you liked. You leave the thrift shop with paper bags in hand, yet somehow feel a lot lighter than you did going in.) 

-

December 31 - Kuwana, Mie Distance left to destination: 99km

The numbers on the dashboard read a glowing ten thirty-eight. 

The highway stretches before the windshield, a wide belt that melts into the distance. It is empty, save for the occasional cargo truck Haku passes, and the glare of the noon sun reflecting off its smooth grey surface is enough to turn every travelling vehicle into a mini-oven despite the season. 

Haku adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. He reaches, slightly, to wind his window down to let some of the cool winter air in, but his fingers pause before they reach the switch. 

He peeks at where you are asleep, head resting on the passenger window and eyelashes brushing the soft of your cheek. He retracts his hand. 

He reaches, instead, with his other hand to the air-conditioning controls, and turns the dial towards “COOL”.

The numbers on the dashboard wink into ten thirty-nine. 

The packet of strawberry gummies on top of the winter coats folded in your lap crinkles slightly, then slides from where your grip has slackened. It has long since been emptied, with you taking turns to tuck the candies between your lips and his, and its lack of weight slips it neatly between your seat and the centre console. 

Ren recommended them, you said, an hour back, holding one up to his lips. They’re good, aren’t they?

Haku smiled, tamped down the familiar knot that swelled with any reminder of the years you spent at Darkwick without him by your side, and nodded. They’re pretty sweet. 

You grinned and tapped the large yellow zero printed atop ruby-red strawberries. No sugar, too! 

No, he thinks, now – perhaps the sugar had been in the brush of your fingertips against his lips. Perhaps it had been in the glitter of your laugh as you listened to him tell you some work story or another, or in the way the sun had bounced off the dashboard and lit you up all over, all soft glow and contentment as you slipped another gummy between the pink of your lips. 

For a moment, he wonders if you will taste like strawberry, if the curve of your smile will be just as sweet as it looks when pressed against his own–

He shakes his head, to clear it. 

Haku is a patient man. Ceremony is in his bones; he is good at waiting his turn, good at calculating consequences, good at following the rules. 

Except for when he isn’t. Except for when he texted you, midway through your last semester, to ask which branches of the Institute has offered you a job in hopes that he can persuade you to take up some position near his own. When he asked you, two months before graduation, to drive down to Kyoto with him instead of taking the train, just so he gets three days with you by his side after so many days apart. 

When he took one look at you, that night on the train from Kisaragi Station, and took your hand and held it all the way to Darkwick. 

Maybe it is selfishness, maybe it is impulsivity. Maybe it is irresponsibility, and maybe it is the reason why, try as he may, they will never deem him ready to take over the shrine, but oh, when he looks at you–

He is a patient man. He will be a patient man. He has waited two long, excruciating years without you, and he will continue to wait, for as long as it’ll take until you’re ready. 

The numbers on the dashboard wink into ten forty-three. 

Haku reaches over, again, to turn the air-conditioning dial further down. 

His gaze brushes against the new air freshener you bought him the day before at the gift shop. It smells of “clean” and “fresh”, whatever that’s supposed to mean, and he can barely catch its scent, but you unwrapped it the moment you got into the car and hung it neatly on the rearview mirror, and he cannot help but feel some fondness for something that brings you joy. Even if it’s just a small piece of cardboard with a white dragon and a girl printed on it. 

He would have chosen a different one, himself. He would have picked the one with Howl and Sophie - someone who learns how strong she really is, and someone who has waited a lifetime to love her. 

You stir in your sleep, shifting slightly so your head is no longer pressed against the passenger window. The numbers on the dashboard wink into ten forty-four. 

Haku takes the next exit off the highway, and wonders if you remember that in the movies, Chihiro saves Haku, too. 

-

December 31 - Uji, Kyoto

Distance left to destination: 21km 

“Haku!” 

The guy that emerges from the shrine’s prayer hall has a smile only one shade dimmer than the sun. He waves energetically at Haku and you, hands padded in red gloves a stark contrast with his navy blue haori, and bounds over to you. 

