welcome to the menu! owner is currently occupied, but if your craving something sweet or maybe bitter, you're still in the right place.
𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗘𝗧𝗜𝗭𝗘𝗥𝗦 𑣲᭪𓏻 ―
I write for: Hunter x Hunter, Dr Stone, Death Note, Tokyo Ghoul, Kakegurui, Blue lock, Detective Conan, Toilet Bound Hanako-Kun. I'm open for anime recommendations! I have watched lots of animes, but this are what I'd like to write for! If you want to order something that is not here, simply ask :3
currently obssessed with: Blue lock and Michael Kaiser
my specialty is dark & angst themes ! I do write fluff, rarely ^^ everything with pink hearts is my favorites :3
rules, navigations, all you need to know — MUST READ
order not made = against the rules, or I'm still writing
𝗗𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗞𝗦 𑣲᭪𓏻 ―
Gilded — Meguru Bachira x Reader ( BLUE LOCK ) 🩷
a golden afternoon dissolves into a slow, tactile siege as the world outside falls away, leaving only the radiating heat of a presence that refuses to be ignored. what begins as a playful skirmish for a phone— a decoy kiss and a jagged laugh— eventually yields to the heavy, unscripted gravity of a slumber so deep it swallows the sun.
Reverie — Juuzou Suzuya x Reader ( TOKYO GHOUL )
a quiet moment slips between a noisy party. a touch mistaken for accident, a presence that lingers too long to be nothing. in a room full of laughter and light, he finds you without trying— drawn close, as if the world narrows to the space you share, where fleeting gestures begin to feel like something more.
Fervor — Feitan Portor x Reader ( HUNTER X HUNTER ) 🍹
a moment cold professionalism fractures under the weight of a storm; a touch meant to steady that instead burns, and a lethal silence that finally snaps in the dark. rain-drenched and volatile, he seeks the comfort of your hands— not for absolution, but to anchor a heart that has forgotten how to be still. the wreckage of a night that refused to be quiet— a secret so sharp it leaves a bruise, and a fervor that will take a lifetime to hide.
𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗧𝗦 𑣲᭪𓏻 ―
Ce qui Reste ; ll — Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader ( HUNTER X HUNTER ) 🩷
Paris, dressed in gold and noise; a room made for pretending. a glance that lingers too long, a presence you know before you see— familiar in all the wrong ways. silk, smoke, a laugh shared with the wrong man— then absence, sudden and sharp. and after, only fragments: a glass left unfinished, footsteps echoing in tandem, the city swallowing you both whole once more. what remains is not the crime, nor the chase— but the way neither of you hesitated to follow.
𝗗𝗘𝗦𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗧 𝗦𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗦 𑣲᭪𓏻 ʚ꩜ɞ —
Amor, haine et gloire — Rin Itoshi x Reader ( Blue Lock ) 🩷 every verse is peak, trust 🙏🏻
a life under constant surveillance; a ruined past you are forced to re-enact for the cameras. a lingering heat in a freezing bed, two sets of parents orchestrating a reunion for the media, and a fragile boundary that was never meant to blur again— then sunrise, and a single viral mistake. a public wreckage or the history you both tried to bury, but the realization that your fame has officially trapped him back in your life.
Verse l. Le Cocktail Neurologique
Verse ll. Haine
Verse lll. Tout sauf le sexe
Verse IV. Fête pour toi
Verse V. Fête pour toi ( ll )
Sacrilege — Chrollo Lucilfer x Reader ( Hunter x Hunter ) 🩷
the moment holiness forgets its own boundaries; a prayer spoken with stained hands, a vow unraveling in the presence of desire. where a priest meant to absolve instead lingers, and a sinner becomes something dangerously sacred— until neither knows who is defiling whom.
Verse l. Confession
Verse ll. Assumption ( Tomorrow is never promised )
Additional Time — Multiple Characters x Reader ( BLUE LOCK )
Palimpsest — Kaneki Ken x Reader ( TOKYO GHOUL )
your name, half-erased at the edges of his memory; something he shouldn’t remember, yet does— in fragments, in feelings that refuse to fade. a glance held a second too long, a familiarity he can’t place, like reading over words already scraped away. you speak, and it almost feels like before— like warmth layered over something broken. and even as he turns away, tries to forget, it lingers beneath it all… you, rewritten over and over, never fully gone.
Verse l.
Burning Avarice — Leorio Paradinight x Reader ( Hunter x Hunter ) ALADDIN AU
the moment wanting stops pretending to be enough; when desire burns past need and turns ravenous— a hunger that does not quiet, only sharpens, gilding every thought with more, more, more; until it turns into a fire that feeds on everything it touches and still dares to ask for more.
Chapter l. Awake
˚.⋆♬ MELODY SPECIALS ˚.⋆♬
Playdate ; by Melanie Martinez - Midari Ikishima x Reader ( KAKEGURUI ) 🍹
Thank You ; by Dido - Kurapika Kurta x Reader ( HUNTER X HUNTER )
everything is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
SYNOPSIS: locked behind the closed doors of a sterile suite and a private dinner night, a single inadvertent gesture ignites a catastrophic public frenzy. caught between the clinical, freezing distance of an unwanted arrangement and the hyper-fixated side of the media, the fragile boundary between performance and reality completely fractures.
CONTAINS: angst, not the usual romance. still romance though. slowburn. life of luxury and fame, public figures and exposure, past relationship with Rin, slight family pressure. ridicilous amount of foreshadowing and coincedences, psychological thrill, tension, toxic relationship dynamics, unstable mental health / mental illness, overthinking, anxiety / panic attacks, use of drugs ( pills / medicines ), argumentation, trauma response / hyperarousal, fear ( list will change as more verses will be released. this story evolves per verse )
BLUE LOCK: Aged up! Famous Athlete Rin Itoshi x Famous Model & Actress Reader
Word Count: 10,383 words and 60,778 characters
MENU
Verse l. Verse ll. Haine
the heavy door swings inward with a slow, deliberate click, and Rin steps across the threshold, bringing a sudden wave of the hallway's crisp, sterile air with him. he moves with his usual precision, completely untouched by the digital firestorm currently tearing through the outside world.
he is rolled back into his own routine, his focus entirely internal as he lets the door close softly behind him. he doesn't look at you immediately, his fingers casually adjusting the cuff of his sleeve before he reaches up to brush a few stray strands of dark hair away from his forehead. there isn't a single trace of urgency in his posture, no frantic checking of his own phone, no tense line in his shoulders to suggest he has any idea his carefully guarded privacy was just violently dismantled while he was out of the room. he is completely, blissfully oblivious to the absolute chaos vibrating in the palm of your hand, a quiet figure of absolute calm stepping directly into the center of a roaring public execution.
he shifts his weight slightly, his footsteps entirely silent against the thick carpet as he detours past the foot of the bed, his trajectory set toward the far corner of the room. he is only here because of a brief oversight, navigating the space with the single-minded focus of someone merely retrieving an item he inadvertently left behind before his day truly begins. his dark eyes scan the surface of the dresser, zeroing in on the small, forgotten object resting on the dark wood— his smart watch.
he reaches out, his long, pale fingers closing around it with a calm, practiced familiarity that makes your stomach do a violent flip. every single one of his movements is agonizingly slow and measured, agonizingly normal, drawing a sharp, painful contrast against the frantic, breathless panic paralyzing your entire body. he slips the item into his pocket, completely unaware that this mundane little errand has just walked him directly into the line of fire, his quiet, domestic presence completely detached from the hyper-viral nightmare waiting to explode on the screen in your trembling hands.
your gaze locks onto him, your eyes wide with a fragile mix of confusion and pure, startled disbelief. of all the moments for him to materialize, of all the hours in the day he could have chosen to step back through that door, it had to be right now— at the exact, devastating second your life is actively burning to the ground on a five-inch screen. it feels like a cruel, twisted joke orchestrated by the universe, a sudden collision of your public nightmare and your private reality that leaves you completely paralyzed beneath the covers.
you stare at his back, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs as you try to reconcile the absolute, oblivious calm of his posture with the roaring digital avalanche currently vibrating against your palm. the sheer timing of it leaves your mind spinning in circles, a breathless, internal panic screaming in your head because you aren't ready, you don't have a script, and you have absolutely no way to shield him from the fallout of a mistake he doesn't even know has been made yet.
he turns on his heel, his task completed as he begins to track back toward the door, clearly intending to slip out as quietly and efficiently as he had arrived. but before his hand can even reach for the handle, the heavy silence of the suite is violently shattered. your manager’s voice erupts from the receiver, a sharp, frantic volley of words that cuts through the air so loudly it doesn't even need the assistance of a speakerphone to fill the entire room. the raw panic bleeding through the tiny speaker is unmistakable, a frantic, breathless barrage of instructions and damage control that instantly changes the entire atmosphere of the space.
Rin stops dead in his tracks. as someone who navigates the exact same suffocating waters of fame, he recognizes that specific, high-alert frequency instantly; he knows the precise cadence of a career-threatening PR disaster when he hears it. the casual indifference completely vanishes from his posture as he slowly turns his head back toward the bed. his eyes find yours, locking onto your terrified face with a sudden, razor-sharp intensity that makes the breath completely catch in your throat.
“ Are you even listening to me?! ” your manager’s voice blasts through the line again, the sheer volume causing the sound to cut sharply through the heavy air of the suite. “ Your phone has been busy for the last three minutes, and my office is already flooded with press inquiries from outlets we don't even talk to! You need to answer me right now— what is the plan here? What are your plans now that you and Rin have completely blown up the internet?! Do we issue a formal retraction, or are we spinning this into a confirmation? Give me something, because the media is having an absolute field day and your parents' publicists are already drafting a statement! ”
the line crackles with your manager's frantic breathing, the question hanging heavily in the silence of the room like a live wire.
Rin doesn't blink, his gaze remaining absolutely fixed on you as the words echo clearly off the walls. the casual indifference he had carried into the room just moments ago is entirely gone, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness. he knows exactly what he just heard; he recognizes his own name, and he understands the catastrophic weight of the word blown up in their world. he slowly lowers his hand from the door handle, his posture rigid as he stands his ground at the edge of the room. he looks down at you, his voice dropping into a low, flat rasp that completely cuts through the static of the phone, his tone devoid of panic but heavy with a dangerous, quiet irritation.
“ What did they just say? ” he asks, his eyes boring into yours, demanding an immediate answer.
“ Um... well... ”
the words stumble over each other, completely empty and useless as they dry up in your throat. you can barely squeeze them past the sudden knot in your chest, your voice shrinking under the immense weight of Rin’s unblinking, critical stare. your mind is a total blank, completely incapable of formulating a coherent lie or a comforting truth while he stands there like an executioner waiting for an explanation.
before you can even attempt to pull yourself together, the tiny speaker in your hand erupts again, the frantic breathing on the other end dropping into a harsh, furious gasp. your manager has caught the distinct, low vibration of Rin’s voice in the background, and the realization only sends their panic into absolute overdrive.
“ Is that him? Is Itoshi Rin, in the room with you right now?! ” your manager demands, their voice escalating into a sharp, angry bark that slices through the tense quiet of the suite. “ What actually did happen last night? Why are the two of you together this morning? You were supposed to be laying low, not handing the paparazzi a front-page headline on a silver platter! Answer me! ”
the frantic, aggressive shouting becomes too much to contain in your palm, the noise vibrating violently against your skin. realizing you can no longer hide the reality of the situation, your thumb moves across the glass, tapping the screen until the audio abruptly expands. you place the call on speaker, the sudden, loud amplification of your manager's furious breathing filling the entire space, completely stripping away whatever privacy you had left.
“ A post from last night. Someone took a photo of us at dinner.. and I accidentally interacted with a comment. It went viral. The internet thinks it’s a relationship confirmation. ” you whisper, the truth finally forcing its way past your lips as you look up at him, your voice sounding incredibly small against the backdrop of the manager’s amplified breathing. you swallow hard, your fingers tightening around the edge of the phone.
for the first time since he stepped back into the suite, Rin’s face settles into a look of absolute, icy disgust. there is no loud outburst, no panic— just a heavy, suffocating silence as his dark eyes narrow into twin slits of pure contempt. he stays entirely still, looking down at the glowing screen in your hands as if staring at a piece of garbage that just ruined his morning routine.
he doesn't yell. instead, he just stares down at you, his dark eyes narrowing into twin slits of pure contempt.
“ Are you stupid? ” he rasps, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, icy tone that completely cuts off the manager's frantic shouting from the speaker. he takes one slow, deliberate step closer to the bed, looming over you with a gaze that feels like a physical threat. “ You couldn't watch where you put your thumb, so now my name is dragged into your circus. ”
he scoffs— a short, bitter sound— and turns his face away, his shoulders rigid with a raw, simmering irritation. he doesn't offer a solution, and he doesn't ask how you're going to fix it. he just stands there, radiating a suffocating, quiet fury that makes it very clear he considers you a massive liability.
right on cue, the sharp, demanding buzz of his own phone slices through the tension, vibrating violently against the fabric of his pocket. he pulls it out with a slow, deliberate movement, his eyes flicking down to the screen. the display flashes aggressively with a caller ID that is undoubtedly his own manager or a frantic PR representative trying to establish a containment zone before the story spirals completely out of control. Rin doesn't even hesitate. with a cold, dismissive flick of his thumb, he hits the silence button, killing the ringtone instantly but leaving the screen to pulse uselessly in his palm, completely ignoring the outside world as if he could simply freeze the crisis by refusing to acknowledge it.
his blatant, arrogant dismissal sets something off inside you, the suffocating guilt you felt just a second ago instantly hardening into a sharp, defensive anger of your own.
“ The comment was my fault, fine! ” you snap, your voice rising as you finally push yourself up against the pillows, refusing to let him just loom over you like an untouchable judge. you glare back at him, the frustration bubbling over as you point a trembling finger toward the glowing screen. “ But the comment wouldn't even matter if those photos didn't exist in the first place! I didn't ask the paparazzi to follow us, and I didn't force you to come to dinner! ”
a harsh, line of irritation digs deep between Rin’s eyebrows, his eyes darkening further as your defiance hits him. he lets out a low, breathy click of his tongue— a sound dripping with pure annoyance that tells you exactly how pathetic he finds your attempt to shift the blame. he opens his mouth, his lips parting to deliver a characteristically blunt, cutting rebuttal that would likely tear your argument to shreds.
but the words never get the chance to leave his throat.
the heavy silence of the room is violently obliterated as the manager’s voice erupts from the speaker again, louder and more abrasive than before, cutting right through the suffocating tension building between the two of you.
“ Oh, great, now you’re screaming at each other! Listen to me, both of you— now is absolutely not the time to be having a pathetic little couples' fight or some dramatic lovers' quarrel! ” the manager barks through the line, their tone an infuriated blend of exhaustion and panic that echoes sharply off the walls of the suite. “ Save the domestic fight for when our phones stop ringing! The entire industry is watching you right now, and I don't give a damn who started what last night. Shut up, put your history aside, and start thinking about damage control! ”
the completely uncalled-for accusation strikes a raw, agonizing nerve. the sheer audacity of the words lovers' quarrel hangs heavily in the air, instantly backfiring and sending a fresh wave of irritation rippling through both of you. you can feel your own blood boiling at the forced assumption, and when you glance back at Rin, his expression has completely frozen into a mask of pure, glacial disgust. being lumped back together into a neat, public narrative of a dysfunctional couple irritates him to his very core, and the collective frustration in the room reaches a dangerous, suffocating peak as you both stare at the blaring phone in mutual, bitter silence.
“ I'm calling Rin's manager right now to hash this out, ” your manager barks through the line, the sound of papers rustling frantically in the background. “ Actually, scratch that— luckily for both of you, you're under the exact same roof. I'm calling a mandatory meeting at the main office. 12:00 PM sharp. No excuses. ”
your manager doesn't even wait for a response, their voice carrying a final, no-nonsense authority that leaves absolutely no room for negotiation. “ That gives you a few hours to pull yourselves together and slip past whatever paparazzi are already gathering outside that hotel. Both of you need to be in that conference room by noon so we can figure out how the hell we're spinning this. Don't be late. ”
with a sharp click, the line goes completely dead, leaving the frantic, demanding tone echoing in the sudden silence of the suite.
the suffocating urge to argue simply drains out of Rin, replaced by a cold, practical indifference. his jaw relaxes slightly, his posture shifting from defensive hostility back into that familiar, unbothered wall of ice.
besides, the manager's irritated reprimand had accidentally struck a terribly accurate chord.
you aren't a couple. you haven't been for a long time, and the ruined remains of your past relationship aren't worth the energy of a screaming match in a hotel room. why waste the breath fighting over a narrative that shouldn't even exist? he glances down at you one last time, his dark eyes completely devoid of the fire from a moment ago, leaving only a hollow, clinical detachment as he mentally closes the door on the argument.
the second the heavy door clicks shut and his presence finally clears from the room, the fragile composure you were white-knuckling completely shatters. you fling the tangled sheets aside and scramble out of bed, your feet barely registering the cold floor as you rush blindly toward the privacy of the adjacent bathroom. you slam the door behind you, turning the lock with a frantic, trembling hand as if you could somehow shut out the entire world— and the crushing weight of Rin's contempt— with a single piece of brass.
leaning heavily against the marble sink, you grip the edges until your knuckles turn stark white, staring into the mirror at your own wide, panicked eyes.
the tears hit you instantly, hot and blurring your vision before you can even catch your breath. you press a trembling palm flat against your mouth, desperately choking back a sob because the last thing you want is for anyone— for him, if he’s somehow still lingering in the hallway— to hear you break down.
before you can even begin to wipe the hot tears from your face or steady your breathing, a firm, distinct knock echoes through the suite, rattling the heavy wooden door of the main room. your heart drops straight into your stomach. you freeze against the marble sink, your breath hitching in your throat as the sound cuts through the quiet bathroom.
“ Dear? Are you in there? ”
the voice is unmistakable— refined, measured, and instantly recognizable. it’s Rin’s mother.
the absolute nightmare of the morning twists into something even more suffocating. you scramble to turn on the faucet, splashing freezing water over your eyes in a desperate attempt to wash away and erase any physical proof of what happened to you. grabbing a towel, you press it roughly against your skin, forcing your expression into a fragile mask of composure before you finally unlock the bathroom door and cross the suite.
when you swing the main door open, she is standing there, looking as impeccably composed as always, though her eyes instantly scan your face with a sharp, discerning curiosity.
“ I saw Rin downstairs, and he looked incredibly tense, ” she begins, her tone a mix of genuine concern and a mother's natural instinct to pry into whatever storm is brewing. “ He wouldn't tell me a thing. What on earth happened between you two? Did something happen last night? ”
before you can even try to fabricate a polite, harmless lie to keep her from digging any deeper, she sighs softly and raises a hand to wave off your immediate answer. “ Well, whatever it is, you two will have to sort it out. I actually came up to let you know that your parents had to leave the hotel early this morning due to an urgent matter. Your mother told me to tell you to check your phone immediately—she sent you a message. ”
“ ...Thank you, ” you manage to say, your voice sounding tighter than you intend as you force a polite, strained smile onto your face. you grip the edge of the door slightly harder, praying she doesn't notice the faint tremor in your fingers or the lingering redness around your eyes. “ I'll look at the message right away. ”
she gives you a slow, perceptive nod, her eyes lingering on you for a fraction of a second longer as if trying to read the unspoken panic written across your features. but, true to her refined nature, she doesn't push any further. with a soft murmur of reassurance, she steps back into the hallway, leaving you free to close the door.
the moment the latch clicks into place, you let out a long, ragged breath you didn't realize you were holding. you lean your back against the heavy wood, staring down at the phone still clutched tightly in your palm, your thumb hovering over the screen as you brace yourself to open your mother's text.
the glowing glass screen of your phone burns into your eyes, the pixels reflecting sharply in the dim, heavy quiet of the bathroom. your thumb hovers, trembling slightly, as you read and reread the message, the stark formatting of your mother’s text cutting through the chaotic noise of the morning like a blade of ice.
We left the hotel to meet with the family trustees. Last night’s photos were a blessing in disguise. The public will call it a PR stunt, and you must play along with Rin. But remember who you are. In our world, a union is absolute. There is no turning back from noon today. Be smart, look beautiful.
the moment the final sentence registers, the air in the room shifts violently. it feels as though the oxygen has suddenly grown thick, heavy, and suffocating, pressing down onto your shoulders with an almost physical, crushing weight. your heart, which had been hammering erratically against your ribs just a second ago, drops into a slow, hollow, resounding thud.
a bizarre, deeply unsettling sensation washes over you from head to toe. it is a creeping, sudden wave of familiarity that you cannot explain— a haunting, primal instinct buried deep in your chest that whispers, with terrifying clarity, that you knew this was coming. it feels less like a sudden crisis and more like the inevitable snapping of a trapdoor you had been standing on your entire life. an ominous, dark milestone has finally arrived, and the sheer weight of it makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
but then, the rational part of your brain desperately fights to take the wheel. you blink rapidly, forcing a ragged breath back into your lungs as you try to shake the eerie chill from your veins.
no. you are just spiraling. you press the cool palm of your hand firmly against your forehead, trying to ground yourself in reality. you rationalize the suffocating dread away, convincing yourself that this internal panic is nothing more than the raw, exhausting fallout of your emotions.
you are tired and you are emotionally battered from the explosive, venomous fight you just had with Rin. of course everything feels apocalyptic right now.
your mother is simply being her usual, hyper-dramatic, unyielding self. when she types words as severe as “ in our world, a union is absolute, ” she isn't invoking an ancient prophecy— she is just acting like the ruthless, elite matriarch she has always been. to her, this is a business emergency. she is telling you to stop treating your history with Rin like a petty, emotional grievance and start treating it with the absolute seriousness it demands. she is commanding you to grow up, lock your personal feelings in a box, look pristine, and cooperate with him at noon to salvage your public standing. she expects you to play your part for the cameras, fake the relationship to quiet the media storm, and protect the family name.
Fuck.
the single, silent word echoes violently in the hollow chambers of your mind, a sharp, profanity-laced puncture to the suffocating quiet of the room.
your grip tightens on the edges of your phone until your knuckles turn a stark, ghostly white, the cold metal digging into your palm as a deeply unsettling question begins to claw its way to the surface. what is this feeling? it isn't the standard, frantic panic of a public relations disaster, nor is it the familiar, heavy ache of the heartbreak you’ve been nursing. it is something entirely different. something completely weird.
suddenly, a bizarre, heightened sense of self-awareness slams into you, sharpening your senses until the world around you feels terrifyingly vivid. the slow, rhythmic ticking of the clock, the hum of the hotel's ventilation, the hyper-specific way the light reflects off the bathroom tiles—everything lands with an unnatural, heavy significance. your instincts are screaming at you, sending a primal, icy jolt of pure danger straight down your spine. every defensive nerve in your body is suddenly on high alert, firing off a desperate warning that you cannot ignore.
but then, the pendulum swings violently back to the other side.
the rational, defensive walls of your mind slam shut, desperately trying to construct a shield against the creeping dread. at the end of the day, what are you? you're just an overthinker. a textbook, chronic overthinker who specializes in building mountains out of molehills and turning a simple, stern corporate message into a psychological thriller. you force a harsh, jagged breath past your lips, mentally mocking your own intuition. of course your mind is playing cruel tricks on you; you haven't slept, you haven't eaten, and you just went ten rounds with the one person who knows exactly how to tear down your defenses. maybe there is no hidden trap. maybe there is no grand, terrifying conspiracy lurking beneath the surface. maybe you just need to walk over to your vanity, open your bag, and drink some pills to quiet the frantic, exhausting static screaming inside your head.
pushing yourself away from the cold marble sink, your eyes immediately lock onto your bag, tossed carelessly over the arm of a plush chair during the chaos of your arrival. it feels like a lifeline in the middle of a desert. you cross the room with frantic, uneven steps, your hands unzipping the compartments with a desperate, uncoordinated haste until your fingers finally brush against the familiar, crinkling foil of a blister pack. good thing you always keep a few pills in your bag.
you don't even bother looking for a glass of water; you just pop one of the tablets straight onto your tongue and swallow it dry, forcing the bitter, chalky lump down a throat that feels as tight and dry as sandpaper.
you stand there by the chair, chest heaving slightly as you wait for the medicine to work, counting the seconds in your head and praying for the chemical wave of calm to finally wash over the static in your brain.
but the moment you drink it, before the pill can even fully dissolve, the sudden silence inside your head doesn't bring peace— it brings an overwhelming, crushing emptiness. and in that hollow space, a sudden, violent ache hits you so hard it completely steals the breath right out of your lungs.
slowly, the frantic edge begins to bleed out of the room. after a few moments, the violent static in your head recedes into a dull, distant hum, and you finally return to normal. your heart, which had been hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, slows its frantic pace, settling into a quiet, rhythmic thud that feels miles away from the previous panic.
you are now calm. the suffocating weight in your chest detaches itself, leaving behind a blank, hollow stillness that washes over you from head to toe.
but with that artificial peace comes the familiar, inevitable trade-off.
you lift your heavy arm, your thumb lazily lighting up the screen of your phone to check the time: 9:40 AM. a cold shock of disbelief ripples through you. time flies when you're not feeling it. the hours have slipped through your fingers like water while you were trapped inside your own head, leaving you with less than two and a half hours before you have to face the management. and right now, you have a strict, non-negotiable window to manage. after you take a pill, you need to sleep for at least one hour.
this is the exact, clinical side effect of the anti-depressant pills. without that one-hour blackout period, you are left stranded in a state of dangerous calm. its a flatline state of mind where fear is entirely deleted, meaning your inhibitions are gone, too. that is why you sleep for at least an hour for it to properly kick in— so that you don’t walk out into the world with a numb mind and make dangerous, reckless decisions you don't want, decisions that could ruin everything before noon even arrives.
fortunately, the medication is already dictating your next move. one side effect of it is feeling deeply, overwhelmingly sleepy, pulling at the corners of your consciousness and softening the rigid tension in your muscles. the heavy, dark fog of exhaustion rolls in quickly, wrapping around your mind so securely that you know you won't have a hard time sleeping. crawling into the massive, empty hotel bed, you let your eyes slip shut, letting the drowsiness pull you under for sixty mandatory minutes of silence.
—
the heavy oak doors of the hotel suite click shut, the sharp sound swallowed instantly by the vast, dead silence of the penthouse corridor.
Rin doesn't move from the top of the grand staircase, his posture perfectly rigid as he stands with his hands buried deep inside his pockets. he doesn't pace. he simply stands in the quiet, his dark eyes fixed on the empty space where his parents had just been standing, filtering their sudden departure through a lens of cold, detached irritation.
his mother and father are finally gone, heading back to the family estate to finalize what his mother smoothly labeled “ preliminary arrangements ” before the noon meeting. they have left him and you completely alone in the hotel.
as they walked toward the elevators, his mother had paused. she didn't offer a warm smile; she offered that pristine, calculated expression she used whenever she had successfully pinned a target to the wall. her eyes had flicked intentionally toward the closed bedroom door where you were hiding, her voice dropping into that smooth, aristocratic cadence that always carried an underlying threat.
“ Be good, Rin, ” she had murmured, the words light but perfectly heavy. “ Check in on her. ”
she had stepped away for a brief moment, her heels clicking a sharp, unhurried rhythm against the marble floor as she walked over to your door. she knocked— a precise, patronizing cadence— before turning on her heel to join his father at the elevator, leaving the unspoken reality hanging in the air.
left in the isolated suite, Rin lets out a sharp, quiet breath through his nose, his expression settling into a mask of pure, clinical disgust. he isn't worried about whatever pathetic emotional breakdown you might be having behind closed doors; he is thoroughly repulsed by the sheer idiocy of the situation. your clumsy, lukewarm mistake on social media has efficiently dragged his name back into a public circus, single-handedly disrupting his timeline and compromising the clean, calculated distance he had built after the breakup.
more than anything, it is the calculated behavior of his parents that sets his internal alarms off. they aren't scrambling to bury a catastrophic PR disaster. they are treating this viral nightmare like a long-awaited asset deployment on a battlefield— entirely too calm, entirely too precise.
his gaze shifts, locking onto the dark wood of your bedroom door with a heavy, suffocating intensity. the absolute silence coming from inside the room is total, a stark contrast to the venomous words you both were trading just an hour ago. to Rin, the sudden quiet isn't a sign of peace; it’s just proof of your incompetence, an assumption that you are inside frantically spiraling or trying to piece together a pathetic excuse before the noon deadline.
he steps toward the opposite wall, leaning his shoulder against the cold surface as he crosses his arms over his chest. he has absolutely no intention of following his mother's instructions to check on you. he doesn't care enough to reach for the brass handle, let alone waste his breath offering comfort to a liability who can't even manage a phone screen without causing a crisis.
he settles into a rigid, freezing silence, perfectly content to wait out the remaining hour by treating you like a nonexistent obstacle. he has no idea that on the other side of that wood, you aren't just hiding from the noise. he has no idea about your mother's text, the medication, or the fact that you have already blacked out into a deep, chemical sleep.
—
the heavy, narcotic fog of the anti-depressants slowly begins to recede, leaving behind a cold, completely empty clarity. you blink, your eyelids feeling like lead as you force them open, your gaze instantly darting to the digital clock.
11:00 AM. a sharp spike of adrenaline slices right through the lingering drowsiness. you slept for nearly an hour and a half. time didn't just fly; it completely vanished while you were blacked out under the sheets, leaving you with exactly sixty minutes before you have to walk into that corporate slaughterhouse at noon.
the dangerous calm your medication promised is fully active now— your heart isn't racing, your hands aren't shaking, but your mind is working with a detached, clinical speed.
you slip out of bed, your bare feet hitting the cold floor as you march straight back into the private bathroom. you can't walk into that meeting looking like a victim of last night’s fallout.
stepping up to the built-in closet in the corner of the bathroom, you pull open the sleek doors. fortunately, because your lifestyle demands constant readiness for paparazzi evasions, you always keep a few specialized cover-up outfits stored here for emergencies.
you pull out a heavy, oversized black trench coat and a structured, low-profile dark hoodie— pieces designed to completely swallow your silhouette and give the media absolutely nothing to photograph. you grab a pair of wide, pitch-black designer sunglasses from the shelf. catching your reflection in the mirror, you lean in close; the skin around your eyes is still slightly swollen, the whites a faint, telltale red from the raw crying spell before you took the pill. the sunglasses are non-negotiable.
finally, you pull a deep-brimmed bucket hat over your hair, tugging it down until the shadow completely obscures the upper half of your face.
standing in the harsh bathroom light, your disguise is complete. you are totally obscured, hidden behind layers of fabric and dark glass. you look like a ghost hiding in plain sight— untouchable, unrecognizable, and completely locked inside your own fortress.
you grab your phone, checking your mother's text one last time. the calm in your veins feels terrifyingly absolute as you grip the bathroom door handle, ready to step back out into the suite where Rin is waiting.
the heavy click of your bedroom door unlatching cuts through the dead quiet of the suite.
Rin doesn’t look up immediately, but his head shifts, his eyes tracking you the exact second you step into the living area. he stays leaned back against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze slowly traveling down your figure with a cold, unhurried precision.
you are completely swallowed by the oversized black coat, the deep brim of the bucket hat throwing the top half of your face into shadow, while the pitch-black sunglasses completely hide your red, swollen eyes. you look like a phantom trying to erase itself from existence.
Rin doesn't ask about the disguise. he doesn't waste his breath making a snide comment about the sunglasses indoors, and he doesn't care enough to ask how you managed to stop your previous breakdown. his expression remains entirely flat, a clinical mask that filters your ridiculous appearance as a purely tactical choice to dodge the press. he merely observes the unnatural, rigid stillness of your frame, his sharp eyes calculating whether you're actually composed or just freezing under the pressure.
for a beat, the silence between you is heavy enough to suffocate, the lingering venom of your morning fight still hanging invisibly in the air. but under the influence of the pill, the dangerous calm in your veins keeps your posture rigid and your tongue silent. you don't flinch under his stare.
satisfied that you are at least functioning enough to move without making a scene, Rin pushes himself off the wall in one fluid, silent motion. he doesn't say a word to you. he doesn't offer a hand, and he doesn't wait for an explanation. he simply reaches into his pocket, his fingers wrapping around his car keys with a faint, metallic jingle, and walks straight past you toward the private executive elevator at the end of the hall.
he is controlling the environment. no private chauffeur, no company drivers to overhear the sharp, jagged edges of a broken relationship. just him, you, and the claustrophobic confines of his car.
the elevator doors slide open with a soft chime. Rin steps inside, turning around to face the front, his eyes locked straight ahead as he waits for you to step into the cage with him. the clock on your phone softly shifts to 11:15 AM.
forty-five minutes left until the trap springs.
—
the private elevator doors slide open with a heavy, muted chime, welcoming you both into the sleek, clinical expanse of the corporate headquarters. the atmosphere here is thick with a different kind of tension— not the raw, emotional quiet of the hotel suite, but the frantic, high-stakes buzz of a multi-million-dollar damage control operation.
you walk into the main conference room side-by-side, a perfectly coordinated unit on the surface, though the space between you feels like a freezing void.
the room is dominated by a massive, polished mahogany table that stretches from one end of the glass-walled boardroom to the other. seated along its length is a formidable line of executives, legal analysts, and PR strategists representing both sides of the aisle. Rin's entire personal management team and PR core are already entrenched, their faces illuminated by the stark, white glow of open laptops and printed dossiers detailing last night's media fallout.
as you take your seat, your manager's eyes immediately lock onto your face, a sharp frown creasing their forehead. they lean forward, gesturing vaguely at your obscured features. “ Why are you still wearing sunglasses inside? We're behind closed doors. Take them off so we can actually look at you while we go over the timeline. ”
the demand hangs in the air, but under the absolute, icy control of the medication, you don't blink. your voice is flat, devoid of any room for argument as you firmly insist on keeping them on, offering no explanation and letting the dark lenses remain a solid wall between your raw, red eyes and their prying eyes. your manager lets out a brief, frustrated breath but ultimately drops it, sliding a thick folder across the mahogany surface toward you.
the documents hit the wood with a dull thud, and the room falls into a suffocating, professional silence as every eye at the long table turns to look at you and Rin, waiting for the official briefing to begin.
breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the long mahogany table, Rin’s head manager suddenly leans forward, his arms resting flat against the polished wood as his eyes track the two of you with a sharp, appreciative glint. the stern, panicked tension that usually defines a high-stakes crisis meeting completely vanishes from his expression, replaced instead by a cold, calculating satisfaction.
he lets out a low, approving hum, nodding slowly as his gaze shifts from Rin’s rigid, unreadable posture back to your obscured, pristine composure.
“ I have to hand it to you, ” Rin's manager says, his voice carrying a smooth, professional praise that echoes clearly across the quiet boardroom. “ Even behind the glasses, the two of you look entirely together. The framing is perfect. Seeing you side-by-side in this room, it makes complete sense why the media is fueling the fire so aggressively. The narrative writes itself. ”
the compliment lands with a heavy, clinical weight, treated not as a validation of a relationship, but as a highly successful evaluation of a premium corporate product. along the table, several of Rin's PR strategists nod in silent agreement, their pens hovering over their legal pads as they stare at the visual dynamic between you two, already calculating how to monetize the very scandal that had originally threatened to tear your careers apart.
the head of the public relations team taps a manicured finger against her tablet, and the official briefing finally starts now. the atmosphere in the room instantly hardens, shifting from speculative praise into a cold, rapid-fire interrogation as the lead strategist leans over the mahogany table, her eyes locking onto the two of you with unyielding intensity.
the very first question is delivered without a single shred of hesitation: “ What are you two doing together, after breaking up last year? If we are going to spin this to the press, we need the baseline truth of why you were caught in the same vicinity before we draft the official statement. ”
the question hangs heavily in the air, a blunt reminder of the fractured past you have spent months trying to bury. under the steady, numbing influence of your medication, you calmly part your lips, fully prepared to deliver a detached, rehearsed response to deflect the inquiry. but before you can even utter a single syllable, the air next to you shifts.
Rin cuts in, answering instead.
“ Our families hosted a private dinner last night. ” Rin says, his voice flat and cutting through the room like a sheet of dry ice.
the answer is short, cold, and entirely devoid of emotion. he doesn't look at you, and he doesn't look at his manager. his dark eyes remain fixed forward, his posture perfectly still as he delivers the line with precision that leaves absolutely no room for further questioning. he lays out the excuse that because the two families are closely intertwined, it was simply an obligation— a standard, high-society dinner night that the media blew entirely out of proportion. it is a completely sterile, professional story, reducing the entire chaotic fallout into a simple, bloodless matter of family courtesy.
the lead strategist tilts her head, her pen hovering over her legal pad as she zeroes in on Rin’s rigid posture, completely unsatisfied with the brief explanation. “ A family dinner explains the setting, Itoshi Rin, but it doesn't explain the specific proximity in those photos. The press is hyper-focusing on the intimacy of the shots. We need you to elaborate on the timeline of the evening. ”
the demand hangs heavily over the mahogany table, the PR team waiting for him to flesh out the lie. Rin’s jaw tightens, a cold silence settling over him as he prepares to deliver another flat, cutting response to shut the inquiry down completely.
but you don't give him the chance. you lean forward slightly, answering this time.
“ The dinner concluded late, and given the volume of press already gathering outside the estate, it was deemed practical to leave together to avoid a scene. ” you say, your voice perfectly flat, smooth, and devoid of a single tremor behind your dark lenses.
the lead strategist narrows her eyes, tapping her pen aggressively against the mahogany table as she refuses to back down. the PR team isn't buying the neat, clinical cover stories, and the atmosphere in the boardroom grows visibly tighter.
“ That still doesn't answer our question, ” she says, her voice sharp and unyielding as she presses further more. “ You're giving us logistics, but the public is looking at the subtext. Why are the two of you, as ex-partners who supposedly cut ties last year, agreeing to attend an intimate family dinner night in the first place? Let alone leaving in the exact same car, and allowing that level of physical intimacy to be captured in the photos? If there is unresolved history or if you two are secretly reconciling, we need to know right now, because the media is tearing those images apart frame by frame. ”
the question hits like a blunt instrument, laying bare the raw, chaotic truth of your breakup that you’ve both been desperately trying to suppress. along the table, the executives lean in, their eyes darting between your unreadable sunglasses and Rin’s rigid, frozen profile, demanding a real answer for the undeniable friction captured by the cameras.
Rin’s jaw tightens, his fingers locking against the polished edge of the table as a sharp spike of irritation breaks through his frozen composure. he doesn't look at the strategist, his dark eyes shifting slightly as he delivers a short, cutting response, his voice dripping with a cold, visible annoyance that causes the room to instantly quiet down.
“ We don't dictate our families' social calendars, ” he says, the words clipped and flat. “ And we don't control the angle of a telephoto lens. ”
he stops there, completely omitting the strategist's question about a reconciliation. it isn't that he lacks an answer— it's that he simply refuses to validate the intrusive inquiry with a response, leaving a heavy, defiant void in the room.
recognizing the escalating friction, you immediately step in to smooth over the rough edges before the PR team pushes harder. under the flat, untouchable influence of your medication, your voice remains completely level as you elaborate further, likewise bypassing the reconciliation question entirely to focus purely on the logistics.
“ What Rin means is that our families are ridiculously close with each other— to a degree that standard boundaries simply do not apply, ” you explain, your tone smooth and clinical behind your dark lenses. “ The dinner was an absolute family mandate, not a personal choice. As for sharing the car and the perceived proximity in the photos, we were only forced to do those things to maintain public appearances for our parents. We were playing our parts under duress. It was a performance engineered by our families, and nothing more. ”
the lead strategist finally leans back in her leather chair, letting out a long, slow sigh of relief as she taps the top of her pen against her tablet. for the first time since the briefing started, the sharp, defensive tension in her shoulders visibly loosens.
“ Finally, ” she murmurs, nodding slowly as she looks across the table at you. “ That's the first thing you two have said all noon that actually makes strategic sense. A family mandate we can sell. We can work with 'filial obligation' and overbearing parents. It perfectly defuses the scandal. ”
she pauses, her eyes scanning the two of you as she flips a page in her digital dossier. the room grows quiet again, the remaining PR analysts holding their breath as she brings the focus back to the one glaring omission from your previous statements.
“ Well, ” she asks, her voice dropping into a professional, unyielding cadence as she zeroes in on the lingering elephant in the room. “ What about the reconciling? Are you two getting back together, or is this purely a media facade? ”
the question hangs heavily over the long mahogany table, thick and suffocating.
none of you answer.
a sudden, heavy weight anchors itself in the back of your throat. under the numbing layer of the medication, you actually want to answer— to just say a flat, definitive no and kill the speculation right here— but you somehow can't. the word sits like a block of lead behind your teeth, completely unreachable, as if your mind refuses to let you voice a lie that definitive, or a truth that complicated.
the silence in the room stretches into seconds, becoming louder and more damning with every tick of the clock.
seeking some kind of cue, you shift your head slightly beneath the brim of your hat, looking at Rin through the dark tint of your sunglasses. his profile is completely frozen. his arms are still crossed over his chest, his gaze locked straight ahead on the glass wall behind the strategist. there isn't a single twitch in his jaw, no shift in his posture, and absolutely no indication that he plans on answering. he has completely closed himself off, treating the intrusive question with a cold, defiant vacancy that functions as a total shutdown to their interrogation.
the strategist lets out a small, knowing laugh, the sound cutting through the thick, suffocating silence of the boardroom. she shakes her head slightly, a cynical, highly professional smile playing at the corners of her lips as she taps her pen against the digital tablet.
“ Still not sure, I see? ” she murmurs, her tone dripping with the casual amusement of someone who deals in curated human drama for a living.
to her, your mutual paralysis isn't a sign of emotional wreckage— it’s a goldmine. she reads the heavy, unbreakable silence between you and Rin as the perfect, ambiguous tension of two people who are still tangled up in each other, completely blind to the fact that you are both simply frozen behind your own walls. along the table, the rest of the PR team exchanges quiet, satisfied glances, their fingers instantly flying across their keyboards to rewrite the midday press release.
Rin’s manager immediately leans forward, his hands slamming flat onto the polished mahogany table as a sharp, ambitious grin spreads across his face.
“ Then it's settled, ” he suggests, his voice cutting through the room with a sudden, aggressive energy. “ We lean into the ambiguity. You two fake date— publicly commit to a relationship for a while to ride out this wave. It completely controls the narrative, protects the stocks, and satisfies both of your families. ” he pauses, letting out a casual, dismissing shrug as if he were discussing a minor contract clause. “ And who knows? You'll develop feelings again eventually anyway. It’s a win-win. ”
the words hit the room like a physical blow. while the sheer audacity of the proposal leaves you trapped in a frozen, breathless silence, the reaction from the seat next to you is instantaneous and hostile.
Rin’s chair scrapes sharply against the floor as he abruptly leans forward, a dark, dangerous edge cutting into his features. a volatile wave of irritation shatters his stillness, his lips parting as he moves to shoot the pathetic proposal down entirely.
but he gets interrupted by the lead strategist before the savage refusal can even leave his mouth.
“ Wait. ” she cuts in, raising a hand to stall him as she stares intently at her tablet, her eyes flashing with sudden inspiration. “ Actually... I just thought of that, and it isn't a bad idea at all. ”
“ Think about the metrics, ” she says, her eyes flashing as she leans over the table, thoroughly convinced it's a good idea. “ A high-profile reconciliation narrative is exactly what the public is starving for right now. If we announce that you're officially back together, the sentiment shift on social media will be instantaneous. It completely flips the script from a messy scandal to a grand romantic reunion. ”
she gestures broadly with her pen, charting out the trajectory in the air. “ The positive effects on this are endless. Your individual engagement rates will skyrocket, and the collective buzz will push both of your fame and careers to an entirely new tier. Brands will be tripping over themselves to sign you as a package deal. We're talking massive endorsements, exclusive joint features, and ultimately, significantly more high-profile projects for the both of you. ”
a suffocating, dark pressure radiates from Rin, his fingers digging into the edge of the mahogany table as he shoots a freezing glare directly at the strategist.
