dokosan @doko-san - Tumblr Blog

WONDERBOY! | y.i

desc. How many times has campus hero Yuuji Itadori stepped in to “help” the sharp-tongued, debt-ridden cynic who insists she doesn’t need saving? Too many to count. How many times has she rolled her eyes and told him to mind his own business? Every single one. How many of those encounters end with her riding him senseless in his tiny apartment until he’s babbling her name like a prayer and begging to stay inside her forever? Just this once… so far.

pairing. Yuuji Itadori x Reader (Megara-inspired!reader)

content. MDNI, fem!reader (cynical, bratty, sarcastic, heavily indebted), university/college AU, strangers-to-lovers speedrun, sunshine!Yuuji x grumpy!reader, Yuuji’s a sweetheart with a hero complex, reader’s got walls higher than her student loans, mutual pining in denial, slow burn flirting → fast burn smut, oral (fem receiving), Yuuji’s pussy-drunk and proud, fingering, spitting, size kink if you squint, manhandling, overstimulation, soft!dom Yuuji, needy/whiny Yuuji, praise kink (both ways), dirty talk, slight attitude-fucking, creampie, cumplay, aftercare cuddles, pet names (baby, pretty girl, good girl), swearing, Yuuji’s canonically strong and we abuse that fact, reader’s a lil mean but melts anyway.

wordcount.: 5k

◠◠　⠀★ ̱⠀　　﹫ 𝜗ᴗ‸ᴗ) ⠀⠀⠀ ͯ ͦ ͯ ͦ ⠀

You stopped believing in heroes sometime between your first student loan statement and the night you learned love could be leveraged like debt. Sukuna called it a lesson.

You called it survival. Now you were stranded outside an off-campus apartment complex with a dead car, a dead phone, and a campus safety alert buzzing uselessly in the distance, heels tapping against cracked concrete as you waited for a miracle you didn’t believe in. The university loved its heroes, put them on banners, gave them scholarships, pretended their goodness was transferable.

You laughed softly. If one of them showed up now, you already knew how this would go: sarcasm first, gratitude never, heart firmly out of reach.

The first voice you heard wasn’t threatening. That was the strange part.

“Hey, uh. I think you dropped something.”

You turned just in time to see one of the men loitering too close to you freeze, your keys dangling forgotten in his hand. He hadn’t picked it up to be helpful. You both knew that. But the interruption caught him off guard enough that he looked… embarrassed.

patozori

STRAY! | m.f

Desc Megumi Fushiguro keeps "rescuing" strays from alleys and parks, each one a flimsy excuse to step into the animal shelter where the teasing, warm-hearted volunteer has him unraveling at the seams. Now, in the soft quiet of your apartment, he worships you slow and deep, whispering how long he's craved you while clinging like he'll never let go.

pairing Megumi Fushiguro x Reader

content MDNI, fem!reader (gentle animal lover, playfully teasing/sarcastic), animal shelter AU, slow-burn pining → tender first-time smut, soft!dom Megumi (patient, reassuring, vulnerable), oral (fem rec.), fingering, slow deep thrusts, praise kink (heavy: good girl, baby), needy/whiny Megumi, hands shaking from restraint, quick first finish + multiple rounds, creampie, cumplay, overstimulation (reader), size difference if you squint, manhandling (gentle), dirty talk (whispered reassurances), extended clingy aftercare (shirt on you, cuddles, "don't go"), pet names, swearing.

wordcount : 10k

◠◠　⠀★ ̱⠀　　﹫ 𝜗ᴗ‸ᴗ) ⠀⠀⠀ ͯ ͦ ͯ ͦ ⠀

The shelter never slept.

It hummed, breathed, cried out in fragments, sharp barks ricocheting off concrete walls, claws clicking nervously against tile, the constant undercurrent of sound that only softened but never disappeared. The air was thick with antiseptic and hay, the clean burn of disinfectant layered over something warmer, lived-in.

You moved through it all on instinct, past the kennels where tails thudded against metal doors, past the older dogs who didn’t bark anymore, only watched with patient, knowing eyes. The tropical bird room was its own world entirely, humid and green, feathers flashing like living jewels as parrots shrieked and fluttered, the air damp enough to cling to your skin.

Some days, it was overwhelming.

Most days, it was home.

You’d learned how to listen for the sounds beneath the noise, the anxious whine that meant fear, not aggression; the too-quiet kennel that meant an animal had already given up. You smelled illness before you saw it, stress before it manifested, hope in the rare, tentative wag of a tail.

Strays came in every shape imaginable. Lost. Abandoned. Forgotten. Some arrived fighting, teeth bared and eyes sharp. Others arrived already broken, curled in on themselves like they’d learned the world was something to endure, not trust.

You treated them all the same.

Gentle hands. Steady voice. No promises you couldn’t keep.

It was just another afternoon when the front door opened, as the soft jingle of the bell cut through the noise.

You didn’t look up right away.

patozori

I LOVE UR WRITING OMG HOW DO YOUONLY HAVE 2 WORKS, CAN I REQUEST LIKE ANOTHER YUJI X READER, OR A GOJO ONE PLEASE! OMG I YEARN FOR UR FICS!

