noteworthy mentions | reader still lives with their parents lol, reader lives in those 90s final girl bedrooms, hints of fight club mentioning, hakari is strangely possessive, kirara is an instigator, no gender is specified however reader is implied male ( heavily self indulgent ) / wc | 1.4k
[ inspo for HOW TO CRUSH A HEART IN TWO | Hakari & Kirara wip ]
You are about sixty-four percent sure they want you dead.
It’s late — so late the house has gone completely still — and you are the only sentient being left moving as you leave the kitchen with your midnight snack. The floorboards creak in familiar places. You step around them carefully, passing your parents’ door like a trained criminal.
You aren’t expecting company. Aren’t expecting anything in the dead of night. Your phone is on silent, and a book is waiting for you on the bed.
You slip into your room, quietly triumphant at how silent you’ve been. You turn to close the door, ready to relax.
You don’t get the chance.
Because when you turn around, there is someone climbing through your window.
You don’t pause to think.
Your body reacts first.
The sandwich, chips, and bottled water leave your hands as you lunge forward. They hit the floor with a heavy thud. You make it two steps.
That’s all you get.
A hand catches your wrist mid-swing. Momentum shifts. Your back hits the wall beside the door in one smooth, efficient motion. Not hard enough to jolt, but hard enough to keep you there.
You don’t even see it happen.
One second you’re attacking. The next, you’re pinned. Helpless.
A palm slides from your chest to the back of your head, steady but unyielding. The other hand clamps over your mouth before the yell leaves your throat.
Your heart slams so violently you’re sure it echoes.
For a split second, you think this is it.
Then you look up and meet familiar dark eyes.
Hakari stares down at you — not breathless. Not startled.
Calm.
Almost amused, but not fully.
There’s something sharper there tonight.
He holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary before slowly lifting a finger to his lips.
Shh.
Only when you nod and he’s certain you won’t scream does he remove his hand.
He doesn’t step back immediately.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “You swing first at everyone who comes to visit?”
You shove him hard.
He lets himself fall back onto your bed, laughing low in his throat like this is the highlight of his night.
You whip toward the window.
Kirara swings her legs inside gracefully, dusting herself off. She adjusts her top, then looks up at you with a small, knowing smile.
“Hey, you.”
You press your fingers to your temple.
“What the hell are you doing here?” you whisper harshly.
Neither of them speaks, but Kirara’s gaze flickers to Hakari for longer than it should.
“You weren’t at the club,” she says first, simply. “So we came to check.”
To… check?
Hakari sprawls across your bed like he owns it. Kirara joins him easily, settling beside him. His hand slides to her waist automatically, fingers resting low.
“He won,” she adds lightly. “Yuji. It got loud.”
Hakari hums in agreement.
You stare at them.
Okay.
Seventy-two percent sure you’re going to prison for murder.
You open your mouth to demand they leave — that the fun is over — but. . .
Knock. Knock.
Your soul exits your body.
“Hey. What was that noise?”
Your father’s voice.
Kirara straightens instantly.
Hakari doesn’t panic.
He sits up slowly, eyes flicking toward the door. You know what he’s thinking.
You are going to die.
You react first, before he can.
“Yeah! I just… uh—” Your brain short-circuits. “I fell off my chair.”
Silence.
“What?”
You scramble. The open window. The food on the floor. The criminals on your bed.
“Moths,” you say desperately. “They flew in. I was studying. They swarmed the lamp and then me, and I leaned too far.”
You tip your chair over for evidence. Flip your laptop open. Kick your fallen food under the desk.
Hakari watches. He is enjoying this.
You crack the door open just enough. Kirara scoots higher against Hakari, who almost lets out a laugh — if it weren’t for Kirara’s hand falling over his mouth.
Your father squints past you at the tipped chair and laptop. He looks exhausted, and you’re thankful he didn’t come up with his glasses.
“Keep it down. Your mom has an early morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaves.
You shut the door carefully.
Slowly.
Then you turn.
Hakari is already on his feet.
He crosses the room in a few strides and shuts the window properly this time. The latch clicks into place.
“Wouldn’t want more moths,” he says evenly.
You glare at him.
Kirara slides off the bed and quietly helps gather your forgotten food. She doesn’t tease you. Doesn’t laugh.
She just hands you your crushed sandwich with a sympathetic look. You take it and toss it — you know you’ll have to clean it all yourself tomorrow morning.
You are so tired.
You flop face-first onto the edge of your mattress.
The bed dips beside you. Hakari settles in the middle without asking. Kirara curls into his right side.
“A text would’ve been nice,” you mutter into your sheets.
Hakari hums.
You sit up sharply. “That’s not an answer.”
He looks at you. Just looks at you — and you lose it.
“That isn’t an apology.” Your voice is barely at the cusp of a whisper, and if it goes on, you know your father will walk back upstairs. You can’t seem to care now, though. You stand.
“Is this some joke to you — my freedom? Do you get some kick out of this?” you ask heatedly.
He stands with you, reaching for you, but you swat his hand away.
Then something shifts.
He stares at you.
Then starts walking toward you.
Slow.
Measured.
You don’t react fast enough.
Your back hits the wall again.
His hand plants beside your head. The other settles on your waist.
Not playful. Not loose. Secure.
His thumb presses into the fabric at your hip.
“You think I wouldn’t handle it?” he asks quietly.
There’s no grin.
No teasing.
“What?” You feel sweaty.
“If your dad walked in, you think I’d let that fall on you?”
You swallow.
His face is closer now. You can feel the warmth of him. His gaze drags over your expression, searching.
