[jigckuraku]

ANGEL ! ⊹ ࣪ ˖ she/her. 18. secondary blog for my tbr fics

ᯓᡣ𐭩 please, live the best you can, my most beloved friends

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[rnikage]

⟢ OUROBOROS ┊ KAISER

✦ synopsis. the night you are to assassinate emperor michael kaiser, you do not expect to find the ghost of your childhood staring back. to the court, he is a savior. to the empire, he is a tyrant dressed in gold. but to you, he is still mihya—the one person your blade was never trained to kill.

✦ content. 11.8k words. michael kaiser x afab!reader. royalty au. monarch!kaiser x assassin!reader. childhood friends. enemies to lovers. implied/referenced abuse (both for kaiser n reader). implied sexual content. reader sleeps with other bllk men for the job's sake. lots of courtly politics going on. one (1) actual assassination attempt. angst. eventual smut.

✦ foreword. episode 2 of writing for characters i despise (affectionate) to bolster the rnikage audience /silly !!! writing this took way more effort than i was willing to shell out, but i'm nothing if not a sucker for a proper royal au. kaiser just happens to be the perfect muse for it <3 disclaimer that i have not fully read up on his backstory, so do with that information as you may lmfao

✦ THE SPARROW ┊ THE SNAKE ┊ THE SUN

On the night of the harvest moon, Aurelia’s imperial family was massacred.

The emperor, the empress, and the rest of their kin—each found in their chambers the same way: still and untouched by struggle, as if death had come to them in their sleep. Oddly enough, not a single guard posted outside their doors shared the same fate. They had all been found merely unconscious and slumped against their spears, unable to recall when they even closed their eyes.

No windows were broken. No locks were forced. Though the corridors smelled faintly of bitter herbs and steel. Whoever entered the palace that night had done so as though the shadows themselves had opened for them.

By midday, the word assassin swept through the capital like fire. Scholars and nobles called it impossible and blasphemy in the same breath. But the people whispered the truth no one dared to write: someone had toppled the empire in a single perfect breath, and got away with the crime.

By dusk, the banners of mourning unfurled above the palace. The empire’s sun had fallen, its blood still warm in the marble veins of each imperial bedchamber. Across the capital’s grand quadrangle, thousands gathered in reverent silence, grieving not only the fall of the imperial family but the shadow it left behind.

From the balconies and the cobbled streets below, the wails came dutifully—soft, practiced, almost ceremonial. The air was heavy with incense and dread, the kind that clings to the throat and does not let go. But beneath the solemnity, uncertainty simmered quietly.

The people did not know whether to weep or to wait.

The imperial family had ruled for centuries, but poorly in its last years. Crops had failed, taxes had risen, and the court had grown fat on borrowed time. Now that the dynasty was gone, what would follow? A savior? A tyrant? A hundred claimants tearing the empire apart?

But while the capital is engulfed in the last vestiges of imperial flames, a different kind of chaos exists quietly in a place untouched by the empire’s light.

Down where the river rots into mud and smoke, the slum district cannot hear the toll of the mourning bells. The air was heavy with heat and iron, and the faint tang of spoiled grain. Children chased stray dogs through puddles that never dry. Women scrubbed clothes in water that will never run clean. And you walked through it all, balancing a bundle of kindling against your chest, careful not to look too long at the soldiers passing by.

You were born in the gutter, and the gutter has rules: keep your head down, your pockets shut, your eyes on the ground.

Still, you always looked up.

The grasslands stretched just beyond the last shanty—wild, unkempt, and golden beneath the lowering sun. You cut through them every evening to shave a few minutes off the walk home. The stalks reached your knees, brushing against your skin with a soft hiss. Crickets sung. The world was quiet enough to pretend that it belonged to you.

But then you heard a quiet, inhuman hiss.

You froze. The grass parted just ahead, and the movement came in a quick ripple of scales and a glint of sharp fangs. You opened your mouth to scream, but before you could—

Someone slammed into you.

You hit the dirt and the air is torn from your lungs. A blur of pale gold and dust passed over you in a moment’s notice. The boy who appeared out of nowhere landed hard as he wrestled the snake off his arm. It coiled and snapped viciously, but by some miracle, his reflexes were faster. He grabbed it by the tail before flinging it into the weeds, where the serpent then vanished with a whisper.

Silence settled among the reeds yet again.

You pushed yourself upright. The boy righted himself a few paces away, breathing through his teeth and it gave you time to study him. His hair, a pale tangle of gold, glinted in the dying light like it’s been kissed by something the slums have never seen. His eyes were so blue, they don’t look real.

You’ve seen him before, darting between stalls and backstreets, the boy who moved like he’s always running away from something. Your mother had told you to stay away from him. That one’s cursed. Nothing good ever follows him.

But what do you do when the cursed boy saved your life?

For a moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat. But then you caught the blood running down his arm, bright against his pale skin.

You took a step closer, eyes on the bite already turning dark. “You’re bleeding.”

He looked at his arm. “It’s fine.”

“Does it hurt?”

He smiled then—small and strange. “I’m used to it.”

You almost asked used to what? until you noticed the rest of his frail, scraggly body: the yellowed bruises on his arms, the fading welts on his legs, a thin scar curling along his jaw.

“What’s your name?” you whispered.

He hesitated for a moment, as if answering would cost something precious. In the end, he relented with the quietest of murmurs.

“Mihya.”

The boy’s grin remained, as if the pain doesn’t matter. As if saving you was worth it. Even as the blood dripped down his hand, at that moment, you thought he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

That was how you met the first friend you’ve ever made.

“Friends?”

You echo the word back at your companion, brows furrowing as you fasten the clasp of your belt. The room still smells faintly of incense, rain and wine spilled hours ago. Chigiri lounges against the headboard with a sort of lazy confidence, his crimson hair falling loosely across his bare shoulders. He isn’t usually one for small talk. But when he is, he always asks something strange.

“Yes,” he repeats plainly as he reaches for his tunic on the floor. “Do you not have other friends to do… this with? I didn’t peg you as the type to sleep with your informants.”

You glance at him over your shoulder. “Didn’t peg you as the type to sleep with your clients.”

He breathes out a quiet laugh. “Fair.”

You spot the rest of your clothes crumpled on the floor, still tacky with the stains of your last kill. You hadn’t even bothered to wash them—just came straight here, blood and all. With a sigh, you pull the fabric back over your skin and flick your hair out of the way.

“I didn’t come here for a lecture. You said you had something for me.”

Chigiri’s grin widens. “I did. But now I’m curious. What’s got you digging around imperial business all of a sudden?”

You meet his gaze in the cracked mirror across the room. The glass splits your reflection into fragments—eyes too cold, face too still, as if the years had carved you out of someone else. Around your throat, the faint gleam of brass rose catches the light. The pendant is old and worn, the only softness left on you.

“Just tell me what you know.”

Chigiri huffs, but relents like he always does.

“The new emperor’s consolidating power fast.” He stretches, slow and feline, the picture of unbothered ease. “After all those years spent grooming him into their perfect little sovereign, the council’s tripping over itself to parade him as Aurelia’s savior. Half of them already kneel. The rest are too afraid to breathe wrong in his presence. I heard Kaiser is a bit… callous.”

“Kaiser,” you murmur.

Chigiri hums affirmatively. “The late empress’ bastard son, dragged out of whatever hell he grew up in to play monarch. Took a while, but he’s finally been crowned emperor a few days ago.” His eyes then flick toward you, narrowing ever-so slightly. “Humor me. When did you get so ambitious? Don’t tell me you’re planning to recreate the massacre from ten years ago or something.”

“None of your business.” You click your tongue, reaching for your dagger on the bedside table to flick it across your fingers. “What else you got for me?”

“Nothing that’ll help you slit his throat unnoticed, if that’s what you’re after.” He exhales through his nose, languid as ever despite the outright rejection. “The council kept their little Kaiser project under wraps for years. Even my contacts in the imperial guard couldn’t dig up anything worth the trouble.”

For a moment, you two can only stare each other down in silence. Chigiri studies you from where he still lingers on the bed, the edge of a smile ghosting over his lips.

“I’d advise you to be careful,” he starts. “Men like him don’t die easily, birdie. Not after what happened ten years ago. Whoever unmade the empire in a single night set the bar high, and Kaiser doesn’t strike me as the type to fall to anyone less.”

Finally, you slide the dagger into its sheath, the soft click punctuating his words.

“Then I’ll just have to be better,” you tell him confidently, shrugging into your cloak as you move for the door. “Contact me if you’ve got anything more useful than the scraps you gave today. I’ll pay in advance.”

Chigiri laughs under his breath. “Noted. Gotta admit though, ambition looks good on you. Try not to die for it, will you? All my regulars keep getting killed by their own hubris.”

You don’t bother answering. The hefty bag of gold coins you toss onto the table should be enough. Cold air bites against your skin when you reemerge in the streets of the capital. Somewhere within its walls, the empire’s new sun has risen, but you know better than to fly too close too soon.

The wet cobblestones are still slick with last night’s rain, and the glow of lanterns catches in the puddles like fallen stars. You move through the alleys without a sound. This city never truly sleeps, but tonight, it dreams uneasily. You can feel it in the air—the tension coiled tight in the dark, the scent of smoke and steel carried by the wind.

Your hand brushes against the letter tucked in the pocket of your cloak, but you don’t need to read it again to know what it says.

When you finally reach the tavern, the familiar creak of its old wooden sign greets you—a faded serpent devouring its own tail, the paint chipped and weather-worn. The Ouroboros is quiet tonight, unusually so. There is no laughter spilling from the bar, no dice rolling in the corners or soft murmurs of bribery. Only the faint scratch of a broom sweeping somewhere in the back.

To the untrained eye, it’s a place of ale and cheap food, but to those who know—those who belong—it’s the heart of a network that breathes secrets. Every drunkard’s rambling, every whispered affair, every careless mention of coin or crown is sifted, stored, and sold. You learned early on that there’s no treasury richer than the words of the inebriated.

You push through the door, and the warm scent of oak and smoke washes over you as Anri looks up from behind the counter. Her vibrant hair is tied loosely with a ribbon today, and her eyes soften at the sight of you in the low light.

“Well, look who the wind dragged in,” she says, smiling faintly. “You look half-dead. Rough job?”

“Feels about right,” you mutter.

Anri tilts her head, studying you the way she always does—equal parts concern and curiosity. “Would you like a drink, then? It’s on the house.”

Brutally tempting, especially after the number Chigiri has done on your body, but the ache in your shoulders is heavier than your thirst. “Not tonight. I just need a bath and a bed.”

Her smile dips just slightly. She’s used to your refusals, but it never stops her from offering. “Fine, fine. Go on, then. I’ll have the kettle ready for the bathhouse.”

You nod in thanks and slink toward the back hallway. Your fingers are already undoing your cloak’s clasp when Anri’s voice suddenly calls after you again.

“Oh, wait!”

“…What is it?”

Her expression shifts, the warmth in her eyes replaced by something quieter.

“Ego’s looking for you.

You exhale through your nose. “Now?”

“Now,” she confirms, wincing in sympathy.

Well. There goes your bath.

You sigh, pushing the exhaustion back down where it belongs, and offer her a half-smile. “Guess he’ll have to settle for a half-dead sparrow, then.”

Anri chuckles softly, though her eyes linger on you a moment too long—like she wants to say be careful. You nod once in silent understanding before turning down the narrow corridor that leads deeper into the tavern. The noise fades behind you, replaced by the faint dripping of water through the gutters and the steady rhythm of your own heartbeat.

By the time you reach the old oak door at the end of the hall, your exhaustion has already hardened into something sharper.

You knock once.

“Enter,” comes the reply.

You push the door open, stepping into the dim light.

The air inside your master’s quarters is different—cool and sterile, thick with the scent of parchment, oil, and something metallic beneath. A single lantern burns low on the desk, its light catching on rows of knives and glass vials lined neatly along the wall.

He’s already there, sitting behind the desk, spectacles glinting faintly as he looks up from his papers. Ginpachi Ego has never looked particularly intimidating, but there’s something in the stillness of him that unsettles even the most hardened assassins. You’ve seen men who could kill a person before they blink, but none who could disassemble them word by word, thought by thought, until nothing was left like Ego does.

His gaze flicks up to meet yours, sharp and impersonal. “Sparrow.”

The name lands as coldly as it always does. A title. A leash.

“Master,” you reply, stepping closer. The dim light cuts across his face—sharp nose, sharper eyes, and a frown that never quite deepens nor fades. He looks like a man perpetually calculating odds only he can see.

He leans back in his chair with his fingers steepled. “How did the job go?”

“Completed. The client from Varen paid in full before I could even carry it out.”

He cocks a single brow in interest. “Varen. Foreign soil. You’ve been wandering far from home, little bird.”

“It was a profitable flight,” you answer evenly. “The target’s death stirred less noise than expected. You can say it was worth the distance.”

He does not respond right away. You learned long ago not to fill that space; silence here is a measuring stick. It tells you what he wants to know without his mouth moving.

It reminds you of other nights: nights when you were smaller, stripped of choices, taught to move like a shadow and to love nothing that asked for repayment. The slums burned ten years ago and it was Ego who picked you up from the ashes. He fed you. He broke you. He stitched you back into usefulness. You grew up faster than a child should, learning to count heartbeats in the dark and to read the slope of a person’s neck like a map of veins to cut.

“You missed the coronation,” he finally says, and relief threads through your chest in ribbons.

“So I’ve heard.”

“Then you already know about the new emperor.”

You incline your head, careful not to reveal more than necessary. “Word travels fast even beyond Aurelia’s borders. That, and I received my orders in the nick of time.”

The weight of the envelope still tucked in your cloak becomes more conspicuous. There is something almost obscene in how clear Ego’s letters are. Your orders were scribbled in four measly words: Kill Emperor Michael Kaiser. There’s no room to misunderstand that, no gray for doubt to seep through. A single sentence, as efficient as the blade he once placed in your small, trembling hands.

“I don’t have much to go on yet,” you add. “My informant’s come up empty. The coronation’s too recent, and Kaiser’s been hidden away for years. The council raised him to replace the dynasty that burned a decade ago, and now they’re guarding him like he’s all they have left.”

Ego hums. “Then take your time.”

That’s all he says, and the silence that follows stretches taut. It’s strange how this still unnerves you—the weight of him simply watching. You grew up under that stare, learned to breathe within its confines. But for all your posturing in Chigiri’s presence, you can’t quite silence the question that’s been festering since the moment you broke the seal of Ego’s letter. It slips out before you can stop yourself

“Why me?” you murmur, more to the space between you than to him. “There are better hands in Ouroboros for this. You could have picked anyone else.”

You already know the answer. Maybe it’s masochism that makes you want to hear it said aloud, to remind yourself that every breath you take is one he permitted. Ego never saved you out of kindness; he rebuilt you out of ambition, molding you into something sharp enough to be useful. A creature carved in his image, all precision and obedience. When he levels you with his calculating grin across the desk, you no longer shudder.

“Because they don’t owe me what you do.”

There’s no cruelty in his tone, only certainty—one that leaves no room for refusal.

You should be used to it by now. The way he reduces everything into transactions. Sometimes you wonder if he ever thinks of that day the way you do: smoke choking the air, your fingers bleeding from digging through wood and ash, and his voice being the first thing that cut through it. You mistook it for salvation once. Now, you know better. Now, you are nothing but a bird once plucked from the ruins, fed and warmed until its feathers grew back, then tethered to a string so it never flies too high. You’ve never cut the string.

Maybe you never will.

Thus, you bow your head before him without another word. It’s less reverence, and more acknowledgement of debts paid and still owing. You leave the room before the lantern can throw more of his shadow across your shoulders. The pendant on your throat feels heavier than usual—as if it remembers everything you had to lose just to wear it.

One day in the summer, you came across an injured sparrow.

It lay in the dust by the roadside, wings trembling like scraps of paper caught in the wind. When you bent to pick it up, its tiny heart beat so frantically against your palms that you were sure it would die before you reached home. But you ran anyway, clutching it as though the warmth of your hands alone could keep it tethered to life.

Your mother was sitting by the window when you burst in your old house.

“Can it be saved?” you asked, voice breaking as you held the bird out to her.

She looked at you for a long time before answering. Her hands were steady—the same hands that once mixed poultices and tinctures in the apothecary before the empire’s taxes turned medicine into luxury. She touched the sparrow gently to trace its broken wing with a thumb.

“We can try,” your mother said at last.

With what little you had left, you fed it crumbs from your own meals, ground herbs to ease its breathing, and sang to it softly at night in the corner of the room. The days passed in fragile hope, but by the end of the week, the sparrow laid deathly still.

That day, you cried until your throat burned and your eyes were swollen red. Your mother said nothing to comfort you, only gathered you close and waited for the storm to pass. When your sobs finally quieted, she pressed a hand to your hair and whispered, “Take it to the riverbank. Give it back to the world.”

So you did.

You dug a shallow grave beneath the reeds where the mud met the water and laid the sparrow down, covering it gently with your hands. The river lapped quietly at the shore, carrying away your reflection in small ripples as you quietly sniffled to yourself.

That was when you saw him again.

Mihya.

He was panting when he stumbled through the grass, dirt on his knees, clutching half a loaf of bread against his chest. For a moment, he looked like he might bolt again, but then his bright blue eyes found you, and they softened with recognition.

“You’re the girl who almost got bitten by a snake.”

“And you’re the boy who took the bite for me,” you murmured, eyeing the faint scar that altercation had left on his forearm.

Both of you laughed quietly—small and awkward, but genuine. The wind moved through the reeds, whistling soft and low, as though the river itself was trying to listen in on the conversation unfurling between you.

“What are you doing?” Mihya asked quietly.

You glanced down at the patch of earth by your knees. “Burying a sparrow.”

He was silent for a long while as he eyed the mound of dirt by your knees. Then, without a word, he tore the loaf in half and offered you a piece, making you flounder about in polite refusal.

“You don’t have to—”

“Take it,” he insisted anyway. “It’s better when it’s shared.”

You could tell he hadn’t eaten in days. It was obvious in in the hollows of his cheeks, the way his arms shook when he handed the bread over. That made you wonder if he was an oprhan, with how often he had to steal just to get by. So you took the bread anyway, because you worried that refusing would have hurt him more than hunger ever could.

After that, you started to see him more often.

You were never sure how Mihya figured out where you lived, but he somehow always found his way to your door. Your mother never truly turned him away, no matter how many times she warned you about the “cursed boy.” At first, she would scold him gently, shaking her head as he handed you a bruised apple or a trinket that clearly didn’t belong to him. But the reprimands never lasted long. Mihya just had that effect on people, you supposed.

He had the bluest eyes you’d ever seen, and a smile that made you forget the filth of the slums for a moment. It was hard to believe someone with such a big heart could exist in a place that devours kindness. Perhaps your mother felt that too because after a while, she stopped trying to chase him off.

Especially when he began showing up bloodied.

At first, it was just scrapes and bruises, the kind of marks all street urchins wore like second skin. But then came the split lip, the blackened eye, the torn shirt sticky with dried blood. He would never tell you where the wounds came from, only laughing it off with a sheepish grin and some flimsy excuse about falling over or fighting for food.

Your mother would sigh, usher him inside, and clean the wounds in silence. Her hands were steady as always, though her eyes betrayed the ache of helplessness. Sometimes she told him to stay for supper, to rest awhile, but Mihya always refused.

“I can’t,” he would say. “I have to go home.”

Home.

You never asked where that was. Maybe you were afraid to find out he didn’t have one.

This went on for months—him arriving and disappearing like the tide, always smiling, always pretending he wasn’t hurting. Until one day, he came back worse than you’d ever seen.

There was blood crusted along his temple, dirt smeared down his neck, his hands trembling as he clutched the doorway. Your mother rushed to fetch water and cloth, but you couldn’t move. You just stood there in quiet shock, your throat tight and burning.

When your mother left the room to boil water, the words broke out of you all at once.

“Why do you keep doing this?”

Mihya blinked. “Doing what?”

“This!” you cried, stepping forward, fists balled at your sides. “Coming here hurt, pretending you’re fine, and running back into whatever’s doing this to you!”

He stared at you, startled, unsure what to do with your tears. “I—”

“I don’t want to bury you too, Mihya.”

The room went very still. The sound of the boiling kettle seemed far away. For a moment, he just looked at you and something in him faltered. His mouth opened like he wanted to say something, but no words came. You could see the tremor in his jaw and the flicker of disbelief in his eyes. No one had ever said that to him before.

“You care that much?” he whispered.

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. “If we didn’t, we would’ve turned you away the first time you came here.”

He blinked fast, as if trying to hold something back but the tears fell anyway. You didn’t even realize you were crying too until your vision blurred, and the two of you stood there, sobbing in a quiet broken rhythm only children ever fall into.

When your mother came back and saw the state you were both in, she didn’t ask a single question. She only set the basin down, drew the two of you close, and wrapped her arms around you both. Her voice was soft, trembling slightly against your hair.

“Shhh. No more tears,” she murmured. “Promise me you’ll look out for each other from now on. The world takes enough from children like you. Don’t let it take this too.”

You nodded into her shoulder. Mihya did too, though his small hands were shaking.

The three of you stayed like that for a long time, until the light outside turned amber and the air smelled faintly of river reeds and herbal salve. Somewhere beyond the window, a sparrow called once before the dusk swallowed it whole.

Just like Ego said, you take your time.

Assassinations done too quickly tend to end badly, especially when the target is a crowned emperor hidden behind more layers of protocol and politics than armor. The usual channels of Ouroboros turn up little on the new sovereign. The council keeps news of their emperor sealed tight, and whispers travel slower when tongues are cut for carelessness.

So you bide your time.

The fastest way to the palace is always through its weakest gatekeeper. In this case, it happens to be the man who controls the employment registry: Oliver Aiku, Chief of Personnel.

You learn his habits before you ever learn his name; where he drinks, how long he stays, what kind of flattery he prefers. He’s handsome in that smug, seasoned way—an older man who knows the weight of his charm and wields it as leverage. He is the type of person who enjoys watching people squirm for his approval.

It doesn’t take much to make him notice you.

Ego once told you that your body was your most important tool. Weapons, poisons, disguises—they were all just extensions of it. It wasn’t a lesson you enjoyed learning, but you learned it well. Oliver doesn’t ask many questions. After a few nights and a few well-placed words, he’s already offering to “pull some strings.”

By the week’s end, you have forged documents, a name that isn’t yours, and a position among the palace’s housekeeping staff. Not glamorous, but perfect. Servants see more than courtiers do—they are ghosts in plain sight.

Your quarters lie in the southernmost wing, tucked behind the western gardens where the halls are wrought with the buzz of cicadas and secrets. Once you settle in, the days blur quickly into routine: scrubbing marble floors until your fingers ache, delivering fresh linens to the council chambers, serving tea to officials too self-important to meet your eyes.

You never see the emperor during that first month. Not once. There are no portraits of him hung in the gilded halls, no likeness displayed as the old dynasty once decreed. Yet you hear his name spoken often. Michael Kaiser—the last thread of imperial blood through his mother, the late empress.

Although his face remains unseen, you begin to learn him in fragments.

You learn that he dines alone even when the council gathers in full. That by sundown, every attendant is dismissed, and none are permitted beyond the doors of his chambers or study without summons. You learn that the guards outside his chambers rotate every two hours, and that his most trusted courtier, Alexis Ness, rarely strays more than a few paces from his side. You also learn that the emperor’s handwriting is precise and elegant, and that he always signs his decrees in blue ink.

None of these things are useful on their own, but they will be. Eventually. After all, information is like poison—it works best when it seeps in slow.

As always, you keep your distance and observe. The corridors are quiet, echoing with the faint rhythm of boots and the whisper of silk. You map the palace by memory: which doors creak, which staircases lead to dead-end halls, which corners stay cloaked in shadows long enough for a blade to disappear.

But whenever you pass the gilded mirrors in the eastern wing, you look away. You’ve long since despised reflective surfaces as each one always throws back a different face—a servant, a courtesan, a messenger, a ghost. You’ve worn too many names, slipped into too many borrowed skins, until even your own reflection feels like a lie you’ve repeated one time too many.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, all of this is nothing more than the prelude to what you were tasked to do.

Oliver’s shadow crosses yours again a few weeks later.

You’ve taken to tending the gardens in your spare hours, pruning the hedges and sweeping the gravel paths long after the sun has set. It’s quieter here than anywhere else in the palace, and far more useful. Courtiers come to the gardens to breathe and gossip and scheme. The air here is thick with secrets looser than any tongue inside the marble halls.

Oliver likes the gardens, too. Or rather, he likes the people who haunt them. More often than not, you’ll glimpse him leaning against the fountain’s edge, smiling lazily as noblewomen sidle close, their laughter trickling softer than the water itself. Watching him, you often wonder how a man so transparently indulgent managed to earn such a post within the imperial ranks. But then, that same carelessness is what got you this far, so you can hardly fault him for it.

He spots you one evening after shaking off a persistent viscount’s daughter.

“Still working after dark?” Oliver drawls.

“The weeds don’t sleep,” you say, straightening from the bush you were trimming.

He grins at that. “Neither do you, apparently.”

You keep your eyes on your shears and go back to work. It’s easier that way. Oliver Aiku is a man who remembers more than is safe. The story you fed to him while warming his bed weeks ago was simple: you were a refugee from Varen, orphaned by border skirmishes, just looking for work. You’re not sure he believed any of it, but you know better than to let your guard down.

Yet since the first time, he’s grown quite… friendly.

He always asks how you’re settling in. If you were eating properly. If the other servants are treating you well—a strange question, since you’ve barely spoken to any of them. You keep to yourself for a reason because one careless word, one wrong glance, and everything could unravel before you ever lay eyes on the emperor’s face.

That is how you start using Oliver’s interest like any other small advantage.

When he drops by the gardens for small talk, you keep your answers light and let your hands do the work. Your questions about the palace come wrapped in harmless curiosity—old stories, and tall tales softened by time. He fills the silence with gossip and half-truths about ministers and marriages, embellishing as he goes. You let him. The lies are easy enough to sift from the useful fragments. And sometimes, when the mood strikes him, Oliver drifts toward things that actually matter.

“There’s going to be a banquet soon,” he says one evening, watching petals scatter across the path. “A grand one. Invitations were sent to every noble house worth mentioning, and a few that aren’t. The emperor’s first formal introduction since his coronation.”

You glance up, feigning curiosity. “I thought the coronation was the introduction.”

Oliver chuckles as if the thought itself is naive. “The coronation was for Aurelia’s citizens—to remind the people they still have a throne to kneel to. This,” he says, gesturing lazily with one gloved hand, “is for everyone else. A show of power, so the neighboring nations stop circling like vultures. A declaration that the empire still breathes, and that it will not be consumed.”

You nod along. “I see.”

The rest of the conversation, you let drift toward safer shores—menu speculation, décor, the petty vanities that seem to keep him entertained. By the time Oliver takes his leave, the only thing heavier than the dusk settling over the garden is the thought lodged quietly in your chest: a public gathering means a weakness somewhere.

By morning, you find the head servant, Mistress Celene hunched over her ledgers in the service hall, assigning shifts with the efficiency of a commander. You clear your throat and ask, careful to sound merely eager, not desperate.

“Do you need more hands for the banquet, ma’am?”

Her quill stills. “Yes. I was just about to call for help from the southern wing.” For a moment, that sharp gaze lingers on you. “The initiative is good. I’ll put you with the logistics team.”

You bow your head in thanks, concealing the relief that flickers sharp and bright behind your ribs. And this newfound goal is what keeps you up that night.

Nobles both foreign and Aurelian will gather under the crystal chandeliers of the ballroom. Dishes will steam, voices will clink against fine glass, and the hubbub of a hundred pretensions will create the one distraction you need. For the first time since you slipped into palace life, the emperor will be within reach.

You let yourself imagine the face you have only sketched in fragments: the solitary dinners, the blue-inked decrees, the man who refuses attendants after sundown. You temper the image quickly; anticipation is a blade that can cut both ways. There is a plan forming in the margins of your patience and you take your time pinning each detail in place. You trace the pendant at your throat and let your thoughts settle like a blade being sheathed.

In two weeks, you will finally see his face.

And if the gods are merciful, you will end his life that same night.

Mihya was hiding something.

You could tell because he no longer came by your house at the same hour every day. The rhythm you’d grown used to had become irregular and unpredictable. When he did appear, it was later than usual, and he always smelled faintly of flour and sugar left too long on the hearth. But you never really asked.

It was enough to see that he didn’t look perpetually half-starved anymore. The bruises had faded from his skin, the cuts on his arms had healed without new ones taking their place. The only scar that lingered was the pale crescent on his forearm—the mark of a snake’s fangs. You still thought of it fondly sometimes; it was the first thread that had tied your fates together.

You found out the truth by accident.

Your mother had sent you to the market one morning for herbs, and you nearly missed him entirely in the crowd. There were more guards than usual along the slum road, their helmets gleaming under the sun, and you kept your head down as you walked. Then, through the noise of the street, you caught sight of a familiar figure behind the bakery counter—a boy with pale hair and blue eyes, wiping flour from his hands as he handed a loaf to an elderly woman.

You stopped in your tracks.

So that’s where he’d been disappearing to.

You didn’t call out his name. You didn’t even linger long enough for him to notice. If Mihya wanted to keep it to himself, then you would let him have that secret. For someone like him, any moment of peace was worth protecting.

Days passed until one morning, a sharp rap at the door woke you before dawn. Your mother was still asleep, so you stumbled out of bed and opened it yourself.

Mihya stood there with tousled hair and shy eyes, holding something behind his back.

“What are you doing here so early?” you whispered.

He hesitated before bringing his hands forward. For a second, you had to rub away the leftover drowsiness in your eyes until you finally see what he’s holding. Dangling from Mihya’s fingers was a pendant—a small rose cast in dull brass, the chain thin but sturdy. It wasn’t new; the edges were slightly uneven and the metal was scuffed in places. But it caught the morning light like it was made of gold.

“I, uh… got you a gift,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

You just blinked at him. “A gift?”

He nodded quickly, the words tumbling over themselves. “I-I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking! I swear! The baker lets me help out sometimes and I saved up for it. You said you liked the roses in the flower shop, remember? So I thought…” His voice trailed off, color rising to his cheeks. “Anyway. It’s not fancy or anything, but I paid for it myself…”

For a moment, you couldn’t speak. You just stared at him—the boy who used to run from guards with stolen bread under his arm, now standing in front of you, flustered and proud and trying so hard to be honest. The weight of it all settled behind your ribs, swelling warm and sharp until your vision blurred.

“Mihya,” you managed, and then the tears broke loose.

“Hey, wait—why are you crying? Did I do something wrong?” he asked, panicking a little, half-reaching toward you and half-afraid to.

You shook your head and threw your arms around him before he could retreat. He froze, then awkwardly patted your back as if he wasn’t sure what to do with you. When you finally pulled away, your cheeks were wet and aching from smiling. Mihya cleared his throat before carefully fastening the pendant around your neck until the cool brass pressed softly against your skin.

You touched it gently, a soft smile creeping up on your face.

That morning, with the rising sun spilling through the cracks of your home and Mihya’s hands still trembling against your nape, you decided you liked roses even more than before.

When the day of the banquet comes, the ballroom gleams like the heart of a jewel—glass chandeliers spilling gold across polished marble, a thousand voices weaving into a tapestry of laughter, gossip, and feigned civility. Nobles from every province of Aurelia and beyond crowd beneath the vaulted ceilings, their silks and brocades flashing like a moving constellation.

You’ve seen gatherings like this before. Danced between them even, though not in the way the courtiers did. The last time you moved through a room this grand, you carried poison in a jeweled ring and a dagger hidden in your garter. You remember the feel of sweat slicking your palm as your target raised his goblet, and the quiet certainty that every toast ends the same way: with someone’s pulse going still.

Tonight, however, your hands are clean.

Or at least, they appear to be.

You glide through the sea of bodies with a silver tray balanced on one hand, refilling glasses, exchanging murmured pleasantries with people who’ll forget your face within the hour. The uniform makes it easy to disappear and so does practice. Weeks spent under the palace’s roof have honed your rhythm—one step, one glance, one smile at a time.

Still, it isn’t the nobles that hold your attention tonight.

The hour grows late enough that anticipation trembles through the hall. You feel it in the hush that falls when the orchestra fades, in the ripple of motion as everyone turns toward the grand staircase. The herald’s voice cuts clean through the murmur:

“Announcing His Imperial Majesty—Michael Kaiser of Aurelia.”

Eyes gravitate towards the center of the hall, murmurs of anticipation buzzing about in your ears. But despite weeks of tempering your expectations, the man who steps into the light is nothing like the phantom you’d pieced together in your mind.

He wears imperial regalia as if it were spun for him and him alone; white and gold trimmed with sapphire threads, a mantle of midnight velvet draped across one shoulder. The crown that glints atop his head is modest, yet it catches the light like frost, a cold gleam that seems more fitting than any jeweled diadem.

His hair is long, pale gold fading into deep royal blue at the ends—the colors merging like the last breath of daylight before dusk. When he turns his head, the movement reveals the ink that curls along the line of his throat: a single blue rose, delicate and intricate, blooming just above his pulse. It’s a striking mark against his fair skin, too deliberate to be anything but a declaration. Then there are his eyes; blue in a way that seems almost impossible. They carry the stillness of the sea before a storm, and a beauty so sharp it borders on cruel.

For a heartbeat, the room forgets how to breathe. But the applause starts to swell in rolling, deafening succession. Even the servants pause in their work to strike their palms together in reverence.

Beside him stands the imperial advisor, Noel Noa himself, a living legend of Aurelia’s court and the man responsible for reviving what once was a dead monarchy. Beside the emperor, he stands tall, broad-shouldered, and clearly exasperated. You can see it in the way his gaze flicks toward Kaiser with the weariness of a man who has given up trying to rein in a storm.

“Honored guests,” Kaiser drawls with a voice as smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “How pleasant to see so many faces still eager to swear loyalty—to power, if not to the man wearing it. Whether it’s faith or fear that brings you here hardly matters. I’ll take both.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd.

The emperor’s grin is effortless, wicked in the way light plays along the angles of his face. “Eat well. Drink deeply,” he says imperiously. “After all, it would be a pity if all this beauty went to waste.”

The nobles laugh though it sounds as though uncertain whether they should. Still, the orchestra stirs again, violins rising like a breath released, and the illusion of merriment returns.

But not for you.

You stand there with a tray poised at your hip, watching him take his place among the council, and something twists beneath your ribs. That face of his, those eyes of endless blue… You’ve seen them before—or at least, something hauntingly close to it.

You blink, forcing yourself back to the present yet the thought lodges anyway.

Why does he look so familiar?

The emperor settles into the throne-like chair at the head of the council’s table, his posture so effortlessly regal that it almost feels mocking. Even seated, he commands the space. The nobles crowd around him like moths to a flame, vying for his attention, their laughter bright and hollow.

Kaiser gives them nothing.

When they speak, he listens the way a cat watches a bird—idly, with the sort of interest that makes you wonder whether it’s curiosity or hunger behind the gaze. Every word he utters lands heavily; every tilt of his head draws the entire room with it. But for all that effortless command, there’s something faintly detached in him, as if this grand spectacle were nothing more than a game he’s already grown tired of winning.

You drift along the outer ring of the ballroom, eyes lowered just enough to feign deference. But your mind is elsewhere—tracing the line of his shoulders, the gleam of his hair, the sharpness of his smile. You know little of the man beneath the crown. Rumors say Noel Noa scoured the empire’s edges to find the late empress’s lost bastard son. Others whisper that the boy had been hidden by loyalists, raised in secrecy until the time was right to reclaim the throne. None of it makes sense.

Yet there he sits, perfectly poised, like a lie that has learned to breathe.

You hate the way he unsettles you. You hate even more that he feels familiar. Somewhere in the back of your brain, the ghost of a memory stirs—half-formed and maddeningly out of reach. You try to wrap your mind around it, but it slips through your grasp like smoke.

But it hardly matters. Your mission remains the same.

You remind yourself that now is not the time to strike. Not in a hall so crowded and with half the empire watching. Even your usual methods are useless here—the champagne flutes are rimmed with alchemical glass, charmed to shimmer red at the faintest trace of poison. Whoever designed this banquet understood paranoia well.

So you lie in tireless wait.

All while you try not to think about how the candlelight glances off Kaiser’s jawline. Or how his derisive laughter carries like velvet drawn across a blade’s edge. From the snatches of conversation you catch as he mingles with other courtiers, you can tell he’s arrogant. But not the kind that comes from birthright or privilege. His is the arrogance of survival—the sort born in fire and sharpened on loss. He speaks like a man who’s seen death and learned how to make it listen.

You’re studying him so closely that you almost don’t notice the movement cutting across your path—until a firm shoulder clips yours, jolting the tray in your hands. The champagne flutes tremble, liquid catching the light before settling again.

“Ah, my apologies,” you murmur quickly.

The man you’ve collided with doesn’t step back. His deep brown hair fades into mauve at the tips, catching the light like bruised wine; his eyes at ease but assessing. Alexis Ness. You recognize him instantly.

“It’s quite all right,” he tells you with a soft smile. “You should be more careful, though. Wouldn’t want to draw unnecessary attention.”

You bow your head. “Of course, my lord.”

Ness doesn’t move. For a beat too long, his eyes hold yours in a way a nobleman has no business doing to some lowly servant. Before you can think much of it, he steps aside with a faint, courtly gesture that feels like dismissal.

You retreat with practiced ease, heart steady even as your thoughts twist tight. That wasn’t an accident. You know the rhythm of crowds, and the weight of movement all around you. Years of slipping through shadows have trained your senses to catch the smallest shifts, and you would have avoided him easily if he hadn’t meant for it to happen.

Alexis Ness. A new variable. A threat you’ll need to account for.

You return to the edges of the ballroom, slipping back into anonymity just as the orchestra swells again. The dance resumes. The laughter rises. But your gaze catches one last time on the figure once again seated at the head of the room.

Michael Kaiser leans back in his chair, the faintest smile playing at the corner of his mouth as though he knows something no one else does. For the briefest moment, before you force yourself to look away, you swear his eyes flicker toward you through the crowd.

Blue meeting yours.

As cold as a blade, and just as familiar.

Today was Mihya’s birthday.

You’ve been saving for weeks. Every spare coin from selling pressed flowers and ribbons at the market was tucked away. Every flash of his face when he sees the cake you’ll be giving haunted your thoughts. It wasn’t much, but it’s more than you’ve ever been able to give him before.

Your mother hummed by the stove as you tied your shawl around your shoulders, the room thick with the smell of stew and warm bread. She smiled hesitantly when you told her where you’re going, and reminded you to be careful. People from your part of town weren’t always welcome where the streets are clean.

The walk to the patisserie took you past the edge of the slums, where cobblestone replaced dirt and the air smelled faintly of lilacs instead of smoke. You half expected to be turned away at the door, to have the shopkeeper’s eyes flick down to your worn shoes and patched skirt before telling you they’re out of stock. But the woman behind the counter only greeted you with a gentle smile. She let you pick the smallest cake in the display—a single layer brushed with chocolate glaze and threw in a tiny blue candle with your purchase.

“Whoever it’s for,” she said as she wrapped the box in brown paper, “they must be someone very dear to you.”

You blushed, thinking of Mihya’s crooked grin, the way his eyes lit up when he talked about wanting to see the world beyond the slums. You paid with trembling fingers and thanked her before hurrying out, clutching the cake box close to your chest.

The streets grew rougher as you walked back home, the scent of lilacs fading into soot and rain. Still, your heart felt light. It will be the first of Mihya’s birthdays you’ll celebrate together, and you promised yourself it wouldn’t be the last.

You toyed with the small pendant he’d given you weeks ago, smiling to yourself as you turned the corner toward home—

—and that’s when you heard the first scream.

At first, it didn’t register. The market was always loud; vendors arguing, children running, carts clattering down uneven roads. But this sound was different. It tore through the air like metal splitting apart. Then came another scream, and another, until the noise rose into a chorus that turned your blood to ice.

You lifted your head. Smoke was already rising in the distance—dark and thick, curling against the pale morning sky. For a heartbeat you just stood there, frozen in the street as you clutched the cake box so tight the paper begins to crumple. But the instinct that something is dreadfully wrong takes over. You bolted before your mind could catch up.

The closer you got, the worse it became. People were shouting and shoving and spilling from the narrow alleys with soot on their faces. A mother stumbled past, dragging her child by the arm. A man was on his knees trying to smother a fire with his coat. The air reeked of burning wood and something else.

Your lungs seized with every breath.

By the time you reached your street, the world was already an inferno. Homes you’ve known your whole life were split open, flames climbing the walls faster than you can blink. Roofs caved in with groans that sounded like dying beasts. The sky was a furious red, and you dropped the cake without realizing it, the box tumbling into the dirt.

“Mother!” you called out, stumbling toward your door. It’s already burning.

You crashed through the threshold as your eyes stung and smoke clawed its way down your throat. The room glowed orange with heat, every surface alive and shuddering. “Mother!” you cry again, louder this time, until your voice broke with desperation.

There by the hearth, you caught a glimpse.

You saw her hand first, limp beneath the beam that’s fallen from the ceiling. For a moment, your mind refused to understand what your eyes were seeing. You crawled toward her to keep your head as low as possible, dragging yourself through the heat and smoke and ash.

“Mama—please, wake up,” you whispered as you gripped her arm to shake her awake but she wouldn’t move. She’s too still. Too heavy.

You tried to lift the beam, dug your nails into it until your hands bled, but it wouldn’t budge with your measly strength. The fire roared around you, greedy and endless as the smoke started to fill your lungs. Eventually, your body started to tremble from exhaustion. You couldn’t breathe. The heat bit at your skin, licking up your arms like it meant to swallow you whole. When you finally collapsed beside her, your tears evaporated before they could even fall.

Outside, the shouting started to fade into white noise. The world narrowed into the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven. With what little strength you could still muster, you reached for the pendant at your throat, clutching it as tightly as you could. Mihya’s face flickered in your mind—his sun-warmed hair, the easy smile that always reached his blue eyes. You wanted this day to be perfect for him.

You never even got to tell him happy birthday.

The simmering heat began to fold around you, lulling you into its encompassing embrace. Your eyes drifted shut. For a moment, you imagined Mihya standing in the sunlight, alive and untouched by the ruin spreading through your world.

When you opened them again, everything was quiet. The flames were gone. Smoke and ash curled through the air as it drifted over the blackened remains of your home.

A figure moved silently through the haze.

He stopped a few paces away, tall and straight-backed, his silhouette framed by the dying light. The glint of spectacles caught your eye first, then the faint reflection of firelight in his blank gaze. He studied you for a long time, his posture calm in a way that felt deeply unnerving.

“Still breathing,” he murmured. “What a fortunate little bird you are.”

You tried to speak—to ask who he was, what had happened—but the words caught in your throat. The edges of the world wavered. The smell of smoke began to fade. His shadow fell over your form before you felt the faint brush of a hand against your temple.

Your body seemed weightless and untethered, as though the ground had slipped away. For a brief, dizzy moment, you thought you were being lifted into the sky; ashes swirling around your limbs, the ruins of your home shrinking beneath you.

The darkness then claimed you in its quiet embrace, soft and absolute.

The banquet’s end is a slow tide.

Voices start to thin as attendants shepherd the last of the guests toward carriage doors and lantern-lit porches. You slip away while the hall still burns with leftover laughter, moving like water through people who have already been taught to ignore you.

On the way to the northern wing you remove only what you must. Two guards on the corridor are knocked into a sleep that looks like drunkenness; another pair stationed near the service stairs are eased into a ditch with a careful twist of bones and knuckles. You take no liberties. You disable the ones who would block the route you’ve rehearsed a thousand times, leaving others intact so the palace won’t suspect a breach—just a small, plausible gap.

Approaching the emperor’s wing, you keep to the shadows. You know which torch sputters in the wind, which tiles throw back a footstep slower than the rest. You have walked this hall in daylight and darkness until every notch and groove in the wood has a name in your head.

You pause before the door you have passed a dozen times. It should be secured; it has always been. The palace keeps its crown wrapped in secrets like a sleeping thing. But you find that the latch is loose. When you press your palm to the wood it gives, just enough for your fingers to slip through.

A warning ticks somewhere in your chest. Kaiser is never careless. Guards do not forget their stations. The palace does not leave its emperor exposed. You’ve read men’s mistakes before, sensed the rotten joints in others’ plans, and you know attrition when you see it. But the gap is precisely the sort of impossible opening that has ended lives in other halls.

Without questioning it, you slip inside.

Darkness engulfs you immediately. The emperor’s private chamber is larger than the rooms you clean; softer light pools at the far end where a desk waits beneath a silvered mirror. A faint perfume hints someone has been here recently. You close the door behind you and let the latch fall, and the silence that lingers is absolute.

Now the real work begins: the waiting.

You sink into a shadow at the foot of a chaise, a dagger pressed flat along your thigh under your skirts. Time moves differently in such darkness. It lengthens and thins, becoming a private thing you can shape. You count heartbeats to keep from listening to your own thoughts. Ego taught you patience as well as knives; a blade is only useful when the hand that wields it is calm. You breathe slowly until your pulse is a metronome rather than a drum.

Minutes become hours. Your shoulders grow cramped. Your jaw aches from holding it closed. You thread your focus through a narrow hole: the sound of passing boots, the faint creak where a floorboard dips, and the echo of voices trickling down the corridor. You do not move. You will not move until the shape you are hunting returns.

At some point the conversation outside becomes closer, folding into the frame of the door. Ness’s voice bounces off the panels. Noa’s exasperation follows like an afternote. You press deeper into the shadows, willing your skin to cool, your breath to vanish.

“Kaiser,” Ness scolds. “You embarrassed us in more ways than one tonight. You need to control yourself better in public.”

A soft, bored laugh answers, the kind of sound that can come only from someone who has never truly feared consequences. “We all know that sad excuse of a banquet was all for show,” Kaiser scoffs. “Let them take offense. They needed reminding that the crown still has teeth.”

Ness’s reply is a sigh edged in warning. “Whatever you say, Your Highness. Good night.”

The door shuts with a soft, final click; you feel the exhale in your ribs. Footsteps fade, then the room's hush folds in on itself. A moment later, a lighter flicks by the desk; a candle flares, then another, the candelabra’s warm tongues spilling out to paint the room in slow gold. You watch the play of flames across the desk, cataloging reflections, rhythms, and the way his silhouette will read when he removes his outer layers.

His crown is tossed carelessly onto his desk, and you watch as his outer garments fall in silence, forming a pale scatter across the floor. The sight irons something taut inside you: a man who sheds splendor with the same ease he wears it. Just like those serpents who once hid within the reeds by the slums. Kaiser moves toward the vanity, strips his tunic, and for the first time you see the pale sweep of skin and ink.

The tattoo is a ribbon of a blue rose and thorned vines that begins at the hollow of his throat and winds down his arm in a dark, meticulous spray. The ink is beautiful, almost obsessive in its detail, curling into a tiny crown inscribed on the back of his hand. For the briefest moment, you pull yourself back: distraction is a luxury you cannot afford.

He sheds the last of his clothes and stands in the dim room, unadorned and very real. The only sounds are his measured breathing and the crackle of flames on the candelabra.

You rise quietly. The blade slips free in your hand. You close the gap in two feather-light movements, a hand on the small of his waist as you pass, the other bringing the cold bite of steel across his throat.

For a heartbeat, it is as practiced as every rehearsal you’ve ever done: steel to skin, the soft little staccato of a plan executed. Your breath fogs the skin at his neck. Your hand remembers the exact pressure that will cleave life from a human body.

But then your world tilts off its axis.

Kaiser is not slow. He is not unfamiliar with blades. His reflex arrives like a thought of its own. The hand that had been poised at the desk is suddenly at your wrist, his palm closing with the kind of strength you have only felt from men twice as broad. Before your dagger can find the cleanest arc, he has forced your back against the wall—your throat crushed in a grip that is casual in its brutality. The curtain to your demise starts to fall as he squeezes the air from your windpipe.

“Bold,” he murmurs. “So very bold.”

You have no room to answer. Your training, your breath control, the whole of your career—everything funnels into one narrow point: the knowledge that you almost had him and the shock of how completely fast he was.

You twist in his grip, trying to wrench him loose, and with your other leg, you drive your heel hard into his shin. Kaiser flinches, but only enough for a twitch; his smile stays, slow and smug, as if you are an amusing child poking at a caged beast.

Fear starts to slice through you, but you have always known how to anchor yourself in a moment when the body wants to panic. You breathe shallowly, count in your head, find the small, steady rhythm Ego had carved into you. Find a fulcrum. Find a micro-movement.

Break the pattern.

You drive your knee up again, harder. Something cracks under the contact—maybe a breath, maybe a rib; you don’t have the luxury to make sure. Kaiser hisses, and in that flicker of surprise you find your opening. You twist your wrist, drive the dagger into the soft joint at the base of his thumb where leather yields to flesh. He snarls, and his hold loosens just enough for you to wrench your arm out.

You shove with everything left in you to create space, trying to scramble back and draw the blade free. Momentum carries both of you off balance: he staggers, you pivot, and the two of you crash to the floor. But before you can leverage the tumble to your favor, his knee plants hard against your thigh, pinning you beneath him.

Kaiser’s lips then bow into a smirk. He leans in so close your breath fogs the skin of his jaw.

“Tell me, who sent you?” he murmurs. “Who thought the palace’s bedchambers were a suitable grave?”