REMAINS! | y.i

desc. After the end of the Shibuya Incident and the final defeat of Ryomen Sukuna, Itadori Yuuji returns to Sendai, broken, haunted, and convinced he no longer deserves the quiet life he once knew. By chance (or fate), he runs into his childhood best friend, the one person he never stopped loving and the one he believed he had to leave behind to protect. In the soft familiarity of Sendai’s streets and the small apartment that still feels like home, they slowly, carefully, painfully rebuild what was lost. Through tears, scars, confessions in the dark, and the tentative rediscovery of touch, Yuuji learns that even monsters can be loved, and that coming home might be the bravest thing he’s ever done.

pairing: Itadori Yuuji x fem!reader

Content: MDNI, second-person reader (gender-neutral, childhood best friend, gentle/caring with quiet strength), post-canon JJK (Sukuna defeated, major traumas acknowledged), heavy emotional hurt/comfort, slow-burn reunion → tender multi-round smut, switchy intimacy (mutual worship, no strict dom/sub), scar kissing & body worship (heavy focus on Yuuji’s guilt over his marked body), oral (mutual, slow & reverent), fingering/handjob (extended teasing & reassurance), slow deep penetrative sex (face-to-face, eye contact mandatory), praise & whispered reassurances (“you’re allowed,” “stay with me,” “I’ve got you”), needy/teary Yuuji (hands shaking from emotion & restraint), multiple orgasms (both), creampie, staying joined during aftershocks, overstimulation (light, consensual), size/strength difference highlighted gently, crying during/after sex (overwhelmed & healing tears), emotional confessions mid-sex & in afterglow, clingy extended aftercare (shower together, hair washing, breakfast in bed vibes, wearing each other’s old clothes, constant touch), pet names (mostly just names used tenderly), swearing (minimal), quiet “I love you”s finally spoken aloud, hopeful/healing ending.

word count: 14k a/n: thank you so much for this request! it was very fun and i will work on the gojo one when i have time! ◠◠　⠀★ ̱⠀　　﹫ 𝜗ᴗ‸ᴗ) ⠀⠀⠀ ͯ ͦ ͯ ͦ ⠀

Sendai was peaceful in a way that felt personal.

The streets were clean. Too clean. Sidewalks swept, storefronts open, lights warm behind glass windows. People passed him with grocery bags and umbrellas, laughing softly, complaining about nothing that mattered.

The world was fine.

Yuuji Itadori walked through it like a stain no one could see. He kept his hood up, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched, not because anyone recognized him, but because he did. Every reflection in a window felt like a threat. Every passing glance felt undeserved.

I don’t belong here.

A bakery on the corner still smelled the same. Sweet bread and sugar. He remembered standing outside it once, pressed up against the window with you, arguing about which pastry was best.

You’d won. You always did.

He didn’t stop walking.

The playground came into view slowly, like a memory surfacing against his will.

The swings were still there.

Paint chipped. Chains rusted. One of them creaked in the wind, empty, moving back and forth as if someone invisible were still playing. His feet stopped before he noticed he’d decided to.

“That’s… still here,” he murmured.

soranyuus

The florist | Eren Jaeger 06

| prev

How strange, how bitterly ironic, that to the Eldians, Zeke Yeager was a hero. A prodigy. The golden son who would rid the world of devils.

But if you knew how to look, truly look, you'd see it. As she did. Strip away the titles, the myths, the uniform, and what stood before you wasn't a savior.

It was something far colder.

Not just a soldier. Not just a beast. But a tactician in human skin, a puppeteer of minds and loyalties, who knew precisely which strings to pull and when to pull them.

And now, as she faced him, alone, beneath the flickering light of her shuttered stall—her breath faltered. Recognition bloomed in her chest like a bruise.

The world shifted.

The wind, the silence, the cobbled street—everything felt wrong. The air grew thinner. The shadows stretched longer.

Zeke Yeager.

The Beast Titan.

He met her gaze, unblinking. Those calculating, polished eyes studied her like a problem half-solved.

"Miss Florist," he said at last, his voice low, languid, touched with something that might've been amusement. "I've been admiring your... handiwork."

He nodded toward the flower stand, empty now, its usual warmth stripped bare by the hour.

"You know Mr. Kruger, don't you?"

And suddenly, the flowers behind her felt like paper. The light above her felt like a spotlight.

Then came the pause. Sharp. Surgical.

"How's Yuri doing?" A slow smile touched his lips. "Always a soldier, never a warrior."

And in that moment, the petals behind her felt like ash. The lamp above her buzzed like judgment.

The way he dragged out that last sentence—it irked her. Not just the words, but the way they curled from his mouth, slow and calculated.

He knew. He had been there when it happened. A silent witness to a crime that, in any other circumstance, would demand blood.

And ever since, he had carried it like a secret blade—never raised, but always shown. A quiet threat. A smirk just beneath the surface.

He taunted her with it. Not openly. That wasn't his style. But in every glance, in every idle comment, he reminded her.

Her freedom—her life—hung by a thread.

And he was the one holding the scissors.

"I wouldn't call it... knowing," she murmured, voice delicate in the cold. "But what brings you to... me?"

Her breath curled faintly in the air. She kept her eyes steady, even as her fingers twitched near the folds of her coat. Beneath the awning, the bullet-box flower beds sat in wait, half-shrouded in shadow. Their quiet petals felt far too loud now—too alive for this moment.

Zeke didn't answer immediately. He stepped closer, the sound of his boots deliberate, muted by dust. His presence seemed to soak into the night, turning it heavier.

"You seem to have formed a... connection with Mr. Kruger," he finally said, words syrup-slow and laced with a counterfeit charm. "Quite admirable, considering his... circumstances."

There was a smile on his face, polite and false. The kind people wear when they're about to ruin something beautiful.

"Tell me, [Y/N]," he continued, tilting his head, studying her like a page he'd half-memorized. "What do you see in him? What makes you... linger?"

She blinked, once, then frowned—not in offense, but in something quieter. Confusion, maybe. Or caution.

"He's just another soldier, Zeke," she said. "Another mind I try to help forget the war."

Her voice was soft, but steady. It carried the weight of someone used to speaking to broken men.

Zeke chuckled, low and humorless. "How noble," he said. "But not everyone wants to forget. Some of us need to remember—need to carry it with us. Like a spine."

There was silence, sharp and sudden. Even the wind seemed to falter.

Then he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower. "You see, the thing about kindness, Miss Florist... it can be a weapon. So long as someone knows how to twist it."

She stiffened. Just enough for him to notice. But she didn't look away.