“Thought you weren’t coming back for another two days!” the man says, beaming. “We’re prepping the omikuji right now, like you told us to.” 

Haku chuckles, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. “That’s good. I’m not back for work, though, I’m just here to show my friend around.“

The man looks at you curiously, and he looks so oddly familiar you could have sworn you’ve seen him somewhere before. He tilts his head to one side, like he’s working through the same puzzle you are, before it clicks–

“Honour student!” he exclaims, and claps his hands. “Didn’t expect to see you here!” 

Haku laughs, and shifts closer to you. “Darkwick just had their commencement ceremony, so I’m helping her settle into her new apartment soon.” 

Koji – the name comes to you in a flash, a vague impression of a Hotarubi general student floating to the top of your mind from when he helped Haku on a mission once – wiggles his eyebrows. “Will it be near to us?” 

Haku looks at you, thoughtfully. “The Institute put her in Kyoto, near Subaru, but I suppose…” 

Before he can finish the thought, however, a soft holler comes from an open window in the back of the sales hut. “Oi, heartbreaker!” 

A man sticks his head out of a back door. He looks pleased to see Haku, and disappears for a few seconds before emerging from the wooden doors, wrapping himself in a warmer coat. 

He waves a sheath of papers at Haku as he walks over. “We’re more or less ready for tomorrow, but I need you to sign a couple things–“

Haku moves over immediately, head bent over the documents, and leaves you in company of Koji. 

“Heartbreaker?” You murmur, and Koji beams. 

He nods his head, fluffy hair bouncing in his enthusiasm. “That’s Haku! Didn’t he tell you? When he first joined, half the local girls who came up to pray during Lunar New Year instantly fell in love and we had to barricade the shrine and defend ourselves with swords so our Haku wouldn’t get overrun–“ 

“Koji,” the other man says, severely, “stop making things up.” 

Koji pouts, and you have to bite your lip to keep from smiling. “Anyway, he’s built up quite a following among the locals. It’s good for business, though.” 

“I can imagine,” you say, and you can–

Haku, looking out the sales window next to the shrine, chin in hand and head slightly tilted as people come up to buy omamoris. The way the honey of his eyes will crease, slightly, as he smiles at their approach. The soft of his hands as he counts out their change, and wishes them a good day. 

Haku, head bent over a candle box before he reaches in to select an appropriate one. The curl of his long fingers over theirs as he presses the candles into their palm, a blessing, a benediction, conferred with intent. The soothe of his voice as he comforts them, wishes them well, after. 

Haku, this Haku that belongs to the people, whose heart swells with their aches and whose words are carefully chosen to quell them. This Haku, who works for the people by day, and works for them still by night. 

Haku looks up from where he is flipping through documents, pen in hand, and grins as he meets your eyes. “Maybe we should spread word that my heart already belongs to someone else.” 

Your cheeks burn immediately, and you open your mouth to stutter out a reply, but Haku’s senior beats you to the punch. 

“Disgusting,” he mutters fondly, barely louder than Koji’s awww, then flips a page for Haku. “Sign here, then get out of my sight. Word from HQ is that you’re on four concurrent missions in January, so make the best of your break.” 

Haku groans. “Best go pray for my own damn safety, then.” 

His senior rolls up the freshly signed document, then raps him smartly on the head. “No cursing on shrine grounds. Come on, Koji, you’re still not done with the omikujis.” 

Haku grins, rubbing his head where he got tapped, then turns to face you as Koji is dragged, mumbling in protest, back to the hidden back doors. “Shall we?” 

The rest of the shrine is fairly quiet. Sunlight dances through the bare branches as you cross the courtyard and duck around some gates to the main shrine. There are rabbits printed on cream-coloured lanterns attached to the gates, faded slightly by the elements and swaying in the wind. They look like they are dancing in greeting as you pass them. 

The main shrine Haku comes to a stop at is up a set of steep stone stairs. It is covered with wooden slats, painted warm by the noon light. If you didn’t look too closely you’d think the structures inside were glowing by themselves. 