Your vision is blurred at the edges; your heart slamming like an animal trying to escape its cage. Naming Ego would be death immediate and not the kind you can bargain with. Tasting bile in your mouth, it’s the first time in a long time you felt a child’s cold terror: the sort that had lived in the alleys, that had watched roofs fall and mothers die.

Kaiser’s fingers curl around your wrist, his weight pressing you down so you can’t rise. The self-satisfied smirk that curls across his lips tells you he has more to say, but something in his expression falters in the next second. You can feel the infinitesimal slack in his grip, the tiny unraveling of the moment you’d expected to be the end of everything.

His eyes are on the brass rose pendant on your throat.

Then he leans closer, and the cruelty you read in his gaze a heartbeat before blunts into something else you do not have a word for. Kaiser then whispers a name that has you unraveling at the seams in a mere second.

Memories unspool all at once: smoke-choked alleys, the hiss of reeds, a boy with hair like spun gold and eyes the color of deepwater glass. The face you kept in a pocket of your heart, the one you told yourself was nothing but ash after the slums burned—he stands before you, ringed in candlelight as he calls you by the name that belonged to a life that no longer exists.

No… It couldn’t be.

Mihya—your Mihya—could not be the man who wears the empire like a second skin. The boy you thought had been buried in the ruins of your home could not be breathing in front of you, laced with tattoos and iron and enthroned cruelty.

Shock is dangerous; you know that better than most. It steals momentum, it brings forth hesitation. But it also births an opportunity when the other is unready for the truth.

Kaiser’s eyes find yours again, and for the briefest instant they are not the cold, imperial blue you have catalogued from a distance but the same endless summer sky you remember from your childhood. Bewilderment flashes across his face, only barely masked by the careful stillness of his authority.

You use that moment to make your escape.

You shove him away, using the small burst of surprise like a lever. Your shoulder blasts his chest and he yields and stumbles too easily. You wrench free and snatch the dagger you planted at your hip. Kaiser recovers faster than you imagine, annoyingly so. His hand closes on your wrist with the old, iron certainty and in his eyes dance a million questions you do not know how to answer.

You do the one thing practice makes possible: you exploit chaos. You swipe the candelabra off his desk, sending flames skittering to the side, and in the flare of light you throw your weight toward the nearest window. It gives with a shriek, and you crash through it, as the shards split around you like rain.

The hedges you had once convinced the gardeners to plant for practicality’s sake take the brunt of your fall. Thorns snag your skirt; the soft earth breathes against your ribs. For a dizzy, glorious moment you taste freedom—dirt and rain and the cold rush of night air. Behind you, the sound of the chamber changes from a surprised shout to a single, furious curse.

You do not look back.

Your feet find familiar paths; you run through the western gardens where you have spent hours sweeping leaves and mapping escape routes. Lantern light fractures across hedgerows, and for a pulse you can see the palace receding. Your lungs burn. Your throat tastes like metal and smoke. You let the pendant swing against your breast; the brass rose is hot with your skin.

In the dark, it feels like the last honest thing you still own.

According to the man who took you in, the slums had been burned to the ground.

No one survived. No one except you.

He said it plainly, without cruelty or comfort, as though he was commenting about the weather. You sat there on the cold wooden floor of his study, legs drawn tight to your chest as you watched the dirt crumble from your fingernails. You had not spoken in days. When you tried, your throat still tasted of smoke.

The man—who you learned was called Ego—took you to the main district of the capital. Its air smelled of iron and rain, not rot and riverwater. People here did not shout to be heard. They spoke softly, as if the world always listened. You hated that quiet. It reminded you of the moment after the screaming stopped.

Ego did not ask for your name. He only gave you food and a cot in the corner, among shelves lined with glass and steel. At night, when sleep would not come, you watched him move about the room with measured hands, sharpening blades that reflected no light. The sound of metal against stone became your lullaby, your proof that you still existed.

Days passed before he finally spoke to you again.

“Do you remember what I called you the night I found you?” he asked, not looking up from his workbench.

You shook your head.

“A bird,” he said plainly. “A small, half-dead thing still trying to fly.”

You said nothing. You remembered the poor sparrow you found injured by the roadside. You remembered how you failed to save its life, and how you returned it to the earth with your own two hands. It made you wonder if this man was doing the same thing for you, too.

Ego finally turned to you, spectacles gleaming in the early morning light. “A name is only useful if it serves its purpose. The one you had before doesn’t anymore.”

A soft flutter intruded on the conversation.

Both of you turned as a sparrow had landed on the open windowsill. Its feathers were smudged with dust, its song thin and reedy as it tilted its head toward the two of you. You watched it hop closer along the frame, wings trembling as if uncertain whether to leave or stay.

Ego’s voice cut through the haze. “What name would you take, then?”

You hesitated. You didn’t know why he asked. Maybe it was a test; maybe it was mercy disguised as indifference. You looked at the bird again—at the way it tilted its head and let out one sharp chirp, like it had decided something for you.

“Sparrow.”

Ego studied you for a long moment, then gave a quiet hum of approval. The sparrow fluttered once, twice, then lifted back into the pale morning air—its shadow sweeping briefly across your face before it disappeared into the sky.

“Then Sparrow you shall be,” he said before turning back to scrape his blade against the whetting stone. “Let’s see if you can still learn to fly.”

That was the day your old name burned for good, carried away on wings wrought in ashes and the faint morning dew.

You did not know if you deserve it, but it was all you could hold on to.

✦ afterword. this was originally going to be written as a full oneshot, but the format of the storytelling kind of made me think that it would be better to section it into threes. (it kinda sounds silly in my head HAHA the sparrow, the snake, and the sun is giving: the lion, the witch, and the wardrobe LOL) that, and i really just needed to get this kaiser rabies out of my system before i go ahead and move on with my life for a few more days before i go back to the endless writing psychosis this man has put me in :/ not a lot of in-depth notes for this yet, i think everything is pretty straightforward so far. but i'd love to hear your thoughts for this piece anyway! i put soooo much thought into it like . against my will HAH. thank you for reading, and see you in part two!

✦ THE SPARROW ┊ THE SNAKE ┊ THE SUN

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

reblog if you have skilled writer friends and you're damn proud of them

[t4kalcvr]

TO LOVE A CURSED-BOUND SOUL

𝐘𝐔𝐓𝐀 𝐎𝐊𝐊𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐔 word count :: ( 17,764 ) genre :: fluff, angst, adventure, && romance content warning :: does NAWT follow the storyline !!! curse words, violence, “evil” reader, nudity (non-sexual), not proofreading ts :3 part two

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈

𝐀 𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋, 𝐑𝐄𝐁𝐎𝐑𝐍

screams echoed through the streets, filling the air with chaos and fear. a small outbreak of curses had emerged, their grotesque forms twisting through the city. but regardless of their size or strength, the threat was enough to summon nearly every sorcerer available. the flickering glow of cursed energy illuminated the night as jujutsu sorcerers rushed into battle, their expressions hardened with determination.

“inumaki-san!!” megumi shouted, his voice strained as sweat stung his eyes. his breath came in sharp gasps, but there was no time to stop.

inumaki whipped around just in time to see a curse lunging straight for him, its twisted limbs reaching out hungrily. before he could react, a flash of steel cut through the air—maki had already moved. with a single, precise strike, she eliminated the creature, its grotesque form dissolving into nothing.

“stay focused!!” she snapped, eyes sharp as she turned to check their surroundings.

“shake,” inumaki responded gratefully, his voice laced with exhaustion but firm.

the battlefield was relentless. in every shadowed alley, behind every crumbling building, curses lurked—watching, waiting. the night was far from over.

“guys,” megumi panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly, “how much longer do you think we can hold this up?” his fingers twitched as he pressed them together, summoning his shadow frog with a grimace.

“not much longer!” nobara rasped, barely getting the words out before a curse slammed into her, knocking the air from her lungs. she staggered but refused to fall.

before the curse could strike again, a massive blur shot forward—panda. with a single, earth-shattering punch, he sent the creature flying, its body crumbling into nothing upon impact.

“just hang on, guys,” panda huffed, his usually steady voice laced with strain. “we can’t give up now.”

around them, the battle raged on, curses swarming like vultures, their eerie screeches filling the night.

above the screeches and screams, the air was thick with the sound of heavy, rapid footsteps, echoing like thunder through the chaos. suddenly, sharp slashes cut through the noise, followed by the unmistakable sounds of punches and kicks landing with brutal force.

yuji and yuta.

they appeared in the fray, their cursed energy a beacon in the darkness. yuji’s movements were fluid, almost instinctive, as he pummeled curses into the ground, each strike filled with raw power. yuta wasn’t far behind, his blade cutting through the air with precision, every slash eliminating another threat in an instant. together, they fought like a well-oiled machine, carving a path through the nightmare.

“yuji!” yuta shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos, “5 o’clock!”

yuji didn’t hesitate. he spun around and sprinted full speed toward yuta, the air whipping past him as he moved. in one fluid motion, yuta tossed his cursed sword into the air, its blade gleaming in the dim light. without missing a beat, yuji leaped forward and delivered a powerful kick, sending the sword flying straight into the heart of a massive curse. the creature let out a chilling screech before disintegrating into nothingness.

“show-offs,” maki muttered, rolling her eyes, though there was a flicker of admiration in her gaze.

the synchronized strike was impressive, but there was no time to waste. the battle was far from over, and every second counted.

yuta sprinted to grab his sword, his movements quick and purposeful. megumi offered a hand to yuji, helping him to his feet.

“came just in time,” megumi commented, his voice carrying a hint of relief as he glanced at the battlefield around them.

“yeah, straight from one battle to another,” yuji said, brushing off dirt and sweat, his grin never wavering despite the exhaustion weighing on him.

“ay! guys!” yuta shouted, his voice cutting through the tension. everyone immediately turned toward him, their eyes locking on his figure as he retrieved his sword.

he pointed sharply ahead, drawing their attention to the ominous sight. the curses, relentless and numerous, were converging toward one particular building in the distance, their grotesque shapes writhing and shifting as they advanced.

“we have to stop them before they reach it,” yuta said, his tone low and urgent.

without another word, the group sprang into action, their bodies moving as one toward the impending danger.

“do we even know why they’re going there?” maki grunted, slashing through a curse with a fluid, practiced motion. the cursed creature crumpled under her blade, but she didn’t pause to appreciate the victory.

“shake shake!” inumaki shook his head, his face set in concentration, as he held his ground against a growing swarm of curses.

megumi summoned his demon dogs, their shadows twisting and stretching into the familiar, terrifying forms. he didn’t wait for an answer, his voice steady as he looked toward the others.

“do you want to find out?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with determination. the dogs barked in agreement, eager to leap into action.

“stop!” panda shouted, his voice sharp and commanding.

everyone immediately halted in their tracks, instinctively turning their attention to panda, their eyes filled with curiosity and concern.

“what is it?” nobara asked, her voice laced with impatience but a touch of worry as she glanced around.

“something…” panda paused, sniffing the air deeply. “doesn’t smell right.”

a sudden, eerie silence fell over the group as they exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of his words sinking in.

“could it be the hundreds of curses huddling into the building?” yuji asked with a laugh, trying to ease the tension, but the humor didn’t reach his eyes.

“no, i’m serious,” panda said, his tone more intense now. “smells strong.”

the air seemed to grow thicker with unease. a shared shiver ran down everyone’s spine as they processed the implications of panda’s words. whatever they were about to face, it was no longer just about the curses. something else was lurking, something worse.

just as their fear began to dissipate, a strange, guttural sound echoed from the top floor of the building, sending a fresh wave of tension through the group.

“we have to hurry,” maki stated, her voice steady but urgent. her eyes were fixed on the building, her grip tightening on her weapon.

without a moment’s hesitation, everyone sprinted toward the structure, their feet pounding the pavement as they rushed up the floors, adrenaline fueling their every step.

as they reached the top floor and burst into the room, they froze. all the remaining curses were gathered in the center, twisting and writhing in unnatural patterns. they were trying to morph together—melding their grotesque forms into one massive, horrifying entity.

“what the…” yuji spoke slowly, his voice filled with disbelief and horror as he took in the monstrous sight before him.

the curse was growing, fusing together into something far beyond what any of them had expected. the air was thick with cursed energy, and the very walls seemed to tremble under its weight.

however, just as the last curse fused, something unexpected happened. the massive blob of twisted curses began to shrink, its grotesque mass shifting and warping into a smaller, more defined shape.

“are they…” maki furrowed her brows, confusion and unease creeping into her voice.

“morphing into a human?” yuta finished her question, his tone calm but clearly disturbed by the transformation. “looks like it.”

“has this…” maki began again, her thoughts racing.

“ever happened?” panda interjected, his eyes narrowing as he watched the process unfold. “no,” he answered firmly, his voice tense.

they all stood frozen, unable to tear their eyes away as the figure slowly took form. every feature began to solidify, piece by piece. long (h/c) hair cascaded down, a striking contrast against the darkened room. sharp (e/c) eyes glowed with an unsettling light, scanning the room with an eerie intelligence. full pink lips parted slightly, as if tasting the air, and a perfectly shaped nose completed the transformation.

it was no longer a mass of curses—it had become something human. or at least, something that resembled one.

the atmosphere thickened with tension. something was terribly wrong, and none of them were prepared for what this new being meant.

“do we… help it?” megumi asked, his voice filled with confusion, his brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. “we can’t hurt a person,” he reasoned, glancing at the others for support.

“awe man!!! and we can’t hit a girl, especially,” yuji exclaimed, throwing his hands up in frustration, as though torn between his instincts and the strange situation they were in.

maki and nobara exchanged a look, rolling their eyes in unison.

“hey,” yuta whispered, slowly stepping forward toward you, his eyes filled with cautious sympathy. he carefully took off his jujutsu uniform jacket and held it out, realizing you were completely naked, with nothing but your long (h/c) hair to cover you.

you let out an inaudible scoff, clearly unimpressed with his gesture.

“i just wanna help,” yuta said, his voice soft but sincere, hoping to reach some part of you still human.

without warning, you lunged toward him, your movements swift and predatory. maki’s eyes widened as she unsheathed her spear, ready to strike, but you vanished before she could land a blow.

“what the—” maki’s words were cut off as you reappeared in front of her, delivering a sharp kick to her head, knocking her back with surprising force.

“hey!” nobara shouted, her fists clenched in frustration. your eyes locked onto hers, a cold glare shooting in her direction before you vanished once again.

you reappeared behind her in an instant, sweeping your foot under her and sending her crashing to the ground with a sharp thud.

you remained crouched on the floor, your eyes scanning each of their faces with unnerving calm. finally, your gaze landed on inumaki.

he gave you a confused look, his mind racing to understand your intentions. without warning, you vanished again, appearing behind him and swiftly snatching one of his containers of cough syrup from his belt.

in the blink of an eye, you reappeared on the ledge of an open window, perched like a cat, your form almost ethereal in the dim light. the breeze tugged at your hair and tickled your bare shoulders, a reminder of how unnatural all of this truly was.

“wait!” yuta shouted, his hand reaching out instinctively, as though hoping to stop you from leaving.

“yuta, back away, she’s obviously dangerous,” maki exclaimed, her tone urgent and commanding as she stepped forward, her grip tightening on her weapon.

yuta hesitated, his gaze flickering between maki and you, conflicted. “she’s still human,” he reasoned, his voice filled with uncertainty but an undeniable empathy for the strange being before them.

your eyes began to glow with a dark, eerie purple light, sending a chill through the air.

“I remember,” you spoke, your voice cold and distant, the words like a final echo before you leapt from the window without a second glance.

yuta gasped, his body reacting before his mind could process the action. he rushed to the window, his hands gripping the frame.

“be careful!!” megumi shouted from behind him, but it was too late.

as they looked down into the darkness below, there was nothing. no trace of you, no sound of impact—just the empty, eerie quiet of the night. the wind blew gently, carrying the lingering tension with it.

yuta stared, his heart racing. “where did she go…?” he whispered, unable to shake the feeling that something far bigger was at play.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

maki slammed her spear down onto the desk with a sharp thunk. “absurd,” she stated, her voice dripping with frustration.

gojo raised an eyebrow, giving her a questioning look, clearly intrigued by her outburst.

everyone was now back at Jujutsu High, sitting in the briefing room and reporting their strange interaction to their sensei.

“sensei, there’s no explanation!!” yuta exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief.

“it literally morphed into a she right in front of our eyeballs!!!” yuji continued, his hands gesturing wildly as he recounted the bizarre scene.

megumi nodded in confirmation, still trying to process everything they’d witnessed.

“really now?” gojo leaned back in his chair, absorbing the information with a casual air, though the gears in his mind were clearly turning.

“and goddamn kicked our asses…” nobara mumbled, wincing slightly as she held ice to her bruised shoulder. her pride had taken a hit, and it showed.

maki was equally fuming, holding ice to her head where you’d knocked her back. the anger radiating off her was palpable, but it was mixed with a sense of confusion and disbelief.

“we barely even touched her,” maki muttered, eyes narrowing at the thought. “who—what was that?”

“it may be something we’ve never seen before,” gojo hummed thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the desk. “HOWEVER, it’s always been possible.” he spoke as he pointed his index finger at the group, a strange glint in his eyes.

everyone exchanged confused glances.

“what do you mean?” panda asked, his voice curious but also skeptical.

“i mean…” gojo stood up, leaning dramatically on his desk, his posture full of confidence. “this isn’t impossible, it’s just improbable. it’s not likely, it’s—”

“yeah, we get it,” megumi interrupted, his tone a mix of impatience and exhaustion.

gojo gave them a wide, knowing grin. “we must catch her,” he said, his voice suddenly serious.

everyone shared the same fearful glance, the weight of his words sinking in.

“if she remains on the streets, we are all in danger,” gojo continued, his expression darkening. he paused for a moment, then broke into a grin, “but no pressure!!” he cheered, as if the entire conversation hadn’t just taken a dangerous turn.

everyone’s faces tightened, breaking a nervous sweat.

“do you know what could happen?” nobara asked, her voice laced with genuine concern, the gravity of the situation settling in.

gojo leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful but a little distant. “i can’t give an accurate prediction with such little information,” he said slowly. “but she seems to be a little more powerful than we’d like. but if those curses were able to morph into a real human, rather than the usual cursed knock-offs, then somewhere in that glob…” he took a deep breath, his voice dropping. “…was a curse with emotion. a sad curse. a curse who just wants to avenge.”

gojo’s gaze dropped to the desk as he continued, his tone more somber. “if there’s any chance we can help it overcome the darkness… we should take it. it could benefit us, and possibly put the world in less danger.”

“so, too dangerous to be free but too valuable to destroy…” yuta spoke, glancing at yuji, his eyes reflecting the uncertainty of the situation.

“WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT!?” yuji shouted, his face flushing with a mix of confusion and frustration.

gojo burst into laughter, unable to contain himself. the others, though trying to maintain composure, couldn’t help but chuckle at the unexpected dynamic between the two.

“you’re hopeless,” maki muttered, but a small grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

in another part of Tokyo, you were strolling the busy streets, unfazed by the curious stares of men and women who passed you by. Your hair, long and flowing, covered every inch of your exposed form, shielding you from their prying eyes.

you paused at the window of a store. “Shibuya Luxe Lounge” was the name, bright and bold, lit up with neon lights that caught your attention. Without hesitation, you stepped inside.

a personal assistant, spotting you immediately, rushed over with wide eyes. “Oh my gosh! Come with me!” she exclaimed, her excitement barely contained as she took your arm and hurried you toward the back of the store.

before you could even process what was happening, she pushed a button on her earpiece. “I need back-up to the back of the store! Women only!” she instructed, her voice urgent.

the woman turned to you with a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, girl, I know the owner, we’ll get you some cute stuff—and for free!”

your expression was one of confusion. “What is wrong with me now?” you asked, glancing down at your bare body, feeling exposed despite your hair serving as a makeshift cover.

the assistant looked at you with surprise, then softened. “Oh, honey,” she said with sympathy in her voice, “don’t worry, you’re in good hands.” She giggled, clearly amused by the situation.

just as she spoke, the room began to fill with women, rushing in with racks and racks of clothes, their energy high as they quickly surrounded you with fabric and style. The chaos of the moment was strangely comforting, yet you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was still off about the situation.

you ended up walking out of the store dressed in a traditional japanese kimono, though it barely resembled its original form after your alterations. the fabric was soft and elegant, embroidered with delicate floral patterns, but the length had been an issue for you. without hesitation, you had ripped the bottom, turning it into a skirt that swayed just above your knees. the neckline, too restricting for your liking, had been stretched and pulled until it draped off your shoulders, exposing your collarbones.

your hair had been carefully styled by the women inside, separated into two buns high on your head. they secured each bun with intricate silver clips, chains cascading down like waterfalls through your hair. three long silver hairpins jutted out from each side of your head, glinting under the city lights as you walked.

the final touch was the large, elegant bow tied at your back, cinching the kimono around your waist. despite the traditional elements, you had made it your own—something between grace and rebellion, a perfect contradiction.

“i remember you,” you mumbled, your voice wavering as if the very act of speaking felt foreign to you. the words felt unfamiliar on your tongue, like they hadn’t been used in a long time.

your gaze was distant, unfocused, yet locked onto something only you could see.

“yuta okkotsu,” you finished, his name slipping past your lips like a long-lost memory finally resurfacing.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈

𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐒, 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐓𝐇

chirping could be heard outside the dorms as the sun peeked through everyone’s windows. a new day.

thud. thud. thud.

heavy knocking echoed through the hallways, growing more aggressive with each hit.

“what!?” yuta snapped as he slammed his door open, his hair a mess, eyes still groggy from sleep.

standing before him were panda, maki, and inumaki, all grinning like they were up to something.

yuta narrowed his eyes, already regretting opening the door. “what do you want?” he muttered.

“get dressed,” panda demanded, arms crossed.

“we’re gonna practice,” maki added, cracking her knuckles.

“tuna tuna!” inumaki nodded excitedly, his energy unmatched.

yuta let out a long sigh, rubbing his temples before shutting the door in their faces. moments later, he emerged, still looking half-asleep but dressed and ready.

everyone gathered on the practice field, the morning air crisp as the sun fully rose over jujutsu high.

“alright!! so what skills did this curse-morphed-human have exactly?” gojo asked, clapping his hands together.

everyone glanced at each other, trying to find the right words.

yuji hummed, tilting his head in thought. “hmm, i mean, she either has vanishing powers, or she’s just that fast,” he shrugged.

“tuna mayo,” inumaki held up two fingers, signaling he agreed with the second option.

“yeah, i think she was just that fast,” nobara muttered, absentmindedly rubbing her head, wincing as she felt the bruise from their encounter.

maki sighed, arms crossed. “she could be fast to the extent that she vanishes,” she theorized.

gojo chuckled, clearly entertained. “very well done, children. you got the first question down,” he grinned.

everyone blinked at him in confusion.

“what?” megumi asked, frowning.

gojo let out a dramatic sigh, flopping down to crouch as he idly picked at the grass. “i told you guys, this was an unlikely occurrence, not an impossible one,” he mused. “the chances were like… 1 in 4 billion, but still not impossible.”

yuji’s eyebrows raised. “so, it’s definitely happened before,” he concluded.

gojo whined dramatically, flailing his arms. “it’s like you guys never listen to me!” he huffed, full-on throwing a tantrum.

megumi groaned, rubbing his temples. “is that all we came here for?” he grumbled, rolling his eyes. “a single question and a big ol’ man baby?” he shot a sharp glare at their so-called sensei.

gojo immediately straightened up, his sulking vanishing as he flashed a wide, all-too-innocent smile. “alright!” he clapped his hands together, the energy in the air shifting. “since we’ve got our first actual piece of relevant information that could actually help us—” his grin stretched wider, turning mischievous, “—let’s put it to use.”

everyone collectively shivered. regret settled in their stomachs. this never ended well.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

a loud slam echoed through the dimly lit alley, followed by a strangled groan.

the man gasped, struggling as you pressed your forearm against his throat, pinning him to the cold brick wall. your grip tightened with every second, cutting off more of his breath the longer he refused to cooperate.

“wh-what?” he sputtered, his voice hoarse.

“i’ll ask you again,” you hissed through clenched teeth, your patience wearing thin. “where is yuta okkotsu?”

his panicked eyes darted around, searching for an escape. “i don’t kn—”

wrong answer.

you pressed harder, his words dying into a wheeze.

“okay! fine!” he choked out.

you loosened your grip just enough for him to speak, but not enough to give him any sense of comfort.

“listen, i don’t know what happened to him—”

your arm tensed again, pushing into his throat.

“but! but!” he gasped desperately. you hesitated, allowing him another breath.

“but i know he was said to be somewhere near that Suginami Ward,” he wheezed, coughing as you finally released him. he collapsed against the wall, gulping in air.

your eyes remained cold. “coordinates?”

“i—i don’t have any!” he stammered instantly, raising his hands in surrender.

your jaw tightened. useless.

but this wouldn’t stop you. it wouldn’t stop your drive for revenge. nothing would.

your biggest advantage was that you knew every jujutsu sorcerer. their names, their ranks, their abilities. but no one—no one—would ever be able to identify you.

except for one.

“don’t think i’ve forgotten you either,” you muttered, your voice laced with venom.

with a swift motion, you stole the man’s sword from his trembling hands, gripping the hilt as your cursed energy surged through it. the blade pulsed, the metal shifting under your control, becoming yours.

“nanami kento.”

his name left your lips like a curse as you slashed forward, sending a powerful wave of cursed energy straight at the man. the force of it sent him tumbling back, a strangled cry escaping his throat.

without sparing him another glance, you turned toward the street, your eyes scanning the row of parked motorcycles. you picked one at random, straddling it with ease.

but before you could take off, a bloodcurdling scream rang out behind you.

you turned, watching with satisfaction as the man clutched his head, his entire body convulsing.

“no—stop! stop! get away from me!!!” he wailed, thrashing against an invisible force. his eyes were wide, darting around in sheer terror. but there was no one there. nothing there.

a slow smile crept onto your lips.

“i haven’t lost my touch,” you mused, revving the engine.

as the bike roared to life, you threw your head back and laughed, the sound of his screams fading into the air as you sped off.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

“crap—” yuji grunted as he hit the ground face-first, groaning against the dirt.

everyone was already exhausted, despite having just begun their training session. sweat dripped down their faces as they tried to catch their breath.

“alright, alright,” gojo clapped his hands together, his ever-present grin widening. “let’s try something different. you guys can’t just fight each other and expect to beat her. she vanishes, right?”

he rubbed his chin in thought.

everyone nodded, still panting.

gojo pushed up his sunglasses and pulled his blindfold from his pocket, letting it dangle between his fingers. “phase one: blindfold reflex drills.”

his smile was almost too enthusiastic.

everyone turned to each other, confusion plastered across their faces.

“tuna…” inumaki sighed, already sensing where this was going.

gojo clapped his hands together. “alright, listen up! here’s how it’s gonna work.”

everyone straightened up, bracing themselves for whatever ridiculous exercise their sensei had cooked up this time.

“you’ll be in pairs,” gojo continued, twirling the blindfold around his fingers. “one of you will be blindfolded, completely unable to see. the other? you’ll be fueling yourself with cursed energy, letting it radiate off you like a beacon.”

megumi narrowed his eyes. “and what’s the point of that?”

gojo grinned. “the blindfolded partner will have to sense that energy. no eyes, no cheating—just pure instinct and awareness. your goal? deflect your partner’s attacks using your sixth sense alone.”

a heavy silence filled the air as everyone processed the exercise.

“that sounds… impossible,” nobara muttered.

“nah,” gojo waved her off. “it’s just improbable.”

yuji groaned. “you just said that about the curse-girl thing.”

“and look how that turned out,” gojo shot back with a smirk. “now, pick your partners! let’s get started.”

everyone paired off—megumi with maki, panda with inumaki, yuji with nobara, and, to everyone’s dismay, gojo with yuta.

“oh, lucky me,” yuta muttered as gojo threw an arm around his shoulder, grinning ear to ear.

“don’t sound so excited, yuta-kun~” gojo teased. “i’ll go easy on you. probably.”

yuta sighed, already regretting his life choices.

and so, phase one of their training began.

at first, it was a disaster. megumi kept flinching every time maki attacked, nobara accidentally punched yuji without meaning to, panda was far too predictable for inumaki, and yuta was suffering through gojo’s very unorthodox teaching methods—mostly consisting of getting smacked at random intervals.

“sensei, are you even trying to teach me anything!?” yuta groaned as he narrowly dodged another strike.

“yup! trial by fire,” gojo said cheerfully. “trust me, you’re learning.”

but after a while, everyone started to get the hang of it.

megumi became more in tune with maki’s movements, sensing her energy before she struck. nobara and yuji turned their match into a full-on competition, dodging and countering each other’s attacks. panda started moving more unpredictably, forcing inumaki to sharpen his awareness.

yuta, somehow, managed to block one of gojo’s attacks.

gojo paused. “…whoa. you actually did it.”

yuta exhaled sharply, barely believing it himself. “i—yeah?”

gojo grinned. “alright, time for phase two!”

everyone groaned in unison.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐈𝐈

𝐀 𝐌𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓’𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐄, 𝐀 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐈𝐄

yuta, yuji, megumi, inumaki, and panda were all hanging out, grabbing ice cream since yuji was craving it. the girls had been called in for a mission, leaving the boys to unwind after their grueling training. everyone was sore, but yuta wasn’t too concerned about the day’s plans—he was just enjoying the walk, taking in the sights of the shops and the bustling streets. megumi, as always, was easily irritated by yuji’s presence, while panda and inumaki amused themselves with a game of eye-spy.

suddenly, someone’s phone rang. everyone checked their pockets, and megumi reluctantly answered the call. it was gojo, of course, starting with a string of obnoxious nicknames. “‘gumi, hey there, buddy, little megumiiii!” he cooed.

megumi pinched the bridge of his nose, already regretting picking up.

“sensei, just tell me why you called,” he sighed.

“aw, megumi, you’re no fun,” gojo whined dramatically. “anyway! we’ve got a tiny problem.”

megumi exchanged a glance with yuta, who raised a brow. “define tiny.”

“well, you know that mysterious curse-turned-human you guys fought?”

everyone suddenly perked up. yuta tensed, gripping his ice cream cone a little tighter.

“what about her?” he asked.

“she’s been spotted. in shibuya.”

silence.

yuji nearly dropped his ice cream. panda and inumaki paused their game. megumi’s grip on his phone tightened.

“shibuya?” megumi repeated.

“mhm~” gojo confirmed. “and i think it’d be fun if you guys went to go check it out.”

“fun? fun?” megumi deadpanned.

gojo chuckled. “yup. better hurry before she disappears again~”

and with that, the line went dead.

yuta exhaled, feeling his heart race.

“so… we’re going after her?” yuji asked, already knowing the answer.

megumi slid his phone back into his pocket. “looks like it.”

“shake,” inumaki murmured, nodding in agreement.

panda stretched. “guess ice cream break is over.”

yuta looked down at his half-melted cone before tossing it in the trash.

“let’s go.”

as they ran down the street, yuta couldn’t help but take in the scenery. even though they weren’t technically on a break anymore, he figured he might as well enjoy the last few peaceful moments before the big confrontation ahead.

panda, clearly annoyed by the lack of direction, asked if anyone knew where they were supposed to be heading. before anyone could answer, a loud explosion rang out, shaking the ground beneath them.

“well, guess we follow the explosion,” yuji said, half-joking, half-serious.

they pushed forward as quickly as they could, only to stop when they spotted a familiar blonde-haired figure standing ahead.

“ahh, welcome,” the man greeted, his voice calm and steady.

“nanami!” yuji shouted in excitement.

“what are you doing here?” megumi asked, raising an eyebrow.

“gojo sent me as backup,” nanami explained, adjusting his glasses. “and to help manage this mess until you five got here.”

everyone nodded, taking in the information, a brief silence settling over them.

“well, hurry up,” nanami urged, a sense of urgency creeping into his voice. “i’ll be right here if you need me.”

with that, the group pushed forward into the chaos of concrete and fire, their goal clear—find you before things got any worse.

you sat calmly on the edge of a window, your eyes tracing the destruction you’d left behind. you hadn’t meant to hurt anyone who wasn’t involved, so you’d cleared the streets beforehand—just enough to make sure no innocent bystanders got caught in the chaos. with a flick of your fingers, you tugged at a strand of your hair, letting it fall to the floor. from it, a curse materialized, its form taking shape as you watched it with a quiet satisfaction.

you knew how jujutsu sorcerers operated. you knew they’d send someone to place a veil, and you knew they’d send yuta’s team because he was considered the “strongest.” you were luring them in, pulling them toward you like a cat toying with its prey. but then, something shifted in the air, a familiar scent—one you hadn’t been expecting. it wasn’t from any of the boys you’d been anticipating.

your attention sharpened, but the scent soon faded to the back of your mind as you felt yuta’s cursed energy seep through the walls. his energy was… different, almost indescribable. it radiated off him in a way you couldn’t quite put into words.

perched on the window ledge, you observed silently, your gaze cold and calculating. they were searching for you like lost dogs, unaware they were walking straight into your trap.

“have you guys got anything?” megumi shouted through the thick smoke and flames.

everyone responded with the same answer—no.

but inumaki, sensing something, suddenly froze. he picked up a distinct scent and without hesitation, darted off toward it. the others immediately followed, alarmed by his sudden change in focus.

he skidded to a stop and looked up, his eyes locking onto you perched on the window. without thinking, he pointed directly at you and shouted an onigiri ingredient—“tuna!”

everyone’s heads snapped up in confusion. “what?” yuji exclaimed. “that’s her?” megumi frowned, trying to make sense of the situation.

you simply sat there, watching them, a silent smirk tugging at your lips as they scrambled to catch up.

“why is it always a goddamn building?” panda groaned, rubbing his sore muscles as he scanned the surroundings.

yuji chuckled, a mischievous glint in his eye. “race to the top!” he challenged, his competitive spirit kicking in.

but before anyone could react, you called out from the top. “don’t bother!” your voice rang clear, “i’ll come to you!”

without another word, you vanished from the window, reappearing right behind megumi in an instant.

the air grew heavy with tension as everyone tensed, all eyes on you. it was clear—it was all about the first strike.

yuta, his expression a mix of determination and hesitation, spoke again, his voice softer this time. “we don’t want to hurt you… we just want to understand what’s happening.” he tried to reach you, his words lingering in the charged atmosphere.

your voice was quiet, yet laced with something almost taunting as you tilted your head ever so slightly. “what is it you’re trying to understand, okkotsu?”

the way you said his name—it sent an inexplicable shiver down his spine. there was a strange familiarity in your tone, something unsettling yet… almost intimate. yuta swallowed hard, gripping his sword just a little tighter.

“how do you know my name?” his voice was steady, but the nervous edge didn’t go unnoticed.

instead of answering, you slid your sword from its sheath, fingers tracing the cold metal as if it were an old friend. the blade glinted under the flickering light of the burning rubble around you. megumi, ever cautious, tightened his stance, hands clasped and ready to summon his shikigami at a moment’s notice.

inumaki’s fingers hovered over his collar, ready to unleash his cursed speech, while panda and yuji both clenched their fists, their bodies coiled like springs, waiting for the first strike.

but yuta… yuta didn’t move.

he didn’t shift into a stance, didn’t prepare an attack, didn’t brace himself for battle. he stood there, watching you—not with fear, not even with caution, but with something else. curiosity? hesitation?

you noticed that.

your lips curled into something between amusement and sorrow.

“you really don’t remember?” your voice was softer now, but no less sharp. “the day of the crash?”

yuta’s breath hitched. his mind reeled. crash?

only one memory surfaced. only one crash had ever defined his life.

rika’s accident.

his fingers twitched against the hilt of his sword.

what were you trying to say?

yuta’s breath hitched. his grip on his sword tightened as he tried to process your words.

“do you mean—” he started, but before he could finish, a cleaver swung toward you. instinctively, he raised his own sword, blocking the attack just in time.

your eyes flickered to the owner of the weapon, and your expression darkened.

“kento,” you gritted through your teeth.

nanami hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to see it.

“what the hell, nanami—” yuji began, but a sudden slash of cursed energy cut through the air, forcing him to dodge.

they attacked first.

fine.

megumi summoned his shadow beasts, their glowing eyes locked onto you.

“wait!” nanami tried to take back his declaration of battle.

but you had already made up your mind.

“i’ve waited long enough,” you muttered, blinking back the sting in your eyes.

yuta reached out, desperate. “please, just listen—”

you withdrew your arm before he could touch you.

“we’re done talking.”

those words sent a strange, sharp pain through yuta’s chest.

“don’t move!” inumaki commanded, his voice rippling with cursed energy.

without hesitation, you removed a pin from your hair and let it fall to the ground.

the moment it made contact, the earth trembled.

and then, in a voice eerily similar to inumaki’s, you echoed his command—only stronger.

“don’t move.”

inumaki staggered back, covering his ears with a wince.

“did she just—” yuji’s eyes widened.

megumi clenched his jaw. “reflect his speech.”

everyone was frozen, caught off guard by your perfect mimicry of inumaki’s cursed speech.

“how—?” panda started, but before he could finish, you vanished again, reappearing a few feet away, balancing effortlessly on the crumbling remains of a broken wall.

nanami’s grip tightened around his cleaver, his jaw tense. “this isn’t how this needs to go,” he stated, trying to steady the situation.

you let out a sharp breath, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. “maybe if you all had listened back then, we wouldn’t be here,” your voice wavered, but your stance remained firm.

yuta stepped forward slightly, his heart hammering. “back then?” he echoed, still searching for the missing pieces of a puzzle he didn’t know existed.

your eyes flickered to him. “you don’t remember me,” you stated, but it wasn’t a question—it was disappointment.

the realization sent a strange ache through yuta. before he could find the words, before any of them could, you clenched your jaw and turned your attention back to the fight.

“enough,” you muttered, gripping your sword.

and in that moment, the battle truly began.

yuta stood still, his fingers resting lightly against the hilt of his sword, but he never unsheathed it. he didn’t want to fight you. something inside him refused to.

megumi, on the other hand, had no such hesitation. he moved fast, sending a relentless flurry of shikigami in your direction, their dark forms weaving through the smoke and flames.

yuji and panda wasted no time, sprinting straight at you, their fists clenched, determination burning in their eyes.

you exhaled sharply, then let out a piercing scream, laced with cursed energy, shattering megumi’s shadow summons before they could reach you.

then, with a single flick of your wrist, you sent a slash of cursed energy directly at yuji. this time, it struck.

yuji grunted as the force sent him staggering back, pain flashing across his face as he clutched his side.

off to the side, nanami remained rooted in place, watching the scene unfold with a clenched jaw.

regret gnawed at him.

if he had known.

if he had known that you were the strange human-morphed curse they had been hunting—

he never would have gotten involved.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

the sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden hue over the quiet streets. the scent of freshly baked bread from a nearby bakery filled the air as nanami walked with slow, measured steps. his briefcase felt heavy in his grip, but not nearly as heavy as his mind. he wasn’t supposed to be here. he wasn’t supposed to care. yet, here he was.

“kento!” a small voice called out, breaking him from his thoughts. he turned, his sharp gaze softening as he spotted you running toward him, arms outstretched, a wide grin on your face. you nearly tripped over your own feet, but nanami caught you effortlessly before you could fall.

“careful,” he sighed, adjusting his glasses as he steadied you. “you should watch where you’re going.”

“but i saw you!” you exclaimed, eyes bright with excitement. “you never come around here anymore.”

nanami hesitated. you were right. he had been avoiding this place, avoiding you. jujutsu sorcerers led dangerous lives, and he had no right to be in yours. yet, every time he saw you, a small part of him felt lighter, like he was something more than just another sorcerer marching toward an inevitable fate.

“i’ve been busy,” he finally answered, his tone softer than usual.

“that’s what you *always* say,” you pouted, crossing your arms. “but you still came back.”

he exhaled through his nose, amused despite himself. “just for a little while.”

you beamed, taking his hand without hesitation. he flinched slightly but didn’t pull away.

“then let’s go! i wanna show you something.”

he let you lead him down the familiar streets, past quiet shops and empty alleyways. finally, you stopped in front of a small, abandoned lot. wildflowers pushed through the cracks in the pavement, swaying gently in the breeze.

“this is my secret place,” you whispered, crouching down to trace patterns in the dirt with your fingers. “it’s quiet here. no one comes, so it’s just mine.”

nanami observed the space, taking in the way the light caught the edges of your hair, the way your small fingers played with the earth as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. he wondered if you had any idea how fragile moments like these were. how easily they could be lost.

“it’s nice,” he admitted. “a good place to think.”

you nodded, looking up at him with unwavering certainty. “you can come here too, if you ever need to think. even if i’m not here.”

something about the way you said it made nanami’s chest tighten. as if, even as a child, you knew he carried burdens too heavy for words. he wanted to tell you that he wouldn’t be coming back. that he *couldn’t*.

but he didn’t.

instead, he knelt beside you, picking up a small stone and turning it over in his palm. “thank you,” he said, his voice quieter than before.

he didn’t know it then, but this was the last peaceful moment he would ever have with you.

because months later, you disappeared. the accident changed everything.

and now, standing amidst the wreckage of battle, watching the person you had become, nanami could only wonder—

had he abandoned you, or had fate abandoned both of you?

a sharp scream snapped nanami out of his thoughts. his head turned instinctively toward the source—yuji.

in all the time he had spent lost in memory, the battle had spiraled into chaos. yuta was still trying—desperately—to reach you, his voice nearly drowned out by the sounds of clashing cursed energy. he never raised his sword against you, only defending himself as you sent attack after attack, forcing him to stall. the others weren’t as lucky.

inumaki was on his knees, blood spilling from his lips, his body trembling from the strain of his cursed speech. panda had rushed to his side, frantically searching through their supplies, trying to help but knowing there was only so much he could do.

and then there was yuji.

nanami turned fully, his stomach twisting at the sight before him. yuji was screaming—his voice raw, desperate. but he wasn’t screaming from pain. no, it was something worse.

“megumi, stay! don’t go!” yuji’s hands clawed at the air, grabbing for something—someone—that wasn’t there. his body trembled as if he were trying to hold onto a fading dream. “nobara, run! please, run!”

but there was no one leaving. no one running. only his own mind trapping him in a nightmare that no one else could see.

megumi was at his side in an instant, gripping his shoulders, shaking him hard in an attempt to snap him out of it. “yuji! wake up! snap out of it!”

but nothing was working.

nanami felt a cold weight settle in his chest. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. he had prepared himself for a mission, not a massacre. he had been sent as reinforcement, but now all he could do was stand and watch as everything crumbled.

he thought of you. of the child he once knew.

if he had known… if he had even suspected that you were the target… he never would have gotten involved.

this wasn’t just a fight. it was a tragedy.

and for the first time in a long time, nanami felt truly, utterly helpless.

yuta’s voice cut through the chaos, desperate and unwavering. he called out to you over and over, his pleas growing louder with every strike you sent. he wasn’t fighting—he was begging.

“please, just listen to me!” he shouted, dodging another cursed energy slash. “i just want to talk!”

but you wouldn’t stop. you couldn’t.

and then, another voice. one that made your entire body freeze.

“y/n, stop this madness.”

nanami stepped forward, his usually steady voice laced with something unfamiliar—desperation.

you turned, slowly, sword still clenched in your grip. he was standing there, unarmed, looking at you like he had already lost.

“enough,” he continued, his tone softer now, pleading. “i know you. i know this isn’t what you want.”

something inside you wavered. a crack in the armor you had built.

for a moment, just a moment, everything felt still.

you stared at nanami, your grip on your sword loosening as your breath hitched. his gaze was steady, unwavering, but beneath it, you could see something else—remorse, guilt, maybe even sorrow.

you felt yourself crumbling.

for a brief moment, memories flickered in your mind. his voice guiding you when you were young, his presence once a source of comfort. the way he always seemed like he cared.

but then the anger crept in.

every time he turned his back. every time he left you behind. every time you needed him, and he wasn’t there.

your fingers trembled around the hilt of your sword. you exhaled sharply, lowering the blade just slightly, caught between the weight of the past and the fury burning in your chest.

nanami felt his stomach sink at your words. you left me.

he wanted to say something, to explain, to fix this— but what excuse could ever be enough? what words could undo the years of abandonment?

yuta watched in stunned silence, the tension between you and nanami suffocating. he didn’t understand, not fully, but he knew pain when he saw it. and yours ran deep.

his breath hitched when your grip tightened around your sword, but instead of attacking, you sheathed it. in an instant, you vanished, reappearing beside inumaki, who was barely conscious. yuta could only watch as you placed a small container beside him before disappearing again.

then yuji.

he was still trembling, lost in whatever nightmare you had inflicted upon him. but the second you placed something—a pin—in his hair, his breathing slowed. the sheer terror in his eyes dulled into exhaustion.

finally, you turned to yuta. your gaze was sharp, unreadable.

“ambush me again,” you said, voice unwavering, “and i won’t be so nice.”

and then, just like that, you vanished.

the last thing nanami saw was your eyes flickering back to him, filled with something unreadable—anger, sadness, betrayal.

and then you were gone.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐕

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐄, 𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒

the tension in the room was suffocating.

maki had megumi by the collar, her grip tight with frustration. “how the hell did you guys let her go?” she seethed.

yuta tried to step in, but she shoved him back without a second thought.

everyone was at each other’s throats. blame was being thrown in every direction.

“why didn’t you summon sukuna?” she snapped at yuji.

“why didn’t you use your manipulation techniques?” she turned on panda.

“and you,” she turned to yuta, her voice dripping with disbelief. “you could’ve summoned rika! why didn’t you?”

the only person she spared was inumaki. even she could acknowledge his limits, but that didn’t stop her from demanding why his cursed speech failed.

through it all, yuta’s frustration boiled over. his fists clenched as his patience snapped.

“why don’t you ask nanami?” yuta’s voice cut through the shouting, sharp and demanding. his eyes bore into the older sorcerer. “he clearly knows something.”

maki’s glare shifted, but before she could say anything, her eyes caught movement—yuta was fidgeting with something.

a hairpin.

her breath hitched. “where did you get that?”

yuta turned the hairpin between his fingers, his expression troubled. “it’s hers,” he muttered. “right before she disappeared, she placed this in yuji’s hair. and before that… she used it. the moment she did, the ground shook.” he paused, recalling the chaos. “and then, she deflected inumaki’s cursed speech like it was nothing.”

everyone fell silent, letting the weight of his words settle.

before anyone could respond, the door creaked open.

gojo strolled in, his usual carefree air dampened by something unreadable in his expression. “alright, kiddos,” he called, clapping his hands to gather their attention. “eyes over here.”

he moved toward the table, placing a thick, vanilla-colored file onto its surface with a deliberate motion.

the name stamped across the front in bold, black ink made everyone freeze.

y/n.

gojo exhaled, his fingers drumming against the folder. “i think it’s time we have a little history lesson.”

you had always loved yuta okkotsu from a distance. it was a quiet, unspoken affection—one you never dared to voice, not even to your best friend, rika orimoto. you weren’t sure if she knew, but if she did, she never mentioned it. instead, you admired him from afar, watching the way he’d smile shyly at rika, the way he’d shift nervously when spoken to, the way his kindness stretched beyond what most people deserved.

but you were never brave enough to talk to him.

rika had tried to nudge you toward him, teasing you with playful smirks and remarks like, “y/n, you should really talk to him! i think you two would get along.” but every time, you’d shake your head and laugh it off, your heart pounding at the thought. it was easier this way—loving him in silence, never burdening him with feelings you were too afraid to acknowledge.

then one night, you had the dream.

it was vivid, suffocatingly real. you saw rika—her face twisted in fear, her body thrown against shattered glass and twisted metal. blood. screaming. the cold finality of death.

you woke up gasping, heart hammering against your ribs. it was just a dream, you told yourself. but something deep inside you whispered otherwise. the dream left an unbearable weight in your chest, an urgency you couldn’t shake.

you needed to stop it.

you ran to nanami—the one person you trusted to take you seriously. he was the closest thing you had to a mentor, a guardian figure who had always been there when you needed guidance. you found him at jujutsu high, training under dim afternoon light, and you begged him to listen.

“nanami, please—you have to hear me out!” you clutched his sleeve desperately.

he sighed, pulling away. “what is it, y/n?”

“i saw it,” you whispered, voice trembling. “i saw rika—she’s going to get into a crash. she’s going to die. i don’t know how, but i saw it happen. you have to believe me.”

his brows furrowed slightly, but he remained unmoved. “y/n, it was just a dream.”

“no.” you shook your head violently. “it wasn’t just a dream. it felt real. it was real. please, we have to do something.”

nanami exhaled, rubbing his temples. “you’re distressed. i understand that, but you can’t expect me to act on a premonition. you need rest.”

“but—”

“enough, y/n.” his voice was final. unyielding. he turned away from you, leaving you standing there, helpless and shaking.

you called him over and over again after that. left voicemails filled with frantic pleas. each one went unanswered.

and then—rika died.

at her funeral, the world felt like it was collapsing in on itself. the sky was gray, heavy with the weight of grief. you had lost your best friend. the only person who ever truly saw you, the only one who had believed in you. and it was your fault.

you should have tried harder. should have made nanami listen. should have done something—anything.

and then, there was yuta.

he stood apart from everyone, drowning in his sorrow. he looked hollow, broken in a way that made your chest ache. you gathered every ounce of courage you had and approached him, your fingers trembling as you reached out.

“i… i’m y/n,” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “i was rika’s best friend.”

he didn’t even look at you.