"If you're trying to frighten me," she said, barely above a whisper, "you'll have to try harder."

Zeke studied her for a moment longer, expression unreadable. Then he smiled again—wider this time, almost fond.

"You remind me of someone," he murmured. "Someone who thought they could plant beauty in rotten soil and expect it to grow."

He turned, footsteps soft but unhurried as he began to walk away.

"You have a kind heart, [Y/N]," he called over his shoulder. "I do hope it leads you to the correct choices."

And just like that, the spell broke.

The flickering lantern above her stand buzzed faintly. The shadows stretched out again, long and reaching. His silhouette blurred into the alleys, coat stirring like smoke behind him.

She stayed still, breath held, as if the very street had forgotten how to exhale.

The wind stirred the flowers in their crates. They rustled gently—like paper. Fragile. Burnable.

And the night, for the first time in years, no longer felt like her own.

She tiredly walked inside her house, her steps no longer her own—robotic, hollow, like her body had carried her here without permission from her mind.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence wrapped around her shoulders like a cold shawl. No warmth, no comfort. Just quiet.

She didn't bother lighting a lamp. She knew the path too well. The creaking floorboard near the kitchen, the uneven step by the hallway. All of it muscle memory. All of it worn.

When she finally sank into bed, she exhaled deeply—one of those long, shaking breaths that felt more like a surrender than a release. Then she turned her head.

Her journal still sat on the end table, half-open to the empty page with Kruger's name penciled in faintly at the top. Waiting for something. Waiting for her to understand him, to unravel him like the others. But the page remained untouched.

She let out a dry, humorless chuckle—the kind that comes not from joy, but from weariness thick enough to drown in.

She should stop. She knew she should. There were so many reasons—logical, sound, safe reasons—why she should walk away from him, why she should let him fade into memory like the rest.

But hope had a way of blooming in her—quiet and persistent, like a weed between cobblestones, like something too soft to survive, and yet too stubborn to die.

She hated that part of herself. The part that still believed in gentle things. The part that still wanted to believe there was something worth saving in everyone—not because they deserved it, but because someone had to believe it. Someone had to try.

Even if it left her bleeding for it.

As the night dwindled on, the rain began to pour.

it tapped against the window, soft but insistent

Each drop smacked against the window like a memory trying to crawl back in. Eren sat still, eyes unfocused, as the world outside blurred into streaks of gray and silver. The sound was almost comforting. Almost.

It reminded him of Paradis. Of nights curled beneath thinning blankets, listening to Armin's whispering dreams and Mikasa's steady breath. Of his mother humming in the kitchen before the world became cruel.

And in one month, it would all be gone. Liberio. Marley. Every stone, every name, every face that ever looked at him like they knew something he didn't.

The wind picked up, sudden and sharp. The latch gave way. The window flung open with a screech, wind and water rushing in. He stood, annoyed, half ready to shut it again—

But something fluttered in.

A petal. Deep red. Torn and soft, soaked from its flight. It drifted to the floor, still clinging to some kind of shape.

His eyes flicked to the windowsill.

The bouquet Falco brought, now slightly wilted in the storm's presence, sat quietly. A little gift. A little offering from someone too kind for this world. She hadn't come herself, but she was there, in the flowers. In the color.

In the way they made the room feel like anything but a grave.

Strange, he thought. He hadn't known her long. Just a florist. A quiet one. Gentle. Observant. Too curious for her own good.

And yet, she lingered.

In his thoughts. In the corners of silence. She didn't belong here, not really, but she made it feel like maybe he did.

If he had to miss something—anything—it would be her.

Not her voice, not her smile. But the silence she ruined just by existing.

He turned back to the window.

Let the wind bite at him. Let the cold remind him of what was coming. Then, without a word, he reached out and slowly shut it.

But a thought formed in his mind.

And the fact that it even crossed his mind terrified him.

If the war took her, that would be easier.

But what was he supposed to do if it left her behind?

The morning after the storm, Falco found her in the market again.

Or rather, she found him—half-hidden behind a crate of onions, pretending to study price tags while sneaking glances over his shoulder every few seconds. He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn't bring himself to walk over.

She exhaled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Now that blonde hair looks oddly familiar... must belong to my favorite Warrior candidate."

Her tone was light, mimicking her usual self, but it rang hollow. The storm had passed, yes—but its aftermath clung to her skin like damp air. Zeke's voice still echoed in the quieter moments.

Falco perked up, finally glad to be noticed. He rushed over, eager. "Hi, Miss Florist! You won't believe what happened a couple of days ago," he beamed, voice lifted by excitement. "I finally beat Gabi in a race!"

His grin was wide—earnest and boyish. But something clouded it as quickly as it came. A shadow passed behind his eyes.

She tilted her head, gentle concern pulling at her brow. "That does sound great," she said, "but there's something else, isn't there?"

He hesitated.

Yesterday should've been perfect. Beating Gabi was a milestone, one more step toward becoming the Armored Titan. He'd wanted to tell her, too. That it wasn't just about glory or pride. That he was doing it for her. So she wouldn't have to fight anymore.

But Gabi didn't hear him. Or maybe she just refused to listen.

"I guess," he said slowly, "it wasn't all that great."

There was something heavy in the way he kicked at the dust with his boot.

Still, his gaze lifted again, burning with quiet resolve. "But I promise. I'll be the Armored Titan."

His voice held no arrogance—only a fragile kind of hope. The kind built on broken dreams and too many sleepless nights.

She didn't say anything right away.

Because what could she say? She wasn't one to ruin a child's dream—especially not one carried with such pure, determined hands.

"Well," she said, folding her arms with mock sternness, "if you do, Falco... just remember—we don't rule on hate."

Her voice held a playful lilt, but her words were firm, intentional. A quiet warning tucked in warmth.

"Of course, Miss!" he nodded eagerly. "Oh! Before I forget—" Falco dug into his coat pocket, eyes lighting up. "I found this near our training grounds. Thought you might like it."