“ I don't care. Find another strategy. ” Rin says, his voice flat, short, and cuttingly blunt.
“ It'll be awkward anyway, ” you say, your voice cutting through the tension with a flat, clinical honesty that matches the numbing weight of the medication.
you lean back slightly, your dark lenses fixed directly on the strategist. “ Forcing us to act like a couple after a year of trying to forget each other is completely counterproductive. On camera, off camera— we'll act awkward with each other. The public isn't stupid; they'll spot the forced chemistry immediately, and then we're dealing with a fraud scandal on top of everything else. ”
the lead strategist doesn't flinch at Rin’s sharp refusal, nor does she look deterred by your clinical breakdown of how disastrous the forced chemistry would be. instead, a slow, entirely unsurprised smile creeps onto her face. she paces a finger along the smooth edge of her tablet, looking between Rin’s dark, freezing glare and your completely unreadable sunglasses with the smug satisfaction of a chess player who had already mapped out this exact trajectory ten moves ago.
“ I knew you would disagree, ” the strategist says, her tone smooth, entirely unfazed by the hostile energy vibrating from his side of the table. “ And I knew you would say exactly that. Honestly, I’d be worried if you didn't raise those concerns. Forced chemistry is a PR nightmare, and the last thing we need is the public catching onto a stiff, awkward performance. ”
she leans forward, resting both elbows on the polished mahogany surface of the long table, her eyes glinting with a calculated intensity as she unveils the next phase of her contingency plan.
“ Which is why we aren't just going to throw the two of you to the wolves and hope for the best, ” she proposes, her voice carrying a tone of absolute authority that commands the entire room. “ To bridge that gap and eliminate the awkwardness, the agency is going to hire a high-level celebrity relationship counselor— someone strictly bound by a ironclad non-disclosure agreement. Their sole job will be to work with the two of you behind closed doors, iron out the lingering friction, and systematically make you get used to acting like a couple again. ”
she taps her pen against the table for emphasis, mapping out the clinical strategy behind the bizarre suggestion. “ They will coach you on micro-expressions, physical proximity comfort, and how to mirror each other's body language naturally in high-stress environments. By the time they are done with you, the lingering tension from your breakup won't look like awkwardness— it’ll look like intense, magnetic history. If you two can't find the rhythm on your own after a year apart, we will pay an expert to build it for you. ”
both you and Rin immediately move to voice your disagreement, your voices almost overlapping as you attempt to shut the absurd proposal down completely. Rin’s posture turns razor-sharp, his shoulders hardening with an aggressive, suffocating tension as he prepares to deliver another biting refusal, while you shift forward to dissect the sheer logistical nightmare of letting a stranger into the wreckage of your past relationship.
but this strategist is incredibly smart.
before either of you can even fully articulate a protest, she effortlessly cuts off your momentum with a raised hand and a flawless counter-argument. she has already anticipated every single objection, safety net, and loophole you could possibly throw at her. with cold, brilliant efficiency, she smoothly weaponizes your own logic, your family obligations, and the ironclad terms of your contracts against you, shutting down every escape route until your mutual resistance is completely suffocated by her flawless strategy.
your manager suddenly clears a throat, shifting in a leather chair as they re-enter the conversation, their eyes darting between the sharp-witted strategist and the tense, silent standoff happening on your side of the table. they smooth down the sharp fabric of their blazer, an analytical, deeply protective focus taking over their features as they recognize a golden opportunity to bridge the gap between the agency’s aggressive corporate goals and your deep, volatile reluctance to dive headfirst into a public facade.
“ Let’s look at this logistically from a rollout perspective, ” your manager speaks, leaning forward with an elegant, deliberate posture to rest their forearms on the mahogany table as they address the room. “ The strategist is right about the counseling, but a sudden, massive public announcement right now would look too manufactured. It would trigger immediate skepticism. Instead, I suggest we hold off entirely on releasing an official statement first. No press releases, no formal confirmations, no sudden 'we’re back together' captions. We let the media speculate and spin their wheels in the mud for a little while longer while we buy ourselves some time. ”
they turn their gaze directly toward you, giving you a steady, sharp look that implicitly communicates they are trying to protect you from the worst of this mess, before cutting their eyes over to Rin. their expression remains thoroughly business-minded, yet layered with a quiet, sharp perceptiveness as they map out the tactical timeline.
“ Instead of rushing to the microphones, we use the first few weeks behind closed doors to focus entirely and exclusively on improving both of your relationships, ” your manager explains, their voice dropping into a collaborative, highly strategic cadence. “ We let the counselor do their job in total secrecy. The primary goal during this initial phase isn't public consumption; it’s stripping away the friction so you two can actually stand in the same room without radiating absolute hostility. We need to build a baseline of comfort first. ”
your manager then turns back to the lead strategist, a calculated, knowing smile playing on their lips as they unveil the second half of their rollout plan. “ Then, once the foundation is solid and the awkwardness is handled, we start dropping subtle, organic breadcrumbs. We begin by giving a few carefully staged hints of both of you appearing together in the wild. A blurry background appearance on a friend's social media story. A casual, seemingly accidental spotting at a coffee shop near the agency. We let the fans and the paparazzi do the heavy lifting of connecting the dots themselves. By the time we actually step out as an official couple, the public will feel like they discovered it on their own, making the narrative entirely bulletproof. ”
“ Brilliant! ” the strategist says, a sharp, victorious smile locking into place as she snaps her digital folder shut with a definitive click. “ Then it's settled. No immediate statement. We secure the counselor, clear your schedules for the private sessions, and prepare the soft-launch rollout. ”
with those final words, the oppressive boardroom meeting officially draws to a close, the PR team immediately dispersing into a flurry of quiet chatter and frantic typing as the heavy tension in the air begins to scatter.
as the conversation ends and everyone stands up to leave, your manager steps into your line of sight, blocking the exit with a quiet, purposeful authority. they look between you, Rin, and Rin's manager, their expression serious and completely unreadable.
“ I'd like to talk to the three of you in private, ” your manager says, their voice low enough to stay beneath the noise of the clearing room. “ Away from the agency. Let's move this down the street. ”
without waiting for an objection, they lead the way out of the corporate headquarters. the four of you exit the building in a tense, tight formation, navigating the busy sidewalk until you slip into a quiet cafe tucked around the corner, the bell above the door chiming softly as you step inside to find a secluded table in the back.
the moment you sit down, you immediately lean across the small wooden table and complain to your manager. your tone isn't whiny or annoying; instead, it carries the easy, exasperated familiarity of someone venting to a close friend.
“ Seriously? ” you sigh, shaking your head as you slide your dark sunglasses down the bridge of your nose just enough to look them in the eye. “ You only made it worse. ”
your manager lets out a soft, tired chuckle, shaking their head as they lean back against the vinyl booth. there's no corporate shield up right now— just the genuine, weary honesty of someone who has been fighting in your corner all morning.
“ That was the best I could do, and you know it. If I hadn't stepped in with that rollout plan, that strategist would have had a press release pushed to every major outlet by noon, forcing you two to play the doting, ecstatic couple on a morning talk show tomorrow. ”
they lean forward slightly, their voice dropping to a quiet, conspiratorial murmur. “ I bought you time. Instead of throwing you straight into a public circus, I managed to lock you both behind closed doors where the public can't touch you. Trust me, in that boardroom? That was a win. ”
Rin’s manager immediately adds to the sentiment, leaning over the table with an enthusiastic nod as a broad, overly optimistic smile breaks across his face.
“ Exactly! Your manager handled that beautifully, ” he says, gesturing between the two of you as if he's already looking at a finished masterpiece. “ And let's be honest, it’ll only be a matter of time before you two get comfortable with each other again anyway. You have too much history for it not to click. A few weeks behind closed doors with a professional, and the spark will be right back. Before you know it, you'll be falling in love all over again. ”
Rin immediately disagrees, slamming his coffee cup down with a sharp clink.
“ Stop dreaming. ” he cuts in, his voice flat and freezing. “ This is a contract obligation, not a second chance. ”
you immediately lean your chin on your hand, a faint, teasing smirk playing on your lips as you decide to flirt with him right then and there.
“ Oh, come on, ” you say softly, your eyes locking onto his from over the rim of your cup. “ You'd be lying if you said you didn't miss me even just a little bit. ~ ”
Rin doesn't look away. instead, his gaze shifts slowly back to you, his dark eyes dead, hollow, and freezing. he leans slightly over the table, his presence entirely suffocating.
“ Stop acting, ” Rin rasps, his voice a low, venomous blade. “ Your delusional performance is making me sick. The only thing I miss is the space I had before your incompetence dragged me back into this circus. ”
you let out a small, quiet laugh, utterly unfazed by his hostility as you take a slow sip of your drink while moving your gaze to your manager.
Rin's manager beams, pointing a finger between the two of you with a triumphant grin. “ See? Look at that! It's working already without a counselor. ”
“ When exactly does this counselor thing even start? ”
“ At 3:00 PM today, ” your manager replies smoothly, checking their watch before looking back up at you with a serious expression. “ And you're going to be staying in a hotel for weeks, or months. ”
you instantly freeze, a mouthful of your drink going down the wrong pipe as you almost completely choke on it, coughing sharply into your napkin.
Rin finally looks up from his cup, his dark eyes cutting over to your panicked, coughing figure with a look of pure, unbothered contempt.
the afternoon quickly slips away after that, the heavy weight of the 3:00 PM deadline looming over the table until the managers finally call it, standing up to handle the final corporate arrangements. the lingering tension in the cafe slowly dissolves into a quiet, resigned reality as you and Rin are led out to separate cars, the reality of the upcoming weeks at the hotel finally setting in.
“ Idiot. ” he murmurs, his voice flat and freezing as he sets his cup down.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
OKAY I know I stated I'll be updating my dessert series on june but I got... carried away.
ain't my fault the plot is fire 🥹 and besides. I'm trying my best to finish this as soon as possible while I still have motivation and spark! ( I've lost the remaining sparks for my othet works. )
consider this an... early gift?
felt like this was bad idk but I've rewritten it. next verse will be fluff with a slight angst. like very slight. STAY TUNED 👀
I'm gonna be busy since june so expect no new fanfics since I'm graduating ): I'll try to post new ones every month! please bear with this dessert series update for a while :p
if you're new here; here's a short summary!
Amor, haine et gloire ( Famous Athlete Rin Itoshi x Famous Model & Actress Reader from Blue lock ) — both you and Rin's family are so close. Despite your past relationship with Rin, both your families still arranged a private dinner night, ending into a public frenzy.
Sacrilege ( Priest Chrollo Lucilfer x Prostitute Reader from Hunter x Hunter ) — deeply inspired by the series Hilda Furracao. your co-worker got so broken that she invites you for church. you hesitated at first, someone going to the church like you? but when you saw the priest, you know things aren't just going to end there.
Burning Avarice ( Alladin AU. Leorio Paradinight x Genie Reader from Hunter x Hunter ) — Leorio deeply suffers from poverty, stealing foods in a poor village, that is until he heard few criminals talking about... a magical lamp?
STILL NOT SURE ON THIS ONE, BUT GO CHECK IT OUT!
Living Palimpsest ( Kaneki Ken x Reader from Tokyo Ghoul ) — you move to a new city, a new place, to start new. but your ex... lives nextdoor? but he somehow does not recognize you.
SYNOPSIS: locked behind the closed doors of a sterile suite and a private dinner night, a single inadvertent gesture ignites a catastrophic public frenzy. caught between the clinical, freezing distance of an unwanted arrangement and the hyper-fixated side of the media, the fragile boundary between performance and reality completely fractures.
CONTAINS: angst, not the usual romance. still romance though. slowburn. life of luxury and fame, public figures, public exposure / media backlash / surveillance, invasive fan culture, anxiety / panic responses, past relationship with Rin, toxic relationship and dynamics, slight family pressure, psychological thrill, tension ( list will change as more verses will be released. this story evolves per verse )
BLUE LOCK: Aged up! Famous Athlete Rin Itoshi x Famous Model & Actress Reader
Word Count: 13,189 words and 74,663 characters
MENU
Verse l. Le Cocktail Neurologique Verse ll.
the hum of the limousine’s engine is a low, expensive vibration beneath the soles of your feet. inside the cabin, the air is perfectly chilled, smelling of leather and the faint, crisp scent of the city night filtering through the vents. you sit back against the plush seating, the silk of your cream-colored halter dress pooling around you like liquid moonlight. the pleated bodice catches the stray glimmers of passing streetlights, making the fabric shimmer with every slight movement.
you check the time on your gold watch, the deep blue stones embedded in the band catching the dim ambient light of the interior. they match the weight of the earrings pulling slightly at your lobes— a sharp, regal contrast to the ethereal white of your ensemble. on the seat beside you, your marble-patterned clutch sits like a polished stone, its gold ring handle gleaming.
you are exactly on schedule, though you know on time is already late by your father’s standards.
the restaurant is still several miles away, tucked into a quiet, prestigious corner of the district where the Michelin stars are earned through discretion as much as flavor. your phone buzzes once in your clutch— a brief, formal notification. your family has already arrived. you can almost picture them: your parents seated at the head of a long, white-clothed table, already engaged in the performative pleasantries of high-society small talk with Rin’s family.
they are waiting for you to complete the picture. you lean back, smoothing a stray hair, watching the streetlights dance across the polished surface of your marble clutch.
the soft glow of your phone screen illuminates the dark interior of the limousine as you slip it out from your marble clutch.
you tap the notification, and a photo blooms across the screen. it’s a shot taken from the head of the table at the restaurant— a perspective of polished silver, crystal glassware, and the warm, golden ambiance of the private dining room. your parents are already there, looking impeccable and poised, seated across from Rin’s family.
they look perfectly settled, their expressions a blend of practiced hospitality and quiet command. the empty chair at the center of the frame is glaringly obvious, a silent reminder that the two legacies are currently lopsided, waiting only for your arrival to begin the evening's formalities. you stare at the image for a moment, before locking the phone and sliding it back into your bag.
the silence of the limousine is broken only by the faint, rhythmic tap of your manicured nails against the glass of your phone. you unlock it again, the screen’s light catching the pearlescent sheen of your dress as you bypass your messages and open your social media apps.
the feed is a relentless flood of the past. edits and high-definition photos from exactly a year ago dominate the screen— remnants of a time when the headlines were obsessed with the two of you. you scroll past a candid shot of you and Rin at a gala, the composition blurred and romantic, followed by a professional red-carpet still where his hand was possessively at the small of your back.
the comment sections are a graveyard of speculation, fans still dissecting the chemistry in every frame and mourning the " power couple " that no longer exists. seeing his face— the familiar line of his jaw and that specific, guarded look in his eyes— feels jarringly intimate against the cold, formal reality of the dinner ahead.
you stare at a particular video edit, the music low and melancholic, flickering through clips of you two in much less guarded moments than the one you are about to walk into.
a huff of irritation escapes your lips, the sound muffled by the quiet luxury of the car. you had intended to scroll down and check the comments, perhaps to see if the rumors had finally died down— but the screen suddenly hitches. whether it’s a momentary lag in the signal or a slight trip of your fingers against the glass, the interface jumps.
instead of the comment section, the app forces a transition, loading the original poster’s full profile. the grid of photos flickers into view, a dedicated archive of your past relationship staring back at you in high definition.
you stare at the loading icon for a second too long, your thumb hovering over the screen. it’s a small, technical inconvenience, but in the high-pressure silence of the limousine, it feels grating.
you’ve always preferred things to be seamless and precise, and this digital stumble feels like a crack in your composure. you wait for the unresponsive screen to catch up with your commands.
you finally manage to navigate back, your thumb sweeping over the glass to reveal the comment section. the engagement is relentless; even months after the official silence, the media and the public are still clutching at the threads of what you and Rin used to be. the timestamps show that people are still arguing in real-time, refusing to let the ghost of the relationship rest.
me and bae fr
one top comment reads, a delusional attempt to project onto the curated perfection of the photo.
your eyes track to the thread beneath it, where a cynical reply has already garnered hundreds of likes:
are you genuinely dumb? they broke up ages ago 💀
the bluntness of the word broke up feels jarringly loud in the quiet of the limousine.
you scroll further, the blue stones of your watch shimmering as your hand shifts. another comment, posted only a few hours ago, sits near the top with a string of hopeful emojis:
they're just taking a break guys! trust 🙏🏻 "
a bitter sort of irony settles in your chest as you read it. the public is still holding out for a " break " to end, while you are currently dressed in thousands of dollars of silk and stone, heading toward a dinner where you’ll have to sit across from him as if those comments aren't the furthest thing from the truth.
a soft, unexpected huff of laughter breaks the silence of the cabin, the sound bright against the muted hum of the air conditioning. you look down at the screen, your eyes crinkling slightly as you reread the words:
“ THEY'RE STILL TOGETHER !!! ” I yell as they dragged me into the asylum...
the sheer, self-aware absurdity of the comment catches you off guard. in a sea of bitter arguments and desperate theories, the dramatic flair of the " asylum " joke is genuinely funny.
you find yourself smiling at the screen, the marble clutch resting forgotten against your thigh. for a split second, the tension in your shoulders dissipates. it really is a funny comment— the idea that it would take a literal padded cell to keep the dream of " You and Rin " alive.
you linger on the screen for a second more, the blue light of the phone reflecting in the teardrop sapphire of your earrings, before the limousine finally draws to a complete, seamless halt.
through the tinted glass, you see the warm, amber glow of the restaurant’s entrance, and your expression smooths back into a mask of polished, untouchable elegance.
—
the heavy door of the restaurant is held open by a silent attendant, and the transition from the cool, dark privacy of the limousine to the golden, hushed opulence of the dining room is seamless. your heels click with rhythmic precision against the polished floor as the maître d’ leads you toward a secluded alcove in the back— the kind of space reserved for people who buy privacy as easily as they buy wine.
as you round the corner, the scene is exactly as the photo promised. both families are already settled, the air thick with the scent of expensive lilies and aged oak. they are huddled over their leather-bound menus, the gold-leaf edges catching the candlelight as they discuss vintages and appetizers with a terrifyingly casual grace.
the maître d’ pulls out the only remaining chair, and you realize with a jolt of dry amusement exactly what the seating chart entails. you are placed directly across from Rin.
it’s a move so transparently orchestrated by your parents that it borders on the theatrical. they don’t even look up as you sit, though the slight, satisfied curve of your mother’s lips tells you everything you need to know.
Rin is already leaning back in his chair, his menu discarded on the table. the moment your eyes meet, he doesn't hide his reaction; he gives you a look of pure, unadulterated annoyance. his brow is slightly furrowed, his jaw set in a way that says he’s been counting the seconds until this " coincidence " occurred.
in response, you don't falter. you settle into your chair, and you offer him a slow, deliberate smile.
the moment you are settled, the silence of the table is broken by Rin’s parents. they set their menus down with practiced grace, their eyes sweeping over you with a warmth that feels almost strategic.
“ My dear, ” Rin’s mother begins, her voice a smooth, melodic lilt that carries across the centerpiece of white orchids, “ you look absolutely radiant. Truly, even more gorgeous than the last time we saw you! ”
Rin’s father nods in solemn agreement, his gaze appreciative of the polished image you present. across from you, Rin shifts slightly, his annoyed expression tightening as his parents’ praise fills the space between you. he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, his eyes darting toward the gold-rimmed wine glass in front of him.
you don't let his coldness deter you. instead, you tilt your head slightly. you let out a soft, airy laugh— the kind that sounds effortless and melodic in a room this quiet.
“ I could say the very same for you. You look stunning tonight ~ ” you reply, your voice steady and sweet as you lean in just an inch.
the compliment lands perfectly, earning a delighted smile from his mother and a subtle, approving nod from your own parents. you catch Rin’s eye for a fleeting second, your smile still lingering, watching as he looks away with a sharp, silent exhale of breath.
your mother seizes the moment with a practiced, elegant poise, her voice cutting through the soft clink of silverware with a playful sharpness. “ Oh, hush now, ” she says, her eyes darting between you and the man sitting across from you. “ I’m quite sure she could say the very same thing about your son, couldn't she? ”
the suggestion hangs in the air for a heartbeat— a blatant, heavy-handed nudge toward the past you both spent a year trying to bury. you feel a flicker of genuine irritation spark in your chest, a sharp contrast to the cool silk against your skin. it’s the kind of comment that feels like a trap, designed to force a compliment out of you for the sake of parental optics.
but before you can even think of a retort, the table erupts into a chorus of light, sophisticated laughter. both sets of parents share a look of knowing amusement, their mirth filling the private alcove as if they’ve just pulled off a brilliant joke.
even Rin’s father chuckles, leaning back in his chair with an air of immense satisfaction. seeing them all so perfectly aligned, so seemingly convinced of their own matchmaking prowess, you realize there is no room for a protest. you keep your expression anchored, your lips curved into a steady, beautiful smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. you maintain the mask of the dutiful daughter, nodding along to the laughter while the weight of the blue sapphires at your ears feels suddenly, momentarily, very heavy.
the menus are finally collected by a waiter who moves with the silent efficiency of a shadow, leaving the table to settle into the rhythmic clinking of crystal. while the rest of the group navigates the more avant-garde sections of the menu— selecting delicate tartares, foams, and deconstructed seafood dishes that look more like art than dinner— you keep your choice grounded.
when the server reaches you, you opt for the classic: a thick, prime cut of steak with a side of creamy mashed potatoes.
it’s a deceptively simple order for a place with this many accolades, but as the " fancy " plates begin to arrive for the others— tiny, intricate portions garnished with edible gold and micro-greens— your choice feels like a quiet act of defiance. there is something satisfying about the weight of a traditional meal while everyone else picks at their elaborate, bite-sized courses.
Rin watches as your plate is set down, the rich aroma of the butter-laden potatoes and the seared crust of the steak rising between you. he has something much more complicated in front of him, something that requires a specific fork and a great deal of precision to eat. you pick up your knife, the silver cool and heavy in your hand, and catch the way his eyes linger on your plate for a second too long.
you take a slow, deliberate bite, the rich flavors a stark contrast to the performative elegance of the conversation swirling around you. across the table, the parents are deep into a discussion about offshore investments and summer galas, but in the space between you and Rin, the only thing that matters is the steady, sharp glide of your steak knife and the silent, irritated heat of his gaze.
Rin’s father leans back, swirling the dark, expensive vintage in his glass as he shifts his attention away from the general conversation. he has a way of looking at people that feels like an audit— calculated but impeccably polite. sensing the sharp, silent friction crackling across the table, he decides to bridge the gap with a topic that centers the spotlight firmly on you.
“ So, ” he begins, his voice resonant and carrying that effortless authority of a man used to being listened to, “ How has the career been treating you lately? Between the acting and the modeling, you must be keeping an incredibly demanding schedule. ”
the table goes quiet for a moment, the focus shifting from the parents' business talk to your personal life. your mother looks over with an expectant, proud tilt of her chin, while Rin keeps his gaze fixed on his plate, though his grip on his silverware tightens just a fraction.
“ I’ve been following your recent campaigns, ” Rin's father continues, offering a nod of genuine professional respect. “ The work is impressive. It takes a certain level of discipline to maintain that kind of presence in the public eye. ”
you set your knife down with a soft, controlled click against the fine china. you can feel Rin’s eyes flick up to you for a split second, wary of how you’ll answer, his irritation still simmering just beneath the surface of his polished exterior. it’s a question that demands a perfect answer— one that balances humility with the high-society success everyone at this table expects from you.
“ It’s been a whirlwind. ” you respond, your voice carrying that effortless, melodic lilt that sounds perfect in a room like this. “ The latest campaign was demanding, but I find that the discipline of the set keeps me grounded. ”
your answer is flawless, hitting the exact note of professional ambition and polished humility that brings an approving murmur from both sets of parents. you take a slow sip of your water, the crystal cool against your lips, and then set the glass down with a precise, silent touch.
with a graceful turn of your head, you shift your gaze directly onto Rin. you let a small, expectant smile play on your lips— the kind that looks innocent to the parents but feels like a challenge to him.
“ But enough about me, ” you say, your eyes locking onto his with a shimmering, pointed curiosity. “ How has your son been faring? I’m sure his recent ventures have been just as... captivating. ”
the table goes quiet, all eyes turning toward Rin. he tenses visibly, the jaw you once knew so well tightening as he’s forced into the spotlight you just expertly aimed at him. you maintain your smile, leaning back slightly in your chair so the cream silk of your dress catches the golden light, waiting for him to find his voice under the heavy weight of everyone’s expectations.
Rin remains silent for a beat too long, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that feels like a physical weight. for a moment, it’s just the two of you— the sharp blue of your sapphires clashing with the cold, guarded dark of his eyes. he looks like he’s debating whether to just ignore you entirely, his jaw tight as he stares you down.
but then he feels the heavy, expectant silence from across the table. his father’s brow is raised, and the air in the room suddenly feels thick with the demand for him to be the " perfect son " for the sake of the audience.
he doesn't give you a polite smile. he doesn't even pretend to be enthusiastic. he just lets out a short, sharp exhale through his nose and looks away, his hand tightening momentarily around the stem of his wine glass.
“ It’s fine, ” he says, his voice flat and dangerously low. it’s the shortest possible answer he can give— the bare minimum required to satisfy his parents without acknowledging their presence as anything more than an obstacle. “ Everything is exactly where it needs to be. ”
he takes a slow, deliberate sip of his wine. the gold band on his finger catches the light, a stark reminder of the tie that binds him to this table. he offers no details, and the compliment you threw his way is left to wither in the air, unreturned.
instead, he sets the glass back down with a sharp clack against the tablecloth.
he doesn't look at them. he looks at you— his eyes narrowed, tracing your expression as if dissecting a weak play on the field.
“ I’m sure everyone here is much more interested in hearing about your 'captivating' projects than my logistics, ” he adds. the sarcasm is a thin blade, slightly invisible to his parents but meant to draw blood from you. he leans back, folding his arms in a way that feels less like relaxation and more like a challenge. he’s finished playing the part of the dutiful son. now, he’s just waiting for you to fail.
you let out another laugh— this one soft and musical, brushing off his sarcasm as if it were nothing more than a playful jest. it’s a perfect performance of grace, one that makes Rin’s biting tone look even more sour by comparison.
the reaction from his side of the table is instantaneous. his mother’s expression shifts, her polite smile tightening into something much sharper as she cuts a sideways glare toward her son. the irritation is clear in the set of her shoulders; he is failing the unspoken test of the evening, and she isn't about to let him ruin the atmosphere.
“ Rin, ” she says, her voice carrying a warning edge disguised as a laugh, before she immediately turns back to you, her face softening into a mask of fond nostalgia. “ Oh, don't mind him. He’s always been so moody when he's busy. It reminds me of that summer you two spent in the south of France— remember, dear? ”
she doesn't wait for an answer, leaning toward your mother with a conspiratorial glimmer in her eyes. “ They were practically inseparable. We could hardly get them to come to dinner because they were always off on those midnight drives. I don't think I've ever seen Rin quite as... attentive as he was back then. ”
she turns her gaze back to the two of you, her eyes flitting between your polished composure and Rin’s rigid silence.
“ Honestly, seeing you both sitting across from each other like this, it feels like no time has passed at all. Some things just have a way of looking right, don't they? ”
she lets the suggestion hang in the air, a heavy-handed tease intended to force a bridge over the gap of your breakup.
across from you, Rin’s grip on his silver fork is so tight his knuckles are turning white, his eyes fixed stubbornly on his plate as his mother continues to weave a romanticized version of your history right over the dinner table.
your mother doesn't miss a beat, leaning into the conversation with a knowing, elegant tilt of her head. she sets her wine glass down, the light from the chandelier dancing in the deep red liquid, as she catches the eye of Rin’s mother.
“ Oh, I remember those months vividly, ” your mother adds, her voice smooth and laced with a playful, maternal mischief. “ It was impossible to get a word out of her. She’d be tucked away in that library for hours, and we all knew exactly who was on the other end of that silent phone. You two always had that strange, quiet understanding— no one else could really get a word in when you were in the same room. ”
she turns her gaze toward Rin, offering him a smile that is far too sharp to be anything but a nudge. “ I remember your father complaining that he hadn't seen you for weeks because you were always 'supervising' whatever project she was working on. You were quite the shadow back then, weren't you, Rin? ”
across the table, your father lets out a low, amused chuckle, nodding in agreement. the parents are in full harmony now, weaving a thick, stifling net of nostalgia around the two of you.
“ It’s funny, isn't it? ” your mother continues, her eyes shimmering as she looks back and forth between you and Rin. “ How some people just have a specific... magnetism. No matter how much time passes or how 'busy' they get, that history doesn't just disappear. It’s written all over both of your faces tonight. You both still have that exact same look when you think the other isn't watching. ”
she lets the comment settle over the table like a heavy velvet shroud. the implication is clear: in their eyes, the breakup was a mere footnote, and this dinner is the beginning of the correction. you feel the heat of Rin’s silence from across the table— a sharp, jagged contrast to the lighthearted teasing of the people who still think they know exactly what’s best for both of you.
the laughter from both sides of the table is rich and synchronized, a sound of absolute confidence that their " subtle " matchmaking is working. your father’s chuckle blends with Rin’s father’s amusement, creating a wall of sound that makes the private alcove feel smaller, more suffocating.
you join in, letting out a light, practiced laugh that perfectly mimics their tone— a strategic move to mask the irritation still humming under your skin. it’s the easiest way to play along without actually surrendering to the narrative they’re spinning.
“ You all have such vivid memories, ” you say. you catch Rin’s eye for a fraction of a second— his expression is still a mask of cold boredom— before you pivot the conversation entirely.
“ Speaking of being inseparable, ” you continue, your tone breezy as you tilt your head toward Rin’s parents, “ where is Sae? I noticed his seat is empty. Is he joining us later? ”
the mention of his brother hangs in the air, successfully cutting through the thick atmosphere of romantic nostalgia. Rin finally looks up from his plate, his eyes narrowing. the shift in focus is immediate, giving you the briefest moment of breathing room from the weight of your parents' expectations.
Rin’s mother sighs, a delicate, practiced sound of maternal long-suffering. she adjusts the pearls at her neck, her focus shifting away from the romantic teasing for a brief moment.
“ Oh, Sae, ” she says, waving a hand dismissively as if his absence were a recurring tax she’s forced to pay. “ He isn't back from Japan yet. He’s stuck in some other country now— Spain, I think? Or perhaps back to Germany? Honestly, between the league matches and his training schedule, I can't keep track. He sent a very brief message saying he wouldn't be able to make the flight in time for tonight. ”
Rin’s father nods, though his expression is a bit more rigid. “ A professional commitment. He takes those matches far too seriously to drop them for a family dinner, even one as important as this. ”
the mention of Sae's absence brings a different kind of weight to the table— one of professional distance and the cold reality of the Itoshi brothers' diverging paths. across from you, Rin doesn't say a word, but the mention of his brother seems to settle into him like a cold draft. he stares at his wine glass, his expression unreadable, though the muscles in his jaw remain tightly coiled.
“️️ Well, ” your mother chimes in, trying to bring the lightheartedness back, “ It’s a shame. But at least it gives us more time to focus on the two of you. ”
she catches Rin’s eye with a pointed look, her smile returning in full force. the diversion worked for a second, but the parents are already circling back, their intent as clear as the polished crystal on the table. you feel the heat of Rin's gaze flick back to yours, his eyes dark with a renewed, sharp annoyance at being the sole target of the evening once again.
—
the dinner plates are cleared with a silent, synchronized efficiency, leaving nothing but the white linen and the guttering candles between the two families. you wait for the signal to finally end the night, but as your father sets his linen napkin down, he doesn't reach for his coat. instead, he leans forward, his hands clasped with an air of renewed authority.
“ The night is still far too pleasant to call it an evening just yet, ” he announces, his voice resonant and full of a practiced, wealthy warmth that seems to vibrate through the crystal glassware. he looks over at Rin’s parents, who offer identical, knowing smiles. “ I’ve arranged for the private lounge at the Skyline to be opened for us. It’s only a few blocks away, and the terrace view tonight is something even a seasoned traveler like Rin shouldn't miss. ”
Rin’s mother claps her hands together softly, her pearls catching the golden light. “ Perfect suggestion! It’s much more intimate there. We can actually talk without the clatter of a dining room. And it’s been so long since the families had a moment of true privacy together. ”
the suggestion hangs in the air, a heavy-handed command disguised as an invitation. you feel a sharp, cold prickle of irritation settle in your chest, and you look over at Rin. he is already standing, his movements jerky and forced, his shoulders so rigid they look as though they might snap. he doesn't look at you; he stares at a point somewhere above his father’s shoulder, his expression a mask of pure, concentrated endurance.
“ I actually have an early call time on set, ” you interject, your voice smooth and melodic despite the way your heart is beginning to thud. you pick up your marble clutch, the gold ring handle cool against your fingers. “ I really should be heading back to get some rest. ”
“ Nonsense, darling, ” your mother chirps, her hand coming down on your forearm. it’s a light touch, but the pressure is unmistakable— a silent command to stay in your seat. “ One drink. It’s barely ten. Besides, I’m sure Rin wouldn't mind ensuring you get there safely once we’ve had our toast. It’s settled. ”
Rin finally looks down, his eyes narrowing as he catches your gaze. he doesn't say a word to the parents, but the way he hooks his suit jacket over his arm is violent in its precision. he stands there, a silhouette of pure, unadulterated annoyance, waiting for you to stand so the " next phase " of their plan can begin.
the exit from the restaurant is as orchestrated as the meal itself. as you reach the curb, the two limousines idling at the entrance aren't the empty, cavernous sanctuaries you expected. instead, through the tinted glass, you can see the interiors are cluttered— heaped with oversized, ribbon-wrapped boxes, floral arrangements, and heavy gift bags that both families have been " exchanging " behind the scenes.
your father pauses by the lead car, placing a hand on the door handle, then turns to you and Rin with a look of feigned, sudden realization.
“️ Oh, look at that, ” he says, his voice brimming with a hollow sort of surprise. “ Between the antique cases from your mother and the wine crates Rin’s father brought... there’s hardly enough room for a person in there, let alone four. ”
Rin’s mother steps up beside him, nodding in immediate, graceful agreement. “ He’s right. It’s absolutely packed to the brim. We could barely fit the four of us in there comfortably with all these lovely gifts. ” she turns her gaze toward you, her smile bright and immovable. “ There’s no sense in everyone being cramped and wrinkling their clothes. ”
you look at the car, then at Rin, who is standing perfectly still, his suit jacket gripped so hard in his hand that the fabric is beginning to strain. the " lack of space " is a transparent lie— a final, physical shove to force the two of you into a private vacuum.
“ It’s a short drive to the lounge, ” your mother chimes in, her eyes shimmering with a victory she’s not even trying to hide. she reaches into her own small clutch and produces a set of keys, holding them out toward Rin. “ Why don't you and Rin take the coupe? It’s much more practical. He knows the way, and it'll give you two a chance to actually breathe away from all our 'boring' business talk. ”
Rin stares at the keys in her hand as if they were a live wire. the silence in the street is heavy, punctuated only by the low, expensive purr of the idling engines. you can feel the heat of his irritation radiating off him in waves— the raw, jagged energy of a man who knows he’s being played and has run out of polite ways to decline.
“ Take them, Rin, ” his father adds, his voice dropping into that tone of quiet, patriarchal command that leaves no room for a " no " in front of company.
with a sharp, nearly imperceptible jerk of his arm, Rin reaches out and snatches the keys from your mother’s fingers. the metal clinks sharply in the quiet night air. he doesn't look at his parents, and he doesn't look at you. he just turns on his heel toward the sleek, silver coupe parked a few yards away, his stride long and predatory.
“ Get in, ” he says, his voice flat and dangerously low, directed only at you. he doesn't wait for a reply, nor does he offer to open your door. he’s already heading for the driver’s side, leaving you standing on the sidewalk.
the cold night air catches the silk of your dress as you pause just inches from the passenger door, your hand hovering over the sleek, polished handle of the coupe. the metal is chilled, a stark contrast to the warmth of the restaurant you just left. but as you prepare to slide into the leather-scented interior, a sharp, artificial prick of light cuts through the darkness.
it’s a flash— quick, intrusive, and unmistakable. it lasts for only a fraction of a second, an electric white pulse that reflects off the teardrop sapphires at your ears and the gold ring handle of your marble clutch.
you freeze. your heart skips a beat, a sudden, cold jolt of adrenaline sparking through your veins. you immediately whip your head back, your eyes searching the shadowed alcoves of the street, the dark windows of the boutiques across the way, and the line of parked cars stretching into the gloom. you scan for the silhouette of a lens, the movement of a person ducking behind a pillar, or the tell-tale glow of a screen.
but there is nothing.
the street remains deceptively quiet, the only movement coming from the low, rhythmic hum of the luxury van’s exhaust and the distant, muffled sound of city traffic. the parents are already settling into their own vehicle, oblivious, their laughter drifting away as they disappear behind tinted glass.
a wave of confusion washes over you, followed quickly by a creeping, lowkey paranoia. you know that flash. you’ve experienced it on red carpets, in the wings of runways, and through the intrusive lenses of the paparazzi who used to haunt your every move when you and Rin were the world’s favorite headline. it’s a familiar ghost, yet the emptiness of the street makes you feel as though your mind is playing tricks on you— or worse, that someone is far better at hiding than they used to be.
you stand there for a moment too long, your breath hitching in the cool air, before you force yourself to move. you can’t afford to look rattled, not here and certainly not in front of him.
you pull open the heavy door of the coupe and slide into the low, bucket seat. the interior is a cocoon of dark leather and carbon fiber, smelling of expensive upholstery and the sharp, icy scent of Rin’s presence. the silk of your cream-colored dress rustles as you settle in, the fabric pooling around your legs in the cramped space.
you sit directly next to the driver’s seat.
the silence in the car is immediate and heavy, broken only by the faint, mechanical hum of the dashboard lights. Rin doesn't start the engine. he just sits there, his hands clamped on the wheel, staring straight through the windshield as if he's trying to burn a hole in the car in front of him.
he can clearly feel the rustle of your silk dress inches away from his arm. the cramped space makes your presence impossible to ignore, and he hates it.
he doesn't turn his head. he just shifts his eyes toward you, the look in them cold, sharp, and full of genuine loathing.
“ The back, ” he says. his voice is a flat, dead rasp. “ Move. ”
he doesn't elaborate. he just waits, his jaw tight, his gaze tracking the way you're settled into the seat next to him. when you don't immediately jump out, he lets out a short, jagged breath of derision.
“ Don't get comfortable, ” he mutters, his voice dropping an octave into something dangerously low. “ I’m not your driver, and this isn't a date. Get in the back or get out of the car. ”
you don’t move. instead, you settle deeper into the leather. you tilt your head, a small, knowing hum of amusement escaping your lips as you catch his reflection in the dashboard light.
“ The back? ” you repeat, your voice a smooth, playful contrast to the heavy silence. “ And leave you alone with that temper? I think I’ll stay right here. It’s much more... nostalgic. ”
Rin’s hands tighten on the steering wheel until the leather creaks under his grip. he doesn't look at you, he doesn't even acknowledge the tease. the only sign he heard you is the way his jaw shifts, his teeth audibly grinding together.
he lets out a breath— a sharp, huff of pure derision through his nose. “ Annoying, ” he mutters.
he doesn't argue, he doesn't try to convince you to move again. that would require too much effort, and he’s clearly decided you aren't worth the breath. instead, he shifts his gaze back to the road, his expression turning into a mask of cold, focused indifference.
“ Don't touch anything, ” he adds, his voice a flat, dangerous monotone.
before you can even offer a witty retort, he slams the car into gear. the engine doesn't just start; it snarls, a violent roar of power that shakes the cabin as he floors it. he doesn't care about the smooth " limousine " ride your parents expect— he takes the first corner with a sharp, gut-wrenching precision that sends your marble clutch sliding toward him.
he doesn't look at you, ignoring your presence entirely as he weaves through the city traffic like he's trying to outrun the very air in the car.
the silk of your dress flutters violently as you reach out and press the button, the glass sliding down with a mechanical hum to let the city night roar into the cabin. the high-speed wind immediately tangles your hair, pulling strands loose from their polished arrangement, but you don't care. you lean your head back against the leather, closing your eyes and letting the sharp, cold air hit your face to drown out the stifling tension of the car.
it wasn't your fault your two families were so intertwined that their business mergers eventually bled into their children’s lives. it wasn't your fault that " dating Rin " had once seemed like the only logical conclusion to a lifetime of shared galas and coordinated holidays. you weren't trying to win him back, and you certainly weren't seeking his attention— you were just existing in the same suffocating orbit your parents had trapped you both in.
Rin’s jaw tightens. he hates the disorder. the wind is a variable he didn't account for, a loud, messy intrusion into his space. he can feel the air swirling around his own head, breaking his focus.
he doesn't look at you, he doesn't even turn his head. he just reaches over with one hand and slams the window button up from his side, the glass sliding shut with a definitive, mechanical thud that cuts the noise instantly.
“ Tch. Distracting, ” he mutters, his voice a flat, dead rasp.
the silence returns, even heavier than before. he stares straight ahead, his eyes cold and fixed on the road, dismissing your attempt to change the atmosphere as nothing more than an annoyance he’s already corrected.
—
the coupe jerks to a stop at the curb, the engine cutting out with a sharp, mechanical finality. Rin doesn't wait. he’s already out of the car before the dashboard lights have even dimmed, his movements cold and efficient. he doesn't look back, leaving you to deal with the heavy passenger door yourself.
through the glass, you see them. both sets of parents are clustered near the entrance of the lounge under a warm, golden glow. they look like they’ve been waiting for this specific arrival all night—four faces turned toward the car with identical, expectant smiles.
as you step out and smooth the silk of your dress, the parents are already closing in. your mother reaches you first, her eyes bright with a triumphant sort of glee.
“ There you are, ” she says, her voice a melodic, knowing lilt. she brushes a hand against your shoulder, her gaze flicking immediately to Rin, who is standing several feet away. “ The drive wasn't too long, I hope? We were just saying how lovely it is to see the two of you in that car again. ”
Rin’s father nods, a small, disciplined smile on his face as he looks at his son. “ Good pace. I trust you handled the car well. ”
Rin doesn't offer a polite response. he doesn't even offer a nod. he stands there with his arms folded, his suit jacket hooked over one shoulder, staring at the lounge doors as if they’re an obstacle he needs to clear. the only sound he makes is a short, sharp exhale of breath through his nose— a sound of pure, unadulterated boredom.
“ Inside. ” he mutters. it’s the only thing he says. he doesn't wait for the parents to lead the way, and he doesn't wait for you. he just starts walking, his back a rigid wall of indifference as he heads toward the entrance. he’s finished with the pleasantries, and he’s making it very clear that every second he spends here is a second he’s counting down.
Rin's parents remain gathered under the warm, amber glow of the lounge's entrance, watching Rin’s retreating figure with a mix of practiced patience and subtle embarrassment. the tension he left behind is thick, a jagged contrast to the smooth, jazz-inflected atmosphere of the building.
Rin’s mother turns to you, a soft, apologetic sigh escaping her as she reaches out to squeeze your forearm. her pearls shimmer in the golden light, reflecting the flicker of genuine regret in her eyes.
“ I am so sorry, dear, ” she murmurs, her voice a low, elegant apology that carries the weight of a thousand similar moments. “ He’s always been so... difficult when he’s focused on his training. I had hoped he’d show a bit more grace tonight, especially with you. ”
your own parents stand just behind her, their expressions a blend of forced neutrality and keen observation. they are waiting for your reaction, searching for any crack in your composure that might betray how you actually feel about his blatant coldness.
but you don't give them the satisfaction of a frown or a sharp retort. instead, you settle your marble clutch comfortably against your hip and offer a slow, effortless smile— the kind that is as beautiful as it is untouchable. the sapphire at your ear catches a stray gleam of light as you tilt your head back toward the doors where Rin just disappeared.