“i just wanted to say… i’m so sorry. if you ever need—”

“leave me alone.”

his voice was cold. distant.

you flinched. “i just—”

“i said, leave me alone.” his head snapped up, his grief-stricken eyes burning with a mix of sorrow and anger. “i don’t know you, and i don’t care. rika is gone, and nothing you say will change that.”

you felt your heart crack, but the worst part was when you saw it—rika’s cursed spirit, wrapped around him like a possessive shadow. her once warm, bright energy was now dark, twisted. you gasped, eyes widening.

“yuta, she—she’s still here—”

“go away!” he yelled this time, his voice filled with rage. the sheer force of it sent your heart plummeting to your stomach.

tears stung your eyes as you stumbled back. you had tried. you had reached out, and he shoved you away.

you ran.

the funeral, the rejection, the guilt—it all became too much. you ran until your legs gave out in the middle of a darkened alleyway, your sobs racking your body. but before you could even process the pain, a presence loomed behind you. cold hands gripped your shoulders.

you barely had time to scream.

the attack was brutal, merciless. a curse—one far stronger than you could handle alone. it ripped into you, tearing at your flesh, draining your life away in the dim light of the alley.

no one came. no one saved you.

your last thoughts weren’t even of yourself. they were of yuta.

and the anger grew.

it festered, curdled inside you, twisting into something monstrous. you should have been saved. you should have been heard. you should have mattered.

when your soul refused to move on, it latched onto the very curse that killed you. merging, fusing, becoming something more. you became an echo of yourself—warped, filled with vengeance, gathering curses in the shadows.

waiting.

until the day you could reclaim what was stolen from you.

your life.

your existence.

everything.

gojo shut the vanilla folder with a quiet thud, but the weight of its contents echoed in the silence. the air in the room felt heavy, pressing against yuta’s chest, suffocating him under the flood of memories and emotions that crashed over him all at once. his breathing grew erratic, sharp and uneven, as if he were drowning in something invisible.

gojo’s gaze hardened as he looked at nanami, who hadn’t lifted his eyes from the floor. the older man’s shoulders were tense, guilt hanging over him like a storm cloud. but yuta couldn’t focus on that—not when his own thoughts were spiraling.

without another word, he pushed himself up and rushed out the door. his legs moved before his mind could catch up, his entire body driven by something deep, something desperate.

“yuta!” maki’s voice rang out behind him as she sprinted to catch up. “where the hell are you going?”

he didn’t stop. didn’t even look at her. his hands were clenched into tight fists, nails digging into his palms.

“i’m going after her,” he said, voice firm, unwavering.

maki grabbed his wrist, yanking him to a halt. “are you serious? after everything we just read? after everything she did?”

yuta finally turned to face her, his expression unreadable.

“i have to,” he said simply.

maki stared at him, searching for doubt in his face but finding none. he wasn’t acting out of impulse. he wasn’t blinded by fear or recklessness.

he had faith. faith that something could still be salvaged. faith that whatever was broken could be mended.

but what he didn’t realize—what none of them did—was that you had already found them first.

a shiver ran down yuta’s spine before he even saw you. the air around him shifted, thick with a familiar yet eerie presence. his heart pounded, the weight of the folder’s revelations still pressing against his chest like a vice. he barely heard maki calling his name, her voice drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears.

then, he felt it—your cursed energy.

it was unlike before. heavier, more suffocating, like shadows creeping in from every direction.

maki skidded to a halt beside him, her eyes scanning the area. “she’s here,” she muttered, gripping her weapon.

yuta’s breath hitched.

he turned slowly, and there you were. standing at the school gates, bathed in the cold glow of the streetlights. the sight of you made his chest tighten unbearably.

you were different from the girl he once ignored, the girl who had once tried to reach out to him through grief.

your eyes held none of the warmth he had seen in the file. there was no timidness, no hesitance—only resentment buried beneath an unsettling calm.

“you came to find me?” you mused, tilting your head slightly. “how sweet.”

yuta took a step forward before maki grabbed his wrist, a silent warning.

he swallowed, his throat dry. “y/n…” his voice faltered, emotions clawing at him from every direction. “i—”

you took a step closer, and despite the composed expression on your face, the flicker of pain in your eyes did not go unnoticed.

“don’t look at me like that,” you said quietly. “you lost that right a long time ago.”

yuta clenched his fists, fighting against the overwhelming guilt weighing him down.

he had to fix this.

but would you even let him?

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕

𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐅 𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐒, 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐓𝐇

the air was thick with the scent of burning wood and iron. the battlefield was nothing but ruins, a wasteland of shattered buildings and flickering embers, casting shadows that danced like ghosts. yuta stood in the center, his grip tightening around his katana. his heart pounded against his ribs, not just from the anticipation of battle, but from the ache in his chest as he stared at you.

you stood opposite him, your figure illuminated by the glow of the destruction you had wrought. the wind tugged at your hair, but you remained eerily still, your expression unreadable. your sword rested loosely in your grasp, but he knew better than to assume you were unprepared. there was a storm in your eyes, a brewing tempest of fury, grief, and something else—something that made yuta’s stomach twist.

“please,” yuta called out, his voice strained. “this doesn’t have to end like this.”

you let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “you don’t get to decide how this ends, yuta.”

and then, like lightning splitting the sky, you moved.

your sword sliced through the air, a streak of cursed energy trailing behind it. yuta barely had time to react, raising his own blade just in time to block. the force of your strike sent him skidding backward, his feet digging into the rubble. the clash of steel rang out, sharp and violent, echoing through the emptiness.

before he could recover, you pressed forward. you fought like a phantom—silent, precise, relentless. every movement was laced with an anger so raw it felt like it would consume you. yuta parried, barely keeping up as your attacks grew fiercer, each strike heavier with the weight of years of pain and betrayal.

“why did you come after me?” you hissed between blows. “to fix me? to save me?”

“because i care about you!” yuta shouted, deflecting another vicious strike. his arms trembled under the force. “because i should’ve seen you! i should’ve listened!”

your blade found an opening, slicing across his shoulder. he winced but didn’t falter. blood stained his uniform, but he refused to step back. refused to give up.

the ground trembled as cursed energy clashed, shockwaves ripping through the battlefield. yuta and y/n moved like blurs, their attacks echoing through the desolate space.

maki gritted her teeth, gripping the handle of her weapon. “we have to help him!” she barked, already stepping forward.

megumi, though hesitant, summoned a shadowy wolf beside him. “if we don’t, he might—”

“gojo,” panda growled, “say something!”

gojo remained still, his usual carefree expression absent. instead, he stood with his hands in his pockets, his blindfolded gaze locked on the fight.

“stand down,” he ordered, voice eerily calm.

“are you kidding me?!” nobara snapped. “she’s going to kill him!”

gojo finally turned his head toward them, his presence alone freezing them in place. “if you interfere now, you’ll only make it worse.”

maki clenched her fists. “we can’t just watch!”

“salmon,” inumaki muttered weakly, his voice hoarse from overuse.

“gojo-sensei,” megumi pressed, trying to keep his composure. “if you’re saying we shouldn’t get involved, then at least tell us why.”

gojo exhaled slowly. “because this isn’t just a fight,” he said. “this is something only yuta and y/n can settle. it’s not about who wins—it’s about whether or not yuta can reach her before it’s too late.”

they all fell silent, eyes darting back to the battle, where yuta had just barely dodged a vicious strike.

“and if he can’t?” maki’s voice was barely above a whisper.

gojo’s expression darkened. “then we’ll be forced to do what sorcerers do best.”

the weight of his words sank into them, and despite every instinct screaming to jump in, they stayed rooted in place, watching as yuta fought for something beyond victory—fought for the person he had once failed.

“it’s too late for that,” you spat, your cursed energy flaring. the ground beneath you cracked as you raised your hand, summoning a whirlwind of dark energy. it twisted and coiled, ready to consume him whole.

yuta gritted his teeth. he couldn’t let this continue. he surged forward, dodging the attack by a hair’s breadth, his blade cutting through the space between you. in an instant, he was close enough to see every flicker of emotion in your eyes—the anger, the hurt, the lingering traces of something softer, something that had been buried beneath years of suffering.

he dropped his sword.

before you could react, he grabbed your wrist, holding it tightly. you struggled, trying to break free, but he wouldn’t let go.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “i should have been there. i should have seen you, just like i saw rika. you were right in front of me, and i—”

his words hit harder than any blade. your body trembled, your grip on your weapon loosening. the cursed energy surrounding you flickered, wavering as your vision blurred. for the first time, in so long, someone saw you.

the anger in your chest waged war with the sorrow in your soul. but as yuta held onto you, refusing to let you disappear into the darkness, something inside you finally began to break.

and this time, it wasn’t out of rage.

it was out of grief.

both of you stood amidst the wreckage, breathless, locked in place by each other’s gaze.

yuta’s eyes softened, searching yours, pleading. “please,” he whispered, “i don’t want to lose you again.”

your chest tightened. his voice—gentle, unlike the one that once yelled at you to leave him alone, unlike the one that ignored you at rika’s funeral. this was different.

your cursed energy flickered, unsteady, like a candle caught in the wind. for a moment, you let yourself sink into the warmth of his gaze, the way it reminded you of all the times you had admired him from afar, too afraid to step closer.

could you let this go? could you stop fighting?

but before you could answer that thought, something slammed into you.

a force wrapped around your limbs, locking you in place. cursed energy—not yuta’s.

gojo’s.

your body seized up, your knees crashing to the ground as an overwhelming weight crushed down on you. it stole the air from your lungs, the strength from your muscles.

your vision blurred, but through the haze, you saw yuta whip around, horror in his expression.

“no—stop!” he shouted at gojo. “she was stopping!”

gojo stood a distance away, his face unreadable. “that’s exactly why i had to step in.”

you barely heard him. the warmth you had felt moments ago was gone, replaced by something colder. sharper. betrayal.

your lips parted, a hollow laugh escaping. “you…” your voice cracked, but you still managed to glare at yuta, something in your chest splintering. “you tricked me.”

yuta shook his head violently, his entire body tense. “no! i swear, i didn’t know—”

“shut up!” you snapped, but your voice was weaker now, your body trembling under the weight of gojo’s cursed energy. “i should’ve known better… trusting any of you.”

yuta took a step toward you, panic in his eyes. “please, y/n—”

“don’t.” your voice was barely above a whisper, your breathing ragged. “don’t say my name like that.”

you tried to summon your strength, tried to fight against the invisible force binding you, but it was useless. you were completely overpowered.

yuta dropped to his knees in front of you, reaching out but not daring to touch you.

“i won’t let them hurt you,” he promised, his voice shaking.

you let out a bitter laugh, your head dropping forward as exhaustion seeped into your bones.

“they don’t have to,” you murmured. “you already did.”

yuta felt something inside him shatter at your words, but before he could speak, gojo’s voice cut through the air.

“alright,” he sighed, walking closer. “we got her. let’s go.”

yuta didn’t move. his hands clenched into fists as he watched you, the fire in your eyes dimming into something he recognized. something he had once seen in his own reflection.

you weren’t angry anymore. you were broken.

and this time, yuta didn’t know if he could put you back together.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈

𝐕𝐄𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒, 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒

the classroom was heavy with tension. no one moved, no one spoke—just the faint sound of yuta’s fists trembling against the desk, his knuckles white.

maki was the first to speak. “what the hell was that, gojo?”

gojo didn’t flinch. he stood near the window, arms crossed, his eyes cast downward.

“you told us to stand down,” megumi added, eyes narrowed. “you told us not to interfere—like you had it under control.”

“and then you used cursed energy to detain her,” panda spoke, his voice low and uncharacteristically serious. “after she surrendered.”

inumaki just sat, hands clenched tightly. he had no words left—not even rice ball ingredients.

gojo let out a small sigh. “i did what i had to do.”

yuta slammed his palms on the desk, the sound echoing. “you lied to us.”

his voice cracked, and everyone turned to him. his chest was heaving, his eyes glossy with a storm of emotions—grief, confusion, fury.

“you said we needed to gain her trust! you said talking her down was the only way, and when she finally hesitated—when she finally looked at me like she remembered who she was—you stripped her of that moment.”

gojo met his gaze silently.

“you didn’t even give her a chance,” yuta seethed, stepping toward him. his cursed energy flared, hot and unstable. “you had no right to decide that for her—or for me.”

maki tensed, watching the cursed energy crackle around yuta like electricity. megumi instinctively shifted his stance.

gojo stayed still. calm.

“yuta,” he said firmly, “stand down.”

yuta didn’t move.

“i’m not your enemy,” gojo continued, voice lower now. “but if you think swinging at me is going to bring her back faster, then do it.”

his words lingered, cutting through the rage in the room like a knife.

yuta’s fists shook. he opened his mouth—then closed it. his body trembled, but his cursed energy slowly began to settle.

gojo walked past him, pausing by the door.

“she’s too powerful. too unstable. and too important,” he said. “there are things you don’t understand yet. things none of you are ready to hear.”

he turned the handle.

“but you will.”

and with that, he walked out—leaving behind a room full of questions, and a silence louder than any scream.

the door clicked shut behind gojo, but the weight of his presence still lingered like fog refusing to lift.

yuta stood frozen in place, eyes still locked on the space where gojo had been. he looked like he was holding himself together by threads. fragile. fraying.

maki was the first to break the silence, her voice quieter than usual. “he’s hiding something.”

megumi nodded slightly. “no one detains someone like that without a reason—especially not gojo.”

panda paced slowly. “he said she’s too important… what does that even mean?”

inumaki murmured something under his breath, barely audible even for those who understood him. whatever it was, it was laced in worry.

yuta finally moved—just one step back, then another, until his knees hit the edge of a desk and he sat down heavily. he dragged his hands through his hair, gripping tightly at the strands like he was trying to ground himself.

“she looked at me,” he said softly, more to himself than to them. “she looked at me like she remembered… like something was coming back.”

maki approached him carefully, crouching beside his chair. “and then he took that from you.”

“from her,” yuta corrected. his voice cracked again. “she gave in. she let go of her sword. she trusted me—and gojo turned it into a trap.”

megumi leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “this isn’t right. if she was that much of a threat, we should’ve all been told the truth.”

“but he said we aren’t ready to understand it…” panda muttered, almost unsure.

yuta looked up at them, eyes full of turmoil. “i don’t care if she’s a curse. or what kind of power they think she holds. she was human once. she still is.”

“you think she remembers everything?” maki asked.

“i don’t know,” yuta whispered. “but i saw something in her eyes… like she was fighting herself to stay. and now she’s locked up somewhere, alone again.”

he stood up.

“i can’t let that happen.”

“yuta—” megumi tried to stop him.

“i’m not saying i’ll break her out,” he clarified, but his fists were still clenched. “i just… i need answers. i need to understand what gojo’s not telling us.”

they all exchanged uncertain glances. yuta looked at each of them, more grounded now, but his voice was solid.

“if any of you want to help me find the truth… i won’t stop you.”

the room stayed quiet. but no one left.

and that silence said everything.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

the room was silent, suffocatingly so.

the walls were woven with layers of barriers—thick, unbreakable layers of cursed energy only someone like gojo could craft. there were no windows, no ticking clocks, no shifting shadows. just cold, humming silence, like time had stopped altogether.

you sat in the middle of the room, hands folded in your lap, head bowed. you weren’t bound. you weren’t even restrained. but that didn’t matter.

this was a prison of trust broken.

you could still feel it—the moment it all changed. one second you were locked in yuta’s gaze, something warm flickering in your chest. like you were remembering what it felt like to be seen, not as a curse, not as a threat, but as something real again. something soft.

and the next, gojo’s cursed energy wrapped around you like chains, like betrayal. his eyes had been calm, almost sad, when he sealed the barrier.

he didn’t even let you speak.

you weren’t sure how long it had been since then. the silence warped your sense of time. your cursed energy had quieted, not from exhaustion—but from something worse. heartbreak. confusion. the way yuta had looked at you made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you could come back from this.

but gojo didn’t believe in that.

you stood slowly, walking to the edge of the barrier, reaching out with your fingertips. it pulsed softly against your touch like a heartbeat.

“you said you were different,” you whispered, not knowing if you were speaking to yuta or gojo. or yourself.

a memory flickered—rika laughing beside you in the school courtyard. her voice echoing: “yuta’s too shy to talk, but he watches. he sees more than he says.”

you wondered if he had seen through you, too.

your fingers dropped from the barrier. your eyes trailed up to the ceiling, blinking slowly as a single tear slipped down your cheek.

“so this is how it ends,” you murmured. “again.”

your cursed energy sparked slightly beneath your skin, responding to the storm inside you. but you didn’t lash out. not yet. not when you still felt that warm flicker behind yuta’s eyes. not when there was still a chance he hadn’t given up on you.

you sat back down. folded your hands again. and waited.

because even if gojo had confined you, even if he saw you as a threat—yuta had looked at you like you were still someone worth saving.

now, you heard his footsteps before you saw him. soft, deliberate. not rushed or aggressive, but not hesitant either. gojo always moved like he was in control—even when he wasn’t.

the barrier rippled faintly, and then a panel in the wall shimmered, letting him step through. his blindfold was pulled up just enough for you to see his eyes, calm but unreadable. he stood in silence for a moment, looking at you like you were a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit.

you didn’t bother standing. just raised your eyes and met his gaze.

“came to lecture me?” you asked dryly, voice cracking slightly from the silence you’d been living in.

“not exactly,” he replied. “thought maybe we could talk.”

you didn’t answer. so he sat down across from you, legs crossed, elbows on his knees, like this was just another conversation on school grounds.

“i’ve been thinking about you, y/n,” he began. “you’re complicated. angry, powerful… but not cruel. not aimless. i’ve seen enough curses to know the difference.”

you narrowed your eyes. “and now what? you want a confession? some emotional backstory that explains why i broke everything?”

“no,” he said simply. “i already know your story. i read it. and i remember some of it firsthand.”

the tension tightened between you. he didn’t flinch.

“i’m not here to judge you,” he continued. “i’m here to offer you a deal.”

your eyes narrowed. “a deal?”

gojo leaned back slightly. “the world’s been shifting lately. more curses, more chaos. a lot of them are smart, some are just parasites. either way, it’s more than we can keep up with. i could use someone who understands both sides.”

“you want me to be your curse exterminator?” you asked, almost amused.

“let’s call it… community service,” he said. “you’ll be monitored. your cursed energy will stay under my restraints until you prove you can be trusted. but if you help us—if you bring balance instead of breaking it—then i’ll grant you freedom. real freedom. not this box.”

you stared at him for a long time. “and if i say no?”

he shrugged. “then you stay here. indefinitely. but something tells me you want more than vengeance. something tells me you want to be seen again. maybe even forgiven.”

the silence between you was heavy, but not empty.

you looked away, brows furrowed. “you’re putting a leash on me and calling it mercy.”

“i’m giving you a choice,” gojo said, standing. “something you haven’t had in a long time.”

he turned toward the barrier, but stopped before stepping out.

“think about it,” he added. “and for what it’s worth… i think you’re more human than half the sorcerers out there.”

the barrier sealed behind him with a faint pulse, and you were alone again. but something lingered this time—possibility.

and for the first time in what felt like years, your heartbeat didn’t feel like it belonged to a curse.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐒, 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐒

the restraints burned against your skin like a constant whisper—gojo’s cursed energy, wrapped tight around your wrists and ankles, humming low like a warning. not painful, but impossible to forget.

you stood just outside the barrier of a small mountain town, moonlight bleeding through thick clouds. it was quiet. too quiet. the kind of silence that comes after something awful.

gojo floated lazily a few paces behind you, arms crossed. “six confirmed cursed spirits. four grade 2s, one grade 1, and one… weird one,” he said, tapping the side of his blindfold. “not classified yet, but it’s giving me a headache, so you’ll probably like it.”

you didn’t answer. your eyes scanned the tree line, the cracked pavement, the abandoned shrine at the top of the hill. you could feel the curses. lurking. writhing.

“remember the deal,” gojo added. “stay on the path, no innocent casualties. and if the restraints tighten, it means you’re getting reckless. or dark.”

you shot him a glare. “i get it. i’m on a leash.”

gojo only smiled. “better than a cage, no?”

you didn’t reply. just stepped forward and let the shadows welcome you.

inside the town, cursed energy pulsed through the air like fog. you tracked it instinctively, your feet moving on memory and instinct. it didn’t take long before the first curse showed itself—something twisted and lean with too many teeth and hands growing from its ribs.

you fought without hesitation.

no chaos. no cruelty.

you sliced cleanly, quickly. no wasted movement. when it screamed, you didn’t flinch.

one down.

the second came with more of a fight. the third tried to hide. you hunted. the fourth exploded into shards of bones and teeth. you ducked, letting them rip past your cheek, drawing the first blood of the night.

the restraint around your wrist tightened just slightly.

“calm,” you whispered to yourself. “stay calm.”

the fifth one—the grade 1—felt more alive. almost sentient. it mocked you. said your name. whispered truths you’d buried.

you silenced it.

but the last one—the “weird” one—wasn’t like the others.

it looked like a child, eyes empty, fingers twitching like broken twigs. but its cursed energy was overwhelming. it reached into you, prodded at the parts that hadn’t healed.

“you’re just like me,” it hissed.

you trembled. and for a second—just one—you saw your reflection in its hollow face.

but then you remembered rika. and nanami. and yuta. his voice. his gaze. the way he almost reached for you before gojo stepped in.

you stepped forward.

“i’m not like you,” you whispered—and unleashed a wave of your own cursed energy, filtered through the restraints but still sharp, still devastating.

when the curse shattered, the silence returned.

gojo appeared beside you, hands in his pockets. “not bad,” he said. “and you didn’t go feral. proud of you.”

you turned to him, exhausted, bloodied, but steady.

“is that all?” you asked.

“for tonight,” he nodded. “you’re one step closer.”

you didn’t smile. didn’t thank him. just stared at the horizon, where the night was beginning to break into the faintest blue.

because you were still a weapon.

but maybe… now you had a target worth choosing.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

inside jujutsu high, the mood was heavy.

they hadn’t seen you since that day—the day gojo confined you.

when he returned from the mission alone, everyone gathered in the main hall, expecting answers.

maki leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, tone sharp.

“so? you sent her out on a mission? alone?”

gojo shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal. “technically, not alone. i was watching. like a responsible guardian.”

“she’s still dangerous,” megumi muttered, staring at the ground. “you said so yourself.”

“so am i,” yuji said quietly, eyes still a little haunted from the last battle. “so are all of us.”

yuta sat on one of the benches, gripping the hem of his uniform.

he hadn’t looked up since gojo walked in.

“did she complete it?” he finally asked, voice low. almost careful.

like he didn’t want to sound too interested.

gojo nodded. “clean job. no casualties. controlled herself the whole way through. not even a whisper of instability.”

panda gave a small whistle. “wow. that’s… honestly impressive.”

inumaki, wrapped in extra bandages from the last encounter, gave a weak thumbs-up and nodded.

maki narrowed her eyes. “and we’re just supposed to trust that she’s suddenly playing by the rules now?”

“no,” gojo said flatly. “you’re supposed to trust me.”

he let the words settle, his voice unusually serious.

“i gave her a deal. if she stays on this path, she earns her freedom back. if she doesn’t, i’ll be the first to put her down.”

“that’s cold,” yuji muttered.

gojo didn’t disagree.

“what about the restraints?” megumi asked.

“still on. still working. if she slips up, they’ll remind her.”

the room went quiet again, until yuta stood up.

his voice was stronger now. more certain. “i want to talk to her.”

maki tensed. “why?”

“because i need to know if she’s doing this for her, or because she’s scared of gojo.”

the silence that followed said more than anyone needed to.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

the room was dimly lit—plain walls, one chair, one table. it wasn’t a prison, but it wasn’t freedom either.

you sat quietly, arms resting on the cold surface, the restraints on your wrists faintly glowing with cursed energy. they didn’t hurt, but you could always feel them. like invisible eyes always watching.

the door opened slowly.

you didn’t bother to look up at first. you figured it was gojo again.

but it wasn’t.

“…yuta?”

his name escaped your lips like muscle memory.

he stood in the doorway, hesitant at first, then slowly walked in and sat across from you.

“i heard about the mission,” he said softly. “gojo said you did good.”

you gave a small shrug. “he didn’t have to trap me to find that out.”

his brows furrowed, guilt flickering across his face. “i didn’t know he’d do that.”

you leaned forward slightly, meeting his gaze. “but you didn’t stop him either.”

he looked away.

“…you were trying to talk to me,” you continued, “and i was starting to listen. i would’ve listened.”

“i know,” he whispered. “i’m sorry.”

you watched him for a while, the quiet between you tense and tender all at once. finally, you spoke.

“why are you here, yuta?”

he looked back at you, conflicted but honest.

“because… part of me still believes in you.”

your breath caught in your throat.

“and maybe,” he added, “part of me always did.”

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

maki, megumi, panda, inumaki, and yuji sat in a circle near the training grounds. it was evening—quiet enough for honesty.

“do you guys actually believe she’s changed?” megumi asked.

panda tilted his head. “she hasn’t hurt anyone since. that counts for something, right?”

“she’s unpredictable,” maki said bluntly. “one good mission doesn’t erase what she’s done.”

“people change,” yuji said. “i mean… look at me. look at sukuna.”

everyone went silent for a moment.

“yeah,” panda said, “but she wasn’t given a choice back then. she got killed. cursed. abandoned. it messes with people.”

“that doesn’t make her trustworthy,” megumi argued. “it makes her unstable.”

inumaki quietly muttered, “okaka…”

panda translated, “he says she’s trying.”

yuji sighed. “i don’t know. i don’t think she’s a villain. i think she’s just… broken.”

maki leaned back on her hands, looking up at the sky.

“either way,” she muttered, “if she steps out of line, i’ll be the first to stop her.”

but even she didn’t sound as sure as she used to.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

the first few visits were quiet.

yuta never stayed long—ten, maybe fifteen minutes. sometimes he just brought small things: your favorite snacks from before everything fell apart, a folded note with scribbled jokes, or a simple, “you did good today.”

you never asked him to come.

he just did.

and with every visit, something softened between you.

you started waiting for him. not obviously—you never sat by the door or asked the guards—but your eyes would flick up to the clock once the afternoon rolled around, and your heart would quietly count the footsteps outside the door.

“you really don’t have to keep coming,” you told him once.

“i know,” he smiled, “but i want to.”

sometimes you didn’t talk. he’d just sit across from you, quietly sketching in a small notebook while you sat across from him, tracing your fingers along the grain of the table.

“what are you drawing?” you asked once, leaning forward.

he turned the sketchbook toward you.

it was a half-finished portrait. of you.

“you’re hard to draw,” he said.

you stared at the image in silence—messy lines, but soft. gentle. like he saw you as something worth remembering.

“you’re weird, okkotsu,” you muttered, but your smile gave you away.

there was a moment—brief and quiet.

you were laughing at something he said. something stupid. he was smiling like he hadn’t in weeks. and when your laughter died down, your hand was resting near his on the table.

he reached out—just a little.

your fingers brushed.

neither of you moved away.

on his next visit, you spoke before he could say anything.

“you’re not scared of me anymore, huh?”

he looked surprised, then shook his head.

“i don’t think i ever really was.”

you swallowed. your voice barely held together.

“i’m still dangerous, yuta.”

“i know,” he said quietly. “but so am i.”

he reached across the table again, this time more deliberately.

you let him take your hand.

gojo was keeping his distance, letting your missions stack quietly under supervision. but you could feel it—something shifting. like you were being given a real chance to choose a side.

and with yuta beside you, for the first time…

you were actually considering choosing hope.

gojo always knew more than he let on. so when he saw yuta lingering longer in the confinement wing, when the surveillance feed glitched for a few minutes at a time, and when yuta started humming quietly to himself between missions—he knew something was up. he didn’t say anything at first, just kept watching, waiting, letting it play out.

but one afternoon, when yuta exited the confinement hallway later than usual, he didn’t notice gojo standing nearby—leaned casually against the wall, sunglasses pushed slightly down his nose. gojo’s voice cut through the silence, light and teasing. “so… is it official yet, or are we still in the blushing and hand-holding phase?”

yuta froze, eyes wide. “what—what are you talking about?” he stammered, not quite meeting his teacher’s eyes.

gojo smiled, that easy grin with something sharp underneath. “oh please, yuta. you’re glowing. it’s either love or you accidentally ate a special-grade cursed finger.”

yuta looked away, cheeks coloring faintly. “she’s… different now. she’s trying. and i believe in her.”

gojo’s expression shifted, just barely—softened with something like understanding. “i know she’s trying. i see it.” he paused, the humor draining a bit from his tone as he went on, more serious now. “but you have to remember, yuta… love doesn’t erase danger. not in our world.”

yuta finally looked up, eyes steady. “she’s not the danger you think she is.”

gojo sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, thoughtful. “no. maybe not anymore. but if this goes south, if her cursed energy flares again, if the higher-ups find out before she’s earned full clearance…” he didn’t finish the sentence. he didn’t have to.

he wasn’t mad. he wasn’t even surprised. he just cared—about yuta, about you, about the fragile thread of peace that hung between everyone now. gojo stepped closer and clapped a hand on yuta’s shoulder, his voice firm but not unkind. “just be smart, alright? i’m not gonna stop you. but don’t let love blind you. let it anchor you.”

then, his grin returned, the tension breaking with a roll of his shoulders. “and for the love of all things jujutsu, if you’re gonna kiss her again, at least make sure the cameras are off next time.”

yuta’s face flushed immediately, a shade of red so deep it rivaled the color of inumaki’s cursed speech mark. he stumbled backward a step, hands flailing in front of him as if that would somehow ward off gojo’s teasing.

“w-we didn’t kiss!” he blurted, far too quickly.

gojo raised a brow, smirking with the satisfaction of a cat who had just found a very nervous mouse. “oh? i was just kidding, yuta… but now that you mention it—”

“n-no! that’s not what i meant—i mean, i wasn’t—it wasn’t like that!” yuta waved his arms around, trying to explain. “she was just… we were talking. about her mission. she—she was tired. i brought her tea and—”

gojo gasped dramatically. “you brought her tea? wow. i didn’t know we were in the ‘bringing each other tea and whispering sweet nothings between cursed exorcisms’ stage.”

yuta groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “it wasn’t sweet nothings!”

“mmhm,” gojo nodded sagely. “just you, her, a locked room, the warm glow of trust blossoming between two people with emotionally traumatic pasts… honestly, it’s kind of romantic. should i be worried you’re going to elope in the middle of a mission?”

“we were just talking!” yuta shouted, clearly at the end of his rope.

gojo leaned in close, voice dropping like he was sharing a secret. “just make sure if you do kiss her next time, it’s not on camera. or at least give me a heads up so i can prepare my ‘i told you so’ speech.”

yuta groaned again, turning around and storming off down the hall, muttering something about “never telling gojo anything ever again.”

gojo called after him cheerfully, “don’t forget the tea, romeo!”

and as yuta turned the corner—still pink-faced, flustered, and defeated—gojo chuckled to himself and leaned back against the wall, eyes hidden behind his shades, but that ever-knowing smirk still tugging at his lips.

“young love,” he said to no one in particular, “so dramatic.”

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

the heavy lock on the confinement chamber clicked, echoing through the dim, sterile room like a slow heartbeat. you looked up from your spot against the wall, calm but wary. the familiar sound of footsteps was unmistakable—even before he entered, you could feel the presence of gojo satoru. he was impossible to miss.

he walked in with his usual casual stride, hands tucked in his pockets, blindfold replaced by tinted shades today. he didn’t speak right away, just took a moment to look around the room, then at you. his gaze lingered.

“you know,” he said finally, tone light, “this place really doesn’t suit you.”

you raised a brow, not amused. “then let me out.”

he chuckled. “tempting. but let’s not jump straight to prison breaks and chaos, yeah?”

you looked away, arms crossed, clearly unamused by his teasing. he took a few steps closer, stopping a short distance away.

“i’m not here to mock you,” he said more seriously now. “i wanted to talk. just you and me.”

you eyed him. “you’ve already made your deal, what more is there?”

he exhaled slowly. “i want to understand you.”

you laughed under your breath, dry and bitter. “a little late for that, don’t you think?”

gojo didn’t flinch at your tone. “probably,” he admitted. “but late doesn’t mean never. and… yuta’s been visiting.”

your expression didn’t shift, but the silence that followed spoke for itself. gojo continued.

“he’s a good kid. too good, sometimes. and you… you’re complicated. not in a bad way, just… layered. and i need to know what’s under those layers before i can trust you.”

“i didn’t ask you to trust me,” you muttered.

“no,” he said, “but he did.”

that caught your attention. your eyes flicked up to meet his. gojo’s expression was unreadable—cool, maybe even a little sad beneath the humor.

“yuta wants to believe in you,” he continued. “he does believe in you. but belief alone doesn’t protect people. i’ve seen what happens when we put too much faith in the wrong person. so, if you’re going to be out there again—even under my watch—i need to be absolutely sure of what your intentions are.”

you sat in silence for a long moment before finally asking, voice soft but sharp, “and what if i said i don’t even know yet?”

gojo smiled gently. “then you figure it out. while under supervision, of course.”

you narrowed your eyes. “you mean while restrained.”

he shrugged. “semantics.”

for a while, neither of you spoke. then, more quietly, he said, “i know what happened to you was cruel. and i know the people who were supposed to protect you didn’t.”

you looked at him again, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“if there’s a part of you that still wants to fight for something good—something better,” he continued, “i can work with that. i will work with that. but i won’t let you hurt them. not yuta, not anyone.”

the edge in your gaze softened just a bit. “…i know.”

he turned to leave, but paused at the door. “next mission’s in two days. i expect you to show me what side you’re really on.”

you didn’t answer, and he didn’t wait for one. he simply left, the door locking behind him once again.

but this time, the room didn’t feel quite as cold.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

𝐒𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐒, 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

the air was heavy as y/n stood at the school gates, the restraints around her arms glowing faintly with cursed energy — a quiet reminder of her deal with gojo. her first mission wasn’t supposed to feel so… loaded. gojo had called it simple: investigate and eliminate a curse outbreak near an abandoned elementary school. but nothing felt simple when the eyes of the jujutsu world were waiting for her to mess up.

gojo had briefed her with the usual smug confidence, though she could sense something different behind his smile — concern, maybe. or doubt.

she hadn’t expected yuta to be assigned to her team.

he appeared at her side with a faint smile, handing her a bottle of water like it was the most casual thing in the world. “ready?” he asked softly.

“as ready as i can be with glorified handcuffs on,” she muttered.

they moved together, clearing the first wave of curses easily. they didn’t even need to speak — their movements synced, practiced from whatever odd bond was forming between them lately. but then the air shifted.

a new presence.

a curse stepped out of the shadows. not just any curse — this one was familiar. too familiar.

“traitor,” it rasped, dragging long claws across the concrete. “you left us to rot.”

y/n froze. yuta stepped in front of her instinctively, drawing his katana, cursed energy already rising.

“you know it?” he asked quickly.

“i used to be… part of it,” she whispered. “this was the curse that pulled me back. i didn’t think any of it survived.”

the curse laughed, shrieking into the air. “she wears human skin now. dances with the jujutsu rats. but she is ours. always ours.”

“we shouldn’t be doing this alone,” yuta muttered, tightening his grip on his katana.

“i can handle it,” y/n replied flatly, brushing past him.

“that’s not the point,” he snapped, a little sharper than he meant to. “gojo should’ve sent backup—”

“gojo trusts me,” she cut in, eyes flashing. “and if you don’t, then go back to jujutsu high.”

before yuta could respond, a pulse of cursed energy shattered the floor beneath them. they flew in opposite directions, slammed into opposite pillars as a twisted form crawled out from the shadows — massive, blackened, and stitched together with limbs from several different curses. its face, if it could be called that, looked like a mask of all the people y/n had once consumed during her time in the dark.

“you thought you could leave us,” it hissed. “you thought you were clean.”

it lunged.

the fight was chaotic. y/n struck first, too fast, too reckless — fueled by a need to prove herself. but the curse matched her fury with brutal precision. it wrapped around her like smoke, choking her with whispers of her past.

yuta slashed it from behind, giving her a breath of space. “you’re being reckless!” he yelled.

“i know what i’m doing!”

“you’re letting it get to you!”

“because it’s a part of me!” she screamed.

that moment of vulnerability cost her. the curse impaled her shoulder and hurled her into a wall. yuta lost focus and caught a blast of cursed energy to the ribs, coughing blood onto the stone floor.

they managed to destroy it — barely. yuta unleashed a final blow with rika’s energy, while y/n sealed the cursed remains using her restraints and a sliver of her old technique. the moment it vanished, silence returned.

but there was no relief. only tension.

yuta turned to her, bloody and breathing hard. “you can’t keep doing this,” he said. “charging in like you’ve got something to prove—”

“i do,” she snapped. “i have to prove myself. you don’t get it—”

“i do get it!” he yelled back. “you think i don’t know what it’s like to feel cursed?! to lose someone? to carry that weight every single day?”

she flinched at his voice, then turned away. “you still had people who stayed by your side. i had no one.”

those words hung between them like a blade.

neither of them spoke the rest of the way back.

when they returned to jujutsu high, gojo was waiting at the gates.

he didn’t say anything at first — just scanned their injuries, their silence, and the way y/n walked ten steps ahead of yuta.

“what happened?” he asked finally.

neither answered.

gojo sighed, rubbing his temple. “right.”

he knew. he could feel the emotional ripples between them — two souls trying to reach for each other, but still carrying too much pain. and now, it was starting to bleed into their missions.

gojo didn’t stop them from going to their rooms. he didn’t press it. not yet. but he knew the next mission could break them for good if something didn’t change.

and somewhere in the dark, another cursed spirit was beginning to stir — stronger, meaner, and drawn to the scent of broken hearts.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

the silence of gojo’s office was only disturbed by the soft click of the door as nanami stepped inside, his expression already tight with concern.

gojo leaned back in his chair, hands steepled under his chin. he was still in his mission clothes, traces of dust and cursed energy residue clinging to his sleeves. despite the usual smug calm he wore, there was tension in his shoulders — a rare sign of unease.

“how bad was it?” nanami asked, cutting straight to the point.

gojo exhaled through his nose. “messier than expected. emotionally charged. neither of them were in the right headspace.”

“yuta and y/n?”

“mm.” gojo nodded. “the curse was more powerful than we anticipated, and it hit them where it hurt. played on their guilt. their connection.” he paused. “it could’ve ended worse.”

“but it didn’t.”

“not this time,” gojo replied. “but the higher-ups don’t care about almost failing. they care about the risks. and they’re not happy.”

nanami shifted, arms crossed. “they want her confined again?”

“not yet,” gojo said, though his voice held a hint of frustration. “but they’ve sent word that they’re considering sending someone over. someone to monitor her progress — keep tabs on her, evaluate her loyalty, her behavior. they’re still skeptical about the deal.”

nanami’s jaw tightened. “what do they expect? she’s walking the line between curse and sorcerer. any progress she’s made hasn’t come easy.”

“they see her as a time bomb,” gojo muttered. “and after today, i can’t exactly argue that she’s stable. but she’s trying. i see that.”

“and yuta?” nanami asked quietly.

gojo sighed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “he’s too emotionally attached. he tries to help, but in doing so, he’s clouding her judgment. maybe even his own.”

nanami gave a long, thoughtful look before replying. “it sounds like they’re both dangerous — not because they’re malicious, but because they care.”

“exactly,” gojo said with a faint smirk. “and that terrifies the higher-ups more than anything else.”

“who are they sending?”

“no name yet. but someone cold. someone without ties. someone who won’t hesitate to report any slip-up.” he stood up slowly, stretching his back. “i’ll try to delay it. buy them more time.”

nanami nodded, but his expression remained grim. “they won’t give her many chances.”

gojo stared out the window, the wind brushing faintly against the curtains. “then she’s going to have to make every one of them count.”

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

the higher-ups weren’t known for mercy — or for making things easy. when word finally came down, gojo wasn’t surprised at who they chose.

shoko arrived with the sealed letter in hand, handing it to gojo with a tired sigh. he opened it slowly, eyes scanning the message. the name printed in sharp ink made his lips tighten.

“utahime.”

shoko raised a brow. “she’s the monitor?”

gojo nodded, folding the paper and tossing it to his desk. “they want someone disciplined. someone who follows orders, doesn’t get emotionally involved, and won’t hesitate to report any signs of regression. and she hates my guts, so this is probably her dream assignment.”

“she won’t be biased?” shoko asked carefully.

“she’ll be strict,” gojo corrected. “but she’ll be fair. she doesn’t let personal feelings cloud her judgment — not like the rest of us.” he walked to the window, watching the students train below. “and that’s exactly why they chose her.”

utahime arrived two days later, her expression unreadable as she stood in the courtyard with her arms folded. y/n had been informed ahead of time, but nothing could prepare her for the sharp-eyed woman standing at the gates, silent and observant.

gojo greeted her casually, acting as if she were an old friend instead of a government-appointed watchdog.

“so you’re the leash,” y/n muttered under her breath, just loud enough for utahime to hear.

utahime didn’t flinch. “no. i’m the scale. whether you tip it or not is up to you.”

gojo, ever the mediator, stepped between them with a smile. “play nice, ladies. remember, teamwork makes the dream work.”

y/n rolled her eyes and walked off.

utahime turned to him. “she’s not going to make it easy.”

“you wouldn’t respect her if she did,” gojo replied with a shrug. “besides, i’ve got a feeling she’ll surprise you.”

utahime didn’t respond — just watched y/n’s figure disappear into the training field with something unreadable in her gaze.

yuta didn’t find out about utahime’s arrival until after training had ended for the day.

he was walking down the corridor, towel around his neck and hair still damp with sweat, when he caught sight of her—arms crossed, standing outside the room where y/n was now being held between missions. he froze mid-step, confusion flashing in his eyes.

“utahime-sensei?”

she looked over at him and gave a curt nod. “okkotsu. long time.”

he jogged up, glancing past her toward the door. “what are you doing here?”

“monitoring,” she replied simply. “the higher-ups sent me to oversee y/n’s progress.”

yuta’s expression immediately shifted, soft confusion melting into discomfort. “monitor? like… spy on her?”

“no,” she answered calmly, “monitor. watch her progress. ensure she doesn’t fall out of line. make sure she’s stable.”

“she is stable,” yuta insisted, a little sharper than intended. “she’s done everything gojo’s asked.”

utahime’s eyes didn’t waver. “that’s not up to you to decide.”

yuta clenched his jaw. “she’s trying.”

“i’m sure she is,” utahime replied. “but trying isn’t enough for the people who sent me. they want proof. so that’s what i’m here for.”

he wanted to argue. to defend you. to remind her how you risked your life on the last mission and how the curse they fought nearly killed both of you. but he didn’t.

instead, he just exhaled and muttered, “she won’t like this.”

“she doesn’t have to,” utahime said as she turned toward the door. “she just has to survive it.”

as she stepped inside, yuta stayed in the hall, eyes lowered, hand gripping the edge of the wall.

he didn’t know what upset him more — the idea that they didn’t trust you, or the fact that they sent someone like her to keep watch. someone who would never understand what you’d been through.

he whispered under his breath, “you’re not alone. i’ll make sure you’re not.”

even if he had to stand on the other side of the line to prove it.

that evening, the halls of jujutsu high were unusually quiet. the usual chatter of students and clatter of training equipment had faded into a heavy silence, like the air itself was holding its breath.

yuta walked softly, his footsteps barely echoing against the floor. he had waited until he was sure utahime was gone—her shift over, or so he hoped. he reached the hallway outside the room where you were confined. the faint glow of a barrier shimmered around the doorframe, but he had grown used to it by now. he’d visited you enough to know its rhythm.

he placed a gentle hand on the door, hesitating.

inside, you were sitting near the window, knees pulled to your chest, staring at the fading light. you felt the cursed energy shift before you heard the knock.

“y/n?” came his voice, low and soft.

you looked up, startled. “yuta?”

he poked his head in, eyes darting down the hall like a guilty child sneaking snacks before dinner. “i didn’t want you to think i’d stopped visiting. i just… wasn’t sure if utahime-sensei would report me.”

you smiled faintly. “she might.”

he stepped in fully now, shutting the door behind him. “then it’s worth the risk.”

you watched him walk closer, a touch of warmth blooming in your chest despite the cold edge of confinement. but you could also sense the tension clinging to him.

“you’re mad about the mission,” you said quietly.

he shook his head. “not mad. just… frustrated. scared, maybe.” he sat beside you on the floor, close but not touching. “when that curse went after you, and i couldn’t stop it in time… i thought…”

you interrupted, “i’m not mad at you, yuta.”

he looked at you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

“they’re sending someone to monitor me now,” you finally muttered, voice tinged with fatigue. “like i’m some… dangerous science experiment.”

“you’re not,” he said quickly. “you’re not that. i know you’re not.”

you nodded but didn’t seem convinced. “i don’t want to mess this up. i’m trying. but it feels like every step forward, someone’s waiting for me to fall.”

yuta’s voice was gentle. “then i’ll catch you if you do.”

he looked at you then, really looked. and something passed between you—silent and electric. the unspoken kind of promise.

but then the door creaked.

“okkotsu,” utahime’s voice called sternly from outside, “you’re not supposed to be in there.”

he sighed, eyes flicking to the ceiling. “busted.”

you chuckled under your breath. “go.”

he stood reluctantly, but before he opened the door, he turned back to you, his voice barely above a whisper.

“i’ll come back tomorrow. i don’t care who’s watching.”

you didn’t respond, but the soft look you gave him said enough.

on the other side of the door, utahime was waiting with arms crossed, unimpressed. yuta gave her a sheepish smile and walked off without a word.

she shook her head and muttered, “idiot,” under her breath.

but she didn’t report it.

𐔌⭑ 𐦯

part two is hereee :]

i reached the 1000 text box limit 😭😭 lwk been working on this for 2 months now, please don’t let this flop 🙏🏼

also sorry for no updates, i needed a break and wanted to write something else !!

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

[fushitoru]

a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic

pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader

summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?

warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii

a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3

general masterlist

You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.

Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described. 

Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.

For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.

The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.

The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.

You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.

Silence, then a low chuckle.

When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.

Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever. 

Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.

"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.

"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"

Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.

"—grant me the honor of—"

"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.

The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.

"Pardon?"

You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."

His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."

A pause.

His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"

You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."

His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."

You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."

You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."

He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."

You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."

At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"

You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."

He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."

"As they should," you replied smoothly.

To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."

A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.  

Yet, he remained.

You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.

You paid it no mind.

He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.

"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"

A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."

You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."

His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."

"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."

You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"

His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.

"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."

You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."

He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"

"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."

He smirked. "Explains what?"

"Why I’ve never heard of it."

A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.

You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."

"Not yet," he said, far too easily.

You didn’t look up. "Why?"

"Because you haven’t given me yours."

You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.

"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.

"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.

You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."

You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."

"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."

You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.

Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.

He had yet to claim your name.

No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.

Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.

Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.

He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.

But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.

Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”

A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.” 

Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.

Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."

Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."

“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead. 

“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response. 

Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”

Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."

Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."

Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."

"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"

Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."

Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.

Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.

"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"

Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."

Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."

Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"

"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."

Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."

Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.

His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"

But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.

"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."

And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.

The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.

Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.

Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.

You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.

Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”

You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?” Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”

“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting. 

However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?

But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.

It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.

Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.” 

“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”

Helen shrugged. “So what?”

You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”  

Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.

The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.

That suitor.

The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."

The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."

Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."

Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.

Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."

Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.

Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."

A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.

As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.

Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”

You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.

Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”

You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.

“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.

Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.

“Did you see him?”

You resumed braiding. “Who?”

Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”

“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”

You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.

“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”

Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”

Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”

You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.

And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.

The thought settled in your chest like a stone.

It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.

Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.

You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”

Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”

You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”

“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”

You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”

Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.

“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.

You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”

Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”

“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”

“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”

You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”

“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”

You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.

“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.

Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.

But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.

Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.

Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.

But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.

Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.

So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.

The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.

Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.

They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.

It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.

Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.

"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."

Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.

"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."

His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."

You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.

It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.

For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.

Perhaps the gods were toying with him.

"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.

Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."

"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."

"Not a chance."

You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"

Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."

He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.

"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."

You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"

For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.

It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.

And gods, it was beautiful.

Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.

"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."

Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."

He did not say so. He knew so.

Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.

And he had no intention of stopping now.

But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”

Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining. 

You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.

In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.

You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.

It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.

That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.

In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.

His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.

It is sharp. Focused.

It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.

It darkens.

Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.

Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?

His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.

But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—

His eyes.

Still watching.

“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her. 

But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”

Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”

Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”

This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”

Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.

But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."

Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"

Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."

"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.

Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."

Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.

Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.

You do not want to be here.

All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.

“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”

“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”

You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock. 

"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"

He does not notice the shadow behind him.

“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”

The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.

Gojo.

The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.

“You—”

“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”

With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.

Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.

You hesitate, unsettled.

“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.

Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.

His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”

He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s not—”

“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?

You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”

His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.

“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”

His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.

“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”

Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”

You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.

His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.

The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.

His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”

The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.

“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”

You swallow. “No.”

A lie.

Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.

For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”

You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”

He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia. 

You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”

Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”

You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”

His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do.  “Then by all means, put me to shame.”

You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.

Until it isn’t, obviously.

He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.

“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”

You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”

Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”

“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”

Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”

“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”

“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.

His head snaps up. “Wait—”

You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.

Silence.

Gojo blinks at the board.

You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”

Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”

You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.

“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”

That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”

Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.

You don’t trust that look.

“What?” you ask warily.