He held it out with both hands like a sacred offering.

It was just a wildflower. The kind that sprouted in sidewalk cracks or along the edge of worn-down fences. Nothing special. Easy to overlook.

And yet—she took it like it was made of glass. As if it might wither in her grasp. As if it were a gift from the world itself. Her fingers closed around the stem with reverence.

To anyone else, it was just a flower.

But to her, it was kindness. A small, unexpected mercy in a world that rarely offered any.

She looked at him, eyes softening with something too heavy to name.

"Besides," Falco added, his smile dimming slightly, "you looked like you needed a flower today."

There was no teasing in his voice. Just concern—earnest and unfiltered.

And in return, all she could offer was a small, fragile smile.

The kind that said thank you without saying anything at all.

"That was so thoughtful of you, Falco. Now I'll have to teach you how to make your own bouquet—so you can win over your rival Gaby's heart," she teased gently.

He laughed, sheepish and proud all at once.

"Well then," she smiled, brushing a bit of dust from his shoulder, "I'm sure you have training to get back to, future Armored Titan." For a moment, she envied him—his certainty. His still-burning belief that he could change something.

But she didn't let it show.

With that, she offered him a soft farewell, watching as he ran off—flowerless now, but carrying something far warmer.

She wished she could say the same.

As she tucked the wildflower behind a jar at her stall, beside the ones she had meant to throw away.

Not because it was worthless.

But because it reminded her that even things plucked too soon could still be beautiful. Even its fragile comfort couldn't quiet the echo of Zeke's voice, or the knot still twisting in her stomach.

Somehow, Two days later, she found herself on the hospital steps again.

She told herself it was nothing. Routine. Guilt, maybe. Just another visit, another set of vases to refresh. But beneath all that, quiet and undeniable, lived a question she hadn't dared say out loud.

She didn't expect to see him.

But some part of her—some small, stubborn part—hoped she would.

The halls were dim, washed in the gray hush of early afternoon. Most patients were in the cafeteria. The building felt suspended in time, like the air hadn't moved in hours. As she walked from room to room, the only sounds were the soft clinks of glass and water, the whisper of her sleeves brushing blooms. Each bouquet was replaced carefully, like an offering. Each dying stem discarded with silent grace.

Then she reached his door.

Her hand paused on the knob. Zeke's voice came back to her—low and curling like smoke. That strange warning. The way he'd spoken of Mr. Kruger unsettled her. Like Kruger was a man already caught in something vast, tangled, and closing in. Like she'd already stepped too close.

She opened the door anyway.

He was standing by the window, framed in pale light, his back to her. His long hair stirred slightly in the breeze slipping through the cracked pane. He looked thinner than before. More tired. Like time sat heavier on him than it did on the others.

"I already said I'm not hungry."

His voice was sharp, automatic. But when he turned and saw her, something in him softened. Not enough to be obvious—but the armor dropped for a single, visible second. His shoulders eased. His mouth parted slightly, as if her presence had caught him off guard.

She hesitated in the doorway. "I thought you'd be in the cafeteria."

He didn't reply right away. Just turned his face back to the window, as if the light out there was easier to meet than her eyes.

"Too many people pretending they're not sick."

She stepped inside, quiet as breath. Her gaze flicked to the bouquet by the bed—Falco's arrangement. Red plumerias. White bellflowers. Olive branches. The petals were curling at the edges now, dulled and delicate. But they hadn't been thrown away. Someone had moved them away from the sunlight. Someone had tried to keep them alive.

She didn't know what to make of that.

"I can replace them," she offered softly, brushing her fingers over the rim of the vase. "If you want."

"No," he said—immediate, low. Then quieter: "They're fine."

She looked up at him.

He wasn't watching the flowers. He was watching her.

"They're dying slower this time," he murmured, and though his tone was unreadable, something hung between the words.

A silence opened between them then—neither tense nor peaceful. Just full.

Full of things unsaid.

The distance between them felt smaller than it had before. Like grief had folded it down to nothing. Like understanding—quiet, reluctant—was beginning to replace suspicion.

She should've said something. Should've stepped back.

Instead, she let the silence stretch.

Let it hum.

"You don't seem like someone who keeps flowers," she said at last, not quite teasing, not quite questioning.

"I don't," he said, eyes still on her. "Usually."

She looked away first.

The tension didn't snap. It shifted. Grew warmer. Softer. Like the sun pressing through cloud after long rain.

He moved then, a slight limp to his gait, and passed her in the doorway without another word. But not before their shoulders nearly brushed. Not before the air between them stirred like something waking up.

She stayed in the room a little longer than she had to. Adjusted the water. Smoothed the petals. Tried not to think about the way he had looked at her.

Tried not to wonder what had kept those flowers alive.

Yet that evening, after the lingering feeling from the hospital had settled into a cold knot in her stomach, she found herself locking up the flower cart. The market, usually a bustling hub of activity, was now a ghost town.

The kind of late where even time seemed to hold its breath. Fog curled along the narrow streets like ghosts reluctant to leave, and the market—once brimming with life—had long since gone quiet. Lanterns flickered above shuttered stalls, their weak light casting jagged shadows across cobblestones.

Even the stray dogs had vanished, as if sensing the hush that had settled over everything. Her fingers slipped on the twine, fumbling more than they should have. Maybe it was the cold.

Maybe it was the weight in her chest. Or maybe it was the way Mr. Kruger's voice still haunted her ears—gruff, guarded, and somehow echoing louder than it had any right to.

She tugged the tarp over the last crate of lilies, breath puffing white in the air, when she heard it.

Boots on gravel. Not rushed. Not cautious. Deliberate.

She turned.

Yuriel stood a few feet away, arms crossed, coat hanging open, mist clinging to his shoulders. His hair was damp, and his expression—tight-jawed and hard-eyed—burned hotter than the chill in the air.