“You weren’t at the club,” he continues, voice lower. “Didn’t answer your phone.”
His fingers tighten slightly.
“I don’t like that.”
Not controlling.
But not casual either.
From the bed, Kirara watches in silence.
Not alarmed. Observing.
“He was distracted all night,” she says softly. “Kept checking the door.”
Hakari doesn’t look at her, but his jaw tightens.
Kirara tilts her head slightly. “You worry,” she adds, gentle. Not accusing.
Hakari’s grip shifts higher on your waist — like he just remembered where he was.
“Kirara,” he adds. A warning.
“You read too much into things,” he says flatly.
Kirara only hums, unconvinced.
You’re hyperaware of the way his hand hasn’t left you.
Of the way his body blocks you in.
Of how deliberate it feels.
“I’m not trying to get you in trouble,” he says finally.
It sounds like a confession.
He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t apologize again.
He just looks at you like you are something he’s calculating around.
Kirara shifts closer on the bed, resting her chin in her palm.
“You don’t have to hover,” she says lightly.
It isn’t sharp.
It isn’t teasing.
Just. . . observational.
Hakari exhales through his nose.
“I’m not hovering.”
His hand moves as soon as he says the words, and he steps back — but not far.
Later, the three of you settle under the blankets. Hakari in the middle. Of course.
Kirara curls into his left side.
You lie on the right, careful not to intrude.
You create space.
He notices.
Minutes pass.
You think he’s asleep.
Then his arm snakes around your waist.
Firm.
Purposeful.
He pulls you against him until your back presses flush to his chest.
You stiffen.
His grip tightens instantly.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to stop you from moving.
“Stop trying to put distance there,” he murmurs against your hair.
His voice is rough. Not fully asleep.
You don’t respond.
On his other side, Kirara shifts.
Her fingers brush lightly against your forearm where it rests over his.
A small touch.
Reassuring.
Not claiming.
Accepting.
Hakari’s hand slides higher, settling just under your ribs.
Holding you there.
Like he’s decided something.
Like he just isn’t ready to say it out loud.
You lie there in the dark, caught between them.
And for the first time, you don’t feel like an outsider.
You feel like something being slowly pulled inward.
noteworthy mentions | wallflower!reader, modern!au,not-so-one-sided-double-crush, Megumi and Itadori are together / wc | just over 1k.
[ layout to the fic IN EVERY WAY, ITS YOU | itafushi wip ]
Itadori Yuji who is the campus golden boy. Captain of the baseball team and overall sports guru, with a charming toothy smile and a bubbly attitude that makes people forget their own names. Who struggles in his classes but stays afloat with the help of his boyfriend, Fushiguro Megumi.
Fushiguro Megumi who is a renowned name around campus — and not just because of his lineage. His name lines the Biology building in polished plaques, and his first-year research papers are still handed out as models of excellence. He who sits through the roaring chaos of every game his boyfriend, Itadori Yuji, plays — just to see him smile from the field.
Itadori Yuji and Fushiguro Megumi who are the campus IT couple. Untouchable. Polished. Golden. Everyone knows them. Everyone watches them. People debate whether they want to date them or simply bask in their orbit. A newsletter once dedicated half a page to a photo of Megumi kissing Yuji’s cheek after a championship win. It was framed as “devotion.”
Lovers Itadori Yuji and Fushiguro Megumi who happen to be your best friends. Inseparable since high school. You were there before the first confession, before the first fight, before the first “I love you.” You watched it grow carefully, deliberately, like something planted with intention.
Lovers Itafushi who have no idea you are in love with both of them.
Not a crush. Not admiration.
Love.
The quiet, terrifying kind.
You who try to kill it before it roots too deep. You who tell yourself it’s just admiration. Just proximity. That it’s habit. You who swallow it down every time it surfaces, because you don’t want to ruin anything.
But . . .
Lovers Itadori Yuji and Fushiguro Megumi who make it impossible to get over them with all the small, devastating things they do.
Itadori Yuji who waits outside your late-night lecture. You always notice him first — pink hair peeking past the doorframe, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, rocking on his heels like he’s trying to look casual. He pretends he just got there. He never just got there. When you approach him after the class and you tell him he doesn’t have to wait, his brows knit together like you’ve suggested something absurd. “Why would I let you walk alone?” he asks, as if it’s instinct. As if it’s obvious. He carries your bag. He walks a half step closer to the street side. He never comments on it. Neither do you.
Fushiguro Megumi who writes your notes when you’re too exhausted to hold your pen steady. The lecture drags. Your vision swims. You spent the night finishing assignments because failure is not an option for you. Eight-page paper submitted with five minutes to spare and Powerpoint finished at 3 a.m. Megumi notices before you speak. He always notices. He rolls your chair closer, gently adjusts your posture, lets your head fall against his shoulder like it belongs there. “Sleep,” he murmurs. His voice is softer than he uses with anyone else. You wake to a perfectly formatted PDF waiting in your inbox. Detailed. Precise. With extra explanations in the margins, because he knows what you struggle with. You never ask him to do that. He never needs you to.
Itadori Yuji who insists on picking you up first for every hangout. The horn blares once because he knows you’ll come running. He beams when he sees you, like you are the part of the evening he was waiting for. He opens your door. He asks about your day. He listens without interrupting. When he thanks you for being his passenger partner, it feels heavier than it should. You stare out the window so he won’t see your expression.
Fushiguro Megumi who FaceTimes you during Yuji’s games when you can’t attend. The audio is chaos, but he keeps you updated in clipped commentary. He angles the camera whenever Yuji comes into frame on the big screen, narrating like an amateur sportscaster. He gets half the terminology wrong and pretends he doesn’t care when you laugh at him. After the game, he keeps the call going just long enough for Yuji to see your face.