He hums. “Just thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”

Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”

“You act as if I owe you something.”

His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

“You didn’t even hear me out.”

“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”

Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”

You arch a brow. “Fair?”

He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”

“You most certainly did not.”

“And I helped with your wrist.”

Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”

Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”

You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.

“The gardens?”

He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”

“Why?”

Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.

 “Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.

“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”

Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.

"There you are!"

Helen.

You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.

"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"

Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."

Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”

You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”

“A bruise?!”

“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you. 

Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”

“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”

Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.

“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”

You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.

She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.

“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”

You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”

“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”

You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.

It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.

You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”

“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”

You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”

Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”

You do not have an answer to that.

And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.

…

The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.

But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?

The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.

Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.

You cannot say why.

A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—

You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.

A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.

You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.

Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”

You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”

He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”

And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.

Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.

You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.

But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.

You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.

If he comes, he comes.

And if not—

Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.

But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.

Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.

You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.

And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.

With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.

Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.

“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”

He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”

You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”

His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”

You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”

“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.

“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”

You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.

“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.

Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.

Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.

Yes.

It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.

You don’t know what to make of it.

You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.

The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.

You look away first.

Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.

A beat passes before he answers.

“Because you are.”

You swallow.

He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.

“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”

Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.

“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”

He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.

And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.

Does he want to reach for you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”

Your fingers still.

“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”

You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”

His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.

“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.

“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”

You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”

Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”

“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”

“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”

“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.

And then—silence.

You glance at him, and find him already watching you.

His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.

And then—

A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.

Your heart stutters.

Oh.

For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.

He is very handsome.

The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.

Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.

Gojo moves before you can react.

His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.

You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.

His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.

Your own breath falters.

His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.

Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.

He waits.

A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”

His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”

You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”

“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”

“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”

Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.

His gaze flickers to your lips.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

And then—

His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.

You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.

It is all the invitation he needs.

He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.

The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.

For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now. 

When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.

“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition. 

Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”

“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”

“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.

Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?

Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king. 

What a match.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.

“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”

“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”

Fate.

What cruel irony.

You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.

And yet—

You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.

The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.

She wants this.

And what of you?

Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”

“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”

Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.

You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.

It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.

Over a man. What a shame.

You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.

Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.

But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise. 

The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.

Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.

You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—

And there he is.

Satoru.

Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.

Your heart stutters.

You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

The pebble strikes the stone beside you.

“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”

You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”

His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”

“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.

“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”

Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”

But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.

You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”

“And when have I ever listened?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.

He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”

Your stomach lurches. “She said—”

“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.

He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.

“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”

Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”

Oh.

He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.

“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”

“Ask me what?”

His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”

The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”

His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.

“You.”

Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.

“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.

“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.

It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.

His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.

So you whisper, “Then prove it.”

And that is all it  takes for him to break.

His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—

Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”

“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.

But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”

He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.

After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”

You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”

“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.

You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself. 

Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering. 

“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”

Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”

“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”

Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”

He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.

You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.

For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.

Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.

You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”

Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.

It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.

When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing. 

So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now. 

And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.

“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.

“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”

“Helen!” 

The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.

His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.

What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.

And perhaps he has.

After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—

He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.

Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.

general masterlist

a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....

ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter

thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3

[osarina]

ᡣ𐭩 I AM HIS, AND HE IS MINE

FEATURING: dazai osamu

SUMMARY: it's the night of what's supposed to be your first date with dazai, but of course, like all things involving dazai osamu, nothing goes right. you should have expected it... but maybe not all is ruined.

(wordcount: 6.9k; fem!reader, pm!reader, sfw but steamy make out sesh. reader slaps dazai. this one is a bit of a whirllwind, it is purposely fast-paced and a bit choppy. unedited.)

AUTHOR'S NOTES: HAPPY FRIDAY <333 enjoy a bit of a funner pmreader au fic because beast au is coming soon <3 bonus points if any of you can figure out the importance of the next mission that's mentioned at dinner and at the end <333

“I mean, I should’ve known he was going to pussy out, right?’ you say with a scoff as you lean back in your seat, phone pressed to your ear as you look over the Yokohama skyline. “It’s just like him. It was like pulling teeth to even get him to admit there’s something between us. He avoided me for weeks after we talked things out and-”

“Wait, wait, hold on. I thought things were good between you guys now?” Chuuya asks, baffled. You can hear some commotion happening in the background, and what seems like an explosion, your eyebrows shoot up, wondering where he is. “He said he was going to meet you.”

“Where are you?” you ask confused. “I thought you didn’t have a mission today.”

“I didn’t,” Chuuya spits out, voice rising in irritation. “I took over shitty Dazai’s so he could go get ready to meet you, and you’re telling me he’s not there? I’ll fucking kill him.”

You let out a sharp puff of air, disappointed but not entirely surprised that Dazai used you as an excuse to dodge a mission. Things have been better between the two of you—he doesn’t avoid you anymore, in fact, he usually seeks you out on his own like he used to before your friendship was wrecked by your fling with that civilian, but you haven’t slept with each other since that night two weeks ago. And that’s fine, you don’t only want Dazai for sex, but it just feels like you guys are back to being friends, and that’s also fine, but this was supposed to be your next step at maybe being more than friends, so how are you supposed to feel when he bails?

You should’ve expected it, you think blandly, letting out another sigh as you shake your head. Dealing with Dazai is like trying to pull out an anchor that’s buried feet under the ocean floor with your bare hands—he doesn’t like changes from the norm, and he especially doesn’t like having to confront his own emotions, you’ve known that since the day you’ve met him. You thought you made enough progress the night that you slept together for it to be a non-issue, but clearly, you were wrong. 

Sleeping together is evidently less emotionally taxing for him than going out to dinner with you, which is crazy when you consider just how that night had started. 

“You okay?” Chuuya asks quietly. “I can come meet you there, I’ll be done here in a few.”

You roll your eyes with a fond smile. “I don’t need a pity date because Dazai Osamu stood me up, Chuuya.”

“Fuck you, it’s not a pity date,” Chuuya snaps, and you raise your eyebrows in amusement when you hear a sudden shout from the other line and a few curses from him. “Look, just let me know, yeah? We can chill and get takeout too.” 

“Chuuya, go handle your mission. I’ll be fine,” you say, still smiling lightly as you take a sip of your wine. You’re on your second glass already—Dazai was supposed to be here half an hour ago. “I’ll text you.”

“You better,” he warns, and you hear him let out a litany of frustrated curses as he starts shouting at someone with him before you finally hang up.

You let out another heavy sigh, the small smile fading from your lips as you look down at the red tablecloth, lowering your glass as you swallow thickly. You can feel several gazes on you—this is a Mafia establishment, and your favorite restaurant to wine and dine Port Mafia associates at, most of the staff knows you by name. The last thing you want is their pity because you were very clearly stood up by someone, even if they don’t know who it is that had the nerve. 

Just as you’re about to rise to your feet and leave, you notice the hostess’s eyes widen as she turns to acknowledge someone entering the restaurant, rushing back over to the podium to greet the newcomer. She bows too deeply for it to be a regular customer, but you don’t dare to get your hopes up, stiffening as you wait to see who arrived. You tell yourself that it must be some government official taking his wife out, or maybe a businessman and his colleagues going out after a long day of work because you don’t want to be disappointed when an unfamiliar man turns the corner.

Still, you take in a deep breath and can’t help the way your throat spasms when you realize the newcomer is coming around the corner, and you certainly can’t help the way you straighten. The rest of the staff catches sight of them before you can, and the way they all have a visible reaction to the person, the way their gaze turns to you.

You know it’s him before he turns the corner, but your heart races still when he comes into view.

He’s not wearing his typical waistcoat and slacks—or well, he is, but it’s a new set. You can tell because you can’t see the darker splotches on his waistcoat from the blood the dry-cleaner hadn’t been able to get out from his last mission. And he’s not wearing his black trench coat; rather, he’s wearing an expensive suit jacket you’d never seen before. Even during events, he would usually just shed his jacket, he never really dressed up special like you and Chuuya would. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in an actual suit jacket like this.

More importantly, he has a bouquet of roses in hand, and the expression on his face is nothing like the aloofness you’re used to him wearing in public. He looks unsure, almost hesitant as he looks around trying to figure out where you’re sitting, and he physically falters when he catches sight of you sitting at the window already looking in his direction.

You shift your seat slightly so you can face him, crossing one leg over the other and tilting your head to the side. His throat visibly bobs as his gaze tracks down to the way your red dress rides up your thighs, and you can’t help the amusement that bubbles in your chest when he has to physically inhale to get ahold of himself before making his way over to you.

When he gets close to you, you can feel almost all of the eyes in the room pinned on the two of you. You can’t exactly blame them—it’s not everyday that the Port Mafia’s most notorious executive is seen outside of the darkness he usually lurks in. Most of those who are seemingly aware of who Dazai is look nervous. You can’t blame them for that either, as far as rumors go, it’s pretty well known that death clings to Dazai Osamu in a similar fashion that shadows cling to a dying light—unyielding, inevitable, and always just a step behind.

“You’re late,” you say coolly, grateful that your voice doesn’t betray the way your heart is racing. 

Dazai doesn’t respond right away. He looks down at the bouquet in his hands, and then back up at you. The way he shifts awkwardly on his feet is almost endearing, and the way his brows furrow as he tries to decide what to say almost makes you soften up.

After what feels like an eternity, he says, “I wasn’t sure which flowers to get.”

“You didn’t have to get me flowers,” you reply quietly, standing up to take them from him. 

They’re pretty. You’re used to getting flowers—Mori makes sure there’s a fresh bouquet on your desk every Monday, and these ones are definitely not of the same quality Mori usually gets you. They’re expensive for sure, but you can see the way the edges of the petals are just barely wrinkled from a day in a storefront. Yet somehow, these feel more special than any of Mori’s bouquets ever have.

“Odasaku said that I should,” Dazai replies after a moment.

Any fondness that might’ve been swelling in your chest is crushed in an instant.

“You got me flowers because Oda said you should?” you ask flatly, looking up at him with a visibly displeased expression. 

You can see confusion fly across Dazai’s face at your sudden change in demeanor, mind racing as he tries to figure out what he said wrong. After a few moments, he seems to realize from the way his eye widens slightly.

“He only suggested it,” he says, voice low as he looks down at you through his lashes. Suddenly, you’re all too aware of how close you’re standing to him as you tilt your head up to meet his gaze. He dips his head a little more. “I got you them because I wanted to get you them.”

You swallow thickly, lashes fluttering as you avert your eyes to the side. “Well, I guess that’s fine then,” you reply primly, clearing your throat as you meet his gaze again, mouth drying when you see the way his lips curl up into a slow smirk, dark eye glittering with amusement.

“Yeah?” he drawls. “As long as it’s fine with you, then.”

You scoff at him and turn your head away pointedly. “Would you sit down? I’ve already been waiting for over a half hour.”

He hums in agreement, but before he moves to sit down, he leans down to brush his lips against the corner of yours. Your throat tightens, and you pretend to not notice the pink that dusts his visible cheek as he swiftly turns to take his seat.

When the two of you take your seat, the silence between you is abundantly awkward. You press your lips together, thrumming your fingers against the red cloth. You’re usually good at making conversation—it’s quite literally what you’ve been trained to do—yet no words find their way to you with Dazai sitting across from you.

“I-”

“Y-”

Both of you go silent at the same time, and both of you say, “Go ahead,” at the same time. You pointedly raise your eyebrows, beckoning him to continue, and you smile curiously when you see how his gaze drops to the table for a moment.

“You look beautiful,” he says quietly. “Your dress… I haven’t seen you…”

“I always wear dresses to events,” you tell him with a half-smile to hide that you’re flustered by the compliments. “You see me in them all the time.”

He inhales and then shakes his head, you watch his gaze track down suspiciously low for a split second, and then down to the table to where he’d seen your dress ride up your thighs, and the smile on your lips becomes a little more mischievous.

“Oh, I see,” you say, relishing in the way his cheeks go from dusting pink to flaming red as he pointedly looks away from you. “I think you’d like more what I have on beneath it.”

Dazai chokes, and then tries to mask it with a cough. You wonder if you pushed too far, the two of you haven’t done anything physically since the first time you slept together. Not even kiss. But from the way his pupil is blown wide as his gaze focuses back on you, you think your words have their intended effect.

Before he can reply, someone clears their throat from next to your table. You turn your head to the side, mortified when you realize that your waiter is standing there waiting to take your order.

“Hime, Dazai-sama,” he greets, bowing low with bright red cheeks. “I apologize if I interrupted.”

Dazai’s expression goes cold at the arrival of a stranger, but you direct an uneasy smile toward the man as you say, “Shinohara-san, good evening… I hope you didn’t hear anything… unsavory.”

“Of course not, hime,” he agrees, even though you know it’s a blatant lie. “Are you ready to order?”

Before Dazai can disagree, you nod and pointedly ignore the offended look he shoots your way. “It’s pretty busy tonight, isn’t it?” you say curiously as you look around. There’s double… triple the amount of people that are usually here. “I hope you’re not too overrun with work.”

Shinohara lets out a huff of laughter. “It was so quiet until an hour ago,” he agrees. “We had to open up the other room because people just kept pouring in at five. We’re managing though, don’t worry.”

You order for both you and Dazai. You figure that he could order for himself, but he hardly ever treats himself out to eat. He’s more prone to hoarding cans of crab and ordering takeout on your card, so you’d rather just order something you know he’d like than wait for him to sort through each and every item on the menu before he settles on what you know he’s going to get anyway.

Dazai takes advantage of you placing the order to sit there and glower at the man who is only trying to do his job—probably the only one of the staff that had the balls to approach your table with Dazai Osamu sitting across from you. As soon as he leaves, you settle a flat expression on Dazai.

“He’s just doing his job, Dazai,” you say, unamused. “Won’t you leave him be?” 

Dazai gives you an offended look. “I didn’t even do anything,” he protests.

“You were glaring at him.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Right,” you say sarcastically. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably cute,” he corrects with a sweet smile.

“Hah!” you laugh in his face. “You wish.”

“I don’t need to wish, it’s true,” Dazai says confidently, leaning back in his seat with a smug grin. “You think I’m the cutest. You love me.”

You roll your eyes. “At least you have confidence.”

“What does that mean?” 

An easy smile settles on your lips as the awkward silence between the two of you finally shatters. You look down at the table, a fond feeling swelling in your chest as you finally come to terms with the fact that Dazai did come, and a lump forming in your throat as your gaze tracks back over to the flowers he gave you, wondering if this all means he’s finally ready to officially take that next step with you.

And if it does mean he’s ready to take the next step, is he going to feel the same way when the sun rises tomorrow? You can never tell with him. He’s fickle and capricious, and it’s obscenely frustrating trying to deal with his back-and-forth.

“I heard you have a mission in Kyoto at the end of the week,” Dazai says quietly after a few moments, an unreadable expression on his face as you look back up at him. “You’ll be there for a bit.”

You hum in response, taking a sip of your drink. “Yeah,” you agree, and then you let out a sigh. “Ihara Saikaku has made… a lot of progress in undoing all the work I did back in Kyoto before coming here. More than we realized until two of our warehouses up there were blown up. I don’t think I’ll be there long—probably a week.”

Dazai’s lips curl down into a frown at your words. “Who’s all going with you?” 

“Itou,” you answer, referring to your partner, rolling your eyes at the way a distasteful expression immediately crosses Dazai’s face. “Some of our subordinates. It’s a small group, we don’t want to bring too much attention before we go there..”

“I can come,” Dazai offers, and it makes your chest flutter because Dazai never offers to take on extra work unless you’re involved. Hirotsu pointed it out to you over a year ago, but you never really took notice of it until recently. Dazai notices the small smile unconsciously curling at your lips and takes offense to it. “What? Why are you laughing at me?”

“I’m not,” you say quietly. “I just…”

You care about him a lot—more and more every single day, and it scares you, because you never know which days he’ll choose to stay, and which he’ll run away. So you don’t voice it, instead you tilt your head to the side and raise your eyebrows at him.

“I can handle the mission,” you tell him.

Dazai huffs. “I know you can,” he says, raising his chin, looking a bit put out by your comment. “Doesn’t mean you don’t want company.”

My company, you hear the unspoken word as he frowns and looks away and your expression softens. 

“Don’t you have a mission with Chuuya this weekend?” you remind him dryly, smile becoming a bit more amused when he obnoxiously rolls his eye and gives you a judgmental look.

“He can handle it on his own,” he mutters bitterly. “Whatever. Fine. You don’t want my help clearly. You don’t need to say it, I can take the hint.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you say fondly, resting your chin on your hand as you observe him. He’s clearly flustered by your stare, immediately looking down at the table. “I leave on Friday, it won’t be long.”

Dazai still doesn’t look pleased. 

“Friday is movie night,” he says, clearly bothered by the prospect of missing it. Dazai is a creature of habit—much like how he didn’t want to change his friendship with you by taking the next step in your relationship, he doesn’t like when his weekly schedule is disrupted, and you know he looks forward to Fridays with you.

“We can go to the arcade on Thursday.” you compromise.

Dazai lights up. “You hate the arcade,” he says suspiciously.

“I hate losing to you at the arcade,” you tell him, scowling at him briefly when he gives you a smug smile. “I’ll suffer through it just this once.”

You do hate losing to him, but you also like watching how excited he gets when he wins games. You would usually join him and Chuuya when they went because you could just watch and not get dragged into their dumb competitions. They’d get so wound up with arguing with each other that they’d genuinely forget you were there.

“Don’t invite Chuuya,” Dazai says with a frown after a few moments.

“You’re so mean to him,” you say absently, thanking Shinohara as he returns with the appetizers that you ordered. “He likes going to the arcade with you.”

Dazai sneers. “Until he loses every single game,” he says haughtily. “We don’t invite him to movie night, so we’re not inviting him to game night.”

“Sometimes we invite him to movie night,” you argue with a frown.

“Sometimes you invite him to movie night,” Dazai corrects, voice dripping with disdain. “You taint our movie nights. Not me.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you repeat, lips curling up into another smile. “He wanted to do something with me before I left too. Why not-”

“No,” Dazai says, voice pitched in complaint. He draws several eyes onto the two of you, which he quite quickly takes care of with a vicious look in their direction. His expression smooths out before he turns a frown back onto you. “No.”

“Fine, I’ll do something with him earlier in the da-”

“No,” he says, even more loudly this time, but the other patrons of the restaurant know better than to look over now, keeping their gazes trained on their meals or their partners. “Fine. He can come to the arcade. We can do something else earlier in the day.”

Your lips curl up into another amused smile, tilting your head to the ideas your eyes settle back on his face. “Oh yeah?” you drawl, “and what do you want to do earlier in the day?”

The smile on Dazai’s lips is unrepentant. “I could think of a few things,” he murmurs, gaze dipping down for a moment before settling back on your face.

“Pervert,” you insult, but your tone stays light.

“You’re the pervert,” Dazai accuses, dark eye glittering playfully as he reaches for a piece of calamari curiously, eyeing it for a moment before popping it into his mouth. You watch his expression light up before he reaches for another quickly—you’re not the biggest fan of it, but you figured he would like it. “I was talking about going to the movies. What were you talking about?”

“Riiiiight,” you say dryly, leaning back. “What movie do you want to see?”

“Hmm,” Dazai hums, pressing his finger to his mouth as he tries to think of a movie he wants to go see, but you find your attention drawn behind him to where the hostess is whispering with the head of staff, looking at something behind you.

Dazai is rambling about some animated movie that’s about to leave theaters—something about a robot, you’re not really listening because you’re too busy trying to figure out what they’re so focused on. Something about it has you on edge. You follow their gaze to a party of three sitting at a nearby window close to the event room; it isn’t anything too suspicious, you think, until one of them looks in your direction and instantly looks away.

“Helloooo,” Dazai demands your attention, irritated. “Why did you ask if you weren’t going to listen to me?” 

“It really is busy today, isn’t it?” you ask quietly, and Dazai’s expression immediately clears, lips curling down and brows furrowing as his sharp gaze circles the room. You noticed it earlier when Shinohara came over, but you didn’t think anything of it. You should have. “It’s not usually this busy, especially during the week.”

“Yeah?” Dazai murmurs, now brought aware of the oddity, you can see the thoughts racing behind his dark eyes, trying to figure out what caused it. “Weird.”

“Weird,” you agree, watching as the hostess shifts on her feet nervously and then pointedly meets your eyes. Something is not right, and you have a very bad feeling about it—the people who’d been seated in the event room are becoming restless. You can see it in the way they’re shifting in their seats and looking around quickly. Dazai realizes too from the way his expression closes off and his hands tense. “I-”

Dazai tosses you a smile that’s so disarming that you almost don’t register what he says to you next. “When I tap the table twice, get under the table and crawl to my side.”

You unlock your phone and quickly send a text to Chuuya with your location and a ‘help’—no explanation, because the uncertainty and anxiety will make him get here faster. By the time you hit send, Dazai is looking at you again. His lips curl up into a teasing smile that tells you he’s about to tap the table; he raises his eyes at you as if asking if you're ready, and you raise yours right back at him in response.

You see a rush of movement from the corner of your eye at the same time as Dazai’s fingers hit the table twice. You drop to the ground at the same time as the first gunshot rings from somewhere behind you. Dazai is shoving the table over onto its side and hitting the ground beside you; he has the nerve to let out a breathless laugh as his shoulder knocks against yours.

As the screams of the regular patrons of the restaurant start resounding through the air, he leans in with a wild grin and says, “That was close. Almost took off my ear.”

You’re not quite as amused when your gaze snaps over to him and you see the blood staining the bandages that cover the right side of his face. Your eyes widen and you gasp, “You-”

“It only grazed me,” he tells you, and then nods over in the direction of the kitchen. “Let’s get out through the employee entrance while everyone is running around panicking.”

“Right,” you say quietly, and then your lips curl up into a tight smile. Of course this is how your first official date with Dazai goes—you almost wonder if it’s a sign from the gods telling you that this will never work. To quit before you’re in too deep, as if you aren’t already. “We just can’t have one night of peace, can we?”

“I was really looking forward to those crab legs,” Dazai sighs dramatically, throwing his head back. “You think it’s the feds?”

“No way,” you say. “It’s another organization, I just don’t know who the hell is bold enough to pull something like this off in our city.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Dazai says lazily, and then motions to the kitchen. “Let’s go.”

He doesn’t give you much time to react; your body lurches as he grabs your wrist and hauls you up to your feet, pushing you ahead of him to get you moving in the direction of the kitchen. You stumble over your heels and glare at him from the corner of your eye, but he only tosses you another breathless smile in return, clearly having the time of his life.

“You’re ridiculous,” you snap at him, not quite enjoying having your night ruined like he seemingly is. “You could at least pretend to be bothered.”

“I’m so bothered to have my night ruined with my sweet hime,” Dazai says with another wide smile as he dances ahead of you to push open the door to the kitchen and drag you in there with him.

You can hear shouts coming from behind you and another barrage of gunshots, and you can’t help but mourn because of course this had to happen here at one of your favorite places to go out to eat. You won’t be able to come back for ages now because of this—you’re going to have to figure out if they were involved with this first, but even if they weren’t, this is going to be a hotspot that the feds will be watching for months. One of the cooks directs the two of you to the staircase in the back just as the door you entered through to get into the kitchen slams open.

You try to get a look at the people chasing you, but Dazai doesn’t give you a chance, yanking you into the stairwell to start making a break for the exit of the building. You grimace at the thought of having to run down fifteen flights of stairs, your feet aching just at the thought of it. 

“We’ll never get to the bottom before they catch up. I’m in heels,” you say as the two of you get down the first flight only to hear the doors you just came out of slam open, signalling that they’re already giving chase.

“Take them off,” Dazai says easily. He still has a shit eating grin on his face and you have half a mind to slap it off him. You think he’s enjoying running for his life more than he was enjoying dinner with you.

“I’d rather be shot.”

“Then we’ll just out smart them,” Dazai tells you, wagging his fingers obnoxiously in your direction. You think he tosses you a wink before he keeps dragging you along, fingers tight around your wrist. 

You grimace when a bullet flies a bit too close to your head, stumbling as you skip over a step to the middle landing between the eleventh and tenth floors. The people chasing you are Japanese—you can hear them shouting at one another as they try to catch up to the two of you, but they’re not from the area, you can tell from the accent, so they can’t be from one of the Yakuza syndicates.

Then who?

Shikibu or Ihara’s men? Kawabata’s?

Your mind races for an answer, but you’re startled out of your thoughts when you and Dazai reach the tenth floor and he kicks open the door to the hallway loudly. You shoot him a wide-eyed look, but he doesn’t drag you into the hallway, instead he yanks open what looks like a small maintenance closet and pulls you inside of it, pullingshutting the door shut quietly.

“What-” you start to say, but you can’t finish your question because Dazai is backing you into the wall, he pins one of your wrists right up next to your head and his other hand drops to your hip as he presses his body flush to yours

Oh, you think absently, all thoughts slipping from your mind when he presses his lips to yours. They’re chapped and taste faintly of the garlic on the calamari he’d been snacking on combined with the blood that has dripped down his face to his lips—you don’t think you should like the taste of it, but your hand comes up to cup his cheek and you find your lips parting as you deepen the kiss.

He lets out a low groan into your mouth, and you know that this is not the time for this. The people chasing you could walk into the closet any moment and riddle both of you with dozens of holes, but you’re two glasses of wine in, high on adrenaline, and this is the first time Dazai has kissed you since the night the two of you slept together—his lips are more intoxicating than any type of liquor or drug.

“We shouldn’t-” you start to whisper when you pull away for air, but your words fail you when he immediately turns his attention to your jaw, trailing his lips halfway down your neck. “What’s gotten into you?”

Your breath catches when you feel his lips curl up against your skin. He nips your neck and slides his hand down from your hip to your thigh, slipping his fingers below the tight red fabric of your dress to hike your thigh up around his waist so he can roll his hips against yours. Your breath hitches, head falling back against the wall as Dazai continues to kiss down your neck, tongue darting out to swipe at your collarbone.

“You are so…” you breathe out.

“Sexy? Arousing? Tempting?” Dazai offers, lifting his head to look down at you, eye darker than usual, pupil blown wide as he gives you a lazy smile and waits for your response.

“Unbelievable,” you finish, shaking your head. “I never know what to expect with you.”

“That means you’ll never get bored of me,” he says with a grin. “That’s a good thing.”

“It’s something alright,” you agree, noticing the way his smile falters at your answer. “I’d never get bored of you regardless, Dazai. I just wish…”

You don’t finish the sentence, not wanting to send him running when you’re already in such a precarious situation. Instead, you shake your head and look away with a frown. 

“You wish what?’ Dazai asks quietly. “Tell me.”

“I didn’t think you were going to come today,” you admit after a moment, deciding to just come out with it. His lips part at your words, suddenly looking unsure. “I just… sometimes I still don’t know where we stand. It’s hard.”

“You don’t know where we stand?” Dazai has the nerve to sound amused, but there’s an oddly vulnerable look in his gaze as he looks down at you. He brings the hand he still has pinned to the wall next to your head to his chest so that your palm is flat against his heart. “I thought I made it clear that night. I’m yours.”

Your breath catches again, heart racing as you look up at him and ask quietly, “You’re mine?”

“I’m yours,” he repeats, lifting your hand from his chest to press his lips against your palm and then your wrist. You cup his cheek, wiping away the blood that’s tricked down the right side of his face. “Heart, body, and soul. I’m yours.”

He looks like he didn’t mean to say all of that from the way his eye suddenly widens, but the damage is done and you are down for the count. Your entire world is shaken by the words that you never thought you’d hear him say out loud. Luckily, he’s saved by the chaos happening right outside of the closet the two of you are hiding in. The shouting draws close as they get down to the tenth floor, trying to figure out where the two of you went.

He presses his hand over your mouth and backs you against the wall again, trying to hide in the shadows of the small room just in case they decide to take a peek inside of the closet. After what feels like an eternity, they seem to go down the hall of the tenth floor looking for you guys. 

“That’s why you kicked the door,” you realize and he gives you a smug grin. “Dazai…”

Dazai can seemingly tell that you’re about to go back to the conversation the two of you’d been having because he winces and croaks out, “No more talking, please. This has been a lot for me in one day, y’know.”

“Okay,” you agree with a small smile. When he finally steps away from you, you reach out for his hand, entwining your fingers with his. “Let’s get out of here then.”

The worst part about getting down to the ground floor is the fact that your feet are killing you, but you’re too stubborn to take your heels off. The exit leads into an alley next to the building, and you sigh as the door shuts behind you, reaching for your phone to see if Chuuya or the Black Lizards are anywhere nearby, not wanting to go out anywhere in the open when there could be snipers waiting in case the two of you managed to escape the hit squad.

“I-” you start to say, looking up at Dazai. He turns to look at you, but his eye widens as his gaze focuses on something behind you. “What are you…?”

You yelp when Dazai reaches out to grab your wrist. He yanks you behind him, and as you crane your neck around to see what’s going on, your breath catches when you realize that they had someone waiting outside. His gun is trained in your direction and Dazai is swinging you around so that he’s the one that will take the bullets, using his body as a shield to protect you. Your lips part in a silent cry of his name when you realize what he’s doing, trying to stop him, but you know you won’t be fast enough. 

It all happens too fast—too slow—you don’t even know really; you can see it all happen but you can’t react. You’re watching the man’s finger curl around the trigger, you’re watching Dazai stiffen as he braces himself for the impact, eyes locked with yours and grip on your wrist tightening, and you’re choking over a gasp, panic flooding your blood and fogging your brain as you realize what’s about to happen.

It doesn’t happen though—the ground shakes violently as a familiar figure drops from the sky in-between the two of you and the gunman. The gasp you choked over turns into a shaky sigh of relief when you realize that Chuuya arrived. 

He turns a glare onto the two of you, the Tainted Sorrow emanating around his body as he stops the barrage of bullets midair. He spits, “You two-”

“Late as always,” Dazai jeers, but you can see the way his shoulders visibly relax and you can hear the tremor of relief just barely audible in his tone. The tight grip on your wrist eases, but instead of pulling away, his hand slips down so he can entwine his fingers loosely with yours again. “But what else should I expect from a slug?” 

Chuuya snarls at Dazai, but before he can say anything else, his attention is drawn back to the man fumbling to reload his gun. You have half a mind to tell Chuuya to leave him alive, but your focus is pulled back to Dazai and the panic and fear that had been flooding you quickly shifts into anger.

You reach out to grab him by the tie to yank him closer to you, his eye widens and his eyebrows shoot up teasingly, but you’re not having it. You lift your free hand and before you can even consider what you’re doing, you slap him hard. Dazai draws back, cheek pink in the shape of your hand and lips parted in shock.

“Ouch,” he says flatly. “That’s what I get for saving your life?” 

“Don’t ever do that again,” you spit at him angrily, knuckles tight around his black tie as you drag him closer. “Ever. What were you thinking throwing yourself in front of the gun like that? Are you insane?”

Something mirthful flickers across his face as he looks down at you, dark eye lidded and lips pulled flat. His voice is colder now as he asks, “You don’t like it, do you? Funny.” 

“What?” you breathe out, confused and taken aback by the comment, even more so when he only averts his gaze and shakes his head. “What are you even talking ab-”

“Yo, come here,” Chuuya says abruptly. You give Dazai one last concerned look before trailing over to Chuuya, who’s kneeling over the corpse of the man that tried to kill you and Dazai. He’s pointing at a tattoo on the man’s forearm of a castle floating in a sea of clouds. “You recognize this? It's so familiar, I can’t place it.” 

You frown. “Yeah,” you say, voice tight. “It’s Ihara. The Floating World. Guess I’m going back to Kyoto sooner than I thought.”

Dazai’s expression shifts instantly, a frown tugging at the corners of his lips. “But what about-”

“They just attacked an executive in the heart of our territory, Dazai,” you say, voice strained. “This needs to be handled immediately, and you and Chuuya need to stay here. If they’re willing to do this, then there’s no telling what they’re capable of trying for. You two need to stay here and be ready to deal with any potential threats to Mori.”

Neither Chuuya nor Dazai look pleased by your words, but it’s Dazai who speaks up, expression twisted. “You can’t order me around, I’m the executive.”

“And because you’re the executive, you know that I’m making the right call, don’t you?” 

Dazai doesn’t look pleased, but he doesn’t reply other than a shake of his head. It’s only when you reach for your pocket to grab your phone so you can call your partner, Itou, that he finally reacts. He grabs your wrist quickly, the pads of his fingers burning against your skin and though he doesn’t speak right away, you still brace yourself for what you know is coming.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” he says quietly as Chuuya steps away to make a call. “I don’t think-”

“You told me that you’re mine, Dazai,” you say softly. “Heart. Body. Soul. Do I have your trust too?” 

Dazai looks conflicted, face twisting and lips pressing together. His grip on your wrist tightens, but he finally shakes his head and looks away. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “You do.”

“Then trust me when I say I can handle this,” you say, voice coming out a bit more pleading than you intend for it to. You gently shake his hand from your wrist so you can entwine your fingers with his again, squeezing his hand. “I was in Kyoto on my own for years, Dazai. I know what’s waiting for me there. I’ll be fine, we need you and Chuuya here with Mori.”

After what feels like an eternity, Dazai finally replies, “Okay. I trust you.”

You let out a breath of relief, shooting a text to Itou so you can let him know that plans changed, and you’ll all be leaving in the morning instead. You roll your eyes when you get a ‘yippee’ from the grown ass man as a response, but promptly turn your attention back to Dazai, who’s still frowning at the ground.

You squeeze his hand to get his attention, and he looks at you with an indecipherable expression. “Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s go home and clean the blood off of you. We can spend the night together before I leave in the morning.”

“In the morning,” he echoes, a whine clinging to his tone, but he lets out a melodramatic sigh before giving you a lecherous smile. “... You did promise me that I’d like what you had on underneath the dress more, didn’t you? You gonna prove it?” 

The smirk that curves at the corner of your lips is playful. “You know it.”

You hear a noise of disgust from a few feet away, and you both turn to see Chuuya standing there, looking thoroughly disturbed.

“Gross,” Chuuya scoffs, sneering at the two of you.

“Shut up,” you and Dazai snap at the same time. 

“No you. I don’t need to hear this shit, take it to a goddamn bedroom.”

You and Dazai share a look at his suggestion, then snicker when another groan comes from the ginger.

“Forget it.”

[whirlybirbs]

— MOONBEAM ; SANEMI ; 実弥

summary: you & shinazugawa have a score to settle, but you never did agree on the stakes, did you? pairing: sanemi shinazugawa / f!reader ; retired hashira word count: 4.7k tags: rated t+, mutual pining, drinking games, romanticization of everything in sight, sun and moon tropes, reader is a hashira, reader is missing her arm, cool prosthetics are my shit, sanemi can be nice when he wants, sanemi has no idea how to be touched, ranging hashira appearances for comedic impact a/n: i love this eyebrow-less fuck. let him be kissed. and pegged, probably.

"Another round."

Someone is going to die tonight. 

Someone is definitely going to die tonight, and no one even seems remotely concerned aside from Tanjiro Kamado, the designated sake pourer. 

H-He shouldn't even be here! 

Wrong place, wrong time, but Mr. Shinazugawa might kill him if he said no to the barked order of fetching sake for the drinking game. 

I mean — sure, sure. You're both Hashiras. Or, well, you were a Hashira. The Light Hashira. The Light Hashira who was forcefully retired as of last year due to losing your right arm facing down an Upper Moon. 

The entire room is packed with fellow rank-and-file members, and with each downed glass of sake, there's a raucous roar of cheers. 

Sanemi Shinazugawa thought this was going to be an easy win. 

After all, you're little Miss Perfect. Delicate and polite and demure, and always so well-mannered, and oh so soft-spoken. 

You may be retired, but you still serve the Demon Slayer Corp, working to rehab injuries just like your own. Your estate is the secondary stop after the Butterfly Mansion for many members who have lost limbs — your prosthetics are state-of-the-art. The custom, mobility aids have changed the lives of men and women who thought they'd never bounce back.

It's beautiful, really.

Just like you, Sanemi laments.

Your silver kimono is faultlessly pressed; the wisteria blossoms embroidered into your obi glimmer in the lantern light of the dining hall. That wisteria hairpin keeping your hair up and out of your face makes his stomach churn. He wants to yank it out of your hair and throw it across the room. He wants to see you... undone. Any less perfect than usual.

It's driving him insane.

You're on your fifth cup of sake. You hold the bottom, tilt it back, and finish it with a slow, thankful nod directed toward Tanjiro. The ceramic prosthetic of your right arm tinkers gently against the cup. Delicate. Poised. Perfect.

Sanemi's lip snarls.

"Oh come on—"

"Another round, if you would, Mr. Kamado."

You slip Sanemi a leveled look through heavy lashes. 

The Wind Hashira is drunk. There's no denying it. You can see the hot flush creeping up his chest, peeking out from the top of his undone uniform. There are his scars, and then there is a flush. It's cute. 

He's always been cute.

More than cute, recently. Handsome. Insufferable in every single way possible, but handsome. 

Rumor has it he's quite the gentleman, too, if you believe the girls over at the Butterfly Mansion. The youngest three seem partial to him — hailing him with an unbridled sense of respect (and infatuation).

"You've gotta be kidding me," he grits out as he runs a calloused palm down his face; he's sweating. He's hot. It's hot in here. Maybe it's the sake. Whatever. Sanemi lets out an exhausted sigh, "There's no way." 

There's a little crack — a tiny, sliver of a crack in your usual placid composure. Sanemi swears he sees a smirk. It's gone before his hazy vision can memorize it. 

"Shinazugawa," you breathe as Tanjiro worriedly pours another cup of sake for you both; your voice is punctuated with repose that dares to lightly mock, "Are you saying you can't continue?"

There's an edge to your voice — a slight slur. The only indication that you have been keeping up, drink-to-drink with him. 

The room coos a goading little cheer. They egg him on. 

Sanemi's eyes narrow dangerously. His eyelashes are quite pretty, you muse. The whole of him is. Scarred and rugged and always so tough...

"Oh, please. You think I'm going to tap out?" he shirks, slamming back the freshly poured sake with reckless abandon. Best to go fast. If he slows down, it's all going to catch up to him. That's five. You're both tied, "I'm not losing to you." 

Your cup pauses, right about to meet painted lips. There's the smirk again. Then:

"Break it up! Curfew started ten minutes ago!" 

You recognize it as Obanai's voice. 

Sanemi's eyes flick to your face, then to the door beyond the gaggle of swordsmen and Kakushi. You're pouting. The interruption has brought a wave of groans and chattered disappointment. 

Sanemi grits his jaw. You mirror his expression.

He wasn't done. 

You weren't done. 

You both concede with scowls on your face. 

No one died. 

Which is great! 

Except that was before, and this is now. Tanjiro winces sharply at the escalating volume of Mr. Shinazugawa's voice across the courtyard. 

"Rematch!" he's shouting at you as you cross the courtyard; a picture of elegance and grace. You've got a large wooden box in your arms. No doubt the delivery of a new prosthetic. 

You glide across the gravel, head held high. 

Perfect. Even in this fuckin' heat. 

Sanemi's jacket is in the grass — every recruit around him is winded. Seems they've begun another training regime. The summer heat beats down your neck as you rake your eyes across his figure. You watch a bead of sweat run down his temple.

"Name the place, Shinazugawa," you throw his way flippantly; Tanjiro can see you're not afraid of Sanemi and it's confusing, "You'll have your rematch."

"Tonight. Same place. M' not loosin' this time, Lady Hashira." 

He hates your laugh. He hates how fucking pretty it is — how soft and light it is, like a bell, like a breeze against his skin. 

Fuck.

You're so pretty. So kind — so... fuckfuckfuck. 

Tanjiro is definitely going to die. Mr. Shinazugawa has never gone this hard on them before, like, ever. This is bad. This is so bad. A wooden sword strike rattles the bones in his hands, pain echoing up his wrists, as he blocks a whirlwind of frustrated attacks.

He's going to die.

Obanai figures this is exactly how this would go.

It is Sanemi after all. The Wind Hashira is worse than himself. At least he can talk to Mitsuri without acting like it was the world's biggest inconvenience... 

Sanemi is not exactly subtle. The pent-up frustration is—

Oh. 

Oh, you're into it. 

Sanemi misses it, but Obanai is watching the rematch from the far table — he was trying his best to mind his business as he eats. The Serpent Hashira can see the way your eyes linger on the Wind Hashira whenever he might not be looking. 

Sanemi tips his head back, as he downs his cup of sake. Obanai notices your gaze.

There's something heavy about the way you take Shinazugawa in. Something... adoring. 

Well, shit.

Tanjiro Kamado's voice wavers as he throws a leg over the bench and settles to sit beside Obanai. 

"Are you sure... this is allowed?" the auburn-haired swordsman laughs nervously as he clutches the designated sake refill bottle, "I mean curfew is soon—"

"Did I say you could sit here?"

Great.

He's going to die.

And this time it's Obanai's stare that's going to do it.

Giyu is the one to enforce the curfew that night. It ends the same. Five drinks even. Sanemi almost kills the Water Hashira, and you smirk as you gather yourself up and retire for the evening. 

Giyu doesn't get it.

"Why entertain this?" he asks the next morning, juggling the large order of birch wood in his arms; you'd asked for his help, and truth be told he was always partial to you. You were kind and easy to talk to. Giyu's voice is level, "He's a brute."

You have a large box in your arms — your second piece of the week. This time, a knee-jointed leg prosthetic made from boxwood. It's for that young swordsman, Hime. 

"I don't mind him," you offer lightly.

Giyu doesn't get it. 

"He's loud," he challenges.

"He has a nice voice," you muse back, falling in step with the Water Hashira.

"He's rude."

"He cares not what others think of him."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" Giyu shirks, his lip curling a bit in distaste.

"I think so," you softly reply, slipping Giyu a sly look, "I find it charming."

"Is that what this is about, then?" he asks suddenly, almost tripping over his own feet. The gravel beneath his feet crunches, "Finding him... charming?" 

"...And what if it is?"

Giyu really doesn't fucking get it. 

The Water Hashira is quiet for a long time after that, but the silence is comfortable. You don't mind it. It's just the sounds of summer along the path and the soft footfalls of their steps. 

Then:

"He likes red bean paste mochi," Giyu mutters, "Tanjiro told me."

The parcel lands on his lap. 

He's trying to meditate. He's trying to think about anything other than you — anything other than your smile, your laugh, the way you wear your hair, or the way you say his name. 

Irritation cracks his placid expression.

His lavender eyes are still shut. 

His lips curl into a snarl. "Do you mind?" 

"A little something," comes your soft voice; you're standing before him, your hands clasped in front of you. Oh so proper, "for our next rematch."

Sanemi's eyes fly open. 

The sun is like a halo around your silhouette. Framed by blue sky, it's like staring at an angel. You're so fucking beautiful, it feels like someone's rammed his very own nichirin right through his heart. 

He swallows roughly.

"...What is this?" he grovels hoarsely. 

Skepticism softens into a fading sense of annoyance. Sanemi's eyes flick downward, eyeing the meticulously wrapped parcel on his lap. The handkerchief around the bento is... yours. It's clearly a scrap from your old Haori. He'd know the pattern anywhere. In the dark, even. In his dreams, always.

"Red bean mochi," you say slowly, tilting your head; your voice is coaxing, "Is that not your favorite...?"

You swear his eyes widen a mile. 

What a pretty sight.

Sanemi's lip twitches. He's hesitant to reach out and even touch the box. "...Who told you?"

You shrug. Your expression is light and playful. "Would it matter?"

"I need to know who I should kill," he grits out.

"If you don't want it—"

Sanemi snatches the box up. You'll have to pry it from his cold, dead hands. Handmade, fresh red bean paste mochis? From you? He'd rather die than give this up. 

You wet your lips, the gesture an attempt to hide your growing grin. You drop your gaze and idly fiddle with a sleeve. 

There's a tense moment of silence. Then, his voice rumbles out like a summer thunderstorm:

"Tonight. Rematch."

"Same time?" you ask brightly, already beginning to walk backward down the path. 

Sanemi watches, his eyes glued to your face. "I'm going to win."

"You can try, Sanemi Shinazugawa."

You might lose.

You — ha! 

You might just lose. 

You decidedly blame Mitsuri and Shinobu. They're laughing — and pouring a lot more than poor Tanjiro did. You aren't even that angry about it, because Sanemi looks so damn proud of himself and it's adorable. 

Your tongue is loose. Your posture is slipping. 

Sanemi's never seen something hotter. 

He's going to suffer for this tomorrow — he knows that. He's on his seventh cup, his smirk mingling by the edge of the sake as you drop your head and giggle at something Mitsuri says. 

Your eyes find his. You look so... beautiful. 

The other Hashira have stolen their sips from the jug. Not that either of you mind. You're both locked in your own little game. The others have drifted out to the engawa, sitting in the warm summer evening air. 

Stolen glances between you both bleed into decidedly light banter. 

"You're slipping," he chirps; his expression betrays his words. He's gone soft, "Keep up."

You lean forward onto the table, chin propped up in your hand. You lazily finish the sake in your cup while raking your eyes across his chest and neck and shoulders and face. All of him. 

Openly.

"Haven't you heard the story of the tortoise and the hare, Shinazugawa?"

"Sanemi," he corrects as gently as a man like Sanemi can, ignoring the way his heart skips a beat when your smile cracks just a little bit wider, a little bit looser.

The ceramic cup tinkers against the wooden table as you place it down.

"Sanemi," you sigh back — testing the sound of it — and he wonders if this is some sort of dream. You let your head lull to the other side as you take another sip, "Right."

He lifts his drink to his lips. He hesitates for a second; you trace the line of his jaw with your eyes. 

"Thank you," he says suddenly — and your expression clouds with momentary confusion. That's how he knows you're drunk. You're usually so sharp, so fast. Your wit is like the crack of a whip. Sanemi clarifies before downing his seventh cup, "For the mochi."

Fucking hell.

That smile.

He's never seen someone so fuckin' beautiful before. Light Hashira be damned. You're an angel. You're the sort of woman men throw themselves on their swords for. He gets it. He'd rage a thousand wars if it meant a kiss. He'd even take a slap. Maybe a punch. Anything. 

Fuck. 

Make him bleed. 

You sway a bit as he places his empty cup down sharply. 

"Were they good?"

"Best I've ever had," he admits; he's being honest. 

You feel like you're in battle again. There's an adrenaline rush beneath your skin. Seeing him so... soft. Maybe the girls had a point. Maybe he is a gentleman when he wants to be. Sanemi is being sweet. Must be the sake. 

You let that lovely realization sit in your chest for a moment longer before dragging your eyes away from the Wind Hashira. 

Shinobu is nowhere to be found. 

Mitsuri has relieved herself from her role as designated inebriatior.

She's on the engawa, enjoying the breeze, fingers inching close to Obanai's. The other Hashira — Giyu and Rengoku and Tengen included — seem more interested in the stars hanging in the warm evening air than the competition beyond the open sliding doors.

He clears his throat. You draw your attention back to him.

He's been watching you.

"Do you concede?"

"No, not yet," you admit. Your chin is perched on your hand again, "I suppose I still have another drink in me." 

You watch as he moves, then. He stands and moves across the room to fetch the jug of sake perched by the door. You follow him with your eyes, tracing the line of his figure. He moves with less grace and with more carelessness. The jug swings from his fingers by the twine handle as he returns to your side.

He settles on his knees to your left. 

Sanemi's grin is devilish. Sharp. Handsome. His ashen hair falls in his eyes as he pours himself his next round. "Now, now, Lady Hashira, only one?"

He's so close, you can feel his breath on your neck. His voice makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

Shinazugawa leans, scarred knuckles hesitating to pour your eighth cup. His scarred brow quirks in a quiet challenge. He stills himself and waits for your reply, only to smirk when you lazily wave a porcelain hand his way. Go on. 

"Perhaps two with the way you pour," you bite, eyeing the conservative amount of sake that spills into your ceramic cup, "Trying to spare me a loss?"

"Mind your mouth," he warns, rattling the near-empty jug. He tosses his cup back easily before settling back on his haunches. He snaps the cup down on the table and exhales.

Sanemi feels exposed. Moving closer was a bold move.

It's the way you're looking at him.

He watches as a piece of hair falls from your meticulous up-do — undone by the heat and drink — and he feels his entire chest lurch with need.

You're smiling in that honeyed way as you take a slow sip of this round's cup. Your words are slow like molasses on your tongue. "...We never settled on the stakes of this bet, Shinazugawa."

Sanemi is staring at that piece of hair kissing your cheekbone. His expression is less intense than usual, but there's still a burn there. However, it is not rage nor ire. It's something else — something that you're too blind and sake-adled to name. 

"Your hairpin."

He answers it easily without pause or hesitation.

Your painted lips quirk as your eyes flash to his. He sees a question flash behind your eyes but you allow it to slip by, unasked. You watch him cross his wide arms over his chest as if to shield himself from any ill reaction.

Without a word, Sanemi watches you tug the long, silver hairpin from your hair. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

He's never seen you like this before — never, not even in battle. Your hair tumbles free in mussed strands wanting to bend and bow in the humid summer air. 

Sanemi's mouth runs dry as you slip the metal pin between your fingers and offer it. Your eyes are heavy-lidded and you sway a bit as you hand it over.

"Does this mean I've won?" he croaks. His calloused fingers brush yours as he takes the pin into his hands. It's heavier than he anticipated. The intricate amythest wisteria ornaments tinker in his palm as he turns it over.

You tip the last sip of sake back down your throat. 