Haku fishes out coins from his pocket, and hands one to you. He leans forward to shake the thick rope after you toss your coin into the wooden offering box, then you both bow and clap twice. 

You have so many things to wish for that you almost don’t know where to start, but the words flow out of your heart faster than you can think, afloat with intent and hope – for Haku to be safe. For Haku to be happy. For all the ghouls you’ve helped and been helped by to be happy and healthy. For all the anomalies they’ll run into to be a little less fatal, for the anomalies themselves to be safely captured and treated well. For all their futures to be a little less perilous, a little more secure. 

For your future to be a little less dangerous, too. For your future to hold warm soup and cosy evenings, for your days to hold laughter and ease and familiarity, for your nights to hold home and sighs and moonlit dances across the kitchen floor with Haku–

Your eyes flutter open, and you bow, quickly. 

Best to not hope for too much. 

You sneak a glance at Haku. His head is still bowed, hands still pressed together. He is washed in the bright of sunlight unshaded by winter’s branches, and in the silent sun-stirred dance of dust motes around him he looks almost like a painting. 

His bracelets shine a radiant translucence as they catch and absorb the sunlight, nearly covering most of a scar underneath. Your heart twinges slightly – you were there when he got injured. 

It was to save you, really, some tiny anomaly or another changing directions and hurtling towards you with a vengeance. If Haku didn’t knock it off its trajectory with the back of his hand… you can’t imagine what would have happened. 

Instead, you’d brought him home to Hotarubi and carefully cleaned his cuts and wounds, and stayed with the soft glow of his smile and the even softer glow of his words, well into the night. He’d murmured gentle reassurances into the quiet of the night, thigh pressed up against yours as you sat side by side and looked out onto the still Hotarubi gardens; yet the feeling of guilt has never gone away, cementing itself into the cracks of all that you owe him. 

I’m sorry, you said, again, for the fiftieth time that night. If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t have gotten injured. 

He had laughed before a ghost of pressure landed against your temple, so soft you think to this day you’d imagined it. Anything for you, princess. Stop worrying about it. 

It sent your heart racing, back then, his words wild fireworks popping in your throat. 

The same way his words send your heart racing, now. 

Maybe we should spread word that my heart already belongs to someone else. 

You exhale. Haku has never hidden his affection for you, not really – whether it was proclaimed in front of a beaming Zenji or murmured into the drizzle of Hotarubi, the flirtatious comments you once believed were just part of his personality or simply lavished onto everyone you eventually realised were only ever directed to you. 

And you understood it, back then, the same way you understand it now. Haku has never been shy about you. How much of it was guilt over bringing you to Darkwick and a burgeoning sense of responsibility for your curse, you will perhaps never know, but this is what you know now, after two years of turning the thought of Haku over and over in your mind: 

That you never agreed to start because you were always afraid of the end. That you perhaps wished he would forget about you after his time at Darkwick, if only to make things easier for him after your transformation into the Kyklos; that you wished to forget about him, too, after his time at Darkwick, if only to avoid the real possibility of Haku finding someone else.   

But now your last page has been ripped out, a future of a curse torn out by your very own hands and shredded into the wind… now that you’re out and free (albeit still working for the Institute) and ready to rewrite your own ending… 

Haku looks up from his hands, and bows. He turns to you, smile fond and sweet, and extends a hand to help you down the steps. “Ready?” 

You take his hand, lace his fingers into your own. The word on your tongue turns into a candle turns into a lantern turns into the sun. “Ready.”

-

December 31 - Uji, Kyoto Distance left to destination: 19km 

You cradle your hot cup of tea in your palms. 

The cold of the bridge railing beneath your elbows seep past your coat and into your bones. The last of the sun’s rays cast a glow on the trees on the opposing shore, turning them into a sea of reddish-gold, but they do little to warm you as you watch the sun sink below the horizon. 

Haku rests, one handspan away, identical cup nestled between his hands. 

