a/n! feeling a bit extra angsty tonight⊠my sincerest apologies đ thought it might be interesting to let you see how they really react when their world crumbles around them⊠hope you have an absolutely fantastic time reading, though!!
ËáŻœq ĘË·â
i. self destructive behaviorâft. blade
blade had always been distant, a fortress of ice barely penetrated by anyoneâyourself included. the rare moments of softness, the fleeting glimpses of care he allowed himself after arguments, had always been conditional, earned through confrontation rather than freely given. that was the unbearable truth. that was why you left. how could you love someone who required constant coaxing just to feel like more than a stranger in their life?
when you walked away, you thought heâd simply shrug, indifferent as ever, letting your absence drift past like smoke. but you were wrong. you didnât know the nights he spent alone, tearing himself apart in silence. he drank without counting, without names, without purposeâjust to numb the ache that didnât relent. his apartment became a mausoleum of wasted hours, shadows of regret piling up higher than the bottles he emptied. days blended into nights as he haunted himself with memories, each one a mirror of what could have been: every word unsaid, every gesture withheld, every moment he hadnât dared to try harder.
he destroyed himself quietly, methodically, because he didnât know how to do it any other way. there were no tears, no dramatic confessions, no way to wear his heart on his sleeveâit wasnât who he was. instead, he let it fester, let it corrode him from within, letting the ache of regret mingle with the sharp tang of longing. every room you had shared seemed haunted by your absence; every song, every scent reminded him of what he had lost, and what he could not reclaim.
he didnât just miss you. he punished himself for you, for the gap between who he was and who he should have been. and every time he closed his eyes, he relived the same truth: he had the power to change it all, but he didnât. and now, all he had left was the hollow echo of what heâd thrown away.
so when you left, it wasnât just a breakupâit was a wound he carried silently, a quiet tragedy he didnât allow himself to mourn fully. because mourning, like love, was dangerous. it required vulnerability, and blade had always been afraid of being vulnerable, even to the person he loved most.
ii. anger or frustrationâft. mydei
mydei wasnât a bad boyfriend. he triedâhe truly did. he tried to be soft with you, tried to be patient, tried to shape himself into someone worthy of your trust and affection. he wanted to be better, wanted to be someone who could make you feel safe without suffocating you. but some things, no matter how hard he tried, never changed. mydei had patterns ingrained in him that time, and love, could not entirely overwrite.
at first, you forgave him. you forgave the small thingsâthe moments when his jealousy flared up over nothing, the quiet possessiveness that seemed almost harmless at first. you told yourself it was love, that maybe it was normal to feel protective over someone you cared about. you gave him chances to prove he could control it, and for a while, he seemed to.
but then, the cracks widened. what once felt protective became stifling, suffocating. you couldnât go out with friends without feeling his eyes on your back, tracing every laugh, every movement. you couldnât speak to someone of the opposite sex without feeling his tension radiate from across the room. every âinnocentâ interaction you had with the world was a test, a challenge, in his mindâand if he failed to control it, he failed at loving you.
it became unbearable. and slowly, painfully, you realized that love shouldnât feel like a cage. so, with a heavy heart, you made the decision to walk away. you chose your freedom, your sanity, your own space, and in doing so, you chose different paths for the two of you.
mydei couldnât understand, not fully. in his mind, he hadnât done anything wrong. he had been protecting you, safeguarding you from everyone else, shielding you from heartbreak, from danger, from people who didnât care for you the way he did. it was loveâor at least, thatâs what he told himself it was.
he was angry. angry at you, first and foremostâfor not understanding, for not seeing that his actions came from a place of care, even if they hurt you. angry at the world, at anyone who dared to look at you, smile at you, or even breathe near you, because in his mind they were threats. and angry at himselfâangry at his own inability to listen when it mattered most, to hear your quiet pleas, your soft protests, the subtle ways you tried to show him the boundaries he kept ignoring.
he mourned what was lost, too, though he wouldnât admit itânot to you, not to anyone. every day felt heavier, weighed down by the memory of your absence, the echo of the life you had once shared, the warmth that had slipped through his fingers. and yet, in that anger, in that frustration, in that grief, he remained stubbornly convinced that he had acted out of love, blinded by his own perception of what love should look like.
because for mydei, it had never occurred to him that love could exist without control, without the constant need to dominate. and for you, it had become painfully clear that love, to survive, had to breathe.
iii. sadness or cryingâft. phainon
youâd known phainon to be an emotional personâever since you met, he had this light about him, a star that seemed to shine brighter than anyone else in the room. cheerful, optimistic, endlessly patientâhe had a way of making the world feel lighter, as if his presence alone could mend cracks in even the darkest hearts. but underneath that brightness were shadows, demons he carried quietly. his dutiesâhis responsibilitiesâalways came first, always mattered more than anything else, even you. it was who he was: selfless to a fault, the kind of person who measured the world in the welfare of others rather than the fullness of his own needs.
it hurt more than it should have, to part ways with him. you had told yourself it was for the bestâfor him, for you. that without you holding him back, without adding one more weight to his shoulders, he could dedicate himself entirely to what he had to do. it was the logical choice, the rational one, the one that made sense even when your chest ached.
but phainon hadnât seen it that way. when you left, when you told him it was over, the world he had builtâcareful, bright, and unwaveringâcrumbled around him. the spark in his eyes dimmed, his usual buoyancy replaced by a heavy, oppressive gloom. where once he had carried the brightness of hope, now there was only this lingering shadow, as if your absence had torn away the support holding him upright. the weight of the world, the duties he had always borne so gracefully, fell entirely on his back, unmitigated, unsoftened.
he cried. more than he thought he could, more than he imagined himself capable. tears came in quiet, unexpected wavesâon streets you had walked together, in parks where laughter had once echoed, in narrow alleys where he could hide his grief from passersby. every memory was a jagged reminder of what he had lost, each echo of your presence a pang that made his chest tighten unbearably. he wept silently, clutching his coat, pressing his face into it so no one could see, so no one could realize how completely undone he had become.
and yet, even in that darkness, a fragment of him remainedâyou could see it in the way he held himself, the stubbornness that refused to let despair claim him fully. phainon carried on his duties, forced a smile when he had to, but behind the practiced calm, behind the professional mask, there was a quiet mourning, a persistent ache that no amount of work, no number of obligations, could ever soothe.
he had always been the bright star, the beacon, the one who lifted others. and now, without you, he was learning what it felt like to burn alone.
iv. indifference or âacting fineââft. anaxa
anaxagoras was the kind of person who adapted to youâvery, very thoroughlyâand, in equal measure, made it nearly impossible for you not to adapt to him. intelligent, calculating, unbearably bright, and above all, insidiously manipulative, he had a way of toying with minds that was both infuriating and magnetic. he delighted in watching people squirm under his subtle provocations, and you, of course, were no exception.
at first, you told yourself it wasnât a problem. everyone makes mistakes, everyone faltersâapologies are said, wounds patched, life moves on. but with anaxa, it was never that simple. he had a way of turning every situation, every disagreement, back onto you. he made you feel small, irrational, guilty for things that werenât truly yours to bear. and then, just when the weight of your self-recrimination was crushing, heâd slip in a word of praise, a reminder that you were âamazingâ for correcting your mistakes, for moving forward, for bending to his version of reason. it was intoxicating. it was cruel. it was addictive.
you realized far too late how toxic it had become. after countless friends, acquaintances, even strangers had whispered the same adviceâbreak up with him, leave before it consumes youâyou finally did. you left. and, true to form, anaxa tried to twist it, to convince you that ending things was a mistake, that you were overreacting, that you would regret it. but you had endured enough. his manipulations, his games, the constant questioning of your own instinctsâyou had had enough.
so when the separation came, anaxa wore indifference like armor. he acted as if it were nothing, as if the world continued to turn without consequence, as if losing you was just another mundane footnote. life was transient, people came and went. he carried himself with his usual grace, masking every flicker of pain, every whisper of regret.
and yet, behind that flawless facade, he was unraveling. every time your name slipped into conversation, he brushed it off effortlessly, as if dismissing it could erase the ache in his chest. he could ignore the way his thoughts involuntarily returned to you, the way memories of your laughter and your anger clung to him like smoke he couldnât blow away. he wantedâno, he neededâyou to believe he was fine without you, that he had never needed you at all.
but he knew the truth. he knew the lie his polished indifference was hiding. the truth was that he needed you. not in some vague, sentimental way, not merely as someone to occupy his time or attentionâbut with a dependence so raw and absolute that without you, he felt hollow, adrift, suffocating. he needed you like a body needs air, like a mind needs thought, like a heart needs a pulse. a life without you wasnât lifeâit was an imitation, a shadow of existence, and he knew it with every fiber of his being.
v. denial or disbeliefâft. aventurine
aventurine was the kind of person you could happily spend an entire week with and still wish it went on longer. he was fun, lively, the kind of presence that made any dull room bright. he had a knack for finding the exact joke or story that would make someone laugh, the effortless charm that drew people in. you liked funny guysâones who could make life feel lighter just by existing. and aventurine⊠aventurine had that effect on you. around him, anger and sadness seemed to melt away, leaving room only for smiles, for laughter that bubbled up unbidden.
but beneath that charm lay something sharper, something that stung more than you were willing to admit at first. he had a tendencyâalmost habitualâto disregard your feelings when it came to his teasing. no matter how many times you told him that some jokes went too far, that they hurt or embarrassed you, he brushed it off with a laugh, a shrug, or worse, a challenge. it wasnât malicious, not alwaysâbut it was thoughtless, and you felt it in your chest every time.
what hurt most were the repeated jabs about leaving you, about how much easier his life would be without you in it. even though you knew he meant them as jokes, the words landed like stones in your stomach, heavy and undeniable. it was a reminder that the person who could make you laugh the hardest could also wound you the deepest.
so, finally, you acted. you ended it. not out of spite, not because you stopped caring, but because your feelings mattered, and he wouldnât honor them. you broke up with him over the jokes, over the careless words, over the disregard he couldnât seem to unlearn.
aventurineâs reaction was almost cinematic in its shock. his jaw literally dropped; his eyes widened, searching yours as if trying to convince himself it wasnât real. âyouâre⊠breaking up with me⊠over a joke?â he asked, voice tinged with disbelief, disbelief that this could possibly happen to him. it was the last thing he expected, and he had no idea how to respond. denial gripped him first, like a warm blanket, and for a moment, he laughed nervously, hoping it was all some mistake.
days passed. he checked his phone compulsively, hoping, wishing, for your name to light up the screen. he imagined the text youâd send: an apology, a playful message, a joke to show him what it felt like. he wanted to feel the sting heâd caused you reflected back, to understand the depth of his care through his own regret.
but no message came. no call interrupted the monotony of his days. the absence of your presence became a weight in his chest, something he couldnât ignore. slowly, reluctantly, he realized how much he missed youânot just the laughter and charm, but the way you had mattered. he realized the gap you left behind wasnât something easily filled. regret settled over him like a quiet shadow. he hadnât meant to hurt you, but he had. and now, he couldnât take it back.
vi. withdrawal or silenceâft. dr. ratio
you and veritas had known each other long before you started dating. two bright minds, two relentless workers, two people who believed in progressâbut with vastly different visions. you sought collaboration, balance, and human connection in the work you did. veritas wanted to eradicate all he considered âunfit,â to strip the world bare of error, ignorance, and imperfection.
at first, you admired his brilliance, his sharp mind, the way he spoke with such certainty that the world seemed to bend to his logic. but admiration soon turned into exhaustion. he dismissed your work as if it were nothing, tearing apart your theories with no hesitation. he corrected your sentences mid-speech, rewrote your calculations without asking, and sometimesâworst of allâhe removed your name from joint projects as though you hadnât contributed at all.
your boundaries meant nothing to him. you werenât a partner in his eyes, only another mind to mold, another mistake to fix. and the higher his ego rose, the further he drifted from you, until you were left standing at the bottom of a mountain you no longer wished to climb.
so you left him. you told him you couldnât take it anymore, that love wasnât supposed to feel like a lecture, that respect mattered more than perfection. veritas didnât argue. he didnât plead. he didnât ask you to stay. he simply nodded once, his expression unreadable, and returned to his work as though you had been nothing more than another page in his book.
but it wasnât because he didnât care. god, he did care. it was the only way he knew how to cope. he withdrew from the world entirely, drowning himself in endless papers and theories, burying his heartbreak under ink and numbers. night after night, he fell asleep at his desk, pen still clutched in hand, his work half-finished.
just like him. just like the space you left behind.
the silence you carried away with you echoed louder than any mistake heâd ever corrected. and in that silence, veritas realized he wishedâjust onceâthat heâd been different. that heâd looked at you instead of your flaws. that heâd seen a partner instead of another imperfection to erase.
but by then, it was too late.
vii. reflection and growthâft. sunday
sunday and you had been the kind of couple people admired from afar. perfect, theyâd call youâthe pair who never argued, who always seemed in sync, who loved each other with patience and tenderness. from the outside, it looked unshakable, almost ideal.
but inside, something had shifted. you no longer felt the spark that once drew you in, no longer felt the warmth that made you believe it was forever. everything between you began to feel rehearsed, like a performance you were both too skilled at to break character. the laughter felt hollow, the affection felt like routine, and the loveâthough still presentâfelt more like a memory than something alive.
sunday was never cruel, never careless. he was gentle with you, thoughtful in every action, attentive in every word. he gave you no reason to leaveâexcept for the ache of knowing that something essential was missing. the originality, the essence, the fire that once burned so brightly between you had faded into embers you couldnât rekindle.
so, with a heavy heart, you told him it was best to part ways.
to your surprise, sunday didnât fight it. he listened. he understood. he took your words as truth, not betrayal. and in the end, he chose to let you go with grace. you both talked it throughâmaturely, honestly, with the same respect youâd always shown one another. there were no slammed doors, no bitterness, no cruelty. just a quiet understanding that love, no matter how gentle, sometimes runs its course.
even after the breakup, sunday remained in your life. not as a lover, but as a friend. he carried no resentment, no lingering angerâonly a quiet gratitude for the time youâd shared. and more than that, he took your words to heart. he reflected on the mistakes he hadnât realized he was making, on the ways he could grow, on the pieces of himself heâd neglected.
and he did grow. he used the pain of losing you as fuel to become better, kinder, strongerânot just for anyone else, but for himself.
losing you hurt him, yes, but it also gave him clarity. and in that clarity, sunday found a new strength.
viii. attempting to win you backâft. boothill
you really thought boothill was your matchâthat heâd be the one youâd never have to second-guess. he was optimistic, charming in his rough-around-the-edges way, and he treated you well. at least, in the beginning.
you knew about his struggles, how hard it was for him to write, how clumsy he was with typing. but he always made the effort, always sent you voice messages when you first met, his drawling voice filling the silence of your nights. it made you feel close to him, like he was letting you in.
but slowly, those little things started to fade. the messages grew fewer, the responses came slower. at first, you told yourself it was fineâhe was busy, he had a dangerous life you werenât part of. you understood he couldnât always be present. you accepted the silence, the excuses, the way heâd only ever reach out at night after his long days.
yet after a while, it began to wear on you. the waiting. the uncertainty. the feeling that you were nothing more than a passing thought when he finally had the time. heâd brush it off with that same tired lineâthat he was protecting you by keeping you away from his world.
but was that really protection? or was it just distance disguised as care? could you really call it love if he only let you into the shadows of his life, never the light?
you got tired. tired of waiting for scraps of his attention. tired of convincing yourself that it was enough. and so you decided to end it. once and for all.
boothill listened when you told him. he didnât fight you, not at first. he just stood there, silent, like heâd taken the bullet clean to the chest. he nodded, accepted your wish, let you walk away.
but a few hours later, the silence broke. your phone lit up with call after call, his name filling the screen until you had to turn it face-down. voice messages poured inâapologies, promises, frantic laughter that cracked halfway through. by the next day, he was at your door with flowers in hand, looking more desperate than youâd ever seen him.
when you didnât answer, he went searchingâasking your friends where you were, leaving notes behind when he couldnât find you. boothill, the man who once told you he wanted to keep you safe, was suddenly tearing down every wall just to reach you.
but you didnât budge. not this time. not even when his voice broke, not even when you heard him laugh bitterly at himself through the messages he kept sending.
for once, you chose yourself. and boothillâno matter how hard he triedâhad no choice but to feel what it was like to lose you.
a/n! this is kind of ooc, imagine it like a modern day au? i think i'd forgive all of them anyway.. thank u guys for all of ur requests! i'll try to get to them all! sorry for any spelling/in general mistakes. please enjoy
ââ .âŠ
âhe never apologizes.â âft. blade
blade never apologizes.
not for being late, not for forgetting something, not even when the cruelness of his words leaves you blinking back tears. if youâre waiting for him to say sorry, youâll be waiting forever.
you knew this before you started dating him. it was obvious in the way he carried himselfâunyielding, immovable, always sure of his choices. blade isnât the type to admit heâs wrong. he never has been, and he never will be.
but knowing it doesnât make it easier.
tonight is no exception. youâd been waiting at the cafe for nearly two hours before he finally arrived, cigarette dangling from his lips. no explanation. no apology. just the familiar heavy presence of him sliding into the seat across from you.
âyouâre late,â you said flatly, crossing your arms.
he looked at you once, then away, like the sight of you was both a comfort and a punishment. âiâm here now,â was all he said, as though that were enough.
your expression changed. âdo you have any idea how worried i was? you donât answer your phone, you donât send a message, and you expect me to just sit here waiting?â
bladeâs eyes flicked to yours. sharp, unreadable. for a moment, you swore you saw regret flicker thereâbut no words followed. instead, he reached for the menu, scanning it like nothing had happened.
that silence broke something in you. you pushed your chair back, ready to leave. âyou know, it wouldnât kill you to say it. just once.â
his voice came low, almost too soft for you to hear. âwhat do you want me to say? that iâm sorry?â
âyes!â your voice cracked with frustration. âi want you to admit you were wrong. that you hurt me. that my feelings matter to you.â
he leaned back, cigarette smoke curling lazily around his face. âi donât say things i donât mean.â
the words stung. âso you donât mean it?â
blade exhaled slowly, setting the cigarette down in the ashtray. then, without warning, he stood, pulling your chair gently back toward the table before crouching beside you. the cafe was loud enough that no one really noticed, but your heart pounded in your ears as he reached for your hand. his fingers were rough, warm, steadying.
âdonât you dare think for a second that i donât care about youâ he murmured, eyes locked on yours.
your throat tightened. the anger in you melted into something elseâsomething softer, heavier. he wasnât going to apologize. he never would. but when his hand squeezed yours, when his gaze softened just enough to let you in, you understood what he couldnât say aloud.
later that night, you found the gift on your nightstand. the same thing he forgot to get you weeks agoâbut now, it was more than you asked for. more expensive, more thoughtful, wrapped with care you never expected from him.
iâm when you confronted him about it, he only muttered, âdonât make a big deal out of it,â and lit another cigarette, refusing to meet your eyes.
that was his apology. not in words, but in action.
and maybe that was why you forgave him, again and again. because even if he never says it, he shows it. in the way he pulls you close when you cry. in the way he refuses to let you walk home alone. in the way his presence, heavy and unmoving, still feels like safety when you need it most.
blade never apologizes. but maybe, he doesnât need to.
âhe cancels plans last minute.â âft. jing yuan
youâd gotten used to it already. whenever you were about to go somewhere with jing yuan, you were already waiting for that damned text: âiâm sorry, love. wonât be able to make it.â sometimes, you wouldnât even bother getting ready. youâd just sit on your bed, staring at your phone, waiting for him to cancel.
you understood him, at least a little. jing yuan was busyâalways signing papers, attending meetings, making decisions like a general should. but understanding didnât make it hurt any less. every time he canceled, every time you rearranged your schedule for him and he chose work instead, a small piece of frustration lodged itself in your chest.
and tonight, you were fed up.
the text came just as you expected.
âsorry love, i got tied up. maybe tomorrow?â
you stared at it, feeling your blood get hot. âtomorrow,â you muttered under your breath. you shouldnât be angryâhe was doing his dutyâbut somehow, your stomach twisted anyway.
when he arrived later that evening, you didnât greet him with a smile. instead, you crossed your arms, letting the silence stretch until it became unbearable. he looked at you, cautious, as if heâd been preparing for this reaction all day.
âyou look⊠upset,â he said softly, his usual calm lacing the words.
âupset?â you echoed, your voice sharper than intended. âyou cancel every single plan we make. every. single. one. and you expect me to just⊠wait around and smile when it happens?â
he flinched slightly, like heâd been hit, though he masked it almost immediately. âi⊠iâm sorry,â he said, quiet, hesitant. but you knew it wasnât enough.
âsorry isnât enough,â you snapped, stepping closer. âdo you even realize how it feels to be constantly second to your work? to feel like your time with me doesnât matter?â
âi do,â he admitted, finally letting a crack show. âi know i fail you sometimes. i know i make you wait. i hate that i do, but⊠i canât stop some of it. the workâi canât abandon it. you know that.â
âyes, i know,â you said, taking a deep breath, your anger starting to mix with something elseâexhaustion, longing, and the deep ache of missing him. âi get that youâre busy, jing yuan. i get it. but itâs not about understanding. itâs about feeling like iâm not your priority at all. and that hurts.â
he stepped closer, and this time, there was no barrier. his hands hovered near yours, unsure, hesitant, like he didnât know if he could touch you without breaking youâor himself. âi donât want you to feel hurt,â he murmured. âi want to be with you, even if i mess up. i want toââ
âyou want to,â you repeated, your voice softening despite yourself. âi donât need perfection. i donât need you to cancel work every time. i just need to know that i matter⊠that i matter enough for you to try.â
he let out a breath, a shaky exhale that sounded like relief. âyou matter,â he said simply, pressing his fingers gently against yours. âmore than i can explain.â
you wanted to scold him again, to tell him that words werenât enough, that actions matteredâbut as he pulled you close, resting your forehead against his chest, you felt your anger start to soften. his heartbeat was steady, grounding, and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you felt like he was really here.
âi hate that i make you wait,â he whispered, voice low, almost trembling. âi hate that i make you feel⊠like youâre not enough. iâm not perfect, and iâm never going to be. but iâll try. i promise iâll try.â
you sighed, closing your eyes as you let yourself sink into him. âi should be angry,â you said quietly, brushing a hand down his arm. âi should be upset. youâve hurt me a lot.â
he didnât say anything, but the way he buried his face in your hair, resting his forehead against yours, said everything. he was grateful, he was ashamed, and he was trying. and somehow, that was enough.
âhe gets jealous over nothing.â âft. mydei
at first, you thought it was cute when mydeimos got jealous over small thingsâsomeone sending you a message, complimenting you, or even just laughing a little too loud around you. it was sweet in a possessive, teasing way, like he cared about you that much. you laughed it off, thinking it was harmless, a quirk of someone who loved you fiercely.
but now, it was starting to get more serious. mydeiâs jealousy no longer came and went like a soft breeze. it ran through his veins like a rough, ugly thing, dark and stubborn, seeping into every corner of his body whenever someone stared too long at you or even dared to try to help you out.
you had tried to talk to him about it, more than once. and every time, he said the same thing: âi want to protect youâ, âiâm keeping you away from dangerâ, bla blaâŠ
âmydei,â you sighed, rubbing your temples as you watched him pace across the room, fists clenched. âthey were simply asking me for directions! nothing else.â
he stopped, eyes narrowing, jaw tight. âoh really now?â his voice was low, laced with something sharp, venomous. âpeople who ask for directions donât tend to look at you like theyâve seen a god.â
you froze for a moment, the weight of his gaze almost suffocating. he was serious this time. not teasing. not joking. the jealousy wasnât cute anymore. it was raw, dangerous, and a little frightening.
âmydei, i trust you,â you said gently, stepping closer, trying to reach the side of him that always softened for you. âyou know that i would never⊠ever do anything to hurt you. but you have to trust meâand you have to trust that not everyone out there wants to take me away from you.â
he turned sharply, pacing again, muttering under his breath. you watched him pace around like a lonely wolf and it hurt, seeing him like thisâso consumed by fear, by protectiveness, that he almost seemed to forget that you had your own soul.
finally, he sank down onto the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands. âi just⊠i canât help it,â he admitted, voice raw. âevery time someone looks at you that way, i feel like iâm failingâlike i'm not⊠enough to keep you safe.â
you knelt in front of him, resting your hands gently on his shoulders, tilting his head up to meet your eyes. âyou are enough, mydei. youâve always been enough. and i donât need you to fight everyone for meâi just need you to be by my side.â
he hesitated, swallowing hard, before finally letting his forehead rest against yours. âi donât want to lose you,â he whispered.
âyou wonât,â you said, brushing your thumb along his cheek. âiâm not going anywhere. and even if it scares you, even if you get jealous, iâll still be here.â
his fingers curled around yours, and you could feel the tension in him slowly melting. he pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead, lingering in the warmth of the moment.
he might still get jealous again. but somehow, with his hand in yours, the warmth pressed against your side, and the soft murmur of his presence, it was enough. and somehow, as always, you got over it.
âhe only texts you at night.â âft. boothill
youâd never thought much of it at first. boothill was a busy manâalways moving, always running from one place to the next, juggling who-knows-how-many responsibilities at a time. youâd assumed the reason he only ever texted you at night was simple: it was the only part of the day he had to himself.
but over time, those assumptions began to crack. you started asking yourself questions you didnât want answers to. was he actually not that interested in you? did he only bother texting at night because he couldnât be bothered during the day? part of you wanted to confront him, to know for certainâbut another part feared the truth.
âgâday, sugarplum,â boothillâs voice echoed through the hall, warm and teasing as always. he strolled toward you, his hat tipped confidently, keys dangling from his finger. âwhatâs with that look on your face? somethinâ happen?â
you stayed silent. your arms crossed over your chest, jaw tight. you wanted to shout, to demand the truth, but instead you let your eyes betray your pain. he noticed, of course. he always did.
âyâknow you can tell me anythinâ, right?â he said softly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing a quick, familiar kiss to your forehead.
your hands shot out to push him back, frustration spilling over. âyou never ask about me during the day! you never even answer my messages. you act like i only exist when the sun sets!â
boothill chuckled, low and easy, as if your outburst were a gentle breeze ruffling his hat. he didnât pull away. instead, he wrapped his arm around your waist again, this time with a strength that left you little room to escape, pressing you flush against him.
âso thatâs what all this is âbout, huh?â his grin softened into something warmer, more vulnerable. âsugarplum, i just donât want you involved in this business. things out there⊠theyâre rough. iâm doinâ all this to keep ya safe.â
he released your waist only to hold your shoulders, his eyes locking onto yours with a gravity that made your chest ache. âya know that, right?â
you wanted to argue. you wanted to tell him that keeping you at armâs length only made the ache worse, that those nightly texts and half-presences were starting to hurt more than comforted. but then, you caught the flicker in his eyesâthe same one youâd seen in his quieter moments, the one that always showed his worry, his care, his loveâand you felt yourself melting.