Then, you shake your head no. 

"Had you asked," you slip out, dotingly pouring him yet another cup; you mirror the action and fill your own, "I would have simply given it to you."

Sanemi swallows.

You watch him as you eye your ninth cup.

You're drunk. Very drunk. Drunk enough that you fail to see the slack-jawed awe sucker-punched across Sanemi's face.

"What will you ask of me, then?" he dares to utter, realizing that this game ended a long time ago — that this is no longer about winning. Maybe it was never about winning at all, Sanemi realizes rather suddenly, but he doesn't dare linger on the thought you may just enjoy his company. 

No one enjoys his company.

He is a bastard. He is a brute. He is horrible and crude and scathingly stubborn. He is not kind, well-spoken, or patient. He's none of the things he sees in you. He is ever bit your opposite — you are the light that breaks through the clouds, and he is the wind that bites.

The idea of drinking another cup of sake makes his head swim.

"...Truthfully? I had not thought that far."

Your voice is small. Sanemi watches the way your porcelain hand stills against the cup. The confession stirs those white-hot feelings in his chest again. He barks out a rough laugh that sounds more like a wheeze than anything.

Then, he pushes his cup across the table. Your eyes widen, and Sanemi is shocked to realize his pride allows him this.

He concedes.

He has his prize, after all. He tucks your hairpin into his jacket, in a pocket beside his heart, before rapping his knuckles upon the wood of the table. 

The Wind Hashira lacks his usual amount of grace as he stumbles to his feet. 

He bends like a birch in the wind, then pushes that strand of hair from your cheek.

"Think on it, then, Lady Hashira," he rasps, "You win."

Tanjiro isn't the only one who notices that Mr. Shinazugawa has been in a better mood lately. 

Training hasn't been nearly as disastrous. The Wind Hashira has even begun offering pointers rather than beaten-in instruction. The ashen-haired man has some sort of reason for being... gentler. It's almost as if his mind is elsewhere.

Obanai notices, which means Mitsuri pries it out of him, which means Shinobu is told over tea, which means Tengen hears about it from Rengoku who hears it from the three youngest Butterfly Mansion servants and proceeds to tell Tokito one evening in the onsen. 

The steam hangs heavy in the air, and Giyu's head is tipped back against the cool stone. 

Tokito, dipped low and deep to nearly his nose in the baths, listens with interest to Tengen babble on. The Sound Hashira is stumped.

"I mean, c'mon, I love him, but the guy is never in a good mood," Uzui mutters as he flicks at a drifting maple leaf atop the water, "And suddenly it's sunshine and rainbows?"

"Hardly," Tokito murmurs.

Rengoku wrinkles his nose and agrees with the Mist Hashira. "I do not believe sunshine and rainbows are within Shinazugawa's purview."

"I'm being hyperbolic," Tengen stresses.

Giyu sighs loudly.

The heads of those present turn towards him owlishly.

He doesn't even open his eyes as he speaks.

"It's her," he states plainly, "Our Lady Light Hashira."

And it is, isn't it?

It becomes painfully apparent.

Even Kagaya Ubuyashiki, whose eyes may not see as they once did, notices — he can feel the weight of something sweet in the air when he calls the Hashira together for a meeting in the early afternoon.

...It makes him smile.

A bird chirps and the sound of a breeze slips through the leaves in the courtyard. The sun is hot on the curve of your knee, beneath your kimono.

You are in the back of the room, hands folded neatly in your lap. 

Your hair hangs across your shoulders. 

Your eyes have not once left Sanemi's back.

He sits rigid and perfect, his nichirin laid before him. 

And then, as the meeting breaks, he dares turn his cheek. Lavender eyes connect with yours only for a second. Then, the room moves, but you stay there on that floor, watching him move gracefully as he sheathes his sword. His jacket parts and you spy the ornament of wisteria flash beneath his breast pocket. 

Your breath catches.

The others pretend not to see as he steps down from the engawa, turning his attention to you once more as he squints in the sun.

"Have you decided?" he asks.

"No," you reply softly, poised as usual.

Sanemi snorts through his nose like a bull; his words may be grating but his tone betrays it. "Fine then. Be indecisive."

The others pretend not to see his smile, nor the bashful way you duck your head as he retreats towards the grass where the recruits have gathered. 

But, Kagaya Ubuyashiki needs not to pretend.

He smiles.

He finds you in the garden, after dinner.

You've made a habit of walking the quiet paths in the evenings while the Ubuyashiki Mansion is quiet and calm. Here, while the sun slips away and the moon chases her kiss, you can linger among the wisteria and their weeping blooms. 

Your getas still upon the gravel.

"I've decided, I think."

Your voice is softer than the petals that drift through the air.

Sanemi, from behind the largest tree, steps into view.

His arms are crossed. He is without his nichirin. 

He ambles closer, his attention drifting to the sky seeped in reds and pinks and purples. The moon is full, and it spills out gilded light that makes your silver kimono glow. You look as if you belong here — among the beauty and calm and peace.

"Yea?" he rasps in reply, realizing you've turned on your heel to face him fully, "Go on then, Lady Hashira. I'm not a patient man. I've waited long enough."

His words lack any sort of real bite. 

(He would wait a thousand years more if it meant hearing you ask of him anything. He'd do it, too. Over and over, as many times as you ask. Anything. For you.)

You venture closer. His eyes are still turned to the sky and the wisteria petals that swirl like clouds.

You spy your hairpin.

Wordlessly, you reach for it.

His hand snatches your wrist and halts it — at first, the movement is rough. It's as if Sanemi forgets what a touch from another can be, what it's like. You exhale, and his calloused fingers loosen their hold. He sets his jaw, and his thumb ghosts along your wrist in silent apology.

Then, you smile.

And you slip your hand down and into his own. 

And, fucking shit, Sanemi doesn't know what the fuck to do with himself with you take one step closer. There's a small voice in the back of his mind telling him to fucking run, telling him to escape this fate — because he's already in too deep, isn't he? He's drowning, and now you're holding his hand. You're going to be the fucking death of him. 

"Is this," he swallows tightly, "What you decided on?"

Hand holding?

"Am I allowed to ask for more, Shinazugawa?"

"Sanemi," he corrects under his breath, his pupils bouncing from your eyes to your mouth. It isn't an answer. 

You take another step forward, and your smile is slow.

"Sanemi," you nod and rectify yourself as you look up at the Hashira, "Am I?"

He looks terrified — and then your porcelain palm touches his cheek.

"I told you," you swear his voice shakes as he turns his cheek and pulls away, "I am not a patient man—"

"A kiss."

Lavender eyes widen, and Sanemi swears he fuckin' dreamt it. 

There's a beat of apprehension — like you're both staring down the precipice. Like you're both one step from hurdling head-first into the crashing waves below. There's only one moment of it though, and it's long enough for both of your breaths to be stolen by the leap.

He knocks the wind out of you.

You suppose there's something poetic about that, him being the Wind Hashira and all.

At first, the kiss is rough. It's as if Sanemi forgets what a kiss from another can be, what it's like.

It's desperate, you realize, as Sanemi's calloused hands thread themselves to cradle your face. His teeth knock yours and his nose butts your own and you all but gasp as you stagger on your getas. It doesn't matter, because you're in his hold — and he won't let you fall. 

Not now, not ever.

One step backward, and then another. And another.

Your back meets the bark of the wisteria. 

The moon finally kisses the sun.

His chest heaves as his hand lands above your head, bracing himself over you. His other hand doesn't dare leave your cheek. It threatens to creep into your hair, to wind your further, to see you undone. 

When he pulls his eyes open, he realizes he has achieved it. 

Finally. Fucking finally. 

Your kimono has slipped further down your shoulder, your obi loosened by the act of being pinned to the tree. Your hair is mussed, your lips parted and near bruised. 

To Sanemi, you're more perfect than you've ever looked like this.

He kisses you again.

And this time, it's nearly chaste.

You sigh into the kiss, and your fingers shake as they come to settle over the patch of bare, scarred skin on his chest. 

His lips are nimble and the pad of his thumb traces the curve of your cheek. It's a gentleness you never thought possible of Sanemi Shinazugawa. You never expected it. 

He is like the wind, then.

Biting and harsh, or soft and beautiful.

You kiss him for a long time, there, beneath the wisterias in the growing dark — like teenagers, like these were moments you were never afforded. There are hardly any words shared, only breathless little laughs between bitten lips and wandering hands. 

It's when the lanterns are lit that Sanemi finally pulls himself away.

You're smiling — and you're a mess.

Soft and disheveled and twining your fingers with his.

That's when someone's voice cuts across the courtyard, calling for curfew.

[hayajiku]

₊˚ෆ ૮꒰BUNNY RABBIT꒱ა

“Your brain had been proven faulty long ago. But you remembered him, you had always remembered him. Because your heart knew him—maybe even long before your lifetime—and cherishing anything so dearly was stronger than any illness.”

Now playing :: Half Right – Elliot Smith

Yuta Okkotsu x F!Reader

Words — 1.4k

Contents — doomed romance, hospital romance if that’s a thing, terminal illness but I’m not educated on that stuff so it’s probably poorly written, death, grief, angst, angst, did I say angst

Yuta will make you fall for him again and again, as long as he needs to compensate for the fuzziness of your memory. Even as his body deteriorates and the days become harder, he takes pride in knowing you found it in you to remember him.

a/n — yeah I have no excuse this time this one fuckin hurts. Saw a gif of him being cute in the middle of this and almost cried bc I felt bad

There was a certain sort of comfort in forgetting. Rather than spending your days dwelling over past mistakes and the way you’d stuttered over your words in front of the class, you focused on reliving the bliss of roaming the hospital and its wonders for the first time. “The first time” had been replayed time and time again, and though your mind was functioning enough to tell that much, the past was such a blur that it felt as if every second was a life anew. Every breath was fresh air in a chest that never had the time to fill before it was drained once again. There was a euphoria to it, but what came after was the glumness of your gapings wounds and the yearning to remember what had caused them at all.You were a sheep left in the wake of the wolfs attack, yet his silhouette was so blurry and warped he might as well have been the farmer.

Somehow though, you were always able to make out one clear picture in the depths of your ill computing brain. Every time he came into view, every disheveled tuft of black hair and every shift in his gentle, familiar voice was burned into your mind. His sunken brown eyes always shined brighter than the sun peeking in through the hospital's thick window, and that was hard to forget.

What you were not bright enough to remember was the subtle shift in his body with every passing day, the way his voice only grew weaker with each fond call of your name. You were too focused on the way he lit up when your eyes met his, and even though his name only resided on the tip of your tongue, the way his hands cradled yours was with the gentleness of a thousand lifetimes spent cradling you. Your brain had been proven faulty long ago, but you remembered him, you had always remembered him. He was a constant in your brain because your heart knew him—maybe even long before your lifetime—and cherishing anything so dearly was stronger than any illness.

His very being felt as though it was intertwined with yours. From the way his thinning fingers slotted perfectly between yours to how delicately your pinkies interlocked with the promise that you’d see him tomorrow, he just seemed to fit.

He fit the image in your mind, fit beside you on the balcony when the sorrow of the nights quiet caught up to you, he seemed so utterly right in every sense of the word. What didn’t feel right was how still he lay atop the crisp white sheets of the hospital bed, the way his hand felt limp in your grasp as you squeezed, feeling the suffocating urge to call out to him but unable to bring his title to the front of your mind.

you didn’t remember much these days. Every detail, every word spoken to you was a line traced in the sand being swept away by the tide that was your awaiting demise. Everything was fleeting, a single beat never to happen again. No, you didn’t remember much, but you remembered the way his name felt on your tongue, sweet and gentle. You remembered the way his nose scrunched up like a bunny rabbit when he thought real hard, even though the knowledge of what the rodent even was had begun to fade. you just knew it looked like his face, and that was all that really mattered, wasn’t it?

But his skin was smooth now. A little sunken, but the lines and ridges etched in by every running thought had long faded, nothing but peace lied over his face, looking touched by nothing but the soft glow of the sunlight peeking in through the blinds. The mind was quiet, so was he. Without life there isn’t stress or nightmares or confusion, without life he became nothing but a shell of what once was. Without life he was just another fleeting memory, another thing yet to be washed away. Your hands felt shaky at the realization, as the moments passed and the body before you didn’t move. It didn’t shoot up or open its eyes or even breathe, because it wasn’t him any longer.

And for the first time, you stared down at his face and weren’t sure what you were looking at.

Not long after, you found yourself reaching into that dark cabinet beside your hospital bed, pulling out the worn leather journal, frayed by countless entries. It was more reliable than your mouth by now, holding the details of every day you couldn’t hold on to on your own. It was the sand slipping hastily through your fingers, landing on the paper and embedding itself in the pages, a manuscript of your journey together.

At the bottom of the very last page, there was an entry you didn’t quite recognize. The handwriting was just a little unfamiliar, the e’s too loopy and the q had the little hook on the end. No, it wasn’t yours. And when you took a closer look, squinting your eyes just a little further to make out the words, the culprit became rather obvious. Suddenly it was much more familiar, the e’s were perfectly loopy and the q’s were just how you liked them.

To my dear Y/N,

Before I actually get to the purpose of this letter (if you can call it that), I’d like to apologize for going through your personal belongings. I know this journal means a lot to you, it's the storage of memories you can’t hold on to. I always tried to be the hand that grasped them, but if you’re reading this, I know that I’m no longer here to do that. My hands shake as I write this, one of many signs that my body is giving up on me. Giving up on us. The doctors pass by my room and spare me sympathetic glances, but they don’t understand.

I don’t mind my own death. In a way, it’s a relief. I’ve spent years dreading it, and for the ache in my gut to turn to vast emptiness is oddly freeing. But I wanted to stay for you. I wanted to spend many more days watching your eyes light up with newfound joy, watching you relive the same love and hate over and over again, because I knew I was a part of it all. I wanted to make you keep falling in love with me, remind you of my name and its meaning as many times as I had to. But the stars didn’t align that way. Not in this universe, anyway. So now you will watch the light fade from my eyes and I will die knowing I might fade from your memory just as much.

That being said, I hope that you will open this notebook and remember our nights spent staring at the endless numbers of stars in the sky, and the way your skin felt against mine. Wait, sorry, that sounded sexual. I never saw you like that. I loved you purely. I hope you remember that. I hope you remember me, and though I’d never place that expectation on you, I can’t help but hope a reminder will do something. Even if I'm nothing but a blurry face, just know that my heart will always belong to you, even once it’s stopped beating. Even if you forget it ever beat at all.

You’ll be returning soon, so I think it's my time to sign off. Goodbye. Think of me once in a while.

Tears soaked the book below, making the ink thicken and expel, the words just as blurry as your memory had become. The thing that ached the most wasn’t even the entry—the proof that he’d once lived and that he’d loved you while he did it, it wasn’t the fact that the hundreds of shared moments that you held so close to his/your heart (but somehow just couldn’t grasp them) had died the moment his heart monitor flatlined—it was what was in the bottom left corner. A tiny doodle, messy but readable and undeniably his, a mess of loops and lines and innocent love. It stared up at you like it saw right through your silence—haunting familiarity that you knew was his. Something bittersweet coiled inside you, growing tighter the longer you looked at it. Right there on the very bottom corner of the very last page of your journal was a bunny rabbit.

Please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me please don’t kill me

Gen/jjk tags: @sh0ot1ngst4r @azinniyaa @kashee-h @fiannee @bubybubsters @lizbix @anotherwriternamedclara @ruruisru @mayyhaps

[ponderingmoonlight]

Pairing: Gojo x fem!reader

Warnings: reader's death, language

Genre: Isekai, Romance, Fantasy

Synopsis: Your life takes a tragic turn as you perish in a car crash, only to awaken in a whimsical world of fantasy with none other than Jujustu Kaisen characters as its main protagonists. But as if that wasn't enough, you're about to marry the prince version of Gojo Satoru. How will you navigate through this world of history and fantasy? Does your life take the same sudden twist of fate as that of your favorite characters?

Chapter 1: From Tradegy to Fantasy - Awakening in Another World

Chapter 2: Negotiating Fate - Reluctant Alliance in a New Realm

Chapter 3: Entangled Ambitions - A Pact Sealed in Royal Halls

Chapter 4: Shadows in the Moonlight - A Fateful Meeting at the Ball

Chapter 5: Duel of Fates - A Perilous Encounter in the Darkened Hall

[seneon]

KISSING YOUR PAIN AWAY ──── mashle various.

featuring. mash burnedead, rayne ames, orter mádl.

notes. angst + comfort. gn! reader. hey guys, i wrote this while i was in my feels haha lol

𖥔 ݁ ˖ MASH BURNEDEAD

he's the absolute sweetest. will do whatever it takes to not let your salty tears flow from the corner of your eyes. mash brings you whatever is closest to him— a half eaten cream puff, a plastic toy dumbbell, one in a million of his cream puff plushies that you got for him when you're at the market. whatever it is, he will bring you things to just see you smile. he's so clueless, he doesn't know how else to comfort you. but he tries. he tries his hardest like it's his last mission.

"oh no, please don't cry," he said softly, his eyebrows furrowing slightly before he frantically looks around to grab something. anything will do. as long as it'll distract whatever calamity that storms around in your mind.

mash gives up with that, seeing that your tears have built up in such a large amount that it stars to carefully flow down your cheeks in such distress. that does not stop him from trying. his fingers found their way to quickly wipe away the flowing tears from your cheeks. he keeps doing it over and over; wiping your tears that kept flowing until his own fingers are stained with wet and salty tears.

finally, he holds your cheek, cupping it slightly even though your cheeks are wet. he looks at your eyes for a moment, scanning over the gloss of it before he finally pulls you into a hug. arms wrapped tightly around you, pushing you into his body so you could listen his heart as he silently lets you wail the rest of your remaining tears out.

𖥔 ݁ ˖ RAYNE AMES

post-crying has you all empty inside and out. your eyes down to the bottom of your jaw is all stained. the aftermath of letting it all out has allowed exhaustion to surface. but rayne is there with you. he's there with you throughout the entire process. he's all ears and all about listening to your stories and your rambles and your tears. rayne will not leave you unattended like this— shattered into pieces. he will always mend you back up with his kisses.

rayne presses his lips under your the corner of your eye where the first stream of tears flowed down. then he moves down, dragging his lips across your skin to place chaste and reassuring kisses onto your tear-stained cheeks. his thumb grazes over the dry tears that remains to dry, kissing on the trail that was left behind.

so gentle and careful, as if not to break your shattered pieces anymore. he's mending them carefully with the work of his lips kissing all over your face. and it works wonderfully, because the moment his lips pauses in front of your own lips, you looked into his eyes, your own eyes blurry from crying so much.

he then presses his lips on yours. a quick kiss that tells you so much which he couldn't utter out. it's all about the way he carries out every single action with so much love and care that you could feel your shattered soul is being glued back, pieces by pieces, with his love that seeped into your broken soul, filing up every brokenness. "it'll be okay. i'm right here."

𖥔 ݁ ˖ ORTER MÁDL

orter holds your hand while you speak your mind. it's not just simply holding your hands— he's seated on the ground beside your wooden chair, ranting your heart out as his fingers caresses your fingers. his gaze is focused on your hands, watching as your fingers would occasionally squeeze his own in frustration. orter is silent throughout this entire process, and when he thinks you're done pouring your agitated heart out, he glances up when you're all silent.

"need someone to lean on?" he asked as you nodded, biting your lower lips to surpress anything that might make a debut. orter stands up and pulls your head close to him, your head immediately leaning into his chest as you touched your fingers where orter's touch lingers around in comfort.

his fingers weaved their way into your hair, smoothing it out as he could feel your shaking under his embrace. orter cannot stay still. it wasn't long before he shifted his position, now kneeling on the ground, somewhat close to your height before he looks right at you, eyes burning into your tainted heart. you can feel his fingers wrapping them around yours, the absence disappearing only to fill with a warm sense of comfort with his warm hands.

then, a warm kiss placed on your knuckles, to remind you that you're never alone and that he'll always be there to hold your hands no matter what. "let it out, i won't ever let go of you."

TAGS ★ @kyoghurts @caelivir @dragonictears @anqelically @kazuhaiku

© SENEON 2024 ♱ do not repost, alter, or translate.

[ouiouimochi]

Rayne, Rayne

rayne is a bit ooc at the start since the story would start when they were still children

pairing/s: rayne ames x f!reader, rayne ames x you

genre: childhood friends(?), self-sacrificing mc, hurt/comfort

wc: 5,700+

warnings: VERY long fic (idk if considered slowburn), misunderstandings, use of honorifics, mentions of bullying, violence, blood, injuries, swearing, unethical experimentation

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

what if you were a bit of a bully when you were a kid and you thought rayne left because your teasing got too much?

it was raining hard

all you could do was stare out the window of your second floor bedroom while your mother prepared a warm dinner for your family downstairs

you thought back to the times you got too mean at the other children your age in the neighbourhood

maybe if you were just a tad considerate, it would've been different

Children's laughter rings out throughout the playground as kids run and chase each other. All the while, Rayne and his little brother Finn, were at the swings as the former pushed the latter on one. It was peaceful.

“Boo.”

Until small hands clamped around Rayne's shoulders, surprising the boy and causing him to stumble to the floor. A girl’s loud laughter immediately followed, making fun of him.

Rayne groans in annoyance, picking himself up from the floor after rolling his eyes.

“What’s your problem now, (y/n).” He calls you out.

You stuck your tongue out at him.

“Nothing~! Just thought I'd say hello to my favorite lil buddy~” You emphasized the word a little too much while mischievously smiling at the boy.

Rayne sighs, dusting himself off as he positions himself back to pushing his little brother on the swings.

You pouted at being ignored.

“Raaaayneeee~” you drawl out his name.

“What?” he snaps at you.

“Nothing~!” You smile again.

“Ugh, you're so intolerable.”

This was a normal interaction between the two of you—you annoying and making his life miserable (his words) while all he does is complain but doing nothing to change the dynamics of your friendship.

“Ooh, big word. Don't understand it though ~” you quip back and giggle at him.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

Another day comes, and you manage to somehow come up with a stupid song to annoy Rayne with.

“Rayne, Rayne, go awaayy~ Come again another day~” You sang out for the nth time as the tortured male covered his ears to drown out your noise but to no avail. Finn was playing with other kids while he was stuck here trying to stand your irritating presence.

“Ugh, you're so original, you know that?” he sarcastically said.

You seemed proud of that, doing an extravagant curtsy. “Oh, I try. Thank you for noticing!” You beam at him as he only gets more annoyed when you sing that song again.

“Can you stop? You know if it wasn't me you were bullying, others would've left you alone by now.” He had enough.

But it seemed the words only went in one ear and passed through the next.

“I'm only tryna have some fun here, thoughhh.” You whined at the honey eyed boy as he can only do nothing but sigh at your shenanigans.

“It's time for us to go already.” He stood up, going to fetch Finn.

You whine again, “Are you gonna be back here tomorrow?” you genuinely asked.

“So that you can annoy me again? Pass.” he quips.

You pout and still whine. “But who can I make fun of but you? “

“Go look for other kids, then.”

“Immediate pass.” You deadpanned, enjoying the dual-colored haired boy’s presence much more than the other kids in the playground.

He walks and you stand up.

“Prepare for you? In your dreams, (y/n).” He spoke but you don't miss the smile he exhibited as he turned back and left.

“I'll be here tomorrow so you better prepare for me!” You declare to him.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

The next day, you waited for him and Finn, but they weren't there.

‘Maybe Finn got sick and Rayne had to take care of him’ You thought to yourself as you went back home early.

The day after that, there were no signs of them either. Like the day after and after and after.

It's like the two brothers were just gone.

You even asked the other kids but they only shrugged their shoulders, knowing as much as you. Only having noticed when you asked.

You began to worry, wondering if something bad happened to them.

So now, back at home, you were moping around as your mother made no mention of it— thinking it was just a kid thing.

You overthink that maybe Rayne actually did get tired of you.

That he left because you were too mean and a bad influence to Finn.

so you tap on the glass as the pitter patter of the rain goes on

“rayne, rayne…”

•°•°•°•°•°•°

then in easton, you meet him again and try to make it up to him through helping him in any ways possible

you met again when you were in middle school, having enrolled at easton academy

it was awkward meeting him at first, since he seemed more… cold

especially when his face was stoic as you observed so far

you caught wind that he was aiming for Divine Visionary for when he moves up to high school

so you dedicated yourself to being a white mage that would support him

he doesn't even need to ask

you just really felt like you needed to do so in order to make up for your childhood guilt

Rayne would just be doing his business, but then he'd feel the burning sensation of eyes on him. The male inconspicuously investigates the source and finds out the gaze burning holes into him was you.

He clicks his tongue mentally. ‘Same as ever. Annoying.’

It happens a lot but he never does anything about your staring at all.

So when you two got paired up for class, it was hella awkward. Not much was said as you two individually did your tasks silently.

You two wordlessly exchange your papers to double check each other's work— the silence was still thick.

Your eyes rake over Rayne's work, it was well done. You would've handed it back to him already if you hadn't spotted a small error in the last paragraph.

So you tell him about how it's wrong, surprising the male that you broke the silence first. He had nothing to say about your part since it left no room for error.

Back to that silence.

The male checked his work and you were right about the mistake he made, “I see…”, so he corrected it.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

Your entire stay at Easton consisted of diligently practicing your support magic and trying to not get into Rayne’s way whenever you two were grouped together by some twist of fate.

You always attentively observed the male in case he needed something and other students started taking notice of it— this was in your first year of highschool in Easton Academy and Rayne was starting to gain influence from his feats (that you also had helped him in some).

And so the students began to talk and rumors began spreading that you were Rayne’s fangirl, some being overly twisted and getting farther from the truth.

Rayne did not like hearing rumors get twisted each time one reached his ears. Especially not when it involves you and your reputation.

He's always noted how you've been helping him each time. Ever so diligently but silently. The honey eyed male was grateful for you but he still had a goal to achieve— that doesn’t mean he didn't care about you, though.

‘Always unperturbed by others.’

He observed you to see how you were faring from the gossip, but only to find he had nothing to worry about when you were completely unbothered.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

By the end of your first year in Easton highschool, Rayne was assigned as a red mage while you were assigned as a white mage. You both were impressively the top for the respective positions in your year.

Now, having dedicated the past few years to training and honing his skills, it took no time for the stoic-faced male to rack up credits even without your help during your second year.

You've also managed to garner credits on your own despite specializing only in support magic, but you don't have any plans in using them to become a Divine Visionary Candidate.

If anything you only wanted to give all your coins away to Rayne. However, you know he wouldn't accept it anyways.

When the Divine Visionary Candidate Examinations came around, Headmaster Wahlberg called upon each candidate to his office– which included you as you passively managed to collect enough credit to be a viable contestant.

You politely declined the ticket many hoped to even achieve and instead volunteered to be the on-site healer during the examinations.

“Hmm… Very well then, you are a very capable white mage despite your age.” The wise old man answered after a short but careful deliberation.

You bow your head in gratitude at the greatest mage of the time before excusing yourself to leave.

‘She worked hard the past few years only to step down from what others can only dream of reaching. Where do her aspirations lie, I wonder?’

Walhberg is left to his own thoughts of how a promising white mage such as yourself declined the opportunity of sitting at the top since it's not unheard of to have someone specializing in support magic as Divine Visionary.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

“Rayne.” You call out to the said male as he subtly turns his attention to you during a walk to the next class.

“I won't be participating in the Divine Visionary Candidate Exams.”

He stops walking, then turns his body to face you. An action that urged you to explain.

“My spells won't get me far in the competition catered for offensive magic anyways, so I wish you luck.” You smile up at him.

But those words never managed to make it out his mouth as you two arrived at your class for Fortune Telling— a subject he doesn't particularly enjoy.

Rayne wanted to tell you otherwise, of how your support magic can beat even the most aggressive assault of spells so long as you willed it.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

The candidate exam went by like a breeze for Rayne— a feat of overwhelming victory. It wasn't like his enemies were anything to scoff at either.

His spells and efficiency in dealing with his opponents were a testament to the effort he put into honing his skills during his whole time in Easton— ever since the first day.

The crowd may have been shocked, but you were not. You expected someone as honest as the dual-haired male to be capable of declaring anything and he'd achieve it. He's not one to give empty promises to anything or anyone.

You felt a pang of emotion you can't quite place at that.

You smiled bitterly at the thought.

‘He never really promised anything back then, so stop reacting like that. The past’s in the past.’

•°•°•°•°•°•°

The Tri-Magic-Athalon Divine Visionary Final Exam eventually arrived as the most anticipated event of the year.

You oversaw the event with Headmaster Wahlberg as per his request to have you as the assigned white mage for the occasion.

The Flame Cane was there as well, so you politely greeted him as the Headmaster introduced you. Kaldo watched in interest, hoping to see your talent in support magic as endorsed by someone as great as the Headmaster of Easton Magic Academy.

Such a shame you weren't a contestant to showcase such talent.

Back to the exams, Rayne was effortlessly powering through opponent after opponent. One in particular from Saint Ars managed to keep up with the half blond's attacks before eventually getting outskilled by him.

Walkis Academy dished out powerful mages as per usual so Rayne managed to go against their most promising candidate for the final round that decided who would become Divine Visionary.

The sheer destructive power the opponent had was domineering, instilling fear and awe into the audience as they watched on.

It seems a few words were exchanged on the field as your childhood friend only scoffed and brandished his wand in preparation.

Attacks were exchanged and defended against continuously, Rayne’s opponent showing visible signs of agitation at his unbothered expression.

The opponent sent out a much more powerful spell that the dual haired male was forced to defend against. A thick cloud of dust covered the two candidates as the audience watched in anticipation.

You smile, already knowing the victor of the match. The Flame Cane noticed your reaction.

As the dust settled, Rayne had his eyes closed while calmly storing away his wand back into the confines of his robe. His opponent lied pitifully on the floor as multiple swords had him meticulously pinned.

The crowd cheers as the announcer praises the dual-colored haired male as the winner of the Tri-Magic-Athalon and the next Divine Visionary— making him the youngest in history.

You were going to immediately applaud him if you hadn't noticed a suspicious movement from the defeated Walkis Academy student.

You bring out your wand as Kaldo watches for your next action.

The Walkis student couldn't accept it. That he was defeated despite being part of a school that was more powerful than Easton.

That he was defeated by a mere commoner with no background.

He couldn't accept this.

He managed to snatch his wand that was a few feet in front of him, quickly chanting a spell to attack the winner.

‘Winner you may be, you wouldn't expect this!’

And so the spell launches to the back of the new Divine Visionary and hits as smoke spreads out from the impact.

The audience collectively gasped in shock.

The student was wickedly smiling at having the spell land— but the smoke cloud cleared to reveal Rayne was unscathed behind a golden translucent barrier and looking at him with a disgusted glare.

The guy was clearly not in the right mind, readying another spell before being interrupted by bands of the same property as the barrier tightly binding all his limbs together. He unceremoniously falls to the floor with a harsh thud.

You turn to the two adults, excusing yourself politely before they said anything as you rush down into Rayne’s waiting room.

Thankfully, the security responded quickly in escorting out the bound student as you neatly kept your wand back into your robe’s sleeves. The Headmaster and Kaldo had to applaud you for the display of skill to quickly defend and neutralize a hostile force.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

You open the door in a hurry, completely disregarding the need to knock.

Rayne was allowing himself to lounge on the plush sofa with his head situated on top of the backrest of the furniture, facing the ceiling.

The male listens as your feet bring you behind the sofa he's at. He opened up his eyes to stare into the ceiling but found you in his field of view instead.

“You have a wound on your cheek.” He sighs while closing his eyes again.

“Just a scratch.”

The dual-colored haired male hears you click your tongue.

“My spell apparently didn't block the attack fast enough.” Rayne opens his eyes and stares right back into your eyes.

“It's fine, I could've handled it myself.” You sigh this time, making your way round the furniture.

He feels your presence situate itself in front of him, so he sits up.

“Let me heal that for you.” He wordlessly leans forward, allowing you to do what you wanted.

He didn't expect you to hold his face delicately as you aimed your wand near his wound though.

The area around both of you lit up with a gentle golden glow, orbs and wisps of light dancing around the small field of your magic.

It felt warm and comforting but Rayne doesn't dare to speak a word about it.

He also won't speak about his dismay when the moment ended way too quickly for his liking.

“Done.”

“Slightly overkill with the magic.”

“Hey, I had to make sure you had no other injuries.” You tut at him before pulling your personality back together.

The half blond acknowledges your effort with a grateful nod of his head— a slight smile itched itself into your expression at that.

And that's enough for you.

You don't mind even if he doesn't acknowledge the effort you put into helping him. You only cared enough to know that your actions helped.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

It got very busy for Rayne. Divine Visionary interviews, paperwork, inauguration, and the like got him so preoccupied that you barely remember when was the last time you saw him on campus.

That's also when you realize that you're all alone without the dual-colored haired male that you usually follow around. Your peers found that to be another subject to talk about.

You could care less about what they think. If anything, you only thought it was annoying that you can basically hear them despite their sorry excuse of whispers. Their gazes pierce through your skin as they talk and talk and talk.

Irritated, you brought yourself somewhere more quiet.

'Finally, peace.' You sighed out, having decided to walk through the hallways of the middle school department. Memories fill your mind of the training and effort you did during your whole stay in the department.

You smile, finding it endearing that your past self was so determined despite being so young (as if you weren't currently 17 or something cough).

A smack resounded throughout the empty hallways— or at least you thought it was empty at first.

You look to the end of the hall where a student seemed to have fallen to the ground along with his things. Other footsteps resounded in the same direction, you thought that maybe the owners would help the poor boy.

But they only sneered at him as the fallen student opted to bow and kneel at their feet to ask for forgiveness instead of picking up his fallen possessions.

You walk closer and closer as you start to hear their conversation— bits and pieces making up something along the lines of their dissatisfaction with their homework score as the fallen boy tried to reason he also had homeworks to do. All the poor kid got in response was a flood of paperworks being dumped on his head as the bullies showcase all the scores they were unsatisfied with.

You then noticed how familiar the fallen student was. Noting the familiar dual-colored hair before it clicks it was Finn.

‘Do they not know his brother is the newest Divine Visionary?’

The bullies started to become more agitated it seems as they were showing signs of wanting to engage in violence. Most of them raised their wands in preparation to send spells to the younger Ames as the pitiful kid can only hope it'd be over soon, closing his eyes to wait for the pain.

Except he never got attacked. The soft hearted male opened his eyes to see his bullies bound by bands of translucent gold.

“Shit!”

“The hell is this!!!!!”

“The fuck!”

They all exclaimed their curses and confusion— Finn was also confused before hearing the silent clicking of footsteps coming their way.

You cringe at their vocabulary. Not particularly fond of profanities being spouted by children their age.

“You stupid kids are abhorrent.” Finn’s head darts quickly in your direction, immediately recognizing you.

“(Y/n) nee-sama.” He gaped as you went straight to him, not minding that his bullies were still struggling to get out of their bindings.

“Greatest white mage you may be in this school, you don't even have a title!”

Your ears perked up, interested that information spread even to the middle school levels about yourself.

“Wait til’ our parents hear about this!!”

“We'll have you expelled immediately!”

Their noise immediately gets silenced as you cast a spell that covers their mouths like duct tape.

“How noisy.”

The younger Ames only watches as you gracefully tuck your wand away before gently holding his shoulders to get both of you up from the floor.

You quietly pat away the dust that settled on his robe like a caring older sister.

“Finn,” you called his name out as the boy flinched and prepared himself for a harsh scolding, “are you okay?”

He nods after getting over his shock from your recognition and worry for him even after all these years. He felt guilty that he and his brother were unable to properly say goodbye to you back then— they just disappeared so suddenly from your life.

“Let's talk after this, okay?” You smiled at the kid to reassure him.

You then turn your attention to the bullies still squirming around in your binding spell. Your eyes were chilly, the smile you gave Finn erased from your face.

“I'll have to bring you to Headmaster Wahlberg, it seems,” you coldly stated. The younger students freezing up in fear— they were not going to get away with this like they usually did.

Long story short, you explained to the Headmaster how the kids were making Finn do all their classwork as the poor kid barely had enough time to do his. After some interrogation with a magic spell that makes you spill only the truth, it was found out these kids were doing this since their second year.

The Headmaster was furious and valued academic integrity that was especially expected from those of noble lineage. The kids were quickly expelled, the wise man thanking you for bringing the issue to his attention before dismissing you and Finn.

Now that the issue was over, you went to the cafeteria with the boy— believing that it can ease up his nerves before you ask him about his school life.

The first thing you asked was why would the kids continuously bully him after knowing his brother became the newest Divine Visionary. You immediately followed up with a question asking if Rayne knew.

Finn seemed antsy, fiddling with his spoon.

“Why does Rayne not know?” you basically demanded to be answered, knowing how important it was.

“Nii-sama,” he gulps, “we— he doesn't talk to me…”

That was a big reveal, your eyes immediately widened.

“What?”

He continued, “It's understandable… I'm just a weak embarrassment to him…” the poor kid dejectedly said.

You don't know what to say.

Rayne was known to be protective of Finn when you were kids— he cared about his younger brother a lot.

You wonder if something drastically changed aside from how the older Ames acted. It just wasn't like him to not care for his younger brother.

For now, all you could offer to Finn was your help whenever he needed it. You brought it upon yourself to take care of him while his brother was busy ignoring him.

But your inner self keeps chewing you out for not treating them nicer at the very least back then, always poking fun at them.

You think about what else you missed out on— what you didn't know. All you knew was that your childhood guilt was not the cause of the sudden disappearance of the Ames siblings back then.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

It was all too unexpected— what was only supposed to be a simple recon mission turned to an all out battle against a whole dark magic organization. You and Rayne were getting more and more exhausted as the enemies endlessly appeared to capture or kill you both.

You heave.

Let's backtrack a bit, shall we?

Rayne finally got assigned his first mission as Divine Visionary to do some reconnaissance on a suspicious organization that's been monitored by the Bureau for a while now. As the newest and youngest of the Visionaries, someone else would have to accompany the male to his first mission. However, the other Visionaries were busy with other work.

The male in question had no qualms about going solo at all, but the protocols called for him to be paired with someone skilled enough incase of a worst case scenario. So it came as a bit of surprise when the Flame Cane recommended you as his pair for the mission.

Some Visionaries had questions as to why Kaldo suggested pairing up two young students on a mission that potentially had its risks— but knowing how sharp the albino’s judgement on talents is, approved of the arrangements after a bit of discussion. So you were called into Headmaster Wahlberg’s office— you've been frequenting a lot this year, you noticed— in order to request your assistance in the issue.

You accepted since it almost seemed like your life mission was to help Rayne in just about anything. The male, despite knowing full well of your capabilities in application, was slightly displeased at the information he received of being assisted by you on his first Visionary mission.

He kept his expression as neutral as possible, you however were able to pick up on it quickly as you two got a quick rundown of the mission before being sent off. You felt kind of rejected for some reason— but did not question the half blond.

The location of the organization you two were supposed to investigate was very isolated and secluded so even if a commotion were to happen, no outsider would be able to help you two. So that was also one of the reasons they had to pair Rayne up with another capable mage despite his skills.

It was supposed to be just a simple recon, nothing less. The place had pretty tight security so you two proceeded with absolute caution.

The organization’s executives were having a meeting, so that was where you two observed with a stealth spell you conjured up and the special cloaks the Bureau provided you both with.

They were talking about the progress of their research in creating chimeras— monsters made through combining different parts, be it magical creatures, animals, monsters, or even humans. You felt sick to your stomach listening to them casually talk about getting more live human subjects.

Then the meeting got so quiet that you could hear a pin drop.

It was just one of the executives, who was very vigilant, had quickly informed the other members of intruders' eavesdropping. The whole place quickly turned upside down as an alarm rang throughout the underground establishment.

You two had to leave— but it was impossible to do quickly without revealing your exact whereabouts.

Eventually you two got discovered and had to fight for your lives. And here we are back to the present.

“Elite magicians incoming from the next hallway.” You informed Rayne, having to continuously cast a survey spell to detect enemy locations in a certain area incase of another unexpected variable.

“Any response from the Bureau?” he asked urgently. The honey eyed male didn't waste another second to send his swords flying to the group of elite magicians that just rounded the corner before they could even try preparing an attack.

You two continued running, “Said they'd send the Light Cane since he just finished his mission in the next town.” you said, setting up another barrier to defend against an attack from behind you two. “It'd take a while, though.”

“We can bulldoze through the units in the right turn.” Rayne wordlessly follows, trusting your judgement and skills.

After a few twists and turns, you managed to maneuver yourselves to a very spacious chamber— a training room, you supposed. At least this would allow the half blond to securely summon up more powerful spells to deter the enemies. The open area also allowed the two of you to anticipate attacks quicker due to the absence of the sharp corners of each twisting hallway.

“A whole bunch of them are rushing in here, seems to be the last.”

“Can finally wipe them all out in one go.” he muttered, exhaustion was actually taking its toll on both of you.

You nod in agreement and set up a trap that would completely immobilize those that step within its area of effect radius— a spell you were proud to call your Secondth.

So the enemies all come rushing in, without regard to possible traps set up. They were only thinking how the two of you can be easily overwhelmed by their sheer numbers no matter how powerful you two were.

As easily as that, they get impaired by a magic circle appearing beneath them— golden chains shooting upwards to capture each and every soldier. They could do nothing but be mercilessly beat up by the rain of swords your companion sent towards them.

You heaved, magic reserves almost completely drained due to the continuous casting of surveying, shielding, and binding spells. You casted one last survey spell to ensure the area was clear.

Your stomach dropped in dread and Rayne quickly noticed.

“Is there more?” he had to get it out of you fast.

“Only one…” you steeled yourself once again, “but this guy's way beyond the power level of the elite ones we dealt with.”

You were barely swift enough to set up a shield in time before a very destructive spell was shot in your direction. The whole area shook from the impact of the explosion.

“Tsk. So they sent the newest Visionary to foil my plans in creating the greatest beings of all time? I guess I'd have to take care of some pests that are in the way.”

It was the executive from earlier. The guy didn't even try to flee. He was a lanky middle aged man that had his messy, shoulder length hair down— wearing a suit that seemed a size too big for him. Overall looks like an old tired office worker that either was on something or just has perpetual insomnia.

The smoke clears and you two were mainly unharmed from his magic.

“Oh, you survived that… “ The old man scratches his head.

The enemy clicks his tongue, the main battle only having just started.

“Partisan.” Rayne wasted no time to send a counterattack.

•°•°•°•°•°•°

It was admittedly tough— given that you both were worn down from the endless waves of mages that came your way prior to the fight against the lanky executive. At the very least, he was defeated, motionlessly laying on the floor.

You sigh out a breath of relief, absolutely glad it was over. Rayne also visibly showed signs of ease as his countenance released tension.

“We should probably wait for Mr. Grantz outside instead.” You pat away the dust from your robe, as your companion only wordlessly nods his head in agreement with your plan.

You two start heading out calmly as if there weren't bodies littering the ground around the entrance of the training hall. You observed that all of them were down for the count anyways.

Feeling something strange hanging in the air, you look back to see the executive standing up on his feet in a stagger. Something fell with a clink as a glass vial started rolling away from the old man.

Although you were confident that the executive would be unable to continue fighting— your gut feeling was urging you to immediately flee.

Without much of a thought, you tackled Rayne to the floor as a stream of dark ominous flames barely missed you two.

You strangle back a scream as searing hot pain ran across your back. You look behind to see that you weren't able to completely dodge the attack. The clothes on your back were just burned away as your skin got mercilessly scorched. You observed further as the security you and Rayne defeated got the brunt of the attack, and were in a much worse condition than you were— their screams of pain and the sight making you want to throw up.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to forget the grotesque sight, trying to block out the sounds.

“(Y/n).” Rayne’s voice brings you back to reality as you open your eyes to meet with his golden ones.

You gulp, trying to find your voice amidst the pain spreading around your injury.

The half blond was cursing in his mind very badly— having noticed too late that the enemy wasn't fully incapacitated. It didn't help that you got wounded while getting the both of you out of the line of fire.

The pain was unbearable, you were trying to cast a healing spell to at least stop the bleeding and the pain. However, you find that the attack made it impossible to do so.

“Shiitshitshit.” You swore, you can't be here being a liability to Rayne.

Another attack was sent but the male luckily picked you up and dodged it. You hissed from the abrupt movement but you had no choice but to suck it up.

“Rayne, don't get hit by any attack… my healing isn't working…”

He was worried to learn that you weren't able to heal yourself— he had to put you somewhere safe first. And so he ran with you in his arms as he sent a barrage of swords behind him to stall time.

He stopped at an empty hallway, setting you down prone due to your back injury. You two were basically backed into a corner, not even knowing when backup would arrive.

“Just leave me here.” You urged him, thinking that it was best that at least one of you got out— you were also starting to see black dots within your vision.

“No.” Rayne immediately refused.

“I won't be any help,” you breathe as the air makes your wounds sting further, “you have the best chance of getting out.”

“I can still fight, I just need you to hold on until then.” He left no room for arguments as you clenched your fist.

Footsteps approached from down the hallway.

“Found you.”

“Stay put.” The honey eyed male basically commanded you.

You watched on as he faced the executive head on, exchanging attacks. He was holding up well, having followed your advice in avoiding getting hit. Despite how capable Rayne was, you knew how he was basically at his limit due to the earlier events.

And so everything turned black.

So with your consciousness fading away, you've gathered all the power you can into a spell and casted it on your companion. You watch as he takes a quick glance in your direction, but cannot observe further as you promptly fall unconscious— energy completely depleted.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

it'll take me awhile to write part 2...

[cheriecoke]

₊‧꒰ა running into the sun — dazai osamu

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎. you wonder if dazai ever takes a break away from the port mafia. 𝜗𝜚 3.2k words

𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓈. pm!dazai + pm!reader, f!reader, slightly au, fluff, flirting, swimming, romance, friends -> ???, romantic tension, unspoken feelings, hopeful ending, erm idrk how to explain this

𝓃𝑜𝓉𝑒𝓈. this can take place in my pm boss dazai universe (which is slightly different from beast so i don't say that lol). but the other works don't need to be read ofc. i also don’t know abt this color for the format but i’ve already messed w it too much >:(

“Don’t you ever get tired of it all?” 

That’s how it started, on a Saturday afternoon. Too late in the day for anyone to be doing any work, yet Dazai had been in his office, bent over some paperwork. You weren’t sure what he’d been doing — or if he’d even been doing anything at all. Still, he seemed focused enough, his eyes pinched together tightly. 

You perched yourself on one of the dark, leather chairs that was before him, and leaned forward onto his desk with a painted smile. 

Dazai had only blinked, amused by your intrusion. 

“Well, I get tired of a lot of things,” he mused, dragging his dark eyes over your form. “For one, you turning up here unannounced. You’ll have to be more specific.”

There was a dangerous lilt to his words, one that would have had anyone else running scared. But you’d known Dazai for years, and a threat like that felt as scary as a puppy gnawing on your hand. 

“You know what I mean, Osamu,” you said, his eyes narrowing slightly at the use of his first name. “Everyone gets tired of work… Except for you, it seems.” 

Ironically, he was the one who stayed at the office the longest, and was also the one with the longest list of excuses for why he couldn’t do certain tasks.

He bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile, but could’ve been. “Careful. Don’t let the Boss hear you say anything like that.” 

You laughed, kicking your feet from where they hung off your chair, as you leaned forward. 

It was a silly notion — you both knew it would take more than a tiny complaint for them to dispose of you. Even though you were only a lower-ranked assassin, you were the only person this close to Dazai… and Mori would do a lot of things to keep him happy. 

“I don’t think he’d kill me for that,” you said, and meant it. 

Dazai rolled his eyes at you, and leaning back in his chair, regarded you with a thinly veiled fondness. “I hope not. It’d be a shame for him to lose someone like you.”

It was confusing, sometimes, to be someone that Dazai cared about. Because affection was a foreign word to Dazai, and he didn’t know how to display it properly. There was a distance between you, a dark, cavernous emptiness, even as he tugged you towards him, bathing you in flattery and rose petals. His tongue could be cruel, wielded as a weapon in a means of protection, while wrongfully carving hurt into the parts of your heart that longed for him. 

The lines of your friendship had been blurred, time and time again. He’d sought for you comfort like a lover, caressed you with a gentle hand of adoration. But it seemed wrong for you to seek love from an executive, and even worse to seek it from a man who barely understood friendship, let alone romance. 

So, for years, you’d left it alone, content to take whatever you could get from him.

“I do want an answer to my question earlier, though,” you continued, fighting off your giddy smile, when Dazai had made it clear he wasn’t going to speak any further. “Don’t you get tired of it all?” 

Dazai shrugged, twirling the ridiculously expensive fountain pen between his fingers. “Sure, but what else would I be doing?” 

That’s how you’d found yourself with Dazai in the passenger seat next to you, staring out the window of your car, fixated on the beautiful scenery rolling past you. 

It was a hot week, with an even hotter one ahead, and the radio alerted you both of what ungodly temperatures the next few days would hold. Dazai cranked the volume up when another song came on, but you weren’t sure if it was to drown out the silence, or if it was because he truly liked it. 

You were too afraid to ask. 

He cracked the window, a cool breeze blowing through his dark strands, curling the heavy hair across his forehead. There was a faint trace of pink beginning on the bridge of his nose, the long ride exposing him to more sunlight than he’d probably seen in days.

Blinking away, you smiled to yourself, realizing how much of a boy he looked, so amazed by the scenery you’d passed so frequently as a child. 