“ It's fine, ” you say, your voice carrying that smooth, melodic lilt of someone who isn't bothered in the slightest. “ Still cold as ever. ”
the remark lands perfectly. it’s light enough to pass for a joke to the parents, yet sharp enough to acknowledge the reality of his behavior. a wave of relieved, sophisticated laughter ripples through the group.
“ Well, ” your mother says, stepping forward to usher everyone inside, “ at least some things are consistent. Let’s not let the night go to waste standing on the sidewalk. ”
as they lead the way into the lobby, you follow at a leisurely pace. you maintain that steady, beautiful smile, even as you think back to the silent, high-speed drive and the phantom flash of light on the street.
the transition into the private lounge is a seamless plunge into a world of shadow and steel. as the heavy doors seal behind you, the humid city air is replaced by a temperature that is comfortingly cold— a dry, crisp chill that makes the silk of your dress feel like a second skin. the lighting is sparse, reduced to amber strips along the floor and the cold, blue glow of the city skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling glass.
your parents move toward a cluster of low-slung velvet armchairs in the far corner, their silhouettes framed by the sprawling lights of the district below.
almost immediately, the atmosphere among them shifts. the playful matchmaking and lighthearted teasing from the sidewalk vanish, replaced by the hushed, rhythmic cadence of a " deep talk. " they lean in close, their voices dropping into a serious murmur about market shifts, legacy planning, and the kind of high-stakes logistics that keep their world spinning.
they have effectively built a wall of professional gravity around themselves, leaving you and Rin adrift in the vast, open space of the lounge.
Rin is already at the far end, standing by the floor-to-ceiling glass. he’s a dark, rigid silhouette against the city lights. he doesn't have a drink, he doesn't have his phone out. he just stands there with his arms folded, staring out at the skyline with a look of bored, icy detachment.
you walk over, the rhythmic click of your heels the only sound in the cold room. you stop a few feet away, the cream silk of your dress shimmering in the low light.
Rin doesn't turn, he doesn't acknowledge your approach. the only sign he knows you’re there is the way his reflection in the glass narrows its eyes, his jaw setting into a hard line.
seconds pass. the silence becomes heavy, a cold weight in the refrigerated air of the lounge.
“ You're in the way. ” he finally mutters.
his voice is barely a whisper, a flat, jagged rasp that doesn't even carry a hint of emotion. he doesn't turn around, he doesn't tell you to move. he just states it as a fact, his eyes fixed on the horizon, waiting for you to either disappear or stop existing in his line of sight. he’s not looking for a fight or a conversation; he’s just existing in a space that he no longer wants to share with you.
you take a slow, deliberate step back, then another, until there’s a wide, cold expanse of polished stone between the two of you. it’s a ridiculous distance— enough to make the " awkwardness " of the night feel like a physical weight in the room— but in this silence, it’s the only thing that feels safe.
both your parents are still a world away, their voices a blurred hum of business and legacy. here, in the refrigerated quiet, you find your eyes drifting back to his silhouette.
it is a frustrating, bitter realization, but you can’t deny the memories. they surface unbidden, triggered by the sharp scent of his cologne or the specific way he stands when he’s reaching his limit. you remember a different version of this silence— one that didn't feel like a war zone. you remember the way he loved you in his own way: a love that wasn't built on flowers or soft words, but on a terrifying, singular focus.
the way he’d watch your rehearsals from the back of the room, silent and unmoving, until you were the only two left. the way he’d correct your posture or your form with a touch that was clinical and rough, yet possessed a hidden, frantic heat. it was a love that felt like being the only target in his sights, a devotion that was as demanding as it was deep.
now, he’s just a stranger in a familiar suit.
Rin doesn't move. he doesn't look at the space you’ve vacated, and he doesn't acknowledge the heavy silence you're both drowning in. he stands perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the distant lights of the city. he isn't reminiscing, he isn't feeling the " awkwardness. " he’s simply existing in the silence as if he’s alone in the room.
the only sound is the distant, muffled laughter of the parents and the faint hum of the building. Rin remains a dark, unreachable silhouette. he doesn't turn his head, he doesn't say a word. he just continues to stare out the glass, his jaw locked, completely indifferent to your presence and the memories you're currently fighting back.
the memory feels out of place in this sterile, freezing lounge. you can almost feel the phantom warmth of how it used to be— those rare moments when the sharp edges of his ambition seemed to curve around you instead of cutting through you. back then, the way your lives were woven together felt less like a corporate arrangement and more like a foregone conclusion. you had convinced yourself that his intensity was just his way of holding on.
but looking at the rigid line of his shoulders now, that " meant to be " feels like a fever dream.
he isn't looking back. he isn't caught in the gravity of " what used to be " to him, those years were likely just another stage of growth he’s already evolved past— a season of his life that he’s closed the door on with clinical precision.
the silence between you remains heavy and one-sided.
Rin reaches up, his fingers adjusting his tie with a quick, forceful tug that looks more like he's tightening a noose than fixing his appearance. it’s the only movement he’s made in minutes. he doesn't look at you, doesn't check to see if you're still standing there, and doesn't offer a single word to break the chill. he just continues to stare out at the horizon, his expression a mask of bored, glassy indifference.
—
the parents finally rise from their velvet armchairs, the low, rhythmic hum of their business talk coming to an abrupt end.
they check their watches in unison, a shared look of realization passing between them as they acknowledge how late it has actually gotten.
“ It’s well past midnight, ” Rin’s father says, his voice cutting through the cold silence of the lounge with practiced authority. “ We'll head to the suite. It’s closer, and everything is already prepared. ”
your mother nods, smoothing her dress as she casts a meaningful look in your direction. “ It’s for the best. There are two rooms ready— one for us, and the usual suite for you and Rin. No sense in making things difficult at this hour. ”
the arrangement is stated as a fact, leaving no room for negotiation. the " shared " room— the one you and Rin have occupied countless times during family stays— is where you are expected to spend the rest of the night.
Rin doesn't argue, he doesn't even look over at the parents to acknowledge the plan. he simply pushes off from the glass wall, his hands shoved deep into his pockets as he turns toward the exit. his face is a mask of flat, icy indifference, the only sign of his irritation being the subtle, hard set of his jaw.
“ Whatever. ” he mutters.
the realization hits you with the same sudden chill as the air conditioning in the lounge. you had been so lost in the distance between you and the weight of your own memories that the passage of time had become a blur. now, the reality of the parents' " efficient " planning settles in: you aren't just sharing a space, you’re sharing the bed.
the same bed where the silence won't have a vast, marble floor to hide in.
Rin is already moving toward the exit, his stride purposeful and entirely detached. he doesn't glance back to see your reaction or to see if you’re even following. to him, the arrangement seems to be just another annoying logistical hurdle, something to be endured with as little interaction as possible.
he reaches the elevator bank first, pressing the button with a sharp, clinical jab. as the gold doors slide open, he steps inside and turns around, his arms folded tightly over his chest. he doesn't hold the door open for you; he just stands there, a dark and rigid figure framed by the elevator’s mirrors, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above your head.
the " meant to be " feeling from earlier has completely vanished, replaced by the reality of a guy who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth. he doesn't say a word as you step into the small, enclosed space with him, but the air in the elevator immediately feels twice as thin.
—
the penthouse suite is as seamless and cold as the lounge. it’s a massive, two-story expanse of glass and dark wood, with the first floor acting as a sprawling gallery of designer furniture that nobody actually sits in.
“ Go on upstairs, dear, ” Rin’s mother says, her voice smooth but carrying a sharp undercurrent as she glances toward her son. she places a gentle hand on your back, nudging you toward the glass-railed staircase. “ Get settled. We’ll be up in a moment. ”
your own parents follow suit, offering tired smiles as they begin the trek to the second floor, leaving Rin standing in the center of the foyer.
you catch the look on Rin’s mother’s face as you turn away— the tight, disciplined pull of her features. she’s definitely about to tear into him for his behavior at the lounge.
as you climb the stairs, the rhythmic click of your heels against the wood is the only sound. you don't look back, but you can feel the heavy, silent tension radiating from Rin as he remains downstairs. he doesn't move, standing there like a statue with his arms crossed, staring at a piece of abstract art on the wall as if he’s preparing for the lecture he knows is coming.
reaching the second-floor landing, the layout is clear: your parents’ wing is to the left, and the shared suite is at the far end of the hall. the hallway is dimly lit, the plush carpet muffling your footsteps as you walk toward the door that marks the end of the night.
you push the door open to the suite. it’s exactly as you remember— minimalist, freezing, and dominated by a single, expansive king-sized bed. the sheets are pulled taut, a pristine white expanse that feels more like a battlefield than a place to rest. you step inside and let the door swing shut, the soft click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. you’re alone for now, but the heavy silence of the hallway tells you it won’t be long before the lecture downstairs ends and the door opens again.
the hot water of the shower wash away the evening's tension, leaving your skin flushed and smelling of expensive hotel soap. after drying off, you methodically strip away the rest of the night: the heavy sapphires go onto the vanity, and your makeup is wiped clean until your face is bare. you change into the prepared sleepwear, but the sight of the single, pristine bed makes your chest tighten.
you aren't doing it. not tonight.
you remembered seeing it earlier— a spare, folding foam mattress tucked away in the deep storage closet between your separate bathrooms. it’s heavy and awkward, but you manage to haul it out, dragging it across the plush carpet toward the far corner of the room.
the door to the suite clicks open.
Rin walks in, his tie undone and hanging loose around his neck, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar. he looks exhausted and twice as irritable after the lecture downstairs. he stops dead in his tracks the moment he sees you.
he doesn't move. he just stands there, one hand still on the door handle, staring at you as you struggle to push the foam into place on the floor. his eyes are cold, tracking your movements with a look of pure, bewildered disbelief.
“ What are you doing? ” he asks. his voice is a low, jagged rasp, cutting through the silence of the room. he doesn't offer to help, and he doesn't move to the bed. he just watches you.
you don't look up from the foam, focusing on smoothing out the edges of the makeshift bed. the room is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the city through the reinforced glass, but the air around Rin feels like it’s vibrating with a sharp, static tension.
“ I’m sleeping on the floor, ” you say. your voice is steady, matching the chill of the room. you don't offer an explanation or an apology; you just state it as a final decision, a way to reclaim some space in a night that has felt entirely out of your control.
Rin doesn't move. he stays rooted by the door, his silhouette tall and imposing against the light from the hallway. he stares down at you, then at the thin foam mattress, his eyes narrowing into cold, thin slits. the silence stretches out, heavy and jagged, until he lets out a short, sharp huff of air through his nose— a sound of pure, biting disbelief.
he doesn't argue, he doesn't tell you to get on the bed. he just stares at you for a long, frozen moment, his jaw locked tight enough to crack, before he turns away and heads toward his own bathroom without a single word.
you finally give up on the floor, sliding into the massive king-sized bed and settling a careful distance away from him.
despite the comfort of the mattress, you can't seem to settle. you keep moving around, tossing from side to side and constantly adjusting the pillows in a frustrating attempt to find a comfortable spot. every shift of your weight feels loud in the quiet room, but you can't help it.
to make matters worse, the air conditioner is blowing directly over you. the steady, freezing breeze sweeps across your face and shoulders, a sharp chill that makes you shiver and continuously pull the heavy sheets higher around your neck to shield yourself from the draft.
you keep moving again, unable to stay still for more than a few seconds. you roll onto your other side, the heavy sheets rustling loudly against the duvet as you pull your knees up, trying to shield yourself from the relentless chill.
a moment later, you shift again, flipping the pillow over to the other side and adjusting your position yet another time. no matter how you arrange yourself, the mattress feels too vast, the quiet feels too loud, and you just keep tossing and turning in the dark, desperate to find a single spot where you can finally settle down.
the endless rustling of the duvet finally breaks his patience. Rin rolls over, the movement sudden and sharp. in the dim light, his eyes are narrow, flat, and completely devoid of warmth. he looks at you with pure, clinical irritation.
“ Stay still, ” he rasps, his voice a low, jagged friction in the quiet room. “ You're being annoying. ”
he doesn't offer you space, and he doesn't care that you're freezing. he just stares at you for a cold, hard second, his jaw locked tight, waiting for you to finally shut up and stop moving so he can go back to sleep.
“ Well, it's hard for me to find a comfortable spot. ” you mutter back, your voice muffled slightly by the heavy sheet.
you pull the covers all the way up to your chin, trying to shield yourself from the steady, icy draft cutting across the bed. it’s an instinctive defense against both the room's temperature and his total lack of empathy, a futile attempt to get comfortable under his critical watch.
Rin doesn't offer a single word of sympathy. he doesn't shift the blankets, and he doesn't adjust the thermostat. he just keeps his narrow, unblinking glare fixed on you through the darkness, his silence heavy and unyielding as he waits for you to finish complaining and finally stay still.
despite the cold weight of his glare, your limbs just won't settle. the freezing draft from the AC sweeps across the pillow again, hitting the exposed skin of your neck and making you shiver.
you turn over entirely, rolling away from him to face the edge of the mattress, dragging the heavy duvet with you in a loud, aggressive rustle of fabric. you tuck the edges under your feet, trying to lock the warmth in, but a second later your shoulders feel stiff. you shift back, your elbow digging into the mattress as you flip the pillow over to find a side that doesn't feel like ice. every single movement is magnified in the dark, the constant friction of the sheets acting as a relentless, rhythmic disruption in the small space between you.
the relentless, rhythmic friction of the sheets finally snaps whatever thin thread of patience Rin has left. the mattress shifts sharply as he rolls over to face you, the sudden movement tense and entirely hostile.
in the pale, filtered darkness of the room, his face is a rigid mask of pure irritation. his brows are drawn low, and his eyes are narrow, sharp slits tracking the clumsy, frustrated movements of you wrestling with the sheets. there isn't a single trace of softness in his posture; he looks at you like a loud, broken fixture in the room that is actively ruining his rest. he is completely, utterly done with the disruption.
“ Get over here, ” he rasps. the words are a flat, heavy directive, delivered in a low, jagged monotone that cuts right through the steady hum of the AC. he doesn't ask, and he doesn't phrase it like a choice.
he doesn't open his arms to invite you in, and he doesn't shift toward your side to be welcoming. he just glares at you through the dark, his jaw set in a hard line. to him, this isn't an act of affection or a peace offering— it's a brutal, logical solution to a nuisance. if you're going to complain about being cold and you can't stay still on the edge of the mattress, the only way to make you stop moving and shut up is to anchor you right next to him where the draft doesn't hit.
“ Sleep here and stay still. You're being annoying. ” he mutters, his voice deadpan and sharp with friction as he indicates the space right beside him.
for a second, you just freeze right where you are, your fingers still tightly gripping the edge of the heavy sheets. the words seem to hang in the dark, sterile air of the suite, feeling entirely detached from reality. you’re not even sure if you heard him correctly, or if the cold and the sheer exhaustion of the long night are finally catching up to you, causing you to hallucinate a voice in a half-dreaming state.
Sleep here. the directive repeats in your mind, sounding entirely wrong coming from him. it feels utterly out of character— this is the same guy who spent the entire evening acting like a wall of solid ice, treating you like an inconvenient logistical hurdle he was forced to endure. he doesn't do comfort, he doesn't do warmth, and he certainly doesn't invite people into his space. everything about the command goes against the rigid, clinical distance he has maintained since the lounge, making your chest tighten with a sudden, confusing spike of adrenaline.
yet, even as your brain scrambles to analyze the sheer absurdity of the moment, you find that you can't deny him. there is a heavy, unyielding gravity in his flat tone that completely strips away your ability to argue or refuse. whether it's because you're too exhausted to fight the freezing draft any longer, or because the raw, blunt authority in his voice leaves absolutely no room for negotiation, your body moves on its own. slowly, tentatively, you begin to shift your weight across the wide expanse of the mattress, leaving your isolated corner behind to cross the invisible line into his space.
you are finally on the bed now, the massive expanse of the mattress no longer dividing the two of you. yet, despite the sudden proximity, the distance between you feels just as vast. you are both facing opposite sides, your backs turned to one another like two rigid, parallel walls in the dark. you stare out at the freezing gloom of the familiar suite, your eyes wide and completely awake, while he remains entirely motionless behind you, a silent, heavy presence that radiates an unmistakable chill.
your mind is a chaotic, racing mess of thoughts as you lie there, barely daring to breathe. it’s completely ridiculous— one second he’s snapping at you to move, and the next, he’s treating you like you don't even exist, shutting you out the exact moment you complied. you can’t help but think about how frustratingly predictable his stubbornness is, even when he's the one who demanded this arrangement. he probably just expects you to act like a statue now, treating you less like a person and more like an annoying fixture he had to secure in place just to get some peace and quiet.
the heat radiating from his back is a stark contrast to the icy draft from the air conditioner, a strange, solid warmth that you can feel even through the thick layers of the duvet without actually touching him. it’s an intensely awkward, high-pressure boundary to navigate. you are close enough to hear the faint, disciplined rhythm of his breathing, close enough that the slightest tilt of your shoulders would cause your blades to brush against his, but you don't dare shift an inch. you just lock your joints and stare into the shadows, acutely aware of every single centimeter of space between your spine and his, wondering how on earth you're supposed to actually fall asleep like this.
suddenly, amidst the chaotic swirl of your thoughts, a random spark of memory clicks into place. it’s a sudden, sharp realization that bubbles up from some forgotten biology lecture or an article you’d skimmed through years ago: there is an actual, literal science behind why your heart is hammering against your ribs right now. your brain, completely hardwired for survival, is currently brewing what researchers call “ The Neurochemical Cocktail. ”
it makes perfect sense when you analyze it through a purely logical lens. your body has been under pressure all night— the stifling atmosphere of the lounge, the heavy weight of expectations from your parents, the freezing cold of the AC, and the sheer, unpredictable tension of being trapped in this room with him. in response to that high-stress environment, your adrenal glands have been working overtime, flooding your system with cortisol and adrenaline. it’s the classic fight-or-flight response, keeping your senses hyper-alert, your muscles tense, and your pupils dilated in the dark. every single nerve ending is firing, which is exactly why the mere proximity of his back feels like an electric current in the room.
but there’s a second, more complicated layer to the cocktail. now that you’ve actually moved closer to him, crossing that invisible boundary into his immediate space, your brain is introducing a conflicting dose of oxytocin and dopamine into the mix. even though he is being completely cold and detached, facing the opposite direction like a wall of stone, the human brain instinctively reacts to close physical proximity and shared warmth by seeking comfort. it’s a jarring, highly volatile chemical contrast— the raw, panicked edge of adrenaline fighting against the heavy, primal urge to settle down and find safety in the dark.
lying there in the freezing gloom, you can't help but fixate on the sheer irony of the biology of it all. your mind is fully aware that this arrangement is entirely transactional, a blunt solution to an annoyance, yet your hormones and neurotransmitters are completely ignoring that logic. they are... are... reacting... him as... if he’s... a focal point.. intense focus.. amplifying the..
before you can even finish the thought, the sheer exhaustion of the night finally catches up to you. the complex chemical theories and the hyper-awareness of the space between your spine and his begin to blur together into a heavy, indistinct fog. your eyelids grow impossibly heavy, fluttering once, twice, before finally falling shut against the darkness of the suite.
the tense, rigid line of your shoulders finally softens, slipping away as the cold draft from the air conditioner ceases to matter. cradled by the solid, unyielding warmth radiating from behind you, your racing mind completely shuts down, and you fall into a deep, instantaneous sleep.
—
the heavy, suffocating silence of the bedroom is abruptly shattered by the aggressive, buzzing vibration of your phone against the nightstand. the sound cuts through your deep sleep like a blade, jarring you awake. your eyes blink open, blurry and disoriented, staring blindly into the dim, early morning light filtering through the gaps in the heavy curtains.
you groppingly reach out, your fingers fumbling against the cold wood until you grab the device. the bright screen flares to life, stinging your eyes. the digital clock across the top reads 7:24 AM. your chest tightens automatically, who on earth would be blowing up your phone this early? besides, you're sure your call time on set is 10am.
then, you see the caller ID. it’s your manager, and the screen is already lighting up with a fresh incoming call, overriding a string of missed ones.
instinct, sharpened by years of navigating the cutthroat entertainment industry and the relentless demands of fame and media, kicks in instantly. in your world, a manager calling repeatedly at sunrise is never a casual check-in. it means the radar is spiking; it means a crisis, a scandal, or a massive logistical collapse.
your heart rates spikes, the lingering fog of sleep vanishing in a fraction of a second as your thumb swipes to clear the call screen so you can check your notifications instead.
your lock screen is completely flooded. a wall of unread messages stretches down the display, a frantic text crawl of urgent notifications and missed call alerts that makes your stomach do a slow flip.
but as your eyes scramble to decipher the wall of text, skipping past the frantic opening lines, your gaze locks onto the very first complete sentence that registers in your brain. written in all-caps, bolded by the sheer weight of its implications, the message reads:
NO SHOOT FOR THE TODAY.
you stare at the glowing text for a few more seconds, the sheer weight of the cancellation sinking in. no shoot. no schedule. no demanding directors, flashing cameras, or rigid scripts to follow for the rest of the day. the frantic knot of anxiety that had tightened in your chest at the sight of those missed calls completely unravels, replaced by a wave of profound, heavy relief.
you don't reply to the messages. you don't scroll down to read the chaotic paragraphs explaining why the production collapsed. in your line of work, an unexpected free day is a rare, priceless luxury, and you have absolutely no intention of wasting it by stressing over logistics at seven in the morning.
your thumb flicks the side button, and the bright screen instantly goes black, plunging the space back into a soft, dim twilight. you set the phone face-down on the nightstand, cutting off the potential for any more distracting flashes.
turning away from the edge of the mattress, you slide back down into the deep warmth of the bed, burying your face into the cool fabric of the pillow. the freezing breeze from the air conditioner is still sweeping through the suite, but beneath the heavy sheets, the air is perfectly insulated. you pull the covers up over your shoulders, letting the quiet rhythm of the room wash over you as your eyes flutter shut once more, instantly drifting back into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.
—
the frantic, buzzing vibration of your phone cuts through the quiet room once again, dragging you right back out of your deep sleep. you blink your eyes open, squinting against the morning light that is now pouring much brighter through the gaps in the curtains. your eyes track to the digital clock on the screen: 8:17 AM.
before you even look at the caller ID, you instinctively glance at the space beside you. the mattress is completely empty. the sheets on his side are smoothed out, cold to the touch, and devoid of any lingering warmth. Rin is already gone, leaving absolutely no trace of his presence behind.
the phone continues to ring aggressively in your hand, your manager's name flashing relentlessly across the screen. knowing you can't ignore the persistence a second time, you clear your throat to shake off the morning rasp, drag your thumb across the glass, and lift the phone to your ear.
“ ...Why? ” you murmur, your voice still heavy with sleep.
the moment the line connects, your manager’s voice explodes through the speaker, so loud and frantic that you instinctively pull the phone a few inches away from your ear to save your eardrums.
there is no greeting, no apology for waking you up a second time— just a torrent of high-pitched, panicked words that completely shatters the residual quiet of the bedroom.
“ Are you seeing this?! Please tell me you’re looking at the feeds right now! ” your manager half-shouts, their breath hitching sharply over the line. “ A fan caught you. they spotted the two of you last night, and they didn’t just watch—they took photos. clear ones. two of them are already making the rounds, and the engagement is spiking every second. ”
the sheer volume of their voice makes your stomach drop, the last remnants of sleep instantly evaporating. you listen in stunned silence as your manager begins to rattle off the exact details of the leaked images, their tone a chaotic mix of professional dread and sheer disbelief.
“ The first photo is from the restaurant, ” your manager explains, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “ The lighting is perfect, unfortunately. It catches you mid-laugh, completely bright and smiling, looking right across the table at Rin. It looks incredibly candid, incredibly intimate— like there’s no one else in the room. It’s exactly the kind of shot the media eats alive because it looks completely unprompted. ”
your manager pauses just long enough to take a sharp, ragged breath before plunging straight into the second problem. “ And then there’s the second one. Someone was waiting outside by the vehicle. It’s a shot of you getting into the car, right as you’re about to slide into the back seat to sit next to him. The angle tracks your profile perfectly, and you can see Rin right there in the frame inside the car. It links the two of you together from dinner straight into a private vehicle, and the internet is already losing its mind trying to piece the timeline together. Do you have any idea what this does to the press cycle today?! ”
a cold, numbing sensation spreads rapidly from your chest right down to your fingertips, making the phone in your hand suddenly feel incredibly heavy. your brain completely stalls, struggling to process the frantic words screaming through the receiver. confusion and sheer shock hit you in a simultaneous wave, leaving you entirely disoriented as you sit up in the empty bed, the sheets slipping down your shoulders.
suddenly, the massive wall of unread alerts you woke up to a hour ago makes terrifyingly perfect sense. it wasn't just your manager trying to reach you; your lock screen was a chaotic battlefield of notifications from every single social media platform installed on your phone. direct messages, tags, mentions, and urgent texts from friends and colleagues were piling up in real-time, a digital avalanche triggered by a couple of leaked snapshots. the sheer scale of it leaves you breathless, your mind racing to grasp how a private dinner turned into a public spectacle while you were asleep.
“ What...? ” you breathe out, your voice barely a whisper against the panic vibrating over the line. “ Wait... ”
your thumb trembles slightly as you pull the phone away from your ear, switching to the messaging thread where your manager has already forwarded the links. you tap the first preview, and the image expands to fill the bright screen.
your breath catches in your throat. your manager wasn't exaggerating.
there you are, captured in high-definition, laughing with a rare, unforced warmth that feels entirely too exposed for public viewing, your eyes locked onto Rin's cold profile. and right beneath it, the second image is even more damning— the sharp, unmistakable angle of you stepping into the private car, the interior light illuminating Rin sitting right there in the shadows, waiting for you. seeing the raw, undeniable proof staring back at you makes your heart hammer violently against your ribs, the absolute reality of the crisis finally crashing down on you.
your finger hovers over the glass, your eyes darting frantically down the screen as you scroll past the images to check the actual source of the leak. but as the page refreshes in real-time, the notification counter at the bottom of the app doesn't just climb— it explodes, jumping by thousands in a matter of seconds.
a cold sweat breaks out across your neck. something else just happened. the press cycle isn't just spiraling anymore; it has entirely broken containment.
“ Please tell me that was an accident, ” your manager's voice suddenly cracks over the line, completely stripped of its previous anger, replaced now by pure, unadulterated dread. “ Please tell me your phone was unlocked in your pocket, or you slipped, or— ”
“ Ugh... what now? ” you stammer, your thumb frantically tapping into the trending tab.
“ The top comment on the main thread! ” your manager half-screams, their voice trembling. “ Look at what your account just did! ”
you click the link, and the top-voted comment under the leaked screenshot fills the top of your screen. it’s a hyper-viral, chaotic fan reaction typed in frantic all-caps:
“ THEY'RE STILL TOGETHER !!! ” I yell as they dragged me into the asylum...
and right beneath it, glowing with a definitive, unmistakable blue hue that seals your absolute ruin... is the tiny icon of your own verified, official account profile.
You liked it.
your heart completely stops. your thumb must have brushed against the screen when you frantically grabbed the phone at 7:24 AM, or maybe your half-asleep brain had clicked it in a daze before you drifted back to sleep. or maybe when you were heading to the restaurant, where your phone lagged? either way, it does not matter.
to the public, to the paparazzi, and to the millions of fans watching the feeds explode, this wasn't a glitch. this was an official confirmation. it was a direct validation of the rumors, an intentional nod to the chaos, and a match thrown directly into a warehouse full of gasoline.
the media is already going completely feral. headlines are rewriting themselves across every major entertainment outlet in real-time, notifications are blurring into a solid, blinding white sheet of light on your screen, and the sheer volume of the digital backlash is enough to make the room spin.
before you can even open your mouth to explain, to panic, or to tell your manager to get the PR team on the line, the heavy door to the suite suddenly clicks.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
OHHH FUU🤤🤤 NEVER LOCKED IN THIS MUCH AFTER CE QUI RESTE
make me a student drop out and you'd be getting new works like this every 2 weeks.
but I chose my future. not like i'm actually earning money in this looool
I love Rin's character honestly and I hate mischaracterizations about him. I hate mischaracterization in general but anyway... I'm pretty sure I portrayed him well. Rin, even if not a ex-relationship-thing, will definetely not treat his partner in a sweet i-love-you-babe-thing😭!!! sure, he'll probably develop a soft spot ( just like I portrayed on the bed scene ) but he definetely won't change his personality😭😭
oh, suddenly, you arrived, and everything in Rin's world changed. he's no longer the cold, man people known him for. additionally, he's super sweet to this partner too!!!
SYNOPSIS: short drabble of @dark-lady15's order; Stanley and Xeno having a teenage daughter, who they now have to raise in the Stone World. their daughter, being a teenager, gets tempted to try reckless things, and gets curious on Xeno's belongings.
Dr Stone: Stanley Synder x Xeno Houston Wingfield + teenage daughter
a.n; this is my first drabble or whatever you call it😔 I hope I did well and they are in character.. divider is from @viviansturns
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the DARPA conference was supposed to be a milestone— a chance for a fourteen-year-old to watch her dads command the smartest room in the country. instead, it became the day the world turned to stone.
when the revival fluid finally eroded the stone casing thousands of years later, she didn't wake up to a sterile lab or a military bunker. she woke up to a sprawling, primitive kingdom built on raw science and heavy artillery. Xeno and Stanley had already established their footprint in the Stone World, but the moment their daughter opened her eyes, the grand mission of global domination took a backseat to ultimate parental panic.
In the old world, Xeno was a man of logic and Stanley was a man of calculated risk. In the Stone World? They were a united front of terrifying, overprotective smothering.
“ Absolutely not, ” Xeno said, not even looking up from his blueprints as his daughter reached for a makeshift machete. “ The flora in this sector has mutated variations of contact dermatitis. Furthermore, Stanley has tracked a jaguar population three kilometers north. You will remain within the perimeter. ”
“ Dad, I'm fourteen, not four, ” she groaned, dropping the blade. “ I survived the petrification. I think I can handle a walk. ”
Stanley, leaning against a wooden beam while cleaning his rifle, blew a slow puff of smoke into the air. “ Listen to your father. You go past the treeline without me, and I’m putting you on a permanent mandatory base arrest. I don't care if you're technically a teenager; out here, you're fragile cargo. ”
“ You guys are unbelievable, ” she muttered, kicking a stray pebble. “ You're trying to rebuild civilization but you won't even let me look at it. ”
an hour later, seeking any form of entertainment in the high-tech, low-resource camp, she slipped into Xeno’s personal tent. her eyes immediately landed on his desk. Specifically, on the ridiculous, dramatic, custom-made claw-gloves he insisted on wearing.
“ How does he even function in these? ” she whispered to herself.
she slid her hands into the oversized, metallic contraptions, the elongated claws clinking together loudly. shaking her hands experimentally, she picked up a graphite pencil and a bound piece of handmade paper.
keyword: tried.
the moment she closed her hand, the heavy, awkward claws clattered against each other. the pencil slipped out of her grip, rolling across the desk. when she tried to scoop it up, the sharp tips just stabbed the wood, creating a frustratingly loud clack-clack-clack.
“ How does Dad wear these all the time and manage to get any work done? ” she grumbled aloud, balancing the notebook on her forearms like a clumsy waiter. “ I can't even manage to pick up my notebook and pencil... ”
“ Because, my dear, it requires an elegant synergy of physics, muscle memory, and an unwavering commitment to aesthetic superiority. ”
she froze.
Xeno was standing at the entrance of the tent, his arms crossed, a highly amused, elegant smirk playing on his lips. eight behind him was Stanley, who had a rare, genuine grin splitting his face, his shoulder shaking with silent laughter.
“ Do you require a lesson in aerodynamic finger-weaving? ” Xeno asked, stepping forward with an theatrical flourish. “ Or have you simply realized that your father is, indeed, elegant in all dimensions? ”
“ I think she just realized you're a dork, Xeno, ” Stanley chuckled, walking over and gently tugging the heavy gloves off her hands, replacing them with her fallen pencil. “ Stick to the normal hands for now, kiddo. We have enough trouble keeping track of you without you stabbing your own homework. ”
wow! Its so easy to write drabbles??? damn I should've start doing this before... I just hope both of them are in character because I don't pay too much attention to xeno and stanley😔
I don't even write drabbles, ( probably my last ) but I felt bad for the one who ordered this. seems like you want this drabble for a while, and I hope I got it right and you enjoyed this!!
— something covered in a thin layer of gold, gold paint, or a golden color, giving it a bright, shiny appearance
SYNOPSIS: in the amber haze of a stalled afternoon, a playful skirmish for attention dissolves into a heavy, shared silence. between the sharp high of a decoy kiss and the low weight of an athlete’s exhaustion, the boundaries of a game begin to blur, leaving you anchored together in a afternoon that feels less like a pause and more like a surrender.
CONTAINS: submissive bachira, free of spoilers! full fluff with a faint hint of angst, suggestive, flirting / teasing, childish behaviour, slight physical & playful agression. not for people who hate strawberry / cheesecake
BLUE LOCK: Meguru Bachira x Reader
Word count: 6,717 words 37,996 characters
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the world outside the apartment window is suspended in the heavy, honeyed grip of a Saturday afternoon, draped in the kind of stillness that only exists when the rest of the world has decided to pause. it is exactly 3:45 PM— that specific quarter-hour where the day begins to ripen and the sun loses its sharp, midday edge, transitioning into a thick, liquid gold. the sky is a vast, unblemished expanse of pale, shimmering blue, casting a radiant glow over the city streets below, though everything feels curiously muffled, as if the weekend itself has exhaled a long, quiet breath and settled into a deep slumber.
the atmosphere is dominated by a deep, cozy heat that seems to radiate from the very walls, creating a sense of density in the air that is almost tangible. through the glass, the distant hum of life— the occasional, rhythmic roll of tires on warm asphalt or the faint, melodic chirping of birds hidden in the foliage— drifts in like a hazy, half-remembered memory. a soft, breeze wanders through the half-open window, carrying the subtle, clean scent of sun-warmed concrete and the distant, sweet greenery of a nearby park. it is just enough of a movement to make the sheer, ivory curtains ghost against the wooden frame, a flutter that breaks the stagnant warmth for a fleeting second before the air settles once more into its comfortable, drowsy weight.
inside the bedroom, the light is a masterpiece of shifting transition. the sun, now slanting at a lazy, dramatic angle, filters through the swaying branches of the trees outside, casting long, soft shadows across the floorboards. the room is bathed in a dim, amber-tinted glow that highlights the stray dust motes dancing in the air, moving in slow, aimless circles within the beams of light like tiny, golden spirits.
everything within the sanctuary of the apartment feels slow, saturated, and profoundly quiet. the distant, muffled ticking of a clock or the soft, hypnotic whir of a fan in another room only serves to deepen the silence, marking the passage of time without ever disturbing it. it is the kind of afternoon where time feels entirely elastic, stretching out in the heat and inviting nothing but the absolute luxury of being still. the golden light pools in the creases of the mattress, warming the fabric and turning the space into a quiet haven, tucked away and hidden from the rush of the world outside.
you’re stretched out across the bed, sinking into the soft, sun-warmed duvet as the afternoon heat settles over you. the world has narrowed down to the glowing rectangle of your phone, the screen’s light reflecting faintly in your eyes as you scroll.
there’s a lazy, rhythmic comfort to it—your thumb flicking upward in a slow, repetitive motion that keeps pace with the quiet hum of the room. you’re drifting through an endless stream of photos, updates, videos, memes— everything. the digital noise providing a sharp contrast to the stillness of the apartment. lost in the mindless loop of social media, you’ve let the minutes bleed together, perfectly content to stay anchored in the amber-tinted shadows of the bed while the rest of the world passes by outside.
the peaceful, amber-tinted silence is shattered in a sudden, elastic blur of movement. there is no warning, no soft footsteps on the hardwood or a quiet approach. only the abrupt, heavy impact of a body launching itself into the mattress with the spring-loaded energy of a cat. the bed springs groan under the sudden weight, sending a physical ripple through the sheets that nearly knocks the phone from your hands as the mattress dips violently.
before you can even draw a startled breath, Bachira has colonized your space entirely.
with a fluid, almost feline grace, he slides into the narrow gap between your arms, wedging himself against you with a needy, tactile intensity. he doesn't just lie down next to you; he anchors himself to you. his face disappears instantly, buried firmly in the soft space just beneath your chest, hiding away from the world in the warmth of your shirt. you can feel the immediate, radiating heat of him— that high-octane body temperature he always carries—seeping through the fabric as he nuzzles closer.
his arms wrap around your waist in a locked embrace, his fingers curling into your clothes as if to ensure you can’t drift away. he is a chaotic tangle of limbs and soft, dark hair, squeezing you with a fierce, grounding affection that forces a huff of air from your lungs. he remains perfectly silent, his entire body relaxing into yours as he turns your quiet, solitary afternoon into a lopsided, heart-thumping hug.
you blink, momentarily stunned by the sudden weight and warmth of him, before shifting your gaze downward to the messy crown of dark hair currently pressed against your ribs. you can’t help but let out a soft, breathless huff of a laugh at the sheer absurdity of the position he’s put you both in. “ Bachira? What are you doing? ” you murmur, your voice thick with the laziness of the afternoon as you nudge his shoulder.
the answer comes as a muffled vibration against your chest, his voice low and honey-thick with a sleepy sort of mischief.
“ ..Nothing, ” he hums, though the word is nearly lost in the fabric of your shirt.
he doesn't move an inch to explain himself. instead, he only tightens his hold, his arms squeezing your waist a little firmer as if to prove that his version of nothing involves becoming your permanent shadow. he nuzzles closer, his nose brushing against your chest in a slow, content gesture, making it very clear that he has no intention of moving until the sun finally disappears from the room.
with a small, exasperated sigh that ruffles the dark tufts of his hair, you decide to concede to his sudden invasion, realizing that trying to dislodge him would be like trying to move a mountain made of warm, stubborn energy. you lift your phone back into your line of sight, the light of the screen once again illuminating your face as you settle back into the rhythmic, mindless scroll of your feed. you choose to ignore the fact that your personal space has been entirely compromised, acting as if having a world-class striker anchored to your torso is just another mundane part of your Saturday.
your thumb resumes its slow flicking motion, navigating through an endless stream of digital memes, but the experience has changed. every movement you make is now mirrored by the slight shift of his weight against you; when you breathe, you feel the rise and fall of his chest synced perfectly with yours. the persistent, radiating heat of his body acts like a living radiator, turning the cozy warmth of the room into something much more intimate and heavy.
even as you focus on the glowing images on the screen, your peripheral vision is filled with the sight of his arms locked firmly around your waist and the way his hair tickles the underside of your chin. he is perfectly still now, a silent, heavy presence that demands acknowledgment without saying a word, making it increasingly difficult to actually process anything you’re watching.
the silence of the room is broken not by his movement, but by a sudden, playful shift in his energy. you can feel him grinning against your skin before you even hear his voice— a tiny, mischievous vibration that makes your heart skip a beat.
slowly, Bachira tilts his head back, shifting just enough to peek out from his hiding spot beneath your chest. his chin rests right against you as he looks up, his bright, wide eyes searching yours with a look of mock offense. the golden afternoon light catches the yellow highlights in his hair, making him look even more like a golden retriever than usual.
“ Hey, hey... are you really just gonna keep looking at that little glowing box? ” he teases, his voice a soft, melodic lilt that’s impossible to ignore. he lets go of your waist with one hand just to reach up and poke the side of your phone, trying to wobble it out of your grip. “ I’m right here, you know. I'm way more interesting than a screen. Why are you ignoring me? Is the monster on your phone more fun than me? ”
you can't help but look down at him, the sight of his pouty lip and those dilated, expectant pupils finally breaking your resolve. you let your phone drop onto the duvet beside you with a soft thump, your hands finally free.
“ ..Maybe because I was actually being productive doing nothing until a certain someone tackled me, ” you retort, though there’s no bite in your tone. you reach down, your fingers finally tangling into the messy, soft strands of his hair. “ What do you want, Meguru? You said you were doing nothing . ”
“ I changed my mind, ” he chirps, his grin widening until his eyes crinkle at the corners. he nuzzles his cheek back into your palm, leaning into your touch with a contented sigh. “ Doing nothing is better when you're doing it with me. Talk to me! Tell me something. ”
despite his chirping request and the expectant, golden-bright look in his eyes, you choose to call his bluff. you offer one final, lingering stroke through the softest part of his hair before withdrawing your hand, reaching back for the device resting on the beddings. it’s a deliberate, playful rejection, a silent challenge to see how he’ll handle being sidelined for a second time.
for a few beats, the room returns to that artificial silence, broken only by the faint, digital pings of your notifications and the rhythmic, ghostly flutter of the curtains. you keep your gaze fixed on the screen, scrolling with a forced concentration that you know is driving him crazy. beneath your chest, Meguru is a coiled spring. he stays perfectly still, his chin still anchored against you, but his pupils are blown wide, tracking the movement of your thumb with the predatory focus of a cat watching a laser pointer. the atmosphere between you becomes thick with a new kind of tension— not the heavy, sleepy weight of the afternoon, but a sharp, electric anticipation that vibrates through his locked embrace.
then, the quiet is gone in a flash of yellow-tipped hair and lightning-fast reflexes.
without a word of warning, Bachira’s grip on your waist vanishes, and before you can even register the movement, his hand shoots upward like a strike on the pitch. his fingers are nimble and sure, snatching the phone right out of your relaxed grip before you have the chance to tighten your hold. you’re left staring at your empty palms, the sudden lack of weight leaving you momentarily stunned.
he ends up perched at the edge of the bed, just out of arm’s reach, holding your phone high above his head like a trophy. he’s grinning now, a wide, jagged expression of pure triumph that shows off his teeth, his eyes dancing with a manic, playful light. the sun catches the yellow of his hair as he wags the device back and forth, taunting you with the very thing you used to ignore him.
you let out a exaggerated groan of frustration, your hands dropping uselessly onto the rumpled sheets where your phone had been just a second ago. the sudden absence of the device makes the room feel even warmer, and you fix him with a look that tries— and fails— to be stern.
“ Meguru! Give it back! ” you huff, your voice rising in a mock-annoyance that only fuels the fire in his eyes. you scramble onto your knees, the mattress shifting and dipping under your weight as you try to close the distance he’s created.
“ Seriously, what are you doing now? ”
Bachira doesn't move a muscle to return it. instead, he leans back on his elbows, the phone held just a few inches higher, teasingly out of reach. his grin doesn't falter for a second. if anything, it grows wider, more jagged and full of that signature chaotic energy. he watches you scramble toward him with the delighted focus of a boy watching a game he knows he’s winning.
when you reach out, your fingers grazing the edge of your phone’s case, he suddenly tilts his head to the side. instead of a verbal answer or a playful retort, he simply sticks his tongue out at you. it’s a purely childish, bratty gesture, delivered with a cheeky blep that completely shatters any remains of your " annoyed " facade. he’s completely unbothered by your protest, his eyes crinkling shut as he wiggles the phone tauntingly, making it clear that if you want your digital life back, you’re going to have to work for it.
the playful energy in the room suddenly hits a wall as you let out a sharp, genuine huff of irritation. the initial fun of the chase evaporates, replaced by the lingering heat of the room and the sudden realization that you just wanted a quiet afternoon. without a word, you stop reaching for the phone, your expression flattening into one of dull resignation.
you don't snap or yell; instead, you simply turn away from him, your body moving with a deliberate, heavy finality. you sink back into the mattress, laying down sideways and curling your knees slightly toward your chest. you've positioned yourself at the very edge of the bed, creating a vast, cold expanse of sheets between you and him, your back turned like a solid wall of silence.
the view of the soft shadows on the wall and the swaying curtains is all you give your attention to now. you let your gaze fixate on a single spot on the wallpaper, pointedly looking in the opposite direction of where he sits perched with his prize.
the silence that follows isn't like the cozy, amber-tinted quiet from before. it’s pointed and sharp. you can hear the rustle of the sheets as he likely realizes the game has stopped, but you don't nudge him, you don't look back, and you certainly don't ask for the phone again.
the sudden silence seems to ring louder in his ears than any of your protests did. behind you, the bed stays still for a heartbeat, the only sound being the soft, rhythmic rustle of the curtains. then, the triumphant energy he was radiating just moments ago pops like a bubble.