“This is my favourite place to watch the sunset,” he says. “You can see the train tracks and the Uji Bridge from here.”

A train rumbles by in the distance as he says it, slicing the scene in half. It takes a few seconds before the sky meets the river again.  

“I think about bringing you here, all the time,” he says, quietly. He shifts the cup to his other hand. “I come here after work sometimes, and stay until the sky is dark and I can see the stars. Then I wonder about whether you’re looking at the same stars, too, in Darkwick.”

You both watch the sun creep steadily downwards, meeting its wavering counterpart in the water. 

Haku exhales. He does not look at you. “I’m glad you’re here.”

His words wrap around you, hushed and gossamer. How much you’ve thought about him, too, looking up at the night skies as you dragged yourself back to the cathedral. 

Whenever you walked out from Hotarubi, shutting your one-person umbrella and looking up at the moon, you’d think of him. 

The way he’d walk you back, shoulder to shoulder as if you were still sharing an umbrella. The way he’d look at you, moonlight tangled into his eyelashes and the arc of his hands, the way he’d smile like the night was a secret only the two of you shared. The way he’d sit you down on the campus stone benches to talk about your missions with other houses, the way he’d reassure you, again and again, that whatever you were doing was enough. That you were enough. 

The memories twist themselves onto your tongue. You do not look at him, either, when you say, “Me too.” 

The last sliver of sun slips away, and then it is gone. 

The conversation turns to seeing Subaru on stage in two days and what flowers you plan to get him, then to your new Institute-funded apartment, a small place buried near a Galaxy Express station, and the furniture you plan to get. 

You wonder out loud how long the Galaxy Express would take to get to Uji if you and Subaru were to come visit, as compared to taking the regular train from Kyoto Station. It’s already a very short distance, you think, but maybe it’d take half the time. 

“It takes sixteen minutes from Kyoto’s HQ,” Haku says. He taps the top of his now-empty cup with a long finger. “Or twenty-two, if you count the time it takes to walk back to my apartment.” 

“Damn, these cats really know how to run a railway line.” 

Haku laughs, quiet and breathless, before he says, “Move in with me, instead.” 

You pause, cup halfway lifted to your lips. You lower your hand. 

“It’s only a slightly longer commute,” he murmurs, “and you won’t have to buy new furniture.” 

He looks at you, eyes full of morning sun. You read in them something that feels a lot like a future. 

You won’t have to spend your nights alone in a drafty old room anymore. We will not have to untangle ourselves at the end of the day, and pretend we do not want to stay. Now that I’ve spent three whole days with you I don’t know how I’ve ever managed without; it feels like I’m never going to be able to go back. 

You exhale. 

This is how it has always been - this is how the two of you are - him building a bridge between you both and reminding you that if you ever want to cross it, if you ever need to cross it, he will always be on the other side, waiting. 

He waits, now. 

For a moment, you think you are brave. 

Ready?

But the moment passes, and the words that have swelled up on your tongue are familiar and terrifying and comforting and too heavy and mean too little and too much, all at once, and you swallow the waves that rise up in your lungs, and you close your eyes, and you pretend you are not in love with him, have not been in love with him since he held your hand in the dark of a train carriage three-odd years ago. 

“Imagine the paperwork,” you say, instead, and Haku leaves it at that. 

-

December 31 - Uji, Kyoto Distance left to destination: 16km 

Haku’s apartment is small, but homey. 

It is much more modern that you expect it to be, and feels infinitely more Haku than any Hotarubi dorm could. The kitchen you step into is tiny but sleek, with just enough space to fit a boiler, a tea set and an induction cooker before ending at a large fridge. The green glow on the microwave tucked onto a shelf a bit higher than eye-level reads eleven forty-two.

He lucked out on the Institute lottery, he tells you, setting his keys in a bowl on the kitchen island and flicking on the kitchen lights – where others only get a studio apartment he at least gets a bedroom attached to the living and dining area. Ghoul perks, perhaps. 