ââŠi suppose,â you muttered finally, turning your face away, embarrassed at how easily your defenses were crumbling.
boothillâs grin deepened, gentle triumph in his expression as he drew you closer again. this time, there was no pushing, no distanceâjust warmth, steady and grounding. he kissed you, slow and soft, and the tension in your chest melted into something tender and forgiving.
because somehow, despite everythingâthe busyness, the distance, the late-night-only conversationsâhe loved you.
âhe ignores your boundaries.â âft. dr. ratio
dr. ratio was a man of little patience and even less inclination to care for the concerns of othersâhe heard only what he deemed worth his attention. conversations with him felt like trying to speak to a wall: relentless, frustrating, and often futile. and yet, somehow, there you were.
dr. ratioâor veritas, as you and a rare amount of people called himâhad a soft spot for you. one so hidden, so carefully guarded, that almost no one would ever see it. but getting to that soft spot was like trying to solve an equation with half the variables missing: nearly impossible, and angering when it didnât yield results.
every time you tried to talk to him about boundariesâabout respecting your studies, your space, the sanctity of your workâhe barely acknowledged you. a mere âyesâ would escape him, spoken under his breath, before he buried himself back into his papers, formulas, and the precise, meticulous chaos of his mind.
and yet, you returned one evening to find your workspace in disarray. your carefully written calculations for eigenvalues, derivatives, and integrals had been erased or âcorrected,â replaced with his own annotations, his own approaches, and his impossibly neat formulas.
your hands flew to your mouth. âveritas! what the hell are you doing?!â
his head lifted just slightly from his desk, eyes calm, composed, unbothered. âyou miscalculated the square root of the laplacian eigenfunction, not to mention a few errors in your tensor transformations. i merely corrected them,â he said, voice steady, almost proud, as if the fury in your chest were completely irrelevant.
âi told youâspecificallyânot to touch my notes! why, veritas? why?!â your voice cracked, a mix of anger and incredulity.
he leaned back, fingers steepled in front of his chest, eyes glinting with quiet defiance. âmy dear, the variance in your partial derivatives could have skewed the entire proof. i cannot, in good conscience, let flawed logic stand unchallenged. you are welcome for preserving the integrity of the theorem.â
you stared at him, exasperated. âi donât care about the theorem right now! i care about my notes, my work, my space! you canât justâjust⊠override me every time you think iâm wrong!â
âi did not override you,â he said, voice calm but unyielding, âi merely elevated your methods to a standard worthy of consideration. your mistakes are mine to correct if i value your work enough to⊠preserve it. you are free to thank me.â
your fists clenched at your sides. âthank you? i should be thanking you for erasing my hard work? for acting like what i did was worthless?â
he didnât answer immediately. instead, he returned to his papers, pen scratching against the page. the motion was infuriatingly calm, an immense contrast to the storm in your chest.
âi canât⊠i canât do this right now,â you finally whispered, voice shaking. without waiting for him to respond, you spun on your heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door so hard the sound echoed down the hall.
outside, your chest heaved. anger. frustration. that sting of being disregarded. you wanted to scream, to cry, to throw somethingâanythingâbut you also wanted to hide. you walked down the corridor, feeling the pull of his stubborn brilliance like a weight in your chest, and then⊠you stopped.
because even though he hurt you, even though he drove you insane with his arrogance and his inability to apologize, you couldnât stay away. you couldnât stay angry enough to leave him behind.
you turned back, every step painfully slow. when you stepped into the room again, he didnât look up. he was still bent over his papers, but there was a subtle shiftâhis shoulder slightly angled toward you, the pen now still in his hand.
âveritas,â you said, softer this time. âyou canât just⊠do that.â
he didnât speak. he didnât offer the words you wanted. instead, he stood slowly, moving to the corner of the desk where your notes had been. with meticulous care, he replaced your original papers on top of the pile, aligning them perfectly, a small, quiet acknowledgment of their importance.
then he looked at youânot smug, not proud, not dismissiveâbut with something heavier, something that trembled beneath the surface of his composed exterior. his hand brushed over the edge of your notes, lingering, precise, deliberate.
you exhaled slowly. that touchâit wasnât a spoken apology, but it was something like one. an acknowledgment of his misstep, a recognition of your feelings, a promise in the only way he knew how.
âi didnât⊠mean to disregard your work,â he murmured finally, voice low, controlled. âbut i cannot let errors stand.â
for a moment, he simply stood there, quiet. then, carefully, he extended a handânot to correct, not to dominate, but just⊠to reach. you took it.
no âsorryâ left his lips, but the gesture carried the weight of it anyway. and somehow⊠that was sufficient.
"he keeps secrets." âft. phainon
youâd never really asked phainon about his past, about his work, or anything personal, not in any real way. he was always careful, always gentle, always patient with you, and in his presence, it was easy to feel safe. he loved you in ways no one else ever hadâsmall, subtle gestures, words whispered at the right moment, touches that lingered just long enoughâbut beneath it all, there was a part of him that stayed hidden, locked away where you couldnât reach. and no matter how close you thought you were, no matter how long youâd been together, that part of him always made you wonder: what was so important that he didnât trust you with it?
he had told you once that he didnât like sharing, that he didnât want to burden you with his problems. youâd understood, at least in theory, even if it pinched your chest to hear it. but relationships were supposed to be two people facing life together, werenât they? his struggles, his secretsâwerenât they yours to bear together?
phainon didnât just hold back information. sometimes he moved as if he wanted to be invisible, slipping through moments without letting you notice, with little acts that made you pause and realize how much he could keep from you if he wanted. it wasnât malicious. it wasnât cruelty. it was simply him, in all his careful, measured ways, keeping certain things for himself. and yet, you shared everything with him. every doubt, every fear, every trivial thoughtâyou laid it all bare. but he never did the same.
every time you pressed him about it, phainonâs voice would soften, reverent and unshakable.
âdonât worry about them, pretty. theyâre my problems to carry.â
you remembered the first time heâd said it, the way his eyes softened, the faint curve of his lips like a promise you werenât supposed to question. at the time, it had sounded sweet. endearing, even. but now, after months of living with that quiet secrecy, it felt like a weight pressing against your ribs, making it hard to breathe.
you reached out, brushing your fingers lightly against his hand. âweâve had this conversation a lot of times already, phainon,â you murmured, your voice calm but firm.
"i know, beautifulâ"
âdonât âbeautifulâ me right now,â you snapped, your voice harsher than you intended. âiâm talking about you keeping things from me. about all the secrets you donât want me to know.â
he blinked slowly. âtheyâre my problems to carry. you donât need to worry.â
âdonât you get it?â you said, stepping closer, letting the frustration in your chest spill over. âi want to help! i want to share things with you, but you shut me out every time. you donât just keep things privateâyou deliberately hide them. and every time i ask, you give me the same line. âdonât worry about it, pretty.â donât worry? do you think iâm some child who canât handle a little truth?â
phainonâs lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but the calm in his eyes didnât falter. âiâm protecting you. if you donât need to carry it, why should you?â
âprotecting me? by lying by omission? by pretending i donât see it? by making me question everything about you? thatâs not protection, phainonâthatâs selfish!â your voice shook with anger, frustration, hurt, and something deeper that you hadnât been able to name.
âi⊠i justââ his voice faltered. not with guilt, not with shame. with that strange, quiet hesitation that always made you wonder what he was holding back. âi donât want to bother you with my burdens.â
âburden?â you laughed bitterly. âiâm your partner. partners share burdens. partners donât hide them behind some charming smile and soft words while expecting me to stay calm.â you paused, chest heaving, trying to calm yourself. âi canât do this if you donât let me in, phainon. i canâtâthis isnât fair to me.â
he remained still for a moment, silent, just letting you speak, letting you vent every ounce of frustration. and then, almost imperceptibly, he reached for your hand. slow. gentle. not quite an apology, but something. something that said heâd heard you, even if he refused to admit fault.
âi donât⊠i donât always know the right way to show it,â he whispered, voice quiet.
you stared at him, a war between anger and desire waging inside you. you wanted to yell at him, storm out, make him realize how wrong heâd been. but his hand in yours, warm and steady, was grounding. his eyesâthose soft, impossible eyesâmade your heart ache in a way only he could.
even with the secrets. even with the walls. even with the frustration that bubbled beneath the surface. he was reckless, infuriating, mysteriousâand impossibly, undeniably hot.
and you let yourself stay.
"he makes you feel guilty." âft. anaxa
anaxagoras always had a way of making people feel small, even when he smiled at them. his mind was sharp, impossibly sharp, and it glinted in everything he didâthe tilt of his head, the way he measured words, the quiet way he studied your reactions before responding. he wasnât cruel, not exactly. not in the conventional sense. but beneath that polished, intelligent exterior lay a kind of subtle manipulation, a way of bending reality so that everyoneâsometimes even youâquestioned themselves first.
you should have seen it coming. you should have known that when someone this clever cared for you, their care would always be wrapped in riddles, half-truths, and words heavy with meaning. yet somehow, every time he spoke, it still caught you off guard. his compliments felt like challenges. his gentle touches felt like tests. and his calm, reasoned explanations⊠well, they were almost infuriating in their brilliance.
today was one of those days. you had asked for something simple, something minor, something that anyone else might have done without a second thought. but with anaxagoras, nothing was ever simple. not his time, not his attention, not even the quiet space you shared in the evenings. everything had layers, every gesture had weight, and every response came measured and calculated, as if he were weighing your worth against some invisible scale only he could see.
and now, here you were, simmering in a mix of frustration and awe, waiting for the inevitableâthe moment when his words would twist through your mind, bending your anger into something else entirely.
âanaxa!â you snapped, throwing your hands up as he looked up from his book, calm and unreadable as ever. âwhy do you always do this? why is it that every time we argue, iâm the one ending up apologizing, even when itâs not my fault?!â
he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing, but not in anger. in calculation. âi fail to see how it is entirely not your fault, when your phrasing was careless and your assumptionsâwhile understandableâwere logically flawed,â he said, voice smooth as silk. âif one considers the chain of events objectively, it becomes clear that the conclusion you reached was⊠inevitable.â
âi donât care about your âlogical conclusions,â anaxa!â you shot back, your voice rising. âiâm talking about how you make me feel. i shouldnât have to defend myself for being upset!â
he set the book down slowly, hands intertwining together. âfeelings, while valid in an emotional context, are rarely reliable in matters of judgment. one must always separate affect from fact to proceed rationally.â
âthatâs not an answer!â you yelled, exasperated. âiâm tired of being made to feel guilty every time i⊠i⊠exist in a way that inconveniences you!â
his lips quirked, just barely, in that maddening way that made you pause, even mid-rant. âguilt is a construct, yes. but it is also a mechanism for growth, for reflection. you feel it, therefore you acknowledge the discrepancy between action and ideal behavior. in essence, you have learned something. and is that not⊠beneficial?â
âbeneficial?!â you shouted, throwing your arms out. âyou call making me question myself beneficial? iâm angry, anaxagoras. iâm so angry!â
he leaned back slightly, expression calm, almost tender. âanger is the result of attachment to expectation. it indicates care. you care. i care. perhaps this⊠tension⊠is simply the evidence of that bond.â
you froze. of course, he would twist it like that. of course, he would find a way to make your fury feel like proof of love, not offense. your cheeks burned, both from anger and from the undeniable truth in his words.
âsee? there it is,â he said softly, stepping closer, his hand brushing against yours. âyour anger proves you are invested. do not mistake the necessity of correction for the absence of affection.â
you wanted to scream, to stomp away, to demand he see how manipulative that sounded. instead⊠your shoulders slumped. the fight drained from you. because he was right, in a way.
he simply reached out, took your hand, and held it. not apologizing. not explaining. not making excuses. just holding you, letting the tension melt slowly between you. the sharp edge of your anger dulled under the weight of his calm, unwavering attention, and you realized⊠somehow, even after every guilt-laden word, every twisted logic, every exasperating display of intellect, you forgave him again.
you didnât forgive him because he admitted fault. you forgave him because this was who he was, and somehowâmaddeninglyâhe loved you in the only way he could.
"he jokes about leaving you." âft. aventurine
youâd always known aventurine to be impossible to predictâcarefree, teasing, and impossibly charming. he had this way of making people feel off-balance, flustered, and maybe even small, but with you, it wasnât mean. at least, not intentionally. still, his teasing could hit deeper than he realized, and lately, it had started to wear on you.
he liked joking about leavingâjust little comments, flippant remarks that made you smile the first time⊠but now, they stuck in your chest. youâd kept quiet, letting the irritation simmer, telling yourself it was nothing. but tonight, it broke through.
he leaned back on the couch, stretching like he owned the place, that grin teasing at the corners of his lips. âyou know,â he said, his voice light, âif i ever got bored of this little arrangement of oursâŠâ he waved vaguely between the two of you. âpoof. gone. just like that.â
you froze. youâd told yourself a hundred times it was nothing, but this⊠this felt sharp. your heart skipped a beat, and suddenly, the words and feelings youâd been bottling up all came rushing out. tears prickled your eyes, and before you could stop them, you pressed your palms to your face.
aventurineâs grin faltered for a second. âwhoa, heyâwhatâs with the waterworks?â he said, leaning forward, playful but a flicker of concern in his eyes.
you pulled your hands away, sniffing and glaring at him. âyou. thatâs whatâs with it. all those âi could leave anytimeâ jokes⊠they donât feel like jokes anymore.â
he tilted his head, pretending to think. âoh? you mean when i say i might get bored of you⊠thatâs actually scary?â his voice was teasing, but softer than usual.
âyes! itâs not funny!â you snapped, a sob breaking through despite yourself. âi donât even know why i let you do it!â
aventurine sighed dramatically, then suddenly grinned, reaching over to grab your hands. âlook at you, all dramatic and adorable,â he teased. âi swear, youâre way too easy to fluster.â
you glared again, but your anger wobbled under his easy charm. âthis isnât funny,â you muttered.
âokay, okay,â he said, leaning closer, still smirking. âbut seriouslyâŠâ he brushed a thumb over your knuckles. âdo you really think iâd leave? come on, youâve got to know me better than that.â
you swallowed, voice small. ââŠthen why do you joke about it?â
he shrugged, playful and casual, leaning back just slightly. âbecause teasing you is fun. seeing you all worked up⊠priceless. and fine,â he added, leaning in just enough to whisper in your ear, âi like knowing i get to keep you guessing. makes it more interesting for me.â
even after the sting of his words, even after the ache of wondering if he actually cared, you felt the familiar pull of his presenceâthe warmth in the way he leaned into you, the steady pulse of his laughter. somewhere deep down, you knew he would never truly leave, never truly let go. and despite the warnings your heart whispered, you let yourself settle into him, letting the tension melt away, letting your chest relax, letting the warmth of his careâeven if wrapped in mischiefâfill the space where doubt had lived.
âan endless love story whispered through the ages, where he, eternal and unchanging, watches you die and rise again, and no matter how many times the world changes, you fall hopelessly, inevitably in love with him once more.â
pairing! mydeimos x g/n reader
word count! 3k
warnings! reincarnation, soulmates, love across lifetimes, death (multiple mentions of reader dying across lives, including illness, violence, poisoning, old age, and more), grief, loss, mourning (mydei grieving repeatedly), implied death (reader's mother), mentions of blood, super angsty, longing, heartbreak, repeated tragedy, mydei's inability to let go
a/n! i wanted to try something new!! mydei honestly deserved sm better from me but i felt angsty... this post took quite a toll on me bc i cant imagine being him n watching my s/o die over and over again :( i hope you guys enjoy this
ââââ â.Ë âŽïž
the first time you died, you did not know him. the sky had burned red above your still body, and your hands were empty of everything but cold. you had been nothing more than a merchant then, one of the unlucky few claimed by the black tide.
pain and fear clawed at you, but through it all, you felt eyesâimmortal eyes that had seen centuries pass, watching. not with pityâhe had witnessed countless deaths like yours, not with curiosityâmerchants were often lost to the world, or forgotten before their bodies were ever foundâbut with a weightless, endless patience that both haunted your soul and offered a strange sense of comfort.
through your eyes, youâve lived a hundred different lives, each one slipping toward the same cruel, mortal fate. death comes for you in a thousand formsâsilent, violent, fleetingâbut always inevitable. through his eyes, he has watched it all.
the lives you have lived, the bodies the world has claimed, the soul that refuses to surrender, yet is ripped away again and again. you are the one who has shattered his heart into a million pieces, and stillâagainst reason, against willâhe loves you unconditionally. and each time you return, reborn, fragile, and mortal, his heart is forced to break all over again.
you remember the first time you met the kremnoan prince, the undying mydeimos. you were a florist then, tending your auntâs stall in the bustling streets of okhema.
âhow may i help you, my lord?â you ask, your voice soft as you watch him pause before the array of blooming bouquets. his golden eyes drift over the petals, tracing the delicate curves of each blossom, before settling on yours with a faint glimmer of annoyance. not at you, exactly, but at the words themselvesâat the title you had offered.
âmydeimos,â he corrects, his voice low, deliberate. he reaches out, letting his fingers hover above a single flower as if to taste its innocence, its fragility, before recoiling, as though its gentle touch had almost burned him.
âmy apologies, mydeimos.â you offer a gentle smile, sweet enough that you hope it might soften the faint annoyance lingering in his golden eyes.
but as you watch, his gaze sharpens, lingering on you with a depth that feels almost painfulâlike he is staring at someone he lost long ago.
your fingers fidget, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you silently wait, hoping for a requestâif he even intends to make one. youâve heard countless stories about the great mydeimos, yet never in your wildest dreams would you have believed that he, the undying warrior, would pause at your humble stall to choose a bouquet of flowers.
âiâll take these,â his hand gestures toward a bouquet of stunning pink hyacinths, and you notice his golden eyes soften, tracing the petals with a tenderness that seems almost foreign on himâlike they belonged to someone long gone, or perhaps always meant for him.
âa splendid choice. iâm sure your loved one will enjoy them.â the words escape before you can stop them, and for a heartbeat, his composed expression falters. grief, longing, and a shadow of something achingly familiar flicker across his features. he hadnât expected such familiarity from you, and yet, all he does is nod, silent, carrying the weight of memories youâre not in a position to see.
you wanted to apologize for your careless words, to explain that you had no right to wonder for whom the flowers were meantâbut the confession lodged in your throat, refusing to escape. to spare yourself from further awkwardness, you carefully wrap the bouquet, tying a matching ribbon around the stems, and hand it to mydei with the practiced, gentle smile you reserve for your customers.
and yet⊠you cannot deny the strange pull you feel toward him. mydeimos is undeniably handsome, yesâbut itâs more than mere attraction. itâs something deeper, something in the weight of his gaze that seems to reach into parts of you that you do not fully understand.
mydei thanks you and leaves without a glance behind, vanishing into the business of okhemaâs streets. you ache to see him once more, to feel again the strange warmth of his golden gaze⊠a warmth that stirs a curious sense of deja vu deep within you.
after closing your stall, you take a small bouquet from one of the vases and make your way towards a place you had long hoped never to revisit.
itâs been four years since your motherâs passing, since grief and sorrow claimed your days, leaving you in your auntâs care. and yet, that quiet mourning is suddenly pierced by a presence that feels impossibly familiar. mydeimos.
you see him kneeling before a tombstone, the hyacinths you sold him laid gently at its base. guilt strikes at you like a slapâhow could you have spoken so carelessly, telling him that his loved one would enjoy them? was the deceased⊠his lover? your chest tightens as the weight of your words and the gravity of his silent grief settle around you, thick and undeniable.
mydei stirs, his posture tensing as though he senses another presence close by. for a breath, his body holds rigid, but then he recognizes you, and the tension softens, if only slightly. his back remains to you, yet you catch the faintest movementâhis hand rising to his face, brushing against his cheek as if to wipe away a tear he would never wish you to see. you linger in silence, unable to look away. the strange feeling of deja vu intensified a million times, and for some reason, you cannot shake the feeling that you have stood here before, in this very place, watching him grieve, more times than you could ever begin to count.
âiâm sorry,â the words slip from mydeiâs lips in a voice so small, so fragile, you could barely believe they belonged to the kremnoan prince. for a moment, you cannot tell if he is speaking to youâor to the stone before him. he straightens, turning just enough that you catch the sharp line of his profile. his fists are clenched so tightly at his sides, you fear his own skin might break beneath the pressure. your breath stills, your eyes wide with confusion.
"i'm sorry that i couldn't protect you before." his voice breaks at the last word, and before you can speak, he turns sharply away, as though to hide the trembling grief that betrays him. why was he suddenly telling you this now? your mind cannot fit the pieces togetherâcannot fathom why his apology feels as though it belongs to another lifetime.
"please forgive me." you didn't understand for what he was apologizing. through your confusion, you get a sudden feeling that he might break if you don't get closer to him. you gently set aside the bouquet and cross the short distance in a few small steps.
"don't apologize, mydei." you spoke softly, the words slipping from your lips as if they belonged to something deeper than thought. you hug him tightly, and he responds with a gentleness that is far from a warrior.
your mind struggled to make sense of it, but the strange pull that had drawn you to him since the very first moment was telling you that this was exactly where you were meant to be.
you've lived a hundred different lives, and in every one, he was there. mydei loved you like no otherâhe cared for you so deeply, with a devotion that defied time itself every time. each lifetime, no matter who you becameâa teacher, a baker, a librarian, a warrior fighting shoulder to shoulder with himâhis care for you never wavered. and each story ended the same way.
you died.
old age, illness, fire, poison, crushed beneath stone or pierced by steelâit made no difference. mydei watched you slip from his grasp again and again, and each time it broke him anew.
he tried to resist fate. he tried to walk past you when your paths crossed, to ignore your laugh, to harden his heart against the inevitable. he even tried to vanish from your world entirely, so that you would never fall for him again, so he would be spared the agony of losing you. but destiny was merciless. no matter how far he ran, you always found each other. sometimes he sought you deliberately, drawn by a need he couldnât extinguish.
sometimes it was chanceâa brush of hands, a glance across a crowded room, a meeting under impossible circumstances. and always, always, fate sealed your bond. you met. you loved. and then you died.
leaving mydei to endure the eternity of remembering every touch, every kiss, every fragment of your soul⊠only to lose it all once more.
"you always act like i'll die tomorrow, mydei. you're aware that i'm not made of glass, right?" you once told the kremnoan warrior, half amused, half exasperated. he smiled despite the ache in his chest. without a word, he lifted your hand to his lips and kissed it with gentleness, as if the simple act might preserve you a little longer.
"you wouldn't know, love." with infinite care, mydei brushed a loose strand behind your ear, his hand lovingly caressing the side of your face.
no matter how many times you died, no matter how many times you returned, he would always tell you the same stories, lead you through the same streets, to the same places that had once made you smile. he let you dismantle the walls around his heart every time, brick by brick, only to rebuild them again after your final breath.
and though he knew the cycle was merciless, still he loved you as if each lifetime were the last.
"you can't keep doing this to yourself, mydei." the blue-eyed manâs voice was steady, but his expression betrayed himâcreased brows, a tightness in his jaw that only deepened the longer he looked at the warrior. phainon had seen it too many times: the slow unraveling of a man who had already lived through more funerals than battles, who had broken more in love than in war.
the kremnoan prince didnât answer at once. he knew the fate, knew the price, and still, still, he chose you every time. he chose you, knowing it meant watching you die again. he chose you, knowing one day it would be his own last breath, given willingly, at your side.
"your concern deeply moves me, deliverer." mydei scoffed, but it was hollow, lacking any blade behind it. a shield made of nothing but air. phainon understood the signal for what it was and turned away, leaving the warrior alone in his silence. mydei could no longer count the number of times he had pressed flowers into your grave with trembling hands, the number of times his knees had hit cold stone as he prayedâdesperate, incoherentâto whatever titans might listen. to loosen their cruel grip, to free your heart from his, to end the curse that tethered you both.
every time you met, you could never quite understand how mydei knew. how he always seemed to choose your favorite flowers without hesitation, how he could lead you straight to the quiet places you loved most, how he could order your favorite dish before you even told him what it was. when you asked, when you laughed and tilted your head at him in curiosity, he would only deflectâan unreadable smile, a vague reply, a shift in subject. he'd never answer you straight when you asked, and he never told you the truth. he never told you that these things were carved into him, engraved deeper than blood or bone. that he had memorized you across centuries, across deaths, across lives that had been torn from him one after another.
because it hurt.
it hurt him to know that no matter how many times you died, no matter how many different lives you awoke into, you were always the same. the same smile, the same gentleness, the same unshakable kindness that had stolen his heart all those years ago. your features never changedânot truly.
neither did your soul.
and that was the cruelest cut of all.
you were the purest being he had ever known. selfless, radiant, always giving pieces of yourself away just to see others rise, to see them whole. you burned yourself down like a candle so that others might walk in light. and in all the irony, that was what had been cursed.
the kindest soul, doomed to die a hundred times.
and him, doomed to love you through every single one.
he never once told you of the lives you had lived before, nor of how many times he had been there⊠watching the light fade from your eyes, watching your expression still, your skin turn cold. mydei kept that burden locked in his own chest, afraid that if you knew the truth, the weight of it would crush you. and yet, in every life, you felt itâthe strange, undeniable pull toward him. you never questioned it, only called it love at first sight. sometimes, the kremnoan prince found comfort in your naivety; your trust in him was unshakable, and he would never betray it. you believed every word that left his lips, every promise he swore, and perhaps it was better that way.
for mydei could not bear to overwhelm you with the endlessness of it all. he only wanted each of your fleeting lives to be filled with warmth, each memory a gentle one. and so he vowed, again and again, to shape your days beside him into something beautifulâeven if, in the end, he would be left to hold the grief alone.
âiâve always wondered, mydei,â you say, your voice soft, steady, carrying a strange certainty, âhow does it feel?â
he turns to you, confusion flickering in his golden eyes. âhow does what feel?â
âliving a single life worth thousands of others,â you whisper, and the words tremble in the air between you.
for a long moment, he says nothing. his gaze drops to the ground, fists clenching at his sides, knuckles white as though holding back the weight of centuries. the faintest shiver passes through himânot from cold, but from the ache of memory, of countless lives spent watching you die, and yet finding you again, every single time.
he could not answer you. how could he explain that each life, each death, had etched itself into him like carved stone? that every heartbeat he spent with you was a fleeting eternity he would trade nothing to preserve? that loving you across lifetimes was both his greatest gift and his most merciless torment?
instead, he lets his silence speak for him. and you feel itâthe depth of it, the burden of it, the everlasting devotion that has never wavered. you reach for his hand, lightly, carefully. "i shouldn't have asked that..." you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper, laced with the ache of guilt for stirring such a burden in the one you loved so dearly.
mydei smiles softly, and leans in with the utmost care, lips brushing yours as if it were the last kiss he might steal from you.
he remembers the first time you metâperhaps the hundredth, perhaps the thousandthâand how you had thought a minor wound might be enough to undo him.