“Have you ever been out here?” you asked, humming along to the radio.

Dazai blinked, and then the mask was back on, so stoic and unreadable, as he sat taller in the seat. “No.” 

“I think you’ll like it.” You weren’t sure if he’d even want to get out of the car. “Well… I hope you will, at least.” 

Dazai said nothing, ruminating as he focused on the sights ahead of him. The inky blackness that curved, dipping into the hillside, curling around the island like a snake. In the height of summer, the trees were full in bloom, but already beginning their slow decay as the heat rained down on them. Bright colors sang on either side of you, warm and encouraging as you continued your drive, accompanied by popular music and a quiet companion. 

You let a few more minutes pass, before asking, “Osamu?” 

He hummed in return, tipping his head to gaze at you. “What intriguing question do you have for me now?”

You refrained from snorting. “Can you swim?” 

The look he fixed you with would have had you keeling over in laughter, had you not been on a highway, driving at speeds that could get you killed. “Can I swim?” 

“Yeah. I mean… you can’t drive. I figured, maybe you couldn’t swim either. It’s a reasonable assumption.” 

He was aghast, eyes wide with histrionics. “Are you making fun of me?” 

“Why would I ever do that? I’m a very kind person, you know. Too kind for the Mafia.” 

You laughed, when you saw the slight twitch of his lips, even as his eyes narrowed. 

“Right,” he scoffed, poking your cheek before sighing, with dramatic flair. “Well, I can swim. But… Now that I’m thinking about it, maybe I should’ve kept that a secret, just to flail about in the water and see if you’d save me.” He smiled, leaning towards you, almost seductive, like he knew the exact manner of thoughts that laid buried deep within you. “I think you would.”

You hesitated between a ridiculous response and something serious, before rolling your eyes, and refocusing your attention on the winding road. “I’d be glad to be rid of you, Osamu.” 

He laughed, slumping back in his seat, thoroughly amused. You both knew your response couldn’t have been further than the truth. 

The ride felt shorter when you were with another, the distance between your safe haven and the city shrinking until it was a tight coil, tense and ready to snap. Dazai didn’t speak much to you, his eyes scanning the horizon in a boyish manner, irises bright and shining, pupils large and round, like a child on Christmas morning. 

You were more than pleased with yourself, but you didn’t let him see the pleasure in your gaze, the satisfaction that he was, at the very least, intrigued by what you wanted to show him. 

It was hard to impress someone like Dazai, with the world at his fingertips and a mind more brilliant than any you’d ever seen. Yet, he smiled, sideways at you, as you parked the car just beyond the trees, the sounds of nature much louder now that you were away from the city.

For once, Dazai seemed unsure what to say as he stepped out of the car, following you into the parting of trees, close to a simple shoreline. The silence spoke volumes between you, and you felt tempted to break it, say something unruly, hum that horrific song from the radio that he hadn’t let you turn off. 

Instead, you remained quiet and listened to his footsteps crunch behind yours, until you reached a parting in the foliage, like something holy had reached down and created this sanctuary just for you. 

Stopping, you swallowed down your nostalgia and pride, grateful to see the beautiful section of the lake just as empty and undiscovered as it had been years ago. Your lips trembled with emotion that you willed away, if only to prevent Dazai from seeing the hint of vulnerability that shrouded you like gossamer.

“I used to come here when I was younger. Before I found my way to the Mafia,” you smiled sadly, tightening your hands into fists at your sides. “My friends — well, friends at the time — and I found it. It was like our own secret garden. An Eden, perhaps.” 

You didn’t know what had become of them, those that had gradually lost contact with you as your lives divulged, each finding yourself in better, or worse, situations. But, It hadn’t really mattered anymore… When you’d joined the Port Mafia, you’d have just put anyone at risk by keeping contact with them.

You’d thought Dazai would break that sincerity up with laughter, but he surprised you by sharing an appreciative smile.

“It’s nice,” he admitted, tilting his head towards you. “Quiet.”

Then, instead of letting Dazai crack open with laughter, you did it yourself, hating how forlorn you’d begun to feel from nostalgia. “Very astute. A revolutionary discovery, really.” 

Dazai rolled his eyes, then smirked, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Well, they don’t call me a genius for nothing, my darling.” 

You ignored the flush of heat that spread down the back of your neck, and tugged him forward, towards the edge of the water, where you could see your reflections looking over. As the small waves lapped against the rocks, blurring the images of both you and Dazai, you could see the young man that he was, so much younger than he appeared, with his wide brown eyes and mussed hair. Underneath all the darkness, there was vast uncertainty, swallowed up by casual confidence. 

Next to him, you seemed so plain, bags dark under your eyes from long hours, your makeup worn off and unimpressive. A frown spread across your lips, and you thought it silly to imagine a world where you could stand next to Dazai, as bold and unmovable as him, in a beautiful red gown, shrouded in jewels you’d collected from your years of labor. 

“Osamu—” you began, swallowing. 

But the words left you in an exhale, the breath stolen from you as a warm palm splayed across your back, pushing you forward. 

You stumbled, just off the edge of the lake, into the dark, cool water, before landing with a splash. Every inch of you soaked with iciness, your hair dripping across your neck as you emerged, sputtering, to glare up at Dazai. 

“What is wrong with you?” you spat, rubbing your eyes and gawking up at his boyish grin. “I was trying to talk to you!”

“I couldn’t bare to look at your dismal expression any longer,” he shrugged, leaning down over the shoreline, smiling smugly at you. “You look so much better with one of irritation. Especially when it’s directed at me.” 

You rolled your eyes, “Maybe I’d look at you with fondness if you stopped being a pain in my ass, Osamu.” 

He squatted, fingers lazily dragging across the water, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re already fond of me. I’ve seen you stare at me during meetings. That beautiful longing in your eyes. How you want me.” 

Now he was beginning to cross lines you’d never spoken about before.

“Oh, you are an idiot,” you said, snorting, splashing water onto the bottom of his long coat. “I’ve done no such thing. Maybe I was staring at Chuuya.” You certainly had not been staring at Chuuya. 

“Is that so?” Osamu repeated, so close now you could almost touch him. His breath was hot against your cold, wet cheeks. “Perhaps, I caught you gaze because I was already watching you carefully, my every thought distracted by you.” His voice was low, syrupy, eyes drooping with beautiful lust. How quickly he could switch his personalities, like none had never been the dominant force. “Would you kiss me right now, if I asked you to? I bet you would.” 

You choked, unsure if he was kidding or not. But, too full of pride to back down, you met his gaze with the same challenge, swimming to the edge where it was just shallow enough to stand. 

“Why not? If it will wipe that stupid grin off your face.” 

For a moment, Dazai faltered, his bravado gone, as surprise flicked across his features. And, perhaps, a bit of anticipation, as he leaned forward, lips parting. 

But, it was gone as quickly as it arose, as you tugged him forward by the tie, catching him just enough off-guard that he fell face-flat into the water, hair doused in the musty scent of the lake, coating his finely tailored garments with murky water. 

You laughed loudly, even as Dazai spit at you, hitting you square in the jaw. He emerged from the water with a glare, the bandages slipping off his face, expanding under the water. 

“Who’s the genius now, Osamu?” you said, grinning, bright amusement lighting up your face.

He simply sighed, disappointed. “You still owe me a kiss, you know. I won’t forget about that.” 

It was hard to ignore the dissatisfaction, even if overdramatized, very obviously written across his features. That alone made you warm all over, even despite the cool waters that lapped at you, as you considered a situation where you had let your lips drag against his own. 

Shoving him away before he could sneak a peck to your cheek, you rolled your eyes. “In your dreams, loser.” 

For a while, you swam, mostly quiet, jut there to keep each other company. It was clear enough in the water for you to see small schools of fish rush around your bodies, not afraid to brush right up against you before hurrying away. 

A beautiful reflection of the sun made the lake glitter, small starlights infusing the water with a galaxy. Never before had you felt so calm, the pressure and harsh reality of your life back home washing away, 

Dazai didn’t stay in the water for as long as you did, content to curl his knees up to his chest and wash you dive under before emerging to smile at him. He’d hung his coat and shirt up on the shoreline, exposing his thin, much paler chest as he sat in the sunlight.

After a while, you followed suit, climbing out of the water, and sat next to him, basking in the setting sun. Its rays were warm on your skin, drying the leftover dewy drops that rained down from you hair. 

Dazai smiled next to you, his pinky just barely touching yours. 

“I do get tired of it,” he said, swallowing as he looked at the calm waters, the waves that lapped against the shoreline. His eyes were glassy, dark as the untamable waves of a distant sea. “But, it won’t be like this forever.” 

You glanced over, tracing his jawline with your eyes. Something had shifted in him, recently, and you’d known it, had seen it, every second of his metamorphosis. Yet, he’d never changed towards you, a live-wire of sweetness and shadowy love, wrapped up in a flammable bow.

Somehow, you already knew — maybe everyone else already knew — what Dazai was going to do next.

“You’re going to kill Mori, aren’t you?” 

Not even a hint of shock, of anything, passed through his face at your comment. It was almost as if he was grateful, to be able to share it with someone. For you, of all people, to still be able to see the very soul of him. 

“I am.” 

You nodded, swallowing before looking away. It stung, burned all over with little pinpricks. For what reason, you weren’t sure. Perhaps a fear of what would happen if Dazai were to take over, if others would turn on him, or if they’d go easily, follow him straight into hell. Perhaps, because Dazai would leave you behind, take his spot as the Boss and become a person unrecognizable to you. 

“Oh.” 

Dazai turned to fully face you, his knee just brushing yours. “What’s the matter with that? You and Mori don’t get along.” 

“No,” you agreed. “But…” Lamely, you shrugged, not wanting to voice any of your concerns. 

Dazai didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed to already know everything you would have said anyway. “I was thinking of making you my second in command.” 

“Me?” you asked, shaking your head. You eyes were wide, pupils dilating at the suggestion. “You’re not serious. What about all the other execs? Won’t they be mad I skipped all the ranks?” Not to mention, you hardly felt like leadership material. Winning the respect and admiration of a foolish man was one thing; winning over the entire Mafia was another.

“Well, that’s a perk of being the Boss. I can choose whoever I want.” He leaned his weight into you, the smell of the water clinging to his skin. “And I chose you.” 

You couldn’t help but smile, hearing the underlying promise within his breath. Perhaps you hadn’t kissed him now, not today, but you ached for him, your longing reaching out to curl around him with every breath. “You’re not the boss yet. Don’t get too ahead of yourself… Besides, I haven’t accepted yet.” 

Dazai turned, eyes glimmering with amusement as he climbed to his knees, facing you, and took your hands. 

“What are you doing now?” you laughed, but held on tight to his slender hands, the bandages rough under your palms. 

“Will you, my darling, my beloved, the most beautiful, most impressive person in the Port Mafia, do me the honor of being my second in command… Once I’m in charge, of course.” His eyes burned with sincerity, a contrast to his lopsided smile. “I’ll need you to keep me afloat. I’m afraid I might lose myself otherwise.” 

His lips were parted with an inhale, eyes so earnest you were drawn into the depths of them. A long silence drew out as you pondered, swallowing back the rush of tears and desperation to be near him. 

Your breath caught in your throat. It felt like another sort of question entirely. “Osamu…” 

He kissed your hand. “Don’t,” he said, shaking his head, before he released you, and cupped your jaw. “Look, I know…” The sentence faltered, fell off into oblivion as he let it go, reformed his thoughts. “Perhaps, there is a lot unspoken between us.” 

“Perhaps there is,” you whispered, eyes watery. 

“But, we can figure that out later, can’t we?” His thumb caressed your bottom lip, nail grazing the skin before drawing away. “I just want to know that you’ll be by my side. Please?” 

Against your better judgment, you grabbed his delicate wrist, held it tight before he could pull away completely. You thought of the future, and again, that vision of yourself at Dazai’s side came to the forefront of your mind. This time, though, it didn’t seem so distant, so fantastical, knowing that he wanted you there, that he wanted it too. 

“You know I will be,” you said, an answer, an oath. 

thank you for reading!! reblogs and comments appreciated :)

[jasmineoolongtea]

plastic palm trees ― gojo satoru

caught in a dream, it's not what it seems

contents: gojo satoru x f!reader (exes), from the reader's pov this time, nicknames (sweets), angst, hurt + no comfort, questionable coping mechanism, small moments of happiness/fluff (in the flashbacks/memories), suggestive themes for like one memory, swearing/cursing, insecurities from the reader's side, drinking/alcohol

summary: memories from during and immediately after your relationship with satoru (pt. 2 to deeply still in love)

wc: 4.7k (wow that's a doozy and sorry on my part for any errors you might spot because this is kinda not proofread)

a/n: ahhh ty guys sm for the love on deeply still in love, i was not expecting it to blow up like that but i'm just so happy that you guys also enjoy it as well !!! this is kinda a part 2 but not really since it's mainly flashbacks. there is a part 3/conclusion to this whole mini saga coming soon so watch out for it :000. art by objectgraphy on x (nsfw warning for the full pic)

It plays again in your head like a clip from a movie you've seen way too many times.

It's you and him, just the two of you and no one else, sitting in his stupid beat-up black jeep wrangler that's probably seen too much by this point that's parked in the middle of some random parking lot well past midnight by now.

Satoru always complains that something's broken for the hundredth time whenever he comes to pick you up from your dorm for another one of his late-night rendevous however despite all this complaining, you're always greeted with the sight of the same black car even though you know he has a car collection that's way too extensive for any reasonable university student to have.

You're pretty sure you've lost count of how many times you've asked to just get a new car at this point but he always refuses for some reason that's beyond you.

Nostalgia, he says as he pats the well-worn leather lining of its interior. We've been through a lot, me and this one, he'll add on, talking about the vehicle as a person rather than some inanimate object and then he'll start pouting at you like some sort of petulant child when you stare back at him unconvinced.

There's a part of you that wants to call him a 'sentimental idiot' for stuff like this but actually, habits like this only serve to further endear him to you in some weird twist of fate and you can only muster an affectionate eye roll as a response.

There's no particular reason as to why you and Satoru would drive out and just sit and be together like this. It wasn't even because of this specific parking lot as well since you two would just usually drive around until you found a parking lot that looked empty enough and just park there to bask under the canopy of the night sky above.

It was always so quiet. You liked the quiet.

Before you met Satoru, you thought this quiet was something only you could keep to yourself but he taught you that there was merit to be had in sharing the quiet with someone else. Even if that someone else might make your 'quiet' much louder than what you're typically used to.

"I like it here." You mumble softly in the sleeves of your (his) sweater. It was one of your favourites because it was soft and it smelled like him.

"You like the city?" There's an edge of suspicion in his voice like he can't believe someone could ever like this place coming from someone who's grown up in said city. To be fair, the place had its good, bad and ugly and maybe as a city native, he had become accustomed to more of the bad and ugly rather than the good.

"I mean, it's nicer from where I came from. A lot of places are nicer than the town I'm from." You laugh half-heartedly as you lean against the cold glass of the window.

Satoru goes quiet for a moment. You don't talk about your hometown that much and for good reason, in your opinion. University was one of your few chances to get out of there and you took that chance without so much of a look back or regret in your mind.

It's nice, cosy even, if you ignore the slight tingling sensation crawling up your legs when you sit in the way you like to sit for too long or the fact that you're both hanging out in an abandoned parking lot in the dead of night. Whatever this is, you think you wouldn't change it for the world if you were given the choice.

Too bad, your getaway couldn't last forever.

The words are weighing heavy on your tongue, just there on the tip as if they're ready to jump off any second but you tighten your lips in a frail attempt to stop them from spilling out. You know the words you're going to have to say will change the way that things are, no matter how much you want things to stay like this.

Satoru leans his head against the car window next to him, hitting the glass with a soft bonk that you're sure hurts but of course, he doesn't react to the collision. Instead, his attention is focused on staring at you, angling his body in a way so that he can get a better look at you, with that classic dopey smirk of his plastered on his face as he does.

A part of you hates him for being able to look so good even in the broken glow of the overhead parking lot lights that would have made anyone else look sickly under its cracked yellow hue.

Not him though, never him. He looks like an angel, you think to yourself, with the way the wisps of white hair splayed out around him illuminate into something that resembles a halo which further elevates his already ethereal features into something otherwordly.

"Shame, it can't last though." You murmur quietly to yourself, moreso of in the vein of thinking out loud rather than starting a conversation. Unfortunately for you, it seems he's heard you.

"What do you mean?" He asks, sitting a little bit straighter in the driver's seat as he looks on inquisitively.

You avoid looking back at him because you know if you could see his expression, it would only make saying goodbye harder. "I can't stay, Toru." You tell him as you gaze into the black nothingness of the night sky from inside the car. "I'll have to move back after graduation."

"What? Why?"

"The rent is crazy expensive here. The only reason I can stay here for uni is because of the student pricing and now that we're graduating, there's no way I can afford to find a place in time." You gnaw nervously at the bottom of your lip as you speak, a bad habit, you know, but it's just something you can't really kick.

You don't want it to end like this, who would? You don't want to say goodbye to the city, to your life, to him. You've had your first taste of true independence and it's being taken away from you because of stupid expensive rent prices, of all things.

A very anti-climatic way to go out if anyone were to ask you.

The car is dead silent for a few minutes. You're scared for whatever his reaction is going to be. He's going to break up with you, isn't he? You think to yourself and you hate the fact that your mind instantly jumps to the worst option but you can already feel a pit start forming at the bottom of your stomach .

The longer the silence drags the more you're convinced he's going to kick you out of the car or something worse and you can already feel yourself bracing for whatever fallout is coming your way.

"Then move in with me. I have an apartment here, a pretty good apartment if you ask me." He states, shrugging his shoulders casually as if he were simply talking about the weather instead of suggesting something as major as this.

"...What?" You reply, though your words come out more as a question as you try to comprehend what he's just asked.

A beat of silence passes the two of you. You don't move.

"I'm serious. Move in with me." You scan his face for any of the typical telltale signs that he might be pulling a prank on you and you find his face scarily devoid of any of them.

Oh, he's dead serious, you think to yourself, with the way he's looking expectantly at you.

"Satoru, do you understand what you're asking?" You ask, still in a state of disbelief at his offer.

He makes a face at you like the answer to your question is the most obvious thing in the world.

"Obviously, if I didn't why would I ask you." He remarks as he raises an eyebrow at you and before you can open your mouth to retort back, he brings a finger up to your lips to silence you. "And, it's not that strange of a request considering the fact that you're my girlfriend. Don't people in a relationship usually move in together like isn't that some big relationship milestone that they look forward to?"

"I-I mean it is but still."

"Okay, then what's the problem."

"I don't know." You sigh, mulling over his proposition in your head for a bit before turning back to him.

"Just promise me this, Toru. Promise me you won't get sick of me?" You ask him as you reach out your pinky towards him.

A pinky promise. It's childish you know but Satoru knows how much small things like this mean to you.

He reaches his hand out to you and interlocks his pinky with you but before you can pull away, he laces his other fingers with yours and brings your hands up to his lips for a soft kiss. The tips of your ears burn red at the way his lips brush your skin.

"Sweets, I could never get sick of you. Actually, I don't think I could ever get over you as long as I lived."

"You better hope that's true or I'm gonna make you eat your words." You grin cheekily at him, a smile which he reciprocates tenfold before basically pouncing over the console to wrap his arms around you. A squeal escapes you as you burst out into a fit of giggles as he peppers your face with feather-light kisses all whilst fighting off your weak attempts at pushing him off.

His arms rest against the plush leather of the passenger seat, trapping you against him, as his flurry of kisses dies down. He stops for a second, admiring the sight of you so close to him and a part of you wants to shrink from the intensity of his gaze. Unfortunately with the way that his arms are caging you in, there's nowhere to hide and you're left at his mercy.

Satoru leans closer, barely inches away from your face as he hovers right above your lips. "Oh yeah? Well, you're gonna be waiting for a long time because that's never gonna happen." His lips find their place against yours, melting into you like they were made for you and you think to yourself that this must be what home feels like.

Another memory of a happier time flashes through after that.

This time, you're lost in between the bedsheets with him, bare skin on skin as the two of you whisper sweet nothings to each other like lovers do in the dead of night when there's no one watching.

"I like it here." He mutters softly. His arm is wrapped around your waist, pulling you into him like you're his very own lifeline, and his legs are haphazardly intertwined with yours in some mess of limbs that might be able to pass as an abstract art piece if you look at it right from a certain angle.

The blanket is resting dangerously low around his hips and you're wondering how he isn't freezing as you cling onto him as your own personal space heater in the darkness that surrounds the two of you.

It's quiet once again.

"What? Us naked in your bed?" You quip.

"You know that's not what I meant." He groans into your bare shoulder as you giggle softly to yourself, clearly pleased with your well-timed jibe.

"Sorry, I just had to take the opportunity to tease you."

You can't necessarily see him right now but you're sure he's probably lovingly rolling his eyes at you. A sigh escapes his lips and you shiver slightly from the way the blast of hot air hits your skin.

"I like it here when it's just me and you and there's no one else except us in this world." He confesses to you as his fingers begin to explore the expanses of your body as if trying to commit the way you feel under his fingertips into memory.

You bite the corner of your lip as you fight the urge to shrink under his delicate touch.

There's another jest resting on the tip of your tongue but you decide that Satoru's had enough terrorising on your behalf so you say nothing and instead quietly soak up this rare respite from the busyness of everyday life that has been afforded to you two.

"Just us, together, in this bed where we don't need to care about anything else except just that." He adds on, his voice resolute and although you don't say anything out loud, you think you agree with him.

In here, in between these four walls, you two can pretend that the entire world existed within these confines and all the two of you needed to do was to reach out and you had the world at your fingertips. At the end of the day, it was simple and something the two of you could forever return to.

You wished that things could stay simple.

Before you can linger on that moment any longer, it's gone in the blink of an eye as another memory swoops in to take its place.

The door to your shared apartment creeks open and as you crane your head towards the doorway from your spot on the sofa, you're greeted with the sight of a slightly dazed Satoru clumsily entering.

"What's up?" You ask as you shoot up from your place, quickly making your way across the apartment to check up on him as a pang of concern over his current state hits you.

At the sight of you, Satoru is suddenly drawn back into reality as he blinks owlishly for a few seconds as if attempting to reacquaint himself with his surroundings and bring his clearly distracted mind back into reality.

"I just got a call from my family's company. They're giving me the chance to head a new division they want to expand into." He replies as he runs a hand through his hair, a nervous habit of his which shows that this offer is clearly weighing heavy on him. You take his hand in yours and give it a comforting squeeze in the way that he would do for you all those times before, a gesture you can tell he greatly appreciates with the way his shoulders sag with relief.

He confesses softly to you. "I don't know if I should do it."

"Why? What's holding you back?" You question, somewhat confused by his hesitation. This is a major offer and you're surprised that he isn't jumping off the walls with excitement but you're sure he must have his reasons.

"I just- The hours are going to be long and well, you know how many family is and the elders are-"

You cut him off sharply, sensing that Satoru was on his way down a lengthy ramble. "I think you should take it." He stares at you, almost slightly bewildered at your apt response. "It'll be good for you."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure Toru. If you don't take this opportunity, you're going to regret later down the line." You insist, sending a reassuring smile his way. Even if he can't see it now, you're sure that this going to be good for him. For the both of you.

Whatever new hurdles that might come your way from this like Satoru is convinced is going to happen, you have faith that the two of you can make it out relatively unscathed.

It's good to have faith right?

The new question was, how long can your faith carry you?

You're pacing back and forth in your shared apartment for what seems like the millionth time as you anxiously watch the seconds tick down on the clock.

"Hey, Toru. What time do you think you're going to be back?" You're trying to balance the phone between your ear and shoulder as you smooth out a napkin to the best of your ability. It's looking a little wonky, if you're going to be honest and maybe tonight of all nights wasn't really the time to find out if you were good at folding napkins into fancy shapes like they do at the restaurant but you needed tonight to go according to plan.

It had to. Tonight was an important night for both of you.

"Why, what's the occasion?" From the way he's asking, you don't think he's putting on an act of pretending not to know for the surprise. Rather, it's a genuine question on his behalf and somehow, for some reason, that feels even worse than outright disgust.

"Did you forget?" You feel your voice falter ever so slightly, another crack etching its way onto your already fragile heart. "It's our anniversary dinner."

"Shit, I'm so sorry, sweets. It totally slipped my mind with all of these meetings and stuff they're having me do." You hear an exhausted sigh ring out from the other side of the phone in between the cacophony of other voices taking up space in the background. "I'll make it up to you, I swear."

"...No, It-it's fine. We can just reschedule this stuff for another day." A breathy laugh leaves your lips in a weak attempt to try and convince him that it was truly alright and that it was just something else to brush off.

"...If you say so."

"I'm serious, Satoru. It's fine, I can just reschedule things for another day that's all." Another one to add to the evergrowing pile, a bitter voice barks from within the recesses of your mind.

Much to your chagrin, you're unfortunately becoming much more acquainted with this voice and although you haven't responded to its taunts yet, you can feel your resolve wearing away with each late night you watch the streets below for any sign of life, his life to be specific.

Worst of all, you can't say you regret this, can you? Because if you do, then it would basically be confessing that all of the pain and late nights the both of you have been sacrificing have been all for nought and that you were wrong for pushing the both of you down this path.

It needs to be worth it so that there's a reason for this pain that you're feeling when things like this become an afterthought but you're starting to wonder how many times you have to say it until it becomes real instead of just a pipe dream you had the misfortune of being caught in.

Soon, it seemed that these doubts weren't just one-sided anymore.

"This is good for us, right?" Satoru asks one night as the two of you are getting ready for bed. It's been a while since the two of you have gone to bed at the same time as your clocks fall further and further out of sync the longer you two spend out of each other's embrace. There's a strong hint of uncertainty in his voice like he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to convince you. "...You're happy right?"

You don't look at him in the eye. You can't. "Right, yeah. I mean, this is what we want." Your answer isn't as resolute as you hoped that it would come out but you brush past it in the hopes of making sure whatever doubts you may have bubbling underneath your surface remain there.

"You didn't answer my other question."

A nervous laugh escapes you. "What do you mean?"

"Are you happy?" You stop in your tracks for a moment as you process his question.

There were a lot of things you could have said at that time, the truth would have been a good option, but instead, you chose to swallow the difficult choice down and take the easy way out by plastering on a sickly sweet smile and lying to him through your teeth.

"Of course, I'm happy Satoru."

As soon as the words leave your mouth, you're greeted with that oh-so-familiar sensation of that pit in the bottom of your stomach as the bitter voice you've tried to suppress makes its infamous return to the forefront of your mind.

Looking back at it now, maybe you should have said the truth, it would have saved you two a lot of pain in retrospect but pride is a funny thing and you're sure that Satoru was in the same position you were in at this point.

That's probably why he didn't push any further after your response, no matter how fake it probably sounded out loud. It's either that or he wanted to believe that you were actually telling the truth.

You're not sure which one is worse.

In another world, you would like to think that there's a point to your mind deciding to subject you to this trip down memory lane aside from dredging up your past pains and regrets to torture you. Maybe, in this other world, you would have a sudden life-changing revelation awaiting you at the end of the road but all you can see just nothing.

It's better this way, right? For the both of you.

You told yourself that when you sat him down and broke up with him in the total sum of a few sentences before leaving because you didn't want to truly say goodbye to him as that would make everything more real and therefore much worse. You told yourself that when you sat in the backseat of your friend's car they came to pick you up for a night out because they insisted that you needed to get out of your head sometimes. You tell yourself this when you stare into the barrel of the gun in the form of the glass of alcohol sitting in front of you.

He deserves better than being lied to on the daily and someone like you holding him back. You can't even remember the last time you actually, truly looked him in the eye for longer than a few seconds. You imagine the old you who loved to get lost in the vast expanses of his cerulean eyes that would gaze at you like you were the one who personally hung the stars in the sky.

Before, if his eyes were the great roaring ocean, you would gladly let yourself get pulled under by the tide even if it meant drowning in its depth. Now, you're scared to even dip your toes in the shoreline when the wave is nothing more than just the remnants of sea foam.

You reach over for another sip, pretending like the burning aftertaste left in its wake doesn't make you want to wince.

Maybe Satoru was onto something with his dislike of alcohol. You've learned that after a few drinks, all liquor, no matter the amount of zeros slapped onto the end of its price tag starts to taste the same by the end of the night.

There's just so much of him everywhere. In the objects, the, hell even the air. You think you might suffocate from the sheer amount of him you're surrounded by. It doesn't matter where you go, all you can see is him.

You needed to get out.

Pushing past the crowd all whilst ignoring the confused calls of your friends to your sudden switch in behaviour, you stumble your way to the bathroom and lock the door behind you as you slump down defeated next to the sink.

Truth be told, his question haunts you more than you would like to admit.

"Are you happy?"

You don't think you are. Maybe you should be, you have everything that would usually qualify for someone to answer that they are happy and you're no longer that struggling student you were a few years ago which is definitely a plus.

You tell other people that you are 'happy' when they ask, with a smile that never reaches your eyes and a grip that's probably too tight on whatever you're holding in your hands at the time but the answer never feels right, no matter how many times you say it out loud and let it roll off your tongue.

Despite what you tell yourself, perhaps the time when you were happy, truly happy, was when you were with him.

Deep down, you think that if you were given the choice between now and then, you would trade all of this for a chance to be those dumb kids sitting and making out in parking lots without a care in the world except for each other again in a heartbeat.

As you study the tiles of the wall opposite you, you think to yourself that it would be nice to stay here in this bathroom, far away from the rest of the world and far away from what feels like all your regrets personified but the logical, reasonable part of you knows that there's no way you could realistically stay here any longer before your friends start worriedly banging on the door.

Slowly, your shoulders deflate with a defeated sigh as you stand up and make your way out of whatever bar you've been dragged to as you bid your friends goodbye in a way that you hope doesn't raise any suspicions.

The air feels bitingly cold as the wind nips at your face while you stand awkwardly on the curb, waiting for a taxi as you go to both the first and last place you want to be at; your apartment. Ironically, in a cruel twist of fate, the total absence of anything relating to Satoru only makes his lack of presence only more pronounced.

If this was the universe's doing, then you had a few choice words for them to say the least.

You wrap your arms around yourself in a vain attempt to maintain some semblance of body heat as you quickly flag down the nearest car and clamber in. When you arrive back, you glance at the clock and you have to fight the urge to let out a laugh when you see that it's barely even past 10pm and you're already back at home.

Pathetic, the bitter voice in your head spits out.

You do what you do best and ignore it as you collapse into the embrace of your bed and try your bed to lull yourself to whatever empty dreamscape awaits you this time if only to get a moment away from your current reality. It doesn't last long though because you're awoken by the shrill ringing of your phone.

Should have silenced it, you curse yourself silently as you blindly reach for it. Once it's in your hands, you squint as the blinding brightness of the screen and a flicker of recognition flashes through you as you realise who's actually calling you and for some reason, against your better judgment, you pick up.

When you hang up, you don't go back to sleep. Rather, you're unable to go back to sleep as you're left staring blankly at the ceiling above you. The bed feels too big for one person and you find yourself missing the nights where you could go to sleep alone and wake up in the arms of another.

Much like when you're forced to watch a replay of all your memories, you're wondering if what you said was right. If you were to go by what you've been telling yourself since the breakup, then sure, you did the right thing. But if it is truly the right thing, then it doesn't explain this inexplicable emptiness gnawing deep within your chest or this aching feeling that sits in a place you can't quite reach but are all too aware of.

The longer you let your mind run through all the possibilities you can think of, the more often you find yourself coming back to the same conclusion. It's better this way, be damned, you think to yourself and with that, you make up your mind to set off on a mission.

Out of all of the places you could have found yourself at, this is definitely quite down low on the list and maybe this is what you deserve for trusting your feet instead of your head but you decide that at this point, you don't have much else to lose and so, you gather up the courage to say the words that you've been waiting to say for a while.

"Hi."

[caelivir]

surrender | rayne ames

synopsis. rayne ames can’t stop staring at you tonight, which is strange, considering the fact that he loathes your guts.

pairing. rayne ames x fem!reader, | wc. 4.1k | genres. haters to lovers, tension, jealousy, rayne's hot and obsessed and reader's in denial | warnings. reader wears lipstick but it's mentioned once at the end, they make out what's new (it's good for my the soul), a bit suggestive

notes. tbh this wasn't supposed to be as long as it is. what a yap fest. blame my hormones and the weeknd. this is ugly and i hate it but it will have to do while i continue working on other fics.

you can’t comprehend why he’s here. the rest of the student body can’t either because the moment he walked through those doors all eyes were on him.

you’re positive that rayne ames had to have some devil whispering in his ear. how else would he be convinced to attend a grand event such as this one? dancing? socializing? it’s not his style, especially when he knows that every guy and girl within a ten foot radius would be jumping at the chance to have his attention.

you’re point is proven right in the next three seconds. you can already spot girls batting their eyelashes at him. you can see them trying to coerce him into a dance. on any other day you’d scoff at their fawning over an asshole like rayne.

however, you can’t seem to bring yourself to say that tonight. rayne’s half blonde, half jet black hair is styled in a wet curtain cut with long loose strands falling in front of his forehead. he wears a black two piece suit with the coat sporting various decorations.

there are two sets of silver chains that are pinned just below each one of his shoulders. each set is comprised of five chains. one directly connects a line between two metallic circles. two chains of varying lengths begin at one button before swooping a short distance down the front of rayne’s coat before linking back to the second circle that hangs lower than its counterpart. the remaining three chains follow the same pattern except they droop down the side of his arm, nearing the peak of the dip at the middle of his upper arm and rising back up to the coat’s shoulder pads that have sleek silver suns on top of them.

under the jacket, the visionary dons a white dress shirt that is tucked into his pants. however, the piece is damn near transparent, and the top buttons remain undone, exposing some of the skin of his torso. to finish the look off, rayne wears one singular necklace with a sword pendant.

you hate it, and you hate whoever styled him because tonight he's a dangerously gorgeous devil that's making your heart pound at an embarrassingly alarming rate. your eyes are glued to him no matter how badly your mind screams at you to look away. yet just as you can't tear your gaze away from him, rayne is equally unable to focus on anyone else that isn't you.

he inhales a deep breath of air before carving a path to your position at the food table. the alarms in your head go off in panic. you can't exactly play off the fact that you were so blatantly ogling him so instead you own up to it, masking your flustered expression with a glare in his direction.

"well if it isn't the devil himself." you taunt when he nears, soaking in the half blonde's formal look one more time. "what made you decide to crawl out of hell tonight?"

"i could ask you the same thing." rayne answers bluntly, and you scowl because he knows that you hate when he turns your snarky comments back on you.

"why'd i even bother?" you roll your eyes with a scoff, directing your attention to bite-size appetizers in front of you.

"let me know when you find the answer to that." the visionary responds, causing a muscle in your cheek to twitch in irritation.

rayne doesn’t move from his spot. in fact, he’s standing so close to you that your arm brushes against the black fabric of his coat and the cold silver chains on the side of his arm.

"can you move?" you snap, annoyed because now your senses are being filled with his scent—an intoxicating mix of cinnamon and cardamom that makes your mind go fuzzy.

"i can't have food?" rayne cockily raises an eyebrow at you before randomly picking up a tomato basil puff off the plate. he chews it thoughtfully, and through the micro expressions of his face, you come to understand that he is pleased with its taste.

you bundle your fists tightly to release some of your nerves. a breath of air enters your lungs to steady yourself. you remind yourself to not get swept up in his games. rayne ames will not ruin your night. all of these affirmations lead you to the decision to leave him by the food table.

however before you can do that, the music slows to an end, and people take it as a sign to scramble for a partner before the next piece starts up again. as for you, you're immediately confronted by a tall blonde boy in your grade. he kindly extends a hand out to you that’s shaking very discreetly. "may i have this dance?"

you mentally grimace because you're still on edge due to rayne, but you don't have the heart to turn the guy down when he so obviously worked up the courage to come up to you. reluctantly, you accept his offer with a meager nod, and as he takes you by the hand, you involuntarily glance back at rayne, who has been staring the entire interaction down like a hawk.

the boy leads you to an open spot on the dance floor and doesn't hesitate to take the lead once a graceful waltz composition begins. you try to pay attention to the guy's little ramblings about duelo as you glide across the floor, but your mind wanders back to rayne.

what would it be like to have his hand on your back or your hand interlocked with his? would it light a blaze upon your skin? why do you even want to find out?

your eyes drift across the expanse of the enormous ballroom, scanning for that half blonde pain in your ass. after several moments of searching, you find rayne standing off to the side, back leaned against one of the pillars. he switched his food out for apple cider in a champagne glass. he stands with max land and other faces you aren't familiar with. whatever conversation they're having, rayne isn't following; his sole focus is on you and only you.

there's something dark lurking beneath his eyes. the intensity of his gaze generates shivers down the line of your spine. you think that the glass in his hands might shatter in his grip.

"are you alright?" your partner questions, and it brings your concentration back onto him. "are you cold?"

you present him a tight grin. "i'm good. you don't have to worry about me."

the boy in front of you accepts your answer without any suspicion and continues leading the dance until the song finally comes to an finishes. yet even when the waltz ends, and you thank your partner for the dance, he sticks by you. that's fine. he’s a nice guy who means no harm, but because you're severely distracted right now, he is the last thing on your mind.

he gently guides you through the room, keeping a hand on the small of your back protectively as you squeeze between the crowd. you force yourself to engage in conversation with the friends he introduces you to. you laugh at the appropriate times and give your two cents into a topic should it be deemed necessary, all in attempt to ignore the burning sensation of eyes drilling into the back of your neck. each time you catch him, rayne doesn't dare to avert his gaze. he’s shameless in that matter. he'll maintain this eye contact with you until you're the first one to tear away with your face a burning mess.

as the night progresses, you're losing the patience to withstand it. the guy in front of you. rayne. thoughts of rayne. your head is swirling in confusion, and you need new air and silence in order to calm yourself.

when you're sure rayne isn't watching, you dismiss yourself from your partner with a pathetic excuse that you need to quickly use the washroom that he buys instantaneously. and when the crowd hides you completely, you sneak off in the total opposite direction of the restroom.

you navigate your way through the venue until you find the exit that leads to gardens in the back. you pay no mind to party raging behind you, only straying yourself further and further from the noise until you're met with silence. it's only then that you're able to feel your heart slowing down it's pace.

you continue wandering until you find a gazebo hidden deep within the gardens. the structure is surrounded by flowers of varying colors and species. its posts are wrapped in vibrantly green vines. there are no seats built into it, but it will have to suffice as a place to rest and cool your head.

you lean back into one of the wooden posts, shutting your eyes as you inhale the scent of cold, wet, grassy air. when the brewing storm in your mind finally calms, all that remains is a certain divine visionary.

never in all of your years of knowing rayne ames would you have ever thought your emotions involving him would end up conflicting like this. you loathe him; you have since the day you met. so you can't seem to fathom what changed tonight. can it really be all because of a mere suit and new styling of his hair? how pathetic.

and his eyes… those damn yellow eyes that follow your every move. how can they ignite a fury of butterflies in your stomach?

and you don't even have the time to figure it out before your ears pick up on the sound of frantic footsteps and rattling chains that encroach closer and closer to you. your eyes fling wide open, and your body instantly freezes at the sight before you.

rayne ames stands in front of the garden gazebo, chest quickly rising and falling as he pants out breaths that turn visible in the cold winter air. his styled hair isn't as kept as it was before. it's lost its volume and his loose strands of hair cling to his skin, most likely due to the thin coat of sweat that you can barely see under the dim moonlight. yet, he still looks so incredibly breathtaking. the half blonde's eyebrows are brought together in a mix of relief and worry, and you don't know what to make of it.

you don't get it anymore. what is he doing? what is his goddamn game? why, just why, is he standing before you?

the reason behind rayne’s appearance at the winter ball is so incredibly petty that he’s ashamed to even admit it out loud. he had overheard a blonde on the duelo team claim that he was going to dance with you that night.

the irritation that arose in the pits of his stomach during that moment could not be described. did that fool really think he stood a chance with you? you were completely out of his league.

the thought of you dancing with another man haunted rayne for days. each time it crossed his mind, he’d get so annoyed that he’d snap the quill he was writing with into two pieces.

it was stupidly impulsive to come to this ridiculous school ball. rayne knew that, but a part of him was desperate to find out what would happen. could the blond fool pull it off, and what were you going to do if he did? he's well-aware that you aren't his lover or his friend, and yet that didn't seem to stop him from being concerned about matters involving you.

it’s truly a puzzle because rayne is so positive of the fact that he hates you, but the moment he walked through the entrance, all certainty of that fact became debatable again.

he stands before you, separated by the crowd of students who are just as shocked as you are. he can tell that you hadn’t expected for this. and with your eyes locked onto each other, you both enter a new dimension—one where everyone else fades away.

in a sea of blurred, barely present faces, you are the only one that was clear, a face so beyond the words of beautiful. rayne feels like he had the air knocked out of his lungs. is his heart speeding up, or is it stopping? he can’t tell anymore. he’s losing his senses. to combat that, he takes a deep breath of air.

rayne doesn’t even see the girls tugging at his arms or the guys trying to start up a conversation. it’s only you, and like an iron attracted to a magnet, his feet pull him to where you are before he has the chance to realize it.

you’re quick with your snarky comments that attempt to drag him, but even then, you're beautiful. it's baffling how hopeless of a fool he is for you. it’s a miracle that rayne has half the mind to retort your jabs, and he is definitely glad that the food table acted as a cover up.

however, the visionary’s mood sours when that damn blond duelo player comes up to you, asking for a dance a whole lot earlier than he anticipated. rayne can’t make out your expression, but he does notice the nod of your head and the way you extend your hand to slide onto his, but not without giving the half blond a glance back.

rayne's gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles go white. as you leave, another girl walks up to rayne, and he flat out ignores her, picking off a champagne glass from a server that happens to walk by him.

trying to cool his head, rayne ames finds max land in a matter of seconds, and he opts to stick by him. he doesn’t engage in any form of conversation with max, despite the multiple times his best friend has been trying to get his attention.

he'll apologize for it later, but every drop of focus that rayne possesses is on you as you move along the floor. the blond is talking your ear off, and the visionary is aware that you aren't fully listening because your eyes keep drifting back to him.

the fact that rayne doesn’t ever tear his eyes off you has you looking away in nervousness. it’s so unlike you. you’re always so confident in your confrontations against him, but it appears to be different tonight. it seems like everything is.

the longer he stares the more rayne hates the hand that is gently wrapped around yours. he hates the smiles that the blond duelo pulls from you simple because he is simply not worthy of them. he hates that even after the stupid waltz is over you're dragged to meet his friends.

the visionary has no right to be feeling like this, especially after all the verbal arguments and harsh words. but each time you look at him tonight with those star-filled eyes, rayne swears that he'll make it up to you for the rest of your lives.

"rayne, the suit is amazing. where'd you get it from? i haven't seen anything like it." one of max's friends asks, which finally drags the half blond's attention away from you.

"ryoh grantz." he replies dryly.

"you got this from the light cane?!"

"that's what i said, didn't i?" the visionary glares, visibly annoyed.

"oh. y-yeah." the guy chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the nape of his neck. it's then when he realizes that any attempt of conversation with rayne ames is futile so he switches the topic.

when the half blond drags his eyes back to you, he nearly loses grip on the champagne glass that he's been holding for a while. "she's gone." rayne mutters to himself, yet somehow over all the noise, max hears him.

max land peers over the crowd, finding the spot where you last stood. the blondie you were with is huddled with his friends, but you are no longer in sight. the brown haired boy hums. "i think your staring scared her off."

rayne narrows his eyes at his friend who only raises his hands in defense. the divine visionary scans the entire room, expecting you to be gathered with a different group of people, but you're not. you're not in here at all. "damn it." he curses with a hiss, ditching max to search for you.

if his best friend protests or calls for rayne, he doesn't hear it. max is the least of his concerns right now.

he leaves the empty glass onto the nearest table and begins a distraught search. he does a lap around the entire room, thinking that it'll make you appear again, but his efforts bear no fruit. he wanders up and down the halls, giving everyone he passes a quick glance, only to find that they're not you.

rayne finds an entrance that leads to the back gardens, and he's praying that you're somewhere there. he doesn't know how long he spends running around. his dress shirt is sticking to his skin, and his hair is falling out of place. the venue for the ball is so far behind him to the point that he can't even hear the music or noisy chatter anymore.

despite the burn in his calves, he pushes deeper into the gardens, jogging until a gazebo catches his eye. it's hard to see in the moonlight, but rayne swears that he sees the shadow of a figure. it's his last hope; he's praying that it's you.

the half blond jogs up to the steps. the chains of his suit rattle as he does so. he realizes then that it is you. relief, worry, and anger hit him all at once, but in your eyes, he can't say the same. there is no malice, only confliction, and rayne decides right then and there.

he's going to open his heart to you.

"what are you doing here, rayne?" you ask, practically defeated.

"what about you?" he snaps back harsher than he ever has before. he takes angry steps up the stairs. "it's fucking freezing, and you decide to come out here alone. do you even realize how far the venue is right now? do you know how much i was-" rayne stops himself mid-sentence, curling his fists by his side.

"no, tell me." you demand, walking closer to him. "what is it? you are always so blunt. what's stopping you now, huh? spit it out."

"i was worried about you." he answers quietly.

your heart swells when you hear it, but you choose to suppress it instead because that can't possibly be right. "worried?! why on earth would you ever be worried about me? you hate me, rayne ames, and i hate you. all we ever do is torment each other. it's exactly why you kept staring at me tonight. i couldn't focus on anything but you. that's what you wanted, right? you wanted me off my guard? well, congratulations asshole. you won. now leave me alone."

"no." the boy in front of you sternly denies.

"no? god, you have some fucking nerve-" you fume.

"i'm not leaving you alone." rayne clenches his jaw, staring deep into your eyes. you force yourself to swallow. "i haven't left you alone since the day we met, and i'm not leaving you alone now."

you scoff, trying to push past rayne, but he blocks your path. "move, rayne."

he ignores you altogether. "you want to know why i'm so worried about you, hm? here's your answer." rayne's voice is low, almost dangerous as he speaks. he steps closer to you, nearly pressing your bodies together. the heat that radiates off him is electrifying.

"you've been stuck in my head for the last week, and it's all because of that blond buffoon on the duelo team." rayne scowls. "i heard him. i knew that he wanted to dance with you, and it pissed me off. i couldn't imagine his hand on your back or his hand on yours without feeling my blood boil, and i hated every second that you were with him tonight. it was torture."

"jealousy?" you breathe out, trying to belittle him as you do so, but you fail miserably when your eyes dart to rayne's lips. "you might as well be obsessed with me."

"maybe i am." rayne's hand reaches up to trail the pearls of your necklace. his hand then moves further up your neck, fingers gently tickling your skin as they pass before resting on the side of your throat. "i might've been obsessed with you the moment your pretty little mouth started talking back to me. hell, i might even be in love with you."

in that moment, you feel your breath hitch. your eyes open wider in disbelief, and that doesn't deter the divine visionary in front of you at all. you try reading him, trying to find any sort of sign that this whole thing is a joke, but deep down you know. you said it yourself moments earlier. rayne's honest and blunt to a fault. he wouldn't say something he doesn't mean.

"the sight of you is enough to bring a man to his knees. you have me wrapped around your finger, (y/n). just say the word, and i'll be yours."

you don't know when rayne's face had gotten so close, but you can feel his breath fanning along yours. you can indulge in that cardamum and cinnamon scent that brings your brain to a high.

"rayne..." you whisper, brushing the loose strands of hair away from his forehead even though they return to the same place they were once before.

and as he admires you with those eyes, eyes that look at you as if you created the world and spun it on its axis, you surrender. you close the gap between the two of you because you're tired.

you're tired of acting like the thought that you don't want him has never crossed your mind. you're tired of acting like he's isn't stupidly hot whenever he puts you in your place, you're tired of pretending that you've never wanted to slam your lips against his just to shut him up.

rayne said he might've been obsessed with you from the moment you started arguing with him. well, you might've been obsessed with him when you realized that he wasn't going to tolerate any of your attitude. it's probably why you constantly picked fights with him. all the tension and unspoken words and lust came as a result. it was bound to boil over eventually.

you told yourself to not get swept up in him, and yet here you are, completely drowning. you chase each other like you're both starved. the kiss so desperate and powerful that rayne backs you up into one of the gazebo posts. the contact makes you gasp, and rayne uses it as an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. you'll have to press him about this later. for a guy who avoids women like the plague, he sure knows how to kiss you to euphoria.

your senses are so overloaded that you grip onto the open fabric of rayne's white dress shirt to keep you up. it effectively pulls him closer, making him groan. you lightly trail your nails down the exposed skin of his chest. you feel the visionary shiver before you, and you know that he's putty in your hands. you continue that path down, feeling the faint outline of his abs through his shirt.

rayne pulls away only to continue burning hot kisses down your neck and onto your collarbone. he nips and sucks on your skin, and you know that it's sure to leave marks, but in the moment, you can't help but whine his name. you let him have his fun until the feeling of missing his lips on yours is overbearing.

you force rayne up by his chin, and he almost looks disappointed. you smirk once you notice the smearing of lipstick on his face and the uneven rhythm of his breathing.

"what a mess you are." you tease, toying with rayne's bottom lip with your thumb.

"do you really have to do this right now?" rayne complains lightheartedly, all while placing kisses onto the inside of your palm, making you giggle.