Where you expect a kitchen island is instead a mountain of books, shuffled neatly into piles not unlike what you used to be greeted with in his old dorm, bookmarked full with post-its covered in his chicken-scratch writing. 

You pick out a barely-used blue post-it pad from a pile of neon-yellow ones, and run your thumb over the winking tanuki in the background. “Is this the one I bought for you, back on that shrine mission?”

Haku peeks over your shoulder. His laugh brushes your ear, soft and warm, before moving away to roll your luggage into the living room. “Yeah. I can’t bear to use it much, though. It feels as though I should treasure it.” 

You snort, looking up at him. “I can always buy you another one.”

“I’m not opposed to that.” 

(You’d buy him one set everyday for the rest of his days, if he’d let you.)

Haku tucks your suitcase next to a soft grey sofa set opposite a plain white wall, and sets your duffle bag on a small wooden coffee table in between that looks like it hasn’t been dusted in years. “There are fireworks bound to start in about fifteen minutes. Wanna watch those on the balcony?”

You blink – you’ve almost forgotten that today is New Year’s Eve, what with all the sightseeing you’ve packed in today around Uji. 

Haku tugs the pale blue curtains apart, revealing glass doors to a small balcony overlooking residential neighbourhood. The night is quiet, still, buzz of the city conspicuously absent from the streets despite the celebratory date and even though most households have their lights on and curtains pulled open in anticipation of the fireworks, you don’t hear much beyond the whistling of the wind when you step outside. 

You settle against the railing on his balcony. “It’s so nice, here.” 

Haku joins you. “When everyone’s lights are off, at night, you can see the stars.” 

You tilt your head up. Haku’s apartment is high up enough the street lamps that you do not have to shield your eyes from their orange glow, and as you peer up at the heavens you see constellations slowly starting to take shape. “Wow.” 

Haku shifts, closer. His shoulder is pressed up against yours. “Any New Year’s resolutions yet?” 

You laugh. “Other than learning how to survive outside Darkwick?” 

“That’s enough,” Haku says, softly. “Sometimes surviving is tough enough, on its own.” 

You bite your lip, and look down at the street below. A stray cat dips in and out of the shadows. 

“I’m going to be brave this year,” you tell him. 

I’m going to be brave enough to face what’s coming. I’m going to be brave enough to decide what I’m going to do with my life, instead of obeying missives from a corrupted Academy and existing at their beck and call. I’m going to be brave enough to tell you what I really want to say, to build my own side of the bridge, to finally meet you on the other side. 

Haku tilts his head to look at you, then. He raises a hand from where his arms have been crossed on the railing, long fingers tenderly tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear.

It sends daylight swirling down your spine, leaves you breathless and August-warm when you catch his gaze. 

“I think you’re already plenty brave,” he says, quietly. 

Before you can respond, however, the street explodes with noise. Windows are pulled open and chanting spills out onto the street, a clamour of three, two, one– 

Tiny lights hang themselves across the sky, a mere flash before tightly packed colours dazzling as the sun explode across its inky canvas. Brilliant reds and blues and yellows and greens burst into bloom over and over again; they paint everything on the street with their glow. The distant booms and whistles of their journey travel through the neighbourhood, wind their way through the festivities and laughter and cheer. 

It is at once so extraordinary and normal, this celebration of the Earth making its way around the sun yet again, that you find yourself giddy, smiling, joyful. You turn to look at Haku, tinted a faint red from the vivid glows in the sky, only to find he is already looking at you, gaze warm, fond. 

You learnt once, on a mission with Jabberwock, that firecrackers and fireworks set off during New Year were as much meant to scare away the bad things as they were to celebrate the good. 

I think you’re already plenty brave. 

In the bright of the night his words soak into your skin. 

Perhaps you are. 

You lean up, and press a small kiss to the corner of his lips. This is me, building my side of the bridge. This is me, ready. “Happy New Year, Haku.” 