“You watched?” Yuji asks.
“Of course they did,” Megumi answers for you.
And something in your chest twists at the way he says it.
Lovers Itadori Yuji and Fushiguro Megumi who don’t realize they are wrecking you with every casual kindness. Especially when they send gym pictures. Mirror selfies — Megumi holding the phone, face half-hidden, Yuji grinning beside him with his sleeve rolled up as he flexes. Megumi copies the pose. The the text that follows is simple: bulk season.
Your heart does not survive bulk season
You stare at the image longer than you should. At the way Megumi stands closer to Yuji than necessary. At the way Yuji leans slightly into him. You wonder where you would stand if you were there.
You close the app.
Kugisaki Nobara who watches you unravel in real time. Who knows the difference between a crush and heartbreak. Who rolls her eyes and tells you, again, that this is not subtle. That no one FaceTimes a friend like that. That no one waits outside lectures like that. That no one color-codes notes like that unless . . .
You refuse to finish the thought.
You who refuse to believe there could ever be room for you. Because you’ve seen what they have. You’ve watched them choose each other every day. You will not gamble that.
Two is a pair. Three is a crowd
They are solid. They are real. You will not wedge yourself into something that doesn’t have space for you. Don’t be selfish. Don’t be greedy. You swallow your feelings and stand in the warmth of their love, pretending it doesn’t burn.
You, unaware that lovers Itadori Yuji and Fushiguro Megumi are unraveling too. Who sit in the gym locker room staring at the message Todo just sent from Megumi’s phone. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t careful. It was closer to confession than either of them are ready for.
Yuji’s face burns red. “What if we ruin everything?”
Megumi stares at your unread status. Ten seconds. Fifteen.
“We already are,” he mutters.
Maki tells them they’re cowards. Todo says love is not a tactical operation. Nobara sends a single message:
your drunk boyfriends forget about your allergies :(
noteworthy mentions | gojo twins [ toru ( frat!jo ) and sato ( nerd!jo ) ] mentions of drinking, reader has seafood and cheese allergy, twin!au, modern!au / wc. 860
“…a-and then he rode a scooter around in his boxers,” Sato slurs. “Boxers?! It’s brief season, for fuck’s sake — does he not feel that?”
Sato Gojo does not ramble.
He speaks when necessary. He speaks when efficient. He speaks when correcting his dumber half Toru Gojo ( his words, always ). He does not tell stories.
Which is how you know he’s absolutely obliterated.
Toru laughs so hard he nearly drops his brother, and it’s a miracle Sato keeps his grip on the takeout as you attempt to funnel both of them through the apartment door like two uncooperative IKEA dressers.
“Sounds like you had fun,” you say, already reaching for the bags before gravity wins.
You lock the door behind them just in time to watch them collapse onto the couch in a heap of limbs, laughter, and zero structural integrity. You smile fondly as you rescue the food and retreat to the dining table like a survivor.
Toru’s frat throws parties constantly, but it’s rare for both brothers to attend. With enough begging — and a deeply concerning amount of blackmail — Toru can convince Sato to sacrifice his sanity and show face. He complains every step of the way, but Sato always comes back glowing, like he hates fun but is genetically incapable of not having it.
You would’ve gone too, but unfortunately academics exist. And you refuse to let a lackluster lab partner derail your future for the sake of vibes.
“So much fun,” Toru announces, suddenly appearing behind you like a haunting. “You gotta come next time, babe.”
Before you can respond, he scoops you up and presses an aggressively affectionate kiss to your cheek.
You laugh, squirming. “Put me down before you drop me.”
Sato stumbles over next, steadier than he should be, and kisses your cheek as well — soft, deliberate — before turning his full attention to unpacking the food like this is now his life’s purpose. You escape Toru’s grip to grab utensils.
Then the smell hits you.
Oh no.
You pivot quietly toward the fridge.
“Babe,” Toru says instantly, deeply offended. “Why are you avoiding the food? We got food.”
“I can’t eat that, Jo,” you reply, starting the microwave.
When you turn back, both of them are staring at you like you just confessed to tax fraud. Same squint. Same tilt of the head. Same expression of shared concern.
You snort.
You return to the table, and Sato slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close like he might physically prevent you from making bad decisions. “What do you mean?”
You gesture at the spread. “Shrimp in the rice. Cheese in the pasta. I’m allergic.”
You gently nudge Sato’s glasses back up his nose. He blinks at you, processing at dial-up speed. You remember when they found out — Toru declared he’ll fight the next shrimp that fries rice, and Sato interrogated the server like he was preparing for trial.
Toru suddenly stands.
“Oh no.”
Your soul leaves your body. “What.”
“So you can’t have any of this,” he says slowly, devastation setting in. He spreads his arms in front of the containers like a human shield. “None.”
You laugh. “It’s fine. I’ll eat what we made yesterday.”
“No,” he says firmly, shoving the food farther away. “Baby, I don’t want you to die.”
You fold in half. Sato smacks his arm.
“They won’t die if they don’t eat it, idiot.”
“I won’t die at all,” you wheeze.
“Oh.” Toru exhales in relief. “Okay. Cool.”
He immediately grabs a fork and shovels food into his mouth.
“Stop—” Sato starts.
Too late.
“You can’t eat it either, dumbass!” Sato yells, leaping up.
Toru freezes mid-chew. “Why not?”
“You’ll poison them if you kiss now!”