"always." you wink, and your hands wander back down to his chest. "kiss me?"

rayne cups one half of your face, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "always." he replies, diving into the addiction that is you once more.

@kyoghurts @seneon hey...

[chuuyrr]

ᯓ YOU KNOW HOW TO BALL, I KNOW ARISTOTLE — NAKAHARA CHUUYA ⊹ ࣪ ˖

ᡣ𐭩 CW(s): f! reader, pre-med student reader x student athlete chuuya, 5.2k words, heavily inspired from a t.s. song

ᡣ𐭩 SYNOPSIS: in which an academic achiever finds an unexpected chemistry with an athlete at college

ᡣ𐭩 NOW PLAYING: so high school & the alchemy

ᡣ𐭩 A.N.: reblogs are appreciated ! hope u enjoy reading this <3

you clutch the strap of your backpack as your friends excitedly drags you along with them across the main campus building of where you attended your classes. you had just finished your chemistry lecture, when your friends brought up the ongoing goodwill games that were taking place in the gymnasium.

you never really had any fondness for sports. in fact, all of the sports courses you had taken up before, which weren't any majors, were not given any effort by you. just as those courses were labeled as such, they weren't majors, so they weren't your priorities.

you were all about the majors. the bigger, badder subjects. the chemistries. the laboratory classes. those were your a-games. 

but you smile along with your friends, it couldn't hurt to watch some sports taking place.

“gosh, be more a little excited, (nickname)!” one of your friends giggles and playfully nudges your elbow.

“i know right? the business administration third years are playing against our third years, and you know what that means!” your other friend chimes, all giddy. 

“of course i do. handsome guys..” you sigh, not really showing any interest as your two friends squealed at your answer regardless.

your two friends drag you inside the gymnasium. the sliding and thumping of rubber shoes against the court along with the words of a commentator resonated inside. you look around and there were already students by the bleachers ranging from lower to higher years, as well as high school students who were simply enjoying the match. 

as you join your friends in the bleachers, you catch sight of a certain redhead. he was from the opposing team, adorning a red and black jersey with the number twenty-nine and the name nakahara on his back. 

“hmm, nakahara..” you mutter softly to yourself.

your friends heard and giggled, playfully nudging your arm and side with a giddy smile. 

“fancying someone i see?” one of them asks.

“no! i'm just reading names.” you immediately say, your cheeks growing warm from embarrassment. 

“we heard you loud and clear, (nickname). you've been eyeing player twenty-nine.” your other friend points out.

“oh shut up.. err—maybe i was.” you shrug in a sheepish smile as the three of you watch the basketball match. 

“well, if you're interested. his name is nakahara chuuya. third year, so just a college year ahead of us.” your friend explains, a smirk following after, “confirmed to be single.”

“and how is the last part relevant?” you raise a brow, causing your friends to giggle. 

“just in case.” your friend shrugs with an innocent tone.

you playfully roll your eyes before you continue watching the game with an intent gaze, following the ball as it arcs in the air, passed skillfully by players. your focus sharpens when it finally lands in the hands of the player you've been eyeing before.

number twenty-nine. nakahara.

despite the intense attempts of the defenders from your side to intercept, chuuya skillfully catches the ball from his teammate on the opposite side of the court. your cheeks grew warm again, perhaps even warmer, when he moves with such fluid grace, dribbling the ball past his opponents, his eyes locked on the hoop. 

“damn, he's good..” you mutter to yourself as your friends, along with the crowd, start cheering the rising climax. 

you furrow your brow and your heart races as you watch chuuya on the court. the world appears to blend around you, and all you see is him. his determination is evident, and his eyes have a fierce glint as he prepares himself for the shot. he moves with natural ease, the ball an extension of his body.

he jumps in the air as time slows down. you watch breathlessly as the muscles in his arms flex, the light catching the sweat on his brow, and you feel a warm sensation run through your chest. the ball leaves his hands in a flawless arc in the air and the next thing you know—you've fallen for him.

the roar of the crowd diminishes, leaving only the hammering of your own heartbeat. the ball swishes through the net of the hoop, and his triumphant smile seals your fate.

fuck, you're in love.

his gaze darts through the crowd, waving his hands alongside his fellow athletes and scanning the faces, before landing on the bleachers where you sit. your breath caught when you felt his gaze on you. you are confident in your eye contact, and the warmth on your face increases. your cheeks burn, and you instinctively touch your face, feeling the heat radiating from your skin.

chuuya's gaze lingers on yours for a little longer, and a small, knowing smile tugs on the corner of his lips. the realization that he genuinely sees you sends shivers down your spine. the commotion of the crowd returns, but all you can think about is that shared look.

you lower your hand from your face, attempting to calm your pounding heart, knowing that something big has occurred between you.

“you good?” your friend raises a brow at you.

“oh damn, she's gushing!” your other friend gasps out dramatically. 

“oh my god, shut up! he's watching!” you cover your face now, your cheeks burning at this point as you tell your friends to zip it.

“oh.. oh.” they both mutter in unison.

the game progresses further and you were drawn to every move, pass, and shot, but none were more than those of number twenty-nine, and when the final whistles blow as the timer runs out, the game ends with chuuya's team emerging victorious.

the gymnasium roars with cheers and applause, and you watch your friends already clambering down the bleachers to get closer to the players, pulling you down the floor with them. you were hesitant and awkward about it, considering how they were cheering more towards the opposing team, chuuya's team, instead your own program's team.

you were insistent about it as they dragged you through the crowd of students, and as you weave through, you get separated from your friends so you decide to step aside, leaning against a wall to catch your breath and hopefully spot your friends somewhere in this sea of excited and hyped up students.

instead of your friends, you notice him again, and this time much closer and gazing around as if searching for someone.

your eyes widen, and you realize with surprise that he seems to be.. looking for you?

suddenly, he walks over to you, his steps determined but unhurried. your heart pounds in your chest as he approaches, his piercing blue eyes set on yours, and when he reaches you, he pauses with a smile.

“hey, you okay?” he asks first, noticing how you were all alone by a wall amongs the throng of students exiting the gymnasium after the match, “where are your friends?”

“huh? oh, uh, yeah. there's so many people that i lost sight of my friends, and i just needed to step aside a bit,” you stammer out, feeling quite overwhelmed.

“oh, i'm sorry to hear that. here, let's head over there.” he says, his hand holding your arm as he guides you somewhere where it was less crowded.

“you good now?” chuuya asks you with a friendly smile, “i saw you in the stands, and i know you're rooting for the pharmacy's team, but did you enjoy the game?”

“yeah,” you manage out, “my friends were even talking about you.”

“good things, i hope,” he says with a playful glint in his eye that made your heart leap.

you laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing, “yeah, good things.”

he now leans against the wall beside you as he asks, "do you come to these games often, or was today a special occasion?"

you shake your head in response, chuckling a bit, “i'm not really a fan of sports to be honest. my friends just dragged me here."

"well, i'm glad they did," he says, his eyes twinkling with genuine interest.

you find yourself captivated to chuuya's easy charm and genuine warmth as the discussion flows between you two. as you two converse, you notice the crowd of students thinning out and your friends who were looking for you, waving at you from the entrance, and maybe even gushing over you being with the athlete. (and you make a mental note to smack the hell outta your friends for sure.)

chuuya lifts his gaze and spots your friends, “oh hey, those are your friends right?”

“mhm, i gotta go,” you say immediately as you flash him a friendly yet albeit shy smile, “thanks for keeping me company.”

“no problem,” he nods with a smile. chuuya looked as if he still had something to say, but you already sprinted off to your friends at the entrance of the gymnasium.

chuuya stands there, unable to contain a laugh as he smiles at you, watching you crash in your friends, smacking one of them as they laugh and reunited with you.

he finds it nice to meet someone who's here for more than just the game. he could tell.

days have passed with your thoughts constantly returning to the gymnasium, to the moment the athlete's gaze met yours, the moment he talked to you and accompanied you.

your friends did in fact notice you daydreaming but thankfully don't press you about it but goodness, did it feel like you were back in high school, as if you weren't even at college, with him on your mind.

it is currently afternoon, and you find yourself walking towards the campus library to study some lessons by yourself as your friends have already left and went their own ways after class.

you grabbed your ID for scanning as you approached the entrance of the library, when you saw a familiar figure standing by the steps, seemingly engrossed in another conversation with another student.

however, your feet stop on their own, your heart skipping a beat the same way it did days ago as you recognize the redhead from the basketball match you watched with your friends—nakahara chuuya.

he was dressed casually today, and boy was it a stark contrast to the intense athlete you saw on the court.

you gulp to yourself, and considered turning back now, but your curiosity and determination kept you rooted in place. and so, you walk past him, at least attempt to as you clutched your tablet and bag with you, trying to come off as nonchalant and casual.

but you couldn't help but take just a single glance, and that was all it took for your knees to grow weak as chuuya's gaze averted and met yours. for a split second, neither of you move, and you swear he took your breath again as he flashes you a warm, and friendly smile.

your cheeks flush almost instantly with warmth. this is the first time you saw him this upclose and so you immediately duck into the library, mentally cursing yourself for acting like a flustered higher schooler who just saw her crush. you take a deep breath, trying to calm yourself, and look for a table around the library, choosing a somewhat secluded area so you could begin studying.

you put down your tablet on the table and sit down, opening important files and notes but damnit was it hard to focus. the words on the screen blur together as you mind couldn't help but replay the brief encounter you just had just now.

minutes later into your studying, the chair beside yours shifted. you glance up and saw chuuya again, just right beside you as he placed down his own bag on the table you were occupying.

“hey,” he says softly, “mind if i join you?”

your heart pounds like crazy as your eyes widen. you nod, but immediately shake your head no as you realized, “no! not at all.”

he chuckles softly at your response as he takes a seat beside you, “i saw you at the game the other day.”

you nod softly, trying to find your voice as you fidgeted the pen of your tablet, “err, yeah. you were amazing on the court, by the way.”

“thank you, it's nice to always have support from the crowd. even if they aren't the same program as me,” chuuya says with another chuckle as scratched the nape of his neck.

god, was his presence calming and electrifying at the same time, and it was almost hard to believe he was right here, breathing in the same air as you.

“so, what are you studying?” he asks, glancing at your tablet's screen.

“oh, uh. chemistry.” you reply, trying to steady your voice as you look at him, “it's one of my major subs.”

chuuya raises a brow at you, and looks impressed, “that's an intense subject. i don't think i can handle that. i'm more of a mathematics kind of a guy to be honest, more on physics though.”

you giggle softly, feeling more at ease as you two continue talking, “that's okay. everyone has their own strengths, yeah?”

“yeah,” he agrees as he leans back into his chair and grin, “you know, i've never really been into academics, but clearly you are. that's why i play basketball.”

“but it works out for you, right?” you say softly as you recall the memory of him dominating the court once more, “you still need to keep up with your studies though.”

“mhm,” chuuya nods at your words, “yeah, but balancing both is a challenge to be honest. we have a GPA to maintain to stay on the team. so you could say it keeps me motivated to study.”

you're about to respond but chuuya's phone suddenly buzzes from the table. he glances at you with a cute sheepish yet frown on his face, “sorry, i need to take this. it's probably my coach.”

chuuya leaves you for a moment, leaving you to your thoughts but when he returns a few minutes later, he appears a little disoriented about something, but still attentive to you. “sorry about that, but my coach called to say we have practice again.”

your face falters into a look of disappointment, “oh, it's okay.”

“i'm really sorry,” chuuya says, feeling guilty to leave you so soon, but you couldn't help but feel your heart skip about this fact.

“thanks for sitting with me though. it was nice.. while it lasted,” you say, stifling a quiet giggle to lighten up the mood.

he smiles warmly now upon hearing your giggle, and gosh it sounded like chimes of bells in chuuya's ears, “yeah, it was. maybe we can do this again sometime?”

your eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment you were speechless. nakahara chuuya, number twenty-nine, one of the school athletes, is asking you to meet with him again?

you immediately nod, a bit too eager, but not that he minds at all, “i'd love to.”

“great!” chuuya chimes, laughing as he slings his backpack over his shoulder in a hurry, “well, i gotta run now before the coach makes me do 50 push-ups or something.”

“okay, okay. see you around?” you giggle at his antics, smiling widely now.

“yeah, see you aroun—” chuuya was about to run off when he immediately returned back to you, making your eyes widen again in surprise and confusion.

“your name,” chuuya says a bit too quickly. it was almost like he was rapping, “i forgot to ask your name.”

“(name) (surname), from pharmacy.”

“got it, you probably already know me, but chuuya. chuuya nakahara, from business ad.” he says with a wink before leaving a second time, and this time for good.

you watch him leave the library in a hurry, something that makes your heart flutter as you shake your head to yourself. you return your attention back to your tablet, and gosh, it becomes even more difficult to concentrate. you find yourself thinking about the brief encounter you've had with him again, every word exchanged, and the way his smile made your heart skip.

you really were feeling so high school again, and that's for sure.

the next few days were a flurry of lessons and brief visits to the gym, hoping to catch another glimpse of chuuya training. each time, your heart skips a beat, but you remind yourself to remain focused.

you do not want to appear too eager or desperate, but it was a fine line between expressing interest and coming over too strongly.

as you're packing your belongings at the library to head home after studying as per usual, a notification appears on your phone. it was a text from an unknown number.

you blink for a moment before you read the text in your mind, and your eyes slowly widen, “hi! it's chuuya, remember? from the court and library? i got your phone number from a friend. hope that's okay?”

you feel your heart race once more. (it was becoming a habit for your poor heart to be honest.) all you could think about was how chuuya got your number? and from whom? but a part of you already had an idea.

either way, you shake those questions away from your head as you text him back.

“hi, chuuya! it's ok with me. how are you? :)”

your phone buzzes as your text receives a reply.

“am good! just finished practice. wanted to see if you're free to grab a coffee with me?”

coffee. with chuuya. the mere thought sends a chill through you, but it was a good kind of thrill—one that made your tummy do flips and your face flush with warmth.

“sure, i'd love to! when and where if ever?”

chuuya's response was so immediate, “how about tomorrow afternoon? i don't have any classes tomorrow and there's a cafe near campus that you might like.”

“sounds good! my classes end at 1pm tomorrow.”

from then, the anticipation grows as you count down the hours until your coffee meeting with chuuya. you even spend a little extra time getting ready for tomorrow, ensuring that you look your best without going overboard.

and when you finally arrive at the café he texted you yesterday, you see him right away. chuuya was waiting at the entryway, casually clothed yet still looking effortlessly suave. he flashes you a smile and waves as you approach him, and you get that familiar flutter in your chest.

“you came! here, lemme get the door for ya’,” chuuya says with a smile, holding the door open for you.

the aroma of coffee and freshly baked pastries is soothing, as you and chuuya pick a comfortable corner table to relax inside. you order your drinks and discuss everything from favorite books to future goals, and the conversation between you flows naturally.

everything feels natural, every smile, every laugh, and ever gaze, it was as if you've known one another for much longer than a few encounters, and you can't help but think about the slow burn of your feelings for chuuya, which was undeniable, and you wonder whether he feels the same way.

but for the time being, you're satisfied to enjoy his company, savoring each moment as you learn more about the athlete who has piqued your interest.

and it becomes even more evident when this simple coffee date becomes a constant between you two—he comes to wherever you are, whether you're in the library or at a cafe.

it was strange, but it was also comforting.

“mind if i join you, (nickname)?” he even calls you by your nickname now at this point as he stands by your table.

“sure,” you smile at him, trying to sound as casual as possible as you gesture at the empty seat across you.

chuuya sits down, and you notice he is clutching a physics book. he sees you staring at him and his book, and chuckles, "i have an exam coming up, so i thought i'd get some studying done.”

you nod, feeling a little more relaxed, “i feel you, but mine's chemistry.”

for the next hour, the two of you will sit together, exchanging a few words and smiles. there's a comfortable silence between you, broken only by the sounds of books turning and coffee cups clinking in the cafe.

you steal glances at him every now and then, seeing how focused he appears, and you can't help but appreciate his commitment to study regardless of being an athlete. it shows that he really values balancing both.

eventually, chuuya stretches his arms and leans back in his chair in a sigh, “damn, i think i’ve had enough of physics for today. how about you?”

“yeah, my brain feels like mush now to be honest,” you reply which makes him snicker.

“say, wanna leave the cafe and take a walk around campus? i could use some fresh air.” chuuya suggests, shoveling his textbook back in his backpack.

you both agree, and you leave the café together, going across the campus grounds and you find yourself laughing more than usual, and you notice how at ease you are around him.

as you two reach a quiet spot near the gates, chuuya pauses and looks at you, “you know, i’m really glad we met. it’s nice to talk to someone who’s not just about sports or partying.”

you smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest, “i feel the same way, chuuya.”

the days are another a blur of exams and studying, but your mind keeps returning to chuuya, and chuuya alone.

the warmth of your conversations and the fun every time you two studied and grabbed coffees remained in your memory, making it difficult to focus, making your heart constantly in a flutter that you now find yourself seeking for him around campus, hoping to meet him again, hoping to see him before you day starts and before it ends. it was an overwhelming feeling you couldn't help but long for.

as you’re leaving the classroom with your tote bag and tablet in hand you hear a familiar voice calling your name.

“(name)!” you quickly turn around, already knowing and seeing chuuya jogging towards you, his face lighting up with that ever familiar, heart skipping genuine smile.

you smile back as you tilt your head to the side, “hey, chuuya! what’s up?”

he catches up to you, slightly out of breath as he breathes, “i.. i was hoping i’d run into you. thank god i did. do you have a minute?”

“sure. i have a few more minutes before my next class,” you say, curiosity piqued.

“great. perfect.” he pants out, catching his breath now this time.

you turn around for a second to see your friends silently gushing over you and chuuya which you shot them a glare for, making them quietly giggle and leave you two be as they headed to the next class.

with a quiet giggle, you return your attention back to chuuya and he seems a bit nervous now, which is unusual for him. after a brief moment of collecting his thoughts (and breath), he looks at you with a mixture of excitement and hesitation.

“okay, so we have another game coming up this weekend,” he begins, his eyes locking onto yours, “and it’s a pretty big one, as you know. we’re playing against one of the top teams in the league outside campus, against another university this time.”

“that sounds exciting,” you reply, genuinely interested, “i’m sure you’ll do great as always!”

chuuya chuckles, but there’s a seriousness in his gaze, “i hope so. but, uh, i was wondering if you’d come watch the game.”

“of course i'll watch! i only have classes in the morning.” you respond without hesitation, smiling widely, “i’d love to.”

however, chuuya stares down at his hands for a while, as if to gather his courage, before returning his gaze to you, his tone becoming sheepish, “but, i, um.. would prefer if you could come alone to watch this time without your friends.”

you blink in surprise taken aback by the request. just you? without your friends?

“huh? but, why?”

chuuya rubs the back of his neck awkwardly now, a sheepish grin appearing on his face, “i guess i just want to know you’re there, watching. look, i know it is kind of stupid, but i feel like having you there might give me that extra bit of confidence. and… i’d like to hang out with you after the game, just the two of us.”

your cheeks warm at his words, and a soft smile spreads across your face, “i see. well, i'd be more than happy to come, chuuya.”

chuuya's expression lights up, and you notice a mix of relief and something deeper in his eyes, “great! okay, so the game is this saturday at 3PM. i’ll save you a seat, and no need to pay anything. okay? i got it covered.”

“i’ll be there,” you promise, reaching for his arm as a form of reassurance, and he smiles before you scurry back to your friends who you whacked in the head for eavesdropping.

“stop eavesdropping at us!”

“you're watching a game without us?!”

eventually, the day of the game arrives, and you find yourself in the gymnasium without your friends, which makes you somewhat anxious since you're not used to watching a game, let alone without being your friends as you do.

as you head over to your seat which chuuya reserved for you, you scan the court and notice chuuya warming up, and gosh did your mouth become dry at the attractive sight of him stretching his muscular arms.

your cheeks grow warm and he catches your eye from across the gym and waves, his smile widening as he sees you. you wave back, nervous and excited, but also flustered as you wondered if he knew you were staring at him while he was warming up because that was one of the most attractive things you've ever seen in your life.

the game finally begins, and you watch nervously, holding your breath as chuuya moves across the court with the basketball. every dribble, pass, and shot appears to have a unique significance, as if he is motivated by the fact that you are watching him.

chuuya's presence on the court is already commanding from the moment the first whistle reverberates across the pavilion. the opposition team immediately realizes that stopping him will not be a simple feat. as the basketball game progresses, you marvel once again at how chuuya weaves among defenders with such ease.

chuuya’s first play is a tremendous display of such skill and he dominates the court as if he knows it like the back of his hand. he receives a pass from his teammate, fakes left, and then spins to the right, leaving his defender momentarily disoriented. and then, with a swift, fluid motion, he dribbles past two more opponents and makes a flawless layup.

the crowd goes wild in cheers, and you can’t help but cheer and clap along with the audience at the sheer precision of his moves, and chuuya's play just becomes more heated from there, because he can hear you loud and clear, he knows you're there for him.

it becomes even more swift and methodical, with each pass and dribble meticulously planned. he silently communicated with his teammates as if he had telepathy, meticulously scanning the court for openings and potential steals from the opposing team.

it was clear all of his moves were with deftness that only comes from hours of practice and a natural understanding of the game as chuuya steals the ball from an opponent with a well-timed swipe before fluidly transitioning into offense, leading a fast break that finishes in another successful basket.

the game eventually approaches its climax, and the tension across the court is now almost unbearable. chuuya’s team is up by a narrow margin, and every move now feels more critical than ever as you can hear the beat of the drums from the sides, which builds up in intensity.

with only a few mere seconds left on the clock, chuuya dribbles to the top of the key, sizing up his defender. the opposing team’s defense tightens around him, but chuuya remains calm, his focus unshakable. he makes a decisive move, spinning around his defender and launching a shot from beyond the arc.

you feel a rush of nostalgia through your veins as you recall the first time you ever saw him, back in the campus, as time seems to slow down—remembering everything like a flashback as the ball arcs through the air in a familiar way to you, and you hold your breath as it swishes through the basket, securing the victory for his team.

your heart leaps from your chest as the last whistle blows, echoing across the atmosphere and the gymnasium erupts with cheers and applause. chuuya's teammates all rush to congratulate him, carrying him onto their shoulders as the crowd roars in appreciation and you watch with a sense of pride and excitement.

as his team celebrates with their trophy and flashes of cameras, you initially expect chuuya to be absorbed in the aftermath of the game.

but then, you see him breaking away from the crowd, leaving his teammates behind, his eyes scanning the sea of faces in the audience and when he finally sees you, a look of determination crosses his face, and he starts making his way towards you, weaving through players across the court.

you heart races with familiarity as you realize he’s coming straight for you instead of the trophy that you involuntarily stand up from the seat chuuya reserved for you.

the noise of the crowd fades into the background as chuuya closes the distance between you, and when chuuya finally reaches you, he’s out of breath but smiling with an intensity as he exclaims excitedly, “there you are!”

before you can react, chuuya suddenly moves closer to you and, in an exciting and unexpected moment, leans in and slams his lips against yours.

the kiss is both gentle and passionate, taking you off guard but feeling perfectly natural, but it's as if all of your silent emotions were released in one beautiful moment, an exchange of silent 'i love you's' as his arms wrap around you in a tight embrace.

chuuya pulls back with both of you breathless and a bit dazed from the sudden kiss, his eyes are filled with a mixture of relief and affection while yours was of surprise and excitement, and he looks at you with a smile that makes your heart flutter.

“i’m really, really glad you’re here,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper, his hand reaching for the strand of hair on your face to tuck it behind your ear.

you nod, your cheeks flushed and a smile across your face, as you whisper back, “me too.”

despite the noise reverberating across the pavilion from the aftermath of the match, you and chuuya stand close together, breathless, having such an intimate and exhilarating moment like this, and you find it as the perfect finale to your growing slow-burn relationship, and looking into his eyes fills you with anticipation for what comes next.

“let's get outta here,” he whispers to your ear, his breath sending you tingles.

you ask as his hand drifts from your arm to your waist instead, a smile growing on your face, “but what about your team? or the trophy?”

“fuck the trophy, i've already got mine,” chuuya chuckles as he squeezes you waist as if to emphasize his words before he captures your lips in another kiss.

[apheliia]

HYDRANGEAS, CH. 1. — In which Tokito [Name] is invited to join the Corps.

— series synopsis. Hydrangeas, in some cultures, have been known to symbolize apology. The Hashira Tokito [Name] has many things to apologize for, indeed.

— trigger & content warnings. minor blood.

— pairings & notes. tokito muichiro, tokito yuichiro, ubuyashiki amane, ubuyashiki kagaya, rengoku kyojuro, & reader. reader is 11 in this chapter. reader is gender neutral (they/them pronouns used). 10k words.

— author's thoughts. hydrangeas is also posted on ao3!

    Snap. Snap. Snap.

    The repeated sound of splitting and snapping wood fibers, of an axe tearing through the middle of logs, was among one of the few sounds filling the air—the chirping of distant birds, the soft rustle of the breeze through blades of grass and leaves… it was quite serene, in a way. The young one responsible for cutting up spare firewood huffed, wiping away a little bit of sweat that collected at their brow before continuing; their muscles did not throb or ache, and they were quite used to completing household chores that demanded strength or endurance, but that didn’t change the fact that their task could indeed be a laborious one.

    A series of quieter snaps and the soft crunching of grass underneath the weight of someone’s footsteps drew their attention, and they stopped, turning around to face the direction that the noises had come from.

    Briefly, they had thought that their family had returned—they weren’t expecting any visitors, but they were expecting their father, mother, and little brothers to return sometime soon. However, they quickly realized that such a thing simply was not possible; had that been the case, there would have been four pairs of footsteps, but they could only discern two.

    Furthermore, when they turned around, they did not see any trace of their family. Instead, a light-haired woman and another person clad in what they guessed to be some kind of uniform stood a comfortable distance away from them., and… was that a blade? It was sheathed, and the uniform-wearing stranger did not seem keen on drawing it, but still!

    Their heart picked up speed for two reasons. One, that person had a weapon; anyone with any sense of danger would be concerned if someone armed approached them unexpectedly. Two, it was… kind of cool, actually. They knew better than to exclaim and gush about how cool that sword looked and ask about where the person had gotten it or what it was used for—was this person a martial artist? A samurai? Though, they thought that samurais no longer existed… then a shinobi, maybe? Or a former samurai?

    …Right. No. They knew better than to ask. These people were strangers. Even if that woman was practically ethereal, carrying herself with such beauty and grace that they really would not have doubted her if she said she was nobility, and that person had a very cool sword… they were still strangers.

    Of course, that didn’t mean that they needed to be unnecessarily harsh or rude. The people did not seem to have ill-intent, anyway; if they did, something surely would have happened by now.

    “Hello,” they greeted kindly, offering the two a polite smile as they set their axe down next to the pile of chopped wood. “Are you lost, miss? I can take you to the nearby village, if so.”

    “No,” she replied. “Thank you, young one, but we are not lost.”

    “Oh? Um… then…”

    It was as if she had read their mind, going on to answer their unspoken question:

    “I have come to find you.”

    “Me?” A variety of emotions flashed across their features—fear, disconcertment, unease—before finally settling on cautious curiosity. “Why?”

    Her professional, cool disposition did not falter at all. “You are the descendant of a great swordsman,” she vaguely explained, her tone smooth and almost soothing, in a way. “My duty, the purpose of my visit, is to ask if you would like to join the Demon Slayer Corps and carry on the legacy that he left behind.”

    “I… I am?”

    “Yes.”

    “I…” they trailed off, head almost spinning at the information she relayed to them and its implications, but with how earnest her expression seemed… it was hard to think that she was lying. That would explain the swordsman at her side (who had yet to say a single word and seemed to be largely on guard, constantly surveying the area for threats, ready to strike at a moment’s notice; perhaps this woman was not nobility, but she must have been important in one way or another to have such a stoic, attentive bodyguard).

    Demon Slayers—they did not doubt their existence. After all, their father often spoke of them, but it seemed so impossible. So fictional, like the kinds of stories and tales that one might tell a child to help them fall asleep.

    Yet, standing before them was a mysterious woman asking if they wanted to join them.

    “...I thought Demon Slayers were just fictional. Like— like the stories you tell little kids.”

    The uniform-clad person beside her made a noise at that. It sounded like a laugh. They were being laughed at.

    “Most people do,” she said, nodding, and the person next to her straightened up again; it was as if that person realized that maybe they shouldn’t have laughed, since it was a common misconception. “Demon Slayers are not recognized by the government. Therefore, save for the people who are already Demon Slayers and their families, most people do not believe in demons.” She stopped, but then clarified: “...But they are real, and they are an active threat.”

    “Um, would you like to have tea?” Nervously, they wrung their hands together. “I’m sorry, I… it’s a lot to take in at once, and I don’t want to force you to stand for as long as it takes to explain it to me. I think that would make me a rude host. So, um, would you like to have tea with me, miss?”

    "Very well."

    With a kind smile that seemed to waver and tremble a little bit under the intensity of the gaze of her bodyguard, they approached the woman, gingerly taking one of her hands in theirs and leading her along the path paved by frequent usage. She seemed surprised, eyes widening and calm expression faltering somewhat.

    …But then, her lips twitched upwards into the ghost of an adorning smile at the sheer innocence of their actions as she allowed herself to be led along, the Demon Slayer following close behind.

    “Oh!” They stopped, turning around to face her. “I’m so sorry, miss, I never asked for your name.”

    “That is quite alright,” she reassured, the diplomacy in her demeanor seeming to soften quite significantly as she looked down at them. “My name is Ubuyashiki Amane.”

    “I suppose I probably don’t have to introduce myself to you…”

    “No, you do not. It is a pleasure to meet you, Tokito [Name].”

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    “Should I call you Lady Amane?” they wondered softly as their calloused hands carefully poured the tea into three cups—one for them, one for Amane, and one for the Demon Slayer. The person seemed surprised as they handed one cup to them, offering a quiet ‘thank you’ in response. “Or, um, Lady Ubuyashiki?”

    “Most of the Corps’ children would call me Lady Amane,” she explained, “but you do not have to, since it is just us. You may call me Mrs. Ubuyashiki or even Mrs. Amane if you wish. Truthfully, even in front of others, you may still address me a bit less formally. It is only a display of respect, and we do not demand respect from our children. It is completely up to you if you wish to refer to me formally or informally.”

    A timid smile graced their face as they gazed down at the cup clutched between their two hands. “Mrs. Ubuyashiki… if I am a descendant of a swordsman, does that mean my little brothers are as well? And one of my parents?”

    “Yes, that is correct,” Amane confirmed, “but neither my husband nor I could ask young children to make the same commitment that we are asking of you. Furthermore, we also cannot ask a father to leave his home—his wife and his children—to fight in a war that defies nature, such as this one.”

    She raised the cup to her lips, basking in and appreciating both the warmth and flavor of the tea. It was a very much welcomed courtesy after her journey to find them.

    Silence descended upon the group for a short moment.

    Their little brothers, the twins… they were only four. She was indeed correct; they barely knew right from wrong at that age. It was far too young, and to ask their father to abandon his wife and little children would be deeply insensitive. She was right.

    Perhaps…

    Perhaps they really were the only viable candidate among their family at the moment.

    Before they could speak, Amane did.

    “Please understand that this is your choice,” she said. “We will not hold it against you if you say no. It is a difficult burden to bear. There are not many people who are suited for it, and there is no shame in being unsuited to carry such a weight on your shoulders.”

    “I understand,” they reassured, gnawing on the corner of their lip thoughtfully. “If… If I were to join the Demon Slayer Corps, what would that mean? What would happen?”

    Amane hummed thoughtfully. It was a valid question, and one that she had to answer very wisely.

    “If you were to join the Corps,” she began, “it would mean that you lose the promise of a tomorrow.”

    “I don’t think anyone is promised a tomorrow,” they cut in. “I mean, there is no way of knowing if we’ll really wake up tomorrow morning, is there? That’s why you have to cherish the moment while you’re in it, and be kind without reservation.”

    “...You’re right, little one. No-one who walks this world is promised a tomorrow. The members of the Corps have a very special understanding of this. If you join, you must understand that you could die at any given time, but it seems you already know this.”

    “My father taught me that. We don’t live very long, so we should make the most of it.”

    She smiled. They could not help but mirror it.

    “He was right.” She then continued, “Given that you understand this idea, I do not feel the need to emphasize it any longer. You asked what would happen, what it would mean to join… it would mean joining a war. You are welcome to leave at any time, but most do not. Many spend their entire lives fighting off demons to keep other people safe.”

    “I would be protecting others.”

    “Yes.”

    “So…” They met her gaze; there was a kind of wisdom in their young eyes, and it astounded her a bit. “Even though I would be leaving my family for who knows how long, I would get to protect them. To lower the chance that a demon might wander into our home and… and unjustly end our lives. If I joined the Corps, we wouldn’t be defenseless…”

    Demons were an invisible threat—a threat that they did not know existed, but one that they were now acutely aware of, and one that they would not be able to forget now that it had been revealed to them.

    “Yes.”

    “I could protect innocent lives.”

    “You could, indeed, but there is another thing you must be aware of: to join the Corps, you must train for and then survive a week-long event on a demon-infested mountain. Many people train for at least two years before this event, but some… well, some train for a much shorter amount of time and still survive. It will depend on you and your specific abilities.”

    "I see," they murmured softly, allowing the information to sink in. They stared into the swirling green tea in their cup.

    They were only eleven, soon to turn twelve. Were they capable of making this kind of decision? Were they allowed to? Was this okay? What might their father say, when they inevitably discuss the entirety of their encounter with Amane with him?

    …

    They didn’t know. They couldn’t be sure, but their heart was set—they wanted to do this. Protecting people, they and their father both believed, was a noble endeavor; he always encouraged them to be kind and selfless, and… it was indeed true that they mostly wanted to protect their family from a threat that otherwise could not be fended off. Nonetheless, they would still protect strangers.

    They would get to protect everyone.

    At their extended silence, Amane spoke up, "I understand if this is jarring and sudden—"

    “No— I mean, it is,” they managed to chuckle a bit as they gazed at her. “It’s okay, though, because if I become a Demon Slayer, I can protect people. I can protect my family so that no demon ever gets the chance to hurt them, right?”

    Amane was quiet for a second. Then, she offered the smallest yet sweetest smile. "Yes, that’s right."

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    The golden afternoon light bathed their face in its gentle warmth.

    Shortly following Amane’s departure, they had returned to chopping wood, though the encounter never did leave their head. Truthfully, for the following hours, it was all they could think about; the repetitive nature of their task did not make it any easier not to focus on what had happened.

    However, what did make it easy to forget about (at least, for the moment) was the sound of small, excited footsteps heading in their direction. They smiled to themselves, setting the axe down before turning around.

    “[Name]! [Name], look!” the brighter of the twins, Muichiro, exclaimed as he ran up to them, stumbling cutely to a stop before thrusting his arm outwards and up towards them. In it, a little flower was clasped. “It’s for you!”

    Amusedly trailing behind the boy were both parents and his slightly older brother, whose hand was held only somewhat securely in his mother’s. They waved with a bright smile at their parents before turning their attention back to their brother and kneeling down. “Aw,” they cooed. “Thank you Mui. That’s really sweet.”

    “Yuichiro has one too, but he’s too shy to give it to you,” the boy commented as he gently, gingerly placed the flower behind their ear.

    “Oh?” they replied, a teasing lilt in their voice as they curiously shifted their gaze from the youngest twin to the eldest. Yuichiro puffed out his slightly flushed cheeks with childish irritation that they had to actively restrain themselves from cooing at. “Is that so?”

    “Don’t say that, Muichiro,” Yuichiro huffed, shaking his hand free of his mother’s grip and reluctantly shuffling over to them. “Here,” he murmured, tucking his flower behind their other ear.

    They stared. Yuichiro knew instantly that he was in trouble. ‘Trouble,’ of course, meaning nothing serious—only that they were going to relentlessly tease him until the event became overshadowed by other tease-worthy occurrences.

    “You know, that’s cute,” they teased, hands reaching out and gently patting each of their heads, “you guys are the cutest.”

    Their parents only smiled at the interaction.

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    “Papa,” they murmured quietly from their place a few feet behind him where they were sitting on a vacant stump, fidgeting with their sleeves as they thought about how to proceed—how to bring up what had happened earlier in the day. The rhythmic snapping of wood that they had grown so used to came to a halt as the man smiled, his warm eyes turning to his oldest child.

    The light of the afternoon had long since sunk below the horizon, leaving the sky an ombre of blues as it got darker, shadows enveloping the world in the sun’s absence. Their father’s voice was gentle, considerate of their blatant anxiety, as he asked, “What is it?”

    “You know the stories about Demon Slayers you tell me sometimes?” they wondered, gaze directed downwards as an inexplicable sense of guilt began to settle in their gut. It was as if they were doing something wrong, as if the direction that the conversation would inevitably go in was somehow punishable. He walked over to them, kneeling in front of where they were sitting. “Are— are they true..?”

    “Of course. I wouldn’t tell you lies,” he laughed, reaching out to ruffle their hair. For a brief moment, the gesture seemed to calm their racing heart and trembling palms ever so slightly, but the anxiety came back just as soon as it had gone. “Why the sudden interest?”

    Their stomach twisted.

    …But really, they had no way out of it now—the truth was going to come out one way or another, and if they tried to back out, it would look suspicious.

    They always told him when something was bothering them. This ‘something’ should have been no different, but it was.

    “Um, when you all were out today…” they trailed off, now picking at the skin around their nails. Their father’s gentle but calloused—equally calloused as their own, if not more so—hands cupped theirs the second they began to do so. It was as if he was softly discouraging them from doing something that could be potentially harmful. Of course, the gentle discouragement would never be enough to fully put a stop to the habit, but it was good enough for the time being.

    “Go on. What is on your mind?”

    “When you all were out today,” they continued, taking a deep breath to soothe themselves, “a woman visited. She was nice. Her name was Ubuyashiki Amane. She explained to me that I had descended from a swordsman.”

    “That’s true,” their father confirmed, thumbs rubbing along their knuckles. “Somewhere on my side of the family, I believe, there was a great swordsman.”

    “Right.” They nodded. “She didn’t say what side, but… that’s what she told me. She’s the wife of the leader of the Demon Slayer Corps, and she asked me if I would join them.”

    “...Well, do you want to?”

    “Yes…” Ashamed heat built up underneath their skin, and they only managed to squeak out a quiet ‘I’m sorry.’

    “No, no,” he immediately insisted, gripping his child’s hands with more purpose now. “Don’t be sorry. Just answer me this, okay? Do you understand the implications of that?”

    They could only nod. It was far too hard to speak under the weight of guilt and shame and embarrassment creeping around their neck and onto their chest. 

    “You are no weak child.” He smiled again. “I have to be honest, [Name]. I would rather that you didn’t join them, but I also know that you would make a fine swordsman.”

    “You— you think so?”

    “I’m certain of it.”

    A calm, reassuring silence descended. They were exceedingly aware of the ambient sounds of the night—the distant hum of insects, the—now much colder—breeze still weaving its way through the grass and leaves…

    “I know it’s dangerous,” they whispered, “but I want to be able to save people, papa. I want to be able to save you and mama and— and Mui and Yui—” 

    “Shh. I know, little one. The last thing I want is to see you get hurt,” he said, now caressing their face with his hands and bringing his forehead to theirs, “but that is a beautiful want. I raised you this way, so this comes as no surprise to me. Will she be returning?”

    “She said she would come back in three days.”

    He then withdrew, pressing a kiss to the crown of their head. “Then… I suppose I’ll have to let you go in three days.”

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    That night, the only thing they could hear was the pounding of rain on the roof and the roaring of rain throughout the night.

    A soft sigh left their lips, head resting against one of the walls of their small, cozy room. Despite the powerful sense of safety their little room induced, sleep failed to find them. No matter how hard they tried, they simply could not fall asleep. Was it anxiety? Was it the stress of the day, of the decision they made? Was it the knowledge that in three days, they’d be leaving? They didn’t know. They couldn’t be sure. 

    Again, they sighed. Their eyelids closed as they listened to the repetitive tapping of the rain.

    Over the rain, they just barely managed to catch the sound of their door sliding open, but they did manage to catch it. Their tired eyes opened. Upon seeing the boy in the doorway, they smiled.

    “Hi, Yui.”

    It most certainly was not the first time one of the twins ran to their room late at night; shockingly, however, it was usually the oldest who would run to them. Muichiro was notorious for being a heavy sleeper, and he generally didn’t have nightmares, nor did thunderstorms wake him up. Yuichiro, however, slept far more lightly and was prone to waking up in the middle of the night. He disliked bothering his parents and would typically be the one to comfort Muichiro if he couldn’t sleep, so who did the older of the twins end up running to when he had trouble sleeping?

    His older sibling, of course. They would not have it any other way.

    “I guess the thunder’s just a bit too loud for you tonight,” they mused, just loud enough to be heard over the storm but not loud enough to potentially wake up anyone else. Yuichiro trembled, chewing on his bottom lip; even in the dark, they could still see the gloss of unshed tears in his eyes. “C’mere,” they murmured, opening their arms invitingly. “Guess mama and papa are asleep if you’re running to me, huh? And I’ll bet Mui is too, the heavy sleeper he is.”

    Yuichiro nodded quickly, shuffling over to them. They lifted up their blanket, readjusting it over his head when he crawled onto their futon. The way the blanket draped over his head and body almost made it look as if he was wearing a cloak of sorts—the thought made them giggle. 

    When loud thunder suddenly struck, the boom! resonating all throughout the area, he squeaked, burying his face in their torso. They hummed, leaning back against the wall. "It’s okay to be scared," they murmured now that he was close enough to hear. Soothingly, their fingers toyed with his long hair. "I’m here. I’m watching over you. You’re safe, alright?"

    Though he would likely not admit it out loud, their words soothed the fear building in his little body. He finally relaxed against their chest.

    Soon enough, he'd fallen asleep like that. It was easy to tell; the frantic, panicked breaths had become steady and slow, and he would no longer give any indication of having heard whatever they were saying to him. After some time of sitting there with him, they found that his light weight against their chest was aiding with their own sleeplessness. Eventually, they too managed to fall asleep.

    The next morning consisted much of their parents cooing over how cute the two were.

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    Three days passed peacefully without incident.

    Just as Amane had promised, she returned on the morning of the fourth day, again with a Demon Slayer at her side. They weren’t sure if it was the same one, but they supposed that didn’t really matter much. 

    “Shall we take this conversation outside?” their mother suggested, to which they nodded… but they did not fail to notice their little brothers’ intense stares boring into the back of their skull from their hiding place behind one of the other doors, and it seemed that their mother also noticed.

    “I’ll tell them to wait in here, mama.”

    She smiled, thanking her child before stepping outside with her husband and Amane. Only when the front door had shut did they turn around, meeting their brothers’ gazes with equal intensity, making them squeak in unison.

    “Psst. Come here, you two.”

    Defeatedly, the twins waddled out. Muichiro was lightly clutching Yuichiro’s sleeve. Perhaps it was because of the presence of an unfamiliar woman? Muichiro was shy. He always had been—Yuichiro was the calmer one, in that respect. Muichiro was friendly, having waved timidly in Amane’s direction when she entered, but he was still shy. Their father was always trying to encourage him to be bolder, but that was easier said than done. It was often in his moments of anxiety, such as the current one, that he clung onto his twin brother, so… they supposed that could be why. 

    No. That was most definitely why.

    They kneeled down to the height of their little siblings. “Listen, I’m going away for some time, okay?”

    Muichiro’s reaction was instant—little mint eyes widened as he immediately reached forward, now tugging on their sleeve with a pouty expression. “No,” he whined. “[Name] can’t leave…”

    “I’m not leaving forever!” they quickly clarified, at which the younger twin seemed to calm down somewhat. “I’ll visit as much as I can, and I’ll send lots of letters and presents, okay?”

    They knew very well that they could not promise many visits, though… they would try their best. Hopefully, that would be enough for their brothers.

    Yuichiro, too, pouted, shooting them a childishly cute glare as he—rather weakly; he was just far too little to do any real damage—punched their arm. “You better,” he huffed.

    “Of course,” they reassured. “I can’t disappoint my little brothers, now can I?”

    Both boys shook their heads, as if to agree and say, ‘No, you can’t.’ Though, they were not oblivious, and they took notice of the generally downcast demeanors the two bore. Well… if their mother wasn’t here, wasn’t looking, then… they grinned a mischievous smile, reaching into the clothes draped over their body and pulled out two pieces of candy. Their clothes, particularly the folds and the sleeves, were exceptional places to store bribery material.

    The two children seemed to brighten up almost instantly at the sight of the sweets in their open palm (though, the brightening was less obvious on Yuichiro’s face, but they could tell that his mood did indeed improve, if only a little). Each took one from their palm, and they leaned forward to press kisses to each of their foreheads.

    “Don’t tell mama, okay?”

“[Name],” Yuichiro whined in protest, his face twisting in dramatic disgust. Muichiro only giggled at his brother’s annoyance. “Gross.”

    “Oh, hush,” they replied. “It’s not gross.”

    “Yeah, it is,” the older of the twins insisted, sticking his tongue out at them, to which they playfully rolled their eyes. “Bleh.”

    “Hey, you’re going to miss my ‘gross’ affection when I’m not at home all the time to give it to you,” they laughed as they stood up. “I’m going to head outside now, okay? Me, mama, and papa are just going to talk to that nice lady, so wait in here for us.”

    When the twins finally nodded, their reluctance not completely erased but placated for the moment, they finally slid open the front door and stepped out of the house.

    “Good morning, Lady Amane,” they greeted with a little smile as they closed the door behind them before walking over to said woman, who was in conversation with their parents. A small smile graced her elegant features once her eyes landed on them.

    “Hello, child.”

    A hand belonging to none other than their father found its way onto their head, ruffling their locks of hair, before falling back to his side. “So, they’ll have a safe place to stay while training, and you won’t let them go to… ah, forgive me—the Final Selection, was it called?”

    “Yes,” she confirmed, “and please, do not worry. We would not permit a child under our care to partake in the selection unless they were fully prepared to do so. Furthermore, we would be more than happy to host them at our home on the days that they do not return home.”

    Though their mother was reluctant—far more so than their father—she sighed, wringing her hands together before her arms settled back down at her sides. “Well… very well, then.” Her cool, mint-toned eyes shifted downwards to them. They stared back up at her, wide-eyed and anticipating her response. Her nimble fingers gently raked through their hair, stroking over the top of her oldest child’s head and down to just below their ear, before settling on cupping their face. “You have to promise to write to us often and come to visit when you can, okay?”

    “Yes! I will, mama, I promise.”

    “Then… you may go. Be careful, love, and save lots of people, too.”

    “I will!”

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    Truth be told, they did not own much. There wasn’t much of anything they needed to take with them—even clothes were not necessary, since Amane said that the Corps would cover it.

    Following the conversation, after giving hugs and—much to Yuichiro’s absolute despair—kisses, they left alongside the woman.

    “The journey back will be long,” Amane began, tilting her face in their direction to speak directly to them. They couldn’t help but admire the way her pale locks framed her face, tickling her cheeks and truly reinforcing the noble image of her that they had created in their head. “Therefore, we will spend the night at the current Flame Hashira’s manor. Demons are at their most active at nighttime, as they cannot survive exposure to direct sunlight, so we should avoid traveling after sundown as diligently as possible.”

    “Hashira?”

    “Ah. You have not yet learned of our ranking system… it seems I neglected to explain that detail. I am sorry, little one.”

    “No, no!” They waved their hands frantically as they went on to reassure her: “Please don’t apologize to me! It’s okay! I’m sure there’s lots of things you couldn’t possibly have had the time to explain to me in the short conversations we’ve had! It’s not your fault!”

    “Shall I explain now, then?” Briefly, she turned to face the accompanying Demon Slayer. “How long is the trip to Lord Rengoku’s estate?”

    Immediately, the person straightened up, giving her their complete attention. “Yes, Lady Amane! The walk will be about three hours!”

    “Then,” she began, turning back to face them with what seemed to be her usual serenity, “we do have time, if you would like to hear the explanation of the ranking system as we walk. It will also be explained to you at the end of the Final Selection, but you needn’t wait until then if you would like to know in advance.”

    “If you wouldn’t mind”--they offered her a timid smile, almost embarrassed to ask such a thing of her, even though she was the one who extended the offer in the first place—”I would like to hear about it. Since— since we have the time. If you don’t mind. Um. I said that already, didn’t I..?”

    She mirrored their smile, except hers reflected great grace and calmness that theirs certainly lacked (at least, that it lacked in that moment; something about their situation felt exceedingly surreal, as if they could not believe that it was actually happening, so it was quite difficult to maintain a steady expression and tone). 

    “Very well. At the very bottom are Mizunotos…”

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    Amane’s explanation, naturally, did not last the full three hours it took to reach the estate.

    Really, it only took about thirty minutes. They did, however, ask a multitude of questions that extended the length of the discussion for quite some time. The conversation drifted between topics—she did not have any children yet, they learned, though she did express the desire to have a few; they wondered if she felt at all compelled to, or if she simply wanted to be a mother… it wasn’t their place to make any kind of assumptions, so they did not dare to ask such a question—for some time, before settling into a comfortable silence for the remainder of the walk.

    By the time they reached the open gate of the house, the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon.

    “Good afternoon, Lord Rengoku.”