"How long have you been talking to him?" he asked.

No greeting. No pretense. Just a question, quiet and deadly.

She blinked. "Who—?"

"Don't," he snapped. "Don't play stupid with me."

The silence that followed wasn't passive. It pressed down like fog on the lungs—thick, choking, unrelenting.

"I saw him," Yuriel said, stepping closer. "Zeke. The day before the storm. He was here. Talking to you."

She straightened, slowly. "It wasn't like that."

"No?" His voice cracked like a fault line. "Because from where I stood, it looked a lot like you were listening."

"He showed up," she said, each word measured, controlled. "I didn't invite him."

"But you talked to him."

"Because I didn't have a choice."

There it was. The edge she rarely let show—quiet but cut-glass sharp. Her hand tightened around the twine until it bit into her skin.

"I didn't ask for any of this," she continued. "I'm just trying to get by, Yuriel. We all are."

He let out a bitter laugh—no humor, just resentment. "Getting by? Is that what we're calling it now?"

She didn't respond.

"You think you're different?" he asked, jaw clenched. "Selling petals and poems like they mean anything in a place like this?"

She flinched, barely—but he saw it.

"I'm doing what I can."

"Are you?" His voice dropped, colder now. "Because it looks a lot like you're playing both sides."

Her breath hitched.

He didn't yell. He never had to. His words were knives dressed as whispers.

"You think flowers make you brave?" he said, stepping close enough that the fog couldn't hide the look in his eyes. "You're not a martyr."

A pause.

"You're a coward with flowers."

Her eyes met his.

No tears. No defiance. Just that quiet stillness that came when something inside you bent instead of breaking.

"You don't know everything," she said. "And you don't have to."

"I'm your brother."

"Then start acting like it."

That landed. His mouth parted—like he had more to say, like maybe it was too late to say it.

He took a step back.

"I just hope you know what you're doing," he muttered. "Before someone else pays the price."

Then he turned and walked away.

She didn't stop him.

Not this time.

The air was still, but the words lingered—hanging in the cold like smoke.

A coward with flowers.

The phrase followed her long after the sound of his boots had faded into fog.

She stood alone beneath the stall's awning, hands trembling as she exhaled into the dark.

And this time, the cold reached all the way in.

He wasn't supposed to be out of bed.

Every step was a quiet act of defiance—slow, uneven, deliberate. His weight leaned too heavily to the left, the strain cinched tight in his jaw. But the hospital air had thickened with ghosts and antiseptic, and he could no longer breathe inside it. He needed something real. Something cold, something vast. Anything but that sterile stillness.

Liberio never truly slept, but at this hour, it sighed—soft and frayed at the edges. Mist curled low along the pavement, and the faint yellow lanterns swayed like tired stars.

He didn't know where he was going.

Not until he saw her.

The flower stall was long closed—canvas drawn and tied, the scent of petals replaced by earth and smoke. But she was still there, tucked behind the crates, knees pulled to her chest. A cigarette burned low between her fingers, the ember pulsing like a dying star.

She didn't startle when she saw him.

Didn't speak.

Just shifted, barely, and made space.

He didn't ask.

He lowered himself beside her with a breath and a wince, his movements stiff, uncooperative. Sitting hurt. But standing had hurt more. And here, beside her, where the world had quieted to a murmur... it didn't matter.

She took another drag, held it, then passed it over.

No words.

He paused, then accepted it. Smoke curled against his lips, sharp and unfamiliar. It burned—but he didn't flinch.

For a while, they said nothing.

Just breathed.

The kind of silence that wrapped around two people like a blanket—heavy, warm, and worn thin by grief.

"Do you ever feel like your life already ended," he said, voice barely more than a whisper, "and no one bothered to tell you?"

He looked up at the stars, but they didn't look back.

"Like you're just... walking through the wake of it."

His words drifted, hesitant—like he hadn't meant to say them out loud.

She didn't answer right away.

When she did, her voice was soft. Brittle.

"Every day, I wake up hoping to find a reason." Her mouth curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "It's selfish. But I never made the bouquets for them."

She turned to him, searching his face as though expecting condemnation. She found none.

"I think I just... wanted them to mean something. To mean I meant something."

She let out a breath. Smoke spilled from her lungs.

"How selfish. And yet... I'm only human."

In that moment, she looked like something fragile trying not to fracture. Like a star straining against the gravity of its own fading light.

The cigarette burned down to its paper edge.

She stubbed it out against the brick behind her, fingers brushing ash from her skirt. He watched her hands, the way they moved with quiet precision, like she'd done it a hundred times before. Like the routine kept her tethered.

"You'll get in trouble for this," she said finally, voice barely louder than the wind. "Being out here."

"I already am," he muttered, mouth tilting in something not quite a smile. "Might as well earn it."

She huffed—quiet, breathy. Almost a laugh. He didn't look at her, but he felt it anyway, soft and brief like warmth passing through frostbitten air.

A gust caught the corner of his collar. It folded, limp and crooked.

She reached out without thinking. Straightened it. Smoothed the crease. Her fingers brushed his throat—light, fleeting. He went still, more out of surprise than anything else.

"You don't have to—"

"I know," she murmured. "Let me."

She moved carefully, deliberately. No rush. Her knuckles grazed his jaw as she tucked the fold back into place. The nearness felt too quiet, too fragile—like something they weren't supposed to hold.

"I used to do this for my brother," she said after a moment, her hand hovering as she let the fabric go. "Before things changed."

Eren's eyes found hers. He didn't ask. But the weight of everything left unsaid sat between them.

He shifted to rise. Every part of him resisted. Bone, tendon, breath. But her presence grounded him more than the ground itself. He pushed up—slow, tense—until he was standing again.

Then he saw it: a faint smear of ash across her sleeve.

He reached out. Not sudden. Not showy. Just the side of his hand, brushing it away—quiet, measured, almost reverent.