âoh my god, mydeimos!â you gasped, rushing toward him with a speed that always seemed impossible. âare you okay? youâre wounded⊠we need to get you help!â your voice trembled, your heart hammered in your chest, and for once, mydeimos allowed himself to be pulled along.
you fussed over himâcleaned the cuts, bandaged the gashes, fussed and stressed as though every moment mattered. and he let you, letting your care wash over him like sunlight, a reverent smile softening the hardness of his features, turning your heart to molten mush.
at one point, seeing the way your hands shook, the tension in your shoulders, mydei gently clasped your hands in his own, forcing you to still. âlove,â he murmured, eyes golden and bright with adoration, âyou do realize these wounds are meaningless to me, right?â
ââŠmeaningless?â you asked, your pulse slowing as realization dawned.
âi cannot be killed this easily.â he smiled at you, that quiet, irrepressible smile that somehow made your anger and worry melt.
your brows furrowed, a little exasperated at him letting you stress so much without saying a word. he leaned closer, teasing, âand you didnât give me the chance to tell you.â
you laughed together, the sound light, bright, fleeting. moments like this, rare and fragile, were always beautiful, and mydei knew better than anyone else that such brightness never lasted long.
would mydei wish it were different? perhaps, in some fleeting moment, he longs for the simplicity of a single life beside youâone lifetime to love you, one death to mourn, and then the quiet that follows. to grieve only once, rather than a thousand times, seems almost merciful in its finality. and yet⊠he could never choose that. because even through endless deaths, through every cruel cycle, you always return. your voice, your laughter, your very soul remain unchanged, and each reunion is a fleeting eternity he cannot bear to give up. the ache of losing you repeatedly is bitter, yet it is proof that you are his, and that no matter what fate throws between you, love endures.
so he endures the impossibility of it all, embracing the grief as part of the price for an endless chance to be with you. even broken, even battered, even worn to nothingness, mydei would take it. because every lifetime with you is worth a thousand heartbreaks.
boothill doesnât take the breakup seriously in the way you do. at first itâs just messages you donât answer. then it turns into a pattern you start recognizing⊠new numbers, new accounts. heâs testing how many doors you can lock before he decides none of them can keep him away from you. when you block him everywhere, it doesnât stop anything. it just delays him. he shows up again in different forms, like the internet is something he can keep rerouting through.
heâll send voice messages from accounts you donât recognize. heâll switch tone mid-thread like heâs trying different versions of himself until one gets a response out of you. sometimes itâs casual, sometimes itâs annoyed, sometimes itâs like nothing happened at all and youâre the one being weird for not replying. itâs always there though. always more messages than you can realistically read.
you start muting him, blocking him, ignoring everything. and still, it keeps coming. itâs not even always emotional. sometimes itâs just updates about his day, random thoughts, things he knows youâd recognize as âfor you.â heâs refusing to accept that thereâs a version of your life where heâs not constantly talking into it.
you try to confront him once it gets too much. you tell him to stop. properly, clearly. he listens⊠but only long enough to respond like youâre exaggerating the situation. he laughs a little and says something like you always do this, you get overwhelmed and shut people out and then youâll come back when youâre done being like this.
even after that, nothing really changes. it just shifts platforms again. new accounts, new numbers, new ways in. blocking boothill doesnât remove him from your life, and heâll keep reminding you of it.
mydeimos doesnât react to the breakup like itâs something that changed his access to you. itâs more like he just stops acknowledging that âafter himâ is supposed to mean anything. you notice it in the absence of people first. guys you were talking to, even casually, just⊠stop showing up. they donât tell you what happened. they donât argue with you. they just go quiet, or vanish from your orbit completely.
at first you think itâs coincidence. bad timing. people being flaky. then it keeps happening in a pattern you canât ignore, but also canât prove. anyone who gets close to you after him either backs off suddenly or acts like they donât want to be involved in your life at all. and itâs never explained.
you only start understanding something is wrong when you realize itâs not just dating or flirting or anything obvious. itâs anyone. coworkers acting uncomfortable. mutuals avoiding you. people you donât even remember mentioning him to suddenly treating you differently.
when it finally clicks and you confront him, he just looks at you like youâre slow to catch up. like this was always going to be the outcome and youâre only now noticing the structure of it. when you ask him directly if heâs involved, he doesnât say yes immediately. he just asks why it matters if itâs already working.
he tells you, very calmly, that you keep putting yourself in situations where people get close enough to âbe a problem.â itâs not about him interfering, itâs about you creating conditions that require interference. it doesnât sound like anger. it sounds like correction. heâs explaining something you shouldâve already understood about how things work now.
when you push back, when you actually get upset and tell mydei to stop, thatâs when the tone changes. only slightly. he tells you not to make him repeat himself. a warning that heâs getting tired of explaining rules you keep ignoring.
phainon doesnât take the breakup like a clean ending. it turns into something he keeps trying to reopen. at first itâs messages you donât answer, then calls you ignore, then showing up near places you go like heâs trying to catch you in a moment where youâll âfinally be normal about it.â when you donât respond, he escalates in a way that feels less aggressive and more⊠emotionally exhausting. he canât accept silence as an answer, so he fills it with himself.
he shows up at your door eventually. heâs been waiting for the moment youâd eventually have to open it. when you do, heâs already emotional in a way that makes the whole situation harder to deal with than it should be. heâs not yelling. heâs upset, visibly. heâs been holding it in for too long and decided your doorstep is where it finally comes out. he talks like youâre the one who left without explaining anything, even if you did.
when you donât let him in, he doesnât force it. he just stays there long enough that it becomes uncomfortable. like time is supposed to make you change your mind. if he stands there long enough, the situation will eventually correct itself.
he starts involving other people. your friends. people around you start getting messages from him, long ones, emotional ones, half apology and half confusion. heâs trying to recruit witnesses for a version of the breakup where he isnât the one being cut off. he talks to them like theyâre supposed to understand him, like they have access to a missing piece of you that he needs translated.
you find out phainon has been showing up at your building even when youâre not home. not breaking in, not doing anything obvious, just sitting outside or lingering nearby like heâs trying to âbe there when youâre ready.â and sometimes he leaves things. small, harmless-looking things that are always timed in a way that feels too intentional to be random. little reminders that he can find your space even when youâre not offering it.
you confront him, and he just looks tired. heâs been waiting for you to catch up to a version of events he already fully believes in. when you tell him it needs to stop, he doesnât argue loudly. he just says something like he doesnât know how to disappear from your life when youâre still in his head all the time.
anaxa doesnât react to the breakup emotionally. it turns into something more controlled than that. at first itâs just small disruptions you try to ignore. things not saving properly, accounts getting locked at the worst times, files corrupting right when you need them. nothing you can directly trace, nothing obvious enough to prove anything, just enough to make your day slightly harder every time you try to move on without him.
you start noticing itâs not random though. it follows your attempts to distance yourself. every time you try to cut contact fully, something important suddenly stops working in your life. then he reappears like nothing happened, calm as ever, acting like a normal conversation is still possible between you two. the outside chaos has nothing to do with him at all.
you finally confront him and anaxa just listens first, like heâs waiting for you to finish saying something he already accounted for. then he starts reframing it. he talks about how unstable things have been for you lately, how stressful your environment is, how easy it is for people to misinterpret patterns when theyâre overwhelmed. he never says he did anything, he just makes it sound like your life is already fragile enough that things like this would naturally happen.
after that conversation, the problems donât stop, but feel more intentional in timing. right after arguments. right after you try to assert distance again. your reactions themselves are being folded into the pattern.
you try blocking him, cutting him off completely, changing everything you can think of. nothing really holds for long. access gets restored somewhere, something resets, something important goes wrong at the exact moment you feel like youâve finally gained a bit of control back.
anaxagoras never seems surprised by your resistance. everything you try to do to escape him is already something he expected you to try.
blade doesnât really âstay in your lifeâ after the breakup in a normal sense. it feels more like he never fully leaves the edges of it. you start noticing him in places that donât make sense at first. far enough away that you canât prove itâs him, close enough that you start doubting your own memory of what you saw. a figure across the street. someone standing where no one was a second ago. a presence that disappears when you look directly at it.
there are no messages, no calls, nothing you can block or report⊠just the feeling that youâre being observed in moments that are usually private. walking home, waiting alone, standing in quiet spaces where there shouldnât be anyone paying attention to you at all. every time you turn your head too quickly, thereâs nothing there. youâre always a second too late.
when you try to confront it, thereâs nothing to actually confront. you ask people if theyâve seen anyone around you, and they havenât. you check cameras, routes, timing, anything you can think of. it never lines up cleanly enough to confirm. it starts making you feel ridiculous for even thinking about it, which only makes you notice it more.
there are the moments that donât feel like coincidence anymore. places you definitely didnât tell anyone about, but feel wrong the moment you arrive because something about it already feels âseen.â things slightly out of place when you get home. small evidence that someone was there and left before you could catch up to them.
if you ever do finally see blade clearly, itâs brief. never a full conversation. never a proper encounter. just enough for your stomach to drop before heâs gone again, like he only exists in passing moments that are too short to react to properly.
it just keeps happening until you start adjusting your own life around the idea that you might never actually be alone in it again.
synop! phainon keeps waking up to a day that never feels entirely newâŠ
pairing! phainon x g/n reader; modern!au
warnings! major character death, repeated death scenarios, time loop/repeated timeline, grief and emotional devastation, fatal accidents across multiple iterations, hospital/emergency scenes, psychological distress and breakdown, inevitable tragic outcome, hurt with very limited comfort, mentions of alcohol/drunken state, could be depicted as ooc
a/n! hello everyone and happy easter! i apologize for my prolonged absence, but this idea popped up in my mind and i couldnât resist. i know yâall are prolly sick n tired of phainon angst, but hey⊠what can i say??? even in this reality heâs stuck in a never ending cycle. anyway, enjoy reading and have a wonderful easter! đ€
ââ .âŠ
you and phainon had been dating for quite a while now.
it didnât start like something meaningful. not in a way either of you wouldâve recognized at the time.
you met at a club, one of those nights that feel too bright and too loud to be real while youâre in it. everything was a constant feeling of freedom. people laughing too close, drinks that made time feel less than it should.
he was there somewhere in the middle of it all, and you noticed him because he kept looking at you.
not in a bold way. not like he was trying to be obvious about it. just⊠every so often, youâd catch him already looking, like his attention kept drifting back to you without him meaning it to.
your friends noticed before you did, of course. they always do. they teased you, nudged you, dragged you.
and inevitably, you ended up talking to him.
or maybe âtalkingâ is too generous a word for it. it was loud, the kind of loud where you lean in too close just to hear each other, where half the sentences get lost and the rest donât matter enough to be remembered clearly anyway.
you donât remember who said what first. you donât remember anything cleanly about that conversation, just pieces of it. his voice. the way he looked at you like he was actually paying attention even when you werenât sure you were making sense.
at some point, you got his number.
you donât remember asking for it. you donât remember him giving it. it just⊠happened, like a detail the night filled in for itself.
you only realized it the next morning when you woke up with your head heavy and your body still half stuck in sleep. your phone lit up with a message.
phainon.
checking if you were okay.
simple, like it was normal for him to care about how you woke up.
and in your pocket, you found a couple of hangover pills you definitely didnât put there yourself.
you stared at them for a long moment, trying to figure out when he had done that. when heâd even been close enough to notice you might need them later.
it shouldâve felt strange. maybe even a little too much.
but it didnât.
it just felt⊠considerate. quiet. easy to accept.
after that, you started talking more.
at first, it was small things. messages that didnât really mean anything on their own. how your day was going. random thoughts that didnât seem worth saying out loud but somehow ended up in his chat anyway. he always replied. not immediately every time, but consistently, like he wasnât going anywhere in between.
then it became more than that.
calls that started because one of you was bored and ended because neither of you really wanted to hang up first. little updates about nothing in particular. photos of things you thought the other person might find funny or interesting.
it never felt like a decision where something clearly began.
it felt more like you just⊠kept finding him there.
and he kept finding you back.
phainon was a sweet man. he had a heart of gold, something steady that showed in everything he did. a personality so warm it could soften even the harshest days, like it naturally made the world less terrible around him. a smile so gentle it could turn an ordinary moment into something worth holding onto.
he was considerate, respectful, and, to put it simply, too good to be true.
sometimes, that thought lingered longer than it should have.
that day was your one-year anniversary.
just a normal day carrying something precious underneath it, something only the two of you could feel.
phainon had been preparing for it for days.
he never said it outright, but it was obvious in small fragments of behavior. the quiet focus when he thought you werenât looking. the moments he checked his phone and then put it away again. the slight hesitation before he left the room, as if he was mentally keeping track of something you couldnât see.
he was searching for the perfect gift.
not something expensive or flashy, but something meaningful. something that would fit you specifically, like it had been waiting to exist until he found it. he took his time with it. more time than most people would. more care than was strictly necessary.
he didnât talk about it much either, just enough to keep it hidden in plain sight. and you didnât press. you trusted him. you always had.
he was preparing everything else too.
not just a present. not just a plan for the day. but the feeling of it, the atmosphere around it, the small details that would make it memorable.
so that when the day came, it wouldnât just pass like any other.
so that you would feel special.
âmy love,â phainon started, hands already on your waist like thatâs where they always belonged. âhappy one year anniversary.â
you smiled at him, soft and immediate, like there was no hesitation in it at all. pure joy sitting in your expression, unguarded in a way that made something in his chest tighten without reason. you reached up, cupped his face, and kissed him.
âhappy one year anniversary,â you murmured against him. âiâm so glad to have you with me.â
for a moment, he didnât respond.
just stayed there, close enough that you could feel the small shift in his breathing, like he was collecting himself in real time. like something inside him had gone still in order to hold this properly.
then he laughed, quiet and warm, the sound breaking whatever tension he hadnât admitted was there.
his hand lifted to your face, brushing a strand of hair away with a kind of care that felt instinctive, practiced, like heâd done it a hundred times before without realizing.
âi should be the one saying that,â he said.
his thumb lingered for a second longer than necessary at your cheek, like he was memorizing the fact that you were here, with him, like this.
âiâve prepared you a few things for today,â phainon said, and there was a lightness in his tone, a small wink that made your heart soften on instinct.
you couldnât help the smile that came with it. âyou shouldnât have bothered yourself with so muchâŠâ
your sentence faded as he gently took your hand, already guiding you away before you could finish protesting. it wasnât forceful. never with him. just certain, like he already knew youâd follow.
âhow could i not?â he answered, glancing back at you with that easy warmth. âwith such a gentle lover by my side, i feel like i havenât done enough.â
you tried to respond, but the words didnât quite make it out. he led you down the hall, fingers still threaded with yours, until he opened the bedroom door.
and then you stopped.
the room was changed completely.
flowers everywhere, arranged with care that didnât feel rushed or casual. balloons gathered in soft clusters near the ceiling. everything thoughtfully placed, not overwhelming, just⊠full. like the space itself had been filled with intention.
but what caught your attention most wasnât the decorations.
it was the bed.
on it sat a small case. velvet red, neatly positioned like it had been waiting for this exact moment. underneath it, a folded letter.
your breath caught without warning.
âphainonâŠâ you said, barely audible. âi⊠iâm out of words.â
you turned to him, and something in your expression mustâve given you away, because he was already stepping closer.
you grabbed his face and kissed him.
it wasnât neat or controlled. it was all feeling, all gratitude, all disbelief trying to become something physical. when you pulled back, your eyes were already wet.
he brushed his thumb gently under your eye but didnât say anything about the tears. just stayed there with you, steady.
âopen it, my love,â he said softly.
so you did.
your hands were careful as you picked up the case, as if too much pressure might break the moment itself. the clasp clicked open.
inside was a ring.
simple in its elegance, but impossible to ignore. and carved into it was a small sun.
your sun.
his words for you. always his words for you.
phainon had always called you that. his sun. his warmth. the thing he said made everything feel less cold, less empty, less distant.
your fingers trembled slightly as you picked up the letter.
you unfolded it slowly.
my dearest,
i donât really know where to begin, because everything that matters already feels like it started the moment i met you. i keep trying to think of a version of my life that doesnât include you, and i canât seem to make it make sense anymore. it feels empty in a way i donât know how to explain, like something essential is missing from even the smallest moments.
when iâm with you, everything feels clearer. you make ordinary days feel like something worth remembering. even the ones that donât seem special at first end up staying with me longer than they should, just because you were there in them.
i wish i could give you something that matches what youâve given me. something that actually measures up to the way you make me feel, but nothing ever really does. so i do what i can instead. i try to be there. i try to be better. i try to build something with you that feels like a place we both belong in.
i think about the future more than i used to. i think about mornings that start with you, and nights that end the same way, and everything in between that feels a little less heavy just because you exist in it.
youâve become the part of my life that everything else quietly revolves around without me even noticing when it started happening.
and if thereâs anything iâm certain of, itâs this:
i want to keep choosing you. again and again. in every version of tomorrow i can reach.
only for you, my sunshine, will i shed my own light to make yours brighter.
you read it slowly, like rushing would make it less real.
by the time you reached the end, your vision had already blurred completely.
a tear slipped onto the paper before you could stop it.
phainon was close now, watching you carefully, like he was holding himself still for your sake more than his own.
âphainonâŠâ you start, but the words donât fully form.
instead of finishing, you just step into him.
your arms wrap around him tightly, and whatever composure you had left breaks all at once. you cry against his shoulder like something inside you finally gave up holding itself together.
he freezes for half a second.
then his arms come around you, careful at first, then firmer, like heâs anchoring you back into the world with nothing but his hold. one hand settles at the back of your head, the other at your waist, steadying, soothing in slow motions.
his breath catches.
and when he speaks, itâs quieter than before.
âitâs okay,â he murmurs. âitâs okay⊠iâm here.â
you can feel it then.
the slight tremble in him too.
the way his grip tightens just a little like heâs afraid of something he canât name.
when you finally calm enough to pull back, heâs smiling at you again. soft. familiar. but his eyes are wet.
he brushes your cheek gently, like heâs trying to convince himself this moment is real.
âthis is just the beginning, sunshine.â
and somehow, that makes you cry again.
the rest of the day unfolds like a thread carefully pulled from memory.
almost too perfect, like the day is trying very hard not to break.
phainon stays close the entire time.
not in an obvious, suffocating way. just⊠present. always within reach. always watching you with a quiet softness that never fully fades.
you donât notice the way his eyes linger a little too long sometimes.
or the way he pauses before speaking, like heâs checking something only he can see.
or the faint hesitation in his smile when you arenât looking directly at him.
because for you, itâs just a good day.
for him, itâs something else entirely.
until it isnât.
it happens without warning.
one moment, youâre laughing at something he said, head turned slightly as you step off the curb.
and the nextâ
sound shatters everything.
brakes. impact. a blur of movement too fast for the world to slow down for.
phainon sees it before he understands it.
he moves.
he tries.
your name is already leaving his mouth before his body catches up.
but itâs not enough.
itâs never enough.
youâre gone from his hand in an instant, thrown into a reality that doesnât pause, doesnât hesitate, doesnât care.
and then thereâs silence after the chaos.
final.
he stands there for a moment, unable to process the shape of what just happened. like his mind refuses to connect the image in front of him with anything real.
then he sees you.
on the road.
still.
and everything in him collapses at once.
he stumbles forward. drops to his knees beside you without thinking, hands shaking as they reach for you like instinct still believes it can fix this.
thereâs blood.
too much of it.
and it doesnât make sense. nothing makes sense.
his voice breaks when he says your name again, softer this time, like maybe youâll answer if he gets it right.
you donât.
he hears people shouting somewhere far away. a car door. footsteps. someone yelling about calling an ambulance.
but it all feels distant. unreal.
like heâs watching something happen through thick glass.
he doesnât remember getting into the ambulance.
he doesnât remember the hospital waiting room clearly.
only fragments.
white lights. cold chairs. his hands still stained. his clothes still wrong. his heart refusing to settle into anything resembling rhythm.
he keeps asking.
keeps standing up when he shouldnât.
keeps moving toward doors that donât open for him.
âwhere are they?â
âare they okay?â
âpleaseâjust tell me theyâre going to be okay.â
no one answers quickly enough.
or maybe they do.
maybe he just doesnât hear it properly.
time stops meaning anything after a while.
it becomes just waiting.
just sitting.
just hoping that at any moment someone will walk in and undo everything.
but no one does.
and at some point, even his hope starts to feel exhausted.
his eyes burn.
his body feels too heavy to stay upright.
he sits down again, head in his hands, trying not to think about the last thing he saw before everything broke.
and in one of those quiet, unbearable pausesâwhen even grief runs out of noise,
his eyelids finally give in.
just for a second.
just enough.
phainon wakes up like heâs been pulled out of deep water.
for a few seconds, he doesnât move at all. just lies there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of the room like it might explain what his mind already refuses to accept.
his chest feels tight. not painful, exactly. just⊠wrong. like something heavy has been pressed into him and left there.
he blinks once.
twice.
and the feeling doesnât go away.
the bed beside him is warm.
youâre there.
still asleep, turned slightly toward him, breathing slow and steady. hair a little messy against the pillow. completely unaware of anything except the softness of morning.
he should relax at that.
he should.
but instead, something in him tightens even more.
because his mind is still full of something else.
something sharp.
too sharp to be a dream.
he sits up slowly, careful not to wake you. his hand goes to his face without thinking, like heâs trying to wipe away a memory still clinging to him. his fingers tremble slightly when they press against his skin.
he remembersâ
brakes. impact. your name.
the sound of something breaking that doesnât come back together.
his breath stops halfway.
no.
no, that isnâtâ
his eyes drop to his hands.
clean.
no blood. no stains.
nothing.
he looks around the room quickly now, more awake, more alert, like heâs trying to find evidence that will either confirm or destroy what he remembers. everything is normal. painfully normal. the clock. the clothes on the chair. the faint light leaking through the curtains.
his phone is on the nightstand.
he grabs it too fast.
the screen lights up.
date.
he freezes.
his thumb hovers over it like it might change if he stares hard enough.
your anniversary.
today.
not after.
not before.
today.
his stomach drops in a slow, sinking motion that doesnât feel physical anymore. it feels like recognition of something he doesnât understand but somehow already knows too well.
his breathing turns uneven.
ânoâŠâ he whispers, barely audible. âno, thatâs notââ
he looks at you again.
still asleep.
alive.
whole.
and for a moment, the relief is so strong it almost hurts. it floods him so quickly he has to close his eyes, like his body doesnât know how to handle it all at once.
he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.
tries to breathe properly.
tries to think clearly.
tries to separate dream from reality.
but the problem is not confusionâthe problem is certainty.
because the memory doesnât feel like something he imagined.
it feels like something he lived through.
down to the smallest details he shouldnât be able to remember.
the way your body fell.
the sound that followed.
the way time refused to move afterward, like it had no interest in continuing.
his fingers curl tightly against his own palm until it hurts.
he forces himself to stand.
quietly, carefully, he moves around the room like any sudden noise might break something fragile. like even the air is different now and he has to be careful not to disturb it.
he looks at the small preparations he made the night before.
a list on his desk.
notes for the day.
ideas for gifts he hasnât even started yet in this version of events.
it all exists.
but he remembers doing it already.
thatâs what doesnât make sense.
he exhales shakily.
then looks back at you again.
you shift slightly in your sleep, murmuring something indistinct, turning your face into the pillow.
alive.
present.
real.
he walks back to the bed and sits down carefully beside you, like heâs afraid sitting too hard might disturb the fragile balance of the world.
for a long time, he just watches you breathe.
then, slowly, he reaches out and touches your hand.
warm.
solid.
his throat tightens immediately.
âitâs realâŠâ he says under his breath, like he needs to hear it out loud to believe it. âyouâre hereâŠâ
his hand tightens around yours a little too firmly.
not painful.
just desperate.
then he leans forward and pulls you into his arms before youâre fully awake.
you make a small sound of confusion, shifting slightly.
âphainonâŠ?â
his arms tighten instantly, like that voice is the only thing keeping him anchored.
âiâm sorry,â he says quickly, too quickly, voice roughened by something he hasnât processed yet. âi just⊠had a bad dream.â
you donât fully wake. you just relax again after a moment, trusting him instinctively, settling back into him like nothing is wrong at all.
and that almost breaks him more than anything else.
because nothing feels wrong to you.
only to him.
the day begins anyway.
and phainon moves through it like someone trying to follow a script heâs already read once and canât forget.
he starts preparing.
the gift.
the plan.
the small details he remembers doing in that other version of today that doesnât officially exist.
flowers are chosen carefully. not too many. not too little. just enough to feel intentional.
he stands in front of the counter too long before buying them, fingers tapping slightly against the edge, like heâs waiting for something to interrupt him.
nothing does.
he moves on.
the next place.
the next task.
everything feels like repetition without permission.
because it is repetition.
just not one he understands how to name.
every step he takes, he keeps noticing it more.
a strange pressure in the back of his mind.
a sense of familiarity that arrives before the moment itself does.
he turns a corner and already knows what heâs going to see.
he picks something up and already knows what he will say when he gives it to you.
he hears your voice later in the day and reacts a fraction too early, like part of him is still ahead of reality.
and each time it happens, his breathing tightens slightly.
because he remembers another version of this day where none of it mattered.
where everything went wrong no matter what he did.
he stops walking for a moment in the middle of the street.
just stands there.
people pass him.
but he feels like heâs standing in the middle of something that already ended.
his hand slowly tightens into a fist.
then he keeps walking.
because youâre still alive in this one.
and that is the only thing that matters.
the day goes by exactly as it should, and thatâs what makes it unbearable. phainon feels it in every second, in every word that leaves his mouth before he even fully decides to say it.
he greets you the same way, holds you the same way, leads you to the bedroom at the same time, and watches as you react exactly like before. your eyes widen, your voice softens, your hands tremble just slightly as you open the case, as you see the ring, as you read the letter.
you cry in the same places, laugh in the same soft, breathless way, kiss him with the same warmth, and look at him like this is the happiest day of your life. and thatâs what breaks him, because to you, it is. to you, this is happening for the first time.
to him, it already ended once.
he watches you too closely, searching for something, anything, that might be different, but there isnât. every word you say matches what he remembers, every small movement falls into place like itâs been rehearsed.
you donât notice anything wrong. you donât notice the way his hands linger just a little longer when he touches you, or the way his smile doesnât quite reach his eyes anymore.
you donât notice how tightly he holds you when you hug him, like heâs trying to keep you from slipping away before the day even gets the chance to take you.
âthis is just the beginning, sunshine,â he tells you, and the words feel wrong the moment they leave his mouth, like a promise he already knows he cannot keep.
so he changes it.
he has to.
he refuses to let things continue the same way, refuses to walk the same streets, refuses to let the day guide him to the same ending.
instead, he takes you somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere that doesnât carry the memory of what happened before. he brings you to the restaurant where you had your first date, and you light up the moment you recognize it, smiling at him with that same soft warmth that makes his chest ache.
you thank him, you tell him he remembered, and he nods because of course he didâhe remembers everything now, every second of a day that wonât leave him alone.
inside, everything feels normal. you sit across from each other, talking about small things, laughing easily, and for a moment, phainon almost believes it might work, that maybe this time will be different, that maybe the day will loosen its grip just enough to let you both slip through it.
you notice his silence eventually, the way heâs watching you instead of responding, the way his thoughts seem to be somewhere else entirely.