His palm catches your cheek as you pull away. The spread of his smile, wide and bright and delighted, sends stardust settling into the hollow of your throat, sets its own fireworks off within the hollow of your ribs, pulls a smile onto your own cheeks. The gold of his eyes shine with something more than the pyrotechnics, something full of devotion, full of beginnings. 

“Happy New Year,” Haku says, and leans in to kiss you again. 

[oleafia-art]

nothing can live up to promise, nothing can stop its narrative, nothing in place of catalysts

and you’ll never be pure again

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

How much longer 'til your luck runs out?

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[vintagecandy]

✯✯✯ Joli Love war time promotional cover. ✯✯✯

[toxintouch]

crazy idea… what ab ais and vere with someone whos kinda obsessed with monsters?? like they study them for a living. idk where you would go with this but i just thought it would be interesting!!

it was indeed very interesting, anon, tysm for sharing!! ["You" pronouns used! to make it easier for me to use the plural "they"]

MONSTER 101:

✦ They both start out assuming that your interest is more suggestive in nature. That your insistence on "studying” Monsters is a smoke screen for your true desire to "consort" with them.  So they are both waiting for you to ask something–shall we say?–uncouth.  In fact, they have a little bet going…  

Realizing that you are just legitimately interested…

They are both intrigued, though it comes in different flavors.

✦ For Vere, it is somewhat begrudging.  He appreciates your ability to look past rules and accepted conventions.  (There’s Monsters aplenty in Eridia but few humans are trying to understand Monsters, and of those near none are willing to be open about it due to fears of social ostracization.  And even then, there’s usually some other motive at play…)  Vere's unhappy to find he has a slightly high opinion of you.  He really didn't mean to.

✦ He hates that a lot of his seduction techniques and attempts to catch you off guard or otherwise make you react are ineffective because you will just intellectualize them.

✦ Any time Vere mentions you studying monsters he says the word heavy with implication. “Studying.  Is that what they're calling it, nowadays?" Including after he’s realized it isn’t like that; he’ll still imply it whenever he gets the chance.

✦ (The bet is still on, by the way.  The fact that they’ll have to lead you into asking something questionable to win is just added spice.)

✦ And Vere is impatient to win.  Plus, he’s curious to see what makes you tick.  What button does he have to press…?

✦ He starts offering increasingly more and more inappropriate things.  (In the vein of tail tugging, etc.)  All to toy with you further your academic achievements, of course.

✦ Until he finally asks if you'd like to see him hunt.  

✦ And that sends a thrill of a shiver down your spine–you can’t sort out if it’s due to fear or excitement.

✦ He sees your reaction and oh, isn’t that just delicious?

✦ Your instincts react before you fully understand why, gooseflesh covering your skin, the prickly feeling of your muscles flexing minutely making your hair follicles rise.  You’re confused for a moment, your mind trying to make sense of the sudden surge of adrenaline–you’ve been so focused on Vere’s silky words that you didn’t even realize he’s gotten so close, that he’s starting to circle you, his eyes focused, pupils contracted.

He hums, inspecting you, turning your face this way and that, his neat claws skimming against you making you quiver.  This close, you can see his pupils expand slightly, the way his jaw trembles just the slightest amount after he takes in a luxurious whiff of your scent.

Like he’s hungry,

   like he’s starving

“Perhaps someone should study you for a change.”

✦  You’re breathless.  Your mind scrambles for a moment before picking back up.  What was that feeling, just now? You’ve read about this before, but–to experience it first hand–(and live)!  You gush at Vere about how the experience was both everything and nothing like your studies have described.

✦  Of course, hearing Vere’s age is amazing to you–he’s such a unique source of information, he’s seen so much, he’s so old!  But then, getting that information out of him is difficult on the best of days.  And the information you do receive is difficult to sort through.  Vere’s not exactly the most reliable narrator; you spend a lot of time trying to figure out what’s true and what’s an embellishment or elaborate joke.

✦ The idea that this is a job for you means that somebody must be paying you for this information. "You do plan on sharing the wealth, don't you? Dangerous things happen to those who don't keep their sources well fed."