“ ..Huh? ”
the sound is small, genuine, and laced with a sudden, confused tilt. you don’t have to see his face to know his head is cocked to the side, his big eyes blinking in a rare moment of genuine uncertainty. the weight of his " win " clearly didn't taste as sweet once he realized the playfulness had drained out of the room.
the mattress groans again as he abandons his perch at the edge. there’s no feline grace this time— just a hurried, clumsy scramble as he jumps back at the bed, the force of his movement jostling your sideways frame.
the heavy impact of him throwing himself back onto the bed sends a jolt through the mattress, but he doesn't let go of his prize. even as he wraps himself around you, his fingers are still clamped firmly around your phone, the hard edges of the device pressing into the space between your bodies.
he drapes his weight over your side, hugging you again with a clingy, frantic energy, but it’s a lopsided embrace. one arm is hooked tightly around your waist, pulling you back toward him, while his other hand— the one still clutching your phone— is tucked awkwardly against his own chest, trapped in the narrow gap where your bodies meet. he’s like a hoarders of treasure, unwilling to give up the item that started the fight but terrified of the silence you’ve greeted him with.
he’s squeezed against you so tightly that you can feel the cool glass of the screen through the thin fabric of your shirt, a strange, metallic sensation amidst all that human warmth.
he senses the shift in the atmosphere— the way your body has gone rigid and your silence has turned sharp. to Bachira, silence isn't peaceful; it's a wall he doesn't know how to climb.
he squeezes his arm tighter around your waist, his fingers still clutching your phone against his chest as if he’s forgotten he’s even holding it. he shifts his head, nuzzling his face deeper into the crook of your neck until his nose brushes against your skin, his breath coming in soft, hesitant puffs.
“ ...Are you angry? ”
his voice is stripped of its usual melodic lilt. it’s small, muffled by your shoulder, and carries a rare, fragile note of genuine concern. he doesn’t pull away to look at you; instead, he stays anchored to your back, waiting for a reaction with the wary stillness of a creature that knows it pushed a joke just a few inches too far.
the "monster" in him has gone quiet, replaced by a boy who is suddenly terrified that he’s lost his playmate. he waits. his heartbeat thumping a rapid, anxious rhythm against your spine, desperate for any sign— a sigh, a nudge, or even a scolding— that tells him he hasn't actually pushed you away.
the silence stretches out, thick and heavy like the amber sunlight pooling on the beddings. your lack of a response seems to make him more restless; you can feel the way his grip on your waist hitches, his fingers twitching slightly against your shirt. the phone, still clutched in his other hand, feels like a forgotten relic between your bodies— the trophy has lost all its value now that the game isn't being played anymore.
“ Hey... ”
he asks again, calling out your name. his voice dropping an octave, losing every bit of its playful edge. he nuzzles his forehead against the back of your neck, his hair tickling your skin as he tries to coax a reaction out of you. when you remain a sideways, motionless silhouette, a soft, defeated huff of air escapes him.
“ I'm sorry, ” he murmurs, the apology muffled by your shoulder but surprisingly sincere. “ I was just playing around. I didn't mean to actually make you mad.. ”
he finally loosens his locked grip, his hand moving tentatively as he slides your phone across the mattress, nudging it back toward your side of the bed as a peace offering. he doesn't pull away, though. instead, he shifts his weight, pressing his chest more firmly against your back and hiding his face completely in the crook of your neck.
“ ..Don't be quiet, ” he whispers, his voice small and unusually vulnerable. “ It's boring when you're quiet. You can have the 'glowing box' back, just... don't look away from me, okay? ”
he sounds less like a world-class athlete in that moment and more like a kid who realized his favorite person isn't laughing at his jokes anymore. he stays there, anchored to you, waiting with bated breath to see if his apology is enough to melt the cold shoulder you’ve given him.
the moment you begin to shift, the tension in Bachira’s body snaps into a high-alert stillness. he reacts instantly to your movement, his limbs loosening just enough to allow you to roll over, though he stays draped over you, his wide, expectant eyes tracking every inch of your face as you turn.
now, you are finally facing him.
the golden light of the afternoon catches the faint, anxious glint in his dilated pupils. he looks smaller like this, his messy dark hair splayed across the pillow and his lower lip tucked in slightly as he waits for the verdict. he’s braced for a lecture or a lingering frown, his entire being focused on the tiny distance between your noses.
you don't say a word. instead, you reach out, your hand cupping the side of his face— your thumb brushing over his cheekbone as you pull him just a fraction closer.
slowly, you lean in and kiss him.
it’s a soft, lingering contact that tastes like the quiet heat of the Saturday afternoon. the effect is instantaneous. Bachira’s entire world stops. his eyes go wide, frozen in a state of pure, unadulterated surprise, and the restless energy that usually hums through his veins completely stalls. he doesn't move, doesn't blink, and for the first time in his life, his mouth— usually so full of chirps and teases— is firmly shut. he is speechless and shocked, his brain short-circuiting as the "monster" inside him goes silent in the face of your touch.
but before the shock can even wear off, and while his guard is completely decimated by the kiss, you act.
with the precision of a striker finding the back of the net, your free hand dives for his loosened grip. your fingers curl around the cool casing of your device, and with a swift, triumphant flick of your wrist, you snatch your phone back from his stunned hands.
you pull away just as slowly as you leaned in, a small, devious smirk playing on your lips as you settle back into your side of the bed. you don't give him a second to recover; you simply turn the screen back on, the blue light illuminating your face as you return to your scroll.
Meguru is left staring at you, his face flushed a deep, frantic red and his hand still hovering near the air where your phone used to be. he looks like he’s forgotten how to breathe, his heart thumping so loudly you can practically hear it against the mattress.
for a long, agonizingly silent heartbeat, Meguru remains a statue. the flush on his cheeks is still deepening, and his lips are parted in that stunned, breathless "O" of total disbelief. you can practically see the gears in his head grinding to a halt, then suddenly whirring back to life at twice their normal speed as the realization finally clicks.
the kiss was a decoy. a tactical maneuver. a feint.
his eyes snap from your face down to the phone in your hand, and then back to your eyes, which are alight with a triumphant, devious spark. the shock in his expression doesn't just fade; it evolves into a look of sheer, competitive delight. the "monster" isn't just back— it’s ecstatic.
“ Oh... so that’s how we’re playing? ” he breaths out, his voice a low, raspy whisper that carries a dangerous amount of playfulness.
before you can even register the shift in the air, he lunges. this isn't the clumsy, needy scramble from before; this is the explosive, reflexive speed of a world-class athlete. his body is a blur of motion as he bridges the gap you’d tried to create, his weight coming down over you with a sudden, overwhelming force that pins you back into the sun-warmed mattress.
his hand moves like a strike, his fingers weaving through yours with practiced accuracy. before your thumb can even complete its next scroll, he snatches your phone again, his grip iron-clad as he yanks it back into his possession.
he doesn't retreat this time. he stays hovered directly over you, his chest heaving with a frantic, excited rhythm and his face inches from yours. he’s grinning— a wide, jagged, chaotic expression that says he’s completely seen through your trick and found it the most exhilarating thing that’s happened all day. he holds the phone high above his head once more, but his other hand stays firmly planted beside your head, caging you in.
“ Nice try! Really, really nice try, ” he chirps, his eyes dancing with a manic, golden light. “ But if you think you can just pay me off with a kiss and go back to that box.. you’re dreaming! ”
you let out a long, dramatic exhale, your head sinking back into the pillow as you go limp beneath him. “ Geez, ” you mutter, the word half-lost in a breathless laugh of genuine surrender.
you look up at him, taking in the way he’s looming over you with that triumphant, cheshire-cat grin. he looks so incredibly proud of himself, perched there like he’s just scored the winning goal in the World Cup final rather than just mugging his partner for a smartphone. the golden light of the late afternoon highlights the sweat-slicked tips of his hair and the manic, happy glow in his eyes.
“ You're a menace, Meguru, ” you tease, your voice dropping into a playful lilt as you intentionally let your gaze wander over his face, lingering just a second too long on his lips.
you reach up, but instead of clawing for the phone, you slowly trail your fingers down the center of his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart through his shirt. the steady thump-thump is a testament to how much that "decoy" kiss actually rattled him, despite his current bravado.
“ So, what's the plan then, star player? ” you murmur, tilting your head and offering him a challenge of your own. “ Are you waiting for a whistle to blow? ”
Bachira’s grin falters for a split second, replaced by a sharp, audible intake of breath as your fingers trace that slow path down his chest. he’s usually the one setting the pace, the one creating the chaos, but the way you’re looking at him now— with that heavy-lidded, challenging gaze— has the "monster" inside him doing backflips.
he’s still holding the phone high, but his arm feels a little heavier now, his focus entirely diverted from the prize to the person beneath him.
“ Whistle?.. I don't need a referee for this, ” he murmurs, his voice losing its chirpy edge and dropping into a huskier, more grounded tone. he slowly lowers his arm, but instead of handing the phone back, he simply lets it drop onto the pillow next to your head, completely discarded. his hand slides down to pin your wrist against the mattress, his fingers interlocking with yours in a firm, tactile grip.
he leans in even closer, his yellow-tinted hair creating a private, shadowed canopy that shuts out the rest of the room.
“ You’re the one who started playing dirty, ” he whispers, his nose brushing against yours in a slow, agonizingly playful tease. “ You think you can just flip a switch and leave me short-circuited? That’s a foul. ”
“ A foul? ” you repeat, your voice barely a breathy whisper that ghosts over his lips. you can see the way his eyelashes flutter at the proximity, his pupils pulsing with every word you speak. “ Then why aren't you calling for a penalty, Meguru? ”
“ A penalty? Oh! I like the sound of that! ” he chirps, his voice bouncing back to its usual melodic, high-energy lilt.
suddenly, the weight of his body isn't a "pin" anymore; he turns into a literal pile of jelly, collapsing his upper body onto yours in a massive, goofy "hug attack." he releases your wrist only to wrap both arms around your shoulders, burying his face in the crook of your neck and wiggling around like a hyperactive puppy trying to find the best spot on a rug.
“ The penalty is... tickle torture! ” he declares, his muffled voice vibrating against your skin.
before you can even process the change in pace, his fingers are dancing against your ribs with the same lightning-fast precision he uses for his dribbling. it’s chaotic, unpredictable, and completely ruins the "cool" atmosphere you were trying to build. he’s laughing now— that bright, infectious cackle that sounds like pure mischief— as he rolls with you across the duvet, the discarded phone forgotten and buried under a mountain of rumpled sheets.
“ You thought you were so smooth with that kiss, didn't you? ” he teases, pulling back just enough to look at you, his face flushed pink and his hair standing up in even messier tufts than before. he’s perched over you again, but this time he’s holding his hands up like claws, ready to strike again if you even think about reaching for your phone.
“ Nope! No phone! The monster says it’s officially Meguru-time until the sun goes down! ” he lets out a playful rawr, his eyes wide and sparking with fun.
you explode into a fit of breathless, genuine laughter, your body twisting and arching on the mattress as you try to escape those lightning-fast fingers. the transition from the heavy, golden tension of a moment ago to this pure, unadulterated chaos is so sudden it leaves you gasping.
“ Hah.. M-Meguru! Stop! ” you shriek through your giggles, your hands flying up to try and catch his wrists, though it’s like trying to grab smoke. he’s too quick, his fingers finding every sensitive spot along your ribs with a striker’s lethal accuracy. “ I yield! I yield! Seriously, I can't— ”
another burst of laughter cuts you off as he finds a particularly ticklish spot, making you kick out your legs beneath the duvet. the "cool" version of you from five minutes ago is officially gone, replaced by a squirming, red-faced mess.
“️ Okay, okay! You win! ” you manage to gasp out, your eyes watering from laughing so hard. you reach out, finally managing to snag the hem of his shirt to pull him closer, hoping that a hug might actually pin his arms down. “ ..Bachira, I'm gonna lose my breath! No more phone, I promise! ”
Bachira finally relents, though he keeps his hands poised over your sides like he’s ready to strike again at the slightest hint of a lie. he’s hovering over you, chest heaving with his own laughter, his face bright and eyes sparkling with pure, mischievous joy. he looks down at you, a stray lock of dark hair falling over his forehead, and gives you a cheeky, triumphant grin.
“ Promise? For real, for real? ” he asks, tilting his head with that bird-like curiosity. “ No more looking at the glowing box until the sun disappears? ”
“ Yes, no more phone. ”
before you let the phone go for good, you steal one last glance at the screen. the digital numbers shimmer: 4:10 PM. Only twenty-five minutes have passed since the sun was at its peak gold, yet it feels like you've lived through a whole championship match of teasing. the afternoon is still ripe, the shadows only just beginning to stretch their long, lacey fingers across the floorboards.
as you settle back into the mattress, the room's cozy, heavy heat wraps around you again. you adjust your position, shifting until you are lying flat on your back, sinking deeper into the soft, sun-warmed bedding. the change in posture opens up the space, and Bachira immediately adapts with the fluid, instinctive movement of a shadow.
he doesn't just lie infront of you; he practically drapes himself over your front returning to that same needy, tactile anchor from the start. he tucks his head into the crook of your neck and shoulder, his messy dark hair tickling your chin. one of his arms is slung heavily across your stomach, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt, while his legs tangle slightly with yours beneath the blankets.
“ 4:10... ” Bachira’s voice is a sleepy, muffled vibration against your skin. he nuzzles closer, his nose brushing your neck as he exhales a long, satisfied breath. “ That means we have lots of 'nothing' left to do. Don't move, okay? I'm recharging. ”
the ivory curtains ghost against the window frame, a rhythmic flutter in the amber light. you close your eyes, letting the drowsy weight of the afternoon and the warmth of his locked embrace pull you back into that peaceful, saturday slumber. no phones, no distractions— just the two of you, drifting in the liquid gold of the quiet apartment.
you let your arms rest naturally, one hand perhaps coming up to idly toy with the soft tufts of hair at the nape of his neck. now that the phone is banished to the nightstand, the world feels incredibly small and quiet. you can feel the steady, powerful thrum of his heart against your ribs, slowing down from the excitement of the chase into a calm, sleepy cadence.
the heat of the sun on the bed and the radiating warmth of Bachira squeezed against your front create a cozy, inescapable weight.
“ Hey, ” he whispers, not moving an inch from his spot against your shoulder. “ No cheating. I can feel if you're thinking about the phone. Just stay like this... the monster wants to nap now. ”
you can't help but smile at the ceiling, watching the lacey shadows of the trees dance across the plaster. you aren't thinking about the phone at all; the heavy, heart-thumping reality of him anchored to your side is way more interesting than anything on a screen.
for a long moment, Meguru is so still you think he might already be drifting off, but then you feel a slight shift in his posture.
he doesn't pull away. instead, he nuzzles his face just a fraction higher, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. then, with a soft, lingering tenderness that feels worlds away from his usual chaotic energy, he presses a warm, sleepy kiss right against your pulse point.
it’s not a tease or a prank this time; it’s a quiet, grounding anchor of affection. the skin there is thin, and you can feel the faint, upturned curve of his lips against you before he lets out a long, content sigh that ghosts over your skin.
“ Night-night... ” he mumbles, the words barely intelligible as his head sinks back into the hollow of your shoulder.
and then, as if someone simply flipped a switch, his entire body goes completely lax. the tension in his arm across your stomach vanishes as he goes limp, his breathing deepening and slowing into the heavy, rhythmic cadence of immediate sleep.
it’s a talent only he seems to possess— to go from a whirlwind of movement to a deep slumber in the span of a single breath. the "monster" has finally curled up for a nap. the golden light at 4:17 PM catches the soft rise and fall of his chest, and you’re left pinned to the bed by a world-class athlete who has decided that your shoulder is the best pillow in the world.
he doesn't stir when the curtains flutter or when a car hums by outside. he’s out cold, his messy dark hair splayed across your collarbone, holding onto you even in his dreams.
you find yourself staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of the tree branches perform a slow, silent ballet across the plaster. it’s a strange, suspended kind of reality. usually, your thumb would be flying across a screen, your brain buzzing with the frantic energy of a thousand different digital thoughts. but now, with the phone banished to the nightstand, the silence is loud. it’s heavy.
your gaze drifts down to the top of Meguru’s head. from this angle, he looks almost vulnerable— the jagged, chaotic energy he carries is smoothed over by sleep. you can feel the heat of his breath against your neck, a steady, puffing warmth that marks the passage of time more accurately than any clock could.
a quiet thought drifts through your mind: What now?
the afternoon is cooling, the initial heat of the sun fading into that crisp, slightly chilly edge that spring evenings carry. you could try to reach for the bedding to pull it higher over both of you, but the slightest shift makes Bachira let out a tiny, subconscious mumble, his grip tightening on your waist even in his sleep. he’s like a human burr, stuck to you with a biological need for proximity.
you realize, with a soft, internal huff of amusement, that you’re effectively trapped.
there’s no scrolling to save you from your own thoughts now. you’re forced to just be— to feel the weight of his arm, the softness of his hair tickling your chin, and the way your own heart has started to slow down to match his. it’s a luxury you rarely allow yourself: the total, absolute stillness of doing nothing with someone who makes "nothing" feel like an event.
slowly, carefully, you let your head sink deeper into the pillow, turning your face just enough so your cheek rests against the crown of his head. the clean, slightly citrusy scent of his shampoo lingers in his hair, mixing with the scent of sun-warmed skin.
your phone can wait. the memes will still be there tomorrow. but right now, in the fading gold of a Saturday, there’s nowhere else you’d rather be stuck. you close your eyes, finally letting the drowsy weight of the afternoon claim you too, drifting off into the quiet alongside the boy who refused to let you be alone.
but the stillness of the room is so absolute that your brain begins to fill the void with its own digital ghosts. even with your eyes closed and your phone a distant, cold object on the nightstand, your muscle memory betrays you. in the dark theater of your mind, a phantom thumb flicks upward, and an imaginary Instagram feed begins to unspool with vivid, haunting clarity.
the "feed" is perfect— no ads, no filler, just the mindless, high-definition loop of your subconscious. you can almost see the saturated colors of a top-down cooking video. a knife slides through a thick, buttery graham cracker crust; a pour of vibrant, glossy strawberry glaze cascades over a mountain of velvety white cream cheese. you can practically taste the tart sweetness, the imagined chill of the cheesecake providing a sharp, delicious contrast to the stifling amber heat currently radiating from Bachira’s body. it feels so real that your senses tingle, your mind fixating on that perfect, digital slice of heaven.
but the phantom scroll begins to slow. the vivid red of the strawberries starts to bleed into the warm, honeyed shadows of the bedroom.
the weight of Meguru’s arm across your stomach feels heavier now, a grounding anchor that pulls you away from the imaginary screen and back into the physical reality of the bed. his rhythmic, deep breathing acts like a metronome, lulling your frantic thoughts into a steady, quiet crawl. the cool edge of the afternoon air brushes against your skin, but you are cocooned in the radiator-like warmth of the boy who conquered your attention.
the strawberry cheesecake fades. the digital noise goes silent.
the phantom light of the screen finally flickers out in your mind, replaced by the featureless dark of a sleep too heavy for dreams.
outside, the sun continues its slow, inevitable descent, the liquid gold deepening into a bruised, royal violet along the horizon. the shadows of the trees stretch until they cover the floorboards entirely, eventually climbing the walls to swallow the stray dust motes that had danced so vibrantly only an hour before. the rhythmic flutter of the ivory curtains slows as the breeze dies down, leaving the room in a state of perfect, breathless equilibrium.
in the center of the quiet apartment, the bed remains a small, warm island. the discarded phone sits dark and cold on the nightstand, its glass face reflecting nothing but the dimming sky. it is no longer a rival for your affection, but a forgotten relic of a day that was successfully stolen.
as the last of the daylight retreats, the only sound left is the synchronized rise and fall of two breaths— one light and steady, the other deep and grounded. wrapped in the gravity of a Saturday that refused to be rushed, you and Bachira remain anchored to one another, lost to the world in a silence that is finally, beautifully complete.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
I'm not even done watching blue lock, but I already decided to write this. AUGHHH I LOVE YOU BACHIRAAA
seems like this is also my first work where readers relationship with my chosen character is classified... yeah not classifying the relationship adds more tension and plot sorry
I'm free for two weeks :3 and decided I will use my time to write fanfics ! despite having lots of unfinished works... uh yeah anyways
expect more posts this month! I'll randomly post fanfics !
I randomly write when I get ideas, but I couldn't bring myself to post them ;:; trying to change though. editing here is so tiring for me, sorry guys :(
Just read Fervor and omg your writing is so good! I think this is gonna be my favorite fic this year!!! Keep doing what you’re doing (and please keep writing for the Phantom Troupe bc I am HOOKED!)
AWWW SWEET SOULL thank youu🥹🥹❤️
I WILL DON'T WORRY HEHEHE I LOVE THE PHANTOM TROUPEE !!
I will continue to write as long as my heart is still beating! 😼 ( and when I have time.. im unemployed and its our summer vacation so I have plenty of time rn !! ) I'm glad it became your favorite !!
FERVOR
SACRILEGE
— if you're looking for more works including the Phantom troupe! this is a Priest Chrollo x Prostitute Reader :3 few phantom troupe members will be shown here after a few verses!
one week is officially done ! and I am keeping my promise. thank you for those 358 people who have voted, I never expected to see such big numbers😭❤️ please feel free to order dr stone! I will attempt to do all orders hehehe
ever since I was young, I had quite talent for guessing. ( yes I use this mostly in school ) not sure if its because I'm smart and know a few things, or if luck is just on my side. I knew dr stone will be on top from the start ( check comments ) but still decided to add few options. Don't worry, this doesn't mean I won't write for other animes aswell!
I should probably gamble and make my life turn around
— the heat of the soul; a burning, unyielding intensity that turns a touch into a fever and a moment into an obsession.
SYNOPSIS : lashed by a relentless storm, the hideout becomes a sanctuary of shadows where cold professionalism finally snaps. drenched and volatile, Feitan’s lethal composure unravels into a frantic, velvet urgency, met only by the steady, grounding comfort of a touch that doesn't fear his thorns.
CONTAINS: makeout, suggestive touching, flirting, looong sexual content ( not super explicit but still there ) bj, hickeys / bite marks, overstimulation? toxic dynamics, physical agression, mild language, dark & mature themes, dubcon, marking / branding, breath play, lowkey weapon play, emotional manipulation, internalized violence, lowkey degradation, power play, provocation, bruising, obssessive / possesive ? rough handling, coerced silence, lowkey objectification, edging, hair pulling, threats
HUNTER X HUNTER: Feitan Portor x Reader
Word Count: 13,254 words and 73,287 characters
MENU
the hallway is a narrow throat of amber light, casting long, wavering shadows against the peeling wallpaper. he stands in the threshold, a silhouette carved from the storm outside. water pools at his boots, a dark, viscous spread that carries the metallic tang of iron and wet pavement. it drips from the hem of his cloak in a rhythmic, heavy staccato, marking the floor with the frantic pulse of the evening’s labor.
you extend the towel. the fabric is thick, bleached bone-white, a stark contrast to the grime clinging to his frame.
Feitan doesn’t move. his eyes, sharp and silver-flecked under the brutal fringe of his hair, fixate on your outstretched fingers.
“ Feitan?— ”
he looks at your hand as if it’s a foreign object— something soft and dangerously misplaced in a room filled with the scent of ozone and copper. the silence between you stretches, thick as velvet, weighted by the exhaustion rolling off his shoulders in invisible waves.
he remains motionless, a statue of damp silk and jagged nerves. the silver of his gaze flickers, tracing the line of your wrist, weighing the simple gravity of the gesture. there is no gratitude in his expression, only a quiet, simmering suspicion, as if waiting for the kindness to sharpen into a blade.
he doesn’t reach for the cloth. instead, he simply breathes, his chest rising in a slow, jagged hitch that betrays the cold deep in his marrow.
the dampness from his clothes begins to steam in the warmth of the room, blurring his edges until he looks less like a man and more like a ghost clawing its way back to the living.
his fingers close around your wrist first, slick and freezing against your pulse, but his grip is a frantic, grounding pressure.
he doesn't pull away. for a long, suspended breath, he simply holds you there, his thumb tracing the shallow valley of your inner arm while the water from his hair maps new paths down the bridge of his nose.
slowly, the tension in his arm snaps. he drags the towel from your hand with a sudden, sharp jerk.
he begins to scrub at his face, the movements violent and uncoordinated.
the white fabric is instantly ruined, blooming with ugly, dark smears of soot and something thicker, darker, that refuses to be ignored. he works with a jagged desperation, as if the grime is a second skin he’s trying to flay off.
underneath the frantic motion, his eyes remain locked on the floor, hidden beneath the wet weight of his bangs. the rhythmic friction of the cloth is the only sound in the hallway, a harsh, abrasive rasp that fills the space between your breathing. when he finally pulls the towel away, his skin is rubbed raw, a flush of angry crimson blooming across his cheekbones, yet he looks no less haunted than when he first stepped through the door.
he stands there, clutching the damp, stained mass of cotton against his chest, his shoulders hunched high as if bracing for a blow that hasn't come.
Phinks leans against the doorframe at the end of the corridor, his massive frame nearly filling the space. the overhead light catches the harsh line of his nonexistent brow, casting his eyes into deep shadow. he doesn’t move toward you; he just stands there, arms folded across his chest, watching the way Feitan clings to the ruined towel like a lifeline.
his gaze flickers from the dark, spreading stains on the floor to the raw, agitated flush on Feitan’s face. there is no humor in his expression, none of the usual bravado that clings to him like a second skin.
“ You look like garbage, ” Phinks says, leaning heavily against the doorframe. he doesn't lower his voice; he never does.
Feitan’s back stays rigid. he doesn't acknowledge the presence, but the way he’s wringing that towel looks like he’s practicing how to snap a neck.
Phinks scoffs, eyes tracking the red staining the floor. “ Don't bleed on the rug. Chrollo wants us moving by dawn. You gonna be a problem, or can you actually walk? ”
the question hangs in the amber light, heavy and uninvited. Feitan’s head drops lower, his wet bangs shielding his expression from both of you. a single, dark droplet falls from the hem of his mask, disappearing into the white cotton of the towel.
Feitan’s voice comes from the back of his throat, a sound like dry parchment tearing. it’s thin, vibrating with a lethal sort of exhaustion that makes the small hallway feel even tighter.
“ Too much noise, ” he spits.
he finally turns his head just enough for a single, dilated eye to fix on Phinks. he doesn't look at you, but the hand not clutching the towel twitches, his fingers curling into a claw against his thigh.
“ Job done, ” he continues, the words clipped and jagged, sounding more like a curse than a status update. “ go back to sleep, Phinks. Or I remove tongue so you stay quiet. ”
he doesn't wait for a reaction. he pivots away from both of you, his movements stiff, like a rusted machine forced into motion. the metal of the zipper is a biting chill against his skin, the only sound in the room until the fabric finally parts. as the mask drops, it reveals the jagged reality of his composure— teeth gritted against a shuttering breath and a jawline tight with a tension he can no longer kill. without the high collar to hide behind, his face is a raw, cinematic landscape of exhaustion and heat.
he heads toward the bathroom, the stained towel still bunched in his fist, leaving a trail of dark, smeared footprints that look like bruises on the wood.
the door doesn't just close behind him; he slams it, the frame shuddering with the force of his departure. the lock clicks home with a finality that feels like a physical wall being dropped between him and the rest of the world.
Phinks remains anchored in the doorway, his chin lifting as he watches the bathroom door settle into its frame. he lets out a short, sharp exhale— a sound that sits somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. he uncrosses his arms, his massive shoulders rolling with a casual, blunt ease that stands in sharp contrast to the jagged energy Feitan just dragged through the hall.
he turns his head toward you, his eyes glinting with a low, gutter-light mockery.
“ Tch, ” he says, the sound clicking against his teeth. “ Look at this mess. He thinks he’s the only one who had a long night. ”
he pushes off the doorframe, gesturing with a heavy hand at the dark, watery smears staining the floorboards. his gaze travels from the puddles up to your face, his expression flat and unimpressed, though there's a flicker of rough amusement behind it.
“ The hell is his problem? ” he asks, his voice a gravelly rumble. “ You try to hand him a towel and he looks at you like you’re holding a cursed blade. I’ve seen him more agreeable after being tortured for three days straight. ”
“ Just let him be. ”
“ Don’t waste your breath being kind next time, ” he says, a lopsided, mocking grin finally pulling at his mouth. “ He’s just gonna drip on your rugs and snap at the air anyway. Let him rot in the shower—if he’s still acting like a wounded animal in an hour, just lock the kitchen. He’ll figure it out eventually. ”
you let out a breath, a soft, dry sound that barely qualifies as a laugh. it’s a brittle thing, born more from the absurdity of the bloodstains and Phinks’s lack of tact than any real humor.
the moment is severed by the groan of another door.
Shizuku emerges from the shadows of the far room, her oversized sweater swallowing her frame. she stops short, her large, blinking eyes fixing on the two of you through the thick frames of her glasses. her head tilting to the side in a slow, bird-like motion.
“ Oh, ” she says, her voice flat and airy. “ You’re both still here. ”
she looks down at the dark, smeared trail Feitan left behind, then back up at you and Phinks. there is no judgment in her gaze, only a mild, detached curiosity.
“ Why are you both still awake? ” she asks, adjusting her glasses with a pale finger. “ It’s very late. And the floor is leaking. ”
Phinks snorts, rolling his shoulders as he prepares a retort, but the rhythmic hammering of the shower behind the locked door is the only real answer she gets. the hallway feels smaller now, crowded with the lingering scent of rain and the heavy, unspoken weight of whatever Feitan brought home with him.
“ Ask the brat in the bathroom, ” he says, jerking his chin toward the sound of the spray. “ Feitan just crawled in looking like he went ten rounds with a monsoon. ”
he casts a sidelong glance at you, a jagged, mocking glint in his eyes.
“ Besides, ” he adds, his voice dropping into that lazy, gravelly drawl. “ I was just checking in to see if she was still in one piece. Hard to tell with him lately. He’s touchy as a live wire. ”
Shizuku blinks, her gaze drifting back to the dark, watery smears on the wood. she doesn't seem convinced, or perhaps she simply doesn't care enough to hold the thought. she just pulls her sweater sleeves down over her hands, her silhouette soft and blurred against the sharp edges of the hallway.
“ It doesn't matter, ” she says, her voice a calm, flat line that cuts through Phinks’s posturing. “ You should both be sleeping now. ”
she tilts her head, her expression remaining perfectly vacant, yet there’s a cold, practical weight to her words that silences the air.
“ We have the mission tomorrow, ” she reminds you, her tone as detached as if she were reading a grocery list. “ Dying of exhaustion is a very messy way to fail. Especially for Feitan. He’ll be even more difficult if he hasn’t slept. ”
Phinks lets out a sharp, clicking sound with his tongue, his smirk faltering just a fraction. he looks like he wants to argue, but the logic is too blunt to ignore. he casts one last look at the locked bathroom door, then at you, giving a dismissive wave of his hand.
“ Yeah, yeah. The glasses are right, ” he grumbles, turning back toward his own room with a heavy, rhythmic stomp. “ Get some rest. If he’s still acting like a brat in the morning, it's your problem. ”
Shizuku remains in the corridor for a second longer, watching Phinks disappear.
then, she turns her gaze back to you, her eyes reflecting nothing. “ Goodnight, ” she says simply, before finally retreating into the shadows of her doorway.
“ Sleep well, Shizuku. ”
the hallway is suddenly hollow, the air reclaiming its stillness now that the others have retreated into the dark. the only remaining pulse in the apartment is the muffled, violent drumming of the water against the bathroom tiles.
you turn away from the stained floorboards, your footsteps heavy and silent as you move toward the room you share with him. the space is cool, smelling faintly of old paper and the sharp, lingering scent of his smoke.
you lay down, the mattress yielding beneath your weight. the sheets are crisp, a pale expanse that feels almost too clean compared to the grit still clinging to your palms. you stare up at the ceiling, watching the way the stray light from the street filters through the blinds, casting a skeletal ribcage of shadows across the walls.
the sound of the shower cuts off abruptly. in the new, jarring silence, the house feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for the click of a lock and the wet, heavy drag of footsteps.
you stay awake. sleep is a distant, unreachable shore, so you simply lie there with your head turned toward the window.
beyond the glass, the sky is a bruised, heavy indigo, thick with the remnants of the storm. there is no clear shape to the moon, no silver coin pinned to the dark; instead, there is only a faint, ghostly luminescence bleeding through the cloud cover. it is a bruised light, pale and uncertain, casting just enough of a glow to turn the edges of the furniture into jagged, unfamiliar silhouettes.
behind the wall, the pipes groan one last time as they settle, leaving you alone with the rhythmic, slow ticking of the clock and the cold, metallic memory of his grip on your wrist.
the door clicks open, a soft, mechanical snap that cuts through the quiet. Feitan enters the room, his movements stripped of their usual fluid grace, replaced by a heavy, stiff-jointed exhaustion. he is no longer dripping, but the dampness clings to him like a second skin, the scent of soap struggling against the stubborn, underlying tang of iron.
the towel you gave him is draped around his neck, the white fabric ruined by dark, jagged smears that wouldn't wash away. he doesn't look at the bed. he moves to the corner of the room where the faint, bruised light of the moon doesn't reach, his silhouette bleeding into the shadows until only the pale smudge of the towel remains visible.
“ Stay awake for what. ”
his voice is a low, rough friction, barely reaching you across the space. he finally turns, his wet hair casting sharp, needle-like shadows across his brow. he still holds the edge of the towel in one fist, his knuckles white and prominent, as if he’s still anchoring himself to that single, small act of kindness.
you shift slightly against the pillows, the fabric of the bedsheets rustling in the heavy quiet. the faint, ghostly light from the window catches the small, tethered curve of a smile on your lips.
“ Hmm, nothing. ”
the words are light, a soft ripple in the stagnant air of the room. Feitan doesn’t move. he remains a dark, jagged shape against the wall, but you can feel the weight of his gaze. unblinking and sharp— cutting through the dimness to find your face. the playfulness of your tone seems to hang between you, a delicate, shimmering thing that doesn’t quite belong in a room that smells of wet silk and cold metal.
he lets out a short, huffed breath through his nose, a sound that isn't quite a scoff but lacks the warmth of a laugh. his fingers tighten on the ruined towel, his shoulders dropping just a fraction of an inch as the silence stretches back out, long and velvet-dark.
“ Stupid. ”
he lifts his hands, the white fabric of the towel bunching between his fingers as he begins to rub at his hair. the motion is rough and impatient, a rhythmic, muffled friction that hides his face from view. the damp, dark strands of his hair are tossed into a wild, jagged mess beneath the cloth.
you watch the play of the shadows across his tensed shoulders, the way the movement pulls the damp fabric of his shirt tight against his spine.
“ You missed a spot, ” you murmur, your voice trailing off with a slow, honeyed pull. “ if you want, I could do a much better job than that. ”
the rubbing stops instantly. the towel remains draped over his head, a ghostly shroud that obscures his eyes, but the air in the room suddenly feels thick, charged with a sharp, static tension. he doesn't pull the cloth away. he stays perfectly still, his hands still raised, the only sound the ragged, low hitch of his breathing.
“ You have death wish. ”
the words are a muffled, lethal rasp from beneath the cotton, but he doesn't move to leave. he stands there in the dark, caught in the gravity of your suggestion, the ruined towel still clutched in his hands like a white flag he refuses to drop.
you lean back further into the cool expanse of the pillows, your gaze tracing the jagged line of his silhouette in the bruised light.
“ Maybe, ” you breathe, the word slow and deliberate, a soft challenge thrown into the dark. “ but you look tired, Feitan. and that towel is doing a terrible job of taking care of you. ”
you reach out a hand, your fingers ghosting over the edge of the mattress, an unspoken invitation in the small space left between you.
“ Come here. Let me. ”
the silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. Feitan finally pulls the towel down, the fabric falling to rest around his shoulders like a discarded weight. his hair is a chaotic, damp mess, sticking to his forehead in dark needles that frame the golden, dilated heat of his stare. he looks at your hand, then back to your eyes, his chest rising and falling in a slow, jagged rhythm that betrays the sudden, frantic pulse at his throat.
“ Think you are funny, ” he rasps, his voice dropping an octave until it’s nothing more than a lethal vibration. he takes one step closer, the floorboards groaning under the sudden shift of his weight. “ think you can touch me so easily. ”
you tilt your head, the faint light catching the soft, daring glint in your eyes as you hold his stare.
“ ...Can I ? ”
the question is barely a whisper, a thread of silver in the dark. Feitan doesn’t answer, his body locked in a rigid, uncertain tension, but you don't wait for the permission he’s too proud to give.
you slide from the bed with the fluid silence of a shadow, the floorboards barely sighing under your weight. before he can pivot, before he can snap a retort or slip a blade from his sleeve, you are behind him. you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing your face against the damp, cool fabric of his shirt.
he flinches. a sharp, electric jolt that travels through his entire frame— and his breath hitches in a sudden, jagged stop. he is smaller than he looks, all wire-corded muscle and hard edges, but the heat radiating from him is a feverish contrast to the cold rain still clinging to his scent. his hands, still clutching the edges of the towel at his chest, freeze mid-air.
for a long, breathless second, he is a statue of stone and repressed violence. then, slowly, the lethal rigidity in his spine begins to fray. he doesn't pull away. he doesn't even move to loosen your grip. he simply stands there, his head bowing low as he lets out a long, shaky exhale that tastes of surrender.
“ You are annoying, ” he mutters, his voice cracking like dry earth, but he leans back, just a fraction— into the warmth of you.
you shift your grip, your palms sliding further around his torso until they flatten against the hard, low planes of his stomach. he is terrifyingly lean, his abdomen a landscape of deep, defined ridges that feel like carved stone under your fingertips. every muscle is coiled and sharp, yet the skin there is soft, hidden, and pulsing with a heat that makes your own breath catch.
at the touch, Feitan’s stomach muscles ripple in a sudden, involuntary spasm. he lets out a low, shaky hiss through his teeth, his fingers digging into your arms with a renewed, frantic pressure.
“ Really...? ” you repeat, your voice dropping to a whisper as you trace the dip where his muscles meet the waistband of his trousers.
Feitan’s head drops, his chin pressing hard against his chest. he lets out a low, guttural sound— halfway between a snarl and a shuddering moan— and his fingers reach up, blindly catching your forearms through his sleeves. he grips you there, his touch bruising and desperate, as if he’s trying to decide whether to throw you across the room or pull you even closer.
“ I kill you, ” he rasps, the threat sounding more like a prayer as he finally sags against you.
you let out a soft, low hum, the sound muffled against the damp fabric of his shirt. your fingers continue their slow, deliberate descent, trailing past the sharp ridges of his lower abs toward the dark silk of his waistband.
“ …Would you? ”
the question is a silken taunt, barely audible over the frantic, uneven thud of his heart against his ribs.
Feitan’s reaction is instantaneous. a sharp, jagged gasp breaks from his throat as your fingertips graze the very edge of the fabric, dipping just low enough to send a fresh electric jolt through his spine. his grip on your forearms tightens until it’s nearly painful, his knuckles grinding into your skin as he tries to anchor himself against the sudden, overwhelming pull of your gravity.
“ Stop it, ” he chokes out, though he makes no move to physically push you away. his breath is a hot, ragged fire against your skin, a stark contrast to the cold dampness of his hair. “ you play with thing you do not understand. ”
his fingers shift, sliding down from your arms to tangle with yours, his leather-bound grip pinning your hands firmly against his stomach to keep them from wandering any lower. he holds you there, trapping your palms against the hard, heaving map of his muscles as he breathes you in.
the room descends into a heavy, suffocating silence as he remains perfectly still, the only sound is the ragged drag of his breath against your neck. then— with the sudden, violent fluidness of a striking snake, the tension snaps.
before you can draw another breath, he pivots. his strength is deceptive— all lean as he forces you to turn, pressing your chest down toward the mattress until you are bent over the edge of the bed. your back is now flush against his front, the damp heat of his body branding you through your clothes.
he doesn't let go. instead, he jerks your arms behind you, crossing your wrists in a sharp, restrictive X. he clamps both of your hands together with a single, bruising palm, pinning them against the small of your back with a finality that makes the room feel smaller.
you tilt your head back, your neck exposed and vulnerable in the dim, bruised light, until you can see the silver heat of his stare.
“ Hm? Are you suggesting... something? ~ ”
the playfulness in your voice is a thin, shimmering wire, but it vibrates with the sudden shift in power. Feitan leans down, his chest crushing against your shoulder blades as he brings his face inches from yours. his hair, still damp and smelling of rain, brushes against your cheek like needles.
“ You talk too much, ” he rasps, his voice a low, guttural vibration that you feel more than hear.
he doesn't move his hand from your wrists. instead, he tightens the cross, his grip a grounding, lethal pressure that locks you in place. his eyes trace the curve of your throat, dark and dilated, before settling on your lips with a simmering, quiet violence.
“ Think you in control because I let you touch me, ” he murmurs, his breath a hot, feverish ghost against your skin. “ but you forget what I am. ”
the pressure is immediate and total. as he leans down, the damp, searing heat of his chest flattens against your shoulder blades, squeezing the air from your lungs. every ridge of his torso, those hard, stone-carved planes you were just tracing with your fingers, is now branded into your back.
because he’s pinning your wrists in that sharp cross against your spine, your own hands are trapped like a physical wedge between your bodies, forced into the scorching space where his stomach meets your lower back. you can feel every jagged, uneven thud of his heart through the layers of fabric, a frantic rhythm that betrays the lethal stillness of his posture
the weight of him is suffocating and intoxicating all at once. the dampness of his shirt begins to seep through yours, a cold, wet chill that is quickly burned away by the sheer fever of his skin.
“ Too close? ”
he breathes the words against the sensitive curve of your ear, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. he shifts his weight, pressing even harder, forcing your body to conform to the rigid, unforgiving lines of his. he’s so close that when he speaks, you can feel the vibration of his chest echoing through your own ribs, a dark harmony that makes your pulse spike in a sudden, panicked thrill.
he tilts his head, his nose ghosting along your jawline, his damp hair dripping a single, cold bead of water onto your collarbone.
“ You want to see, ” he murmurs, his grip on your wrists tightening until you’re forced to arch just a fraction more against him. “ now you look. ”
you let out a soft, low-throated chuckle, the sound vibrating through your chest and into his. the fact that you’ve managed to crack that iron-cold composure, dragging him from his exhaustion into this sharp, focused heat, makes your pulse dance.
“ I'm looking, Feitan, ” you purr, your voice steady despite the way he’s crushing the air from your lungs.
you shift your hips just a fraction, a slow, deliberate movement that grinds your lower back into his trapped hands and the hard line of his thighs. it’s a bold, dangerous move, a final nudge to see just how far the thread will stretch before it snaps.
“ I like the view much better from here. ”
you tilt your head further back, offering him the pale, vulnerable line of your throat, your eyes hooded as you catch his steel-edged stare in the dim light.
“ But if you’re trying to scare me into being quiet, you’re doing a very poor job of it. ”
the air in the room seems to catch fire at your words. Feitan’s grip on your wrists hitches, his fingers digging in with a sudden, bruising intensity. he looks like he wants to break you or pull you through the floorboards, his breath coming in shallow, jagged hitches that burn against the skin of your neck.