You’re gone. Absolutely gone. You nearly slide out of your chair as Toru’s eyes widen in horror and he almost spits the food back into the container before Sato drags him to the sink.
“Bathroom,” Sato snaps. “Go disinfect.”
“Don’t call me dumb,” Toru protests, wiping his face with his shirt. “You’re the one who was sober enough to order!”
With an audible huff, he still stumbles obediently down the hall.
The microwave has been screaming for attention for a solid minute now.
Sato sinks to his knees in front of you and presses his forehead to your thigh, utterly miserable. “M’sorry, baby.”
You run your fingers through his hair, still smiling. “It’s okay.”
“No,” he insists, using far too much effort to stand and then wobble out. “It’s not.”
“Where are you going?” You call.
“Fixing it!”
He disappears.
When the chaos finally dies — food gone, Toru disinfected, leftovers retrieved — you end up on the couch, wedged between them. Toru sprawls half on top of you, arm slung over your middle like a satisfied cat. Sato curls in at your side, cheek pressed to your shoulder, glasses abandoned somewhere unsafe.
“Code shrimp averted,” Toru murmurs sleepily.
Sato hums in agreement.
You sigh, warm and surrounded and mildly bruised, and decide you’ll explain everything to Shoko later; because when she pulls up ten minutes after that, absolutely furious about the barrage of messages, there is no way this story is making sense sober.
sadly i have fallen victim to the twin gojo propaganda and i had to write this silly little thing before i could ever hope to finish all the other stuff i have planned for my birth month so do expect a lot more twin!au and not just for this evil devil duo
noteworthy mentions | gn!reader, noelle x reader, just purely fluff honestly
Among the clang of steel and the sharp scent of antiseptic, the Fifth Company of the Knights of Favonius moved with practiced rhythm. Bandages folded, tinctures brewed, reports stacked in neat, disciplined piles. You had grown used to the pace — the organized chaos of combat medics who could stitch a wound as swiftly as they could wield a blade. As captain, it was your duty to keep that rhythm steady: to maintain order, and to see every knight return home with as few scars as possible.
Word of Grand Master Varka’s settlement in Natlan had reached you weeks ago. You knew what it meant: deployment. Once the expedition made way for Nod-Krai, you’d be among those sent to assist. Preparation consumed most of your days — and rightfully so. It was the Grand Master’s order, after all. Still, even as captain of the Fifth Company, no title or rank could shield you from the endless stream of problems that found their way to your desk.
A week before departure, one such problem sauntered into your office — announced by the familiar click of polished boots and the faint scent of wine.
Kaeya Alberich leaned against your doorframe as if he owned it, a lopsided grin already in place.
“Captain,” he drawled, “you look positively buried in paperwork. I’d offer to help, but I’ve always been more of a moral-support kind of man.”
You didn’t look up. “You’re here because you need something.”
“Sharp as ever,” he said, pushing off the frame. “You wound me, truly. I’d like to think I drop by just to visit my favorite medic captain now and then.”
You raised an eyebrow. “And I’d like to think you’re capable of being honest for once. What is it?”
He sighed dramatically, flopping into the chair across from you. “If you insist on ruining the charm of small talk… I’m here to trade tasks. Jean’s latest assignment, to be precise.”
That earned him a flat look. “Kaeya, the Acting Grand Master doesn’t hand out tasks for decoration. What is it this time?”
He leaned back, studying the ceiling as though it might save him. “Oh, nothing dire. Just — let’s say — a small favor involving our ever-diligent maid-in-training, Noelle. She’s been… overworking herself again. You know how she gets.”
You groaned softly, head falling into your hands. “You mean you don’t want to handle it.”
Kaeya’s grin sharpened. “Now, now. I never said that. I merely thought you, of all people, might have a gentler touch. Besides…” He tilted his head, pretending to think. “Jean did say to keep her from pushing herself too hard — and you’re the only one who’s ever managed to convince her to sleep.”
You sighed. “Kaeya, what did you tell her?”
“Nothing alarming,” he said quickly. “Merely that someone would check in on her soon. Someone far more terrifying than I am.”
You gave him a flat look. “And she knows that’s me.”
His smile softened, just a fraction. “Wouldn’t dream of sending anyone else.”
You pinched the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache forming. “Fine. I’ll handle it. But next time, you deal with her yourself.”
Kaeya rose, grin returning full force. “Oh, I knew you’d say that. You always were the reliable sort.” He paused by the door, glancing back with a teasing smirk. “Try not to scold her too harshly, Captain. You’ll break her heart.”
You looked up just in time to see him wave lazily before slipping out into the corridor — as effortlessly as he’d arrived. You exhaled through your nose.
Noelle, then.
Of course.
-
You knocked on Noelle’s door just as Barbatos blew the sun high. There came a loud crash from within — the unmistakable sound of plates shattering. A muffled “Coming!” followed, punctuated by a startled squeak.
You waited, awkwardly, as the sound of hurried sweeping filled the silence. Moments later, the door swung open and Noelle appeared. She was already in her Knight’s uniform, polished and proper, but the pink flush across her cheeks and nose told you all you needed to know.
You crossed your arms. She bowed low the moment she realized who stood before her.
“Fifth Company Captain!? What a pleasure to have you here!” she exclaimed — a little too energetically. Rising too quickly, she stumbled, and you reached out instinctively to steady her.
“Noelle,” you said, tone firm, “how many times must I remind you that rest leave means rest? Why do you have your armor on?”
You guided her toward the couch. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught the glitter of broken dishes in the trash — but you let it go. Gently, you pressed her down to sit. She took a few deep breaths, steadying herself.