ââŠare you okay?â you ask, raising an eyebrow slightly, and he forces himself to blink, to come back, to play his part properly.
âiâm fine, love. i just feel a bit tired.â the words sound hollow to his own ears, but you accept them anyway, your expression softening with concern instead of suspicion.
âwe can go home, and rest, then. youâve prepared too much for me.â you say it so gently, so naturally, and phainon smiles at you because he wants to believe that day was just a nightmare.
you leave together, stepping out into an evening that feels too calm, and phainon doesnât let you take the usual route. he redirects you before you can even suggest it, telling you the weather is nice, that it would be good to walk a bit.
you hesitate for just a moment before agreeing. you trust him. you always do. you walk beside phainon, relaxed, unaware, your hand warm in his while his grip tightens without him noticing, like he needs constant proof that youâre still there.
the streets are quieter this way, emptier, and he doesnât like it. something about it feels wrong, but he tells himself itâs better than before, better than that road, better than that moment he still canât stop seeing every time he closes his eyes.
you glance at him again, studying him a little more carefully this time.
âyouâre acting strange today,â you say, not accusing, just noticing, and for a split second, something slips through his expressionâfear, before he hides it again.
âjust tired,â he repeats, and you nod, letting it go, because today is special, because you donât want to ruin it by questioning something that doesnât feel urgent enough to break the mood.
it happens anyway.
they appear without warning, stepping into your path like theyâve been waiting for this exact moment. a group, too close, too sudden, their voices rough and careless as they demand your belongings.
your body tenses, your fingers tightening around his hand, and phainon feels the panic rise immediately, fast and suffocating. not again. not like this.
âjust give it to them,â he says quietly, forcing his voice to stay steady, and you nod, your hands shaking slightly as you hand everything over.
it isnât.
one of them laughs, while another steps closer, invading the small space between you.
âthatâs it?â one of them mutters, and phainon feels it before it even happens, that same sense of inevitability settling in him like a weight he canât move.
âwe gave you everything,â he says, voice controlled, trying to keep it from escalating. âthereâs no need toââ
he doesnât get to finish.
thereâs a shove, sudden and rough, and you lose your balance, stumbling back. phainon reaches for you immediately, his hand closing around your armâbut something else moves faster. thereâs a flash, a movement he doesnât fully register until itâs already too late, and your breath catches in a way that doesnât sound right.
then youâre falling, your weight dropping into him as he catches you instinctively, pulling you close like he can undo it if he just moves fast enough.
but he knows.
the moment his hands touch you, he knows.
ânoââ the word breaks out of him, raw and desperate, as his hands shake, trying to hold you together, trying to find something to fix, something to stop whatâs already happening. âstay with me,â he says, voice trembling, falling apart with every second. âpleaseâstay with meââ
your eyes donât focus. your breathing is uneven, shallow, fading in a way he recognizes too well. itâs the same. itâs all the same.
ânot again,â he whispers, shaking his head, tears falling freely now. âpleaseânot againââ
he pulls you closer, like holding you tighter will keep you here, like he can force the world to stop if he refuses to let go. but it doesnât work. it never does. your body grows heavier in his arms, your presence slipping away piece by piece until even the smallest signs of you begin to fade, until the warmth heâs trying so desperately to hold onto starts disappearing beneath his hands.
and heâs left there, kneeling on a quiet street that doesnât care, holding you like something already gone, his hands stained again, his voice gone raw from begging for something that refuses to change.
for the second time, he loses you.
the hospital is the same, and phainon realizes it immediately, even through the panic that claws at him and the way his thoughts refuse to settle into anything clear.
the same cold air, the same harsh lighting, the same distant voices that never seem to answer him properly.
âwhere are they?â
âare they okay?â
âplease, i just need to knowââ
he asks about you over and over again, his voice breaking more each time, trying to catch someoneâs attention long enough to hear something real, something reassuring, but no one stops
doctors rush past him, nurses give him half-answers that lead nowhere, and every second stretches into something unbearable. he tries to move, to find you himself, to push past doors he isnât supposed to open, but it all leads back to the same placeâwaiting, helpless, useless waiting.
his hands are still shaking, his clothes still feel wrong against his skin, and the memory of what happened wonât leave him alone no matter how hard he tries to push it away.
slowly, his body gives in to exhaustion, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier, weighed down by fear, by grief, understanding that something is terribly wrong with the world itself, and when he finally lets them close, just for a moment, just to breatheâ
he wakes up.
in his bed. next to you. the same light, the same quiet, the same impossible calm. his breath catches immediately as he reaches for his phone, hands trembling, already knowing what heâs going to see before the screen even lights up.
your anniversary.
again.
the same day, unchanged, like everything that happened simply⊠didnât matter.
for a moment he just stares, trying to convince himself it was a dream, but it doesnât feel like one. it feels too sharp, too detailed, too real. and when he looks at you, sleeping peacefully beside him, it hits him all over again that youâre alive, that youâre here, that he has another chanceâif this even is a chance.
this time, he doesnât take you out. he doesnât risk it.
he tells you the two of you should stay home, keep things simple, just spend the day together without stepping into anything unpredictable, and you agree so easily it almost hurts.
you smile at him like itâs the perfect idea, like nothing about this day is wrong, like you donât feel the weight pressing down on him from the moment he woke up. and somehow, even staying inside, everything still happens the same way.
the flowers end up arranged just like before, the decorations fall into place without him even remembering when he started putting them up, the small velvet case finds its place on the bed, the letter written in his own handwriting sitting beneath it.
he doesnât remember deciding to follow through with it, but it happens anyway, like the day is pulling him along no matter what he tries to change.
you react the same way too, the same surprise, the same tears, the same soft voice when you thank him, when you kiss him, when you look at him like heâs given you everything youâve ever wanted.
the rest of the day feels calm, almost painfully normal. you stay in your apartment, close to each other, sharing quiet moments that should feel safe.
you watch something together, your head resting against his shoulder, your hand loosely intertwined with his, and to you, nothing feels wrong.
to you, this is a perfect day.
but phainon canât relax. he keeps watching you, keeps noticing every small detail, every movement, every breath, like heâs trying to memorize something heâs already memorized too many times.
he doesnât understand why this is happening, why he keeps waking up on the same day, why no matter what he changes, it all leads to the same end.
he doesnât know what heâs supposed to do differently, what heâs missing, what the world expects from him before it finally lets you live.
you notice eventually. of course you do. you always do. you look at him with that same gentle concern, the same question youâve asked before without knowing it.
âare you okay?â and he answers the same way, because it feels like he has to, because anything else might break something fragile in the way of the world.
âiâm fine. just a bit tired.â you accept it, like you always do, trusting him without hesitation, and that trust feels heavier than anything else.
later, the two of you start cooking. something simple, something light, the kind of thing youâve done together so many times before without thinking. itâs easy, familiar, comforting in a way that should make him feel safe, but it doesnât.
he stays close behind you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, holding you there longer than usual, like heâs trying to convince himself that nothing can happen if he doesnât let you go.
he presses his face near your shoulder, breathing you in, grounding himself in something real, something alive. for a moment, it almost works. for a moment, he almost believes that maybe this time, nothing will go wrong.
then you laugh softly, shifting in his arms. âphainon, i need to move,â you say, and he loosens his grip just enough to let you step forward.
just enough.
your foot catches on something small, something insignificant, and you lose your balance. itâs quick, clumsy, the kind of thing that shouldnât matter, the kind of thing that would normally end in nothing more than a startled laughâbut youâre holding a knife.
everything happens too fast for him to stop it, too fast for him to react properly, and the moment stretches and collapses all at once as you fall.
he catches you, of course he does, his hands already there, already trying to fix something that canât be undone, but the damage is already done.
he knows it immediately, feels it in the way your body goes slack, in the way your breathing falters, in the way the world seems to go silent around him again.
he says your name like it might pull you back, like it might change something, but it never does. it never has.
the hospital follows, just like before. the same questions, the same waiting, the same emptiness in every answer he receives. and eventually, the same exhaustion dragging him under again, his body giving out when his mind refuses to, his eyes closing against his willâ
and when he wakes up, itâs your anniversary all over again.
after that, he stops believing thereâs a right way to do this. he tries everything anyway.
he takes you out of town, driving for hours, convinced that distance might change something, that leaving everything familiar behind might break whatever is trapping him, but it doesnât.
the road stretches endlessly until it doesnât, until everything collapses in an instant, and heâs left with the same result.
he tries removing the important parts of the day, doesnât give you the ring, doesnât give you the letter, tells you he forgot, hoping that maybe the meaning of the day itself is the problem, that maybe if he takes it away, the outcome will change.
but you get upset, hurt in a way he hasnât seen before, and the argument that follows feels wrong in a completely different way, and you leave.
he lets you go, thinking maybe this is what heâs supposed to do, maybe distance will finally keep you safe, maybe this is the one choice he hasnât made yet that will matter.
but his phone rings not long after, and the moment he hears the voice on the other end, he already knows.
he always knows.
and every time, no matter what he does, no matter what he changes, no matter how hard he tries to hold onto you or push you away, the day ends the same way.
with you gone.
and him waking up to do it all over again.
phainon tries telling you.
he doesnât ease into it, doesnât try to soften it or turn it into something easier to accept, because thereâs no version of this that sounds sane no matter how carefully he words it.
the moment he looks at you that morning, really looks at you, alive and breathing and unaware, something in him snaps into desperation instead of hesitation.
he canât do this again without trying something different, something drastic, something that might finally break whatever is trapping him in this day.
so he tells you.
he tells you that heâs lived this day before. not once, not twice, but so many times heâs stopped counting somewhere along the way. he tells you heâs watched you die in ways he canât forget, that heâs tried everything he could think of to stop it, that nothing has worked, that every version of this day ends the same no matter how much he changes.
you look at him at first like you donât understand what heâs saying, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and amusement, like youâre waiting for him to laugh, to admit itâs some kind of strange joke.
and then you do laugh.
not loudly, not cruelly, just lightly, like youâre brushing it off because it doesnât make sense any other way. âphainon, whatâŠ?â you start, shaking your head a little. âthatâs not funny.â
but he doesnât laugh.
he doesnât even smile.
and thatâs when it starts to feel wrong.
because phainon is serious in a way youâve never seen before, his expression tight, his eyes too focused, too intense, like heâs already bracing himself for you not to believe him.
ââso what,â you say slowly, trying to piece together what heâs telling you, âi just⊠die at the end of the day?â
he nods immediately, too quickly, like heâs been waiting for you to ask that exact question. âyes,â he says, voice unsteady despite how certain he sounds.
âyes, every time. it doesnât matter what i do, it always happens. iâve tried everythingâtaking you out at different places, staying home, keeping you close, keeping you away, iâve even tried pretending itâs just a normal day and not giving you anything at all. it doesnât change. it never changes. pleaseââ phainonâs voice falters slightly, but he forces it back into something steady, something you might believe. âplease, you have to believe me.â
you stare at him.
really stare this time.
for a moment, something unsettled creeps in, because he doesnât look like someone joking, and he doesnât look like someone exaggerating either. he looks⊠exhausted. like heâs carrying something thatâs too heavy for one person to hold.
but still, it doesnât make sense.
âphainonâŠâ you say carefully, your voice softer now, edged with concern instead of dismissal. âare you sure that youâre alright?â
something in his expression breaks at that.
not anger, not frustrationâworse. tired.
but he doesnât stop.
he canât.
he starts telling you everything.
not just the idea of it, not just vague explanations, but details. exact details. the way youâll react when you see the decorations, the way your voice will soften when you say his name, the exact moment your breath will catch when you open the case.
he tells you about the letter, about the words written in it, about how your eyes will blur halfway through reading, about how your hands will tremble just slightly more at the end.
he tells you when your tears will fall.
not just that they willâwhen.
you try to interrupt him at first, to tell him heâs overthinking, that heâs making connections where there arenât any, but he keeps going, his voice steady in a way that feels almost desperate, like if he stops, the chance to make you understand will disappear completely.
and then it happens.
you follow along.
not because you believe phainon fully, but because something in you is starting to listen.
and when the moment comesâwhen you step into the bedroom, when you see everything he prepared, when your breath catches exactly like he said it would, you feel it.
that strange, creeping sense of familiarity.
you open the case.
your hands tremble.
you read the letter.
and halfway through, your vision blurs.
just like he said.
a tear slips down your cheek.
exactly when he said it would.
you freeze.
the paper shakes slightly in your hands as you lower it, your mind struggling to catch up with something that suddenly feels too real to dismiss.
you look at him.
and this time, you believe him.
maybe not completely, maybe not in a way that makes sense yet, but enough that the doubt cracks open.
phainon sinks down onto the floor, like whatever strength he had left has finally given out now that heâs said it all out loud. his head drops forward, shoulders slumping, hands hanging uselessly at his sides. he looks like someone who has already lost everything and is just waiting for it to happen again.
you hesitate for a moment before moving, then slowly lower yourself beside him.
âwhatâre we supposed to do, then?â you ask, your voice softer than before, stripped of the earlier disbelief.
phainon doesnât look up.
doesnât bother moving.
for a second, you think he might not answer at all.
âi donât know.â
the words settle between you, and they feel worse than anything else heâs said.
because everything up until now, no matter how terrifying, at least had certainty.
this doesnât.
this is empty.
directionless.
the loops donât stop after that conversation, not really. not in any way that would make it easier for him to understand what heâs supposed to do.
even after telling you everything, even after you start believing him, even after that suffocating silence settles between you both, phainon still tries.
he canât help it. the instinct to protect you is too deeply rooted, too tied to everything he is, so he keeps changing things, keeps watching you too closely, keeps trying to find the one decision, the one moment, the one small shift that might finally break whatever force keeps dragging the day back to the same ending.
every time, no matter what he does, it still happens. sometimes itâs sudden, sometimes itâs slow, sometimes itâs so small it feels almost insulting, but it always leads to the same place.
you, slipping out of his arms.
him, calling your name like it might rewrite reality.
then the hospital, the same questions, the same empty answers, the same exhaustion pulling him under until he wakes up and it all starts again.
after a while, the panic changes.
it doesnât disappear, it doesnât become easier, it just stops being sharp and frantic and starts becoming something that settles into him instead of tearing through him.
he stops running as much. stops interrupting you mid-sentence, stops checking the time like itâs something he can fight.
he still watches you, still stays close, but thereâs something else in it now, something less desperate and more⊠aware.
he starts noticing things he didnât before, things that had always been there but never felt important enough when he was trying so hard to stop the end.
the way you laugh at things that arenât even that funny, the way you absentmindedly reach for him without looking, the way your voice softens when you say his name like it belongs there.
he realizes, slowly, that heâs been so focused on losing you that he hasnât been fully present with you at all.
one loop, he lets you finish your sentences without cutting in. another, he doesnât try to steer you away from every possible danger.
another, he doesnât check the clock every few minutes like heâs counting down to something he can outrun.
nothing changes in the outcome. the realization was sinking deeper with every repetition. this isnât something he can win. this isnât something he can fix. and the more he fights it, the more it stays exactly the same.
so eventually, he stops fighting.
that loop doesnât feel different at first. he wakes up the same way, the same tightness in his heart, the same instinct to reach for his phone and check the date even though he already knows what it will say. your anniversary.
again.
though, this time, when he looks at you, sleeping beside him, peaceful and unaware, the thought that crosses his mind isnât how do i save you? itâs softer than that. how do i stay with you?
you wake up slowly, mumbling his name, reaching for him without opening your eyes, and he takes your hand immediately, holding it like itâs the only thing grounding him to that moment.
âhappy one year anniversary,â phainon says, and his voice is gentler than itâs ever been before, stripped of the tension that had been sitting beneath it every other time.
you smile at him the same way you always do, warm and soft and completely unknowing, and for once, he lets himself smile back without forcing it.
he still gives you the flowers, the case, the letter, but he doesnât treat it like a sequence he has to get through anymore. he just⊠experiences it.
when you tear up, he wipes your tears away instead of bracing himself for them.
when you laugh, he listens instead of anticipating what comes next.
when you kiss him, he leans into it fully, like there isnât something waiting at the end of the day to take it all away again.
you notice it, the way heâs calmer, the way heâs looking at you instead of through you. of course, you ask him about it, your voice soft with curiosity. he just shrugs slightly, his thumb brushing over your hand. âmaybe i am,â phainon says, and you accept it, like you always do.
the day passes, naturally, without him trying to bend it into something else. you stay close, talk about small things, walk side by side without him scanning every corner like something might jump out and take you away.
for the first time since this started, he isnât trying to outrun the end. heâs just there with you, fully, completely, like the time you have matters more than the time youâre losing.
when it happens, it still happens suddenly, because it always does. thereâs no warning that makes a difference, no sign he can use, just a moment where everything is fine and then it isnât.
your body falters, your breath catching in a way that makes his heart clench.
this time, he doesnât panic. the pain is still there, sharp and suffocating, yet it doesnât control him the way it did before.
his hands are steady when he catches you, when he pulls you close, holding you carefully like something precious instead of something heâs trying to keep from slipping away.
âhey,â phainon murmurs, his voice soft, almost soothing, like heâs trying to keep the moment gentle even as it breaks him. âiâm here.â
your eyes find his, unfocused but still searching, still holding onto him in the only way you can. âphainonâŠâ you whisper, your voice weak, confused, and he smiles at you, even as his vision blurs with tears he doesnât try to hide.
âiâve got you,â he tells you, his hand coming up to cup your face, his thumb brushing your cheek like heâs memorizing the warmth of your skin one last time. âyou donât have to be scared.â
he doesnât know if you are. he just wants you to feel safe.
your fingers curl weakly against him, holding onto his sleeve, and even if you donât understand whatâs happening, you trust him. you always have.
âi love you,â he says, words so common that he doesnât want to leave unsaid even if heâs said them a thousand times before.
your lips part slightly, your voice barely there but still yours.
âi love you too.â
this time, he doesnât beg.
he doesnât try to stop it.
he doesnât fight something he already knows wonât change.
he just stays with you, holding you as your breathing slows, as your body grows still, as the warmth heâs been clinging to begins to fade beneath his hands.
phainon presses his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as everything finally catches up to him.
âthank you,â he whispers, his voice trembling just enough to betray the grief sitting in his chest. âfor staying with me⊠all this time.â
and when he opens his eyes again, expecting the reset, expecting the pull back into that same morning, that same beginningâ
it doesnât come.
the world stays exactly as it is.
youâre still in his arms.
but thereâs no next loop waiting for him.
no second chance.
no waking up beside you like none of this happened.
just this.
just the end.
for the first time since it all began, phainon understood that the loop didnât break because he saved you.
warnings! modern!au, explicit sexual scenes (mdni), penetration (fingers), teasing and sexual tension, explicit language/cursing, bodily fluids, intense emotional intimacy, slow-burn romance, childhood attachment, light jealousy, grabbing, gripping, light bruising
a/n! hello everyone!! i know iâve been neglecting you all for so, so long⊠you guys are prob sick of all the apologies, and the only way i can make it up to you guys is with yet another fic! this is my first nsfw fic, i truly hope that i did well enough for you all!
âââ ââ ââ
you and boothill shared a long, winding history⊠one stitched into your childhood long before either of you had the language to understand what attachment really meant. before you learned heartbreak, before he learned how to hide his.
it began the day you arrived in that tiny, sun-bleached town. a place that had once been something but now clung to the scraps of its former life. the kind of place where every porch had a rocking chair, every window had someone peeking through it, and every stranger was treated like they were otherworldly.
your parents claimed it would be better for all of youâcheaper living, slower pace, âa chance to start over.â
you were too young to question why adults always said start over when what they really meant was run away.
for weeks, you felt like an outcast wandering a community that had no room for you. the children at school watched you like you were some rare animal. the neighbors smiled, wide and polite, but their eyes flicked over your worn shoes and your parentsâ tired faces with judgment sharper than a knife.
you spent your afternoons alone in the tiny patch of dust that passed as your front yardâdrawing lines with a stick, kicking pebbles, pretending not to hear the whispers or see the side-eyes from the kids passing by.
one such afternoon, as the sun dipped lower and you finally decided to retreat inside, you heard it:
âoi!â
it wasnât a polite greeting. it wasnât even a question.
it was a full-bodied yell that clattered across the street like a thrown stone.
you turned just in time to see a small blur racing toward youâa boy, white-haired even back then, with an oversized cowboy hat bouncing on his head, dusty boots, and a grin too big for his face.
he skidded to a stop in front of you, chest heaving, hands on his knees as if heâd sprinted miles.
âyer new,â he declared, not even bothering to let you speak. âi mean, i knew ya were, âcause i ainât ever seen ya âround before.â
you stared at him, baffled. he barely paused long enough to breathe.
âi saw you playinâ alone all day,â he continued, practically vibrating with energy. âso i figured iâd come over and ask if yer up for lassoinâ somethinâ. iâm real good at it. practiced on miss cherylâs mutt onceâoh, i live next to her! but you donât know her yet. sheâs real sweet but her dogâs possessed or somethinâ. keeps barkinâ at me like i stole its bones.â
he spoke to you like heâd been meaning to tell you all of this for years, like you were a long-lost friend heâd finally caught up to.
then, with theatrical flair, he whipped off his cowboy hat, bowed so deeply he nearly tipped over, and beamed up at you.
âboothillâs the name!â
cute, you thought. ridiculous, actually. he had a whole tooth missing right in the front, and it only made him look more absurd.
you tried to keep a straight face, but your giggle escaped before you could stop it.
âyou look silly,â you said honestly.
boothill froze.
his cheeks burned red enough to match a sunset.
for a moment, he glanced away, suddenly shyâsomething youâd later learn was rare for him.
but instead of hurting him, your laughter seemed to put him at ease.
you tugged at your sleeve, suddenly feeling braver.
âwe can play together,â you offered.
he blinked, stunned for a moment, before his entire face broke into a grin so bright it almost hurt to look at.
from that day on, he became a constantâyour shadow, your partner in crime, your anchor in a town that had rejected you. boothill, with his dusty boots, loud voice, and stubborn loyalty, was the first person to make that place feel less like a prison and more like a home.
he was at your front door every morning before school, without failâsometimes knocking, sometimes just waiting on the porch steps with his legs dangling and his hat tipped back. your mother always peeked through the curtain before opening the door, and every single time, sheâd smile and whisper, âthat boy has a heart of pure gold.â
and she was right. even back then, boothill had that stubborn, loyal spark in himâthe kind that made him cling to the people he cared about like they were lifelines. he seemed like the kind of boy whoâd never give up on you, not even if the whole world told him to.
âya ready?â heâd ask, grinning wide enough to show that missing tooth, offering to walk you to school even though it meant leaving his house earlier than he needed to. even though he took the long way just to walk the same route as you.
after classes ended, you could always count on hearing his voice before you even spotted him.
âhey! wait up!â
heâd sprint toward you, waving frantically, dust kicking up behind him like he was in some makeshift western scene only he understood. he always offered to walk you home, and most days, he didâwhether you agreed or not.
âi found a real good spot today,â heâd say breathlessly. âthereâs a tree shaped like a horse if ya squint one eye! i can show ya!â
never mind that your small town barely had anything worth looking atâno malls, no arcades, nothing but faded storefronts and long stretches of dirt road. boothill always found something. a rock that looked like a rabbit. a tree that bent funny. a patch of wildflowers he swore only bloomed for him.
to him, every corner of that town was full of magic as long as you were there to see it too.
he knocked on your door almost every single day, for every reason possible. sometimes he had an excuse. sometimes he didnât.
âmy ma told me to bring ya some eggs ân a tart she baked,â heâd announce proudly, holding up whatever heâd been entrusted with. âitâs real good, miss! iâm eatinâ it like itâs my last life.â
other times, he clutched his hat in both hands, looking up at your mother like a polite little gentleman.
âi wanted to ask if yaâd let (name) come out ân play with me today,â heâd say, standing on his tiptoes. âitâll be fun, i swear on my cowboy bootsâcross my heart!â
and whether he came with an offering, a story, or just pure eagerness, boothill always showed up.
every day.
rain or shine.
dust storm or blistering heat.
you were his first friend, maybe his only real one back then, and even as children, he held onto you with a kind of devotion too big for a boy his age.
and youâthough you didnât realize it yetâwere becoming the most important piece of his whole world.
you two became inseparable in a way that didnât make sense to anyone else but felt completely natural to you. what started as childhood closeness settled into something much deeper as the years stretched onâsomething steady, loyal, bone-deep. people called you two siblings, twins in spirit, a matched pair. boothill himself laughed and agreed most days, slinging an arm around your shoulders as if heâd grown up with the right to do so.
you watched him change, slowly and all at once. his hair grew out, he shot up in height, became broader in the shoulders, more confident in his stride. his grin sharpened into something dangerous, the kind of smile that made strangers step aside and friends tug him back by the sleeve.
but for all the growing and shifting life forced on him, there was one thing boothill never abandoned: that cowboy persona. the swagger, the hat, the spurs, the sharp-shootinâ bravadoâhe clung to it like a badge of identity. and maybe it was silly, maybe it was dramatic, but god, he made it work.
your mother never stopped teasing you.
âheâs grown into a fine man,â sheâd hum with a little smile, pretending not to watch your reaction. âand he treats you better than most men treat their wives.â
youâd roll your eyes, insist she was reading too much into things, but she was only voicing what everyone could see: boothill always treated you differently. softer. gentler. protective in ways that made even hardened men raise a brow.
because the truth was simpleâhe never fooled around. not once. not when every other young man his age was chasing thrills, seeking attention, bragging about conquests. boothill didnât. if he ever did even think about someone, youâd know instantly. but he never did.
and if someone flirted with him?
heâd brush it off with a lazy smile and a bored drawl, eyes flicking back to you as if to say, âthey ainât you.â
meanwhile youâoblivious, or refusing to see the truthâkept brushing off the way he looked at you. the way his stares lingered too long, warm and intense. the way his flirtatious comments, light drawls, slow grins, always landed just a little too close to sincerity.
you chalked it up to âthatâs just boothill,â ignoring the heat behind his voice, the softness behind the bravado.
but he wasnât simply playing around.
he wasnât practicing.
he wasnât waiting for someone else.
from the very beginning, boothill only ever had eyes for you.
prom night was supposed to be the one small miracle the town still offeredâan evening that felt borrowed from a different life, soft with lights and music and the delicious idea that maybe, for once, youâd be the kind of girl who sparkled. youâd fussed for hours over your hair, smoothed the dress until it obeyed your body, practiced a smile that felt brave enough to fool the whole world. your date was meant to come for you. he was meant to be the carriage that traded your tiny life for something cinematic, if only for one night.
and then he didnât come.
you waited on the porch until the streetlights seemed to grow tired. minutes bled into something elseâhours, maybeâand the quiet of the town tightened around you like a noose. you told yourself it was a mistake, an accident: his car broke down, something urgent kept him, there was a reason. you told yourself anything that would soothe the sting. but when the reasoning ran out you were left with the hollow of expectation and the hot sting of tears threatening to spill.