"You'll catch fire," he said, something dry in his tone. "Wearing things like this."

"Better that than dust," she replied. Her voice didn't waver.

They stood like that for a beat too long. His hand still close to her arm. Her fingers still half-curled from fixing his collar. Two people caught in a moment neither could name and neither wanted to leave.

But something passed between them anyway. Something neither of them dared name.

For a breath, they lingered like that—her hand still half-curled from fixing his collar, his fingers just lowered from her coat.

Then he took a step back.

"You should go in," he said, voice low. "Before the cold gets worse."

She didn't move.

Neither did he.

But eventually, he turned, the limp more obvious now in the dim streetlight.

And just before the mist took him, he said—without looking back:

"Thanks... for the warmth."

Then he was gone.

And she was left behind, fingers resting on her coat sleeve as if his touch had left something behind.

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soranyuus

The florist | eren jeager 05

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The euphoric smell of plumerias often reminded people of new beginnings. Their creamy-sweet scent lingered in the morning air like a promise—warm, gentle, and just out of reach.

She had never seen the ocean, but she liked to imagine it. The scent of salt, the sweep of wind, the rustle of waves—she pictured them folding over one another like silk. In her small corner of Liberio, surrounded by cracked stone and rusted fences, she closed her eyes and breathed in the plumerias, pretending it was sea breeze. Something soft. Something bright. Something free.

It helped her forget, if only for a moment.

But the sound of coughing down the street, the clatter of boots, the distant bark of orders—those reminders came quickly. The illusion peeled away, and she was still there, behind her florist stand, surrounded not by waves, but by the weight of the internment zone.

"Good morning, Ms. F... florist." She turned at the voice, recognizing it immediately—it was the sweet boy from the hospital. Mr. Kruger's quiet companion.

She smiled and leaned on her stand, angling herself to see him better. "Well, good morning to you too, Falco. How can I help you?"

He shifted awkwardly, gaze darting to the flowers, a folded letter clutched in one hand. "I—I'd like to buy a bouquet. I... if that doesn't bother you!" His voice wavered, as if afraid just asking was too much.

[Y/N] tilted her head slightly, the fondness in her expression softening. She'd noticed it from the start—Falco was the kind of child who apologized even for breathing too loud. A kind heart weighed down by too many expectations.

She exhaled gently through her nose, watching him with quiet care. She didn't know what it was like to be a Warrior candidate, not really. But she could see enough to understand—whatever it was, it looked heavy on him.

"Of course you can!" she said brightly, her smile warm as she leaned forward just slightly, trying to ease the nerves radiating off him. "Now, tell me—who's this for? A girl...?" Her voice was teasing, playful, the corners of her lips tugging upward.

The moment the question left her mouth, she saw something flicker in Falco's eyes. Not embarrassment—something softer, deeper. For just a second, his face lit up, like he'd thought of someone. But it vanished quickly, his expression tightening with unease.

He raised his hands in defense, clutching the letter tighter. "No, no—it's not like that! It's for Mr. Kruger." He looked away, clearly flustered, but the damage was done. The mind goes where it wants. And his had gone to her, yet he knew she was not one for flowers.

[Y/N] chuckled gently, not pressing further. Children had a way of betraying themselves in the most honest ways. She loved them for it—the way they still allowed themselves to dream, even here. Even in Liberio.

Her eyes softened at the name. "Mr. Kruuuger..." she echoed slowly, dragging it out in thought as she turned to look at the flowers around her.

She had tried before—small gestures, little bunches of blooms offered at the hospital. But he always looked at them like they were foreign, like the petals belonged to another world entirely. He'd never accepted them. She remembered the look on his face when she offered them—unreadable, but clear enough to know he didn't believe in beauty anymore. Not in the way most people did.

Still.

She reached for a pair of garden shears and got to work.

From the tall vase on her shelf, she plucked a sprig of blue statice—a flower that symbolized remembrance, quiet strength, and unspoken emotion. It would go at the center.

Around it, she layered in white bellflowers—gentle, modest things that nodded with the breeze. Olive branches came next, thin and silver-green, a nod to peace that might never come but was still worth hoping for. She hesitated, then tucked in one deep red plumeria, its creamy petals and tropical scent subtle but warm. One touch of softness in an otherwise somber palette.

When it was done, she tied it loosely with twine. No bright ribbons. No frills. Just simple, clean, and thoughtful.

She held the bouquet out to Falco. "For Mr. Kruger," she said with a knowing smile. "Tell him I made this one, especially for someone who pretends not to need flowers."

Falco finally seemed comfortable. He let out a soft, honest laugh and reached for the bouquet, cradling it carefully in his arms.

"Now tell me," she said, leaning casually on her stand, her gaze playful as it flicked toward his hands, where the folded letter now sat tucked beside the flowers. "I know the bouquet is for Mr. Kruger... but the letter—what's that? A love letter, perhaps?"

Falco flushed lightly but smiled. "It's Mr. Kruger's. A letter for his family. He asked me to send it." His voice was soft, but there was a small light in his expression—a quiet sort of pride. Just doing something for Mr. Kruger seemed to lift something off his shoulders.

"Aren't you sweet," she murmured, her voice laced with fondness. "Here—for being such a brave Warrior Candidate, and a good helper."

She bent beneath the counter of her stand, sifting through a crate of smaller blooms, and emerged with a single sweet pea—soft pink, fragrant, and delicate. A flower of gratitude and gentle courage.

She carefully tucked it into the pocket of his shirt.

"There," she said, her smile lingering. "Now go on, courier boy."

Falco beamed, holding the bouquet a little tighter, the letter pressed close to his heart.

The walk back to the hospital garden stretched longer than Falco expected.

The sun had dipped low, casting long, weary shadows across the cracked pavement. His legs ached, his feet dragged beneath him, but still, he held the bouquet carefully—its soft fragrance, the familiar sweetness of plumeria, clinging gently to the air like encouragement.