    A man stood tall slightly in front of the gateway, white haori dipped in the tones of flames blowing in the breeze alongside his matching hair (really, all they could possibly think when they looked at him was flames). Beside him stood a boy practically identical to him.

    Oh, that had to be his son. They genuinely could not fathom another explanation.

    “Lady Amane,” the older man greeted, his sharp gaze briefly flicking in their direction and making them squeak at its intensity, “welcome. I hope your journey was pleasant.”

    “It went smoothly. Thank you for your concern.” She then reached out, placing a gentle hand on their upper back. They instinctively straightened up somewhat, now completely under the scrutiny of that intense-eyed man and his intense-eyed son. “This is Tokito [Name], one living descendant of the first swordsman to use Breathing Styles, Tsugikuni Yoriichi.”

    “I see.”

    “It— It’s nice to meet you, sir!” they exclaimed, voice wavering slightly under the weight of their sudden shyness, bowing at the waist level.

    Silence.

    Then, a gruff snort—a chuckle—from the older man. A tough hand settled on their head and ruffled their locks. “Hey, kid. I am Rengoku Shinjuro, the Demon Slayer Corps’ Flame Hashira. Stand up straight. You know how to use a sword?”

    “I don’t, sir,” they replied, straightening their body once again and beginning to pick at the skin around their nails. 

    (This time, their father was not there to gently stop them. It was too soon to be growing homesick, but suddenly, a little bit of sadness settled in their gut. They could only hope that it did not show on their face.)

    “Well, now’s as good a time as any to start learning.” He turned his attention to his son. “Kyojuro—”

    “Yes, father!”

Oh. They winced. That boy was surely going to blow their eardrums out if he kept talking like that, but at the very least, his enthusiasm made them feel a bit better.

    “--why don’t you go ahead and teach them the basics of swordsmanship?”

    He beamed at the idea; they almost had to squint at the sheer brightness his face shone with. “Yes, father!”

    Kyojuro looked at them with a grin, his shoulders squared and proud as he extended one of his hands to them. “I am Rengoku Kyojuro!”

    “It’s nice to meet you, Rengoku, I’m— ah?!” they cut themselves off with a yelp as, the very second they placed their hand in his, he darted off beyond the gates and into the estate’s grounds, effectively dragging them along with him. They barely even had time to spare Amane a glance.

    Then, he suddenly stopped, causing them to stumble into his back with a small ‘oof!’

    “Ow.”

    “Sorry!” he apologized, glancing around the open space, as if searching for something. His gaze landed on a weapon rack, and his face immediately brightened again as he walked over to it. Two wooden swords, among a variety of other weapons, rested there. He picked up both. Then, with only a quick ‘Catch!’ as a warning, he tossed one in their direction.

    Deft hands caught it by the handle.

    Having spent much of their childhood chopping wood, they knew not to catch or grab any tools by the blade unless completely necessary.

    (When Muichiro was two, a visitor to their home left one hatchet in an extremely poor place. When it fell down, it may have very well split the poor boy’s face in half…

    …If not for their stopping it with their hand, that is. He did end up with a little bit of blood on his face, but they were just thankful that it wasn’t his; their wound meant nothing as long as he was okay. The scar, even two years later, would still stare back at them if they were to open their right hand and look for it—a huge slit across their palm that could have very easily affected their grip strength permanently. It served as a reminder of the stupid things they would do to protect their little brothers.

    Their current endeavor was also kind of stupid, now that they thought about it.)

    Technically, the wooden sword had no blade. It was more about the principle than the actual situation; they should never get into the habit of grabbing a wooden sword by its “blade,” lest that habit end up getting them hurt when they start using real swords with real blades.

    Kyojuro seemed delighted at their handling of the practice sword, too.

    “Okay!” he exclaimed. “Your first lesson is on how to hold the sword correctly! And the proper stance!”

    “The correct stance…” they echoed quietly.

    “Yes. When you stand, your feet should be shoulder’s width apart,” Kyojuro explained. Subconsciously, they adjusted their stance when he explained. He seemed to have calmed down somewhat by then, the volume of his voice having lowered quite considerably as he settled into his explanation. He approached them, gently and carefully tapping the back of their locked knees with his practice sword. “Also, don’t lock your knees”

    “Right.”

    “If you lock your knees, it makes it easier for people to knock you off balance. Sometimes it also can lead to injuries or make it easier for you to be injured, so keep them slightly bent at all times. There might be exceptions later down the line, but that’s just the general rule.”

    The younger child stepped back, raising his hand to his chin thoughtfully as he picked apart their stance for any significant errors or anything that needed to be corrected. When he found nothing, he nodded firmly, his bright smile returning to replace the thoughtful expression on his face.

    “Onto holding the sword, then!”

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    By the time Kyojuro had gone over all the basics that he felt were necessary, the sun had long since set, leaving the moon in its wake to bathe the Earth below in its soothing, cool light. The boy with the fiery hair had insisted on sparring with them.

    ‘Just a little!’ he had said. ‘I won’t push you too hard!’

    …They shot said boy a playful glare as their chest heaved, the wooden sword helping to support some of their weight as they caught their breath. They were careful to not put too much weight on the sword, though—oh, they’d feel terrible if they somehow broke or chipped it, no matter how unlikely that scenario actually was.

    (Amane had mentioned on the journey to the Flame Estate that Hashira are paid as much as they want, so they were fairly certain that Shinjuro would easily be able to afford a replacement without even causing so much as a dent in his savings. Still… they were a guest. To just waltz into someone’s home and recklessly break their belongings would be utterly unforgivable!

    …Even if that wouldn’t have even been close to what would have happened.)

    Kyojuro laughed boisterously at the look they gave him. “You’re strong, Tokito!”

    “Thanks… so are you. Ahh… my arms hurt…”

    He didn’t reply for a moment—if he was looking at something, they couldn’t really tell, as their head was tilted down while they tried to catch their breath and slow their racing heartbeat.

    “Oh!” he suddenly gasped, grabbing their hand and running over to one of the entrances to the house. “Hello, mother! This is Tokito [Name]!”

    Between the shock of being suddenly dragged along again and the panting from sparring with him, it took them a minute to raise their head. When they did, however, they were greeted with the sight of a dark-haired, red-eyed woman (she looked concerningly pale, they noted, but did not ask about something so potentially personal) with a boy identical to Kyojuro and his father clutching her sleeve shyly. He didn’t dare to meet their gaze, no matter how gentle they may have looked.

    “You have a brother?” they asked Kyojuro, smiling kindly at the little boy when he made a small noise of surprise at being indirectly addressed.

    Before the older son could respond, the woman did. “Yes,” she said. “This is Rengoku Senjuro, and I am Rengoku Ruka.”

    The lady of the house.

    “Ah, I’m— I’m so sorry for not addressing you first, Lady Rengoku!” they quickly apologized. “It’s just that I have—”

    She raised a hand, and they stopped.

    “Please. Mrs. Rengoku is perfectly fine,” she softly assured. “Continue, little one.”

    “Ah… of course, Mrs. Rengoku.” Heat rushed to their cheeks, and they reached up to shyly scratch the back of their neck. “I have little brothers that are probably around his age, and one of them is really shy. It just made me think of him, so I wanted to address Senjuro gently instead of pretending he wasn’t there. All kids are different, but… I think that maybe it helps to establish kindness first and foremost.”

    The ghost of a smile graced her lips at that. “It is to protect them that you’ve decided to join the Corps, yes?”

    “Yes, miss. That is a big part of why,” they started, “but I also want to protect a lot of other people, too. My dad always told me I should.”

    She nodded. Something unidentifiable flashed across her face for a moment, but just as fast as it had arrived, it left. All they could discern was that it was not necessarily negative. She then began to speak again.

    “Thank you for being Kyojuro’s friend. I hope Senjuro will also be friends with you one day.”

    The little boy buried his face in his mother’s side at that.

    Somehow—though they were sure it should not have been possible—Kyojuro’s face brightened immeasurably, as if it wasn’t bright enough already. He had yet to let go of their hand.

    “Oh— oh, of course!” No friendship had really been ‘formally established,’ in that he never explicitly asked if they wanted to be friends with him, but they didn’t mind much. “No, I really should be thanking him… he’s technically my first friend within the Corps, or my first friend who is associated with the Corps. It makes the idea of beginning my training before the Final Selection seem a lot less intimidating.”

    “That is good, then.” Her gaze shifted between the two of them. She looked as if she were contemplating something, as if whatever she planned to say next had to be considered carefully. Then, she finally murmured, “Protect one another out there, alright?”

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    Morning had come quickly after the conversation with Ruka. They had been fed, clothed, and given a room to stay in. Once the sun had risen and they greeted the Hashira, they tried to return the nightclothes, but Shinjuro had simply brushed it off, telling them that they should keep the set. Following that, Amane had departed with them and her Demon Slayer guard, though not before they said their goodbyes to Kyojuro.

    The remainder of the walk—about four hours—was completed in peaceful silence.

    As they approached, finally approached, their destination, an overwhelming but not unpleasant scent filled their senses.

    “Wisteria?”

    “It wards off demons.”

    “I see…” they murmured, awestruck at the sheer amount of wisteria trees surrounding the estate, the vines draping down and creating what could only possibly be described as an ethereal barrier between the outside world and the important family that lived within. 

    Upon pushing past the flower barrier, their eyes widened somewhat.

    "This," Amane began, "is the Demon Slayer Corps' headquarters. My husband and I live here. You are welcome to stay here until after the Final Selection, when you begin missions."

    “Are…” They trailed off, eyes flicking around the astonishing expanse of the home and admiring its beauty. Their attention was also drawn to the masked Demon Slayers scurrying around; unlike regular Slayers, these did not bear weapons. Other Demon Slayers, they also noted, seemed to always be unmasked, but these... 

    “They’re the Kakushi,” Amane’s guard said. They blinked—once, twice. That was the first time that they’d heard that person speak a whole sentence. Ignoring their bewilderment, the guard went on: “You could think of them as a cleanup and medical crew. They’re usually the people who have no swordsmanship skills, but still wanted to help our cause in some way.”

    “Ah.”

    “Right. Well, then…” The Slayer stepped forward and bowed to Amane. “I will be taking my leave, Lady Amane! I pray for your continued safety!”

    “Very well.” Amane nodded. “Thank you for escorting us safely.”

    “Of course!”

    With that, the person was off, and they were reminded of what they were initially going to ask.

    “Um… are you sure it’s okay for me to stay here, Lady Amane? I wouldn’t want to be a bother. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

    “Worry not,” she reassured. “It is no imposition. Come along. The master would like to meet you."

    With graceful, practiced strides, she began walking again, and they were quick to stumble after her. They followed along closely as she entered the home (though not before removing her shoes, and they swiftly followed her motion), peering curiously down different hallways as they walked.

    Already, they could foresee themselves getting lost… and probably more than once. The halls weren’t particularly difficult to navigate—there were just an astonishing amount of them that branched off, leading to different rooms and sometimes even additional hallways. It was dizzying, in a way.

    They couldn’t linger on those thoughts for too long, though, as Amane slowed to a stop in front of one particular room. Her gentle hands slid the door open, and she motioned for them to go inside.

    “Go ahead. Master is waiting.”

    “You’re not coming?”

    She smiled. The gesture alone immensely reassured them, easing whatever irrational concerns they had fabricated in their mind. “No, young one. I also have my own responsibilities to take care of, but worry not. Whatever it is that you are expecting, whatever you have envisioned that is causing you such fear, I assure you that the boy in that room will be nothing like it.”

Boy?

    Nonetheless, they nodded, whispering a quiet ‘thank you’ to her before stepping inside. She slid the door closed once they did.

    Beyond the threshold of the door, they spotted him for the first time—a dark-haired boy barely any older than they were, sitting with his legs tucked underneath himself on one side of a short table. The other side was vacant, presumably a seat for anyone he needed to speak to. Their breath hitched.

    He really was a boy. If they had to guess, they would say he was maybe twelve or thirteen; he was virtually their age. It made them fleetingly wonder how he could sit there and look so graceful. When the weight of leading the entire Corps through what could only be described as a war, how could he look so at peace? They dared not ask. Maybe they were too afraid to, or perhaps they really didn’t want to know.

    His attention shifted to them, and he smiled.

    They would be nervous to be under his scrutiny, but… it really didn’t feel like he was scrutinizing them—only gazing over their nervous form. It was then that they took notice of the sickly purple threatening to creep down his face from his hairline, which was another thing they were not keen on asking about, whether that be because they did not want to come off as impolite or because they knew that the answer may not be pleasant.

    “Come. Have a seat,” he beckoned gently, tone making their head spin at its utter softness.

    They snapped out of their daze, timidly shuffling over to the table and gingerly situating themselves on the side opposite to him. Embarrassed heat flooded their cheeks at the simple thought alone that their first impression might have gone poorly. They stood there like a child awaiting instruction! They tried not to think too deeply about that, lest they grow overcome by the wish to melt into the floor and disappear. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

    “There is nothing to apologize for,” he reassured. “My name is Ubuyashiki Kagaya. You may address me in whatever manner that you feel most comfortable, but most of the Corps’ children call me me Master. It is a pleasure to meet you, [Name].”

    “Y— You as well,” they somehow managed to stutter out, feeling a bit lighter every time he spoke to them. 

    Carefully, with motions surely just as practiced as—if not more so than—Amane, he rose to his feet. “Walk with me. Any questions you may have, I would be more than happy to answer.”

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    Questions, questions.

    They certainly had many. How did the Corps come to be? They had heard Lady Amane mention breathing styles—what exactly were they? Each question was answered in full with kind patience. Kagaya truly was more than happy to engage them as he brought them around the estate grounds. They’d even gotten answers to questions they were previously afraid to ask without even needing to work up the courage to ask them. Every single detail about the Corps was covered thoroughly, and the knowledge they attained was beyond reassuring. Things no longer seemed so intimidating.

    Of course, the idea of going head-to-head in combat with a demon whose strength undoubtedly exceeded theirs as a human was… certainly unsettling. It was still intimidating, but at the very least, they now fully understood the expectations in place for them and all other Demon Slayers.

    Coming to a halt in front of a door, Kagaya turned to them. “This is the room in which you will be staying. It is quite barren at this time, but you are wholly encouraged to decorate it to your tastes.”

    The walk continued after that. Down another hallway, turning another few corners… and then, he stopped again, this time sliding the door he had stopped in front of open.

    Warm, gentle rays of sunlight seeped into the room through a crack in another door opposite to where they were standing. If they had to make a guess, they would say that it led out into the little courtyard garden in the middle of the house. Shelves lined the inside of the room, filled to the brim with stacks of books on a vast variety of topics. A small table sat in an otherwise vacant space between two of the bookcases.

    “In this room, you will find books on quite possibly anything you could imagine,” Kagaya began, watching with a gentle, adorning smile as they cautiously stepped into the room, as if they feared causing even the smallest bit of damage or disturbance. “In particular, you should be able to find a record of nearly every breathing style to exist, even the unique ones that were personally tailored to suit their creator’s needs. Spend as much time as you would like in here. Find a breathing style that resonates with you, and then come find either myself or Amane.”

    They nodded fervently, quickly spinning around to face him and bowing. “I will. Thank you.”

    “Also,” he started once more, “do not be shy to explore the expanse of the estate’s land. You will be spending some time here, so please do familiarize yourself with the layout.”

    “Yes, I will,” they replied, standing up straight once again. “Thank you again.”

    With that, he nodded at them, the soft smile on his lips still remaining as he slid the door shut, before—presumably—leaving.

    A gentle, thoughtful hum rose in their throat as they stepped closer to one of the shelves. Mindful fingertips trailed along the spines of each book, reading the labels as they went along. It just so happened that this shelf was one of what they assumed would be many with some books about breathing styles.

    Kagaya’s explanation was thorough. From it, they had come to understand the five fundamental Breathing Styles—Water, Flame, Wind, Stone, and Thunder. Then, the derivatives, such as Flower, Insect, and Mist. Their options were plentiful and certainly not limited, which they supposed was a good thing, but it was also… overwhelming. Insanely so. How were they meant to know which Breathing Style would be the best for them, for their body?

    …Maybe they should ask Kagaya.

    Though, that could wait until later. For now, the very least they could do was research—the only way they’d know what Breath Style to pursue would be by investigating the demands of each one.

    Of course, their combat style was hardly even their main focus; first and foremost, they would need to focus on getting stronger. However, it was never a bad idea to prepare in advance, and the leader of the Corps must have thought the same; otherwise, they couldn’t possibly imagine why he might lead them here and leave them to their devices.

    A soft sigh left through their nose, thoughts drifting back to the family they left behind. It really was too soon to grow homesick, and yet…

    They were utterly powerless to stop sick feeling from clawing at their throat and sinking into their skin.

    They hadn’t thought too deeply about it before, but from here on out, they saw themselves being exceedingly busy. Too busy to visit as often as they would like to, at least. They could only see it getting worse one they were actually an active member of the Corps. Would they have time to see their parents? To see their brothers? The thought that their family may one day perceive their joining the Corps as abandonment made their stomach twist, as if someone shoved a knife into them.

    …But there was nothing to be done about that at the moment. No amount of regret could change the decision they made, and really, could they say they regretted it? They didn’t think so. What they did regret, however, was how distant their home was from the Ubuyashiki Estate. Seven hours… it was quite the distance.

    They sighed again, shaking those thoughts off before they could spiral again as they delicately plucked one book out of its spot.

    Its contents were about the most basic of Breathing Styles—Water Breathing.

                       — flower of the universe !! 🌸

    What had once been light yellow midday light peeking through the crack of the door was now golden, late afternoon light that crawled further into the space than it did before as the sun crept downwards.

    Sleepily, their hand toyed with the edge of one paper page, the other hand being used to prop up their chin as they fought desperately to keep their heavy eyelids open. Lazy eyes sluggishly scanned the words hand-written on the page, barely comprehending what was written—something about the proper positioning of each foot for the specific form that they were reading about, which was… actually, they weren’t even sure anymore. What Breathing Style was this book even about? Their head hurt.

    Two other books were neatly stacked off to the side.

    It had taken quite a few hours of walking to get from the Flame Estate to the Ubuyashiki Estate. Although they were well-used to physical exertion—one impact of growing up among a family of woodcutters—walking for hours on end was tiring, especially for someone so young. Though, it was hardly the physical exertion that made them tired, but that paired with the mental exhaustion caused by studying several different books for multiple hours was certainly enough to make them sleepy.

    "I see you’ve taken interest in Mist Breathing," a calm voice, harboring just the slightest twinge of amusement, spoke up, scaring them into awareness.

    Oh, right. Mist Breathing. That’s what the book in front of them was about.

    Their eyes snapped fully open, body jolting into an upright position. Once they swiftly twisted their body to look at the source of the voice, they calmed down somewhat, although their face did flood with embarrassed warmth again. “Master…"

    A light chuckle resonated through the room. He paced over to the table, situating himself at the other end. “We, unfortunately, do not have any active trainers for Mist Breathing.” His gaze shifted to the other two books. “Ah, Water Breathing and Flower Breathing. While we also lack a trainer for the latter, we do have one for the former, if that is something you would be interested in.”

    They perked up suddenly at the discussion of Breathing Styles. Blinking away the growing sleep in their eyes, they dared to finally, properly meet his gaze.

    “Oh, actually… how do you know what Breathing Style to pursue? I just… I’m kind of having trouble deciding. It all feels so overwhelming.”

    “It is normal to feel that way,” Kagaya assured, “but the truth is that there is no way to simply know.”

    “Ah…”

    Then, he hummed thoughtfully. “Your ancestor, Tsugikuni Yoriichi, was the creator of Breathing Styles and used the most powerful one of them all, Sun Breathing.”

    An unspoken question danced on their lips. They did not need to voice it; Kagaya seemed to know what they might ask, and so, he went on to answer.

    “We have very little information about it.”

    “Ah. That’s a shame, then.”

    “Indeed,” he agreed, nodding. “...If you wanted to pursue it, though, I would not be opposed to doing further research into it.”

    Their face brightened up almost instantly. Still, they did not immediately take his offer.

    “Are you sure?” they wondered, going to pick at the skin around their nails once again. It was almost guaranteed that their fingertips would be raw within the next few days if they kept it up. “I would not want to ask something so… I don’t know. Something so demanding of you and your time, knowing how busy you are.”

    A smile adorned his features, and his eyes crinkled somewhat with something they couldn’t quite discern. It almost seemed to be fondness, or something extremely similar.

    “I am quite sure. I would not have extended the offer to you otherwise. I will look into Sun Breathing, but for now, I would advise picking an alternative.”

    “Well…” they mused, gaze flicking back down to the open book in front of them. “...In that case, I think I’d like to teach myself Mist Breathing. I am not the type of person to shy away from a challenge.”

    Kagaya nodded. "Very well, then. Despite being unable to perform Breathing Styles myself, I have had the immense honor of witnessing many talented swordsmen execute them. As such, I will be able to offer you corrections on your stance, though I am afraid I will not be able to do much else in the way of assisting your training.”

    They nodded, listening attentively despite their tiredness.

    Truly, it was an honor that he was so willing to help at all; he very well could have left them completely on their own to figure it out, and yet, here he was, expressing regret over being unable to help them in some other way.

    "Another important aspect of training for the Final Selection is developing an exercise routine alongside practicing your chosen Breath Style. Your exercise routine should take precedence. The goal is to increase skills such as endurance, speed, and strength," the young leader explained further. Noticing their tired expression, he chuckled. "That is something to handle tomorrow, though. You should rest; your journey was not a short one, after all."

    All they could do was offer a timid, astonished nod. The boy then rose to his feet and they quickly followed suit, picking up the three books on the table as they did. With focused caution despite the exhaustion permeating their bones, they put the first two back on the shelves.

    "You can borrow the Mist Breathing book," Kagaya said before they could put it away. "It will be a good reference for you to have.”

    "Are you sure?" they questioned, holding the last book in their hands. The care with which they held it was almost laughable, though not in a mocking manner—laughable in that their nervousness was simply endearing. It spoke volumes about the way that they were raised. "Is... is that really okay?"

    "Of course. Now, come along. You can begin training tomorrow once you have adequately rested."

reblogs with comments or tags > likes. @soleillunne.

[yazis]

✰ HEART STEALER

summary: whilst on your vacation in fontaine you accidentally end up in jail. luckily, a certain someone is going to make your trip down to the fortress worthwhile

pairing: wriothesley x gn!reader

genre: fluff, strangers to friends to lovers sort of

word count: 6.2k

notes: not proofread, reader isn’t from fontaine and works in mondstadt (hints at reader working with albedo), reader is also a bit slow and wriothesley isn't any help, set after archon quest

after spending four days down at the fortress of meropide, you could confidently say it sucked.

the accommodations, the food, the people, the faint smell of oil and grease always lingering around, it was a major downgrade from the hotel you had been staying in previously.

you had originally come to fontaine for a vacation that your boss back in mondstadt insisted you needed. and now you were going to have to spend most of it in prison.

all you had done, was eat ketchup on its own. that’s all. nothing more, nothing less, it wasn't even that big of a deal. when you had finished your dinner at the hotel one day, there was some remaining ketchup left. you weren't going to let it go to waste so, naturally, you ate the ketchup on its own.

never would you have thought such a law to exist, and even so you never would have deemed it a heinous crime. and yet, during the trial at the opera epiclese the fontainians made you seem like a heartless villain.

sighing you sat down at the coupon cafeteria at an empty table placing your free meal down. it already reeked.

by the time my twenty-day sentence is over, i’ll only have three days of my vacation left... you thought.

in the fortress of meropide, the inmate that led you on your tour upon first arriving explained that you would have to work in the 'production zone' everyday and you only got one free welfare meal a day.

with that information you decided it'd be best to skip out on breakfast and dinner and have your meal at lunch. all your other time you spent working in the production zone under grainville's supervision. the work was at least easier than all the expeditions in dragonspine you'd have to go on with your boss.

that, essentially, was your routine for the four days you had spent here. you didn't want to get in trouble again for some stupid reason so you made sure to keep to the rules.

opening your welfare meal for the day, you were met with the same disgusting grey sludge that had greeted you yesterday and the day before. you immediately put the lid back on.

since you had step foot in the fortress, you hadn’t eaten a single thing and you honestly felt famished. it wasn’t your fault that everything was practically inedible.

you rested your chin on your hand, sighing yet again for the nth time today. you were considering just skipping lunch entirely, it wasn't like you were eating anything anyway.

when you first stepped foot in the fortress, you told yourself you should try and make the most out of your trip here, think of it as an experience, an extra vacation. but it was as if there was something you were missing.

most of the other inmates looked as if they were living the life down at the fortress of meropide. your isolated table was surrounded by others who were happily chatting away, with scrummier meals than you as well.

am i doing something wrong? how can anyone be genuinely happy here?

you thought, pushing away you’re own meal box in disgust and staring longingly at someone else’s meal that looked as if it belonged in hotel debord. the sight alone was enough to fill a fraction of the hunger inside you.

i guess this will just have to do...

“not a fan of the food, huh?” a voice suddenly spoke and you jumped slightly looking up to see a man sitting opposite you on your once lonely table.

one glance at the man and you already knew you did not want to deal with him. you had already ran into a couple of inmates, they either ignored you because they didn’t care or gave you a hard time just because.

this man, looked as if he was ready to do the latter.

well, i shouldn’t judge a book by it's cover…

he had messy black hair with grey streaks along with piercing blue eyes. with the way his arms were crossed you could see his muscles flex but also the various scars on them. he also had numerous scars around his neck and one just underneath his right eye.

you’d be lying if you said he was unattractive, you definitely would've noticed someone like him by now so you wondered why you hadn't seen him before.

“well, maybe i’d eat it if it at least looked edible.” you responded watching him in front of you, still taking in his whole appearance.

maybe... he's new here too? why else would he come talk to me?

at your response the man raised a brow, taking in your features. as his eyes scanned across your attire and up to your face, they eventually landed on your own as he stared right through you. his gaze pierced through you and you nearly shuddered from the intimidation.

you also noticed the looks and hushed whispers that other inmates were giving him once he had sat on your table. perhaps people had been giving him a hard time.

"um," you gulped "are you new here?" you asked. maybe he didn't have any friends like you, that would explain why he came and sat on your table all of a sudden.

he stared at you a while longer before giving you a lazy smile and leaning forward slightly. “yeah i am, are you?”, he asked.

"i mean i joined here four days ago so i guess... what's your name?" you asked smiling back, maybe he wasn't as scary as he looked.

he was silent for a bit as he looked down, it was as if he was contemplating whether he should tell you or not. you stared at him expectantly awaiting his answer.

"wriothesley." he said eventually.

"wriothesley." you repeated, "well, i'm (y/n). i may not know a lot about this place but if you need anything i can try my best to help." you smiled warmly at him.

he smiled back, well more it was more of a smirk, but either way there was a glint of something in his eye that you noticed but couldn't quite put your finger on.

—————

after your little chat with wriothesley at lunch, the two of you parted ways and you headed to the production zone to work until bed time.

when you headed to your room, you got ready for bed and tucked yourself in, closing your eyes so that you could allow sleep to engulf you.

except it never did, and you laid in your bed for hours waiting for the sleep to come.

after a while it eventually rolled to 1am, it was dead silent apart from the constant sound of cogs whirring giving the fortress a more of an eerie feel as you slipped out of your bed.

you trudged towards the lift and made your way to the bottom floor, planning on just sitting at the coupon cafeteria for a while basking in the silence. that's when you stumbled upon the place to find that someone was already there.

the same man from earlier sat in the dim light at the same table from earlier with a teacup to his lips peacefully drinking away, eyes closed. a matching teapot was upon the table and sweet smell of tea wafted throughout.

the rich and sweet aroma was nearly intoxicating, and for someone who hadn't eaten properly in the past few days you felt as if you were hypnotised.

at first you observed from a distance, comtemplating whether or not you should confront him. would he let you try some if you asked? you would have to remember his name first...

wriother... wriothesee... wriothesley? wriothesley! that was it!

"wriothesley?" you called out to the fellow inmate as he opened his eyes to meet yours. he help the cup away from his lips briefly and spoke up.

"oh, evening (y/n)." he acknowledged giving you a small nod, as you made your way to sit opposite him.

"why are you drinking tea out in the open? the guards are going to catch you." you asked while he merely shrugged and set his cup down.

"the guards end their watch night duty at twelve." he stated.

oh, i didnt know that.

"i could ask you the same though. what are you doing wandering around at one in the morning?" he asked, glancing at you.

"i just... couldn't sleep that's all." you said turning your head slightly.

you eyes trailed down to the cup that now rested on the table, noticing how the steam frrom the cup swirled and how the smell was even sweeter now that you were close. wriothesley saw all of this.

"...would you like a sip?" he eventually asked watching the way your eyes gazed on his teacup.

at his words you shot your head up to face him properly.

"really? can i?" your eyes practically lit up which he also took note off, he chuckled before pushing the teacup forward in your direction so that it was in front of you.

you grinned at him before taking the cup in your hands, not too bothered about the fact that you were using the same one as him.

you proceeded to take a sip and it tasted ten times better than the smell. the heat from the drink brought warmth inside of you and the flavours had a sense of familiarity.

the warm hot tea that your boss would usually give you in the little cave in the freezing depths of dragonspine was what first crossed your mind. and you were reminded of home.

you were done taking your sip and let out a happy sigh as you set the cup down.

unbeknownst to you, wriothesley had watched the way you drink the tea and couldn't help but be fascinated in the way your facial expression changed. your eyebrows slightly raised with your eyes slightly widened, the way your smile truly met up to your eyes.

a warm feeling came over him to see you enjoying the tea just as much - probably even more than he did.

"do you like it?" wriothesley asked and you nodded eagerly.

"yeah! it's really good, and tastes sort of familiar. anyway, thanks again, wriothesley." you said pushing the cup back towards him.

"no probl-" he cut himself off after looking down at the now empty tea cup that you had given back to him.

"you finished it..." he muttered quietly eyes widened slightly, when he had handed it to you there was still quite a lot left.

your eyes also widened at his expression as you sheepishly rubbed the back of your neck.

"sorry, i haven't eaten much since i got here so..." you said avoiding his gaze out of embarrassment, you hadn't meant to get carried away the tea just tasted that good.

his eyes shifted from the cup and looked at you, frowning ever so slightly, "you haven't eaten?"

"well apart from the few snacks i brought, my welfare meals have been so bad..." you explained still feeling a tad bit guilty.

"i see. the welfare meals are picked at random so you must've been unfortunate." he explained.

"oh really? so that's how it works..." you said trailing off in thought.

he knew about the when the guards' duty ended and the welfare meals yet i didn't, is this guy really new or am i just slow?

"um, how long have you been here wriothesley?" you asked cautiously and curiously.

"three days." he replied rather suddenly, filling his teacup with some more tea out of the teapot.

"oh, ok then." you said, "it's just you know a lot about this place, probably more than me!" you laughed slightly, he didn't respond and instead kept quiet.

silence fell over the two of you as he sipped his tea looking down at the table and you watched him contently with a small smile.

"you're much nicer than i thought, y'know." you said out of the blue.

"hm?" he said looking back up to face you, "what do you mean by that?"

"i guess it's just that when I first saw you i got the impression that you were the kinda inmate who scared everyone. kinda like a big bad wolf." you explained.

at your comment, he simply looked at you with a deadpan expression. seemingly unimpressed at your claims.

you laughed at his face as a yawn escaped your mouth the same time.

"perhaps you should go to sleep now." he suggested noticing your tiredness.

"maybe i should." you agreed getting up from your seat and stretching, you checked your watch and it was nearly 2.

you looked at wriothesley mildly perplexed, "aren't you going to sleep?"

he shook his head, "no, i still have some things i need to sort out."

what could he possible need to do at 2am?

you decided not to question his motives as yet another yawn escaped you.

"alright then, make sure you get some sleep at least. good night wriothesley." you waved, him giving you a curt nod back before making your way back to your room.

—————

you slept particularly well that night but woke up abruptly the next morning as dread filled your gut. you checked your watch as it read a time around ten in the morning.

i slept in! grainville's totally gonna kill me!

quickly you got out of bed and started to get ready until the same sweet smell from yesterday filled your nose bringing you to a halt.

turning you looked over to the table situated in the corner of your room as you caught sight of a familiar teacup and a grey welfare meal box.

you walked on over to the table, the tea was still warm and there was a small note on the top of the box.

'don't worry about sleeping in, i told grainville that you'd be having a lie in. enjoy breakfast. - wriothesley'

you smiled to yourself before setting the little note aside. you didn't even stop to question how he got grainville to obey his orders, the food inside the box smelled too good.

when you opened the grey meal box, you were met with two croissants and a stack of three pancakes topped with maple syrup and berries. your mouth practically started watering at the sight and you wasted no time and dug in.

—————

from then on, your welfare meals improved drastically and you knew it was wriothesley's doing (yet you still wondered how he had managed to). it had been two days since meeting with him that night and you hadn't seen him since.

you brought the teacup with you everyday since then hoping you'd be able to give it back and thank him but you were yet to see him again.

since food wasn't a problem anymore, you were able to work your shifts at the production zone, and you weren't sure if you were imagine things but grainville had been much nicer to you recently. while you worked, he'd tell you to take break any time you wanted.

on the way, you also happened to befriend the bombshell bros, cuistot and laverune.

"what's with the weird teacup (y/n)?"

"oh it's just uh, for a friend?" you said scratching your neck, looking around to find something else to talk about until your eyes landed upon something,

"oh yeah! what's that room?" you asked walking past the doors at the central part of the administrative area, you had passed it a few times but never knew what it was.

"oh that, that's the duke's office." laverune said.

there's a duke here?

"oh yeah," cuistot piped in, "he's basically in charge down here, a real big shot! the last thing you want is to cross paths with him."

subconsciously, you looked down to the teacup in your hand and pondered.

huh... the duke sounds like a big deal yet i haven't seen him before... i guess that's for my own good though

you and laverune dropped cuistot off at the cafeteria so he could work his shift in the kitchen and then headed off to the production zone.

laverune left after around thirty minutes, saying something about how he was hungry and tired yet you stayed, working tirelessly to process widgets. what the fortress needed all of these widgets for was still unknown to you.

while you were working away, you couldn't help but notice a melusine watching you from the corner of your eye.

she looked a tad bit different from the melusines you had seen up on the surface while on your various excursions in fontaine but still had the same cuteness at least. you wondered why a melusine would be down here of all places.

you didnt think much of her at first, not until she came up to you herself.

"hello! you're mx. (y/n), right?" she said waving at you with a wide smile.

you returned with another smile, albeit a bit surprised she had not only approached you but also knew of your name.

"oh, uh yeah that's me! do you need something?" you asked and she nodded.

"my name's sigewenne, i'm the head nurse down here. I’ve been watching you work and was wondering if you'd follow me? i'd like to give you a check up." she inquired, and how could you refuse to such a cute face?

so you ended your shift at the production zone and considering you had nothing else really to do instead, you followed sigwenne.

one thing led to another and now you were laying down in one of the beds of the infirmary.

“mx. (y/n), are you sure you're feeling well?” sigewinne asked as she looked over your state worriedly taking the thermometer from your mouth.

she had run a couple of tests on you, saying you had 'piqued her curiosity'. but now there seemed to be some sort of problem.

"uh yeah i am, why?" you said confused as she shook her head putting down the thermometer.

"you have a temperature of 40°C, im afraid you're going to have to stay here in the infirmary until it goes down."

"wha- but i feel fine!" you sat up all of a sudden as sigewenne ushered you back down.

"don't worry mx. (y/n), i have just the thing!" she said rushing out the room, you sighed sitting up again and resting your back against the head of the bed.

you had placed the teacup down on the floor beside the bed prior to sigewenne's check up, you bent down slightly and picked it up so you could place it in your lap. then you thought about your current predicament.

is it because i was in the production zone for too long?

it was just a habit of yours to work a lot, but you never thought it would end up in you getting a temperature. the thing was you didn't even feel hot. maybe it was because-

"(y/n)?"

your head whipped to the entrance of the infirmary as the familiar voice fell upon your ears.

"wriothesley! where did you go? it's been two days!" you said smiling upon his arrival.

he didn't necessarily answer your question you noticed, but he came over to your bed and pulled a chair out of a desk nearby to sit right by you.

"sigewenne informed me on your state, are you feeling alright?" he said asking you a question in return.

you blinked. sigewenne told him? wasn't she going to get something? why would she tell him of all people?

oh! maybe they're friends?

"oh yeah i'm okay, i honestly don't know what happened..." you laughed slightly looking off to the side.

"you overworked yourself." he sighed, "you don't have to spend all your time in the production zone."

"i know i know... it's just a habit of mine. i guess that's why my boss sent me here to fontaine, to take a break. it's a shame i have to spend some of it down in prison" you explained.

"i see." he said watching your expression and the way your eyebrows furrowed, "do you miss mondstadt?"

"just a bit." you nodded, "i mean i'm going back soon after my sentence but-"

wait a second, i don't remember telling him i came from mondstadt?

but before you could question the fact that he knew where you were from someone else came in.

"your gr- wriothesley, please could i ask you to leave. mx. (y/n) here needs to rest." sigewenne said with her hands on her hips and a pout on her lips.

wriothesley chuckled at her expression before getting out of his chair as you watched him rise, a small frown on your face.

"oh ok. well, thanks for the tea and breakfast a few days ago! it was really really good. here's your cup." you said holding it out for him.

still, i wonder how he managed to get ahold of such nice food down here...

he reached out to receive his cup and you felt his fingers brush against yours sending a jolt of electricity through your entire body causing you to visibly tense up.

"no problem. i'll come visit you again tomorrow." he said with the faintest smile on his face, his eyes not as piercing as they were upon first meeting him.

your breath hitched slightly and you felt your heartbeat start to quicken as you watched him leave the infirmary, eyes still lingering to where he once was. however your actions didn't go unnoticed by a certain melusine.

once he had left, sigwenne came up to you and checked your temperature once more.

"(y/n)! your temperature has gone up again!" she exclaimed bringing you out of your trance.

"o-oh! really? huh..." you said feeling slightly embarrassed, you yourself new the reason as to why that happened.

"here, drink this and your temperature should go down." she said holding out a cup innocently and you received it with a sheepish smile.

"thanks sigewenne." you said taking a massive sip, not expecting the drink to be so bitter with a side of... spiciness? you swallowed it (barely) but starting coughing soon after.

"w-what's in this??" you choked out.

"oh, nothing you need to worry about. everything in there has healing properties." she reassured.

"right... thanks sigewenne." you said handing her back the cup which she took from your hands.

you thought she'd leave you alone but she just stood there, not looking like she's be moving anytime soon. you contemplated whether or not you should ask if she was alright until she spoke up.

"what do you think of wriothesley?" she asked out of nowhere.

you said averting your eyes to the side, trying to get rid of what was in your head prior, "oh he's nice... i mean he's alright i guess?"

the melusine didn't respond after that, so you slowly brought your gaze back onto her only to be startled to see her staring at you with big wide eyes.

you gulped nervously as you gave her a wobbly smile, her stoic expression scaring you, "are you two friends? i mean you told him that i was sick so i figured you must have-"

"do you like him?" she said suddenly cutting you off.

this time it was your turn to widen your eyes as

"of course not! no- wait yes! wait- i mean in a friend way of course! haha... why do you ask?" you said, painfully wincing internally at your stuttering

she didn't say anything at first but simply stared, her eyes boring into you.

"it's ok mx. (y/n), your secret's safe with me!" she said happily as a sudden sense of worry surged through you.

"huh? what do you-"

"you should probably get some rest now, i'll come check on you again tomorrow morning. good night!" she said clasping her hands together and taking her leave.

you were left speechless once again.

—————

as promised, wriothesley came and visited you in the infirmary the next day. but after the events from the previous day you couldn't look at him in the same way.

you told yourself you didn't have a crush on wriothesley, that would be absurd. but for some reason sigewenne seemed convinced you did, as she sorted out her things in the corner of the infirmary she kept giving you glances.

which was terrible because it seemed as if the two of them were friends so if she told him about your 'feelings', you'd be screwed.

it's not like you had a chance with him to begin with, you weren't from fontaine and he probably was. and despite the fact that you two were sent to the fortress around the same time, you had no idea what sort of crime he committed.

now that you thought about it, he was kinda... mysterious.

he was sat beside your bed as you both drank tea in silence, you felt as if it was awkward and didn't know what to say as you looked everywhere but at him.

one time, you accidentally locked eyes with him and immediately looked away embarrassed.

there's no way i have a crush on wriothesley! besides, after my sentence is over i'll never see him again... not that it matters, i don't like him like that!-

"is something bothering you?" he quipped.

your heartbeat quickened again, much to your dismay. the way he had been looking out for you: getting you food, bringing you tea, checking in on you... it was too much for you to handle.

you hadn't even noticed, you were staring at him.

"no!" you said rather loudly coming out of your trance, you didn't even sound convincing to yourself, "nothing's bothering me, nothing's wrong..."

you quickly brought your teacup to your lips and looked down. nonetheless, he slowly nodded at your response as silence welcomed the two of you once more.

"oh yeah! did you know there was a duke down here?" you asked trying to start up some conversation to clear the silence, your talk with cuistot and laverune the day before coming back to you.

he was silent as he looked down to the liquid in his cup, watching the ripples hit the side and gently bounce back. he then nodded.

"oh, you did? i was only told about him yesterday." you said slightly surprised, you had been down here a day longer than wriothesley but he seemed to know way more than you did.

"what's he like? i've never seen him before." you asked as wriothesley looked up in thought but sigewenne came over to the two of you before he could say anything.

"the duke is very hard-working, he's always up to something hence why you probably haven't seen him yet." sigewenne said, a thermometer in her hands which she held out to you.

you received the thermometer and thanked her, "he kinda sounds like my boss. but at least my boss, as stoic as he is, can be nice and funny at times. apparently the duke is someone who should be avoided."

you put the thermometer in your mouth for a while before giving it back to her, she took note of the temperature and scribbled it down. all the while wriothesley frowned at your words.

"i'm sure the duke also has a good sense of humour." he said.

"maybe..." you shrugged.

"the duke also looks after the fortress very well, he's made lots of improvements over the past years to make this place as comfortable as it can be for the inmates here." sigewenne continued "oh! and he really likes drinking tea."

"ooh! i guess you two have that in common huh?" you pointed out looking at wriothesley.

wriothesley took another sip of his cup before speaking up, "i guess we do."

—————

“w-woah, (y/n)! you have loads of credit coupons!” cuistot stammered at the bunch of ‘credit coupons’ you carried.

sigewenne's drink was surprisingly helpful, (despite how weird it tasted) and you only had to stay in the infirmary for a two nights.

the day after, you and the bombshell bros were planning to go to the pankration ring (a place you never knew existed) to watch a match that according to laverune was going to be the ‘fight of the century’.

but before you made your way there you had told them that there was some trash you needed to clear out so they followed you to your room. when you walked out with the bag of credit coupons they’re jaws dropped.

“credit coupons..? i thought they were just pieces of paper. grainville at the production zone kept giving them to me for working.” you said stopping in your tracks and looking down at the coupons in your hand.

“you’re practically rich! with that many credit coupons you could do all sorts!" laverune exclaimed, the two noticed the confused expression still displayed on your face and decided to explain the whole coupon system.

"...so, this is the currency down here?" you asked in shock.

"basically, yeah!" cuistot said.

wow, i never knew...

once you were done putting away your coupons the three of you headed for the pankration ring. laverune suggested you bring some coupons so you could bet on which fighter you thought would win, so you did.

whilst you walked, you listened in on cuistot and laverune's conversation on who they thought would win.

"'le grappleur' is surely going to win! he is reigning champion for a reason." cuistot said and laverune shook his head.

"oh come on, 'demon horde' has it in the bag. the other day, he even beat 'killer hook'! that makes them tied!" laverune argued.

just what kinda names are these...

"who do you think's going to win (y/n)?" cuistot asked turning to you, you shrugged.

"i don't know... 'le grappleur' maybe?" you said taking a complete guess. laverune humphed disapprovingly.

"well, the duke's going to watch the match as well and i heard he's betting on 'demon horde'!" he said crossing his arms.

oh yeah, the duke, maybe i'll finally see what he looks like?

"but (y/n)'s especially close with his grace so they can just get him to change his mind, bam!" cuistot stated as you raised a brow.

"um, i am?" you asked.

cuistot laughed, "it's not often the duke sits to have a meal with anyone, or visit anyone in the infirmary. why didn't you tell us?" he said only arising more confusion inside you.

he did? but the only other person i've talked to is-

"i believe i heard my name?" a familiar voice spoke up from behind you three causing you all to turn around.

just as you thought, it was wriothesley, you smiled at him feeling your heart beat quicken. you were about to say something until cuistot and laverune beat you to it.

"y-your grace!" they both exclaimed simultaneously bowing slightly as you still stood upright, eyes darting between wriothesley and the pair.

"huh? who... 'your grace'? what?" you were confused until it finally clicked, your eyes widening, "wait, you mean... you're the duke?"

wriothesley smirked at you and folded his arms, "took you long enough."

your mouth was slightly agape as you simply stared at him utterly dumbfounded stumbling to find the right words, "w-what? since when?!"

"oh i dont know, a couple of years ago?" he shrugged nonchalantly.

cuistot and laverune noticed you two were conversing and used it was a chance to slip away off to the pankration ring, leaving you with 'his grace'.

everything suddenly made sense. why he was able to get grainville to listen to him, all the food he was able to deliver you.

"why... why didn't you tell me? and here i thought you were an inmate like me this whole time..." you said bringing your palm to your forehead feeling like an idiot.

"i'll be honest i found it quite entertaining that you didn't know who i was." he said causing you to roll your eyes, he took a step closer so that he was gazing down at you.

"how are you feeling by the way?" he asked, his tone becoming a bit softer making your heart beat even faster.

you sighed, still not having fully accepted the fact that you had been hanging around the duke the entire time, "i'm fine, sigewinne said i should just take it easy from now on."

he hummed smiling slightly, "that's good."

a comfortable silence fell over the two of you as you merely looked at each other. you admired his features not noticing that he was doing the same until he cleared his throat and looked off to the side.

"your friends seemed to have already left so, would you like to head to the pankration ring together?" he suggested and you beamed at him.

"sure!"

—————

after figuring out who wriothesley really was, you decided it would be best if you discarded your feelings for him. your chances with him had gone from about five percent to absolute zero.

you only had three days of your sentence left anyway, but you weren't looking forward to going back. after all, you ended up liking the fortress of meropide life much more than you had expected.

at the moment, you and wriothesley were having your daily tea break in his office. him sat at his desk going through some papers as you sat on the other side of the desk, reading one of the many books from his shelf.

"you know, i could always shorten your sentence. you could go back today if you wanted." he suggested breaking the silence.

"yes but," you started averting your eyes "i still want to spend a bit more time with cuistot and laverune that's all."

and you too obviously you thought but would never dare to say aloud.

wriothesley hummed in response, "ah yes, you're little friend group." he paused for a bit, "are you sure that's the only reason?"

"uh, i'll miss sigewenne too, she's really sweet." you said, subconsciously taking your eyes off your book and instead watching him. it was a terrible habit of yours lately.

"i see." he said rather plainly, "speaking of sigewenne, we both had a chat earlier today and she told me some, interesting things."

you froze at this and immediately shot ur eyes back down to your book, wriothesley this time noticing as he moved his work to one side watched your expression closely with a smirk.

what? there's no way sigewenne would've told him... right? i never admitted it aloud!

"that's nice, what kind of things?" you said still looking down, eyes scanning over the pages 10x quicker than before (the words weren't even going through your head).

"not much, but she did tell me about you." he said as you felt your heart sink.

"o-oh really? by the way this book is really interesting." you said losing where you were as you flipped ahead a couple of pages, a desperate attempt to change the subject.

he watched your reaction contently, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded, he then shrugged.

"maybe it is, i haven't read it yet." he said, "anyway sigewenne told me that-"

you pulled your own chair back and got up, with the book in hand you rushed to the side to go put it back on the shelf. there was no way you were going to let him finish his sentence and humiliate you.

"i just remembered! i need to go find cuistot to try the new recipe he made!" you said getting up from our chair and going over to the bookshelf. you went on your tip toes to place the book back before turning on your heel, ready to dash towards the door.

however when you turned you were met with wriothesley's figure standing in front of you with a lazy smile, blocking you form going any further.

"sigwenne said that you liked me." he leaned down so he was face to face with you, your lips merely inches away from his and a teasing glint in his eyes, "is that true?"

your eyes widened in shock and horror, your pupils darting around everywhere frantically, "uh- i um, i-"

that alone was enough to provide him an answer asall your muffled words came to a halt when he brought his right hand and held your chin up, connecting his lips with yours.

at first you didn't kiss back, you couldn't kiss back, utterly paralysed from the shock. his smooth lips against your own causing your mind to blank out.

does he... like me back??

you couldn't help it, you were a hopeless fool. you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck and kissed back, feeling a smile emerge from his lips, you felt as if you were dreaming.

his hand on your chin found its way to your cheek as the other wrapped tightly around your waist, pulling you even closer to his body deepening the kiss in the process.

eventually after what felt like years, you both pulled away breathlessly. an irresistible smile creeping up both your faces.

"i think i'm going to have to lengthen your sentence." he said, his hand resting on the side of your face as his thumb caressed your cheek.

"really? what for?" you asked playing along leaning into his touch.

he leaned in once more, planting a small kiss on your lips before pulling back and flashing you a grin.

"for stealing my heart."

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