She recovered soon, though your expression remained stern. Meeting your gaze for only a heartbeat, she quickly dropped her eyes like a child caught misbehaving.
“Well?” you prompted, crossing your arms.
She fidgeted, twisting her fingers together. “Ning Xin has been missing the taste of home, so I thought I could take a small trip to Liyue to get the ingredients.” She said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “My fever isn’t that bad, and I promise I wasn’t going to be gone long!”
You dragged a hand down your face.
Everyone in Mondstadt knew how helpful Noelle could be. She would climb Dragonspine if someone asked — and, in fact, she had. But she didn’t know how to help herself. You wouldn’t put it past her to risk her life just to fulfill a request.
No wonder Kaeya sent you.
You sighed. Noelle’s determination was what made her so beloved — no request was ever too small in her eyes — and you couldn’t help but admire her for it. You only hoped you wouldn’t regret this.
“What did you need?” you asked at last.
Her head snapped up. “Just a bundle of Jueyun Chilis and some Violetgrass. I was sure I could get everything else here, since Sara mentioned she had an overabundance of meat.”
You thought for a moment. Fortunately, your last expedition to Liyue had left you with a few of its rarities.
“Alright,” you said. “If I can get the items you need, will you promise to rest until I get back?”
“Really?” Her eyes brightened like morning sunlight. She stood too fast and nearly lost her balance again; you caught her gently.
“So long as you get out of that armor and actually lie down, I’ll be back with the ingredients. You need to remember to care for yourself as much as you do for others.”
She nodded dutifully as you guided her toward her room, though her excitement clearly outpaced her recovery.
Once she was settled, you took your leave. It didn’t take long to gather everything she’d asked for — from the Knights’ Headquarters to the Good Hunter, your errands were swift. When you returned, she greeted you again, this time dressed casually.
The red dress she wore fell to her knees, and the apron tied at her waist made her look more baker than knight. It suited her — a gentler image that somehow fit her heart better than armor ever could.
Noelle looked bashful under your gaze, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. You realized, belatedly, that you’d been staring too long.
“Here’s everything,” you said quickly. The cart behind you was stacked high with ingredients. Her eyes lit up once more, though she managed not to stumble this time. She opened the door wider and beckoned you inside, and soon the kitchen filled with warmth.
Your cooking skills weren’t terrible, but with a dish this foreign, you were lost. Thankfully, Noelle guided you with practiced ease, her patience steady as ever. The process was full of laughter — and a few desperate gulps of water after she accidentally added far too many chilis to your taste test.
By the time you finished, night had settled over Mondstadt. Noelle insisted you deliver the dish to Ning Xin while it was still warm — a request you couldn’t bring yourself to refuse. The air outside was brisk, and she offered you a pair of hand-sewn gloves she’d received as a gift to ward off the chill.
Ning Xin didn’t live far, so the walk passed easily. Noelle knocked, her breath misting in the cold. You reached to adjust her scarf just as the door opened. An older woman greeted you with a wary frown — which melted into delight when she recognized Noelle.
With frail hands and a bright smile, she ushered you both inside and began setting the table. You tried to excuse yourself — you did have orders from the Grand Master — but Noelle insisted that “one plate wouldn’t hurt.” And really, how could one argue with her when the old woman couldn’t possibly finish the meal on her own?
Soon enough, you found yourself seated at the table, sharing a warm meal like family. Ning Xin scolded Noelle for overworking herself, and Noelle blushed under the gentle reprimand. You nodded in agreement — until the old woman chuckled and remarked how sweet it was that you looked after your “partner” so fondly.
Noelle turned beet red. You promptly choked on a chili. She scrambled to pour you water while Ning Xin laughed heartily.
The thought wasn’t unpleasant — but neither of you were looking to settle down anytime soon.
Still… taking care of each other for the tome being didn’t sound like such a bad idea.
noteworthy mentions | dark themes, various mentions of death, mentions of blood, mentions of gore, it is quite dark guys viewers discretion is advised
ABBY | wc 735
when you both get a little too physical
Things between you and Abby have been moving quickly — too quickly, if you’re being honest.
Maybe it’s his demonic nature taking root, or maybe you just don’t want to shoulder the blame yourself. You can’t tell. All you know is that things have been simmering like a volcano, waiting for the right pressure to make it erupt.
It sounds pessimistic — and you hate that — but things are going too well. You don’t want a fight, nor do you want much of anything from him lately, yet the nagging feeling in the back of your mind just won’t quit.
It hums there like an alarm you refuse to heed.
The Saja boys never really sleep — not in the way humans do. By day, they keep up appearances; by night, they work until the ungodly hours. Abby only manifests when the world is dark and half-asleep. Sometimes you think you should send him away, or at least tell him you’re not in the mood to talk. But his smile, his easy charm, the way his hands find yours — it always draws you back in. It’s like your own mind refuses to fight him.
You feel his presence before you see him. Darkness overtakes the light, stretching long and cold across your back before it takes form — solid, warm, and real against you. His kisses are soft, fleeting things, and before you can stop yourself, you tilt your head to chase them.
“How have you been?” Abby whispers, his breath hot against your ear. For a moment, you think he’s really asking.
“I’ve been well. The job hasn’t been too stressful, so there’s nothing much to complain about.” You smile faintly. “How have you been?”
Your words fall into silence. When you turn to look, he’s already on you.
You barely register the movement — one moment you’re standing in the kitchen, the next you’re on the couch beneath him. His weight pins you down, heavy and unyielding. His mouth crashes against yours, demanding, frantic. You try to pull away — hands pushing at his chest, gasping for breath — but he’s too solid, too strong.