âyâalright?â the voice came, familiar as dust and warm as sunlight, and you hadnât even noticed when boothill had slipped up beside you. you realized then youâd been cryingâsmall, wet tracks on your cheeks youâd been too proud to wipe away.
you told him everything in a rush: how youâd rehearsed the laugh, how youâd pinned your hair just so, how youâd imagined the photograph youâd show your mother, how youâd wanted, more than anything, to feel seen. he listened the way he always didâentirely, without dramatic pity, with a kind of quiet consternation that felt like armor for you.
âdidnât i say that foolâd be no good?â he said, low and ragged, and the roughness in his voice had nothing to do with mockery. âguys like him? worse than cockroaches in yer damn kitchen.â his mouth quirked into a half-grin, trying for lightness. âget a wiggle on, sugar. iâll take you somewhere that wonât make ya feel small.â
in that grin, something childhood bright and shameless flickeredâthe same boy whoâd bowed with a hat in hand, whoâd bragged about lassoinâ invisible horses and outrunning miss cherylâs mutt. but under the bravado, his hands were steady when he took yours. he didnât tell you then what heâd seen earlier: the man who left you stranded had slipped off with another girl, laughter too loud for a night that wasnât his to steal. he kept that like a stone in his throatâan anger you didnât need to see.
he hustled you to his car, the paint a story of scraped years and countless escapes. boothill drove with that familiar rough precision, one hand on the wheel, the other impossibly light on your knuckles. his eyes kept sliding back to you, again and again, drinking you in like someone cataloguing treasure: the way your lashes clung together from crying, the subtle tremor at the corner of your mouth, the tilt of your jaw that had always meant something to him and nothing to you.
heâd imagined thisâcountless times. heâd rehearsed the idea of your lips under his, the reckless intimacy of a kiss that would change everything. heâd imagined exploring the curve of your neck with fingers that knew how to soothe and how to claim. but imagination and confession were different beasts; courage was a narrow bridge heâd never quite been brave enough to cross. to tell you would be to risk everything: your friendship, the easy loyalties you shared, the small, stubborn refuge youâd carved together in a town that felt otherwise unkind.
for all his rough talk, boothillâs tenderness was careful. he didnât collapse into possessive displays or grand, clumsy gestures; instead he kept you close enough that the warmth from his shoulder seeped into your arm, close enough that when you leaned away he could still catch the shadow of your breath. it was a kind of intimacy that hurt and healed in equal measure.
you sat like that for a whileâsilent, both of you watching the blur of the passing roadâuntil he murmured, quieter than the radio, âi hate seeinâ you hurt.â his voice was raw with something he didnât have words for. âiâd take the hurt if i could. hell, iâd take it from ya and keep it in my chest if that meant youâd be okay.â
you wanted to tell him that his presence already fixed something inside you, that his ruined car and scuffed boots felt like home. you wanted to tell him that even years ago, when heâd been a toothless kid bowing in the dust, youâd felt the first, faint, dangerous flutter of something that would not let go.
instead you reached for his hand and squeezed. it was a small thing. it said more than you were brave enough to say aloud.
boothill eased the car to a stop at a little clearing on the edge of town. nothing fancy, just a patch of scrub and broken beer cans where other kids had parked to shout their laughter into the dark. the sky was wide there, enormous and honest, and even the dry brush seemed gilded in the slant of late light.
âi know this ainât the best place everââ he started, voice tainted with the apology he never learned to soften.
âitâs perfect.â you cut him off, turning to face him properly. the light caught his profile and for a moment he looked almost unrealâedges softened, the shadow of that old scar on his cheek a small, stubborn map to the years youâd shared. the memory of the tree thatâd sent you both tumbling, of him taking the brunt of the fall so you wouldnât, felt like a warm, secret thing between you. it reminded you, in the plainest way, that youâd always had each other.
you swallowed. âi just wanted to feel special for one night.â your voice came out thinner than you meant it to.
boothill leaned forward, hand finding yoursâthe way heâd always reached for you when words couldnât do the heavy work. âyâare special, missy,â he said, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles like he was afraid the motion would vanish if he didnât keep it steady. âjusâ âcause that fudginâ muttâs off foolinâ around donât mean the restta the world donât see ya.â
he wasnât showy about comfort. his brand of tenderness was blunt and certainâa shove at anyone whoâd be cruel to you, a voice raised for your defense, a presence that never left your side. shy wasnât a word that fit him; fierce, maybe. loyal, always. tonight, under that wide indifferent sky, it felt like protection and confession rolled into one small, steady gesture.
you stayed quiet for a long moment, listening to the soft creak of the car and the faraway hum of the town. then boothillâs hand came up, steady and warm, cupping your jaw with a gentleness that always felt too big for him. he turned you until your face was full to his, the world narrowed to the tilt of his head and the light in his eyes.
âdidnât i promise ya iâd keep ya safe?â he tipped one eye closed in a lopsided wink that shouldâve been ridiculous if it werenât so exactly himâclumsy, sincere, impossible to resist. the attempt at levity softened the hardness in him and made your chest ache all the same.
you let out a small breath that was almost a laugh. âyou always know how to cheer me up,â you said, the sentence fragile at first, then steadier as you let it land between you. your fingers found his, settling over the back of his hand where his thumb still traced the slow circles on your knuckles.
you leaned forward, on impulse and on habit, and pressed a quiet kiss to his cheek. it was brief, warmâa punctuation in the soft conversation you shared without words.
the sight of it shoved him off any careful balance heâd kept; his heart stuttered, then began to race. color crept up his neck and into his face until he matched the sunset, the same tomato-red youâd teased him about when he was a kid. he froze for a heartbeat, stunned by how much that small gesture had knocked him sideways, how much heâd wanted it without admitting as much.
âthank you,â boothill managed at last. he swallowed, then added, quieter, barely for your ears, âdonât ever let nobody tell ya different.â
you couldnât even remember the moment the space between you vanishedâone heartbeat you were just breathing, the next your noses were nearly touching and the world had narrowed to that fragile, electric silence. boothill stared at you with that wide, ridiculous look he always wore when heâd been caught feeling something too big for words, and when he whispered, âmay i?â it was the softest, most dangerous question youâd ever heard.
you didnât stop him.
the first contact was a joltâsharp, startling, impossibly precise. your lips met and something inside both of you folded and reformed; they fit together as if theyâd been learning each other in secret for years. it was everything and nothing youâd expected: tender, urgent, and inevitable all at once.
he pulled away a breath later, eyes searching your face as if trying to read a map. before he could say anything, your hands were at his temples, fingers splayed warm and certain, hauling him back like youâd been holding that pull in reserve. he let out a muffled, breathy âatta girlâ between a laugh and a groan, and the sound sent heat down your spine.
what came next was messy, hungry, kisses deepenedâa give and take like tides. tongues brushed and tested and danced, hands explored without hurry: one of his palms settled between hip and waist, anchoring you; the other drifted up and down the back of your skull, tilting you as he needed, then settling gentle against your neck, not to control but to feel the wild, steadying thump of you beneath his fingers.
you could feel himânot just his hands but the tremor in his shoulders, the hitch in his breath, the way his whole body curved toward yours as if heâd been learning to fold this shape his whole life. and youâyour hands at his face, your weight pressed close, felt the truth of him in the small, urgent pressures and the rhythm of his pulse under your palm.
when you finally broke apart, it was only to breathe, foreheads resting together, both of you grinning a little too wide and with the embarrassingly vulnerable relief of people who have at last crossed a border theyâd been circling for years.
boothill leaned back against the seat, drawing you with him until your thighs were hooked over his and the world outside the windshield blurred into nothing. his hands splayed warm and possessive at your waist, thumbs tracing lazy, dangerous circles as if mapping you anew.
âcanât believe that flippinâ idiot lost a beauty like you,â he murmured, words rough as gravel. his mouth found the hollow of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses. âfudge me, sugar. youâre like the damn sunâi could burn and never get tired.â
you laughed, breathless, a sound that trembled and fell apart when he caught a soft spot and nipped it there, light and practiced. every road crossed back to the press of his lips and the quick, hot spark that went through you every time his teeth grazed.
his hands slid higher, palms resting against the soft curve of your thighs, fingers digging just enough to anchor you. you felt the mark of him alreadyâhis claim in small bruises that would bloom later and that youâd secretly love to find. he spoke between kisses, voice low, confessional.
âdid ya know how much my mindâs been spinninâ round ya? like a wheel i canât stop. everythinâ else falls away when youâre close. itâs like i got no head for anything but you.â his thumb brushed across your hip, gentle now, unbearably intimate. âand itâs drivinâ me mad, missy. mad enough iâd throw away hell if it meant youâd stay.â
you could hear the truth in himâthe way his words trembled on the edge of something bigger. you pressed your forehead to his, heartbeat matching his, and for a moment neither of you spoke at all. the silence was full of all the small moments that had led here: the early mornings at your door, the scraped knees heâd kissed better, the way heâd always been there to take the hurt from you.
âiâm not askinâ for forever,â boothill said after a breath, raw and honest. âiâm askinâ to be allowed to be near you. to be the one who gets to hold you when things break. hell, iâll take second-best if thatâs what you give me. but donât make me be some fool watchinâ from the edge.â
you swallowed, the weight of it settling in your chest like both promise and danger. his hands tightened at your waist, and somewhere between the want and the fear, you found a steady, careful answer.
you leaned in and kissed him slow, soft at first, then deeper when the world let you. when you pulled away, your voice was a breath. âplease,â you said. âstay with me tonight. let me see if thisâusâcan be more than what we always were.â
his grin split through his exhaustion, equal parts relief and disbelief. âthank you.â he whispered, and then, without ceremony, he sealed it with another kiss, more desperate nowâlike you'll only be a ghost of his past.
you felt it in the way his breath stuttered against your mouth, in how each kiss grew hungrierâneed carving itself into every touch. his hands roamed up your sides, tracing the shape of your ribs with a reverence he never showed anyone, then slid down to cup your ass, pulling you closer as if he couldnât stand even an inch between you. every little sound you made, every gasp, every soft tremor only fed the fire in him; you could feel his confidence sharpen with each reaction.
but that wasnât the only thing rising.
you paused just enough to arch a brow at him, lips swollen, voice low. âare you seriouslyâŠ?â
boothill didnât even try to hide itâdidnât look away, didnât pretend. he just flashed that cocky, lopsided grin that always made your stomach flip. you could feel him through the denim, hard and unmistakable, pressing against you like heâd been waiting years for this.
âainât my fault youâre so damn attractive, sweetheart,â he drawled, voice dropping into that southern roughness he only slipped into when he lost control. his mouth brushed the edge of your jaw, his words a warm breath against your ear. âquestion is⊠dâya wanna do anythinâ about it?â
you barely had time to breathe before he tugged you closer, guiding your hips down to grind against him with a slow, deliberate roll that stole the air from your lungs. your dressâalready half-ridden up from the way youâd straddled himâkept slipping higher, and boothill had tried, tried to be decent, tugging it down earlier between kisses.
but now?
now he didnât bother.
his hands slid from your thighs, fingertips dragging upward in a slow, claiming path until they disappeared under the hem of your dress. his palms were warm, and when he gripped you againâskin to skinâyou felt his restraint snap another thread.
âbeen imagininâ this for longer than i care to admit,â he murmured against your throat, voice shaking with honesty heâd never dare speak in daylight. âand hell⊠youâre even better than what i dreamed.â
âboothillââ you tried again, the word catching somewhere between breath and wanting, but he drew back just enough to look at youâeyebrows raised, lips tilted in that infuriating, beautiful smirk that said go on, sugar. say it.
you didnât.
not with words.
instead, your palms pressed flat to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your hands. you leaned into himâhead on his shoulder, body softening in a way that told him everything you couldnât yet say aloud.
boothill sucked in a breath, quiet but sharp, and his hands slipped lower, curling into the fabric of your dress. with one slow, aching pull, he dragged it higher, the hem gathering around your waist until the cool air touched your skin.
your pretty panties came into view, and his expression shiftedâdarkened, sharpened, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.
âsupposedly these ainât for me, huh?â he murmured, tracing the edge of the lace with a finger that felt far too gentle for the heat in his voice. âgood thing that fudginâ punk wonât get to see âem. he donât deserve a damn glimpse.â
he talked too muchâhe always had, but now his words were laced with something harsher, deeper. jealousy bleeding into hunger. anger into desire. it rolled off him in waves, each one hotter than the last.
you barely had time to think before you felt him press up against you again, harder this time, making your breath hitch.
boothillâs hand slid to your hip, gripping it firmly, guiding your body just a little closer as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.
âtell me what ya want, pretty girl,â he whispered, voice lower than youâd ever heard it. âiâll make it happenâon hell, i will.â
âyou, boothill. i want everything you have.â your whisper melts right against the shell of his ear, slow and sinful, your fingers already sliding over his wrist to guide his hand. you feel the way he tensesâjust for a heartbeatâbefore that familiar lazy grin curls against your skin.
âeager, are we?â his voice felt full of promise, full of hunger he doesnât bother hiding. he kisses along your neck, openâmouthed and warm, like he canât stand the idea of not touching you anymore. his hand follows the path of your own, moving down your stomach, over the hem of your underwear, untilâ
âmmh⊠there we are.â his fingers press into the soaked fabric. your hips jolt. you canât help it.
âya really been achinâ for it, huh?â he murmurs, thumb pressing right over your clothed clit, rubbing small circles that make your breath stutter. âdonâtcha worry, sugar. iâll make damn sure ya feel good. better than anyone else even dreamed of makinâ ya feel.â
you choke back a moan, but it slips out anywayâsoft, needy, desperate. boothill inhales it like itâs the sweetest thing heâs ever tasted, like the sound alone could get him drunk.
âthere she is⊠thatâs what i wanna hear.â he kisses your jaw, your throat, each one hungrier than the last. âdonât hold back on those pretty sounds, girl. no oneâs gonna hear us out here. ân even if they did?â he nips at your neck. âiâll make âem jealous. make âem wish they were the ones makinâ you beg.â
with one smooth motion, he pushes your panties aside, the cool air hitting your swollen heat right before he sinks one finger inside you. your breath catches, arms instinctively wrapping around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
âlook at ya,â he groans, pupils blown wide as he watches you take him in, âtakinâ me so easy⊠suckinâ me in like youâve been waitinâ on this for ages.â
his mouth is back on your throat, sucking, biting, claiming, as his finger moves deeperâthen he adds a second. the stretch burns just right, and your hips twitch toward him without you meaning to.
you donât know how heâs so good with his handsâhow he knows exactly where to press, how to curl, how to make your legs shakeâespecially when youâve never seen him with anyone else.
but he knows. he knows everything you need, like heâs been memorizing the idea of you long before he ever touched you.
you wanted to praise himâgod, you wanted to.
you wanted to tell him he was perfect, that he was ruining you in the best way, that nobody had ever, ever touched you like this. you wanted to scream about how good he made you feel, how every curl of his fingers hit that spot so deep it made your vision blur, your eyes roll back, your whole body tremble for him.
instead, you dragged his mouth to yours, desperate, messy, breathless.
he groaned into the kiss, hungryâlike heâd been waiting for you to break like this. he swallowed every sound you couldnât hold back, lips moving with yours, tongue slipping against yours as his fingers pumped faster, deeper, curling with wicked precision.
your walls clenched around him, tight, hard enough that he swore under his breath.
âoh, i felt that,â he murmured against your lips, smug and wrecked all at once. his fingers sped up, dragging moans right out of you. âcome on now, sugar. donât fight it.â
you couldnât.
your body betrayed you.
your breath hitched, your thighs shook, your arms wrapped around his neck like you needed him to stay right there, right inside you. your forehead pressed against his shoulder, and that was all the warning you could give before the orgasm slammed into youâsharp and hot and overwhelming.
âthatâs it,â boothill urged, voice a rasp in your ear, âc'mon girl, make a mess all over me.â
and god, you did.
you came with a sound you wouldâve been embarrassed about if you werenât too far gone to careâhalf gasp, half cry, all pleasure. you clenched tight around his fingers, soaking his hand as your whole body trembled in his hold.
he let out a stunned little laugh, half-delighted, half-in disbelief.
âwell, iâll be damnedâŠâ boothill drawled, slowing his fingers inside you, easing you through the aftershocks. âlook at ya⊠never seen someone fall apart so pretty.â
he kissed your temple, your cheek, your jawâsoft now, almost tender as he gave you a moment to breathe, his hand still between your legs, feeling every pulse of you coming down.
âfuck.â it slipped out of you, breathless and shaky. your chest lifted and fell fast, like you were still trying to remember how to breathe.
boothill laughed softly, a low, warm sound that wrapped around you. âwhatâcha sayinâ, sweetheart⊠am i good?â he teased, but there was something gentle under itâsomething proud, something almost tender. his free hand moved up to your head, brushing your hair back with a softness that didnât match the heat in his eyes.
when he pulled his fingers away, the sudden loss made you whimperâa tiny sound you immediately wished you could bury in your hands. his grin only widened at that. âaw, youâre gonna kill me if you keep doinâ that.â
he glanced down at his hand, coated in the proof of what heâd just done to you, and the light caught on the sheen. his eyebrows shot up like he couldnât quite believe itâeven after seeing it himself.
but the moment didnât last long.
because the pressure against your thigh was impossible to ignoreâhot, heavy, and unmistakably eager through the denim of his jeans.
you saw the realization in his eyes when he noticed that you noticed.
his gaze dropped to your thighs around him, then slowly dragged back up to your face. he didnât try to hide the hunger in his expression, or the way he bit the inside of his cheek like he was barely keeping himself grounded.
âwould ya care to be a cowgirl for a day, miss?â he asked, voice low and absolutely sinful.
before you could answer, he reached up, took off his hat, and gently placed it on your head. it dipped a little over your eyes, too big, too ridiculousâand boothillâs face broke into the softest, dumbest smile youâd ever seen on him.
ânow thatâs a sight,â he murmured, thumb brushing your cheekbone. âprettiest thing i ever laid eyes on.â
he leaned up, nose grazing yours, breath warm as he whispered:
âso? you takinâ the reins⊠or you want me to?â
âą a knight sworn to protect, and a heart he canât resist.
pairing! knight!phainon x princess!reader
warnings! angst, grief, character death, mourning, emotional breakdown, guilt, regret, trauma, despair, blood, death of a loved one, hopelessness, crying, vows of devotion, unrequited love, tragic ending, denial, emotional devastation, implied violence
a/n! 100 followers speciallll!!! hey guys im actually super angry at you because itâs been TOO long and i got almost no requests for the special đĄ???? at least do me a favor and enjoy this little phainon fic or else!!! sorry no g/n reader this timeâŠ
credits to @rawwwra for the idea
ââ .âŠ
okhemaâs princess⊠a being of light and gentleness, too soft to ever bring harm to anyone or anything. your laughter filled the palace halls, your kindness warmed the hearts of even the coldest souls. the people adored you, and the children followed you through the gardens like petals chasing the wind. yet, behind all the smiles and songs, jealousy brewed in the shadows. envy, as it always does, waited for its chance to strike.
after the first attempt on your lifeâa poisoned cup meant to steal your breathâthe king decided his beloved daughter needed constant protection.
knights were chosen, one after another. some were too tall, too broad, their presence alone enough to make you uneasy. others were too small, too frail, and you wondered how they were meant to defend anyone at all. day after day, you demanded new guards, new faces, new promises of safety. none felt right.
until phainon.
at first, you thought him a fool. those bright blue eyes, that easy grin that never seemed to leave his faceâyou couldnât understand how someone so carefree could protect anyone, let alone a princess. youâd even considered dismissing him before the week was over.
but then came the day you decided to wander beyond the palace walls, to gather berries in the nearby woods. your gown shimmered in the light, your crown glinted with jewels, and to passing eyes, you looked like treasure waiting to be claimed.
the thugs came fastâfaces rough, voices thick with greed, blades dull but deadly. they saw gold and weakness and thought it an easy prize.
phainon moved before you could even call his name. it wasnât thought, it wasnât dutyâit was instinct. in less than two minutes, the men were on the ground, groaning and bruised, their weapons scattered in the dirt. he stood over them, breathing steady, the sunlight glinting off his blade.
when the guards arrived to drag the would-be thieves away, phainon turned to you, that same small smile still on his lipsâonly now, it looked different. softer. sure.
you couldnât find words. you only stood there, your breath caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. and in that moment, deep down, you knewâyou had finally found your perfect knight.
it didnât take you long to get used to him. phainon, after all, was impossible not to grow fond of. he had that kind of warmth that filled every room he entered, a friendliness that never faltered. he waved at everyone who crossed his path, grinning wide enough to make strangers smile back, though that grin always disappeared the second you shot him a glare. youâd catch him helping the bakerâs son chase after a runaway loaf of bread, or retrieving a cat stuck on a rooftop, or mending a childâs broken toy with that same gentle patience. yet, no matter how distracted he seemed, his attention was always, unfailingly, fixed on you.
it didnât matter what kind of conversation or bargain he got caught up inâhe always knew when something was wrong. it was uncanny, almost unnerving. one look at your face, and he could tell if you were uncomfortable, anxious, or upset. it was as if those bright blue eyes of his could see right through you, peeling away the layers of practiced poise and grace until only your true feelings remained. sometimes you wondered if heâd been trained for thatâif the king had told him to study you like an open book. but other times, when you met his gaze and saw the quiet concern there, you realized it wasnât duty that made him see you so clearly. it was care.
âmy princess,â phainon said one afternoon, kneeling before you in the palace garden. the sun filtered through the pear trees, catching on the silver of his hair. he had one arm folded neatly behind his back, the other reaching for your hand. his gloved fingers brushed your skin as he bowed his head, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. his voice, soft and reverent, broke the silence. âiâve brought something for you.â
you tilted your head, lips curling into a faint, curious smile. âwhat is it, phainon?â you asked, your tone airy, teasing.
he rose to his feet, and that familiar smile of hisâwarm, foolish, radiantâfound its way back to his lips. from behind his back, he revealed a bouquet, carefully arranged and bound with silk ribbon. peoniesâpink, white, and soft as clouds.
âpeonies, my lady,â he said, his voice almost bashful now. âyou mentioned once that you adored them.â
you blinked, stunned for a moment that he had remembered something so small, so insignificant. you took the bouquet from him, brushing your fingertips against the petals, and the faintest warmth spread through your chest.
âyou remember far too much, sir knight,â you murmured.
he grinned, tilting his head just slightly, as if to hide the faint blush that crept across his cheeks. âitâs my duty to remember what makes my princess smile.â
and for the first time in a long while, you did.
âoh, phainonâŠâ you breathed out his name like it was a secret, before practically throwing yourself into his arms. the bouquet was crushed between you for half a second before he laughed, shifting it out of the way.
âhey, heyâcareful with the flowers!â he chuckled, his voice soft with amusement. one hand held the bouquet away from you, the other instinctively finding the small of your back, steadying you as though you were something fragile, something sacred.
you didnât notice the way his breath caught. didnât see the quiet war behind his eyes.
phainon knew it was wrongâknew that a knightâs heart wasnât meant to belong to the one he servedâbut gods, how could he not love you? you were everything he wasnât. gentle where he was hardened, bright where he was scarred. in his eyes, you were something divineâan angel made flesh, a goddess who somehow laughed and stumbled and called his name like it meant something.
and every passing day made it worse. unbearable, even. every time you tugged at his arm and dragged him through the palace halls; every time you laughed at something trivial, that soft sound melting into the air; every time you leaned a little too close, or smiled just for himâhis heart would stutter, and his resolve would crumble a little more.
âphainon! phainon! look at these!â
your voiceâbright, excited, aliveâpulled him from his thoughts. before he could answer, you were already tugging him through the crowd, weaving between merchants and villagers until you stopped in front of a small trinket stand.
âwhich, my lady?â he asked, pretending he hadnât nearly tripped over his own boots trying to keep up with you.
âhere!â you pointed at a small wooden carvingâtwo shapes entwined: a sun and a moon. your eyes gleamed as you picked it up. âit fits us, doesnât it? iâll be the moon to your sun!â you clapped your hands, nearly bouncing in place, your joy radiant and unrestrained.
phainon couldnât help it. he smiled, that soft, helpless kind of smile he only ever wore around you. âweâre in public, my ladyâŠâ he murmured, leaning closer, his tone meant to sound stern. but the grin tugging at his lips betrayed him completely.
still, he paid for the trinket without hesitation. you took the little sun charm and clasped it to the side of his armor, right above the hilt of his sword.
âso youâll never forget me, phainon.â your voice dropped into something softer, almost shy, though your eyes still sparkled when they met his.
he looked down at youâat the moonlight glow of your smileâand something in his chest ached so deeply he almost forgot how to breathe.
âas if i ever could,â he murmured, too quiet for you to hear.
the streets of okhema bustled with life around you: laughter, songs, merchants shouting their wares, children chasing after ribbons in the wind. to everyone else, it was the beauty of the kingdom that shone that day.
but to phainon, the beauty of okhema wasnât in its golden towers or its blooming gardens. it was youâlaughing, unguarded, your hand still holding his.
one night, when the moon hung low over okhema and the crickets were humming softly in the royal garden, you called for him.
âphainon,â your voice carried through the quiet, delicate as a whisper.
he arrived quickly, as he always didâboots pressing into the damp grass, armor glinting faintly in the moonlight. he looked almost otherworldly like that, his blue eyes reflecting the stars, his expression alert yet softened at the sight of you. he was always at your serviceâday or night, no matter the hour or reason.
âtake a seat, please.â you patted the spot beside you, your hand brushing over the cool blades of grass.
for a moment, he hesitatedâthen obeyed, lowering himself beside you. the faint clink of his armor filled the silence before it faded into the sound of the wind passing through the trees.
âphainon,â you began again, your voice quieter now, more fragile. your gaze remained fixed on the garden aheadâon the roses that gleamed faintly silver in the moonlight. âdo you ever wish that i was a simple citizen?â
the question caught him off guard. his head turned toward you, confusion and something softer flashing in his eyes. he blinked, let out a short, nervous laugh, as if to hide the unease stirring in his chest.
âwhy would you ask me that, my lady?â he tried to sound casual, but the words stumbled out too quickly.
you looked at him then, and his heart stilled. there was something in your expression that tore at himâyour lips trembling, your lashes heavy with unshed tears.
âoh, phainonâŠâ your voice cracked, the sound barely reaching him before you looked away, eyes on the stars instead of him. âi wish i wasnât just a thing you protect.â
you drew in a shaky breath, fingers curling in the grass. âi want to live a simple lifeâone where i wouldnât have to fear for my own. one where i could walk through the streets of okhema without guards at my side, without whispers following me.â
phainon didnât speak. he couldnât. the ache in his chest was too heavy, too consuming. he wanted to tell you that you werenât a thing to himâthat you never had been. he wanted to tell you that in his eyes, you were the heart of the kingdom itself.
but knights werenât meant to speak such truths.
so he sat there, beside you in the moonlight, silent and still, listening as the princess he loved quietly dreamed of a life she could never have.