✦ Ais admires your willingness to explore information, think things through for yourself and form your own opinions.  After dealing with Mhin hating him for “no reason”, it’s a breath of fresh air.

✦  Ais’ personality tends to be a lot more straightforward…  

✦  But when the information you’re curious about isn’t something he wants to disclose, he’s not above being unbearably vague.

✦  You ask Ais’ age, since Vere was willing to disclose his (kind of–you know he’s been around since Eridia was "a miserable little smear") but Ais keeps leading you in circles. 

✦  “Cumulatively?  Might take me a while to count that high.  Lot of group inside this mind.”

✦  He’s not above teasing you either.  “More questions?  If you’re not careful, I’ll start to overthink your interest.”

✦  He does wonder what you're hoping to achieve with this knowledge. What's your goal? Do you even know? "Be careful with that curiosity of yours. Some might find it...impolite."

✦  He realizes that he tells you to be careful... a lot. And he tells himself that he's not responsible for your safety, but...

✦  Will challenge you to earn your answers from him. He's not interested in money, but he can't just be handing things out for free to you all of the time. So: "What's it worth to you?" Is there anything you think you can beat him at? Or maybe you know something he'd trade for. A new language? A secret?

✦  If there's any kind of mutual attraction…  He’s actually kind of frustrated when/if none of your questions appear like they are going to turn in that direction.  He’s not looking for a commitment, but he hates the feeling of ambiguity between you two.  Makes him restless. If you give him any type of indication, though, or if your questions ever do stray away from the academic, he’s asking you if you wanna literally fuck around and find out.  He hates a will-they-won’t-they, he finds it tedious and annoying.  Unless…it comes with a competitive edge.  If it’s a war of attrition, a challenge of 'who will break first'…? That’s a game he’ll consider playing.  For the right reward. Hope you’re willing to deal with the consequences, though.

✦  He thinks it’s funny how you have so many questions.  Avoiding answering them is even more amusing, though. 

✦  Is he nocturnal?  ("Who said I sleep?") What are the interpersonal dynamics like between Monsters? Can he confirm the existence of nonverbal communication cues (scent, atmospheric changes, etc.)?  (“Yes.”) Will he tell you what they are? (“No.”)

✦  He avoids having you at the Sea Spring, though he never outright tells you that you aren't allowed there. And he's not very forthcoming about the topic. He's openly disinterested, in fact. If you don't take the hint, he'll tell you he's told you everything there is to say. Take the hint, alright?

✦  Your curiosity about Monsters extends to his Soulless too, doesn't it?  If it didn’t, it’s about to.

✦ He takes you out in the wastes one day so that you can meet Princess and the others. Just on the outskirts, where no one will bother the two of you. He has to show Princess off. "I wanna show you her tricks."

✦ Petting Princess is...interesting. It's amazing to be able to get this close to a live Soulless without fearing for your life. The texture of her is unlike any other creature. She's sleek, leathery. Your brain fights the proximity at first. It's hard to divorce yourself from the idea of danger but you push past it to pet her. (You hear Ais make a little hum at that - surprise, approval. You can't tear your eyes away from the Soulless in front of you long enough to check his expression. There's the ghost of a smile on his face when you finally manage.)

✦  And the fact that she purrs... He hears you talking to yourself about how that's absolutely fascinating, the implications, do the Soulless communicate (unprecedented information!) or is this something specific to the Sea Spring? Wait, even if it is Sea Spring specific, why does she have the anatomy to make a purring vocalization? It's not like the Sea Spring changed her physically...? Although... maybe it did...?

✦  Ais can admit that your scholarly tangents are endearing. You could have chosen a safer interest/profession, though. One less likely to get you into trouble. But you've survived this far. Maybe he should give you more credit.

✦  Needless to say: being around them both at the same time...they're more than just a handful. (Don't say that to Vere. The handjob joke makes itself.) They are terrifying as a team, constantly bouncing off each other trying to mess with you.