He found Mr. Kruger seated in his usual spot, half-swallowed by shade, his gaze fixed on the horizon where the last sliver of light clung stubbornly to the sky.

"Mr. Kruger!" Falco called out, a smile breaking across his face as he hurried forward. "I did it—I delivered the letter! And I brought you these! I thought... maybe they'd help you feel better. So you can see your family sooner."

Kruger looked down at what the boy was holding.

A bouquet.

Just as he'd finally rid himself of the cornflower, another gesture had found its way to him—soft and persistent, like her presence always seemed to be.

"I stopped by Miss Florist before delivering the letter," Falco added brightly. "She said to tell you... she made this one especially for you. Said you 'pretend not to need flowers.'"

A quiet huff of breath left Kruger—something caught between a sigh and the start of a laugh. The corners of his mouth tugged upward, barely, but undeniably there. He reached out and took the bouquet from Falco's hands, his fingers lingering on the stems longer than necessary.

His eyes, hidden beneath the curtain of his hair, glimmered faintly—less guarded now, as if a small part of him had begun to believe in something gentler.

"That... was kind of you, Falco."

Kruger's voice was quiet, held back by the weight of something unspoken. Kindness always unsettled him—especially from a child. Especially when it reached further than it should.

Falco smiled, proud of himself in that small, quiet way, like he'd done something that mattered.

"Now go on. Get home—it's getting late."

Eren watched him disappear into the dark grimy streets. Alone again, he rose slowly, crutch in one hand, bouquet in the other.

He didn't throw it away.

In the stillness of his room, he set the flowers down on the table where the cornflower used to sit. The scent of plumeria lingered—sweet, too sweet, like it didn't belong here. He sat down across from it, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the petals.

Why did she keep doing this?

He hadn't shown her warmth. Barely even looked her in the eye most days. She brought him a cornflower once—he'd let the water cup sit untouched until the stem sagged under its own weight. She had to know he didn't want any of it.

And still, she kept offering.

Not out of ignorance. She wasn't naïve.

There was something else behind it—something steady. A softness that didn't ask for anything in return. It made no sense to him, but he didn't look away.

He stared at the bouquet in front of him, the deep red plumerias' sweet scent filling the air. He hadn't asked for it, hadn't even wanted it. But still, here it was—a simple gift from someone who didn't owe him anything. He had barely acknowledged her the last time they'd met, had distanced himself as much as possible.

And yet, she hadn't recoiled. She hadn't gotten angry or upset at his coldness. She had simply... smiled.

He ran his hand through his hair, frustration rising within him. Why did she keep being kind? It wasn't like he deserved it. He had made it clear that he wasn't the person to be nice to, wasn't someone who could offer anything in return.

So why did she persist?

The thought gnawed at him. Her warmth, her willingness to give without expecting anything—was it genuine? Or was it just some naive way of trying to fix something broken?

He couldn't decide which idea bothered him more. The thought of her seeing through the walls he had so carefully built... or the possibility that she wasn't expecting anything from him at all.

Eren clenched his fist around the crutch, biting back the anger that welled up. This shouldn't matter. It wasn't his problem.

But it did.

And that was what made it so unbearable—because in a world drained of meaning and light, her kindness bloomed like the last vivid color in a painting he'd long stopped believing in.

As the moon had begun to rise, and the sun's light slowly retreated—quiet, reluctant—slipping beneath the horizon as if it, too, no longer wished to bear witness.

"This will be done. For the good of humanity."

The words sounded like they belonged to someone else. He stared stoically at the moon through his window, its pale reflection warping beside the flowers on the sill. They taunted him—soft, persistent things that didn't belong in a place like this.

He reached for them. He wanted to throw them out. To reject them. To make a point. But a point to whom? What would it prove, and who was watching?

He didn't know. But still, he hesitated. And in the end, he left them untouched.

Then he saw her.

Moving along the darkened street below. Her hands—unusually empty. No bundles of flowers, no ribbon trailing behind her, no delicate colors pressed to her chest. Just her, cloaked in shadow and moonlight, walking like someone with a place to be but no one waiting for her.

She had one final errand to run.

Her brother had come back from the war with the other soldiers. Hollow-eyed, spine-straight, one of the ones who still looked intact if you didn't stare too long.

But even then, they'd never really been on good terms. She was the reason he wasn't chosen as a warrior—a wound neither of them ever bothered to dress. And though he never said it aloud, he reminded her of it in other ways. In the sharp angles of his silence. In the way his gaze never softened for her like it had for the rest of the family. In the heaviness of his presence, the chill in his step, and the quiet disappointment he wore like armor.

He didn't yell. He didn't fight.

He just looked at her like she was the reason he'd failed—and like the world had agreed with him.

Still she walked. Steady. Unflinching. Not weighed down by guilt, not exactly. But by the kind of sorrow that chooses not to fight back. The kind that endures.

And up above, with a bouquet still in his hands and a war still in his chest, Mr. Kruger watched her disappear into the night.

And the flowers remained.

Unthrown.

As [Y/N] continued her walk, the silence of the night pressing in around her like a second skin. The streets were nearly empty, the air cool with the hush of dusk. Her thoughts drifted—slow, heavy things—threading sorrow for her brother with the quiet acceptance of what they'd become. Not strangers, not enemies, but something in between. She stopped in front of his door, a hulking shape lost in shadow.

For Yuriel, it had never been about survival.

Becoming a Warrior, or even just a candidate, had nothing to do with honor. Not for him. At twelve years old, his entire existence had already been shaped by hatred—cold, calculated, and merciless. He had been called names she wasn't allowed to repeat, had been shoved off sidewalks, spat at, blamed. And he swallowed it all. Not with weakness, but with purpose. With resolve. With rage.