âthe people love you, my lady.â
phainonâs voice was steady, but his heart wavered beneath the words. he wanted to say moreâto tell you that it wasnât just the people who adored you. that their devotion, their songs, their cheers, were nothing compared to the quiet, aching love he carried for you. but knights were not meant to love their princesses, and so the words stayed buried, where only the stars could hear them.
you gave a faint smile, though it didnât reach your eyes. âand what difference does that make, my knight? itâs enough for one to act upon their hatred, and itâs all gone.â
your voice was soft, heartbreakingly soft, yet the weight of your words pressed against him like a blade to the chest.
phainonâs breath caught. he looked up at the sky, as if the stars might whisper the right thing to say. but the stars were silentâcold witnesses to a love he could never name. they only glimmered faintly, distant and untouchable, though none of their light could rival the warmth he felt for you.
before he could think twice, phainon turned to you, falling to one knee. the motion was sudden, almost desperate, the sound of his armor brushing against the grass breaking the stillness of the night.
âi swear iâll protect you with all i have, my lady!â his voice trembled, filled with sincerity, his head bowed, one hand pressed firmly against his chest. if he could, he thought, he would rip out his heart and place it in your palmsâbecause it already belonged to you.
you blinked in surprise, then a soft laugh escaped your lips, light and pure as the sound of bells. âoh, phainonâŠâ
you leaned closer, your hand brushing through his hair, the soft strands catching the moonlight. he closed his eyes at the touch, his entire being stilling under your gentle fingers.
âyou donât have to swear.â
your hand moved, tracing the side of his face, your thumb brushing the curve of his cheek as you tilted his head up until his gaze met yours. your eyes glowed faintly in the pale light, calm and warm and kind.
âi believe you will,â you whispered.
and for a momentâjust one fleeting momentâphainon allowed himself to believe that his vow, and the love behind it, were enough to keep you safe forever.
but gentle moments like these donât last forever.
perhaps phainon should have known that. he was a knight, after allâsworn to protect, trained to fight, built to face loss. yet, no oath or armor could have ever prepared him for this.
your words from that night in the gardenââitâs enough for one to act upon their hatred, and itâs all goneââechoed through his mind like a prophecy heâd failed to stop. they rang in his ears the same moment he saw the blood, the crowd, the stillness that hung over the square.
he was too late.
âshit!â the word ripped from his throat before he even realized heâd said it. his body moved on instinctâpushing through the crowd, shoving past the guards who were too slow, too stunned to react. his heart thundered in his chest, each beat heavier than the last.
then he saw you.
the princess of okhemaâthe one he had sworn his life to, the one whose laughter had filled his soul with lightâlay sprawled across the cold stone street. your white gown, the one embroidered with silver threads that shimmered under sunlight, was now ruinedâsoaked through with blood that painted the cobblestones beneath you.
his breath caught. for a second, the world tilted and time fractured. everythingâevery sound, every motionâfell away until there was only you.
âprincess!â his voice cracked, desperate, disbelieving. he stumbled forward, fell to his knees beside you, gathering your frail, trembling body into his arms. his hands shook as he brushed the blood from your face, his touch trembling with panic. âno, no, no⊠pleaseâplease, iâm here,â he murmured, the words tumbling out, broken and helpless.
you stirred faintly, your lips parting. âoh, phainonâŠâ
your voice was weak, fragileâbarely there, yet enough to tear through every wall heâd ever built. he pressed his forehead to the crown of your head, his arms tightening around you as though his embrace alone could shield you from death itself.
âyouâre going to be fine,â he whispered, his voice shaking. âweâll get you to a doctor, weâllââ his words faltered as he realized how much blood there was, how cold your hands felt in his. âplease⊠stay with me longer,â he begged, rocking you gently.
the crowd had gathered closer, their whispers rising like wind through leaves, but phainon didnât hear them. he saw only you. his world began and ended in your fading eyes.
your hand, trembling and slick with blood, lifted weakly toward his face. he caught it instantly, cradling it against his cheek, as if the warmth of your skin could still be saved.
âphainonâŠâ your voice was a whisper on the wind. âdo you still have the charm?â
his chest broke open at the sound. his throat burned with grief, but he nodded, tears spilling freely, streaking down his dirt-stained cheeks. âi do, my lady,â he said, his voice raw, cracking. âi do. i keep it with me, always.â
a faint smile curved your lipsâa shadow of the radiant one he loved so dearly. âiâm gladâŠâ you whispered.
and then, the light left your eyes.
it happened so quietly that for a moment, phainon refused to believe it. he waitedâwaited for a breath, a blink, a twitch of your fingersâbut there was nothing. the world stopped moving, the air froze, and in that stillness, reality finally struck.
ânoâŠâ the word broke from him, hollow, strangled. âno, pleaseââ
he pulled you closer, pressing your head against his chest, as though his heartbeat might convince yours to return. âwake up,â he begged under his breath, voice trembling between sobs. âplease, just⊠wake up.â
but your body was limp. the warmth was fading.
his tears fell onto your dress, mixing with the blood already staining the silk. he rocked you gently, the way heâd once seen you cradle an injured bird in your hands.
the crowd stayed silent nowâsome crying quietly, others watching with sorrowful eyes. the guards lowered their weapons, their heads bowed. even the wind seemed to still, carrying only the faint rustle of your hair against phainonâs trembling hand.
âyou canât leave me,â he whispered, his voice breaking. âyou canât⊠not you.â
but the night gave him no answer.
the moon hung cold and indifferent above, the same moon that had once watched the two of you share laughter beneath its light. now it looked cruelâtoo bright, too aliveâmocking the emptiness spreading through him.
and as he held you tighter, all that remained was the weight of your body in his arms, the ghost of your last smile, and the charm you had given himâa small carving of the sun and moon, now stained with both your blood.
phainon pressed it to his heart and wept until his voice was gone.
and in the quiet that followed, okhema lost not only its princessâbut its brightest light.
the days that followed were nothing short of hollow.
phainon didnât remember much of them. the hours bled togetherâmorning into night, night into morningâeach one stretching endlessly, like time itself refused to move forward without you.
they buried you beneath the grand oak in the royal gardens, the one you used to sit under every afternoon, laughing about the shapes the clouds made. youâd once said it was your favorite spot in all of okhemaââbecause itâs the only place that always feels alive.â
now it felt like the loneliest place in the world.
phainon stood by your grave long after everyone else had gone. the king, silent and broken; the courtiers, whispering prayers; the people, weeping in disbelief. they all left. but he stayed. armor still stained with your blood, sword still sheathed at his side, hands trembling as he traced your name carved into the marble stone.
the beloved princess of okhema.
he thought the words were wrong. they didnât capture what you wereâhow your laughter made flowers bloom, how you smiled at every soul, how your presence alone could make a place feel like home.
âyou were more than that,â phainon whispered, voice raw. âyou were everything.â
his hands clenched around the little wooden charmâthe one youâd bought for him at the market, the one that had once gleamed against the metal of his armor. now the carving of the sun was darkened, dulled, and sticky where your blood had dried on it. still, he couldnât let it go.
he pressed it to his heart, just as he had the day you died, and sank to his knees before your grave.
the earth was soft, the grass still damp from morning dew. he didnât care that it soaked through his clothes, didnât care that his voice cracked when he spoke again.
âyou told me not to swear, remember?â phainon murmured, a bitter smile twitching at his lips. âyou said you believed i would protect you. and iââ his words broke apart, the grief clawing up his throat until he couldnât breathe. âi failed you, my lady.â
his shoulders shook. the tears came again, unstoppable, soaking into the soil beneath him.
he stayed there through the night, through the rain that came softly at first, then harder, until the garden was shrouded in mist. thunder rolled in the distance, and still, he didnât move.
every flash of lightning illuminated the gold of his armor, dulled now, heavy with mud and grief. his lips moved, whispering your name again and again, as if saying it could summon you back.
but the silence never answered.
by dawn, the rain had eased, leaving the air cold and heavy. phainon was still kneeling, soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his forehead. his eyes were red, hollow.
he reached forward one last time, his fingers brushing over the stone that marked your resting place. âi would have given my life for yours,â he whispered, the words barely audible. âgladly. without a second thought.â
a small breeze stirred the leaves above, and for a heartbeat, he could almost believe it was youâlaughing softly, like before.
but when he opened his eyes again, there was only the garden, quiet and gray.
from that day on, phainon was never the same. he still wore the royal crest, still carried his swordâbut the light in him had gone out.
wherever he walked, the people would whisper of himâthe golden knight whose heart had died with the princess of okhema.
and at night, when the city slept, he would return to the oak tree, sit beside your grave, and speak to you as though you could hear him.
telling you about the stars. about how the kingdom missed you. about how he wished he could trade places.
and always, before he left, heâd place the little sun-and-moon charm on the ground, whispering, âso iâll never forget you.â
then heâd pick it back upâbecause forgetting you was the one thing he could never do.
second part to straight attraction is here YESSSSS
i love it i love the dialouge. idk i just think anaxa deserves to be tortured and then loved more. make tjis man feel things
IM SO HAPPY YOU LOVE IT AHHHHHDJDJDH
yes i agree anaxa is so annoying he deserves to break down, but then AGAIN⊠does he? đ€
i actually emptied my brain of any anaxa ideas LMAO. sooooo if youâre thinking about something i trust you and i will take your request into consideration⊠wink wink (please send more anaxa reqs)
a/n! hereâs a lil hsr fluff for you guys bc you deserve the best n iâve been slacking off lately LMAO this is super short but please enjoy <3
ââ .âŠ
mydeimos, who lets you borrow his hoodie or jacket, and pretends not to mind it but he does. whenever you and mydei go out and the air bites at your skin, you end up shivering and nudging him for his jacket. he always sighs, rolls his eyes, and drapes it over your shoulders like itâs the biggest inconvenience in the world, muttering something about how youâll freeze him to death. but in truth, he finds it unbearably endearingâthe way his jacket swallows you whole, sleeves dangling past your hands, the fabric hanging too loose on your frame. he never gets cold, not really, but he makes a point of always bringing a jacket, knowing full well youâll ask for it before the night is through.
phainon, who brings your favorite snacks or drinks without you asking. you and phainon spend countless evenings curled up together watching movies, shows, or whatever series you stumble upon. and never once does he come empty-handed. thereâs always somethingâa chocolate bar you fell in love with after trying once, a bag of chips he noticed you hoard by your bedside, or even the drink he originally bought for himself but quickly surrendered when you decided you liked it better. you never have to ask for anything; he remembers on his own. every time he goes out for groceries, he somehow returns with your favorite snacks and drinks tucked away in the bags, like itâs second nature to think of you before himself.
blade, who keeps an eye on you in crowded spaces, hand on your back to guide you through. crowded places have never sat well with bladeâtoo many bodies, too much noise, too many unknown hands brushing past. but if youâre with him, he refuses to let you out of his sight. sure, he knows he could always find you, but heâd rather not take the risk. he keeps you close, a steady hand guiding you through the sea of people, his presence a shield against the chaos. if someone dares shove into you, blade doesnât hesitate to shove back, muttering curses under his breath and throwing sharp, venomous glares at anyone bold enough to complain. all he wants is for you to walk without worry, to breathe without fearâbecause if youâre beside him, nothing else matters.
boothill, who pulls you closer if itâs cold or lightly adjusts your scarf or jacket. he canât stand the sight of you shivering, not even for a second. boothill knows you get cold far too easily, so heâs made it his quiet mission to keep you warm. his arm finds its way around your shoulders, tugging you close against him as if he could shield you from the wind itself. he slips your hand into his own, tucking it into his pocket where his warmth can seep into your fingers. he even fusses over your scarf or jacket, adjusting it carefully until your throat and chest are properly covered, muttering little remarks under his breath like some overprotective grandmother. it isnât dramaticsâitâs simply that he cares. he doesnât want you catching a chill, doesnât want you sick. keeping you warm is his way of loving you.
dan heng, who always sends a âdid you get home safe?â text after you leave. it doesnât matter if dan heng himself walks you right up to your doorstep, waits until youâve unlocked the door, and even hears the faint click of it shutting behind youâheâll still text you later, did you get home safe? itâs never about doubting what heâs seen; itâs about reassurance, about that final confirmation that nothing slipped past him, that youâre truly where you should be. if thereâs even the slightest chance of trouble, heâll do anything to keep any unwanted eyes far from you, making sure the night is quiet and unbothered in your presence. youâve grown used to his messages, those gentle check-ins, but the comfort they bring never fades. each one is proof that he wonât rest easy until he knows youâre safeâand only then can he allow himself to sleep.
sunday, who notices when youâre stressed and quietly helps. he canât stand sitting back and watching you wear yourself down. sunday knows youâd rather not pile your worries onto him, that you try to handle everything alone, but he also knows the toll it takes. so he steps in quietly, never making a scene of itâcarrying heavy bags before you can protest, running small errands you forgot about, taking care of chores without asking. to him, actions speak louder than words. if easing your burden means scrubbing through a mountain of dishes or cooking enough meals to fill the whole week, heâll do it without hesitation. because for sunday, seeing you restâtruly restâis worth more than anything else.
dr. ratio, who listensâlike really listensâand remembers things you said weeks ago. youâd think veritas would be too absorbed in his papers, calculations, and endless research to care about your rambling, but he never misses a word. while his quill scratches against parchment or his eyes skim numbers, heâs quietly memorizing every detail of your day. later, heâll bring them up when youâve forgotten, reminding you of things you didnât even realize you mentioned. when youâre uncertain, he offers measured advice, subtle tips woven into his calm responses. he pretends heâs too busy, acts like his work is all-consumingâbut the truth is, heâd rather hear your voice than drown in ink and numbers.
anaxa, who checks your expressions to know how youâre feeling, even if you donât say it. he had always been unnervingly perceptive, able to peel people apart with a single glanceâbut with you, it was different. anaxa didnât need your words, didnât need you to stumble through half-explained feelings or hide behind excuses. he knew you too well, every subtle shift in your expression, every twitch of your brows, every falter in your voice. to him, you were an open book, one heâd studied so thoroughly that even your silence spoke volumes. it didnât matter if you tried to mask itâhe always knew exactly what you were feeling.
argenti, who makes sure you eat or drink water when you forget. argenti had always been unfailingly gentle with you. he was there through everythingâsteady, constant, a quiet anchor you could always lean on. whenever life piled too much on your shoulders and you lost track of your own needs, he was the one whoâd softly remind you to eat, to drink, to pause and breathe. sometimes heâd even press a glass of water to your lips or hold a spoon for you himself, his touch light but insistent. in moments like those, you couldnât help but think he was the kind of man anyone would be lucky to haveâthe kind of man youâd never thought youâd find.
aventurine, who memorizes the little things you like and surprises you with them. he had always been so considerate with you, never once forgetting your needs or wants. heâd put on your favorite song in the car without a second thought, humming along just to make you smile. he always ordered your favorite coffee without even needing to ask, remembering the exact way you liked it. he wore the cologne you adored because he knew it lingered on your clothes and comforted you even when he wasnât around. aventurineâs memory was sharp, but when it came to you it felt like he noticed everythingâthe little things no one else ever did. and every time, you were left surprised by just how much he cared, how much space you seemed to take up in his thoughts without even trying.
you thought he wanted to outdo you, but what he really wanted was to break you and keep every piece for himself.
pairing! anaxa x g/n!reader
warnings! emotional collapse/breakdown, intense arguments, verbal conflict and sharp language, themes of love-hate relationship, mentions of regret/self-loathing
a/n! UGH THIS TOOK SO LONG TO POST IM SO SORRY Y'ALL!!!! i didn't want to leave u all hanging like that but i got so busy with other things that i completely forgot ab anaxa LMFAO... i love you all accept my apology with this super cute continuation!! have a great time reading and remember to check out my 100 follower special post (PLEASE send more requests) <3
additional note: im sorry for no wc its super tough to do it on mobile đ
âââ ââ â
anaxa had been restless ever since your last encounter, a caged beast gnawing at its own chains. and it was your fault. you were the reason he paced his room like a wolf denied the hunt, the reason his nights stretched long and sleepless, his head clouded with the taste of you, the ghost of your touch. heâd stared into mirrors more than ever, searching for proof that your lips had been real, that youâd left something behind. but there was nothing. nothing, except the gnawing, humiliating ache that youâof all peopleâhad left him with.
never in his life had the great mastermind felt so undone. humiliated, he called it. you dared to begin and not finish, to spark a fire and then walk away? the thought alone made his heart pound too fast, his thoughts scatter like dice across a table. his thesis, his carefully crafted speeches, the endless work that once consumed himânow meaningless, paling against the one thing that occupied every corner of his mind.
you.
you, who refused to quit, no matter how many times he beat you down. you, who clawed your way back every time he thought youâd stay down. you, who haunted him even when he denied it, whose name he bit back when silence was supposed to rule. you, who sat in the crowd during his speech, but felt closer than the words in his mouth. you, who slipped past his defenses and stole something he never thought heâd lose. his composure. his heart.
and gods help him, he needed youâmore than victory, more than pride, more than reason itself.
anaxa had never thought he could come undone so easily. not in the middle of some crisis, not in front of his peers, not in any lecture hall or debate stage. and yetâby a single touch, a fleeting kissâyou had broken him. fractured him.
you were at fault.
and you were the only one who could fix it.
the next time you met was in the library, late again. he didnât look up when you entered. not once. his shoulders went stiff, his pen stilled for half a second before he forced it back into motion. when you spoke, his replies came in short, muttered fragmentsââyes,â âno,â âfine.â not the eloquence you were used to, not the sharp lectures or condescending explanations. this wasnât hate. no matter how he tried to cloak it, no matter how he bit his tongue bloody, it wasnât hate.
if it had been, it wouldâve been easier.
every breath you took set him off balance. every time you leaned in close to scan a page over his shoulder, he swore he could feel the air crackle with heat. his throat went dry, his pen slipped in his fingers, his skin burned hot under your proximity. he had always been so controlled, so perfectly measured. now, he was a storm caged in too small a body.
and you?
you knew. you knew better than he did what effect you had on him, and you wielded it like a weapon. you wanted to torture him, to let the creeping madness climb his veins until it reached his brilliant mind and cracked it wide open. you wanted him to suffer, the same way you had sufferedâsleepless nights, clenched fists, silent tears over the years he kept you in his shadow. you could never surpass him in wit or intellect, but you had found the one thing he had no defense against: his feelings.
feelingsâno matter how sharp the mind, no matter how strong the willâwere wild things. uncontrollable, unyielding, merciless. feelings were anaxaâs weak spot. and tonight, you meant to strike it.
of course, you werenât immune. you felt the same tug in your chest, the same fire in your blood when he was near. but unlike him, you werenât blinded by ego. you knew how to bend those feelings, how to twist them until they worked for you. anaxa, for all his genius, hadnât yet learned. maybe because heâd convinced himself for so long that he was untouchable, unreachable, that his heart was carved from ice and no flame could melt it.
but he was wrong.
so very wrong.
and youâyou would be the one to prove it.
because you werenât just his rival anymore.
you were his undoing.
âanaxa,â you breathed, soft and careful, leaning in so that your lips nearly brushed the shell of his ear. âyou miscalculated.â
the words were a dagger wrapped in silk, meant to pierce, meant to draw that reaction you craved. and oh, it workedâhis shoulders stiffened, his pen halted mid-sentence. for the briefest moment, you felt his composure slip.
âanaxagoras,â he corrected, voice sharp, precise, as if lengthening his name could serve as armor. âand i did not miscalculate. perhaps you should consider an examination for those failing eyes of yours.â
his wit was there, brittle though it sounded, splintering under your proximity. his brilliant mind was faltering, tangled in the simplest of traps: your closeness.
you smiled, tilting your head so your lips ghosted near his cheek as you leaned just a little closer. âisn't it funny? you always pride yourself on your vision, donât you? yet here you are⊠blind to the obvious.â
he turned then, finally, eyes locking onto yours with that icy, cutting precision that had silenced countless debate halls. but now? there was something behind it, something burning, restless, betraying him. âand what, pray tell, is so obvious to you?â
your smirk widened. âthat youâre unraveling.â
his laugh was low, strained, almost incredulous. âunraveling? hardly. if anything, youâre the one losing yourself. you hover too close, you whisper nonsense in my ear⊠itâs desperation, not strategy.â
âoh?â you arched a brow, meeting his gaze unflinching. âthen tell me, anaxagoras, why is your hand trembling?â
his jaw tightened. too slow, far too slow, he pulled his hand from the pageâfingers indeed trembling, though faintly. he curled them into a fist, hiding the betrayal of his body. âcaffeine,â he muttered, too curt, too quick.
you leaned back just enough to let silence stretch like a noose, before you laughedâsoft, cruel, intoxicating. âyou can lie to me, anaxa. but can you lie to yourself?â
the corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. he hated it. he hated that you could see through him, hated that your words clung to his skin, hated that your nearness set him ablaze.
and you? you thrived on it. because in this battle of wills, you had found his weakness at last.
"anaxa," you repeated with mischief, drawing the name out as though it were a private jest meant only for the two of you. your lips curved in a smile he could not see, but could certainly feel. "it suits you betterâshort, sharp, easy to whisper when i lean so close."
his jaw tightened, his hand still gripping the quill that hovered over parchment filled with his immaculate notes. "anaxagoras," he corrected again, this time slower, as though savoring the syllables himself. "a name is not a trinket you may twist into something careless. it carries weight, history, precisionâqualities you lack when you turn it into your plaything."
you tilted your head, eyes glinting with amusement. "plaything? so you do admit iâve managed to toy with you."
he shot you a look over his shoulder, those piercing eyes flashing with both irritation and something suspiciously close to fascination. "toying implies success. all i see is a distraction clawing at my focus. my work requires clarity, not⊠this." he gestured vaguely at your proximity, though the movement betrayed how acutely aware he was of the warmth of your breath still grazing the shell of his ear.
"and yet," you murmured, lowering your voice until it nearly brushed his skin, "your quill hasnât moved in minutes. what has become of that famed clarity, anaxa? it seems terribly fragile in my presence."
the silence that followed was taut, strung like the string of a bow. he inhaled slowly, as though steadying himself, before replying with careful disdain, "do not flatter yourself. the mind bends not because you breathe too close. it bends because it calculates something you could never grasp."
you leaned even closer, daring him to break first, your lips curving in a taunting smile. "then perhaps, anaxagoras, you should teach me. or⊠are you afraid iâll see through your calculations, and prove you wrong again?"
his eyes narrowed, the sharp edge of his wit flaring back to life. "if you proved me wrong, little tormentor, the very laws of the cosmos would unravel. and yet here they stand, intact. what does that say of your efforts?"
your laugh was soft, melodic, cutting the tension in the air but never dissolving it. "it says," you whispered, "that i will not stop until i see you unravel before me instead."
"and how do you plan on doing that?" his voice wavered just slightly, betraying the storm of thoughts racing through himâthoughts that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with you. the mere idea of your hands, your lips, the way you toyed with him, sent his pulse spiraling.
you said nothing at first, letting the silence stretch between you, teasing him with the patience of a predator. then, deliberately, your lips ghosted over his jaw, the curve of his cheek, mirroring the dance of that night he couldnât forget.
this time, you didnât stop there. your hand swept the papers from the desk with a decisive gesture, breaking the barrier between him and you, forcing his fingers from the quill. with one fluid motion, your palm cupped the side of his face, tilting it toward you, clearing the path to the one place you desired mostâhis lips.
and when they met yours, the world seemed to fracture. the intensity, the tension, the subtle undercurrent of rivalry, vanished in an instant, leaving only the raw, unyielding need between you. your lips moved against his with a precision that was almost scientific, yet entirely intimate, tilting, pressing, coaxing him to respond.
and respond he did. anaxa, the unshakable, the master of manipulation, the mind everyone envied, gave himself to you. his hands pressed against your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, as though your absence were an unbearable threat. his heart thundered in his chest, deafening and chaotic, each beat a confession he could not voice.
your tongue brushed against his, tentative at first, exploring, testing, and a soundâlow, almost unintentionalâescaped him. the great anaxa, the strategist, the intellectual titan of the university, was no longer plotting or calculating. he was here, beneath you, surrendering, desperate for the next breath, the next taste, the next moment.
it didnât take long for his mind to register what was happeningâwhat abomination he thought he was committingâand as desperately as his fingers dug into your waist, dragging you closer like a drowning man to a lifeline, his hands betrayed him. they pressed against you, trembling, and pushed you away as if you were fire and he, wax, melting under your heat.
his breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling like heâd just run a race. his pupils were blown wide, black eclipsing the sharp color of his eye. his lipsâwet, red, still parted from your kissâmade him look feral, untamed. and yet, his expression was the worst part. it wasnât hatred. it wasnât disgust. it was something far more complicated: hunger warping into fear, want entangled with guilt. the kind of look that made you want to grab him by his collar and shake him, scream at him, or kiss him until the uncertainty shattered.