The moment you manage to break free, his lips find your neck.
“Abby, enough. I’m not in the mood to—”
The rest dies in your throat as something sharp pricks your side. You flinch, trying to shift him, but your wrist is caught and pinned above your head.
The fear sinks in deep.
His skin has darkened to a faint violet hue, and when you look up, you see the flash of fangs — eyes bright and yellow as fire.
“Come on,” Abby murmurs, his voice low, dangerous. “Maybe just a nibble.”
His grip tightens until you can’t move. One hand forces your chin up, baring your throat to him like prey. You’ve never seen him like this before.
You don’t want to die.
Your first attempt at speech comes out as a whisper — then again, louder, until the word finally pierces through the haze in his mind.
“Stop!”
Abby freezes. Then, in an instant, he’s gone — retreating, breath ragged, staring as you clutch your throat with shaking hands. You press yourself into the corner of the couch, needing distance, needing air.
“I’m sorry.” His voice trembles. He doesn’t look at you, too stunned by the remnants of his transformation to understand what he’s done. His hands shaking as well
You swallow, the air thick and unsteady. It takes a while for either of you to calm — you, from the terror still clutching your chest; him, from the desire clawing at his veins. When you finally find the strength to speak, your voice barely rises above a whisper.
“I think you should go for a while.”
You speak carefully, afraid the words might break something fragile between you. But they don’t. He only nods. He doesn’t even try to comfort you — not when you flinch at the slightest movement. With a sad, conflicted look, he fades from sight like smoke in the wind.
It’s easier to breathe once he’s gone, but the doubt creeps in all the same.
He didn’t mean it, right? He just got a little carried away.
Abby loves you; he wouldn’t dream of hurting you. You tell yourself that — again and again — but the moment replays in your head like a crack in a record, sharp and unrelenting.
What if your voice wasn’t strong enough? What if he hadn’t faltered? What if—?
ROMANCE | wc 1040
when he gets jealous
Dating as an idol has always been more complicated than it needs to be. Between the restrictive contracts and the limited midnight rendezvous, there isn’t much you can do to comfortably call this a relationship — yet somehow, you and Romance have made it work.
Mailed flowers, dates disguised as “collaborations” with your group, fleeting glances across crowded venues — Romance has gone to great lengths to show his love for you, and you’ve done the same. You hate how much of your life must stay hidden for your group’s sake, but you love them too much to risk damaging their image.
You’ve trained together too long, grown too close, to betray them now with a “scandal.” So you choose secrecy — even though secrecy brings its own dangers.
Your stage just ended, and the cheers of the crowd nearly drowned out the staff talking through your earpiece. One by one, your members bow and exit toward the dressing rooms. Backstage, someone hands you a towel and a bottle of water, which you sip greedily through a straw. You thank them — but past their shoulders, you catch a familiar tuft of pink hair slip into a side room. You can’t help the smile that rises.
With the excuse of needing to grab something, you break away from your group and the unsuspecting staff. You slip into the room without anyone questioning you.
You call out for Romance, but no answer comes. Doubt creeps in — maybe you imagined seeing him. You start to leave, but the door opens before you can reach it.
A man walks in, dressed head to toe in black, a headset hugging his ear as he studies a clipboard. He closes the door behind him and looks up to scan the room — only to jolt slightly when he spots you.
Awkwardly, you give a small wave. He just stares.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
You can’t tell him the truth, so you blurt the first thing you can think of. “I got lost.”
“You got lost… in the equipment room?”
“Wrong door?” You mentally facepalm and gesture weakly toward the exit behind him. Mortified, you reach for the handle — but he stops you.
His hand shoots out to grab yours, and you jump.
“Sorry! I didn’t mean anything by that,” he says quickly. “It’s just — you’re Cloud9’s leader, right?” There’s a smile hidden behind the clipboard, one he doesn’t quite manage to conceal.
You could lie, but he’s literally watched your performance minutes ago. So with your practiced idol smile, you nod.
“The one and only.”
He gasps softly and thrusts his clipboard toward you. “I love your music! Could you please sign this?”
You stare at the clipboard — surely company property — but take the pen anyway. As you sign, he rambles about how he’s not usually into pop, but your music really hits him, how he loves your newest album Cosmic Chaos, how he bought both versions.
You thank him like you do any fan, and he turns a little red in the ears. You think it’s because of your tone — but it’s because of what he says next.
“This might be a little forward, but… would you ever want to hang out sometime?”
It is forward. Your mouth opens, then closes. You aren’t usually the member people crush on, but even more surprising is how openly he admits it. No one does that — not to idols, let alone someone who works around them.
You give him a genuine smile this time. “You mean well, but I can’t. I don’t want to risk your job or bring any trouble on myself.”
“Yeah… yeah, you’re right. Sorry, I just had to give it a shot.” He rubs the back of his neck, redder than before. You place a comforting hand on his shoulder, commend his courage, and tell him you’d be happy to chat again if you cross paths. He brightens at that.
The moment is sweet — only for the moment.
A heavy thud echoes deeper in the room. You both jump.
The sight steals the breath from your chest.
It’s Romance — but not as you know him. Purple scar-like markings curl along his face and arms, and his nails have lengthened into razor-sharp claws. For a split second, you are staring into the eyes of a beast. His mouth moves, forming words you don’t register — because something behind him draws your gaze.
A hand. Limp. Lifeless.
Was that the noise?
Your line of sight breaks as the staff member steps in front of you protectively. You look past him to Romance again. His golden irises have narrowed into slits, burning with rage.