She remembered the day of the selection test. The air that morning had tasted like iron. Yuriel's hands had trembled—not from fear, but from hope. And [Y/N] had felt something terrible growing in her chest, something heavier than guilt. A conviction. One she hadn't yet named.

She hadn't meant to ruin it. Not exactly.

But when the time came, when his success balanced on a single moment, a single result, she made sure the scale tipped the other way. One misplaced signature. One hesitation during his evaluation. One quiet act of sabotage—enough to stop everything.

He never said a word about it.

But his silence was punishment enough.

She was pulled from the memory by a voice—sharper now, colder.

"Well? Aren't you going to come inside?"

She looked up.

There he was. Yuriel.

His face was older now, sharper. But it wasn't the years that had carved those lines into him—it was bitterness. The kind that settled deep and stayed. His eyes met hers, hollow and unreadable, and for a fleeting second, all she could see was Mr. Kruger.

That same distance.

That same ache.

That same silent war.

"Oh... I'm sorry." Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

He was the only person who ever dimmed her light, but it wasn't intentional. No, it was her guilt, the quiet weight of it, that folded in on itself, making her feel smaller with every step she took toward him.

She stepped into his home, and the silence immediately settled around her. It was as she had imagined—cold, barren, as though life had never really taken root here. No warmth in the walls, no trace of the laughter that had once filled this space.

"I... I'm only here to pick up Mama's picture," she murmured, her words hanging heavily in the air.

Three years had passed since that night—since their mother had been torn away from them by the hands of a Marleyan officer. And in those years, Yuriel had turned his grief into something else entirely. It wasn't just loss anymore; it was the kind of seething anger that carved out pieces of him, left him hollow.

For Yuriel, that loss wasn't just an unfortunate event—it was the evidence of what could've been. The cruel reminder that their lives might have been different had he followed the path laid out before him. Had he become a warrior, had he taken on the title of Jaw Titan, maybe their family could've lived without the constant fear of Marley's hand hanging over them.

But she had stopped him. He hadn't become a warrior. And in his mind, that was the reason everything had unraveled. The reason their mother was gone. The reason they were left in a world that had turned its back on them.

They could've been honorary Marleyans. They could've had power, protection. And maybe their mother would still be alive.

He should've been the Jaw.

The weight of it pressed on her chest as she stood there in the dim light.

"Just take what you need." He turned away, his back to her as though the simple act of facing her was too much. "Don't visit next month. They're planning some event. I'll be patrolling the area, I wont be home." The words hung in the air, awkward and unfamiliar.

It was strange to hear them come from his mouth. He hadn't spoken to her like this in years, yet here he was, saying things he didn't fully understand himself.

But there was a flicker of something in his voice—something that whispered of an unspoken hope. Maybe if he told her not to come next month, she would come the month after.

It wasn't a request, but it wasn't an order either. It was something fragile, something like an invitation that he didn't know how to give.

As the silence stretched between them, he thought about the space between them. The years of distance, the years of words left unsaid, and the weight of all that had been broken.

Not all wounds heal. But that doesn't mean you stop walking forward. The pain may never fade, but you carry it with you, piece by piece, step by step. And maybe, just maybe, you'll find a way to forgive the past, to forgive each other, to forgive yourself.

Because it was never just her fault.

"Oh, I... I see. Very well then. Good night, Yuri." Her voice was a soft whisper, the words slipping into the air like a breath she hadn't meant to take. She turned away, offering him her final words as she left.

Liberio was never warm, especially not at night. The streets were always heavy with silence, thick with shadows that clung to the corners of the city. The stone buildings stood like forgotten memories, their edges softened in the dark. The air had the weight of things left unsaid, heavy and damp, like a secret too old to remember.

Her footsteps were the only sound, soft but distinct against the quiet, almost as if she were walking through someone else's life. The streets—once familiar—felt different in the dark. The lamps, few and far between, cast weak pools of light that only deepened the shadows, making everything seem just a little more out of reach, just a little more foreign.

Passing by the hospital, the only building she ever knew so well, she noticed something. There was light—just one room, tucked somewhere within the building, where no light should have been at this hour.

It wasn't much, a faint sliver of yellow seeping from the edges of the window. It seemed almost out of place, but it caught her attention, drawing her gaze in. She could make out a figure inside, just barely, and in that soft, dim light, the red plumerias caught her eye—almost glowing, bright against the shadows.

For a brief moment, she paused. Her feet felt like they were frozen to the ground, as if the room held something that had been waiting for her all this time. Something she hadn't known she was looking for. But as quickly as the thought came, she let it slip away, moving forward once again, though now with a quiet tug in her chest—a pull she couldn't ignore.

By the time she passed the hospital, the faint glow of her home flickered to life in the distance—a small, golden ember against the quiet black of night. Her pace slowed, the hush of evening wrapping around her like a heavy coat.

When she reached the familiar stretch of street before her flower stand, she paused. A figure stood there, tall, blonde, and unmoving, half-draped in shadow beneath the streetlamp's weary glow.

A soft sigh slipped past her lips, already heavy with knowing. “Mr. Braun, please don’t make it a habit of coming by after I’m closed—”

But her voice caught. Froze.

The man turned—and it wasn’t Reiner.

It was Zeke Yeager.

His frame carved a sharp silhouette in the dim light, golden hair dulled beneath the pallor of the lamp. She didn’t need light to recognize him. She had always known the outline of fear.

The Beast Titan.

A chill bloomed in her chest, deep and immediate. The street suddenly felt narrower. The silence, too thick. Even the distant sounds of soldiers, of wind rattling loose shutters, seemed to vanish—as if the world itself held its breath.

She had only ever seen him from afar, a name spoken low, a shadow at the edge of the war. But now, standing so close—he made the familiar streets of Liberio feel like a cage.

And in that moment, beneath the bruised sky and the broken hum of the streetlight, she understood.

The night had changed. And nothing would bloom here without consequence again.

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