âthis is insane. thisââ he broke off, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth like he could erase what had just happened. his voice cracked, but his words came sharp. âthis shouldnât have happened. nothing shouldâve happened.â
your eyes narrowed, a hot, sharp ache forming in your chest like someone had driven a blade right through you. âshouldnât have happened?â you echoed, your voice trembling between anger and hurt. âyou gave me signs, anaxa. signs no one could ignore. you told me that nightââ
âthat night shouldnât have happened either.â he cut you off before you could finish, his voice lower, colder, slicing through the air like glass. âi wasnât in the right mind. iâm not in the right mind now. youââ he exhaled hard, his jaw tightening as though the words themselves pained him. âyou messed it up. you messed me up.â
you took a step back, your arms falling uselessly to your sides as your brows furrowed. your pulse was hammering in your ears, your throat thick with something that felt like betrayal. âis that what this is all about?â you demanded, your voice breaking even as you tried to keep it sharp. âyou regret kissing me back because you werenât in your right mind? thatâs it? thatâs all this was to you?â
âi didnâtââ he began, his voice catching the instant he saw the pain flare in your eyes. his carefully curated mask of control faltered, and for the first time in what felt like forever, he looked small, undone. âi didnât meanâi donât understandâi canâtâmy mind keeps telling me to push you away, but myââ he swallowed, a strangled, almost desperate noise escaping him, ââmy heart, itâs screaming for you. itâit refuses to obey reason. i canât⊠i canât make it stop.â
but you werenât having it. the soft tremor of his words only fueled the fire burning behind your gaze. âdonât,â you said, and though your voice was quieter, each syllable struck him like forged steel. âdonât dareâdonât you dare try to justify yourself, anaxagoras. donât try to paint this chaos as anything but what it is. youâve been selfish. youâve been blind. youâve beenââ your chest tightened, the words choking slightly on the rawness of your emotions, ââa tyrant of your own heart, incapable of seeing beyond your own ego.â
he rose from his seat, the motion hesitant, almost cautious, and reached toward you with that awkward, desperate grace he always seemed to reserve for moments that truly mattered. his fingers trembled as they extended, seeking connection, seeking forgiveness, seeking whatever it was he couldnât name.
but you recoiled, your hand cutting through the air between you like a blade, swatting his gesture away as if it were a swarm of bees. âyou are a disgrace, anaxagoras,â you continued, each word measured, careful, laced with venom tempered by sorrow. âa pitiful fool hiding behind intellect and wit. a man who cannot, will not, allow anyone else to matter. you play at superiority, at control, yet here you are, undone by the very thing you have spent your life denyingâemotion, vulnerability, the truth of your own heart.â
his jaw tightened, the flicker of shame and rage battling behind his eyes, and for a moment, he said nothing. the silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, until he finally broke it. âi am notâi am not merely selfish,â he said, his voice low, quivering with restrained tension. âi⊠i am careful. precise. i calculate. every word, every action, i consider. you think this is simple for me? that i am some puppet of desire? do you not understand the war inside me?â
âthe war inside you?â you echoed, incredulous, shaking your head. âthis war has been raging for both of us, anaxagoras, and youâve chosen to pretend it doesnât exist. you manipulate, you scheme, you outthink everyone, yet with me, with me, your walls crumble. you think that makes you clever? no. it makes you pathetic. it makes you weak. and worst of all, it makes me hurt.â
he flinched at your words, the truth of them striking him harder than any blow. his hands twitched, unsure whether to reach for you or retreat, and his lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. finally, he exhaled sharply, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. âyou do not understand,â he said, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear. âi have spent my life controlling, mastering, commanding. and now, youâjust youâupend all of it with a glance, a word, a touch. it is maddening. it is unbearable. and yet, i cannot turn away. i cannot.â
you took a step closer, and even in your anger, your voice softened, trembling slightly. âand yet, you try to push me away. you cannot have it both ways, anaxagoras. you cannot claim control while denying what burns inside you. you cannot call yourself a master of intellect if your heart rules you so completely. thisââ you gestured between you, the charged air heavy with desire and resentment, ââthis is on you. do not dare pretend otherwise.â
his shoulders slumped just slightly, and for the first time, he looked truly small, vulnerable in a way that terrified and thrilled you all at once. the tension in the room was palpable, a tightrope stretched between intellect and desire, pride and surrender. and there he stood, the great anaxagoras, undone not by argument, not by reason, but by something far more terrifyingâfeelings.
âyou think me pathetic,â he said at last, his voice a low growl, restrained but shaking at the edges. âyou think me weak. perhaps you are right. perhaps for the first time in my life, i am undoneâand it is by you. but do not mistake my unraveling for surrender. i will not be commanded by feelings.â
you arched a brow, anger mixing with a cruel sort of satisfaction. âbut here you are, letting them command you all the same. every word you say betrays you, anaxagoras. your hands tremble, your breath stumbles, your eyesââ you stepped closer, your voice lowering to a near-whisper, ââyour eyes scream at me what your lips are too proud to admit.â
he flinched, and for once, had no sharp retort. instead, he looked away, his gaze falling on the scattered papers across the table as if they might save him from the truth. his silence was telling, and you seized it.
âyouâve built your life on control,â you continued, pacing slowly, like a predator circling its prey. âcontrol over your studies, over your rivals, over your reputation. but you canât control me. and that terrifies you, doesnât it?â
anaxaâs head snapped back toward you, eyes burning with a mix of fury and desperation. âyou are not my undoing,â he hissed, though the tremor in his voice betrayed him. âyou are⊠you are a distraction. a dangerous one. i cannot affordââ
âcannot afford what?â you cut in sharply. âcannot afford to feel? to want? to let yourself be human for once in your insufferable, perfect life?â
the words struck him like blows, and his jaw clenched so tightly you thought it might break. âyou do not understand what it means to be me,â he finally ground out. âto bear the weight of expectation, the unyielding need to excel, to surpass. feelingsâthey have no place in that world. they weaken. they destroy.â
you took another step forward until you stood almost chest to chest, your voice softer now, though no less sharp. âyet you feel them. you feel them for me. you can deny it with your words, but your heart, your body, every stolen glance, every faltered breathâthey betray you. you are not as untouchable as you believe, anaxagoras. you never were.â
his lips parted, his breath shallow, as if he were caught between the urge to kiss you and the urge to flee. his hands hovered in the air before curling into fists at his sides, the war inside him tearing him apart.
âyou drive me mad,â anaxa whispered, finally breaking, his voice hoarse with rawness he could no longer contain. âevery thought, every hour, you invade me. i cannot work, i cannot sleep, i cannot think without you crawling through my mind like some⊠some fever.â he swallowed hard, chest heaving. âand i despise it. i despise you. and iââ his voice cracked, softer now, âi cannot stop wanting you.â
your heart clenched at his confession, anger and longing crashing inside you like waves. you searched his face, the rawness in his eyes, the conflict etched into every line of him.
âyouâre a coward, anaxagoras,â you whispered, your words laced with a trembling fury that made the air between you crackle. âa coward to feeling, to wanting, to being human.â you drew a sharp breath, your voice rising despite yourself. âyouâre shackled to your pride, enslaved to your ego. all this timeââ you gestured wildly, as if trying to fling the ache out of your chest, âall this time i thought you only found pleasure in watching me fail, in seeing me stumble at every attempt to surpass you. that it thrilled you to stand above me and smirk while i fell.â
anaxaâs lips parted as if to interrupt, but before he could form a sound, your palm came down hard on the table with a sharp crack that echoed through the room. âi will not fail this time, anaxagoras!â
he recoiled at the soundâjust a fraction, but enough for you to see it. his uncovered eye went wide, the usual cold brilliance replaced by something raw, something almost frightened. for an instant, he looked as though he might faint, as though your presenceâyour voice, your nearnessâwas an unbearable weight pressing him into the earth.
his hand moved instinctively to the back of the chair, knuckles whitening as he gripped it like an anchor, a man drowning and grasping for anything that might keep him afloat.
âiââ the word tore from him, hoarse and small, but the rest died in his throat. his mouth worked soundlessly, as though the language he lived by had deserted him. his heart hammered so hard it was visible in the tremor of his throat, like it was trying to claw its way out of his ribs.
âyou what, anaxagoras?â you demanded, stepping closer until your breath mingled with his, until there was no space left between accusation and plea. âyou what?â
his breath came uneven, ragged, hot against your skin.
âstop denying it,â you pressed, your voice breaking on the edge of anger and desperation. âstop pushing me away when all i wantâall i have ever wantedâwas to reach you.â your hand hovered at his chest, not quite touching, trembling with the weight of everything unsaid. âdonât you understand? i realized it too late, but i did. all i wanted was to stand with you, not against you.â
his eyes flickered at thatâpain, confusion, longing. the great anaxagoras looked as though he might shatter completely.
your words seemed to slice straight through him, deeper than any blade. he stood frozen, gripping the chair as if the wood alone could hold him together, but his composure was crumbling. his breathing grew shallow, jagged, like each inhale was a battle he was losing.
âstopââ he rasped suddenly, his voice breaking in a way you had never heard before. âstop speaking as if you knowââ the words strangled themselves before they reached the air.
you blinked at him, your anger stuttering at the edges.
his hand slipped from the chair, falling uselessly at his side. his shoulders shook once, barely visible, but then again, harder, as if something inside him had finally split open. he bowed his head, eye squeezing shut as if he could hide from you, from himself, from everything.
âi canât,â he whispered, and it was the sound of a man undone. âi canât do thisâi canât bear this.â
the silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. you wanted to reach for him, to shake him, to hold him, you didnât even know which anymore.
when he raised his head, his uncovered eye was glassy, red-rimmed, glistening with the weight of unshed tears. he looked like a man dragged to the edge of the world and forced to look down.
âdo you know what youâve done to me?â his voice cracked, a whisper turned into a confession. âmy mind is in ruins. i canât thinkâi canât sleepâeverything in me revolts, everything demands distance, but my heartââ he pressed a trembling hand to his chest, as if trying to tear it outââmy heart betrays me every time you walk into the room. i hate it. i hate you. i hate that i need you.â
the words spilled out like poison and prayer all at once, uncontrolled, unstoppable.
his knees buckled, and he stumbled back into the chair he had once gripped for strength. he buried his face in his hands, shaking, breath coming in violent gasps as if even air itself was too much to carry.
âthat nightâŠâ his voice broke, muffled behind his hand, âthe night you bared your fury to meâyour loathing, your fireâi knew.â his words faltered, heavy, as though dragged from some forbidden place. âsomething within me fractured. from that moment on, i could no longer see you as i once had. i was undone.â he lowered his hand, his eye burning, his tone edged with despair. âyou were the only one who never yielded. the only one who dared challenge me, who wanted nothing more than to see me toppleâand worked, relentlessly, to make it so. and thatââ his throat caught, his composure slipping like sand between his fingers, âthat has made me fall.â
his breath hitched, the words tasting foreign and jagged on his tongue. ââŠfall in love.â
the silence that followed was deafening. loveâthe word hung in the air like a curse. it had never belonged to him, never dared to stain his lips. anaxagoras had mocked it, dismissed it, locked it away as weakness. and yet, here it wasâlaid bare, shattering his carefully wrought defenses.
âi despise it,â he confessed, voice trembling now, the edges of his pride crumbling. âi despise that it is you. i despise that i wish to loathe you, yet cannot. i despise that my heart has betrayed meâagain and againâfor you.â
âoh, anaxaâŠâ your voice cracked with the weight of it all, soft and broken at once. you rushed to him, closing the distance as though delay would kill you both, and threw yourself into his arms. you clutched him with a desperation that felt bone-deep, as though he might vanish if you let go.
your cheek pressed into his shoulder, and tearsâhot, unstoppableâran freely down your face. your chest heaved, every breath sharp with anguish, and yet you spoke: âi loathe it too. i loathe that youâve made me feel this⊠and i loathe that i cannot turn away. gods, anaxa, i loathe that i feel the same.â
he sat rigid in your embrace at first, as though struck, and thenâhesitantly, tremblinglyâhis arms came around you. he clung to you, his chest rising and falling unevenly against yours, as though something inside him had finally given way.
the great anaxagoras, architect of logic, master of reason, had broken. and for once, he did not resist being held together by you.
hihi since we r on the topic of my glorious king anaxagoras i would loooove to see some hurt/comfort with him in an academic setting written by u,, pretty please with a cherry on top but also take ur time nd dont stress đ«¶đ«¶
HELLO!!! i wanted to tell you (and everyone else whoâs interested) that iâm actually working on the part 2 of the straight attraction anaxa fic!!! youâll get it pretty soon, and i apologize YET AGAIN for the huge delay on my posts (school has been pretty tough)
sadly, you sent this after i actually started writing it (but it fits your request perfectly so i thought iâd give you a lil update!!!)
stay tuned i promise itâll come out this weekend!!
HI HI I REQUESTED AVEBTURIEN OMGGGG I LOVED IT SOO MUCH YOURE SO GOOD AND SO UNDERRATEDDD???? i am having my finals next week so i am a bit stressed these days but HEHEHEHHEHWJAHE i was giggling abd kicking my feet reafing that its so soo CUTTEEEE TYSM!!!!!
THANK U SM FOR UR REQ ANON!!! you're all feeding me like a stray cat rn
also good luck on ur finals!!! if u survive iâll drop another aventurine fic just for you LMAOO i love u
aventurine... need avebturine umm something modern au likee something cute or maybe hurt/comfort because you know how aventurine be... type shit..!
âŠCARDS, DICE, HEARTS <đ .á
@ anzuvie on pinterest
àŁȘă €aventurine bets he can steal your heart by the end of the monthâand the odds are stacked in his favor.
pairing! aventurine x g/n reader
wc! 9k
warnings! casino environment, addictive behaviors, mentions of gambling content, gambling addiction, gambling culture in general, material opulence (luxury, extravagant gifts), internal conflict, stress
a/n! hi anonnie!! iâm obsessed with aventurine smsm, thank you so much for this request ⥠this one leans pretty heavily into fluffâbecause honestly, you all deserve to just enjoy some sweet moments with your favorite characters. it ended up being a bit longer than usual since i started it a while ago and never finished it lol. make sure to take care of yourself and have the best time reading!!
ââ .âŠ
you worked at a casino. not the kind people dream about in movies, but the kind that smelled of polished wood, cheap perfume, and desperation disguised as confidence. your job rotated with the needs of the night: sometimes you were stationed at the cashierâs cage, handling stacks of cash and chips until your hands smelled faintly of metal and paper; other nights you dealt cards under the sharp white lights, your face carefully blank while players tried to read you for signs that never came. in quieter hours, you drifted the floor, exchanging small talk, serving drinks, smiling just enough to charm tips out of strangers who wanted to believe the house was their friend.
it wasnât a bad job. it was steady, predictable. but working there meant you saw everything. you saw the way jackpots lit up faces for a fleeting moment before greed set in, luring players deeper until they lost more than they ever imagined. you saw wedding rings pawned for another round, rent money vanish in the span of a hand, families broken because someone couldnât walk away from the table. you learned fast what anyone who could think straight already knew: the house always wins. and the house didnât care who it chewed up in the process.
people won, yes. a few got lucky more than once. but luck always ran out. always.
until him.
aventurine.
he didnât walk into the casinoâhe arrived. sharp suits, blonde hair catching the light, eyes glittering like they held the secret of the universe. wherever he sat, crowds gathered. bets piled high enough to make your head spin, and somehow, impossibly, he always came out on top. no matter the game, no matter the odds, aventurine never lost. it wasnât just improbable. it was impossible.
everyone noticed him. of course they did. it wasnât just the money, though the way chips slid across the felt in front of him looked more like an offering than a wager. it wasnât just the people who clung to him, filling his glass, leaning against his chair, draping themselves over his shoulders with practiced ease. it wasnât even his looks, though they were impossible to ignoreâgolden hair, sharp jawline, a smile that made you feel like he already knew something you didnât.
it was the way he played.
aventurine approached every bet like it mattered. he leaned forward, eyes burning with focus, as if losing was a real possibility. as if he could bleed, like everyone else at those tables. but you knew better. he never bled. and still, he played like he might.
and you wonderedâwhat would happen the day he finally lost? who would he be then?
when he came to cash out, he always made sure to find you. a wink, a careless compliment, a tip big enough to make your coworkers jealous. sometimes heâd call you over, and youâd go, half out of courtesy, half because standing at his side felt like stepping into a spotlight. you caught the jealous glances from the men and women draped over him, and you couldnât deny there was a petty satisfaction in thatâhim choosing to call you, not them. once, heâd taken your hand, holding it up in the glow of the chandelier just so you could feel the trembling of the men heâd bankrupted.
you werenât his friend. not exactly. but you werenât a stranger, either. you existed in that strange, shifting space in between. sometimes youâd talk for hours, conversation smooth and bright like champagne bubbling over. other nights, you said nothing at all, just listened to his laughter cut across the casino floor, that teasing, velvet-rich voice curling around every word.
the truth was, aventurine wasnât just lucky. you saw that much. he had an edge sharper than the cards he dealt with. he read peopleâwatched them crumble in real time and used their tells against them. he made opponents doubt themselves, second-guess every move, until they werenât playing against him anymoreâthey were fighting against their own fear.
you didnât believe it was only luck. it wasnât. aventurine was smarter, sharper, hungrier than the rest of them.
and as dangerous as it was to admit it, part of you wanted to see what it would take to finally make him lose.
that night was no different. you were counting out a thick stack of bills for a sweaty man whose hands shook as he waited, already calculating how much heâd lose on his next round. even when you tried not to, your gaze would wander back to aventurine, and every so often, his would find yours. heâd wink at you across the chaos of the casino floor, then return to his cards with that sharp, unreadable expression. youâd smileâjust barelyâand force yourself back to your work.
you were focused, head down, when that voice slid into your ear.
âgreat night, hmm?â
the familiar drawl startled you, your fingers pausing over the bills. you hummed in acknowledgment but didnât look up right awayâyou couldnât afford to miscount.
aventurine was leaning against the counter when you finally glanced at him, his smirk firmly in place but his eyes sharper, brighterâmischief gleaming in their depths.
âhere to cash out?â you asked, sliding the bills across to the man. he accepted them with a wink that you caught, and aventurine caught too. his brows furrowed for just a momentâbarely a flickerâbefore his attention locked back on you.
in one fluid, theatrical motion, aventurine removed his sunglasses (utterly unnecessary indoors) and stretched his arm behind his head, fingers brushing through his blonde hair before he set them back atop his head. the gesture was so calculated it felt like a flourish at the end of a magic trick.
ânope.â he leaned down slightly, looking up at you with wide, glittering eyes that promised trouble. âi want to ask you out.â
you laughed before you could stop yourself, a sound too loud and too sharp, drawing a few curious looks from nearby patrons. but you didnât care. the absurdity of aventurine, of all people, saying thatâhow could you not?
âask me out?â you repeated softly, more to yourself than to him.
because you couldnât. you knew you couldnât. aventurine had the kind of magnetism you couldnât afford, the kind of men and women whoâd claw each other apart to sit where you were standing. more than that, he was simply⊠too much. too dazzling, too dangerous. was he trustworthy? would he even make a decent boyfriend? and what would it look likeâto your coworkers, your bosses, the regularsâif you said yes? they already speculated enough about the two of you. theyâd say youâd helped him cheat, that youâd rigged the games. you couldnât risk your job, your reputation, everything youâd built.
âi⊠canât. you know that i canât,â you murmured, then dropped your voice to a whisper. âpeople will start talking, aventurine. and i canât afford that.â
for a moment, he just watched you, the playful gleam in his eyes narrowing into something unreadable. then, slowly, he laughedâa low, rich sound, velvet and steel. not mockery, exactly, but surprise. he didnât sound like a man whoâd just been rejected. he sounded amused. delighted, even.
âfine, fineâŠâ he said at last, his laughter spilling over as if youâd told a good joke. âhow about thisâwe make a bet.â
he leaned further over the counter, close enough that you could smell his cologneâwarm, expensive, a little dangerous. his mouth was near your ear when he said, softly, âjust between us.â
âa bet?â you arched an eyebrow, suspicious.
âmmhmm. and not poker. not blackjack. something different.â he straightened, retreating just enough so no one would see how close heâd been.
âreally now?â you tried to sound intrigued, but a cold knot formed in your stomach. aventurine never made a bet he couldnât win.
âif i manage to make you fall in love with me within a month,â he said lightly, though his eyes were deadly serious, âyouâll be mine. if i donâtâŠâ he spread his hands as though to show he held no cards. âwe forget this ever happened, and iâll never step foot in here again.â
your breath caught. your eyes widened. the audacity of it. the danger.
âsoâŠâ aventurineâs grin curled at the edges, slow and sure, âdo we have a deal?â
you wanted to say no. the word sat heavy on your tongue, pressing against your teeth. you wanted to roll your eyes, laugh in his face again, dismiss him with the same casual ease he wore like a second skin. it wouldâve been the sensible thing to doâshut him down before he could pull you any deeper into whatever game he was playing.
but something stopped you.
it wasnât just curiosity. it was the thoughtâthe flicker of a picture you couldnât unseeâof aventurine losing. aventurine, who had never lost anything, whose name was whispered on the casino floor with a mix of envy and awe. aventurine, stripped of that untouchable confidence. what would he look like then? how would he feel? would it rattle him the way it rattled everyone else, or would he just smile and walk away, unfazed?
and yet, another thought burned underneath. if he lost, heâd be gone. no more winks thrown across the room. no more easy compliments murmured in that low velvet voice. no more butterflies fluttering low in your stomach when he singled you out in a crowd. youâd go back to the same old nights, the same routine, without him at the edge of it like a bright, dangerous flame.
before you could stop yourself, the word left your mouth.
âdeal.â
the sound startled even you. aventurine froze for a heartbeat, then his expression split into pure delight. he clapped his hands together softly, the sound crisp in the hush between slot machine chimes. his grin was wide, gleaming, like youâd just handed him the jackpot instead of a challenge.
âexcellent,â he said, the word sliding out like silk.
a strange unease coiled in your stomach. you hadnât thought this through. you knew he had aces up his sleeveânot literal ones, but the kind no one ever saw coming. you were already half-falling for him, even before this bet existed. the rules were stacked against you, but youâd agreed anyway.
âi have a question, thoughâŠâ you began, your voice softer than you meant it to be. you fiddled with the edge of a stack of chips, trying to keep your hands busy. âhow would you even know if i fell in love with you?â
aventurineâs grin sharpened. he leaned in just slightly, the overhead lights catching gold in his hair and a glint in his eyes.
âi count on your word,â he said simply, âthat you wouldnât lie to me.â
the answer floored you with its ease. did he really trust you that much? or was it another move, another calculation, knowing that the weight of honesty would sit heavier on you than on him? what if you lied? what would happen then?
but when you met his gaze, it was unreadableâa coin spinning midair, heads or tails yet to be seen.
aventurine didnât linger after your reluctant agreement. he gave you a look, all sharp edges and satisfaction, like a man whoâd just been handed the final card in a royal flush. then, with that dramatic ease only he could pull off, he tapped the counter with two fingersâa casual farewell, a gambler sealing his handâand stepped back into the pulsing glow of the casino floor.
you watched him go, your chest tight, your pulse erratic. he didnât even look back. he didnât need to. the deal was made, and aventurine never played to lose.
that night, when you finally stumbled into your apartment, your mind was a haze. you dropped your bag by the door and leaned against it, trying to breathe, but the memory replayed over and over. you couldnât believe what had happenedâcouldnât believe youâd actually agreed, that youâd said yes. and more than that, you couldnât believe aventurine wanted you to be his.
anyone else wouldâve tried to charm you, corner you with persistence, drown you in flowers or promises. but not him. he did it the only way he knew how: he made it a bet.
you pressed your palm against your chest, feeling the uneven rhythm of your heart. part of you wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all. part of you wanted to crawl into bed, pull the covers over your head, and wake up to find it had all been a strange, glitter-soaked dream.
but it wasnât. no matter how you tried to reason it away, the deal was real. as real as the neon lights you worked under, as real as the ink smudges on your hands from handling cash all night.
at least you wouldnât see him again until your next shift. that thought was your only consolation.
the morning began like any other. you slipped into routine, grounding yourself in small things: the sizzle of butter in the pan, the smell of fresh coffee brewing, the quietness of your apartment. frying eggs, pouring a cup, telling yourself to breathe.
then your doorbell rang.
you froze, spatula still in hand, blinking at the sound. you werenât expecting anyone. curiosity prickled, edged with unease. you set the spatula down and padded toward the door, peering through the peephole.
no one.
your brow furrowed. horror movies had taught you better than to open doors blindly, but something about the silence pressed at you. slowly, cautiously, you turned the handle.
the sight that met you was nothing you couldâve prepared for.
there, sitting neatly against your doorstep, was a bouquet of roses so extravagant it nearly spilled from its wrapping. twenty roses at least, crimson and velvety, their scent already curling into the air.
you blinked at them, stunned, your stomach sinking because you already knew who they were from.
tucked between the stems was a small card, clipped with precision. you picked it free, your fingers trembling despite yourself.
scrawled in elegant, slanted handwritingâthe kind of flourish that seemed to grin all on its ownâwas a note:
âconsider this the opening hand. thirty roses, thirty days until i win. i always play the long game. -A"
that night, stepping back into the casino felt different. the familiar mix of smoke, perfume, but you couldnât shake the weight of that bouquet waiting on your kitchen counter. the roses still glistened with droplets of water, the ink of aventurineâs note etched deep into your mind.
you tightened the vest of your uniform and adjusted the cuffs, hands trembling more than you wanted to admit. you werenât a rookie hereâshuffling cards, calling bets, watching fortunes rise and crumble had become routine. but the moment you walked into the warm glow of the tables, you knew heâd already spotted you.
aventurine leaned casually against a roulette table, surrounded by admirers, his laugh carrying easily over the clatter of chips. he looked like he belonged hereâlike the lights were set just to crown him in gold, the tables waiting for his touch. his sharp suit shimmered under the chandeliers, his rings catching the light with every lazy gesture.
your manager brushed past you, muttering something about the high-rollers, but all you could focus on was the way aventurineâs gaze slid to yours. a knowing smirk curved his lips, as if he were already playing tonightâs hand and you were the pot he intended to win.
you tried to distract yourself by sliding behind your assigned blackjack table, shuffling the cards with practiced precision. but your heart raced when he finally peeled himself away from his little crowd, chips clinking in his hand as he made his way toward you.
âdealerâs choice, isnât it?â he murmured as he slid into the seat directly across from you, voice velvet and amusement wrapped together. âletâs see if youâre luckier with cards than with bets.â
the table felt smaller with him sitting there, his presence overwhelming even in the buzz of the casino. the chips he set down werenât just currencyâthey were declarations. and though you tried to keep your professional mask steady, you already knew he wasnât here for the game.
he was here for you.
the cards slid across the felt with a soft flick, your hands steady even though your pulse was anything but. aventurine leaned back in his chair like a man with nowhere else to be, his chips stacked tall in front of him, gleaming under the lights.
âhit me,â he said, flashing you that lazy grin, as though you werenât holding the deck but his fate.
you arched a brow, giving him the card anyway. he didnât even glance at it before tucking it under his hand. his eyes were fixed on you.
âyouâre supposed to check your cards,â you muttered.