“ You… troublesome, ” he rasps, the word sounding like a snarl that got lost on the way to his throat. he leans even lower, his lips ghosting just a hair’s breadth from the pulse jumping in your neck. “ I should pull out your teeth so you not bite back. ”
you let out a soft, breathy sigh, the sound hitching as he presses his weight more firmly into your spine. you lean your head back until your hair brushes against his shoulder, your gaze meeting his with a slow, hooded confidence.
“ Then why haven't you? ”
you murmur the words, a silken challenge that hangs heavy in the dim, bruised light. you shift again, a slow and agonizingly deliberate press against him, feeling the way his body coils like a spring under the provocation.
“ You talk a lot about what you 'should' do, Feitan. But all I feel is you holding onto me like you're afraid I'll disappear if you let go. ”
you let a small, triumphant smile tug at the corner of your mouth, your voice dropping to a whisper that barely carries across the space between your lips and his ear.
the silence that follows is deafening. for a second, the only sound is the frantic, rhythmic thud of his heart hammering against your back. his grip on your wrists turns white-knuckle, and you see his jaw set so hard it looks like it might crack. he looks down at you with a gaze that is pure, unfiltered heat— a lethal mixture of irritation and a hunger he can no longer mask.
“ You think you win, ” he hisses, the words vibrating through your skin as he nuzzles roughly against your jaw, his teeth ghosting over the sensitive skin there. “ you think you are safe because I tired. Big mistake. ”
you don't pull away when his teeth graze your skin; instead, you arch your back further into him, forcing the contact until you can feel the jagged heat of his breath coating your neck. the playfulness has bled out of your expression, replaced by something dark and heavy that matches the suffocating tension in the room.
“ I don't think I'm safe at all, Feitan. ”
your voice is no longer a whisper; it’s a low, resonant vibration that seems to pull the very air out of his lungs. you turn your face as much as the X-lock on your wrists allows, your lips inches from his, your gaze locked onto the liquid silver of his eyes with a terrifyingly steady intensity.
“ I think you’re dangerous. I think you could ruin me in this room... and no one would hear a thing. ”
you lean back, your weight fully supported by his chest, your skin burning wherever it meets his damp clothes. your eyes drop to his mouth for a heartbeat before snapping back to his.
“ But I think you want this more than you want to kill me. I think you’ve been thinking about it all night... while you were out in the rain, while you were in the shower, while you were standing in the dark watching me sleep. ”
you let your voice drop into a raw, jagged register that mimics his own.
the effect is like dropping a match into a powder keg. Feitan’s pupils blow out until his eyes are almost entirely black, and a low, guttural growl rips from deep in his throat— a sound of pure, unadulterated frustration and hunger. he yanks your wrists upward, forcing your chest flatter against the bed, while his other hand abandons the towel to tangle violently into your hair. he pulls your head back, exposing the full, trembling length of your throat to the bruised light.
Feitan doesn’t hesitate. the moment the challenge leaves your lips, he leans in, his movements losing their stiff exhaustion and turning into something hungry and precise. he doesn't go for your mouth; instead, he sinks his face into the side of your neck, his breath a scorching brand against your skin.
he starts just below your jaw, his lips pressing firmly into the sensitive cord of your throat. the first mark is slow, a heavy, dragging pressure that makes your toes curl against the sheets. he isn't being gentle— he doesn't know how to be. but there is a desperate, grounding quality to the way he claims the space.
you let out a jagged, broken breath as you feel his teeth ghost over your skin before the sharp, stinging pull of a hickey begins to bloom.
“ ...Feitan… ”
the sound of his name only seems to fuel him. he moves lower, his tongue tracing the path of the heat he’s creating, leaving a trail of damp fire in the cool air of the room. he works with a focused, silent intensity, his grip on your wrists remaining absolute, pinning you to the bed as he maps the column of your neck with dark, purple-red constellations.
each mark is a silent retort to your teasing, a way of marking exactly where his restraint is fraying. he pauses for a second, his forehead resting against your collarbone as he takes a ragged, shaky breath, his chest heaving against your back. the room is silent except for the frantic, shared rhythm of your breathing and the distant, fading drip of the storm outside.
he nuzzles into the crook of your shoulder, his voice a muffled, lethal vibration.
“ Keep talking, ” he mutters, his lips hovering over a fresh, stinging mark. “ see what else I find to quiet you. ”
the sensation of his mouth against your skin sends a dizzying, liquid heat straight to your core. you lean into the sharp sting of his marks, your eyes half-lidded and clouded with a heavy, sweet haze.
you let out a soft, broken whimper that sounds entirely too much like an invitation, your body yielding and soft against the rigid, punishing lines of his.
“ ...Is that all? ”
the words are a low, breathless taunt, dripping with a honeyed arrogance that dares him to go further. you tilt your head to the side, giving him better access, the movement dragging your skin even more firmly against his teeth.
“ You mark me like I’m a prize, Feitan… but you’re still holding my hands back. Are you worried about what I’ll do if you let me go? are you afraid I’ll find out you’re actually… soft for me? ”
the word soft is a deliberate, lethal strike.
you feel the exact moment his control fractures. he lets out a sharp, hissed intake of air, his fingers tightening around your crossed wrists until it’s a bruising, desperate anchor. he stops the trail of hickeys abruptly, his face buried in the crook of your shoulder as his whole body trembles with the effort of not simply devouring you.
“ Shut up, ” he rasps, his voice cracking, thick with a dark, suffocating hunger. “ you know nothing. I could break you in half and you still… you still smile. ”
he bites down— not enough to draw blood, but enough to leave a stinging, definitive mark right on the sensitive junction of your shoulder and neck.
“ Keep pushing, ” he breathes against the raw skin, his voice a low, guttural promise.
you turn your face as much as the sharp angle allows, catching his gaze with a slow, languid smile that is all teeth and triumph.
there is no fear in that smile, only a deep, intoxicating heat that says you knew exactly how this would end the moment you reached for him. it’s a smile that acknowledges the marks on your neck and the bruising grip on your wrists, and asks for more.
Feitan stares at you, his eyes wide and dark, his chest heaving as he watches the way your expression doesn't falter. he looks like a man staring into an abyss, mesmerized by the fall. for all his talk of monsters and death wishes, he is the one caught in the snare of that smile, paralyzed by the sheer, terrifying softness of it.
“ ...You crazy, ” he whispers, the words less of an insult and more of an admission of defeat.
he doesn't pull away. instead, his forehead drops to yours, his wet hair creating a dark curtain around both your faces, sealing you away from the rest of the world. he stays there, breathing in the scent of your skin and the silent challenge of your smile, his grip on your wrists softening just enough to let his thumbs trace the frantic, matching pulse in your veins.
the air in the room is thick, charged with the kind of tension that makes your skin hum. Feitan doesn't move his head from yours, his smoke-colored eyes searching yours. he looks frustrated by the fact that he can’t make you flinch— that every jagged edge he shows you is met with that same, devastatingly soft smile.
slowly, he releases your wrists.
the moment he releases your wrists, he doesn't give you a second to breathe or celebrate the victory. with a sudden, violent fluidness, his hands slide from your arms to your waist, and he flips you onto your back. the mattress groans under the sudden shift, and before you can even blink, he is hovering directly over you, pinning you down with the sheer weight of his presence.
he brackets your hips with his knees, but then he goes further— one knee slides upward, a slow, heavy, and deliberate wedge that forces your legs apart and settles firmly between them. the friction of his damp trousers against your skin is a cold shock, but it’s immediately scorched away by the feverish heat radiating from his thighs.
he plants his hands on either side of your head, his arms corded with tension as he looms over you. his hair, still wild and dripping, creates a dark, jagged curtain that shuts out the rest of the room. the bruised amber light catches the molten steel of his eyes, which are now dark, dilated, and fixed on yours.
he leans down, his chest crushing yours. the hard, defined ridges of his abs grind against you with every shallow, jagged breath he takes. he reaches out, one hand sliding from the mattress to tangle roughly into your hair, pulling just enough to force your head back and expose the dark, blooming marks he’s already carved into your neck.
his gaze drops to your lips, his expression a mask of simmering, quiet violence. he moves his knee just a fraction higher, a slow and agonizingly physical reminder of exactly who has control of the room now.
“ I tired of your talk, ” he breathes against your mouth, his lips ghosting over yours without quite touching. “ maybe I find better use for this tongue. ”
the sound that breaks from your throat is low and syrupy, a soft, vibrating moan that hangs in the heavy space between your lips. it’s a jagged, pretty sound— one that could be a genuine surrender to the heat of him, or just the final, sharpest hook in your game of provocation.
Feitan freezes.
the mercury heat in his eyes flickers, a momentary flash of genuine uncertainty crossing his face as he tries to read the curve of your mouth. he hates the ambiguity of it. he thrives on the concrete—on the clear lines of pain, fear, or victory—but you are giving him something blurred and maddeningly soft.
his hand in your hair tightens, his knuckles grazing your scalp as he yanks your head back a fraction more. he leans into the knee he has wedged between yours, the pressure blunt and uncompromising, trying to force a more honest reaction out of you.
“ You think this game, ” he rasps, his voice cracking with a raw, jagged frustration.
he drops his head, his face burying into the crook of your neck, right beside the darkest mark he’s made. he inhales sharply, the scent of your skin clearly unraveling whatever is left of his thin composure. his chest is heaving now, the hard planes of his stomach rippling against yours in a frantic, uneven rhythm.
“ Keep making that noise, ” he breathes, his lips ghosting over the raw skin of your throat, his teeth grazing the pulse point that’s currently hammering against him. “ and I make sure you not tell the difference anymore. ”
he bites down again, harder this time, a sharp and possessive claim that’s meant to ground both of you in the reality of the room. he wants to hear that sound again, but he wants to know— needs to know—that he’s the one who tore it out of you.
“ Fuck... ”
a low, jagged curse slips from your lips, the word muffled against the heat of his shoulder. it’s a sharp, breathy sound—half-smothered by the sheer weight of him and the biting pressure of his knee.
Feitan pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes narrowed into silver slits. he’s never been one for pretty words, and hearing you drop your guard into something so raw and unpolished sends a fresh surge of dark adrenaline through him. it’s the sound of someone losing their composure, and for Feitan, that is the ultimate victory.
“ Dirty mouth, ” he rasps, a ghost of a cruel, triumphant smirk finally pulling at the corner of his lips.
he leans down, his chest grinding into yours with a renewed, crushing intensity. his hand shifts from your hair, his fingers sliding down to grip your chin, forcing you to hold his gaze. his thumb is rough as it presses into your lower lip, dragging it down until you’re forced to look at him with your mouth slightly open, breathless and wrecked.
he sinks his face back into the hollow of your throat, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right above your collarbone. he’s no longer just marking you; he’s looking for every gasp and every jagged, whispered curse you have left, determined to strip away every bit of your teasing until there’s nothing left but the truth of his name on your tongue.
“ ...You're hard... Aren't you? ”
the air in the room suddenly feels like it’s been sucked out, replaced by a vacuum of pure, static shock.
Feitan goes absolutely rigid. the hand gripping your chin freezes, his fingers digging into your skin with a sudden, involuntary pressure. your voice, clear and silken even in its breathlessness, cuts through the low-lit violence of the moment like a silver blade.
he doesn't move for a long, heavy second, his face still buried against your collarbone. you can feel the exact moment his heart skips a beat before hammering against your ribs with a frantic, primitive rhythm. the blunt reality of your words, and the physical truth of the position he’s forced you into, hangs between you, stripped of all metaphor.
slowly, he lifts his head.
there is a raw, jagged flush crawling up his neck, a heat that has nothing to do with the storm outside and everything to do with the way you just dismantled his last shred of deniability.
“ You… ” he starts, his voice failing him.
he doesn't pull away. if anything, the pressure of his knee between yours becomes more insistent, more desperate, as if he’s trying to crush the confession back into your lungs. he looks at you with a mixture of pure, unadulterated loathing and a hunger so sharp it looks like physical pain.
“ You no shame, ” he finally rasps, the words coming out as a broken, guttural hiss.
he leans down until his forehead is resting against yours, his damp hair shielding both of your faces from the dim light. his breath is a feverish, ragged mess against your lips.
“ Think you are clever, ” he breathes, his hand sliding from your chin to wrap violently around the back of your neck, his thumb pressing into the hollow behind your ear. “ Think because you notice, you have power. ”
he shifts his weight, the movement blunt and unmistakable, forcing you to feel every inch of the reaction you just called out.
“ So what if I am? ” he snarls softly, his lips finally grazing yours in a jagged, desperate ghost of a kiss. “ What you going to do about it? ”
you let out a soft laugh, the sound vibrating directly into his chest. the terror and the heat of the moment are blurred into a single, intoxicating rush, and you have never felt more in control than you do right now, pinned beneath the weight of a man who could kill you with a flick of his wrist but is currently trembling because of a few words.
you lean up, closing the microscopic gap between your lips and his until you are breathing the same air, your eyes locked onto his dark, blown-out stare.
“ What am I... going to do? ”
you repeat his question in a velvet murmur, your voice dripping with a slow, honeyed confidence. you move your hands now free from his hands— and slide them up his chest while you rise up, your palms tracing the frantic, thundering rhythm of his heart before hooking behind his neck. you pull him down just a fraction more, forcing him to feel the curve of your smile against his mouth.
“ I think the question is… what are you going to do? ”
you shift your hips, a slow, agonizingly deliberate grind against the blunt reality of him, your eyes never leaving his.
“ Show me how much you ‘ hate ’ this. ”
the air in the room practically snaps.
Feitan’s fingers dig into the back of your neck, his grip bruising and desperate, as a low, guttural sound— a real, unadulterated growl— breaks from the back of his throat. he looks like he’s about to snap, his jaw set so hard you can see the muscle jumping in his cheek.
“ You… ” he rasps, the word a shattered piece of glass. “ I should really tear you tongue out. ”
but he doesn’t pull away. instead, he collapses the final distance, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that is less of an invitation and more of a collision— harsh, jagged, and tastes of iron and desperation.
the collision of his mouth against yours is everything he is: sharp, jagged, and entirely overwhelming. it’s not a soft or practiced kiss; it’s the desperate, messy hunger of a man who has been starving in the rain and finally found a fire.
you don't recoil from the violence of it. instead, your fingers tangle deeper into the damp, dark silk of his hair, your nails grazing his scalp as you pull him down, refusing to let him retreat. you meet his tongue with a daring heat of your own, turning the kiss into a frantic, breathless battle for territory.
Feitan lets out a muffled, broken sound against your lips— a low, frustrated groan that vibrates through your entire frame. he’s no longer the calculated torturer; he’s a live wire, and the way you’re pulling him closer is only stripping away the last of his insulation. his hands abandon the mattress, one arm sliding under your back to haul you up against his chest, while his other hand remains clamped at the nape of your neck.
the knee wedged between your thighs remains a heavy, grounding anchor, and every time the kiss deepens, he shifts against you, the blunt reality of his physical state a constant, thrumming pressure that neither of you can ignore.
the air in the room is thick with the scent of damp wool, salt, and the sudden, sharp ozone of adrenaline. he breaks the kiss for a split second, his chest heaving, his lips hovering just a hair’s breath from yours.
“ You… ” he gasps, his voice a shattered wreck of its usual lethality. “ You not know when to stop. ”
even as he says it, he’s the one who dives back in, his mouth finding the line of your jaw, then the raw, stinging marks on your neck, reclaiming every inch of skin he’s already marked. he’s making out with you with a jagged desperation, his hands wandering from your neck to your waist, his grip so tight he’s practically trying to pull you into his own skin.
“ ...Stop me then. ” you breathe against his ear, a silken taunt that sends a fresh shudder through his wire-corded frame.
he doesn’t stop. he only holds you tighter, his breathing coming in frantic, hot hitches as the hallway and the mission and the storm outside all dissolve into the suffocating, electric heat of the bed.
the atmosphere in the room thickens until it’s visceral, a heavy weight that makes every breath feel like a deliberate choice. the distance between you hasn't just vanished; it’s been incinerated.
his hands begin to move with a restless, searching energy. he finds the hem of your shirt, his fingers ghosting over the skin of your waist with a touch that is both freezing and scorching. you let out a jagged, broken sound as he hitches the fabric upward, his palms finally meeting the warmth of your back in a way that feels like a collision of two worlds.
he breaks the kiss, his forehead dropping back to yours, his chest rising and falling in a frantic, uneven rhythm that mirrors your own. the silence of the room is gone, replaced by the symphony of his grip on the sheets and the heavy, rhythmic thrum of a pulse that seems to vibrate through the floorboards.
“ Trouble, ” he rasps, the word a shattered vibration against your lips.
he shifts, the movement blunt and uncompromising, shedding the last of his lethal restraint as he anchors himself to the heat of you. the bruised light from the window catches the way his shoulders lock, his spine arching as he yields to the gravity of the moment. it isn't a surrender; it’s a total, quiet unraveling, a slow-motion collapsed into the dark pull of the bed.
every touch becomes a question he doesn't have the words to answer, and every breath you draw together is a thread tightening, pulling the two of you into a space where the storm outside can no longer reach. the scent of rain and copper is gone, swallowed by the intoxicating, dizzying haze of a fire that’s been burning in the dark for far too long.
—
the air in the room suddenly grows still, the frantic friction of the last few moments narrowing down to a single, heavy point of gravity. Feitan’s breath hitches, a sharp, jagged intake of air that stalls in his lungs as you shift your position beneath him, your intent written in the slow, deliberate way you move.
he remains anchored to the mattress, his hands clutching the sheets until the fabric groans, his knuckles a ghostly, bloodless white in the dim amber light. as you slide lower, the physical distance between you is replaced by a suffocating, electric tension. he lets out a low, guttural sound—halfway between a warning and a desperate, broken plea as he feels the shift in the atmosphere.
he sinks back against the pillows, his head falling back as his spine arches into a rigid, trembling line. the silver heat of his gaze is gone, hidden behind squeezed-shut eyelids, leaving only the raw, frantic rhythm of his breathing to fill the silence.
his fingers tangle violently into the bedding, his entire frame vibrating with a high-frequency tension that betrays how thin his composure has truly become.
“ You… ” he starts, but the word is swallowed by a sharp, airless gasp.
his jaw sets, the muscle jumping in his cheek as he yields to the quiet, devastating focus of your actions. the room feels smaller, hotter, centered entirely on the jagged, uneven rise and fall of his chest and the way his hands occasionally twitch, reaching out as if to stop you before curling back into the sheets, trapped by the very surrender he swore he’d never give.
the air in the room seems to catch fire, the silence thickening until the only sound left is the jagged, staccato rhythm of his breathing. as you continue with a slow, devastating focus, Feitan’s restraint doesn't just fray— it snaps.
his hand, previously buried in the sheets, suddenly lashes out. he finds the silk of your hair, his fingers threading through the strands and tightening with a bruising force. he isn't pulling away; he’s anchoring you there, his knuckles white as he holds you in place with a raw, desperate intensity.
his head thumps back against the headboard, his eyes squeezed shut so tightly the skin around them creases. a low, broken sound— something between a growl and a stifled sob rips from his throat.
“ Don’t… ” he rasps, the word dying in his throat as his grip in your hair tightens even further.
his other hand finds the edge of the mattress, his nails nearly clawing through the fabric as he tries to find some kind of purchase in a world that has turned entirely to liquid heat. his fingers clench in your hair, a silent, frantic command to never, ever stop.
as the tension reaches a breaking point, Feitan’s grip in your hair shifts from a static anchor to something more active, more demanding.
he doesn't let go, but his fingers tighten with a renewed, rhythmic pressure, wordlessly communicating the jagged pace he needs. his other hand reaches down, his palm flat against the back of your head, his touch a mixture of a heavy, grounding weight and a desperate, guiding force.
he is no longer just enduring the sensation; he is participating in his own undoing.
“ Stop... thinking, ” he rasps, his voice a shattered, guttural mess that barely sounds human.
his hips shift in a slow, involuntary tilt, meeting you with a blunt honesty that betrays exactly how close he is to the edge. every time he breathes, it’s a sharp, airless hitch that hitches his chest off the bed, his spine arching until it’s a rigid bow of corded muscle.
the hand on your head guides you with a sudden, frantic urgency, his knuckles grazing your scalp as he wordlessly pushes for more, his movements becoming more uncoordinated and raw.
he is a man who thrives on being the one in control, but right now, the only control he has is the way he holds you— guiding the very fire that is consuming him. a low, continuous vibration hums in his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated friction, until his eyes fly open, staring at the ceiling with a vacant, silver intensity that sees nothing but the dark.
his grip in your hair isn't just possessive now— it’s a vice. his knuckles are stark white, and he uses that grip to anchor you with a sudden, rough urgency. he isn't pleading; he’s taking, his fingers tightening in a wordless, jagged command for you to keep going, to go harder, to finish what you started.
“ Don’t you dare stop, ” he rasps, his voice a jagged, low-frequency snarl that vibrates through the crown of your head.
it’s not a request. it’s a threat, delivered with the last shred of his fraying authority.
his spine stays arched in a rigid, trembling line, his chest heaving as he fights for air. the hand on the back of your head is heavy and uncompromising, guiding you with a frantic, rhythmic pressure that betrays just how close he is to the edge.
he’s no longer making pretty sounds—every breath is a sharp, airless hitch, a guttural sound of pure friction that he can’t seem to swallow back down.
his eyes stay fixed on the ceiling, his pupils blown out into wide, black voids as the room starts to tilt. he shifts his weight, the movement blunt and involuntary, meeting your focus with a desperate, final intensity.
the low hum in his throat builds into a sharp, choked-off sound as he finally hits the breaking point. his grip in your hair reaches a bruising peak, his whole body locking up for a few agonizing, electric seconds before the tension shatters. he falls back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling in wrecked, shallow gasps, his fingers still tangled in your hair as if he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll disappear into the dark.
you slowly sit up, your own hair a mess from his grip, and look down at him. a slow, languid smile spreads across your lips— the same one that started this whole mess.
“ ...Look at you, ” you murmur, your voice a low, honeyed purr that seems to echo in the quiet room.
Feitan’s eyes snap open, the molten steel burning through the shadows. his hand is still tangled in your hair, and at your words, his fingers flex reflexively, a sharp, warning tug that brings your face inches from his. He looks like he wants to kill you and kiss you all over again, his jaw set so tight it’s a miracle it doesn't crack.
“ ...Quiet, ” he rasps, his voice a shattered, low-frequency ghost of its usual self.
“ Make me, ” you tease, your eyes dropping to his mouth before snapping back to his. you lean in, your breath ghosting over his lips. “ you seem… a bit preoccupied. Should I help you find your voice again? ”
a low growl rips from his throat— he yanks your head down, his thumb dragging across your lower.
“ You talk too much, ” he breathes, his eyes narrowing into lethal slits even as he pulls you back down into his space. “ I find another way to stop your mouth. ”
the tension in the room doesn't just return; it mutates into something far heavier, a thick, atmospheric weight that makes the very air feel like a physical pressure against your skin. Feitan doesn’t wait for another word to leave your mouth. he reacts with a sudden, jolting energy, his hands sliding from your hair to your waist, his grip so tight it feels like he’s trying to fuse your shadows together.
he hauls you back down, the mattress dipping low as he maneuvers you with a restless, frantic urgency. the playfulness of your tease is immediately swallowed by the raw, unpolished heat radiating from him.
the exchange becomes a blur of friction and shallow, shared breaths. there are no more words, only the rhythmic, heavy thud of a heart hammering against ribs and the sound of leather and linen twisting under the weight of two people who have stopped trying to pretend they aren't unraveling. he moves with a desperate sort of focus, his hands mapping the curve of your spine and the slope of your shoulders as if he’s trying to memorize the geography of your skin in the dark.
every touch is a jagged escalation. the space between you disappears entirely, replaced by a suffocating intimacy that tastes like salt and iron. he buries his face in the hollow of your neck, his breathing a series of hot, jagged hitches that vibrate against your pulse point, while his fingers tangle back into your hair, pulling you closer until there is no air left between you.
the bruised light from the window catches the way his muscles lock, his entire frame vibrating with a high-frequency tension that refuses to break. it’s a total, quiet collapse into the dark— a slow-motion fall where the only thing keeping either of you grounded is the bruising, uncompromising grip you have on each other.
—
the heavy, electric heat of the room finally begins to thin as the storm outside peters out into a dull, rhythmic drizzle. the absolute, suffocating darkness of the midnight hours slowly gives way to a bruised, cinematic grey— the first tentative light of dawn bleeding through the gaps in the curtains.
the air is cool now, smelling of damp pavement and fading ozone, a stark contrast to the feverish friction of the hours before.
Feitan has finally stilled, though the tension never fully leaves his frame. he’s a dark, jagged silhouette against the rumpled white of the sheets, his breathing deep and steady for the first time since the sun went down. the violent, magnetic pull that dictated every movement of the night has settled into a heavy, exhausted quiet, leaving the room feeling vast and hollow in the early light.
the clock on the wall ticks with a sudden, sharp clarity that wasn't there before, marking the end of the vacuum you’ve been living in. the mission, the Troupe, and the cold reality of the world outside are starting to settle back into the corners of the room, reclaiming the space that, for a few times, belonged only to the two of you.
the night is over, and the soft haze of the dark is retreating, leaving behind only the cooling marks on your skin and the quiet, heavy weight of a man who looks entirely different in the light of day.
—
the grey, watery light of morning filters through the room, looking less like a new beginning and more like an unwelcome intrusion. Feitan is awake long before the sun manages to fully clear the horizon, his eyes snapping open with a sharp, instinctive clarity that feels like a physical ache.
he feels… volatile. his skin feels a size too small, tight with the residual heat of a night that refused to let him rest. there is a heavy, leaden irritation settled behind his eyes— partly from the lack of sleep, but mostly from the lingering, honeyed memory of your laugh and the way he had completely unspooled in the dark. to a man who views any loss of control as a weakness, the echoes of last night are a jagged thorn in his side.
he rolls out of bed with a silent, lethal grace, his movements stiff. he doesn't look back at the bed as he pulls on his high-collared coat, the fabric feeling abrasive against the marks on his skin.
when he slides open the door to the common area, the atmosphere is already humming with the low-frequency energy of the Troupe.
Machi is sitting by the window, her needle moving in a rhythmic, silver blur as she repairs a fraying shroud. she doesn’t look up when Feitan enters; she doesn’t need to. the shift in the room’s pressure tells her exactly who it is.
“ Your Nen is erratic, ” she says. her voice is flat— not a taunt, just an observation.
Feitan doesn't answer, moving toward the shadows near the back of the room, his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. he exudes a sharp, foul energy that would make anyone else back away.
Machi finally pauses, her threads suspended in the air like a web. she turns her gaze toward him, her pink eyes devoid of humor. she notes the rigid set of his shoulders and the slight delay in his step.
“ You’re moving heavy, ” she states plainly. She doesn't smirk; she simply watches him with the detached interest of a doctor looking at a broken tool. “ If you need stitches, sit down. If you’re just going to bleed on the floor, do it somewhere else. ”
Feitan’s hand twitches toward the hilt of his umbrella, his silver eyes narrowing into dangerous, lethal slits. Machi doesn't blink, already returning her needle to the fabric.
“ Keep talking, ” he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly warning that still carries the jagged edge of his exhaustion. “ and I find new place for your needles. ”
Machi huffs a short, dry laugh, the sound brittle and gone as soon as it hits the air. she is entirely unimpressed by the threat; she has lived among monsters far too long to flinch at a bared tooth.
the rest of the Troupe continues their preparations, but the heavy, charged silence Feitan brought into the room remains, a simmering reminder of the night he’s trying so hard to forget.
the tension in the room is already thick enough to choke on, but there is always someone in the Troupe willing to poke at a fresh wound.
as the silence between Machi and Feitan stretches, the heavy door creaks open. Phinks saunters in, his footsteps heavy and echoing compared to Feitan’s ghost-like tread. he stops short, eyes darting between Machi’s rhythmic sewing and the dark, radiating gloom coming from the corner.
Phinks whistles low, a sound that grates against the quiet.
“ Look at you, ” Phinks says, leaning his weight against the doorframe and crossing his arms. he doesn't have Machi’s clinical detachment; he has a predator’s eye for weakness and a loud mouth to go with it. “ You’re looking a little sluggish, Feitan. What’s the matter? Shadows under your eyes are darker than your coat. ”
Feitan flares— a cold, jagged spike of Nen that makes the air in the room feel thin.
Phinks just grins, undeterred.
“ Don't tell me you’re having trouble sleeping. What, did one of those 'toys' from last week start haunting your dreams? Or are you just afraid of what happens when you close your eyes? ”
the click of Feitan’s umbrella handle is the only warning. the metal guard slides a fraction of an inch, revealing a sliver of polished, lethal steel.
“ You want... permanent sleep? ” Feitan’s voice is a low, guttural rasp, his grip tightening until his knuckles turn white.
Phinks just lets out a boisterous laugh, the sound bouncing off the damp walls.
“ Temper, temper. I’m just saying— if you keep moving that slow, the next mark is going to see you coming from a mile away. Maybe Machi can stitch your eyelids open for you. ”
Machi doesn't even pause her needle, but her voice cuts through Phinks’s laughter like a cold blade.
“ He’s already irritated enough, Phinks. If he burns the building down, you’re the one explaining it to Boss. ”
—
the morning light feels far more welcoming to you than it did to the man who just left the room. despite the scant few hours of sleep, you feel a humming, electric sense of satisfaction— a warm glow that seems to have settled deep in your bones.
you pull on a thick, black turtleneck, the soft fabric a deliberate choice to hide the dark, blooming evidence of Feitan’s lack of restraint. after smoothing down the collar, you step out into the common area, radiating a quiet, sunny energy that feels entirely out of place in the grim hideout.
Feitan is a dark blot in the corner of the room, his aura radiating do not approach, but you can’t help the soft, secret smile that tugs at your lips when your eyes catch the back of his head.
" Good morning, " you chirp, your voice light and clear, cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a bell.
the common area is a mess of half-packed crates and the sharp smell of gun oil. you walk in feeling a strange, humming lightness in your chest— a sharp contrast to the oppressive, leaden silence radiating from Feitan’s corner. you’ve pulled the black fabric of your turtleneck all the way up to your jaw, the material a soft but necessary shield.
Shalnark is leaning against a crumbling concrete pillar, flipping a small butterfly knife open and shut with a rhythmic, metallic clack-clack. he doesn't look up immediately, but as you approach, his hands go still.
he turns his head, his bright, emerald eyes scanning you with the detached precision of a scientist examining a specimen. a slow, thin smile stretches across his face— not quite warm, but definitely knowing.
“ You're making a lot of noise, ” he says calmly. his voice is pleasant, but there’s a cold, analytical edge underneath.
you blink, glancing around the quiet room.
“ I haven't said a word. ”
“ Not with your mouth, ” he counter-purrs, finally turning his full attention to you. he leans back against a crate, crossing his ankles. “ Your energy. It’s... loud. Very bright. It’s actually a bit distracting compared to the black hole sitting in the corner. ”
he flickers a glance toward Feitan, then back to you, his eyes lingering on the high, thick collar of your sweater. his grin widens, becoming something more pointed and mocking.
“ ...Whatever. ”
Phinks is adjusting his tracksuit sleeves with a bored expression, while Machi is standing by the door like a silent, sharp-edged sentinel. Feitan is a shadow among shadows, his umbrella gripped tight, his aura still simmering with a low-frequency irritability that makes the others give him a wide berth.
you’re finishing your own preparations, still feeling that lingering, electric hum of satisfaction despite the early hour.
Phinks glances around the room, his brow furrowing as he does a quick head count.
“ Where’s the short one? ” he grunts, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. “ We’re supposed to be moving in five minutes. ”
Shalnark doesn’t even look up from his phone, but a small, amused huff escapes him. “ Probably still in the back. She’s not exactly a morning person when she’s in the middle of a dream. ”
you realize with a start that Shizuku hasn’t made an appearance yet.
“ Someone go get her, ” Machi says, her voice flat. She flickers a glance toward the hallway, then back to the group. “ Unless we want to leave her behind and explain to Chrollo why we’re short a vacuum. ”
Phinks rolls his shoulders and looks at you, then at Feitan, then back to you. a slow, mischievous glint enters his eyes— the kind of look that spells trouble.
“ Hey, Feitan, ” Phinks calls out, his tone dripping with mock-innocence. “ Since you’re already so awake and energetic, why don’t you go wake her up? Or are you afraid you’ll accidentally take her head off because your nerves are shot? ”
Feitan’s grip on his umbrella tightens until the leather creaks. he doesn't move, his golden eyes fixed on a point on the wall with lethal intensity.
“ Do it yourself, ” Feitan rasps, his voice a jagged shadow of its usual self.
Shalnark lets out a bright, airy laugh, finally pocketing his phone. “ I think he’s worried if he goes back into the sleeping quarters, he might not come back out. It’s a very... high-pressure environment back there this morning. ”
he gives you a pointed, sidelong look, his smile sharp and knowing.
“ Go on, ” Shalnark nudges you playfully.
“ You’re the only one here who doesn't look like they're ready to murder someone. Go see if Shizuku’s actually alive under those blankets. ”
—
the hallway is narrow and damp, the stone walls holding onto the chill of the dying storm. as you pull away from the heavy atmosphere of the main room, the silence back here feels almost surreal. you push open the heavy wooden door to the sleeping quarters, the hinges letting out a soft, rhythmic groan.
Shizuku is nothing more than a static mound under a pile of grey wool blankets. she hasn’t moved an inch despite the noise of the Troupe prepping just a few walls away.
you lean over the cot and give the mound a firm shake. “ Shizuku. Wake up, it’s time to go. ”
there’s a muffled hum from beneath the wool. slowly, the blankets slide down, revealing a mess of short, dark hair and a face that looks entirely untroubled by the concept of time. she blinks, her eyes unfocused, before reaching for her glasses on the floor.
she slides them onto the bridge of her nose and stares at you, her expression as flat and empty as a calm lake.
“ Oh, ” she says, her voice light and airy. “ Is the mission over? ”
“ It hasn't started yet. Everyone is waiting. ”
Shizuku sits up slowly, the blankets pooling around her waist. her gaze drifts upward, fixing on the high, dark fabric of your turtleneck. she tilts her head to the side, her eyes narrowing behind her lenses with a clinical, detached sort of curiosity.
“ You're dressed for winter, ” she observes. her voice is devoid of Shalnark’s mockery or Machi’s sharpness— it’s just a statement of fact. “ But the humidity is 82%. I saw it on the news before I fell asleep. ”
she reaches out a pale hand, her fingers hovering near the edge of your collar.
“ Did you get a throat infection? ” she asks, her tone genuinely puzzled. “ Or did Feitan lose his temper and try to squeeze the life out of you again? You look very... muffled. ”
she blinks once, her head tilting to the opposite side.
you simply give Shizuku a small, noncommittal shrug, refusing to let her blank-faced logic break your stride. while she slowly begins the process of finding her boots and summoning Blinky, you finish pulling your gear together. you double-check the tuck of your turtleneck in a cracked shard of a mirror, ensuring every mark is hidden, and then turn to head back out.
when you and Shizuku finally emerge into the main hall, the atmosphere is pulled tight like a bowstring.
Phinks is leaning against the exit, arms crossed over his chest. he checks his watch and then looks at the two of you, his eyes lingering on you just a second too long with a smirk he doesn't bother to hide. “ Finally. I thought we were going to have to send a search party to drag you out of there. ”
Machi doesn't say a word; she simply pushes off the wall and heads for the door, the silent signal that the grace period is over.
Feitan is already halfway to the exit, his back to the room. he hasn't looked at you once since you walked back in, but the way his shoulders are set, rigid and defensive— speaks volumes. as you pass by him to reach the door, the air around him feels several degrees colder, a sharp, biting frost that smells faintly of the night’s lingering electricity.
Shalnark falls into step beside you, his phone already back in his hand. he doesn't look up as he speaks, his tone breezy and conversational. “ Nice of you to join us. Try to keep up, okay? We wouldn't want you getting... distracted... again. ”
the city streets are a labyrinth of grey concrete and stagnant puddles, reflecting the dull, overcast sky. the Troupe moves with a synchronized silence, weaving through the morning crowds like shadows passing through light.
Feitan is at the head of the formation, a dark, jagged silhouette. he moves with a stiff, agitated grace, his umbrella tapped rhythmically against the pavement with a sharp, metallic clack that sounds like a countdown. he hasn't looked back once.
you, however, feel bold. the lingering warmth of the night hasn't faded, and his visible irritation only makes the urge to poke the bear more irresistible.
you quicken your pace, dodging past Shalnark to pull up alongside Feitan. he doesn't acknowledge you, but the line of his jaw tightens until the bone looks like it might snap.
“ You're walking very fast... ” you murmur, leaning in just enough so your voice doesn't carry to the others. “ Are you trying to run away from your thoughts? ”
Feitan’s pace doesn't falter, but his silver eyes cut sideways, a lethal, amber flash beneath his dark fringe. “ Do not push luck, ” he rasps, his voice still carrying that wrecked, gravelly friction from the night before. “ I am in no mood for games. ”
“ No? ” you let your hand drift toward his, your fingertips grazing the dark fabric of his sleeve for just a fraction of a second—a touch light as a breath but heavy with intent. you lean closer, your voice dropping to a private hum. “ That’s a shame. You seemed very... invested in the games we were playing a few hours ago. You certainly didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave then. ”
the rhythmic clack of his umbrella stops instantly.
he halts in the middle of the sidewalk, the suddenness of it forcing Phinks and Machi to swerve around you both with knowing, annoyed glances. Feitan turns to face you, his presence looming and dangerous. he’s close enough that you can feel the radiating heat from his chest, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, concentrated molten steel.
“ You think you are clever, ” he breathes, his voice a low-frequency vibration that you feel in your teeth. he steps into your space, his hand coming up to grip the handle of his umbrella so hard the leather groans.
he leans down, his face inches from yours, his gaze dropping pointedly to the high, dark collar of your turtleneck before snapping back to your eyes.
“ Be careful, ” he warns, his voice dropping to a whisper that is pure, unadulterated threat. “ Or I give you reason to wear that sweater for a month. ”
the sidewalk becomes a sudden, static bubble in the middle of the city's morning rush. the rest of the Troupe has drifted to a halt a few paces ahead, and the silence is heavy. Phinks has his arms crossed, looking between the two of you with an expression of pained disbelief, while Machi simply stares at a distant rooftop, her patience visibly thinning. Shalnark is the only one watching with blatant, clinical amusement, his head tilted as he waits to see if Feitan actually snaps.
you don't flinch. instead, you meet that molten, murderous glare with a slow, deliberate blink. you reach up, two fingers grazing the edge of your high collar, adjusting the fabric with a languid grace that is pure provocation.
“...I'd love to, ” you breathe, your voice a soft, honeyed challenge that carries just enough weight for him to hear. “ But... I think your... not feeling well right now. Whatever. Maybe when you’ve had a nap. ”
you give him a final, devastatingly casual smile and step around him, falling back into stride with a spring in your step.
the silence behind you is deafening.
Phinks lets out a sharp, incredulous bark of a laugh, shaking his head. “ Man, I've seen people face the Zoldycks with more self-preservation than that. You’re either the bravest person in this city or the most annoying. ”
Shalnark just whistles low, his eyes bright. “ I give it ten minutes before he tries to incinerate the entire block. That was... bold. ”
Feitan remains frozen for a heartbeat longer, his knuckles white as he grips his umbrella. he eventually exhales a sharp, jagged breath and starts walking again, his pace more aggressive than before, his head down as he tries to bury the frustration— and the memory of the night—under a layer of lethal focus.
the morning sun finally begins to tear through the stubborn, bruised clouds, casting long, sharp-edged shadows across the damp pavement. as the group moves deeper into the industrial heart of the city, the playful friction of the morning starts to submerge beneath the cold, professional weight of the mission ahead.
the towering skeletons of unfinished skyscrapers loom over you, and the air turns metallic with the scent of grease and impending rain.
the Troupe settles into their familiar, rhythmic silence. Feitan stays at the very edge of the formation, a dark, vibrating needle on a compass that refuses to point north. every few minutes, his gaze flickers toward you, sharp and unreadable, before he snaps his attention back to the horizon.
the private war between the two of you hasn't ended; it has simply evolved, settling into a simmering, electric truce.
the city is waking up, loud and indifferent, but for the Spiders, the world is still narrow, dangerous, and perfectly contained within the shadows they cast.
by the time you reach the mission objective, the night is a ghost, tucked away into the dark corners where memories go to wait. but as the first sounds of conflict begin to echo in the distance, you catch one last look from Feitan— a promise of a reckoning that will be far less quiet than the morning.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
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( sorry i have no dividers )
I dont upload smut, this was supposed fluff but somehow turned different...
SYNOPSIS: — the moment holiness forgets its own boundaries; a prayer spoken with stained hands, a vow unraveling in the presence of desire.
deeply inspired by the mini series, Hilda Furacao. also inspired by Lana Del Rey's song, Salvatore and Religion. ordered by @2noraaaa!
HUNTER X HUNTER: Priest Chrollo Lucilfer x Prostitute Reader ( Divine Correspondence Soulmate AU )
CONTAINS: sacrilegious themes, salacious, prostitution, sex work, mature & dark themes, moral ambiguity & eternal conflict, religious themes & imagery ( catholic ) , religious hypocrisy, corruption of authority, violation of religious vows, inappropriate relationship involving clergy, slow burn, moral conflict, alcohol use / intoxication, objectification, psychological tension, manipulation, sexual content ( not that explicit ), dubcon, hints of angel & demon, similar to succubus, blasphemy? existential crisis, dissociation, stalking, voyeurism ( implied ), few orginal characters for plot purposes lol
Word Count: 11,281 words and 61,811 characters ( more / less )
MENU
Verse l. Confession
the darkness presses itself gently against the glass— thick, velvety, and endless.
from this height, the world below dissolves into suggestion. lights scatter in quiet constellations, distant and deliberate, like something arranged for display rather than lived in. whatever noise the city carries never reaches this far up. here, it is all stillness. the kind that money buys. the kind that makes everything feel untouchable.
inside, the air is warmer. heavier, too. it lingers against your skin in a way that refuses to leave immediately, like the room itself is reluctant to let go of what just happened. there’s a faint trace of something expensive in it. cologne, maybe, or the ghost of something sweeter—but it’s already fading.
behind you, there’s movement. subtle. controlled. the soft rustle of fabric shifting back into place.
you don’t turn right away. instead, your fingers move first— slow, unhurried, brushing over your clothes as you begin to fix them. a sleeve smoothed down, a strap adjusted with quiet precision. each motion is deliberate, almost careful, as if restoring yourself requires a certain kind of attention. it doesn’t, really. but you take your time anyway, because time here, stretches differently.
there’s a small, metallic sound behind you. the faint slide of a belt threading through loops. you hear it before you see it. measured, steady.
then— click. final. like something being closed, sealed, returned to where it belongs.
he moves toward the side table where his things wait exactly where he left them. a watch, a phone, a wallet placed neatly beside both. he doesn't look at you as he opens it. the leather creases softly in his hand— clean, expensive, untouched by anything inconvenient.
he pulls out the bills, his thumb grazing the edges with a slow, possessive rhythm. there’s an arrogance in the way he handles it, a quiet confidence that everything in this room— including you— has a clear, manageable price.
you tilt your head, watching his reflection in the glass. a small, playful smile tugs at your lips.
“ Careful, ” you murmur, your voice trailing over the silence like a dare. “ you keep counting like that, you might realize you’re losing money. ”
he pauses, his shoulders shifting as he finally turns to face you. his gaze is heavy, lingering on the line of your throat with a blatant, unshaded lust that he doesn't bother to hide. he looks sure of himself, like a man who has never been told no in a language he understood.
“ It’s just paper, ” he says, his voice low and gravelly, thick with the remnants of his own satisfaction. he fan the bills out slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “ and for tonight? I'd say it’s a bargain. ”
you let out a soft, melodic hum, stepping closer just to watch the way his breath hitches— just a fraction.