✦  And about that bet...they suppose they could share the win. If that's what it takes.

[libr-0-cubicularist]

hey, hey. you. mhm. you. This is your sign to go read Stories We Share, Secrets We Keep by @bittirsweeteer

[evergreen-endo]

WE PLAY THE SAME KEYS AT DIFFERENT TIMES — r. kaji.

cw: 18+ mdni, f! reader, car sex, spit. wc: 0.8k a/n: unedited. thought about him on my drive home. enjoy. 

You and Kaji can’t ever just listen to music in the car together.

He really never intended for it to be like this at first— but once it happened the first time, it’s all he could think of the next time he got in his car. It’s the same every time; inviting you for a ride to listen to a tune that’s stuck in his head, one he claims he can’t get rid of until he hears it again. But with him, it can never just be one song. There are too many that make him think of you these days, despite his best efforts to press skip on those in particular. 

He drives around until night falls, and you’ve both shared everything you’ve had on repeat this week. As he pulls onto the highway, the low vibration of his car picking up speed thrums against your thighs, much like the guitar blaring through his speakers. The low light of the city falls on his hands as he steers with practiced motion, heel of his palm flat against the leather. Warm yellow light trails along the veins on his arms, dragging your gaze wherever it touches. It highlights the rim of his features for a split second, long enough to see the way he side eyes you.

He lets out a huff, leaning back against the headrest to hide in the dark, though it’s futile. As he whirrs past the overheads, the light guides your gaze to his thighs, spread lazily even with one foot on the gas, and up, up, up to…oh. It’s only a second that you see it before light rushes past, and you wait on the next street light to illuminate him. It takes its time, stretching slowly over the same path, fingertips to forearms to biceps. A flit of your eyes down, and the car leers onto the exit ramp, light changing its course and missing the bulge of his cock entirely. 

The both of you huff for different reasons, you in disappointment, and him in relief. Not that you can hear each other over the music, anyway.

You spend the rest of the ride bopping your head along and picking up your phone to add songs you like to your own playlist. He’s grateful that there aren’t as many street lamps on the route to your place, so you miss the poorly hidden smirk that plays on his lips. 

Pulling into your driveway, he thumbs at his wheel to turn the music down just as that one song comes on. The one you fucked to the first time he did this; the reason he keeps inviting you to do this. He pauses, sighing, and turns it back up again. You tense, thighs crossing as you hear the click of his seatbelt and squeak of the leather as he reaches over to click yours, too.

Kaji’s breath always comes out ragged— grits his teeth and hisses through them even as his chest heaves for more oxygen. He’s got you bouncing on his cock in his backseat, guiding you to some extent, rough grip on your hips because he really can’t find it in himself to be gentle. Not when you move so perfectly you hit every goddamn beat. 

You’re the perfect melody to him— he has half a mind to lean forward and turn the music down in favor of the sound of you. Ass clapping against his thighs, wet squelching from between yours, breathy moans and gasps and keens. He wishes he could isolate every salacious layer of sound— to savor it, ingrain it into his memory to replay over and over.

The beat of the song slows, just before he knows it’ll build up again. He takes the break to wrap an arm around your waist, effectively slowing the motion of your hips. You whine as he forces you to grind your clit against him, and he hums, captivated.

Using his free hand, he twirls his fingers through your hair, wrapping the strands around to get enough hold to pull you forward, the abruptness ripping a gasp from you. Perfect. Twisting his lips up, he tilts his head forward, letting a glob of spit travel past his lips and drip down onto your awaiting tongue as he plants his feet firm on the ground. With all the leverage in the world, he bucks his hips up into you as the beat picks up again, the heavy weight of his thrusts knocking the air from your lungs. 

It gets hard to move when you squeeze around him, ticks him off that you’re slowing down his rhythm. He just wants to give you what you deserve and you’re always holding him back with that fucking grip of yours. At least, he thinks, you’re giving him a chance to readjust his hips, so he can hit that spongey spot inside you until the song closes out, until all that’s left is the sound of your shared panting.