âoh, sweetheart,â he drawled, brushing invisible dust from his cufflinks, âi donât need to check when i know the deckâs already on my side.â
the other players chuckled nervously, shifting in their seats. you dealt the next round, biting the inside of your cheek. he won, of courseâeffortlessly, like it was written before the cards ever hit the felt.
aventurine scooped his chips into the pile with a flourish, leaning closer across the table. âyou see? luck likes me. but iâm starting to wonderâŠâ his gaze lingered, slow and deliberate. ââŠdo you?â
your throat tightened. professionalism demanded you ignore him, demanded you act like his taunts were just another drunk gamblerâs flirtation. but aventurine wasnât drunk. he was sharp, dangerous even in his charm.
he tapped his ring against the table, a rhythm that only seemed to sync with the beat of your own heart. âtell you what,â he said, voice a purr, âif i win the next hand, you smile for me. just once. consider it⊠a small down payment on the bet we made.â
the table fell quiet, all eyes flicking between you and him.
for the first time that night, you wonderedânot if he would win, but how youâd ever stand a chance at resisting him if he always did.
aventurineâs victory was effortless, just like you knew it would be. the last card slid under his hand, and with a small, practiced flick, he revealed the winning combination. the crowd at the table murmured, a mixture of awe, envy, and disbelief spilling into the space like smoke. some shook their heads, muttering under their breath about how he always won, how it wasnât fair, how he had to be cheating.
and through it all, aventurine didnât flinch. didnât blink. didnât even bother to glance at the whispers circling the table. he was untouchable, untangled by the petty judgments of anyone around him.
instead, his eyes were on you. âwell?â he prompted softly, leaning just enough to bridge the space between you without touching. his grin was confident, teasing, like a gambler who already knew the hand was in his favor.
you felt heat rise to your cheeks. the urge to hide behind professional composure battled against the flutter of something elseâsomething dangerous and thrilling. finally, before you could think twice, a small, reluctant smile tugged at your lips.
aventurineâs grin widened at that, just slightly, the corner of his mouth tilting up like heâd won more than just the hand of cards. âthere it is,â he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear, âthe first installment. worth every risk.â
the crowd noticed the exchange. whispers turned sharper, speculative glances passed between people around the table, some clearly judging you for playing along, for letting him draw that smile out of you. a few dared to openly mutter.
but aventurine didnât care. not a flicker of worry crossed his expression. he had always been this wayâconfident, unmoved by what others thought. all that mattered was the game he was playing, and right now, the game was you.
twenty-five days left, and every morning felt like waking into a dream you werenât supposed to be having. at first, it was only rosesâalways roses. some mornings they were a deep velvet red, others an icy white, once even a bouquet dusted with gold shimmer, like something that belonged on the casino floor instead of your doorstep. each bouquet came with a note tucked neatly among the thorns, penned in aventurineâs flamboyant, elegant scrawl.
twenty-three days left, and the game changed. aventurine upped the ante. the roses still came, but now there were boxes, packages, small indulgences stacked carefully outside your door as if the universe itself had conspired to spoil you. a new book you had mentioned only once in passing, barely above a whisper, during a late-night chat with a coworker. snacks that you secretly adored but never bought because you told yourself you didnât need them. somehow, he knew. somehow, he always knew.
the realization struck you more deeply than you wanted to admit: aventurine was watching, listening, paying attention. not in the shallow, glossy way admirers often did, but in a way that cut right to the marrow.
at the casino, his focus was shifting too. the aventurine everyone else knewâthe golden gambler, the man with his lap full of admirers and his hands full of chipsâwasnât quite the same anymore. his attention slipped from the laughing crowds and the tables stacked with high stakes, turning instead toward you.
heâd appear by your side for no reason other than to draw your eyes.
âtell me,â heâd begin, as you counted chips with careful precision, âis the lighting here always this bad, or is it just struggling to compete with you tonight?â
or, when you slid him his winnings, heâd say with that infuriating grin: âyou handle cards smoother than any dealer iâve seen. itâs dangerous. makes me want to bet everything just to keep watching.â
sometimes, the questions he asked were ridiculousâjust excuses to pull your attention away from your work.
âdo you think roulette wheels ever get dizzy?â
âhow many people do you think lose just to impress the dealer?â
âif i bought this casino, would you promise not to charge me extra just for your smile?â
every word, every glance, was a chip he stacked neatly on the table between you, building a tower you knew would topple eventually.
and your heartâgod, your heart was the worst of all. because it was working against you. each bouquet, each note, each sly compliment became another crack in your defenses. it spread in you, slow but certain, like a virus seeping into your veins, a tumor embedding itself so deep that you couldnât tell where it ended and you began.
you wanted to fight it. you tried. but every day, you found yourself looking for him across the casino floor, waiting for that next mischievous wink, that next too-smooth word.
and yet, the whispers had started. coworkers exchanging knowing looks, players muttering as aventurineâs gaze lingered too long on you, as your lips curved just slightly when his voice reached your ears. suspicion was growing, curling its claws tighter every night.
you couldnât risk your job. your stability. the roof over your head.
but you also couldnât risk losing him. not now. not when he was already inside your veins, your lungs, your thoughts.
aventurine had made his bet. and somehow, without ever realizing it, you had too.
seventeen days left, and your morning started not with roses on the doorstep but with the buzz of your phone. bleary-eyed, you reached for it, expecting a message from a coworker or some spam notification. instead, it was from an unsaved number.
"i don't think roses express the interest i have in you, so i thought it'd be best if i told you myself. eight p.m. don't be late."
neatly written beneath was an address.
you didnât need to wonder who it was. aventurineâs style bled through every syllableâdirect, dramatic, and threaded with that smug certainty that youâd come.
your first instinct was to argue with him, to remind him of what youâd said that night at the counter. you had told him no. you had told him you couldnât. and if this wasnât a date, it was something close enough to burn. you wanted to type back, to remind him of the boundaries you thought youâd set: we agreed. no dates. no risks. i canât afford to be seen with you.
and yet your fingers hovered uselessly over the keyboard.
because even as the days passed and suspicions grew sharper, the truth was that you no longer cared about the stares from coworkers or the whispers curling through the casino. the only look that lodged itself into your bones, that stayed with you even after the shift ended and you were home alone, was aventurineâs.
that hopelessly adorned look of hisâhead tilted, eyes cutting through his (entirely unnecessary) glasses, lingering on you with a hunger he never bothered to disguise. it wasnât the look of a man playing cards anymore. it was the look of a man who had placed his biggest bet yet, and was holding steady, waiting for you to fold.
and maybe you already had.
you told yourself you shouldnât go. you told yourself it was foolish, dangerous, reckless. but the truth was simpler, heavierâyou wanted to. part of you had already accepted that the bet was over. aventurine had won.
so it wasnât about if he could capture your heart anymore. it was about seeing how far heâd go to prove he already had.
when you arrived at the address, your jaw nearly hit the pavement. you had expected something impressiveâaventurine was, after all, aventurineâbut the sight before you still managed to steal the air from your lungs. it wasnât just a house. no, it was a mansion, sprawling and radiant, the kind of place that made you feel like you had just stepped into a different world altogether. golden accents gleamed under the glow of carefully placed lights, marble stretched in perfect slabs from the steps to the doorway, and exotic treesâones youâd only seen in glossy magazinesâlined the drive like carefully chosen jewels. you didnât need to ask their worth. you knew without a doubt that each one cost more than your yearly salary.
parked neatly in front were cars, not just one or two, but a collectionâeach polished to perfection, each one screaming wealth without saying a word. and just when you thought it couldnât feel more surreal, you noticed the fountain at the center of the courtyard. water danced in delicate arcs, cascading down marble tiers, the kind of feature people installed in museums or royal palaces, not at the front of their homes.
your fingers trembled slightly as you pressed the buzzer at the gate, half-expecting to wait, to hear some kind of intercom voice ask who you were and why you dared stand there. but noâthere was no delay. no hesitation. the gates opened immediately, smooth and soundless, like aventurine had been standing at the controls long before you arrived. it was almost unnerving, how ready he was. as if he had been anticipating your presence down to the exact moment.
walking up the path, your gaze kept darting from one detail to another, greedily taking in the world that was his reality. you knew he was richâof course you knewâbut you hadnât expected this. not this scale. not this opulence that made you feel small and fragile in comparison.
the massive double doors swung open before you could even reach for them.
âwelcome,â aventurineâs voice rolled out like velvet, that familiar drawl of his somehow softer now, more intimate. he stood framed by the light inside, and for a second, you barely recognized him. gone was the sharp image of the casino man in his expensive tailored suits, the one with diamond-cut watches that glimmered every time he shuffled cards or leaned against the bar. instead, he was dressed casually. soft fabric draped over him like it had been chosen for comfort, not status. no gleaming watch on his wrist tonight, only a few rings catching the light here and there.
and his smileâgod, his smileâwas intoxicating. it wasnât the smirk he used in the casino to bait and bluff, or the sly grin he gave when he caught you watching him across the floor. this one was warm, disarmingly genuine. it wrapped around you in a way that felt more dangerous than any gamble youâd ever taken with him.
âdid you expect something else?â he asked, tilting his head just slightly, like he could already see the disbelief written all over your face.
you couldnât even form an answer, your words stuck somewhere between awe and nerves.
he moved aside, his body language easy, unguarded, and extended his hand toward you. not in the way men with money usually didâentitled, expecting you to take itâbut almost careful, like he was offering you something fragile. his palm hovered, waiting, patient.
âcome in,â he said, his voice still that velvet-dipped drawl. âlet me help you up.â
and though the marble steps were smooth and the way perfectly manageable on your own, you found yourself slipping your hand into his anyway, the warmth of his skin grounding you as he guided you into his world.
the inside was just as breathtaking as the outsideâmaybe even more so. stepping past the threshold felt like walking into a magazine spread, every inch curated to perfection. the floors were a dark, polished wood that gleamed under the soft, golden glow of the chandeliers hanging low from ceilings so high they seemed to stretch forever. intricate crown moldings caught the light like faint filigree. to your left, a massive stone fireplace dominated the room, its hearth immaculate, the faint scent of pine smoke lingering as if it had just been lit for you. tall windows framed by heavy velvet drapes let the city lights glimmer faintly beyond. and the furnitureâgod, the furnitureâeach piece looked as though it had been chosen individually, all clean lines and muted luxury, the kind of pieces you werenât supposed to touch, much less sit on.
for some reason youâd imagined staff: a maid gliding past with a tray of drinks, a cook bustling somewhere in the background, maybe a butler waiting by the door to take your coat. but the house was silent. private.
âwere you expecting maids?â aventurineâs laugh floated over your shoulder, rich and amused. he slipped one arm lightly around your backânot possessively, but guidingâand led you further inside. his fingers barely touched your coat but it was enough to send a shock of awareness through you.
he gestured toward the space with a lazy flick of his hand. âiâd rather not complicate myself with others. mind you, iâm a very great cook and cleaner.â
the casual way he said it made you blink. aventurine, whose nails were always immaculate, whose suits always pressedâcooking? cleaning? the thought didnât fit the man youâd built in your head.
he led you into the living room and stopped before a sleek glass coffee table. at its center sat a small box, velvety and deep midnight blue, trimmed in delicate gold accents. unmistakably his style. it was so perfectly placed it felt staged, but somehow still intimateâlike it was waiting just for you.
you lowered yourself onto the couch, knees together, hands folded in your lap, heat creeping up your neck. aventurine didnât take the other side of the sofa like you expected. instead, he dropped down to the floor cushion directly in front of you, his knees drawn up loosely, hands draped over them as though he had all the time in the world. it was disarming, how close he sat, how casual he seemed in his own palace.
âaventurine, iââ you started, your voice small against the cavernous space. but the words faltered halfway out of your mouth, your throat tightening. ââŠi thought we agreed to no dates.â
his laugh rolled out of him, warm and resonant, bouncing off the high ceilings like a chord struck on a grand piano.
âitâs not a date,â he said, tilting his head as though he were amused at your choice of words. âi merely thought that notes and roses wouldnât be enough to win you over. plus,ââhis mouth quirked, and that glint flickered behind the glasses perched unnecessarily low on his noseââweâve never agreed to not spend time together.â
he leaned forward a little, elbows resting loosely on his knees, his gaze locking onto yours like a hand around your wrist.
âthink of us as⊠friends,â he added, the pause deliberate. then, softer, a hint of a challenge in his voice: âfor now.â
his rings caught the light when he shifted, and you could feel the heat of him from where he sat. it made your pulse skip, made your skin burn beneath your palms. it wasnât a date, not officially. but every inch of himâhis voice, his smile, his presenceâwas already rewriting what you thought youâd agreed to.
aventurineâs hand swept toward the table with a flourish, that same theatrical little gesture he always used when he knew he was about to catch you off guard. the unspoken command was clearâopen it.
your chest tightened as you reached out. the velvet box was heavier than you expected, its fabric lush under your fingertips, the gold filigree glinting faintly in the chandelierâs glow. even without seeing what was inside, you knew it was something extravagant. something that made your throat dry with guilt. how much had he spent already, every single day, just to chase you? how much more would he keep throwing away, just to prove a point you were already afraid heâd won?
the hinge gave with the softest click, and your breath caught. nestled inside was a ring. not just a ringâa masterpiece. gold, smooth and rich, with diamonds carefully set along the band so they shimmered like tiny stars with every angle you tilted it. elegant without being gaudy, precise without being cold. it was the kind of thing youâd seen only in glass cases under heavy lock and key, the kind of thing people didnât buyâthey dreamed of.
your gaze stuck on it, unblinking, even as a sick heat filled your chest. how did he even know your ring size? how could he possibly have gotten it so exact? the thought alone made your skin crawl with a strange mix of unease and tenderness.
your lips pressed into a hard line, the guilt curdling in your stomach. he was already doing too much, and you were letting him. every rose, every book, every whispered compliment at workâyou had let it seep in, let it grow, even knowing the bet had been lost the second you let yourself care.
âi⊠i canât accept this.â your voice came out small, trembling, like a thread on the verge of snapping. you set the box carefully back down on the glass table, unable to look at it any longer. âitâs too much. you spend so muchâwhen i⊠when iââ
âhad already lost our bet?â aventurineâs voice cut in, velvet and sharp all at once, not mocking but knowing. you looked up, startled, and found him watching you with that smileâwarm, impossibly gentle, stripped of all the theatrics.
he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, as if he were drawing closer not to trap you but to reassure.
âi know.â
the words fell between you like a secret, like a hand closing around yours in the dark.
you faltered. your throat closed up, words tangling in the back of your mouth like they were afraid to come out. he knew. of course he knew. nothing slipped past that ever-seeing, calculating gaze of his, the one that made gamblers fold their cards and liars bite their tongues. and you⊠you werenât exactly the best at hiding yourself to begin with. every nervous flicker of your eyes, every softening in your voice when you addressed himâaventurine had been watching, studying, and heâd seen straight through you from the start.
âiâd known ever since we made the bet,â he said smoothly, but not with arroganceâno, it was softer, threaded with something dangerously close to sincerity. âi didnât do this as a challenge.â
his eyes locked onto yours, unwavering, as if daring you to look away. you couldnât.
âi did this because i wanted to prove to you that i am genuine,â aventurine continued, voice lowering into something rich, intimate, meant for your ears alone. âall those roses, the notes, the stupid little questions i ask you at the casino just to steal your attention⊠none of that was about winning. it was about showing you that i mean it. that i am not walking away, not after a week, not after two.â
he leaned back slightly, but his gaze held you still, like invisible chains. âi intend to keep going until the term of our bet has passedâwhether you love me or not. because itâs not about the victory.â a smirk curved his lips then, that familiar gambling bravado flickering back, but softer this time, touched with something human beneath the gold and diamond shine. âitâs about you.â
his hand moved then, slowly, sliding the ring box closer across the glass table until it sat directly in front of you again. âand i wonât apologize for wanting you to know just how far iâm willing to go to prove it.â
you felt a storm of guilt and longing crashing against each other until you could hardly breathe. you wanted to push the box away again, to tell him that you werenât worth the glittering gold, the diamonds, the relentless devotion he was pouring into you. but the way he looked at youâhead tilted slightly downward, lashes casting shadows over eyes that never wavered from yoursâfroze you in place.
you felt the weight of his words pressing into your skin, heavier than the jewels he offered. he knew. he had known from the very beginning, and still, he kept going. still, he chose to chase you with roses, with laughter, with those maddeningly precise gifts that slipped so easily into the quiet corners of your life.
your lips parted, but all that left was a fragile whisper. â⊠why me?â
he smiled then, slow and warm, not the showmanâs grin he flashed across card tables, not the smug smirk that accompanied his victories. this was different. intimate. dangerous in a way that made your pulse skip.
âbecause you look at me like iâm more than the house always winning.â his voice was steady, soft. âeveryone else sees the performance. you see me.â
your throat ached. you wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that you were just another moth circling the flame of his charm. but the words wouldnât come, not when the truth of it throbbed inside you. you had been seeing him differently. you had been fallingâand he knew.
you lowered your gaze to the ring box, its velvet glimmering under the chandelierâs glow. the thought of slipping it on terrified you, the thought of refusing it hurt even worse. your fingers itched to touch it, to feel the weight of the promise he was making, but fear kept your hands locked in your lap.
âi⊠i donât know if i can trust this,â you admitted finally, voice breaking, raw. âtrust you.â
aventurine leaned forward again, resting his forearms on his knees, gaze soft but unyielding. âthen donât trust the ring. donât trust the roses or the gifts. just trust what you already feel.â
and there it wasâthe push and pull, the gamble he was playing not with cards or dice, but with your heart.
your feelings? they were chaos, tangled threads pulling you in every direction at once. one part of you wanted to throw caution to the wind, to grab aventurine and kiss him until the world dissolved, until there was nothing left but his warmth and his breath against yours. another part of you wanted to run, to keep your head down, cling to the safety of your jobâeven if it was a cage. because if he wasnât genuine, if this was all a game, you wouldnât just lose the bet. youâd lose everything.
âmy⊠feelings?â you echoed, voice trembling as your gaze fell to the velvet box again. before doubt could drown you, aventurineâs hand slipped over yours, steady, sure. his touch was warm, grounding, his fingers curling around yours with a gentleness that contradicted every sharp edge of his reputation.
with extreme patience, he lifted your hand, spreading your fingers slightly. the box creaked open under his thumb, and he plucked the ring from its satin bed. it glinted in the chandelierâs light, a crown of gold and diamonds balanced between his fingers.
he paused. he didnât force it. his eyes, clear and unwavering, searched your face as if waiting for your verdict, silently asking: do you want this? do you want me?
your breath hitched, the air thick between you. and then, almost without realizing it, you gave the smallest nod.
aventurineâs lips curved into a smileâsoft, relieved, almost boyish. with a slow, reverent motion, he slid the ring onto your finger. it fit perfectly, as though it had always belonged there. the sight made your chest ache; it was beautiful, and terrifying, and yours.
âthank you,â you murmured, barely audible, but he heard it.
âalways,â he replied, his smile warm enough to melt through every wall you tried to hold. he didnât release your hand. instead, his thumb traced lazy, tender circles over your knuckles, like he had no intention of letting you go.
his voice dipped low, serious in a way that caught you off guard. âi know youâre torn. your job, the whispers, the way people are watchingâitâs weighing on you. i wonât make it worse.â he squeezed your hand lightly, gaze locked to yours. âi wonât be stepping foot in that casino again.â
relief battled panic in your veins, twisting together in a way that made your head swim. part of you wanted to cry out in gratitude, to fling yourself at him and hold him close, to tell him over and over that thisâthis was enough, that he was enough. but another part of you recoiled at the thought: no more glimpses of him across the casino floor, no more stolen winks, no more teasing questions meant only for you. the thought made your stomach flip.
âyou⊠you wonât?â you stammered, voice barely above a whisper, your hand still trapped in his. âyou⊠really wonât come there anymore?â
aventurineâs grin softened, almost fondly. âi promised. iâm not going to make things harder for you, not for anyoneâs eyes, not for anyoneâs whispers. this,â he squeezed your hand again, just enough for warmth to seep in, âthis is ours. and it doesnât need a stage or an audience.â
you let out a shaky breath, shoulders sagging slightly as the tension in your chest loosened. the panic didnât vanish, but it was tempered by the steady, unyielding certainty of him sitting there in front of you. by the warmth in his hand, the way he looked at you, the ring glinting on your fingerâa tangible reminder that he was real, and so was this.
your lips parted, words failing you for a moment, and finally you whispered, âi⊠i donât know what to say.â
aventurine chuckled, soft and rich, leaning forward just enough that the faint scent of him enveloped you. âyou donât have to say anything. just⊠let me prove it. every day, if i have to. until this bet ends, and even after that, if you let me.â
and in that moment, panic and relief intertwined so tightly inside you that you felt like you might burst.
the mansion felt impossibly large, yet somehow intimate with just the two of you. aventurine guided you through room after room, not as a tour, but as if sharing pieces of himself, letting you step carefully into his world. the living room was vast, a sea of plush couches and velvet rugs, golden accents catching the light from the towering chandeliers above. an enormous fireplace dominated one wall, embers glowing faintly even without a fire, and bookshelves lined another, stuffed with volumes you recognizedâsome youâd even mentioned in passing at work.
he offered you a seat on the couch while he perched on the armrest, legs folded casually, his fingers idly drumming over the arm of the furniture. âdo you like wine?â he asked, though it wasnât really a question. within minutes, he returned with two glasses of something deep red, the aroma rich and intoxicating. the first sip warmed you, but it was nothing compared to the warmth of his gaze.
conversation came and went in easy bursts, playful banter peppered with teasing questions, the kind that made your stomach flutter and your mind race. he asked about your favorite movies, your childhood memories, what you liked most about your job at the casinoâand somehow, every answer felt like it mattered to him, like he was cataloging it not just to remember, but to treasure.
aventurine laughed at your small confessions, that soft, rich sound that made the room feel like it had shrunk to just the two of you. at one point, he had you sitting on the floor by the fireplace as he demonstrated card tricks, shuffling and flipping them with impossible precision, each move punctuated by exaggerated winks or sly commentary. âi could teach you,â he said, âbut then youâd beat me at my own game. and we canât have that, now, can we?â
later, he motioned for you to follow him to the balcony. the city lights sprawled endlessly beneath you, the hum of the night drifting upward. he leaned close, hand brushing yours, not in a rush, not in a demandâjust a gentle, grounding touch. âi wanted tonight to be for us,â he murmured, voice almost lost in the wind, âto be quiet, away from everything else, so you could see that what iâm doing⊠itâs real.â
you felt your heart thump, your pulse thundering. the ring on your finger caught the moonlight, sparkling faintly, a constant reminder of the bet and of how far he was willing to go. and when he leaned in to kiss youâsoft, patient, teasing yet tenderâyou felt the entire night crystallize into that single, fleeting moment.
afterwards, you stayed close, hand in hand, and aventurine recounted stories from his travels, his adventures in high-stakes gambling, and you listened, laughing quietly at his dramatics, feeling a pull toward him that grew heavier with each shared smile, each lingering glance.
when it was finally time to leave, he held your hand as you walked to the door, fingers interlacing naturally, and kissed you one last timeâa soft, deliberate farewell that made your knees weak and your heart ache. âfor now,â he whispered, forehead resting against yours, voice full of promise. and though you left, the memory of the night clung to you, a vivid pulse of warmth and anticipation that you knew would follow you through the next days of the bet.
from that night onward, aventurine never set foot in the casino again, keeping his promise. yet that absence didnât leave a voidâit opened up an entirely new world for the two of you. every day became a new opportunity, a chance to explore, tease, and savor each otherâs presence without the prying eyes and whispers of the casino floor.
aventurine was never short on small gestures, either. sometimes it was the little things: holding the door open for you with an exaggerated bow, brushing crumbs from your sleeve with meticulous care, or texting you at random hours with a single lineâsomething flirtatious, something tender, something that reminded you he was thinking of you even when you werenât together. one note read: âi wonât gamble with you, but i will always bet on us.â another: âyou smile too much when you sip tea; itâs unfair.â
he learned your routines and adapted them to his own, slipping into your life so seamlessly it was as though heâd always been there. sometimes heâd show up with your favorite snacks, claiming he had âsources,â or books he knew youâd been dying to read. one evening, he even brought a picnic to the park, carefully arranging everything exactly how he knew youâd like it: your favorite blanket, your preferred cutlery, a tiny vase for the single wildflower heâd picked on his way.
every touch, every glance, every word felt planned yet effortless, a constant reminder of his sincerity and of the stakes you had set together. and with every passing day, your feelings for him grew, a quiet, insistent swell that made your chest ache with warmth. it wasnât just the grand gestures or the attentionâit was how he remembered the small details, how he adjusted to your moods, how he made you feel seen and cherished in a way that no one else ever had.
and yet, even amidst all this, the lingering tension of the bet remained. the thrill of it, the gamble of your heart, made every kiss, every laugh, every shared secret feel like a victory he had already won but still wanted to savor. each day was a dance between vulnerability and trust, and you realized that, slowly, irresistibly, you were fallingânot because of the bet, but because of him.
the last day of the bet arrived like a whisper, soft and heavy all at once. sunlight spilled through your window, golden and warm, but it did little to calm the storm in your chest. twenty-eight days of roses, notes, gifts, dates, teasing, and laughterâall leading to this moment. your heart raced, thoughts spinning with every little gesture he had made, every glance, every laugh, every touch.
aventurine had asked you to meet him at his mansion, and when you arrived, the gates swung open before you could knock. there he stood, casual as ever. but it was his eyes that froze youâhalf playful mischief, half something tender and utterly sincere, a gaze that seemed to look straight through your chest and settle on your heart.
âyou came,â he murmured, his voice low, smooth, yet warm, like velvet sliding over silk. he held out a hand, and you took it instinctively. electricity shot through your arm at the touch, and he let his fingers linger, teasingly grounding you at the same time.
he stepped closer, closing the gap just enough that you could feel the faint brush of his breath, carrying that signature scent of himâdangerous, intoxicating, yet comforting. âall these days,â he began, voice soft, âyouâve indulged me. laughed at my ridiculous antics, humored my absurdity, tolerated my endless teasing⊠and through it all, iâve tried to show you who i am. every gesture, every little word, every carefully planned day⊠all for you. not as a game, not as a bet, but because i wanted to.â
he tilted his head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly with that familiar sparkle of mischief, and brushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear. his fingers lingered against your cheek, warm and loving. âso tell me, little gamble of mine,â he whispered, syrupy and intimate, âafter every rose, every note, every little thing iâve done, have you fallen in love with me?â
the words hung between you like fragile glass, delicate and weighty all at once. your breath caught, lips parting, eyes glistening, heart pounding. the room, the world outside, even the past weeksâall of it seemed to dissolve, leaving only him, his hand on your cheek, his eyes searching yours with a hope that made your heart ache.
and then, finally, your voice cameâsoft, trembling, yet certain:
âyes,â you whispered. âi have.â
aventurineâs grin widened, but it wasnât the confident, teasing grin of a gamblerâit was intimate, victorious in a way that belonged entirely to you. he leaned in, tilting your face gently with his fingers, letting his eyes search yours one last time before he captured your lips in a kiss that was both delicate and teasing, yet full of promiseâa kiss that tasted of patience, of mischief, and of a triumph you had willingly surrendered to.
he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his fingers still cradling your jaw. âthen,â he whispered, voice husky and soft all at once, âi suppose⊠i win. though,â he added, letting a faint, playful smirk tug at his lips, âthe truth is⊠i already knew i would.â
and as your heart thudded, wild and reckless, you realized it wasnât the bet that had mattered at all. it was him. it had always been him.
Fangs n' Silver Bullets was absolutely AMAZING! You write Boothill so, so, so well. The way you bring his presence to life is incredible... the way he speaks, the tiny details about his eyes, his expressions, the way he moves, even the subtle sounds when he walks. Everything is so vivid! Youâre such a talented writer, and I canât wait to read more from you (especially anything Boothill-related⊠seriously, youâre that good!) <333
I LOVE YOU SO, SO MUCH my appreciation for your support canât be fully expressed in words!!! like iâve said before, iâm writing these for your enjoyment more than mine<3
i promise more will come soon, and even though itâs a bit tough splitting my time in so many ways, iâll try my best to get to all of your requests!!
boothillâs always been one of my favorite characters!! writing anything boothill-related is honestly a huge pleasure for me
iâll say it again and keep saying itâthank you guys! your kind words really get to me ahaha<3
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