“I’ll ask again.” His voice is low, trembling with fury. “What are you doing here?”
Romance steps forward. Instinctively, you step back. The man beside you raises a hand in defense.
“Wh-who is that? You’re not allowed back here. What are you do—”
“I’m not talking to you.”
The movement is instant. One heartbeat, Romance is across the room. The next, warm liquid splashes your face.
You freeze.
It takes far too long to understand what you’re seeing — Romance’s arm extended, and the man you were just speaking with pinned to the wall by it.
Your scream barely escapes before Romance covers your mouth with his other hand. He shushes you softly, like calming a frightened child.
“No, no. Don’t worry. They’ll clean him up.”
Living shadows spill from the walls, pulling themselves into the forms of demons you’ve only ever seen in storybooks. You thrash in Romance’s grip as they peel the man off the wall and drag him into the darkness they came from. When they vanish, there isn’t a trace of blood left — only his headset and clipboard clattering to the floor.
A tear slips down your cheek. Romance catches it with his thumb. He slides his hand up your face, forcing you to meet his gaze. You watch, trembling, as he licks the tear from his own finger, eyes flaring, lips drawn tight.
“My patience grows thin, my love.” His voice is chillingly calm. “So I’ll ask only one more time — and it will be my last.”
His eyes burn straight through you.
“What were you doing in here with him?”
BABY | wc 870
when you try to escape
There was always something different about the Saja Boys; there was just no way to prove it.
Every theory you formed was knocked down with a neat rebuttal. Every accusation was twisted into excuses about the members being overworked. Every pointed finger only dug a deeper hole for you — never for them.
That strange isolation of being the only one who saw through them settled cold in your chest. Somehow, you were the lone person in the world who didn’t fall under the spell they spun. People ridiculed you as just another Korean pop hater, and the label only made your need to expose them burn hotter. Enough that you resorted to drastic measures.
You weren’t a spy. You weren’t government-trained. Tailing people was not your specialty. Yet somehow, some way, you’d managed to get this far.
Their lack of staff was shocking enough. A group rising in popularity this fast should have security, managers, something — but you hadn’t seen a single soul with them. On top of that, the Saja Boys didn’t even have a car. How they traveled to and from every event was another mystery, because they simply… appeared.
You waited outside the venue for their arrival, only to hear their voices harmonizing from inside minutes later. No van. No car. You knew they hadn’t arrived before you. So how did they get there? The question hung unanswered as you watched them exit the back doors and walk into the dead of night toward what you assumed was their label.
Now that you think about it… you’ve never even heard of the label they supposedly represent.
Not that it matters at the moment — not when they move so fast you’re struggling to keep up. Their speed is almost inhuman, even though they don’t appear to be running. You round another corner as they slip into an alleyway. Peering down, you see them walk a little deeper before a sharp scream slices through the shadows.
Your heart stutters. Raising your camera, you prepare to snap a photo — but freeze when you see the scene through the lens.
A small group of fans scurries toward the idols, and you resist the urge to roll your eyes at their blind devotion. From as far as you are, you can still hear their excited voices praising the Saja Boys’ debut and waiting eagerly for their comeback. The boys say nothing — but nod politely, smiling faintly. One fan pulls out a phone. They all huddle together for a picture. For a moment, you begin to think maybe your hatred is misdirected. Maybe there really is nothing wrong with them after all.
That changes with the next scream.
This time it’s not surprise — it’s terror. Pure, primal terror.
Your breath lodges in your throat as you look down the alley. A boy — one of the fans — is pinned against the wall as Jinu pulls a glowing orb from his chest. The action looks almost gentle from where you stand, but the boy’s face says otherwise. As the orb draws farther from his body, he grows pale — drained, like his life is being peeled away piece by piece. The other fans collapse in equally helpless states as the Saja Boys siphon the youth right out of them.
You are frozen. Horrified. But staying still will only make you the next victim. You can’t fight soul-stealing idols — not when you’re outnumbered and outmatched. The only thing you can do is get evidence.
With trembling hands and sweat slipping down your temples, you raise the camera and take the shot. The click echoes louder than it ever has before. The flash bursts bright in the darkness.
Shit.
You don’t wait to confirm anything. You run — hard — back the way you came. It doesn’t matter if the picture was clear. It doesn’t matter if they saw. None of it matters if you’re dead. You sprint through the empty streets, adrenaline and terror driving your legs faster than they’ve ever moved. You’re farther from the venue than you remembered, but finally the glow of streetlights breaks through the dark.
For a second, you believe you’re safe.
Then a deep, rumbling laugh shakes the air.
Your heart stops.
One moment you’re sprinting toward safety, the next you’re somewhere else entirely — dropped onto cold ground. You look wildly around. To your left lie the bodies of the fans you saw earlier, limp and bloodless. To your right, you flinch as your camera is crushed under a heavy boot.
Baby’s boot.
You look up at him — the only Saja Boy present — and it doesn’t comfort you. It terrifies you more. The animalistic thrill in his eyes is unmistakable.
He laughs again. The vibration in his voice sinks into your bones. You scramble backward until your back hits the wall, hoping for even an inch more distance.
His laughter stops.
Then — impossibly fast — he’s right in front of you, face inches from yours.
“I’ve always liked runners,” he murmurs. “Jinu told me to get rid of you… but I think I might play with you a little longer.”
You barely process the sentence before shadows swallow you whole.
The last thing you see is his eyes — bright, beaming yellow — as he waves.
MYSTERY | wc 791
when he hasn’t eaten
Mystery has been ignoring you.