“ A bargain, ” you repeat, your tone dripping with a light, practiced flirtation. “ is that what i am? a discount? ”
he laughs, a short, sharp sound that holds no real humor, only the weight of his own ego. he reaches out, the money still caught between his fingers, waiting for you to bridge the final gap.
“ You're whatever I want you to be as long as I’m paying, ” he counters, his thumb brushing the top bill. “ and right now, I'd say you're worth every cent. ”
then—
on the nightstand near the bed, your phone begins to vibrate. the screen lights up, cutting through the moody atmosphere of the room.
Amber.
the name flashes against the dark wood, the buzzing sound persistent and demanding, but you don't reach for it yet. instead, your gaze remains fixed on him. you watch the way he handles the money— the slow, possessive slide of his thumb over the edges of the bills as he pulls them from his wallet.
he finally holds the stack out, his fingers lingering on the paper with an arrogance that suggests he believes this is the only part of the night that truly mattered.
finally, you step toward the nightstand and retrieve your phone. the vibration stops just as your fingers brush the glass, leaving the room in a sudden, ringing silence. you don't answer the notification. you just hold the device loosely, meeting his eyes as you bridge the final gap between you.
the exchange is quiet and efficient. your fingers slip between his, taking the stack of bills with a practiced ease that feels as natural as breathing. the contact is brief—just long enough for him to feel the cool silk of your sleeve against his skin— and then it's gone.
you fold the money once, neat and precise, before slipping it away.
he leans back against the table, a self-assured, breathy laugh escaping him as he watches you prepare to leave.
“ Same time next week? ”
“ If you’ve got the money. ”
a short, meaningless goodbye is exchanged— the kind that evaporates the second the door clicks shut behind you. the heavy silence of the hotel hallway swallows the sound of your heels as you finally reach for your phone and hit the call back.
Amber answers on the first ring, her voice a sharp explosion of static and noise.
“ Where the hell are you? ” she demands, the background roar of the club muffled but present. “ I’ve been sitting here like an idiot for twenty minutes. ”
you step toward the elevator,
“ Relax, ” you murmur, pressing the button and watching the gold doors slide open. “ I’m on my way already. ”
—
the doors part and the noise spills over you all at once— bass, laughter, and glass against glass. light cuts through the dark in restless flashes, painting the red silk of your dress in colors that don’t stay long enough to settle. inside, nothing pretends to be quiet and nothing pretends to be clean.
you step in like you belong to it, because you do.
not in the way they think, but in the way the room reacts. eyes follow; some are obvious about it— lingering too long. others are quieter, stolen glances from behind glasses and shadows. you feel the weight of it— the curiosity and the judgment dressed up as interest. your name moves through places like this without needing to be spoken aloud, wrapped in the half-truths of what they think you are.
that girl.
the one who—
you don’t slow down and you don’t acknowledge it. you let their attention slide off you like it never had the chance to land.
the bar glows ahead, lined with bodies and movement folding into itself in a careless rhythm. and then, you see her.
Amber.
she’s exactly where you expected her to be, elbows resting against the counter and her posture loose. a glass is caught between her fingers— salt clinging faintly to the rim. margarita, not her first and definitely not her second.
she spots you almost immediately. her face lights up all at once, like you’re something she’s been waiting on longer than she’ll admit.
“ Finally! ” she calls out over the noise, lifting her glass slightly in your direction. “ I was starting to think you ditched me for something better. ”
you make your way toward her, weaving through the crowd like it parts just enough to let you through.
“ Please, ” you reply, voice slipping easily into something amused, something familiar. “ this is the better option. ”
you gesture lightly to her drink as you reach her side, eyes flicking over it once.
then back to her.
“ How many is that? ”
Amber squints at the glass like it might answer for her.
“ …Irrelevant. ”
you hum softly, unconvinced.
“ Why are you even drinking on Saturday? ”
Amber leans over the bar, her chin propped up by her hand as she stares gloomily into the neon-green depths of her drink as she breathes a sigh of disbelief.
“ I just don’t get it, ” she rants, her voice rising just enough to cut through the heavy bass and the clinking of bottles. “ I’m out here every night. I look good, I’m fun, I’m right here. where is he? where is the person who’s supposed to actually get me? it’s like the universe is just skipping over my floor entirely. ”
she takes a long, aggressive sip through her straw and huffs, a stray lock of blonde hair falling over her eyes.
“ And you, ” she says, pointing a shaky finger at you. “ you don’t even look like you’re searching. How are you so calm about it? don’t you want to know who’s on the other side of the glass? ”
you don't answer immediately. you just watch a bead of condensation trail down your own glass, your mind slipping away from the noise and back to the rule everyone whispers like a prayer or a curse.
your soulmate will be similar to you. it’s a quiet, terrifying absolute.
they say the universe doesn’t pair you with what you want, but with what you are. like calls to like— a mirror held up to the parts of your soul you try to keep in the dark. if you are kind, they are light; if you are cruel, they are the blade. whether it is for good or for bad, you are destined to meet someone who carries the same weight you do.
you think about your life— the red dress, the exchange of cash in high-rise penthouses, the way you’ve learned to navigate the shadows of other people's desires. if the rule is true, then whoever is out there for you isn't a saint or an angel coming to save you. they’re someone who understands the transactional nature of the world just as well as you do, someone who thrives in the silence and the secrets.
it isn't a romantic thought; it’s a revelation that makes your skin crawl.
“ I’m not searching, Amber, ” you finally murmur, the bass thumping in time with the uneasy rhythm of your heart. “ I’m just waiting to see what kind of mirror the universe decides to hold up to me. ”
“ Surely you're curious, right? ” she presses, her voice dropping into that conspiratorial tone she gets when she’s three drinks deep. “ Even just a little bit— ”
you don't let her finish. you lift a hand, catching the bartender’s eye with a practiced ease that cuts through the noise.
“ Tequila, ” you say, your voice smooth and final. “ salt and lime. ”
you don't look at Amber. instead, you pick up the laminated drink menu, flipping through the pages with an intense, mock-seriousness. you scan the list of over-priced cocktails as if the choice between a cosmopolitan and a mojito is the most pressing matter in the world, pointedly ignoring the way she’s staring at the side of your head.
“ Hey, I’m talking to you. ” she huffs, nudging your shoulder.
you just hum, eyes still fixed on the menu.
she rolls her eyes, but her expression shifts, settling into something uncharacteristically earnest. she leans closer, her breath smelling of agave and citrus.
“ Seriously though, ” she says, and the sudden lack of a joke in her voice makes. “ we should go to that church across town tomorrow. The old stone one. ”
you pause, the tequila shot arriving in front of you. you stare at the clear liquid for a second before a dry, sharp laugh escapes your throat.
“ What, to repent for our sins? ”
“ No, ” Amber counters, her eyes wide and dead serious. “ to pray we find our soulmates. You’d love the priest, I heard he's— ”
you shake your head, licking the salt from the back of your hand before tossing the shot back. the burn is immediate and grounding, a sharp line of fire that clears the fog for a split second. you bite into the lime, the sourness making your eyes water.
“ You’ll find it soon, Amber. ” you murmur, setting the glass down with a heavy clink against the bar.
—
the night doesn’t end so much as it unthreads.
one moment, the world is vaguely yours—Amber’s voice nearby, the glass in your hand, and the bass pressing against your ribs like a second heartbeat. then, without ceremony, everything stops being something you can hold onto.
drinks keep finding their way into your hands. you don’t remember deciding to have them; it’s just a quiet accumulation, as if the night has decided your refusal no longer matters. each glass arrives with a different weight and a sweetness that never quite tastes like the last.
you stop counting. at some point, counting feels like something other people do.
the room softens. the edges of everything blur as if dipped in water. faces lose precision and voices stop landing where they should. you’re still standing— you think— but your balance feels borrowed. your body has stopped negotiating with you before it moves.
Amber is a flickering shape of familiarity. you catch fragments of her— a wide gesture, a laugh rising too quickly— but your thoughts refuse to align. they arrive slightly too late, always lagging behind the moment they were meant for. you blink and the world changes angle, you blink again and it changes back.
then, attention shifts.
you feel it before you see it, like heat before a fire. it isn't casual; it’s a heavy, gathering focus. you don’t remember moving, but suddenly you are the center of something that was forming long before you arrived. the air feels denser here, compressed.
voices begin to stack. they aren't conversations anymore, just fragments— numbers and exclamations that sound transactional rather than social.
then, a voice cuts through the static, sharp and hungry.
“ Seven Hundred and Fifty Thousand! ”
it doesn’t feel like it’s about you. it’s just a number floating in an unreal place. there is a heavy, expectant pause. then, an escalation.
“ Eight Hundred Thousand! ”
the room reacts. bodies shift in a collective, ritualistic rhythm. the numbers climb, overlapping and rebuilding higher each time. you don’t understand what they are measuring anymore, only that they are competing.
your vision narrows. you try to ground yourself in your own breath or the feeling of your hands, but they feel out of reach, belonging to a version of you from earlier in the evening. the voices keep climbing until the numbers stop sounding like value and start sounding like distance.
your name might be said, you aren't sure. you don't answer because you don’t recognize what is being asked of you anymore.
the world tilts. you blink slowly, but the room doesn't right itself. there is no panic, just a slow, spreading disconnection— like a system shutting down one layer at a time. something is being taken out of your hands before you even realized you were holding it.
and then— black.
—
morning doesn’t arrive gently; it crashes in.
through thin curtains, through the half-awake silence, through the dull throb behind your eyes that feels like it’s still finishing a night you don’t fully remember.
your phone is the first thing you hear. then the second, then the third.
Amber.
Amber.
Amber.
missed calls are stacked on top of each other like she’s trying to pull you back into something you’re not ready to touch yet.
you blink slowly, once, twice. the world refuses to sharpen. your eyelids feel heavy and your thoughts are lagging, arriving late to a place they never agreed to enter. you reach for the phone anyway.
11:00 a.m.
it stares back at you without judgment. just fact, just consequence.
for a moment, you don’t move. you just lie there, letting awareness return in uneven, dreamy pieces. ceiling first, then sound. then the weight of your own body against unfamiliar bedding. the sheets are tangled in a way that doesn’t feel like sleep— they’re too disrupted, like the night didn’t end so much as it scattered itself across the room and left without cleaning up.
you sit up slowly, and that’s when it becomes real. the room isn't yours, it’s expensive in a way that doesn’t try to prove itself— muted lighting, clean surfaces, furniture placed with intention instead of comfort.
a hotel room.
you look down at yourself, the bathrobe isn't yours either. white, soft, and slightly loosened at the collar, it hangs off you with a quiet, undeniable weight. you don’t ask questions, because some answers are already sitting in your body before your mind catches up.
a breath leaves you. quiet, steadying. it isn't shock; it’s recognition. recognition of gaps. of missing hours, of the kind of night that doesn’t leave explanations—only aftermath.
your gaze drifts across the room and stops.
an envelope.
it’s resting on the bedside table like it belongs there. no drama, no urgency. just placement, finality. you pick it up; it’s heavier than it looks. thick, organized. cash inside— bundled, stacked, too much to feel accidental. thousands folded into neat certainty, the kind of amount that replaces questions with silence. no note, no explanation. just numbers pretending to be closure.
your mind drifts back to the club— to the neon, the bass, and Amber’s voice cutting through the tequila. she was serious, you think, the realization hitting you with a strange, high-dreamy clarity. she was actually serious about the church thing.
“ Fuck... ” you mutter, the word rough against the quiet.
your thumb moves before your thoughts. Amber’s messages are still piling up, a frantic contrast to the stillness of this room.
Amber: where are you??
Amber: don’t tell me you’re still asleep.
Amber: we’re literally going today!!
Amber: the mass starts at 11:30am !!
you glance at the corner of your screen.
11:12 a.m.
for a second, everything else fades— the room, the envelope, the memories you aren't willing to hold in focus. only timing remains. you move faster now, breath sharpening as your fingers type back with zero precision.
im coming wait dnot go inside yt
you don’t fix the typos; you just hit send. you’re already out of bed, gathering yourself in uneven pieces— clothes, hair, breath— whatever you can make functional in under a minute. there is no time to think properly, and no time to look back at the envelope.
the hotel room disappears behind you, left open-ended and unfinished, as if it never needed you to stay a second longer than you already had.
—
your head still doesn’t feel fully yours. it’s like you’re walking slightly behind yourself, watching your body move while your thoughts lag a step too late to correct anything. the world is too bright in places it shouldn’t be, too loud in places it should be quieter.
you’re not fully drunk anymore, but you’re not fully back either.
somewhere in between. half-awake, half-lost, stitched together by urgency and habit and the last scraps of memory you’re still holding onto.
the church is there before you properly register it. stone, height, stillness that feels too clean compared to everything you just came from. people move in and out like they already know where they belong inside it.
and then— Amber.
you don’t see her clearly at first, just movement. arms waving somewhere ahead, too exaggerated, too fast, like she’s trying to pull your attention through layers of fog. her voice reaches you in pieces. your name. again. louder. then something else you don’t fully catch.
then you blink—
you’re already inside the church, sitting.
somewhere in the middle rows where the wood is too polished and the silence feels too intentional, like it’s been trained to behave. the air is colder than it should be, carrying that faint, old scent of stone and incense and something you can’t quite name.
you’re not fully stable in it, not yet. your body is there, yes— feet planted, hands resting somewhere they’re supposed to— but your mind is still lagging behind itself, like it took the wrong turn somewhere earlier and hasn’t caught up.
you don’t remember much; that’s the problem. it comes in fragments instead of continuity. Amber’s voice, flashes of movement, the ride here, the way the city looked too sharp and too slow at the same time, the feeling of being guided rather than deciding. and the alcohol still sitting somewhere behind your eyes, not enough to fully erase you, but enough to make everything feel slightly displaced.
you blink, and the church shifts. not literally, but it feels like it does. the walls seem taller than they were a second ago, or closer. or leaning inward in a way that makes you adjust your posture without thinking.
sounds don’t land properly either. a cough becomes too distant, a whisper feels too long. everything is slightly out of sync with you, like you arrived late to a moment that already started without you. you swallow once, slowly, trying to anchor yourself, trying to make the room behave correctly again just by noticing it harder.
it doesn’t work. it never really does.
and then— something changes.
not in the room, but in your attention. like it’s been pulled, gently but firmly, away from the noise and the distortion. your gaze travels up, past the rows of bowed heads and the flickering candlelight, until it anchors on the figure standing at the altar.
until… you see the priest.
your head is still heavy, the weight of the night pressing behind your eyes, but the blurred edges of the world finally find a place to anchor.
it’s him.
he moves with a quiet, deliberate grace that makes the rest of the room feel clumsy. his hands are steady as they adjust the heavy book on the altar— fingers long, pale, and certain. there is a gravity to him that pulls the light inward, making the stone walls and the flickering candles feel like they were only built to frame him.
you watch him, and for the first time since you woke up in that hotel room, the hazy disconnection starts to peel away.
it isn't a holy feeling. it’s something else—something that feels dangerous in its clarity. you’re still wearing the invisible scent of the penthouse on your skin, the weight of the envelope still sitting in your bag like a secret, and here he is. he looks like a sanctuary and a question all at once.
the thoughts in your head are still tangled, still running too fast for your own good.
he’s a priest? really?
the word feels wrong in your mind when you look at the sharp line of his jaw or the way his hair catches the dim, golden glow of the nave. you feel a sudden, jarring urge to laugh— the kind of laugh that would shatter the silence and get you thrown out. the absurdity of it all hits you: the red silk you were wearing hours ago, the money you haven't counted, and the fact that out of everywhere in this city, Amber dragged you here.
but then he turns.
he hasn't looked at the crowd yet, his focus still seemingly inward, but you feel the shift in the air again. it’s a physical pressure, a silent command that forces you to sit a little straighter in the hard wooden pew.
you’re waiting for him to look up. you’re waiting for the moment he finally scans the rows of faces and finds yours— the one that doesn’t belong, the one still vibrating with the pulse of the club.
you’re waiting to see if the mirror you talked about at the bar is finally going to show itself.
the wooden pew feels solid beneath you, a grounding contrast to the way your mind continues to fray at the edges. you are here, but you are also still partially back in that hotel room, partially lost in the blurring lights of the night before, and the collision of it all makes the air in the nave feel thick— heavy with the scent of beeswax and the weight of a thousand unspoken pleas.
then, he speaks.
his voice isn't a command, yet it pulls at the silence until the silence belongs to him. it’s a smooth, resonant sound, like velvet drawn over stone, vibrating in the hollow of your chest.
as he moves toward the altar, your gaze follows— not with the casual curiosity of a visitor, but with the fixated, unblinking intensity of someone who has just found the only steady point in a spinning room.
the world is still slightly tilted, the edges of the stained glass bleeding colors into the gray stone, but he remains in high definition.
he turns. it’s subtle, a natural part of the liturgy, but his eyes sweep across the congregation with a calm that feels terrifyingly absolute. when they reach your row, they don't slide past.
they stop.
the contact isn't a brush; it’s a collision.
seconds stretch, warping under the weight of his stare. it is a long, quiet look— longer than is polite, longer than is holy. you feel the heat of the morning sun through the high windows, the throb in your temples, and the sudden, sharp awareness of the bathrobe still hidden beneath your hastily thrown-on clothes.
he doesn't look away.
there is something in his expression. not judgment, but a profound, quiet observation, as if he can see the invisible ink of the night before written across your skin. your mind whispers, the rule of soulmates echoing through the haze of the alcohol.
Similar to you. Not in habits, but in the parts you show, and the parts you don’t.
the silence between you is a tether, pulling tighter and tighter until the air feels like it might snap.
a sharp nudge at your ribs breaks the spell.
“ Told you, ” Amber’s voice hissed beside you, a jagged contrast to the sacred quiet.
she’s leaning in, her breath still faintly smelling of last night’s citrus and desperation, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. “ Told you you’d love him. I think half the parish is only here to see if he’s actually real. ”
you don't look at her. you can't. your eyes are still anchored to the front, watching the way his hands— pale, steady, elegant—rest upon the altar.
“ Who is he? ” you ask. your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, stripped of its usual armor, reduced to a low, rough thread of sound.
Amber hums, a small, satisfied noise as she settles back, though her eyes remain on the figure at the front.
“ Father Chrollo, ” she whispers, the name sliding out like a secret. “ Chrollo Lucilfer. Can you believe it? Same age as us, too. it’s a total waste, right? ”
she pauses, her tone shifting into something more thoughtful, more puzzled.
“ Everyone wonders why he did it. Why someone like him would choose to shut himself away in a place like this. He’s got that look, hasn't he? Like he knows something the rest of us don’t. Or like he’s hiding something even God hasn't found yet. ”
you watch Father Chrollo as he bows his head, the dark cross on his forehead a stark mark against his skin. he is composed, a masterpiece of restraint and shadow.
Chrollo.
the name settles in your mind, heavy and permanent. you think of the envelope in your bag, the money you didn’t count, and the efficiency you praised just hours ago. you think of the way he looked at you, as if neatness could undo what’s already been done— and suddenly, the church doesn't feel like a sanctuary anymore.
it feels like a mirror.
beside you, Amber is already drifting, her attention caught by someone else, her mind moving on to the next distraction. but you remain locked in the stillness, watching the priest who looks like a sin and breathes like a prayer, wondering if the universe is finally done being quiet.
because if like calls to like... then what exactly did he see when he looked at you?
—
the weeks bleed into a singular, sharp routine.
you trade the velvet of the night for the hard oak of the front row. the transition isn't loud; it’s a quiet, rhythmic shedding of skin. you stop answering the late-night pings from numbers that only know you by a price tag. you start leaving the club before the sun even thinks about coming up, just so your eyes aren't bloodshot when you catch the first light hitting the cathedral’s spire.
from the front, the view is different. you aren't just watching a priest; you’re watching the way his hands never shake when he lifts the chalice, the way his shadow stretches long and demanding across the altar. you’re close enough now to see the slight rise and fall of his chest, the minute shift in his expression when he reads from the heavy, gold-edged book.
and he sees you.
he doesn't have to say a word for the air between the pulpit and the pew to feel charged. every time he turns, every time he raises his gaze to address the room, his eyes find that specific spot in the front row. it’s a silent tally, he’s counting your arrivals. he’s noting the way your posture has straightened, the way the expensive, reckless edge of your clothes has softened into something more deliberate.
you’re a fixture now. a piece of the architecture he has to acknowledge every time he breathes.
the invitations to the efficiency of the city still come, buzzing in your bag, but they feel like echoes from a different life. you don't look at the screen, you just look at him, sitting there in the heavy silence of the incense, waiting for a sign that the recognition in his eyes is more than just a trick of the light.
you’re playing a different kind of game now. one where the currency isn't folded in an envelope, and the stakes haven't been named yet.
behind you, the church is full of people praying for forgiveness. but up here, in the front row, you’re just waiting to see who blinks first.
—
the bass in the club is a physical weight, thumping against your skull in a way that feels increasingly abrasive compared to the hollow, cool silence of the nave. you’re holding a drink. something bright, something sharp— but you haven't touched it in twenty minutes.
Amber leans in, her shoulder bumping yours with a playful, jagged force. she’s three drinks ahead and looking at you with a mixture of amusement and genuine exasperation.
“ You're doing it again, ” she shouts over the music, gesturing to your far-off expression. “ Mm... that sacred look. It doesn't suit you, it really doesn't. ”
You blink, pulling yourself back to the neon and the sweat. “ I'm just tired, Amber. ”
“ Tired of what? The nightlife? Or tired of waiting for a miracle? ” she snorts, sliding her glass along the sticky condensation of the bar. “ I told you he was hot, not that he was a lifestyle change. You're becoming a regular saint, and it's making me look like the local demon by comparison. ”
she laughs, but there’s a flicker of something real in her eyes— a small, growing annoyance at the space that has opened up between your routines.
“ Look at us, ” she continues, waving a hand between your modest posture and her own loose, low-cut dress. “ It’s like an altar boy took a wrong turn into a den of iniquity. We used to be a matched set. Now? I’m worried you’re going to start confessing my sins along with yours. ”
she leans closer, her voice dropping beneath the frequency of the music, sharp and teasing.
“ Is he really worth the boredom? Because the ' angel ' act is fine for an hour on Sundays, but out here? ”
you look at the liquid in your glass, the neon lights reflecting on the surface like fractured stained glass. for a second, the club feels like a stage set— loud, bright, and fundamentally temporary.
“️ I'm not an angel, Amber, ” you murmur, finally taking a sip. it tastes like ash.
“️ Good, ” she says, her grin returning, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
“ your priest? He’s not going to save you from being bored on a Saturday night. ”
the cold realization hits like a physical weight, settling deep in your gut where the logic of the rule finally starts to sharpen. if he is the reflection, then the mirror is distorted. he stands at the altar, hands clean and steady, offering salvation to the broken, while you spend your nights in the dark, offering yourself up to the same hunger he’s trying to cure. he is the light that promises to fix them; you are the darkness that confirms they are beyond saving. two sides of the same transactional coin— one taking their sins, the other taking their money.
the thought is too loud. it’s too heavy for a saturday night.
you reach for the tray, and before Amber can even finish her sentence, you’ve downed three margaritas in a row. the salt stings, the lime burns, and the tequila starts to blur the edges of the room back into that familiar, messy static.
Amber’s eyes go wide, her glass pausing halfway to her mouth as she stares at you in genuine shock.
“ Geez, ” she says, her voice cutting through the bass with a jagged, high-pitched laugh. “ I was trying to help you snap out of it, not turn you into a divorced wife whose hot priest husband just left her for the church. ”
she shakes her head, leaning closer to check your pupils in the flickering strobe light.
“ I meant have fun, not drown yourself because the guy in the robes isn't coming home to tuck you in. Drink water, for god's sake. You look like you’re mourning a life you haven't even lost yet. ”
you don't answer. you just wave for another round, the neon reflecting in your eyes like small, fractured fires. the angel is gone, dissolved in agave and spite. out here, in the noise, you’re back to being exactly what the city paid for.
but even as the fourth glass touches your lips, you can’t help but wonder if he’s still awake in that quiet, stone room, praying for the exact kind of person you’ve just decided to become again.
—
the world no longer became solid. it’s a smear of neon and static, a sequence of strobe-lit heartbeats that pulse behind your eyes like a warning. the bass isn't a sound anymore; it’s a thick, warm liquid filling your lungs, dragging you under until the air tastes like sugar and sweat.
you’re moving, but the floor feels like it’s made of water.
one moment, you’re alone in the noise, and the next, there is a weight against you. heat, a body that smells like expensive cigarettes and cold intent. he’s handsome in a way that feels jagged, all sharp jawlines and eyes that don’t look at you so much as they look through you, calculating the worth of the skin he’s touching. you should care, you should feel the predatory tilt of his smile, but your mind is drifting, floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching yourself sway in his arms.
he’s too close, impossibly close. the distance between your breath and his is a thin, trembling line that’s already beginning to dissolve.
through the haze, you see Amber.
she’s a ghost in the crowd, a flickering shape of panic. she’s calling your name, her mouth moving in slow, exaggerated arcs, but the sound never reaches you. she’s trying to push through the bodies, but the air around her looks heavy, like she’s swimming through honey, reaching out a hand that stays perpetually inches away from your shoulder. she’s a memory trying to happen, but the present is too loud.
you feel dizzy. the room spins, the colors bleeding into a single, blinding white.
you blink.
suddenly, the face inches from yours isn't jagged anymore. the predatory smile softens into something profound, something holy. the dark, loose hair. the calm, terrifying absolute of those eyes.
it’s the priest, Chrollo.
the strobe lights turn into the flickering glow of prayer candles. the smell of sweat becomes the heady, thick scent of incense. his hand on your waist feels like a blessing and a sin all at once, his thumb tracing the line of your hip with a devastating, quiet precision. he’s leaning in, his gaze anchored to yours, pulling you into a space where the church and the club are the same thing— a place for devotion, a place for ruin.
your heart stutters, a frantic, euphoric mess in your chest. you’re so close now. the tip of his nose brushes yours, a ghost of a touch that sends a jolt of electricity through the tequila-soaked fog. you want it. you want the collision. you want to find out if he tastes like wine or like shadows.
his lips part, just a fraction.
snap.
the vision breaks. the incense vanishes, replaced by the sour sting of the club. Chrollo’s face shatters like glass, and the hot guy’s mouth is there instead— wet, expectant, wrong.
the euphoria turns into a cold, sharp spike of adrenaline.
you shove him. it’s not a graceful move; it’s a panicked, clumsy flail that sends you stumbling backward into the crowd. your lungs finally find air, and it burns.
you run, you don’t look for Amber. you just push through the wall of bodies, your heels clicking unevenly against the floor as the dizziness tries to pull you back down. the exit sign is a red blur, a beckoning wound in the dark.
you hit the street and the cold air slaps you across the face, but you don't stop. you run until your breath is a ragged sob, until the moon is behind you and the silence of the city starts to settle. your head is spinning, a high-speed reel of priest’s eyes and the clink of money and the weight of that white bathrobe.
you’re still high, still drifting, but the mirror is back. and for the first time, you’re terrified of what’s waiting for you in the front row tomorrow morning.
—
the church doors are heavy, too heavy, but you shove through them with a desperation that doesn’t care about being quiet. inside, the air is a cold, sharp slap to your lungs, smelling of centuries of stone and the lingering, sweet rot of incense.
you don’t look at the altar, you can’t.
your feet move on their own, stumbling slightly on the polished floor as you head for the shadows of the side aisle. the confessional booth stands there like a dark, wooden ribcage, waiting to swallow the things people are too ashamed to say in the light.
you slip inside. the door clicks shut, and the world vanishes.
it’s small. cramped. the darkness is thick, pressing against your skin like the bathrobe from the hotel, like the red silk from the club. you sink onto the bench, your knees hitting the wood with a dull thud. the alcohol is still a warm, chaotic hum in your blood, making the tiny space feel like it’s swaying on the surface of the ocean.
your heart is a frantic bird trapped in your ribs. then, the small wooden slide moves.
the screen is there— a mesh barrier that hides his face but lets the heat of his presence bleed through. you can’t see him, but you know. the air in the booth changes instantly. it becomes still, it becomes focused.
you don’t wait for the greeting. you don’t wait for the prayer.
“ I saw a ghost tonight, ” you whisper.
your voice is a jagged thread, raw from the club’s smoke and the tequila’s burn. you lean your forehead against the screen, the cool metal biting into your skin.
“ I was in the dark. I was… working. and there was someone there. a man. he was touching me, and the lights were flashing, and suddenly… it wasn’t him. ” you swallow hard, the taste of salt and lime still ghosting on your tongue.
“ I saw a face that didn’t belong there. I saw someone holy in a place that’s built for ruin. It felt like a hallucination, but it was clearer than anything else in the room. It felt like… like he was watching me. ”
the silence on the other side of the screen is absolute. it isn’t the empty silence of a room; it’s the heavy, weighted silence of someone who is listening with their entire soul. you can hear the faint, rhythmic sound of his breathing— steady, controlled, a perfect mirror to your own frantic gasps.
“ I’m not supposed to see things like that, ” you breathe, your eyes stinging in the dark. “ I’m supposed to be the one who doesn’t blink. I’m the one people pay so they don’t have to feel guilty. But tonight… The ghost wouldn’t let me go. He looked at me like he knew exactly what I was. Like we were the same. ”
you stop. the words are out, hanging in the narrow space between you. the alcohol makes you bold, makes you reach out a hand to touch the mesh of the screen, your fingertips inches away from where his shadow sits.
“ Forgive me, ” you murmur, the words sounding more like a challenge than a plea. “ for seeing things that aren't there. Or for finally seeing the one thing that is. ”
a long moment passes. the silence stretches until it feels like the wood of the booth might crack under the pressure.
and then, a voice— low, resonant, and so familiar it makes your blood turn to ice—drifts through the screen.
“ The things we see in the dark are rarely ghosts, ” he says, the words slow and deliberate. “ They are usually just the parts of ourselves we haven't found a place for yet. ”
the screen doesn't slide back. the silence returns, but it’s different now. it’s a confirmation.
the slide doesn’t close.
that’s the first thing your alcohol-thinned blood registers— the sound of the wooden panel staying open, leaving that small, mesh-covered window into his world gaping wide.
his voice is still humming in the air, a low frequency that makes your skin prickle under your clothes. the parts of ourselves we haven't found a place for yet. it’s too quiet. it’s too honest.
a sudden, violent wave of nausea hits you, but it isn’t the tequila— it’s the weight of being seen. you’ve spent your life being a shadow, a transaction, a surface for other people to project their needs onto. but through that screen, he didn’t look at the surface.
you stand up so fast your knees knock against the wooden bench. the sound is like a gunshot in the silent church.
“ I have to go, ” you choke out, though you aren't sure if you say it out loud or if it just echoes in your skull.
you fumble for the handle of the narrow door, your fingers slick with a cold sweat.
you burst out of the booth like you’re escaping a fire, your heels skidding on the stone floor. for a split second, you catch a glimpse of the priest’s side of the confessional— a sliver of shadow, the edge of a white sleeve— and you bolt.
you don’t look back. you run past the rows of pews, past the flickering vigil lights that look like judgmental eyes, and heave your weight against the massive oak entrance.
the dawn air hits you— sharp, freezing, and honest. it cuts through the tequila fog, making your lungs ache, but you don't stop running until you're a full block away. you stop, gasping, your heart a frantic bird trapped in your ribcage.
you reach for your bag, your fingers shaking as you dig for your phone, your keys— anything to prove you’re back in the real world. your hand brushes the side pocket, the unzipped one.
keys, phone, envelope.
but something is missing.
your thumb drags along the lining, searching for the smooth, heavy weight of the cylinder that’s always there. your red lipstick in the shade divine wine. your signature, your armor, your effeciency in the city.
you freeze, the world spinning in a slow, sickening circle. the realization hits you with the force of a physical blow, leaving you breathless.
you didn't just leave your sins in that booth, you left your trace.
on the cold, wooden bench of that confessional, in the dust and the shadows of a holy place, sits a bold, red lipstick. a smear of vanity. a piece of the night that isn't supposed to exist in the daylight.
you stare back at the church’s massive stone arches, distant and judgmental against the dawn. inside, he’s going to slide that wooden screen back. he’s going to step out into the aisle. and his pale, steady hands— the ones that handle the gold chalice— are going to pick it up.
he’s going to look at it. he’s going to know the shape of your mouth without ever having seen your face.
and suddenly, the church doesn't feel like a sanctuary. it feels like a cage, and you just locked the key inside.
—
the silence that follows the slamming of the heavy oak doors is different than the silence before you arrived. it’s bruised, it’s vibrating with the ghost of your frantic breathing and the sharp, chemical scent of your panic.
Chrollo remains still behind the screen for a long moment. he doesn't move to close the slide, he doesn't offer a final blessing to the empty air. he simply sits in the dark, his hands folded in his lap, listening to the way the church seems to exhume the remnants of your confession.
a face that didn’t belong there.
he knows he should feel the weight of his collar, the gravity of the vows that sit like lead in his bones. but instead, he feels a pull— a tether tightening in the center of his chest. he had seen you every sunday, a splash of expensive, restless color in the front row. he had counted your breaths from the pulpit. and now, you had come to him in the dark, smelling of rain and agave and something far more honest than prayer.
he stands slowly, his white robes whispering against the wood. he steps out of his side of the booth, the dim morning light filtering through the high windows and catching the dust motes dancing in the aisle.
he moves to your door. it’s still slightly opened, a silent invitation to the chaos you left behind. Chrollo reaches out, his fingers brushing the polished wood before he pushes it open.
the booth is small, cramped, and still warm from her presence. he looks down at the bench where you sat, where you trembled, where you spilled the secrets you thought were yours alone.
there, resting in the corner against the dark velvet cushion, is the trace. it’s a small, weighted cylinder of gold and black. it looks violent against the somber tones of the confessional— a jagged piece of the world outside, brought into the silence.
Chrollo leans down, his pale fingers closing around it. it’s cold, but as he brings it into the light, he sees the smear of red along the cap. a bold, defiant crimson. the color of a wound, or a promise.
he doesn't put it in the lost and found. he doesn't leave it for the sexton to find during the morning rounds.
instead, he unscrews the cap with a slow, rhythmic precision. the wax is pristine, carved into a sharp, elegant point. he brings it closer to his face, catching the faint, artificial scent of vanilla and roses—the smell of the armor you wear when you navigate the dark.
he thinks of the way you looked at him through the screen, your voice stripped of its defense. he thinks of the ghost you saw in the club.
Chrollo traces the edge of the gold casing with his thumb, his expression unreadable, settled in that calm, terrifying absolute. he knows you will come back. not for the money she likely hasn't missed yet, and not for the salvation he’s supposed to offer.
you’ll come back for the part of yourself you left in his hands.
he slides the lipstick into the deep pocket of his cassock, the weight of it settling against his hip. as he turns toward the altar to begin the morning mass, his fingers remain curled around the cool metal.
the mirror has finally been held up. and he isn't planning on letting it go.
—
it’s a jarring kind of quiet when you finally step out of your apartment.
usually, there is a ritual to your armor. the deliberate click of the lipstick tube, the way the pigment coats your mouth in a sharp, defensive line of red— it’s the final seal on the version of you that the city is allowed to see. but this morning, the ritual is broken. your vanity is a graveyard of things that feel like lies now.
you left the apartment feeling half-finished.
the plain, charcoal dress hangs on your frame with a sobriety that feels heavy. it hits just above the knee, modest and unremarkable, a far cry from the silk and shadows of your usual nights. you didn't even use a brush to tame your hair into its usual sleek precision; you just tied it back, leaving your face completely open.
walking to the church, you feel a phantom itch on your lips.
every person you pass on the sidewalk feels like a threat. you’re convinced they can see the missing color, that they’re noticing the paleness of your skin and the dark circles under your eyes that no concealer is hiding today. you feel small, you feel like a ghost that accidentally wandered into the daylight.
it’s just a face, you tell yourself, your heart thumping a jagged rhythm against your ribs. people walk around with bare faces every day. it doesn't mean anything.
but you know it means everything. it means you’re coming to him without a price tag, it means you’re coming to him as the person who stumbled into that booth and begged a stranger for a reason to stop seeing ghosts.
by the time you reach the heavy oak doors of the cathedral, you’re lightheaded. the cold air stings your unpainted skin. you want to turn around. you want to run back to the vanity and paint the red back on until you feel powerful again.
but then you think of the gold cylinder sitting in his pocket, he already knows what’s under the paint.
you take a breath, feeling the raw, stinging clarity of the morning, and you push the door open. you aren't the efficiency of the city today. you’re just a woman in a plain dress, walking toward the front row to see if the mirror is going to break you or save you.
—
the church is a cavern of cold stone and suffocating expectation.
the air is thick, weighted with the scent of beeswax and the collective breath of hundreds of people looking for a way to be better than they are. you sit in the front row, your hands tucked into your lap to hide the way they’re shaking. you feel the absence of the red on your lips like a physical wound— exposed, pale, and raw. you are a blank canvas in a room full of icons.
the rustle of the congregation settles into a heavy, expectant hush as he ascends the steps.
Chrollo moves with a terrifying kind of grace. his white robes follow him like a shadow that has finally decided to take shape. he reaches the pulpit, his hands resting on the carved wood. he doesn't look at the scriptures, he doesn't look at the rafters.
he looks at you.
“ We are a people of masks, ” he begins.
his voice is a low, resonant frequency that pulls at the very center of your chest. it isn't a shout; it’s a secret shared with a thousand people, yet meant for only one.
“ We spend our days polishing the surfaces we show to the world. We paint ourselves in colors that signal our worth, our beauty, our efficiency. We build these altars of vanity so that no one sees the ruins behind them. We use our appearance as a shield, a way to move through the world without ever truly being touched. ”
he leans forward slightly, the light from the high windows catching the calm, absolute darkness of his eyes.
“ But what happens when the mask is lost? ”
the question hangs in the air, cold and demanding. you feel the blood rush to your face, your bare lips tingling as if his gaze is physically brushing against them.
“ What happens when we are forced to stand in the light without our armor? When the traces of our night— the traces of our true selves— are left behind in the dark for someone else to find? ”
he pauses, his hand sliding down to the pocket of his cassock. you see the slight, weighted movement of the fabric. you know exactly what his fingers are touching. the gold. the black. the red.
“ Most would flee, ” he says, his voice dropping to a whisper that carries to the back of the cathedral. “ Most would run from the recognition. They would rather be lost in their lies than found in their truth. They fear the mirror because they fear that the person looking back isn't an angel, but a ghost seeking a place to rest. ”
he holds your gaze, his expression unreadable, a masterpiece of sacred restraint.
“ But there is a strange kind of freedom in being unmasked. When you have nothing left to hide behind, you are finally capable of being known. And once you are known... You can finally be claimed. ”
he breaks the contact then, turning his head to bless the rest of the room as if the last two minutes hadn't been a surgical strike on your soul.
“ In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. ”
the congregation murmurs the response, a dull roar of habit, but you remain silent. you are anchored to the wood of the pew, your heart hammering against your ribs. he didn't just give a sermon. he just told you that he has your mask, he has your secret, and he isn't going to let you hide anymore.
the mass continues, but for you, the world has narrowed down to the weight in his pocket and the terrifying clarity of his eyes.
—
the organ music fades into a low, ghostly hum, and the heavy thud of the oak doors signals the departure of the last parishioner. the cathedral is suddenly cavernous, filled only with the scent of cold stone and the dying light of the afternoon sun.
you don’t move. you’re anchored to the front pew, your fingers digging into the worn wood. you feel small in your plain dress, your face feeling strangely cold and naked without your usual mask of makeup.
then, you hear it. the slow, rhythmic click of shoes against the marble.
Chrollo descends the altar steps. he’s stripped away the heavy gold vestments, standing now in a simple white cassock that makes him look like a shadow that has finally decided to take a human form.
he doesn't go to the sacristy, he walks straight toward you.
the air between you charges with a terrifying, electric stillness. as he stops a few feet away, you feel the heat radiating from him, a sharp contrast to the chill of the church.
he reaches into his pocket. his hand emerges, and between his long, steady fingers sits the gold and black cylinder of your lipstick. he holds it out, the light catching the tiny smear of crimson on the cap— a stain of your sin in his holy hands.
“ I believe this belongs to you, ” he says.
his voice is lower than it was during the sermon, stripped of its public authority and replaced with a dark, intimate resonance.
you’re frozen, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. a priest, this priest, standing inches away, returning a piece of your night-life. the shock is a cold rush, but beneath it, a spark of jagged excitement catches fire.
“ I... yes. Thank you, ” you breathe, your voice sounding small in the vastness of the hall.
you reach out to take it, but he doesn't let go immediately. he holds it for a second longer than necessary, forcing your fingers to brush against his cool skin. his eyes— dark, bottomless, and entirely too observant— trace the lines of your face. he lingers on your mouth, noting the pale, unpainted curve of your lips.
a small, unreadable smile touches the corner of his mouth.
“ You should leave it off more often, ” he murmurs, his gaze locking onto yours with a weight that feels like a physical touch. “ There is something... refreshingly natural about you today. Most people spend their lives trying to hide what is beautiful because they are afraid it is actually broken. ”
the compliment is a blade wrapped in silk. he’s talking about your face, but you can feel the double meaning vibrating in the air. he’s talking about the ghost you confessed, he’s talking about the fact that he saw through your armor the moment you stepped into that booth.
he finally lets go of the lipstick, his hand returning to his side, but the tether he’s wrapped around you doesn't slacken.
“ The light suits you, ” he adds, his voice dropping an octave. “ It’s much harder to lie when the sun is up, isn't it? ”
the echoes of the departing crowd have finally bled into the stone, leaving a silence so heavy it feels like it’s pressing the air out of your lungs.
Chrollo doesn't move. he stays standing in the center of the aisle, the white of his gown a stark, blinding contrast to the dark, polished wood of the pews. he looks like a monument of purity, yet the way he watches you— silent, patient, and entirely too still— feels like a trap closing in.
you’re still standing by your seat, your fingers white-knuckled around the lipstick. the oh god realization is screaming in your head now, you are alone in a locked church with a man who just dismantled your entire identity from a pulpit. you look at your plain dress, your bare hands, your unpainted lips, and you feel like an intruder.
he doesn't speak for a long time. he just lets the quiet do the work, watching the way your chest heaves with every shallow breath. he is studying the natural version of you, the one that doesn't have the red armor to hide behind.
“ It is much quieter now. ” his voice is a low hum that seems to travel through the floorboards rather than the air.
“ The church has a way of holding onto the truth once the noise stops. Do you feel it? ”
he takes a single step closer, he isn't rushing. he’s moving with the deliberate grace of someone who knows you have nowhere else to go. the white of his sleeve brushes against the edge of a pew, a soft, sliding sound that feels like a thunderclap in the stillness.
“ I think... I should leave. ”
you whisper, the words catching in your throat. you take a half-step back, your heel clicking sharply against the marble.
Chrollo tilts his head, a small, unreadable shadow of a smile touching his face.
“ And yet, your feet haven't moved toward the door. ” he stops, still a respectful distance away, but the space between you feels electrified.
“ Tell me. ”
“ Are you waiting for me to give you a penance? or are you waiting for me to tell you that the ghost you saw in the dark... was never really a ghost at all? ”
the shift in his voice is what finally breaks the spell.
it isn't the practiced, melodic resonance he uses to comfort the grieving or the rhythmic lilt of the liturgy. it’s a dry, sharp, and dangerously grounded sound. it’s the voice of a man who has seen exactly what you have seen, stripped of the divine and left only with the cold reality of the flesh.
you flinch, the sound of your own heart is like a drum in the cavernous silence of the nave. the weight of your unpainted face and the plainness of your dress suddenly feel like an admission of guilt you weren't ready to make.
“ ...Sorry father. ”
the words tumble out, breathless and jagged. you take a clumsy step back, your hand instinctively flying to your mouth as if to shield the pale lips he was just studying. you look everywhere but at him—the altar, the flickering candles, the dust motes—anywhere but the blinding white of his gown.
Chrollo doesn't move to follow you. instead, he lets out a breath that might have been a laugh in another life. a small, genuine smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, softening the predatory edge of his features just enough to be disarming.
“ No need to apologize. ” he murmurs, his voice returning to that low, intimate hum.
“ I should be the one to thank you. Most people come here to be told what they want to hear. It is rare that someone is honest enough to force me to be direct. ”
he tilts his head, his dark eyes shimmering with a quiet, terrifying sort of amusement.
“ You have a gift for stripping away the theater, don't you? It’s a very... persuasive quality. ”
the air in the nave feels static, humming with the weight of the things he isn't saying. you shift your weight, the fabric of your plain dress rustling against your legs, and the sound feels loud, clumsy, and entirely too human.
it’s awkward— this lingering silence between a priest in white and a woman who feels like she’s standing in the middle of a spotlight with no clothes on.
you don't know how to look at him, so you just nod, a quick, jerky motion that sends a stray lock of hair over your shoulder.
“ ...I have to go, Father. ”
you mutter, finally finding the strength to break the invisible tether holding you to the floor. you don't wait for him to step aside; you just start moving toward the back of the church, your shoes clicking a frantic rhythm against the marble.
Chrollo doesn't follow. he simply turns his head slightly, watching your retreat with that same calm, terrifyingly patient expression. his hands disappear into the wide, snowy sleeves of his gown, his posture settling into something almost peaceful.
“ Take care of yourself. ” he calls out, his voice soft enough that it barely reaches you, yet clear enough to make you pause for a heartbeat near the heavy oak doors.
“ I’ll see you next week. ”
the promise— or the threat— hangs in the air long after you’ve pushed through the doors and escaped into the noise of the city. you don't look back to see if he's still watching, but you can still feel the weight of his gaze, a cold, white shadow that follows you all the way home.
—
the apartment is a graveyard of the person you used to be. you stand in front of the bathroom mirror, the harsh overhead light spilling across your shoulders and reflecting off the plain, charcoal fabric of your dress. the silence is absolute, yet it feels like it’s screaming.
you look at the woman in the glass. her skin is pale, her eyes are tired, and her lips are a soft, naturally pale pink— the way they looked when he was standing inches away from you, his white gown reflecting the ghost of a light you didn’t think you deserved.
You should put it on.
the thought is a reflex, a desperate reach for a safety blanket that has already been burned. your fingers brush against the gold cylinder of the lipstick on the marble counter. it’s cold. it’s heavy. it’s the final piece of the armor you’ve worn for years to survive the city, the efficiency, the people who only love the paint.
you uncap the tube. the scent of it— waxy, expensive, and artificial— fills your nose. you raise it to your mouth, the crimson pigment hovering just millimeters away from your skin.
Why are your hands shaking?
you stare at your own reflection, but you don't see yourself. you see the way his dark eyes traced the curve of your mouth as if he were reading a poem written in a language only he understood.
the memory of his voice isn't a comfort; it’s a sentence. you look at your bare lips in the mirror and you don't see nothing anymore. you see the person he claimed. you see the raw, exposed truth he pulled out of you without even trying.
you try to press the color to your lip, but your hand stops. the red looks garish now. it looks like a wound. it looks like a desperate, bloody scream for attention that you no longer have the energy to give.
you set the lipstick down. it rolls slightly, the gold catching the light before settling into a still, heavy silence. you look back at the mirror— at the tired eyes and the unpainted mouth— and you feel a terrifying sense of vertigo.
the mask is broken. and the worst part is, you don't even want to fix it.
your eyes drop to the lipstick one last time. you notice a small, dark smudge on the very top of the gold cap— something you hadn't seen in the dim light of the church.
it’s a fingerprint. a single, perfect smudge of charcoal or ash, right where he held it. he didn't just find it in a pew. he had to have been holding it for a long time, watching you, waiting for the moment to hand it back.
you realize then that the doors of the church weren't locked to keep people out. they were locked to keep you in. and as you look at the fingerprint, you realize it isn't a mark of return— it’s a mark of ownership.
and,
I'll see you next week.
don't sound like a goodbye anymore. they sound like a countdown.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
art is from @thief0, used with permission. don't use w/o permission and obviously don't steal. check out their works ! everything is a masterpiece ^^
UGHHH I love the concept of Chrollo as a priest😩😩 seeing this masterpiece made me feel... well feelings I could not find proper words to say. ( skipped 2 nights of sleep for this ) this art is such a masterpiece, seriously! this is how I'd imagine Chrollo to be, and the lighting and details? oh... don't get me started.
yeah I made reader go crazy after 2 interactions with Chrollo, I mean I'd feel the same. You probably would too... I lowkey got carried away with my feelings, its starting to sound like Chrollo x Author.. I hope none of you noticed...
if I saw Chrollo as a priest, I might start a lifestyle change aswell. 👅
BUT DON'T WORRY. we are far from over with this Priest Chrollo madness. this is just the beggining, and expect more plots and happenings ;) I'll try to stretch this out as long as I can if anyone would like.
also sorry if there are mistakes regarding the details of church, I go to church but like a regular person, I don't know all the details and names of stuffs.
i can do character x character too ig ( not self insert ) and not x someone. just pure original characters from that anime, doing whatever
i'm open to dark themes & taboo topics as long as it does not get me banned. but, i wont write incest, rape, pedophile behaviour, kinks & fetishes, stepcest, pregnancy, family, and more similar to that.
minors may not interact from some content, and is prohibited from reading. all of my posts have content / trigger warnings, it is not my fault if any minors have come up to my posts. no one is forcing you to read, and if you did, that's entirely on yourself.
read content / trigger warnings before reading.
i include proper content / trigger warnings when needed. if you see something you don't like in the content / trigger warnings, i recommend not to read anymore. i only write for myself, and i do orders from time time. if you don't like my writings, then simply don't read it.
i don't usually write for lgbtq+, not because i'm homophobic, but for other personal reasons. there are few exceptions for this, depending on the character and fandom.
will I write smut / sexual scenes? I do sometimes but not explicit & not well detailed. it either gets cut off, or is explained metaphorically. I do plan on having Ko-fi, where you can do a special order ( smut ).
do I accept all orders? for now, yes I do. if i don't like it, i mostly communicate with the one who ordered, and find a way to do / alter it. don't worry, i'm friendly ! don't be shy to reach out !
everything i post is deeply thought and approved by me. if i believe my writing is not good, i simply don't post it or rewrite it. this may lead to slow posts & updates, if you're not fine with that then don't order from me. i always make sure that everything is high quality. but there are times where it is not fully approved by me, of course i state it. ( not proof read )
few informations, reasons and causes remain unspecified due to the phrase, " some things are better left unsaid. " it is up to you, the reader, to explore and comprehend the unseen and non existent.
i am a terrible visualizer.. therefore i attempt to make it as prolonged as one could, allowing you a whole experience, feeling every sensation, emotion, atmosphere, feeling, place, every shifting perception, everything specific. giving you a whole experience of my artworks, through words.
i usually use my inbox to share my thoughts & ideas, and my life status too. feel free to share your thoughts, and other ideas for my writing.
if you don't see " order here 💌 ", it means i am not taking any orders temporarily. of course, you could still order but expect it to take a while ( months ). if you see " writing 📝 " it means i am working on a fanfic, and won't accept orders. only request when " order here 💌 ", or anything with 💌 shown.
small supports by any of humanity given to me is enough to cure a weeks depression, don't be shy to reach out ! i am friendly and is comparably soft to a marshmallow. or cotton candy... does it matter?
Hashtag Navigations:
💌 masterlist — menu, all of my writings
🍨 drinks — one shot, long / short
🍰 desserts — two parts
🍫 dessert series — series, three or more parts
🎼 melody specials — musics / songs used for themes
🪷 favorites — all of my favorite writings, ones where i put much effort more than needed.
💕 love it — not my favorite, but i enjoyed writing.
💫 thoughts — random rants & thoughts
🎀 wait for the right time — little update
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🍭 orders — requests
ABOUT ME
call me Mitch, or simply Lychee. i am a female writer, and started writing on 11/1/25, up until now. 🇵🇭, a unfortunate student
my favorite characters are Chrollo Lucilfer, Kurapika Kurta, Killua Zoldyck from Hunter x Hunter. Midari Ikishima from Kakegurui, Kaneki Ken from Tokyo Ghoul, Light Yagami and L Lawliet from Death Note. Meguru Bachira, Nagi Seishiro, Itoshi Rin from Blue lock. requesting my favorite characters = more chance of getting an order, + faster serving time !!
this is my only account, but i plan to post an ao3 soon.
Random Facts
the first fanfic I wrote ( not Ce qui Reste ) was Heure Bleue, meaning Blue Hour in English. It's a Senku Ishigami ( Dr. Stone ) x Reader Fanfic, whereas its spending a rainy afternoon with Senku in his apartment, while he does and fix something with a microscope. this was just a flirty fluff with no plot at all. though sadly, I deleted this despite it being 5 paragraphs lol
I can redo this if anyone is interested, just order 👀
I never planned to be a writer, I just read @chericos' first principle and thought that it matches Chrollo. and so I wrote it with the inspiration of her fanfic, and it turned out to be one of my biggest hits ( at the moment )
I had lots of previous usernames. 2240866, cottoncandyam, k._aex, before settling into lycheepetals😭
just read a comment about using AI for fiction, and someone said the easiest way to find out is this pattern:
not __, not __, just __.
as someone who uses this pattern, it lowkey hurt me. 😔 this is an amazing way to clear misunderstandings and to make things clear.
he immediately cried. not from hurt, not from grief, just the suffering of enduring things for a long time.
it's also great since it's not too long!
he cried, his tears coming not from hurt or grief but from the suffering of enduring things for a long time.
maybe it's just my preference of writing, and for other authors / writers as well.
but I love writing and using this pattern, that does not mean I use AI though ! I believe the most scariest thing about this is AI knowing how to behave, and perform like a human. It's really hard to differentiate if contents are AI or not these days, but we should not accuse someone of using AI for one action knowing a human can and could ACT like it.
someone also said the pattern of Who, Why, What, How, etc ( yeah Idk what its called. ) but isn't that a normal thing when writing?😭
The party was loud. not because of people dancing severely terrible, not because of people drinking and intoxicating their self with alcohol, but Chrollo singing. he sang so delicately— so in tune, that you might forget your entire life and the sense of it. the rhythm hit your temple so excellent, so outstanding, so marvelous, you might possibly collapse from your high-priced, exorbitant armchair.
the air smelled faintly of dog pee and poo, with a hint of strawberry biscuits.
and somehow, beneath those nights, lies something significant and solemn between you and Chrollo.
yeah honestly, if I read this I'd think it's AI. but its not💀 just because it's well-detailed, has a pattern, use fancy words you need to google, does not mean its AI already.
but that's also the sad reality of AI existing. people who spent time thinking, when AI could do it in seconds. getting accused as well. whether writing a long break up message, or a long fanfic, or a report email, this is deepingly alarming. your efforts, the time you sacrificed, only to be accused of using AI.
additionally, ever since AI appeared, it seems like people forgot that actual humans can actually do things without AI. i once saw a girl being hated on tiktok, she replied of course with a long, beautifully written and well composed reply and got accused of using AI. like, what??? humans can actually do things! even if its complicated. ( if writing a normal reply defending yourself is complicated. ) it's really real when someone says " AI is taking our lives. " I deeply believe there will be a time, a generation where AI and technology will be sooo advanced that we only need to wake up and AI / robot would do everything for us. just like in those dystopian movies ( yes I love this genre. )
no one accused me of using AI, i lowkey just wanted to rant lol
#Survival of the Fittest
#Also the fact that I write poetic... because I write poetic doesn't mean its AI!!😔😔
it lies beneath a sky that never quite changes, a vast, colorless expanse stretched thin above everything, as if it had been pulled too far and left that way. there are no clouds, not even the suggestion of one—only an endless pale glare that settles over the city without movement, without relief. the sun does not rise or fall so much as it exists, fixed and watchful, its light unbroken, spilling downward in a way that feels less like warmth and more like exposure.
it does not touch gently.
it presses.
the light seeps into every open space, filling it completely, leaving no room for shadow to properly form. what little shade exists feels thin, temporary—something that could disappear if looked at too closely. it gathers in narrow corners, clings to the undersides of structures, stretches weakly beneath uneven rooftops, but never holds. never protects.
everything is seen.
everything is left bare.
the air carries weight.
not wind—never wind—but something heavier, something that lingers without moving, thick enough to be felt against the skin. it settles low, close to the ground, pressing into lungs with every breath, making the simple act of inhaling feel deliberate. dust hangs within it, suspended, unmoving particles that catch the light in dull, lifeless ways, turning the space between things into something almost visible.
it does not drift.
it waits.
the city itself seems built not with intention, but with necessity.
structures rise unevenly from the ground, their shapes irregular, their edges softened by time and erosion. stone and clay, layered without symmetry, without precision—walls that do not quite align, surfaces that bear the marks of repair upon repair, each attempt less careful than the last. nothing is smooth. nothing is finished. everything feels as though it has been left midway through becoming something else. buildings lean into one another, not out of design, but out of quiet surrender, as if they have long since lost the strength to stand alone. narrow passageways cut between them, winding without direction, too tight in some places, too wide in others, creating a maze that does not guide, only contains.
there is no clear center, no sense of beginning or end.
just continuation.
the ground beneath it all is uneven, worn down by years of use, its surface cracked and splitting in thin, jagged lines that spread without pattern. sand gathers there, slipping easily into every fracture, every dip, every place where the surface has given way. it does not stay in one place. it shifts subtly, constantly, reshaping the ground in ways too small to notice until something feels different beneath each step.
it finds its way everywhere.
against doorways. along ledges. caught in the folds of fabric hung out too long. pressed into the seams of things not meant to hold it.
it does not belong.
and yet, nothing exists without it.
the streets are filled, but never crowded in the way that suggests life.
figures move through them in slow, continuous patterns, their paths crossing and uncrossing without interaction, without interruption. there is no urgency in their steps, no variation in pace—only the steady repetition of movement that has been performed too many times to require thought. heads remain lowered, eyes unfocused, as if looking too closely at anything might demand a response.
voices exist, but they do not carry.
they remain low, contained, blending into one another until they lose distinction, forming a constant murmur that lingers just beneath awareness. no single word rises above the rest. no conversation demands attention. it is sound without presence, noise without meaning, something that fills the space only because silence would feel too heavy to bear.
nothing here announces itself,
nothing insists.
even the marketplace—if it can be called that—feels subdued, its stalls arranged without structure, their contents laid out in ways that suggest routine rather than care. fabrics dulled by sun, their colors faded into something unrecognizable. objects worn down by repeated handling, edges smoothed not by craftsmanship but by time. everything carries the same quiet sense of use, of having existed for too long without ever being replaced.
there is no sense of newness.
only continuation.
time does not move forward here,
it settles.
it gathers in layers, stacking one upon another until the present feels indistinguishable from what came before. there are no clear markers of passing days, no changes in light or temperature significant enough to separate one moment from the next. everything exists in a state of constant repetition, a cycle so complete it no longer feels like movement at all.
just existence.
even the shadows seem tired.
they stretch thin along the ground, barely visible, their edges soft and uncertain, as though they no longer have the strength to hold their shape. they do not shift with purpose. they do not deepen or retreat. they simply remain, faint and unconvincing, offering no real escape from the light that presses endlessly from above.
the city breathes—but only just.
a slow, shallow rhythm that never quite changes, never deepens, never falters. it does not live in the way things are meant to. it persists in the way things do when they have no other choice.
and beneath it all—woven into the heat, the dust, the stillness—
there is something else.
not movement.
not sound.
something quieter.
something that does not belong to the rhythm of the streets, nor the weight of the air, nor the slow, endless repetition of the days.
it does not reveal itself.
it lingers.
patient.
waiting for something—
or someone—
to notice.
and still—beneath all of it—life finds its way into motion.
not sudden. not striking. nothing that breaks the slow, suffocating rhythm of the city. just a subtle shift, the kind that happens without announcement, without intention, until it is already there.
the murmur thickens.
footsteps overlap more frequently, brushing past one another in closer intervals, bodies weaving through the narrow streets with slightly sharper turns, slightly quicker adjustments. not urgency, never urgency. but something closer to necessity. a quiet tightening of movement, a subtle increase in awareness. hands kept closer to the body. eyes lowered just a fraction more.
the streets do not change.
but the way people move through them does.
and within that shift—
he exists.
Leorio does not arrive. he does not enter. he is already there, folded into the motion of the street as naturally as the dust beneath it, as if he had always belonged to the spaces between people rather than the spaces themselves.
he moves without drawing attention, but not without intention.
there is a precision to it—subtle, practiced, something worn into him through repetition rather than taught. his steps follow no clear path, yet they never falter. his shoulders angle just enough to slip through narrower gaps, his pace adjusts without thought, quickening, slowing, aligning with the rhythm of those around him in a way that feels almost instinctive.
he does not look at what he takes.
that is the first thing one might notice—if they were looking closely enough to notice anything at all.
his gaze drifts elsewhere, unfocused, disinterested, as though the world itself has nothing worth holding onto. it passes over faces without recognition, over movement without curiosity. there is no hesitation in him, no second glance, no flicker of doubt that might betray intention.
only movement.
only action.
a brush of fabric—too light to register.
the faintest shift in weight—too small to question.
and then—
absence.
it is never immediate.
there is always a delay. a few seconds, sometimes longer. a moment where everything remains unchanged, where the rhythm of the street continues uninterrupted, where nothing feels different enough to notice. until it does.
a hand reaches.
finds nothing.
a pause.
confusion settles in, slow and uncertain, as if the mind itself is reluctant to accept what has already happened. fingers check again, more deliberately this time, searching for something that should still be there.
it isn’t.
and by then—
he is already gone.
barefoot. not running. never running. that would draw attention, create disruption, break the careful balance he maintains. instead, he blends deeper into the flow, slipping between bodies, adjusting his path just enough to dissolve into the movement of the street until he is no longer distinct, no longer separate.
just another figure.
just another presence.
unseen.
unremembered.
—
hunger does not announce itself.
it does not ache in sharp, unbearable ways, does not twist or claw or demand. it settles low, constant, a quiet presence that lingers beneath everything else, dulling thought, dulling reaction, shaping choices in ways too subtle to notice until they have already been made.
it has been there too long to feel like anything but normal.
and normal is enough.
it is enough to keep him moving.
enough to keep his hands quick, his attention sharp, his patience thin but controlled. enough to make the weight of what he takes feel justified, necessary, unquestioned.
there is no room for hesitation in something like this.
hesitation costs.
and he has nothing left to spend.
—
time passes.
not in clear increments, not in ways that can be measured or marked, but in repetition. movement layered upon movement, action folded into action, until the distinction between one moment and the next begins to blur.
the sun does not shift, the air does not cool, the streets do not empty.
only the body changes.
subtly.
gradually.
the tension in his shoulders settles lower, heavier. his steps lose their earlier precision—not enough to be noticed, but enough to be felt. the sharpness in his awareness dulls just slightly, softened by exhaustion that does not demand rest but suggests it.
and eventually—
he stops.
not abruptly. not in a way that breaks the rhythm he has been following, but in a slow divergence from it. his path shifts, angling away from the thicker flow of the street, toward narrower passageways where movement is less constant, where the murmur fades into something thinner, more fragmented.
the air feels different there.
not lighter. never lighter. but quieter, in a way that allows other things to surface.
the space narrows, walls pressing closer, the light dimming just enough to cast uneven shadows along the ground. the dust settles more heavily here, undisturbed by the constant motion of the main streets, gathering in thicker layers along the edges of the path.
it feels… removed.
not separate from the city—but less observed.
less cared for.
and tucked within that space—
others linger.
they do not gather in any organized way.
they simply exist there, scattered along the edges, leaning against walls, seated on uneven ground, their presence as quiet and unremarkable as everything else.
nothing about them demands attention. nothing about them suggests threat.
and yet—
there is an understanding.
unspoken.
shared.
they are not so different.
he settles among them without acknowledgment.
no greetings. no questions. no recognition of arrival. just the quiet acceptance of space already occupied, of presence that does not need to be announced to be understood.
the ground is rough beneath him, uneven, dust pressing into fabric, into skin. it does not matter.
nothing here does.
for a while, there is nothing.
just breathing. just the low, distant murmur of the city bleeding faintly into the space, softened by distance, by walls, by the weight of stillness that settles more easily here.
and then—
voices.
not loud. never loud. but clearer than before, less swallowed by the endless noise of the streets.
fragmented at first.
indistinct.
pieces of conversation slipping through the air without form, without context, until—
something catches.
“ …said it wasn’t just gold. ”
a pause.
a shift.
“ …not like anything here. ”
another voice, lower, rougher, edged with something that almost resembles interest.
“ lamp. ”
the word settles differently.
it does not blend.
it lingers.
“ …deep in the cave. past the outer ridge—where the ground splits. ”
“ no one comes back from there. ”
“ they don’t need to. ”
a faint sound—something between a scoff and a breath.
“ if it’s real. ”
silence follows.
not heavy. not tense. just… present. as if the conversation itself has reached a point where words are no longer necessary.
but the idea remains.
unmoving.
persistent.
a lamp.
not gold.
not something ordinary.
something else.
something that does not belong to the slow decay of the city, to the repetition of its days, to the quiet, endless persistence of survival.
something… beyond it.
the air does not change,
the walls do not shift.
the city continues its slow, suffocating rhythm just beyond the narrow passage.
and yet—
something has settled.
something small,
something quiet.
but enough.
enough to be noticed.
enough to stay.
—
the city does not follow him home.
it never does.
it lingers, of course—clinging stubbornly to fabric, to skin, to the thin layer of dust that refuses to be brushed away completely—but its noise fades, its presence dulling into something quieter, something more distant. the endless murmur of voices thins into scattered echoes, footsteps dissolving into nothing as the streets narrow, then empty, then give way to spaces that feel less like part of the city and more like something forgotten by it.
his place—if it can be called that—does not stand out.
it barely stands at all.
tucked between structures that have long since begun to lean away from it, as if even they have decided it is not worth holding up, the space exists in that uncertain line between shelter and ruin. the walls are uneven, their surfaces cracked and flaking in places where repair was attempted and abandoned halfway through. the ceiling holds, but not convincingly, its weight settling in a way that suggests it has considered collapse more than once.
it is enough.
barely.
inside, the air feels different.
not cleaner. not lighter. just… still. the kind of stillness that settles too easily, too completely, as if nothing has passed through it in too long. it carries the faint scent of dust, of heat trapped and left to sit, of something dry and unchanging.
nothing here moves unless he does.
and even then, it feels reluctant.
he steps in without ceremony, letting the outside fall away behind him—not fully, never fully, but enough that the space closes in around him, smaller than the streets, smaller than the sky, smaller than anything that might suggest possibility.
just walls.
just ground.
just what he has.
he exhales.
it is not relief.
just habit.
the day settles into him slowly.
not all at once, not in any way that demands immediate rest, but in layers. tension loosening where it had held too long, awareness dulling where it had been stretched thin. his shoulders drop slightly, his steps losing their earlier precision as he moves through the space with less care, less intention.
there is nothing here to take.
nothing here to lose.
he lowers himself without much thought, the ground familiar in its roughness, its uneven texture pressing through fabric in ways he has long since stopped noticing. his back finds the wall behind him, not comfortably, never comfortably, but in a way that works.
that is enough.
for a while, there is nothing.
just breathing.
just the quiet.
just the faint, distant suggestion of the city continuing somewhere beyond the walls, muted enough to feel almost unreal.
and then—
it returns.
not the sound.
not the movement.
the thought.
lamp.
it slips in without permission, settling somewhere just beneath the surface, quiet but persistent, like something that has decided it will not be ignored simply because it has not been invited.
he exhales again, sharper this time. “ Yeah, right. ”
it comes out under his breath, low, dismissive, the kind of response given to something that does not deserve attention.
and yet—
he shifts.
just slightly.
his head tilts back against the wall, gaze drifting upward toward a ceiling that offers nothing worth looking at. his fingers tap once against his knee, then still.
“ …a lamp. ”
he says it like it offends him.
like the idea itself is personally inconvenient.
a faint scoff follows, quiet but clear, breaking the stillness just enough to feel out of place.
his expression doesn’t change much—there isn’t enough energy for that—but something shifts behind it, something subtle, something that lingers a little too long to be ignored completely.
because—
a lamp.
not gold.
not something ordinary.
something else.
something that does not belong to the city, to its dust, to its slow, endless repetition of days that blur together until even memory feels unreliable.
something that could—
he exhales sharply, cutting the thought off before it finishes forming.
“ Yeah, and i’m the king of the whole damn place. ”
his head tilts forward now, gaze dropping to the ground, to the thin layer of dust gathered there, undisturbed, unchanging.
real.
this is real.
this— walls that barely hold, air that does not move, hunger that never quite leaves—this is what makes sense. this is what exists. this is what he knows.
not lamps.
not caves.
not wishes.
“ Deep in a cave, ” he mutters, voice flattening, mimicking the earlier conversation with just enough exaggeration to make it sound ridiculous.
“ Yeah, sure. because that’s where all the good things are, right? buried somewhere no one can reach. makes sense. ”
he leans his head back again, eyes closing— not to sleep, not yet, but to block out the nothingness of the space, the way it seems to press in when there is nothing else to focus on.
for a moment, it works.
the thought fades.
the quiet settles back in.
and then—
“ …No one comes back from there. ”
his eyes open,
slowly.
he stares at the ceiling again, expression unreadable, breath steady, posture unchanged.
“ …Great, ” he mutters. “ that’s exactly what i was hoping to hear. . . ”
.
there’s a pause.
a longer one.
long enough that it almost feels like the thought has passed again.
almost.
his fingers tap once more against his knee.
once.
twice.
stop.
“ …But if it’s real… ”
he doesn’t finish it.
doesn’t need to.
the words hang there anyway, unfinished but understood, carrying more weight in their absence than they would have if spoken aloud.
if it’s real—
he could leave.
not just the room.
not just the street.
everything.
the dust. the heat. the endless repetition of days that never change, never offer anything more than what has already been given.
gone.
replaced.
something else.
his jaw tightens slightly. “ …Or i die in a cave chasing some stupid story. ”
a beat.
“ …Which, honestly, sounds about right. ”
another pause.
and then—
a quiet huff of breath, something almost like a laugh, though it lacks the energy to fully become one.
“ Wow. great options, really. love that for me. ”
he shifts again, pushing himself up just slightly, enough to change the angle of his posture, enough to make it feel like something has changed even if nothing actually has.
his gaze drifts toward the doorway—nothing more than an opening, uneven, leading back out into the narrow passage, into the city beyond.
it waits.
the same as always.
unchanged.
unmoving.
safe.
predictable.
“ …It’s probably fake! ” he says it firmly this time, as if stating it clearly enough will make it settle, will make the thought lose its hold, will make everything return to the way it was before he ever heard it.
“ Yeah. . . definitely fake. ”
a pause.
“ …but what if it’s not? ”
he stares at the doorway a little longer.
just a second too long.
“ …ugh. ”
his head drops forward, hand dragging down his face slowly, tiredly, as if the mere act of thinking about this has already exhausted him more than the entire day had.
“ Why does it always have to be like this? ” he mutters. “ Can’t it just be, like—obviously fake? or obviously real? no. . . it’s gotta be some ‘ maybe ' nonsense. ”
he exhales, long and low.
“ … I hate ‘maybe.’ ”
another pause.
longer.
quieter.
his fingers tap once more against his knee.
once.
twice.
stop.
“ …I’ll check it out. ”
it slips out before he can stop it.
he freezes slightly, like he’s just betrayed himself.
“ …Not because i believe it, ” he adds quickly, as if correcting something important. “ just to make sure it’s fake. ”
a beat.
“ …Yeah. ”
another.
“ … And if it’s not fake— ”
he cuts himself off again.
his jaw tightens.
his gaze flicks toward the doorway once more,
then away.
“ …I’ll deal with that when i get there. ”
silence settles again.
heavy.
unchanged.
but something beneath it has shifted.
just slightly.
just enough.
and this time—
it stays.
—
morning does not arrive.
it simply… resumes.
the same pale, unmoving light presses down over the city, unchanged, uninterrupted, as if the hours in between had done nothing at all. the air carries the same weight, the same thickness that settles into lungs and lingers there, familiar and unwelcome in equal measure. nothing feels new. nothing feels different.
only continuation.
the streets fill again—not suddenly, not all at once, but in that slow, inevitable way, bodies slipping back into motion as if they had never stopped. the murmur returns, low and constant, footsteps overlapping, fabric brushing, presence against presence without acknowledgment, without pause.
and within it—
he moves.
Leorio does not hesitate this time.
there is no lingering thought, no visible distraction, no outward sign that anything has shifted beneath the surface. his pace falls easily into rhythm, shoulders angled just enough, steps placed with the same quiet precision as before.
but there is something… sharper.
not enough to be seen.
just enough to be felt.
his attention does not drift as loosely now. it anchors, briefly, deliberately, before slipping away again. his gaze lingers half a second longer than necessary on certain details—the weight of a pouch at someone’s hip, the way fingers loosen around a folded piece of cloth, the careless exposure of something meant to be kept close.
he does not rush.
he never does.
—
the first is easy.
a man near the edge of the street, distracted, his focus turned toward something being argued over a few paces away. his grip on the small cloth bag at his side is loose—too loose. it hangs slightly open, the edge folded back just enough to reveal its contents.
bread.
not fresh. never fresh. but intact.
Leorio passes close—just close enough.
his shoulder brushes lightly against the man’s arm, an apology already half-formed in the tilt of his head, the subtle shift of his posture.
“ Watch it!— ”
the complaint barely finishes.
the bag is already lighter.
and the bread—
gone.
it disappears as easily as it was seen, tucked away, concealed within the folds of fabric that hang just loose enough to hide it, just natural enough to avoid suspicion.
the man checks a moment later.
of course he does.
his hand dips into the bag, pauses, searches again—slower this time, more deliberate.
confusion settles.
Leorio is already elsewhere.
—
the second requires more care.
a woman, older, her movements slower but not careless. the pouch at her waist is tied tight, knotted twice, secured with the kind of attention that suggests experience—someone who has learned, over time, what happens when things are left unguarded.
coins.
he can hear them.
faint.
just enough.
he doesn’t go for the pouch directly.
that would be obvious.
instead, he adjusts.
his path curves slightly, intersecting with hers not head-on, but at an angle—enough to disrupt, enough to create a moment. his hand brushes against her sleeve first, light, almost accidental, just enough to draw her attention there, to shift her awareness away from where it matters.
“ Ah—sorry. ”
it’s quiet. believable. already fading as he moves past.
but in that moment—
his other hand works.
quick.
precise.
the knot loosens—not undone, just enough. just enough for two fingers to slip inside, to hook, to pull.
a few coins.
not all.
never all.
that would be noticed too quickly.
the pouch settles back against her side, still tied, still present, still convincing in its weight.
she checks it anyway.
of course she does.
her hand finds it. presses. feels the shape, the familiar form, the reassurance of something still there.
it is enough.
she moves on.
Leorio quite does the same.
—
the third is almost unnecessary,
but he takes it anyway.
a strip of dried meat, poorly wrapped, held too loosely in someone’s grasp as they argue, their attention entirely elsewhere. it takes no effort at all—just timing. just the briefest moment where the hand opens wider than it should.
and then—
nothing.
it’s gone.
the argument continues.
no one notices.
by the time he steps away from the thicker part of the street, the weight of what he’s taken settles against him—light, but present.
bread,
a few coins,
dried meat,
not much.
enough.
always enough.
—
the passageway waits where it had before.
unchanged,
quiet.
the air shifts as he steps into it, the noise of the street dulling behind him, replaced by that familiar stillness that seems to settle more easily here, as if the space itself has no interest in carrying anything beyond what already exists within it
.
they’re there again,
of course they are.
not in the exact same positions, not in any way that suggests planning or intention, but close enough to feel the same. bodies leaned against walls, seated along the edges, their presence scattered yet contained within the narrow space.
nothing about them draws attention.
nothing about them asks for it.
Leorio slips in without acknowledgment.
the same as before.
no greeting. no glance. just presence.
he settles into a space that had not been occupied a moment ago—or perhaps had been, and simply went unnoticed. it doesn’t matter. nothing here does.
he leans back against the wall, posture loose, expression unreadable, gaze unfocused in that familiar way that suggests disinterest, distance, a complete lack of engagement with anything happening around him.
he looks like he isn’t listening.
like he doesn’t care.
like he’s already somewhere else.
voices, again.
low.
contained.
but clearer here.
“ …Told you it wasn’t just talk! ”
a pause.
“ …Got something this time. ”
fabric shifts.
a faint sound—paper, worn, handled too many times.
“ …Map? ”
the word settles heavier than the rest.
“ …Not exact, ” another voice mutters. “ but close enough. ”
“ …You sure? ”
“ …As sure as anyone gets with this kind of thing. ”
a quiet scoff follows.
“ …Cave doesn’t show itself easy. ”
“ …doesn’t need to. ”
silence.
then—
“ …We go at night. ”
it’s decided just like that.
not formally.
not clearly.
just… understood.
the bandits barely spared Leorio a glance as he slipped past them, already turning back to their murmured plans and half-drawn maps—
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
⬆️ gold, sunny divider is from @angeliicide. check out their other works !!!
— song by Melanie Martinez. the painful imbalance between playful, casual interaction and deep, romantic longing.
KAKEGURUI: Midari Ikishima x Reader
C/TW: Kakegurui and Midari's name itself is a warning but. emotional manipulation, toxic relationship dynamics, unhealthy attachment, implied sexual content, emotional distress, being objectified, self blame, weird behaviour, guns. more focused on angst than romance
Word Count: 11.3k words 66,121 characters ( more / less )
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afternoon does not arrive gently— it settles in as if something.. that was never meant to abandoned. it presses through the room in thick, unmoving layers, sunlight stretched wide and unfiltered, slipping through the uneven gap of half-drawn curtains as if it had been waiting, patient, for the smallest invitation. it does not spill or shimmer. it collects. pooling across surfaces, lingering along edges, resting in places it should not feel so burdensome.
the light finds you before you wake.
it rests across your face first— not warm, not soft, but sharp in a quiet, persistent way. it pushes through your closed eyes, pale gold bleeding into something almost white, too bright to ignore, too constant to escape. there is no gentleness in it, no gradual pull into awareness. it is immediate. intrusive. like being seen before you are ready to be.
your brow shifts faintly, a small, unconscious reaction. your lashes twitch against it. your body registers it before your mind does, responding in subtle movements— a turn of your head, a slow adjustment of your shoulder, a quiet attempt to slip away from it.
it follows.
of course it does.
the heat lingers where it touches, clinging to your skin like something that has settled there long before you noticed. it does not burn, not exactly— it weighs. it sits, slow and suffocating, like air that has been trapped too long without disturbance. the room itself feels sealed.
not closed, sealed. as if the windows had not been opened in hours, or longer. as if the air has been sitting, unmoving, absorbing everything within it and refusing to let anything go.
you breathe in.
it is warm,
too warm.
not fresh, not clean, but layered. faint traces of something indistinct clinging to it. fabric. dust. something sweeter, dulled by time. something sharper, softened into the background. it all blends into something difficult to name, something that does not belong to a single moment but to many, overlapping, settling into one.
it reminds you of smoke.
not the kind you can see, not the kind that curls or drifts, but the kind that stays after. that clings. that lingers in places it should have already left. your lungs fill slowly, as if adjusting to it. your body feels… delayed. not heavy in the usual sense. not exhaustion. something quieter than that. like every movement has to pass through a layer before it reaches you. like you are slightly out of step with yourself, a second behind where you should be.
your eyes open, eventually.
not all at once.
slowly . . . .
reluctantly.
the ceiling comes into view first, blurred at the edges, light bleeding unevenly across its surface, catching small imperfections, soft shadows forming where there should be none. it takes a moment to focus. longer than it should.
time does not feel immediate here.
it stretches,
lingers.
folds into itself.
you blink once. twice.
the light does not change.
it remains exactly where it was, exactly as intense, exactly as present. it does not flicker, does not soften. it simply exists, unbothered by your awareness of it.
your gaze drifts, slow and unanchored, following the direction of the light as it cuts across the room. the curtains hang unevenly, one side pulled slightly more than the other, creating a narrow opening where the sunlight forces its way through. the fabric itself looks thin under it, almost translucent at the edges, the color washed out, drained by the brightness pressing against it.
dust floats there. tiny particles suspended in the beam, unmoving, as if time does not reach them. they catch the light in brief, dull glints, not sparkling, not alive, just present. existing in a space where nothing disturbs them.
you watch them for a moment.
or longer.
it is hard to tell.
your fingers shift faintly against the surface beneath you, the fabric warm, holding onto heat it has no intention of releasing. it feels used. not uncomfortable— just… settled into. like it remembers the weight of something before you noticed it.
the sheets are slightly uneven, creased in places that do not quite match how you’re lying now. small details that should not matter, but linger in your awareness longer than they should.
you do not move to fix them.
you do not move at all.
the silence is not complete.
it never is.
there is always something beneath it— faint, distant, barely there. the muted hum of electricity threading through the walls, low and constant. something outside, far enough to be indistinct, close enough to remind you the world continues without you noticing.
a vehicle passes somewhere below.
you do not hear it fully— just the suggestion of it. a low shift in the background, gone before it can settle into anything recognizable. the room absorbs everything else.
holds it.
keeps it from becoming more. your phone rests nearby, just within reach. the screen is dark, untouched, reflecting nothing but a warped fragment of the light above. it does not demand attention. it does not interrupt.
it simply exists.
like everything else.
you turn your head slightly, the movement slow, almost delayed, your gaze lingering on it for a moment before drifting away again.
there is no urgency.
no reason to reach for it.
not yet.
your breathing evens out gradually, adjusting to the weight of the air, the stillness of the space, the quiet persistence of everything around you. each inhale feels the same as the last— warm, slightly heavy.
your eyes close again, briefly.
not to sleep.
just to escape the light pressing against them, the presence of it too constant to ignore. even then, it lingers— faint, red, diffused through your eyelids, a softer version of the same thing.
it does not leave.
nothing here does.
when you open them again, nothing has changed.
the same light.
the same heat.
the same suspended stillness.
time passes.
quietly.
without announcement.
you feel it only in the slight shift of your awareness, the slow settling of your thoughts into something more present, more aligned, though still not entirely here.
you remain where you are. staring. breathing. existing within the moment without moving beyond it. because getting up would mean breaking it.
and for now,
you let it stay.
—
sunlight slants through the half-drawn curtains, painting the sheets in uneven streaks of pale gold and white, warm, heavy, almost suffocating. the air is still, thick, carrying that faint, lingering memory of smoke and dust, something sweet and acrid that refuses to dissipate.
then—
your phone vibrates against the surface, sudden, sharp, cutting through the thick haze of sunlight and still air. not loud— almost polite—but insistent. it startles you from the sluggish pull of the room, the slow, sticky heat, the faint smoke-tinged weight pressing against your chest. you do not reach for it immediately. your body is slow, still clinging to the lethargy of the afternoon, to the suspended moment you are unwilling to leave.
another vibration. then another. deliberate, patient, precise, insistent. it vibrates again, tapping rhythmically against the surface as if it knows you are watching it but refuses to move itself. the kind of rhythm that drags your attention even when you do not want to move.
and when you finally glance at the screen, it is enough to make the quiet thrum of the room shift: Midari.
the name blazes across the display, bright against the dim haze of the curtains, and the air feels suddenly thinner. she is calling, but it does not feel urgent. it feels deliberate. like she has been waiting for you to notice, waiting to pull you into something she will not explain. your fingers twitch, almost reaching, almost touching, but you do not pick it up. not yet. your body still clings to the lethargy of the afternoon, to the suspended, lazy weight of the room.
once again, it buzzes. slightly louder, closer, shaking the fabric beneath it in tiny, precise vibrations. the sound carries over the faint hum of electricity in the walls, over the muffled distant traffic, over the occasional creak of the building settling in the heat. it is sharp, small, a single insistence repeated until you cannot ignore it, until it presses against your chest with the same heaviness as the light.
and suddenly, the room feels smaller.
the heat presses harder. the light feels thicker, clinging to your skin, settling into your hair, pooling along the edges of the sheets. dust drifts in long, lazy strands across the sunbeams, suspended and shimmering faintly as if noticing nothing but the phone.
your hand moves slightly again, almost brushing the device, your fingers twitching with hesitation. the buzzing stops. a moment of silence stretches across the room, the quiet almost heavier than the sound itself. then it begins again, slow, deliberate, patient, repeating the same rhythm over and over.
you breathe in. the air is warm, layered, scented faintly of stale fabric, lingering smoke, sunlight thickened by inactivity. the vibration presses against your palm even before you touch it. it does not scream for attention. it does not demand. it waits.
You call me on the telephone, you feel so far away.
not for the reason of distance, not because of absence. yet because she is calling without reason yet, without introduction, without explanation. just the insistence of her presence, stretched thin across a line of electricity, waiting for you to reach for it.
you lie there, hand hovering, caught between the warmth of the room and the pull of the phone. the afternoon stretches on. dust glimmers faintly in the sunbeams. the air is slow, heavy, unyielding.
and still, the phone vibrates.
—
the phone rests against the surface, quiet now, the last vibration fading into the thick heat of the afternoon. light spills through the half-drawn curtains, stretched and heavy, gilding the edges of the room in a haze that presses against your skin. dust floats lazily in the streaks, catching the gold like tiny suspended lanterns, each one trembling in stillness.
the memory of the vibration lingers—sharp, insistent, deliberate. it pulses in your hand even when the phone is silent, echoing the possibility of movement, of something shifting beyond the warmth, the still air, the slow weight pressing in from every angle. you can almost feel her presence across the distance, not in sound but in the inevitability of it. it is certain, deliberate, like a hand reaching toward you without actually touching.
You tell me to come over, there's some games you want to play.
and then there is the thought: she wants you there.
the reason? not because she needs company, not for conversation, not for the comfort of routine. but for something unspoken, something poised between intention and impulse, hovering just out of reach. the idea coils in your chest, light and dangerous, pressing against the slow rhythm of your heartbeat.
you imagine the space she inhabits, the way it is shaped by her, marked by her presence alone. the anticipation hangs thick in the air: the weight of a room waiting to be entered, of games arranged with intention, of plans that are never explained but felt. each object in that space, each shadow cast by the late sun, seems deliberate. calculated. playful, and yet sharp-edged, like a trap set and labeled only for you to notice.
your body stirs beneath the sheets, slow, reluctant, caught between inertia and the pull that she exerts without effort. there is no conversation. no words are spoken. only the echo of that certainty, the knowledge of what is expected without ever being named.
the air in your room feels heavier now, dense with anticipation. every particle of dust and lingering heat presses against your awareness, layering itself over the quiet pulse of the afternoon. the sunlight streaks across your skin, warming it, almost suffocating it, and somehow the room beyond your door seems brighter, sharper, alive with her absence and promise.
she wants you there.
and that thought twists in your chest, unrelenting, inescapable, like a slow game of waiting where the rules are never told, and yet every instinct in your body knows them. your hand twitches. your heart stutters. the room is still, sticky with sunlight and lingering smoke-scented warmth, but somehow, you feel already moved, already pulled forward.
it is not about words. it is not about reason. it is about the invisible line that connects you, the silent command carried on a phone, and the inescapable draw toward her, toward the space she has marked for you.
the pull is subtle. it is dangerous. it is thrilling.
and it will not release you.
your body finally disentangles itself from the sheets, sluggish but deliberate. the sunlight cuts across the room, harsh, spilling through the curtains in thick, angled beams, illuminating dust motes that drift lazily, almost hypnotically. each streak of light feels heavier than the last, weighted with anticipation, and the lingering scent of smoke that refuses to leave.
you move toward your dresser slowly, each step measured, as if the floor itself is aware of your motion. the fabric of your clothes lies in uneven piles, soft and worn, waiting for you to drape them across your skin. your fingers brush against each piece, lingering, feeling texture, weight, temperature. the choice is almost insignificant, yet somehow precise— the fabric you wear will bear the memory of the air outside, the heat of sunlight, the pull of someone else’s presence.
finally dressed, the world beyond your room already presses in. sunlight slants through the windows, golden and thick, seeping into every corner, bathing walls, floors, and furniture in an almost suffocating warmth. it is quiet, too quiet. but the air hums with the expectation of motion, the almost imperceptible weight of anticipation.
your phone is left behind, silent. she has already sent her call, her invisible instruction etched into your awareness. you do not need confirmation. it exists as fact. as command, as lure.
I'm walking to your house,
the hallway greets you in shadowed warmth, flooring warm beneath bare feet, walls lined with muted echoes of the day. you step carefully, deliberately, as if each motion might alert the air to your intent. the building is silent. no neighbors, no distant traffic reaching you yet. it is a moment suspended, stretched taut.
you push the door open, stepping into the light outside. sunlight strikes with the same heavy insistence as it did through the curtains, but here it is different, less confined, more consuming. streets hum faintly, the distant pulse of life present but muted, as though the city itself holds its breath for what is coming. each step you take is deliberate, measured. pavements warm beneath your shoes, air thick with dust, faint exhaust, and that lingering hint of sun-baked asphalt.
the world shifts as you move, the city alive around you but strangely secondary, blurred at the edges. each step takes you closer, the distance shrinking, the space between your pulse and hers tightening with every stride. you are aware of nothing else, no passing cars, no chatter from nearby buildings, only the rhythm of your feet, your breath, the subtle sway of your body moving toward a place you cannot yet see fully, toward someone who already occupies it.
nobody's home, just me and you and you and me alone.
the thought twists pleasantly in your chest, dangerous and thrilling. the house waiting ahead, silent and still, is hers and hers alone. its walls will bear witness to the unsaid, to what lingers in the air between your motions, to the games that are set before you without announcement, without invitation, yet impossible to resist.
your pace slows, unconsciously careful, attuned to the subtle shifts of air and sound, aware of the weight of anticipation, aware of the inevitability of what waits behind that door. each step is deliberate, teasing, as if you are moving closer not just to the house but to the invisible line she has drawn for you, to the pull of something both playful and dangerous.
the street stretches on, sunlight hitting harder now, heat pressing down. the city seems to recede around you, irrelevant. the only motion, the only rhythm that matters, is the one carrying you forward, across sidewalks, past empty yards, toward her house, toward the quiet, waiting space that is hers and hers alone.
and with every step, the anticipation thickens, heavier than the afternoon sun, sharper than the warmth pressing against your skin. each heartbeat matches the rhythm of the unseen, unspoken game, the subtle danger woven into something as simple as walking to her, the way the world seems to hold its breath just for you.
the house is still. silent, suffocating, as if it has been holding its breath, waiting for your arrival. the front door opens without a sound, hinges moving smoothly, almost too easily. the hallway greets you in shadow, faint streaks of sunlight cutting through the blinds, casting narrow lines across the polished floor.
and then she is there.
Midari stands just beyond the threshold of the living room, leaning casually against the doorframe, the slant of her pale body relaxed but precise, effortless. her raven hair falls loosely, strands catching the light in faint, pale glimmers where the afternoon sun spills through the windows. each movement of her head sends another strand shifting, sliding softly across her cheek, across the curve of her neck.
she looks entirely at ease,
too at ease.
eyes sharp, calculating, yet with a softness only she allows for herself. something quiet hides there, buried beneath the glimmer of amusement, something watchful and patient. a small smile tugs at the corner of her lips, slow, deliberate, as though she had been waiting for this exact moment and is savoring it now that it has arrived.
“ Finally!... ”
she says it low, teasing, just above a whisper, yet it seems to settle into the room like smoke curling through still air. the sound fills the quiet space around you with surprising weight.
“ I was starting to think you weren’t going to come. ”
your chest tightens.
it is the first sound she has made all day, yet it carries everything you have been feeling— every vibration of the phone earlier, every lingering glance at the clock, every shadow of anticipation during your walk here, every heavy, sticky moment of sunlight pressing against your skin as you wondered what she might say when you finally arrived.
and now you know.
“ You came hah.. ” she adds, softer this time.
Midari pushes herself away from the doorframe, straightening slowly, like someone stretching after a long moment of patience. the faint creak of the floor beneath her step seems louder than it should be in the quiet house.
she steps fully into the room now, letting the door click softly behind her.
the sound is gentle, final.
the quiet between you seals with it. she does not rush, does not demand. she simply exists there, moving with slow confidence, and yet her presence alone pulls you forward, draws you inward like gravity— subtle, inescapable.
her gaze glides over you slowly. not a glance, not a greeting, a careful examination.
it starts at your face, studying the smallest flickers of expression there, before drifting lower, tracing the line of your shoulders, the way you stand, the faint tension in your hands. the look is playful, curious—
dangerous.
" Good, ” she murmurs. the word barely leaves her lips, yet it carries approval.
“ Do you want to play a game?... ”
Midari lets the words hang there for a second, like she’s tasting the idea in the air. a faint spark flickers in her eyes —amused, entertained, already halfway committed before anything has even begun.
then she exhales a soft laugh through her nose.
“ …forget it. We’re playing anyway. ”
the decision is made before you have the chance to react.
“ I’ve got a game for us… hide and seek. ”
the words slip out lightly, almost careless— like she’s offering something ordinary, something harmless. but the air changes anyway. subtle, immediate. your body catches up before your mind does, tension tightening in your chest at the name alone.
Midari tilts her head, watching you closely now, as if she’s more interested in you than the game itself.
“ But this isn’t the kind where I just walk around and find you. ”
she moves as she speaks, slow and unhurried, fingertips trailing along the edge of a nearby table— testing the space, owning it without effort.
“ No… that would be boring. ”
a faint pause.
then a small, knowing exhale.
“ Let’s make it a little more interesting than that. ”
the pause that follows isn’t empty— it’s intentional. heavy in a way that makes the air feel smaller, closer. your breathing starts to feel like something you should be aware of.
something sharp curls low in your stomach. quiet at first. then unmistakable. the kind of feeling that doesn’t ask permission before it settles under your ribs.
“ There are… consequences, ” she says at last, voice lowered just slightly, each word measured like she’s deciding how much to reveal— and how much to withhold.
“ If you get caught… ”
she doesn’t rush the ending, she doesn’t need to. the last word lands gently, but it doesn’t drift, it stays.
and in that stillness, nothing in you moves—not even the thought of it.
—
the air between you thickens slowly, sunlight catching on her hair, on the edges of the room, tracing the sharp line of her jaw, the tilt of her head, the faint shift of her shoulders as she leans lightly against the doorway again.
every detail feels intentional. deliberate. weighed out like she’s already decided how this ends, and is simply letting you arrive at it.
“ So, ” she adds, stepping away again, moving toward the center of the room at an unhurried pace.
each step is calm— measured. like she’s giving you space on purpose. space to think. space to hesitate. space to realize it won’t change anything.
“ You can try to hide. You can try to run. ”
her voice drifts back to you without her turning fully around, casual in tone but impossible to ignore.
“ But I’ll find you. ”
only then does she glance back over her shoulder— slow enough that it feels like the motion reaches you before her eyes do.
“ And when I do… ” a faint smile tugs at her lips. not quite soft. not quite sharp. something in between that makes it worse.
“ …You’ll have to deal with it. ”
the last words land lightly— but they don’t leave. they stay behind in the space between you.
your breath catches.
anticipation tangles with something darker, sharper, a thrill that claws beneath your skin. the warmth in the room seems to thicken, stickier now, pressing against you like humid air before a storm.
it feels as though the room itself is waiting. waiting for the first movement, the first step, the first mistake.
Midari watches you closely, her gaze steady and unwavering as she allows the silence to stretch. she does not rush the moment, she lets it grow. lets the tension coil tighter with each passing second, the quiet hum of the house pressing in around you both— still and patient, yet impossible to ignore.
“ Let me make this simple for you, doll face. ” the nickname lands in the air between you. heavy, pointed, playful. it is not meant to ask, not meant to invite a reply, it is a statement. a test. a pull.
you do not answer, you cannot. your voice feels swallowed by the thickness of the air, by the pull of her presence, by the anticipation curling low in your stomach like a quiet flame.
your body stiffens subtly, caught between wanting to speak and knowing instinctively that there is no safety in it.
Midari notices immediately. the sharp edge of her eyes narrows just enough to acknowledge it, the faintest flicker of satisfaction brushing across her expression.
she steps closer. unhurried. deliberate. the air seems to tighten around her movement, like the room is adjusting itself to make space for her without being asked.
her hand lifts.
fingers grazing along your jaw— light, almost absent at first— but intentional in the way it doesn’t quite leave. tracing the line of your chin like she’s testing a reaction more than offering a touch.
“ You understand, don’t you? ” she murmurs. low, steady, certain. there’s no real question in it, only expectation. only confirmation waiting to happen.
her touch lingers— just enough to blur the boundary between passing gesture and something more deliberate— before easing away at the exact moment it starts to feel like it might stay.
like she never intended to hold on.
just to remind you she could.
then she pulls back slightly.
her hand drifts away from your skin as though she were only allowing you a taste of something forbidden, a warning wrapped carefully in affection.
her eyes remain locked on yours. sharp, knowing. teasing, precise. as if the game has already begun—
even before it has a name. and you realize, even before the first move is made, that the game is not about winning or losing. it is about the pull, the chase. the slow dance between risk and thrill.
and Midari has already claimed the rules. claimed the space, claimed you. just by standing there.
and so you wait, because the moment you move— the game begins.
Midari steps back, just enough for you to move, her eyes still locked on yours, glinting with mischief and something darker. the shift is subtle, almost polite, yet the space she grants feels strangely deliberate, like a door opening not out of kindness but invitation.
“ Go on, ” she says softly, a whisper more than a command, her voice threading through the quiet air between you.
“ Show me where you’d hide.... let’s see how long you last. ” the words settle slowly, not rushed. not careless. each one placed with the kind of quiet amusement that makes the meaning behind them linger longer than they should.
Midari watches you closely as she speaks, head tilted ever so slightly, as if studying the smallest changes in your expression—the flicker of hesitation in your eyes, the faint shift of your breathing, the tension gathering in your shoulders.
her lips curve faintly at the corners, a smile that never quite becomes gentle. the kind of smile that suggests she already knows something you do not.
“ What? ” she murmurs after a moment, her tone teasing now, light but edged with curiosity. “ Don’t tell me you’re scared already. ”
she lets out a quiet breath of laughter, the sound warm yet unmistakably sharp beneath its softness.
another step backward follows, slow and measured, giving you more room. the distance between you grows by only a small amount, yet it feels significant, like the moment before a race begins when the runner steps away from the line.
Midari folds her arms loosely across her chest, posture relaxed, though nothing about the way she looks at you could ever truly be called relaxed.
her gaze remains fixed, steady, patient.
“ I told you already, didn’t I? ” she continues, voice lowering again, playful but deliberate. “ You can try to hide… you can try to run… ”
her eyes narrow just slightly with amusement. “ But that’s what makes it fun. ”
sunlight glances across the room again, brushing softly over the floor between you both, stretching the shadows behind her. the faint glow catches in her dark hair, turning the edges of it almost silver where the light touches.
she looks completely at ease standing there, as though time itself has slowed just for her. as though she has all the patience in the world.
Midari shifts her weight onto one leg, the motion lazy, casual, but the gleam in her eyes sharpens when she notices you still haven’t moved.
“ Mm… ” she hums thoughtfully. her fingers lift to tap lightly against her arm, once, twice, like someone idly counting seconds.
“ You’re wasting your advantage already? ” the faintest smirk appears again.
“ I gave you the first move… don’t waste it. ” her voice lowers slightly, not softer—just quieter, more certain, like she’s already decided how this will end.
“ Not everyone gets that chance. ”
the room feels warmer suddenly, thicker somehow, the quiet of the house pressing gently around the two of you. somewhere outside, a faint breeze stirs the leaves against the window, their shadows shifting slowly across the walls.
Midari watches the moment stretch, watches you. waiting, always waiting. then she leans forward just slightly, lowering her voice again, the whisper sliding easily through the silence.
“ Go on… ” her smile deepens, barely there but unmistakable. “ Run. ”
—
the air in the house feels thicker now, heavier, wrapped in that same faint warmth and lingering smoke scent that always seems to cling to everything she touches. sunlight sneaks through blinds, striping the polished floors with narrow, sharp lines that cut across the shadowed spaces, hinting at corners and hiding places.
you move, slow at first, savoring the thrill of being observed, of being watched without touching, without warning. the hallway stretches before you, lined with muted colors, polished wood, the faint scent of leather and faintly burned incense lingering in corners. each step is deliberate, careful, soft, almost silent.
the living room opens to a chaotic order only she could maintain. low couches draped in blankets, pillows scattered at odd angles, half-finished games and cards lying in neat chaos. a faint glimmer catches your eye: a flat table, black steel, lined with small objects— guns, knives, gadgets, tools— all neatly arranged, every piece precise, deliberate. you take a breath, the air thick around them, and turn, not touching, not daring. the thrill curls low in your stomach.
your gaze drifts upward and you spot it: a bed, unmade, blankets tossed across the frame, the kind of careless luxury only someone like Midari could leave out without losing control. the fabrics are heavy but soft, warm. the way the sheets pool along the edges, the folds creating pockets of dark, hidden space… it calls to you.
you approach slowly, your heartbeat a muted drum in your chest. the warmth of the blankets seeps into your skin as you slide beneath them, careful not to disturb the folds too much. the scent of Midari lingers faintly here, fabric infused with presence and power. you tuck yourself in, curling low, pressing into the shadows, letting the soft weight of the blankets settle over you like a shield.
the bed, the blankets, the shadows, they embrace you, offer a fragile comfort— but you know it is temporary. her eyes flick toward every corner, every edge, tracing your movement before you even fully disappear beneath the covers. the thrill pulses low in your chest: she is letting you hide, and yet she controls the space entirely.
finally, you settle, pressing low into the blankets, curling into yourself, making as little movement as possible. the folds swallow your form, hiding you almost completely. you breathe slowly, each inhale careful, deliberate, tasting the warmth and faint scent of Midari’s world.
—
Midari’s footsteps land with quiet precision, each one measured and unhurried as she moves across the polished floor. her gaze sweeps the room— sharp, steady, unblinking— like she’s already reading every possible outcome. “ Ready or not… ” she murmurs, voice low and amused, “ Here I come. ”
We're just playing hide and seek...
your pulse spikes, adrenaline sharpening every sense. the bed, the blankets, the shadows, all of it now a fragile shield, every fold a line between being seen and being caught. the air is thick, warm, and heavy with anticipation. every breath feels amplified, every heartbeat a drum that seems to announce your hiding place.
the first step she takes is close, deliberate, careful. you freeze. your body presses deeper into the blankets, heart thundering. the faint scrape of her feet across the floor, the quiet click of nails against the hardwood, it all presses against you. she pauses. a small chuckle drifts through the room.
" I think I hear something… " she murmurs, tilting her head, grin spreading. " Is that… you? "
you do not answer, you cannot. your throat feels tight, trapped beneath the weight of her gaze. your hand twitches against the sheet.
a shadow moves across the room, slow, deliberate, impossible to ignore. she drifts closer to the bed, the air itself tightening, folding around her. you almost, almost, exhale, almost betray yourself, but the blanket presses back against your skin, reminding you to stay small, stay unseen.
Midari pauses again, her fingers tracing along a table edge she passes, purple nails brushing the smooth surface in faint clicks. “ Hiding, huh? You think you can outsmart me, doll face? ” her voice drips with amusement, dangerous and slow. she does not need to see you fully, her presence alone is enough to make your skin prickle, to make the thrill coil in your stomach low and sharp.
she glides past, slow, circling, eyes scanning corners, scanning shadows, scanning the subtle shifts of air that might betray your hiding spot. your chest rises, careful, shallow breaths. each inhale feels like a confession, each exhale a gamble.
a strand of her hair brushes a blanket corner as she passes. you freeze. your body feels electric, every nerve alert. her soft chuckle trails in the air behind her. “ Close, ” she murmurs, almost to herself, almost mockingly. “ too close. ”
she steps back, circling again, deliberately slow this time, fingers brushing surfaces, tapping edges lightly, just enough to unsettle the air around you. each movement lingers just long enough to make you aware— you’re not really hiding from her.
" Oooh… " she sighs softly, low, teasing. " You smell like trouble… do you think hiding is enough? Do you… really? " her eyes narrow, scanning, calculating. " I can hear you breathing, you know. "
your heart hammers, a frantic rhythm that seems to call her attention, yet she moves on, teasing, deliberate, circling again. she pauses at the far corner, just out of reach, and tilts her head. “ Hmm… maybe you’ve learned something, ” she murmurs, almost disappointed, almost pleased. “ but don’t think you’re safe yet. ”
and then, almost imperceptibly, a hand drifts closer to the blankets, fingernails brushing the folds where you hide. a tease. a promise. a silent warning.
she steps back, letting the suspense coil tighter, her gaze sweeping over the room slowly, deliberately, a predator satisfied by the hunt, yet savoring every second.
you remain hidden. barely. breath shallow, pulse wild, adrenaline and anticipation tangling low in your chest.
Midari drifts toward the far corner of the room, slow, deliberate, each step measured, leaving space between you that makes your chest tighten. the faint scrape of her feet against the polished floor fades, then stops. silence stretches long, heavy, pressing against your skin like the blankets themselves have weight. your pulse races. your breath hitches low and shallow, trapped between excitement and fear.
you peek slightly from beneath the folds, just enough to catch her silhouette. she is motionless, calm, distant, or at least pretending to be. the faint tilt of her head, the way her hair drapes lazily across one shoulder, the casual placement of her hands, all scream serenity. all lie.
a small, almost inaudible sigh drifts from her, soft and deliberate, carrying across the space between you like a whisper of wind. “ You think you’re safe, ” her voice floats faintly, teasing, not from where she stands, but from everywhere all at once. “ don’t you? ”
your heart hammers. your chest tightens. your lungs pull in air too fast, shallow, desperate. the blankets cling to your skin, heavy and hot. you gulp, almost daring yourself to move, almost daring her to notice.
she waits. long enough to make you wonder if she truly went away, long enough for your thoughts to scramble, your body to betray itself. the room feels smaller, tighter, alive with anticipation. every particle of dust in the sunbeams trembles faintly, echoing the rhythm of your pulse.
then, almost imperceptibly, a shadow drifts across the floor behind you, just at the corner of your eye. a shift, a sound, a movement that makes your stomach twist low and sharp. your breath catches. you freeze entirely.
“ Hmm…” Midari hums softly, mock contemplative, stepping slowly back into view. her eyes glint with amusement and something darker, sharper. “ I almost thought you’d have slipped away... almost thought i’d have to look harder. ”
you exhale sharply, nearly audibly, the blankets rustling slightly beneath you. panic and thrill coil together low in your stomach. your fingers clutch the folds, gripping, holding yourself small.
“ But no… ” she murmurs, circling again, voice light but sharp with amusement. “ You can’t hide forever. ” her head tilts slightly, eyes scanning like she’s already bored of how easy this is. “ Don’t make it boring… I’ll catch you anyway. ”
her footsteps return, faint taps across the floor, slow and teasing, drawing nearer, then retreating again. the game of distance she plays is maddening, close enough to remind you of her presence, far enough to make you gasping, trembling under the weight of anticipation.
your lungs burn slightly from shallow, frantic breaths, the adrenaline twisting low and sharp in your chest. each inhale tastes of warmth and fear and excitement, each exhale a confession you cannot voice.
and she notices. the smirk that tugs at the corner of her lips grows slightly, sharp, teasing, as if savoring the control she holds over your chest, over your thoughts, over every little twitch of your body.
and in that moment, frozen beneath the blankets, gasping, heart hammering, you realize: she is not just seeking you. she is playing with you. mind, body, anticipation, every sense tuned to the thrill of the hunt, every detail calibrated to make you burn just a little hotter, a little faster.
and you wouldn’t want it any other way.
Midari’s footsteps circle again, slow, deliberate, teasing. she pauses suddenly, mid-step, tilting her head as though listening, not for you, but for something more, something absent yet painfully obvious.
her eyes narrow, sharp, glinting with amusement and a faint edge of mock irritation.
“ Hmm… ” she murmurs, voice low, rolling across the room like distant thunder. “ So quiet, aren’t you?... not a word.... not a peep... ”
she takes another step, then another. the faint scrape of her feet against the polished floor sends a shiver straight down your spine.
“ I can hear your little heart racing… every shallow breath… ” she continues lazily, fingers dragging along the edge of a nearby table. the faint clicking of her purple nails against the surface echoes softly in the quiet house.
tap.
tap.
tap.
each sound lands directly in your chest.
“ But no voice... not a sound. ” she exhales slowly, almost dramatically.
“ Do you know how frustrating that is? ” another step brings her closer to the bed again, though not directly toward you.
instead she drifts past it, circling, her gaze sweeping lazily across the room as if she’s giving up. as if she’s bored, as if she hasn’t already mapped every corner of the space in her mind.
she murmurs, almost exhaling a laugh. “ How quiet you’ve been… it’s getting boring. ”
her fingers brush along the back of a chair as she passes, nails grazing the wood with a faint scratch.
your breath catches.
she pauses.
for a split second, the silence stretches tight.
then she chuckles.
your stomach drops.
Midari tilts her head slowly, listening again. “ You’re trying so hard to stay quiet… ” she hums softly, amused.
she drifts closer to the bed once more, footsteps slow, deliberate, almost lazy now.
your lungs burn, you try not to breathe too deeply. the blankets cling to your skin, warm and heavy, trapping every tiny movement you make.
Midari stops near the foot of the bed. the mattress creaks faintly as she leans one hand against it.
your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.
“ I want to hear it, doll face. ” she murmurs softly.
her fingers slide slowly along the blanket near your feet, tracing the folds without lifting them.
“ one little whisper… one tiny squeak.... ”
her purple nail hooks lightly into the fabric for a second before letting it fall again.
a tease, a test.
the air feels electric, your body refuses to move.
Midari hums again, almost thoughtful.
then—
suddenly,
she moves.
fast— but not reckless. calculated, precise. her hand brushes the edge of the blanket where you hide, fingers grazing your skin, electric, teasing. her body looms closer, almost impossibly close, enough for the warmth of her presence to press against you, to curve around the edges of your hiding spot.
“ Gotcha! ”
your heart stops.
but her hand lifts empty.
her eyes flick over the blankets, scanning, sharp and deliberate, lingering on the faint rise of your chest beneath the fabric. she huffs softly, the sound low, almost theatrical— a mixture of amusement, frustration, and something darker, sharper.
“ Hmm… ” she murmurs, tilting her head, letting her gaze trace the edge of the hiding spot.
“ I almost had you... almost. ” her voice is soft, teasing, playful, but there’s a flicker of mock disappointment there, deliberate. a performance, meant to twist low in your chest.
“ I reached out… and you slipped away. Just barely. ” she hums, a faint smile in her voice. “ Clever… or just lucky?.. ”
she steps closer, deliberate, slow, the warmth of her body pressing the air around you. every inch she closes tightens the tension like a wire wound too high, electric and teasing. the faintest brush of her fingertips grazes the blanket near you, enough to make your heart stutter, your breath hitch low and sharp.
the words are low, barely more than a breath, but they land with sharp intent. she leans in close enough that her presence alone fills the space beside your ear, her voice slipping in like a quiet taunt. there’s a faint edge of amusement in her eyes, watching for even the smallest reaction, like she’s already counting it. “ Don’t move… ” she murmurs, light and teasing. “ I like it better when you stay like this. ”
you can feel the precise edge of her body pressing close enough to make your pulse stutter. the blankets press around you both, wrapping in a cocoon of tension, warmth, anticipation. her hand traces along the sheet beside you, deliberate, teasing, reminding you that the line between safe and caught is thinner than the fabric separating you.
“ So quiet… ” she hums, almost bored by how still you are. “ But now you’re right where I want you. ” her eyes narrow slightly. “ Almost trembling… almost slipping up… almost making this interesting. Come on… don’t stop there. ”
a quiet breath of laughter escapes her.
her breath drifts across your skin, the faintest touch of teeth against a strand of hair, a tease, a warning, an invitation all at once. the air itself feels electric, charged with the thrill of the hunt, her dominance, your hiding, your racing pulse.
and she lingers there, impossibly close, letting the anticipation twist low and sharp in your chest, savoring every second before she steps back— just enough to make you feel the space, then drawing it tighter again, a dance of chase and tease, mind and body, danger and thrill.
then—
just slightly—
she pulls back.
only a few inches, only enough to make the air feel colder without her there.
her fingers continue tracing lazy patterns along the blanket beside you.
patient, teasing, savoring.
because the hunt is not over, not yet.
and the way your heart is racing beneath the covers tells her exactly how much longer she can make it last.
the room slowly falls quiet.
Midari’s footsteps fade, soft against the polished floor… then stop entirely.
no tapping. no teasing breath. no movement.
only silence.
for a moment, it feels like she’s gone— like she’s stepped away, circling elsewhere in the house, leaving space just big enough for your lungs to finally try and expand again.
the blankets feel heavier in the stillness.
your heartbeat doesn’t slow, but it stops screaming quite as loudly.
…maybe she really moved.
maybe—
“ Found you. ”
right beside your ear.
the blanket shifts too much, a faint movement, and Midari is there, impossibly fast, impossibly close, pressing against you before your pulse even registers the danger. the weight of her body atop yours is immediate, soft yet firm, a controlled force that pins you into the folds of the bed. the heat radiating from her presses against your skin, mixing with your own shallow, frantic breaths.
her hands settle beside your shoulders, careful, teasing, deliberate. her fingers graze lightly, tracing lines, marking the space, asserting her presence without violence. she tilts her head, hair brushing your cheek, eyes glinting with that sharp, teasing amusement you’ve learned to recognize.
“ There you are… ” she murmurs, voice low, almost amused. “ I was starting to think you’d actually gotten away from me. ” her eyes sharpen slightly, entertained. “ Don’t get comfortable. ”
she leans closer, and her lips brush against your forehead, teasing, deliberate. your chest rises, your breath catching. she smiles against your skin, teeth grazing lightly over your jaw, a whisper of her presence, a tease you can feel down to your core.
“ Did you miss me? ” she murmurs, voice low with amusement. “ I was starting to think you’d gotten bored of the game. ”
Midari remains above you, her weight settling just enough to keep you pinned beneath her without effort. for a moment she says nothing. her gaze drifts over your face slowly, thoughtful, until it lowers to the side of your throat.
“ …Oh? ” her head tilts slightly.
two fingers slide to the side of your neck, light but deliberate. she presses them there, and pauses— feeling the rapid pulse jumping beneath your skin.
Midari goes quiet, the corner of her mouth lifts with sudden interest.
“ …That’s fast. ” her thumb shifts, pressing lightly again as if confirming it. the rhythm beneath her touch doesn’t slow.
curiosity sparks in her eyes.
without warning, she leans closer. slowly. her face dips toward the exact spot beneath her fingers, her breath brushing warm across your neck. for a moment she just hovers there, studying the place where your pulse beats wildly beneath the surface.
then, almost experimentally, her lips press against it.
the kiss lingers only for a second— just long enough for her to feel the frantic rhythm beneath her mouth.
your breath catches.
“ Mi—Midari— ”
the name barely forms before a sudden laugh bursts from her.
it’s quick. bright. almost delighted. she lifts her head slightly, shoulders shaking once with the sound as her fingers remain pressed lightly against the side of your neck.
Midari’s thumb lingers against the spot on your neck for another second, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath it.
“ …It got faster. ” the amusement in her voice doesn’t fade.
instead, she leans a little closer again, curiosity still written plainly across her face. the blankets shift softly with the movement, trapping the warmth between you both. the space beneath you feels tighter now, the air heavier.
her hair brushes lightly across your cheek as she dips her head again, close enough that your breath catches before you can stop it.
Midari notices.
a quiet hum escapes her, thoughtful, entertained. her fingers slide slightly along the side of your throat, tracing the line there before settling again near the racing pulse.
for a moment she just watches you.
then her grin returns— slow, sharp, delighted.
“ …You’re terrible at hiding things. ”
the blankets rustle again as she shifts her weight, settling closer without really asking permission. the movement presses the space between you smaller, warmer, harder to ignore.
Its getting hard to breathe under the sheets with you..
Midari doesn’t seem bothered by it at all.
if anything, she looks entertained.
her hand drifts lazily from your neck to the fabric beside your shoulder, fingers brushing the sheets as though she’s considering her next move.
“ …This is more fun than chasing you. ” her voice lowers slightly, playful, almost thoughtful.
and she doesn’t pull away.
Midari’s grin widens, eyes bright with that restless, dangerous excitement that always looks like it’s one second away from turning into something worse.
“ Hard to breathe? ” she echoes, letting out a short, breathy laugh like she finds the whole situation genuinely entertaining. “ Yeah… I get it. ”
her fingers linger near your skin for a second longer than necessary, like she’s still testing something she doesn’t fully understand yet— then she shifts closer without warning, too fast to properly think about.
not gentle. not careful.
just impulsive.
the movement knocks the space out between you, the sheets tightening around both of you as everything suddenly feels smaller, hotter, louder.
Midari doesn’t hesitate. her mouth meets yours in a messy, sudden collision— more instinct than plan. it’s uncoordinated, slightly off-angle, like she didn’t bother to think about doing it right, only about doing it now.
there’s a brief, electric moment where everything just hits at once— her breath, your reaction, the heat trapped under the sheets.
and then—
the faint, unmistakable metallic click of her tongue piercing against you, quick and accidental, like she’s just as surprised by the intensity of it as she is amused.
a quiet, breathy laugh slips from her mid-contact.
her hand grabs at the sheets beside you, not to control anything, but to steady herself in the moment she clearly didn’t think through.
“ …Huh. ”
for a brief moment Midari just stares at you. not embarrassed, not apologetic. just… intrigued. her eyes flick across your face quickly, catching every little reaction like she’s collecting evidence.
and then— she bursts out laughing. not a polite laugh, not quiet. a sharp, delighted sound that spills out of her like she just witnessed something incredibly entertaining.
“ Did you see your face?! ” she gasps between laughs, shoulders shaking slightly. “ Wow… that was actually kind of amazing. ”
she presses the back of her hand over her mouth for a second, trying— and failing—to contain another burst of laughter.
“ I barely even did anything and you look like your brain just short-circuited. ” her grin widens again, wicked and bright.
“ Relax, sugar. ” she adds, voice still bubbling with amusement. “ You’re acting like something insane just happened. ”
Midari tilts her head slightly, studying you again with that same sharp curiosity.
“ …Although, ” she muses aloud, tapping a finger lightly against her own lip like she’s thinking, “ your heart’s still going crazy. ”
another laugh escapes her.
“ That’s hilarious. ” she leans back just a little, still grinning, clearly enjoying the chaos she just caused.
“ Seriously… you should see yourself right now! ”
Midari laughs once more. it’s that jagged, breathless sound that always feels like it’s vibrating right against your ribs.
then—
the laughter doesn’t stop, but it changes. it rounds off into a hum, and her expression shifts.
she gets an idea.
it’s visible in the way her gaze locks onto yours, turning sharp and dangerously focused. the playful amusement is still there, but it’s suddenly backed by that familiar, reckless hunger for a real spark.
“ Hey. ”
she leans in again, her weight shifting on the mattress, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper that makes the air between you feel even thinner. a slow, lopsided grin pulls at her lips.
“ What if we made this interesting again? A game. Just us. Something that actually has consequences. ”
she tilts her head, her tongue poking out to dampen her lip as she watches for your reaction, her eyes glinting with a dangerous kind of excitement.
“ Russian Roulette. ”
“ …What..? ”
Midari blinks once. then she exhales a short laugh through her nose, like the tension never meant anything to begin with.
“ Relax, ” she says, voice lighter now, almost playful. “ I’m just joking. ”
her fingers move near you for a second longer than necessary.
then she tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting with quiet amusement as they flick back to your reaction.
“ …Yeah, ” she adds, voice softer but sharper in intent, “ Your pulse definitely just jumped again. ”
“ …You’re still thinking about it, ” she says suddenly, almost amused, like she’s caught you doing something obvious.
her fingers shift slightly near you again, not quite touching in any meaningful way—just enough to keep you aware of her presence.
she leans in. slow this time, deliberate. close enough that the space between you tightens again, like the room forgets how to breathe properly.
her gaze flicks down for a second— your reaction, your expression, the smallest hesitation— then back to your eyes.
“ …Hah. ” a short laugh slips out of her, soft but sharp at the edges. “ You really are easy to read. ”
Midari still doesn’t pull away. instead, she sinks further into the heat of the blankets, her body a restless weight that refuses to let the moment settle. her hand moves with a sudden, jerky sort of grace, fingers sliding from the sheets to the back of your neck, pulling you just that fraction of an inch closer until the tip of her nose brushes yours. the air is thick, smelling of skin and the sharp, manic electricity she carries like a physical scent.
“ Let’s try a different game, ” she murmurs, her voice losing its jagged edge and turning into something low and dangerously focused.
I don't wanna play no games..
she doesn't wait for a response. she shifts again, her weight settling more firmly against you as she narrows the space until there’s nowhere left for the heat to escape. she leans in, her breath ghosting over your skin, as she prepares to dive headfirst into the chaos she’s created.
the air under the sheets grows heavy, stifling and electric, as she moves with a sudden, renewed energy that knows no floor and no ceiling.
and then— just as quickly— it begins to blur.
the pressure, the closeness, the heat of the moment doesn’t vanish, but it fades into something distant, like it’s being sealed away behind layers of silence.
outside the room, the night carries on without permission.
a soft wind drifts past the window, brushing against the glass in slow, wandering patterns. it’s calm, almost indifferent, as if it has no idea what just happened inside.
the curtains shift slightly with each passing breeze, lifting and falling in a lazy rhythm.
above it all, the moon hangs low. bright, quiet, unbothered—casting pale silver light across the room in soft fragments. It spills through the gaps in the curtains, painting faint shapes across the floor, across the bed, across everything that was just too close a moment ago.
the world outside doesn’t rush. it doesn’t react. It just continues.
and somewhere in that stillness, the night settles deeper— like it’s pretending nothing ever changed at all.
—
the room still feels warm. not from heat anymore— just from memory.
from something that lingers in the fabric of the air, stubborn and invisible, like it refuses to admit it’s over.
outside, night has fully settled in. the world beyond the window is quiet in that deep, uninterrupted way that only happens when everything is asleep or pretending to be. a soft wind moves through the trees, slow and uncertain, brushing against the glass like it’s trying not to disturb anything inside.
moonlight spills across the room in pale fragments. it catches on the edges of the bed, stretches thin over the floor, and pools in corners where shadows don’t quite reach. everything feels half-lit— like the room itself can’t decide whether to stay awake or disappear.
and then—
silence changes. not outside, inside you.
she’s gone.
Midari left earlier without much explanation, like it didn’t matter enough to define. just a shift in energy, a door opening, then closing again somewhere deeper in the house. no words that mattered, no lingering goodbye that meant anything you could hold onto.
now there’s only you. still.
and the weight of everything she left behind.
your fingers curl slightly into the blanket, but it doesn’t help. it never really does. the quiet only makes thoughts louder.
I'm tired of always chasing, chasing after you...
the words don’t belong to the room, but they echo anyway.
soft. unwanted. honest in a way that hurts more than anything she ever said out loud.
you exhale slowly, like you’re trying to push something out of your chest that doesn’t want to leave.
it’s frustrating, isn’t it?
how easy it is to let her take up all the space. how you always end up where she leaves you— waiting, reacting, adjusting, never quite catching up.
the moon shifts slightly as clouds pass over it, dimming the light for a moment before letting it return. even that feels indifferent. like it doesn’t care who stays or who leaves.
you pull the blanket closer, not for warmth, but for something to hold onto. but it doesn’t fix the hollow feeling settling in your ribs.
and somewhere in the distance of the house, life continues without you for a moment too long.
quiet, unbothered. like nothing at all was supposed to change.
you stare up at the ceiling for a long moment.
breathing in,
breathing out.
trying to steady something that doesn’t want to settle.
it’s stupid, really.
the way your mind keeps circling back to her, like it refuses to let the moment end cleanly. like it keeps replaying every look, every word, every tiny shift in her voice as if there’s some hidden meaning buried somewhere you just haven’t uncovered yet.
you think to yourself;
I don't give a fuck about you anyways.
Whoever said I gave a shit 'bout you?
the sentence hangs there, thin and brittle in the quiet.
for a second you almost believe it. almost.
your fingers tighten slightly against the blanket, the fabric wrinkling beneath your grip as your thoughts turn sharper, meaner—directed inward now.
because if you didn’t care… you wouldn’t still be lying here thinking about her.
a bitter laugh escapes you, small and humorless.
you roll onto your side, facing the faint glow of the window, watching the moon disappear behind a drifting cloud before slowly reappearing again.
“ Yeah, ” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else.
your gaze drifts toward the door she left through earlier.
You never share your toys or communicate,
I guess I'm just a playdate to you.
—
morning arrives slowly.
not with noise, not with movement— just with light.
a thin beam of pale sunlight slips through the curtains, stretching across the floor and climbing lazily toward the bed. dust drifts in the air, turning slowly in the quiet, like the whole room is still deciding whether it wants to wake up yet.
your eyes open reluctantly.
for a moment, everything feels distant. soft, unclear.
then awareness settles back into place.
Midari's room.
and the faint, rhythmic sound of something mechanical clicking somewhere nearby.
you shift slightly under the blankets, the sheets still warm from sleep, and turn your head.
Midari is there. not looking at you, not noticing you.
she’s sitting on the floor beside the bed, legs loosely folded, completely absorbed in something in front of her. the faint glow of a screen flickers against her face, changing with every movement of whatever game she’s playing. headphones cover her ears, sealing her inside her own small world of noise and flashing light.
she doesn’t even glance back.
for a few seconds you just watch her.
the quiet stretches awkwardly, your throat feels dry.
“ Midari…? ” you try, voice still rough from sleep.
nothing.
her fingers move quickly, focused, tapping or pressing something you can’t quite see from the bed. her expression shifts with concentration— brows narrowing slightly, mouth pulling into a crooked grin when something clearly goes her way.
you push yourself up a little, leaning against the headboard.
“ Hey. ”
still nothing.
the game sounds faint through the headphones— barely audible bursts of noise escaping into the room. enough to explain why she hasn’t heard you at all.
you exhale slowly.
Wake up in your bedroom and there's nothing left to say.
the thought drifts through your mind without warning.
your eyes linger on her back for a moment longer before you try again, a little louder this time.
“ Midari. ”
she tilts her head slightly—
but not toward you.
just adjusting the headphones. still playing.
When I try to talk, you're always playing board games.
the words settle quietly in your chest as the morning light grows a little brighter, and the sound of her game continues like the room only belongs to one of you.
for a moment, you almost speak again.
then you stop.
a quiet thought slips through instead—
I wish I had monopoly over your mind.
your gaze lingers on her back, the way she leans forward with focus, like nothing else in the room exists.
I wish I didn’t care all the time.
Midari doesn’t look up.
the faint sounds from her headphones leak into the quiet room— soft bursts of noise, little flashes of victory or loss that only seem to matter to her. her attention stays fixed forward, completely absorbed, like the rest of the world has been turned down to nothing.
you watch her for a moment longer, waiting.
just in case she glances back.
she doesn’t.
something in your chest sinks again, slow and heavy, like it’s settling into a place it’s already been too many times before.
you look away first.
your gaze drifts to the window, to the pale morning light spilling across the floor, trying to focus on anything that isn’t her sitting just a few feet away.
I don’t give a fuck about you anyway,
Whoever said I gave a shit about you?
you shift under the blanket, pulling it tighter around yourself as if that could hide the sting crawling up your throat.
your eyes flick back toward her without meaning to.
still playing, still silent.
a bitter thought slips through before you can stop it.
You never share your toys or communicate,
your jaw tightens slightly.
I guess I’m just a playdate to you.
—
the living room feels larger than usual.
morning light filters through the windows in thin, pale streaks, stretching across the floor and touching the edges of the furniture like hesitant fingers. the air is quiet except for the faint rustle of movement near the doorway.
Midari stands there.
she moves in slow motion near the door, each step deliberate, calculated, as though the world itself has slowed just for her. her hair catches the light at the edges, a halo of pale gold and shadow, and even from across the room, from where you kneel, it is impossible not to notice the way she commands every corner of the space without effort. she is not looking at you. she is not acknowledging you. and that is the cruelest tease of all.
you linger a few steps behind her. close enough that reaching out would be easy, close enough that saying something should be simple.
but neither happens.
your fingers twitch slightly at your side, the instinct to stop her rising and fading in the same breath.
Ring around the Rosie...
the thought drifts through your mind like a slow, looping echo.
I never know… I never know what you need.
Midari shifts her weight slightly near the door, distracted by something outside, by the open world waiting for her attention.
she doesn’t turn around.
you watch her instead.
trying to read something in the angle of her shoulders, the way she stands, the pause before she leaves.
trying to guess what would make her stay.
Ring around the Rosie...
the words repeat softly in your head.
I wanna give you… wanna give you... what you need.
but you don’t know what that is.
and she never tells you.
You know I give a fuck about you everyday...
your chest tightens. heart hammers. your hands press into the floorboards as if you could anchor yourself, as if holding still could stop the pull in your stomach, the coil of want and shame that curls low and taut. every fiber of you is screaming at you, at her, at the truth that you’ve spent all seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, denying.
Guess it's time that I tell you the truth...
If I share my toys, will you let me stay?
if you share everything you feel—everything you’ve been hiding, everything you’ve been denying— will she even care? will she stop walking? will she turn back?
you press a hand to your chest, fingers splayed, feeling the frantic pulse beneath your palm.
your stomach coils with longing and fear, with the shame of knowing how easy it is to fall under her control, how willingly you’ve let yourself be pulled into her orbit.
and yet, even as the truth presses unbearably against your mind, the ache in your chest, the warmth pooling low in your stomach, the sharp twist of guilt—you know you can’t turn back. you don’t want to.
the words feel like confession and surrender all at once, raw and hot and impossible to undo. and though she has not heard a thing, though she has not turned, though she is just Midari walking in slow motion, she has already won.
because this is not about her noticing. this is not about a game she is playing. it is about the fact that you’ve finally admitted it. finally felt it. finally let yourself know that she has you completely—heart, mind, body—and there is no going back.
and so you kneel there, chest tight, pulse racing, breath uneven, hands trembling slightly against the floor. your eyes follow her slow retreat, memorizing, worshipping, aching, realizing that she has always been this untouchable, teasing, dangerous, perfect force in your life—and that you would let her have it all.
and you wouldn’t run. you wouldn’t hide. you wouldn’t deny it any longer.
Midari lingers in the doorway for a moment longer. just long enough that it almost feels deliberate.
morning light pours in behind her, turning her into a silhouette edged in gold, the rest of the world waiting patiently on the other side of the threshold. for a heartbeat, the moment hangs there—thin, fragile, like it could still bend in another direction.
but it doesn’t.
she steps forward,
outside.
the movement is easy, careless, like leaving was never something she had to think about.
the door begins to close. slowly. the space between you narrows inch by inch, the light shrinking with it, until the last glimpse of her disappears beyond the frame.
then—
click.
the sound settles through the living room like the final note of something unfinished. you’re still standing where you were, still facing the door. like if you stay there long enough, it might open again.
but the house only grows quieter, the morning light shifting across the floor while the space she left behind slowly, stubbornly fills with silence.
this is a work of fiction. any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental and not intended. all characters, musics, animes depicted are not owned by me and belong to their respective creators. this work is purely fictional and for illustrative purposes only.