You keep telling yourself he’s just busy with idol work — it’s the excuse he always uses — but it has never taken him this long to answer your calls or texts. The other Saja Boys offer nothing, brushing off your messages like they’re swatting away a fly. Their indifference feels rehearsed, almost coordinated, as if caring about your own boyfriend is some kind of burden.
Normally you wouldn’t act on impulse, but with the recent wave of disappearances… it feels wrong to wait. Wrong to sit still. Wrong to trust that everything is okay.
The knock you give the hotel door sounds unnervingly loud in the empty hallway, echoing like you’re inside a cavern. You wrap your arms around yourself. Mystery told you where they were staying weeks ago, and judging by how expensive the place looked online, you would’ve expected staff, security — life.
Instead, from the moment you walked in, it felt like the building was abandoned. The lobby was silent except for the receptionist, typing methodically, rhythmically, like a wind-up doll going through looping motions. She barely blinked when you passed.
Now, after your third knock and the unreality of the hallway’s silence pressing into your skull, panic begins to coil in your chest.
You grip the door handle. It’s ice-cold — as if no one has touched it for days. That small detail lodges itself in your brain like a thorn.
When you push the door open, the truth hits you harder than any fear you prepared for.
The room is destroyed.
Not messy — violated.
Deep gashes rake across the walls like something tried to claw its way through them. A table sits half-chewed, splintered as if something gnawed on it. The windows are shattered inward, glass glittering across the floor like frozen raindrops.
Your hands fly to your mouth. Your first thought is of Mystery. Your second is that whatever did this might still be here.
You fumble for your phone, already dialing, when a sound breaks the air — a low, wet groan.
Every instinct screams at you to run. To leave. To get help.
But his name is louder.
You move deeper into the hall, each step muffled, as if the air thickens around your legs. The destruction worsens. Another sound comes from a side room — a growl, low and uneven, as if the person making it can’t remember how to breathe properly.
You freeze.
Something is moving.
Slowly, mechanically, a figure steps into view. Blood paints his clothes, his hands, his throat. Purple hair — matted, tangled, stained — falls over his eyes.
Mystery.
You whisper his name before you can stop yourself.
“M-Mystery?”
He twitches. Not like a person startled — like a puppet whose string has been yanked.
Then he’s gone.
Not walked away. Not ran.
Gone.
The hallway blinks and he’s suddenly in front of you.
Cornering you.
His face is inches from yours, hidden behind that curtain of hair. You can hear him breathing — shallow, ragged, unsteady — but it sounds less like breath and more like something imitating it.
He doesn’t speak. Just stands there. Looming. Listening to the way you tremble.
When he leans forward and rests his head on your shoulder, for a heartbeat something inside you relaxes. It’s familiar. Comforting. Like relief tugging at the edges of your fear.
But then you realize:
You can’t breathe.
Air enters your lungs but never reaches you. Your limbs grow heavy. Your thoughts fog. Your heartbeat stutters, slow and dragging, like someone is muffling it from the inside.
Your eyes drop — sluggish, unwilling — and you see his hand.
His palm hovers inches from your chest, fingertips trembling as something soft and glowing is pulled from you. A sphere of light, dimming the further he drags it out. The sight is wrong, impossible, like your brain refuses to process it. Your vision doubles, triples, and you can’t tell if you’re seeing one orb or ten or none at all.
You want to scream. Your lips don’t move.
You want to call his name. Your throat won’t answer.
A crash sounds by the door — distant, warped, like you’re underwater.
Suddenly the weight disappears. You collapse, choking on air, your body shaking with shock as sensation slams back into your limbs. You blink through the blur, unable to focus, the world swimming sideways.
Someone is calling your name. Someone is shaking you. A wash of familiar pink hair fills your vision. Another voice, frantic, panicked, moves beside her.
You’re pulled back into consciousness just long enough to see what happens next.
Rumi’s blade plunges into Mystery’s chest. His head snaps back. His breath stops.
And right before your vision goes black, you realize —
noteworthy mentions | gn!reader, idol!reader, mentions of fans getting too physical (rumi ), platonic ( slight romantic undertones here and there )
[ saja boys version ]
MIRA
— you both exchange clothes … often
truth be told it happened accidentally.
the idol awards is the biggest event of the year for groups like you so of course things must be perfect
you all rehearse for days and know the songs like the back of your hands
practice at the venue the morning before is without a hitch
everything falls into place as it should until thirty minutes to call time
you had thought of a funny video to make with the other members
swapping clothes and pretending to act like one another
the idea was harmless and low effort, there was plenty of time you thought but got too carried away
when bobby called for places you all were still in one another’s clothes reviewing the videos
panic settled in quick but there was no time and soon enough you all performed as is
it was a smash hit and of course and you had thought the costume mix n match would go unnoticed
but the fans notice everything
“wait why is rumi eating in zoey’s jeans?” “did mira like steal their hair pin or something no hate though its cute.” “ZOEY WENT SOFT CORE THIS IS NOT A DRILL”
huntrix was trending once again and you felt bad for it. it wasn’t like any of the members had any image to uphold nor were any of the comments negative but still it was a close call
when you apologized in the dressing room, the girls all said it was a big deal
“I really liked my baggy look.” Rumi says sipping from water
“Right you were rocking it, personally I have to get these leg warmers because they are so cute!” Zoey says spinning in her spot
mira comes over offering you a water which you take gratefully. “The stage was great regardless of the costumes. don’t beat yourself about it, besides you look good in my clothes.”
the comment was harmless but Zoey still “oohs!” in the corner and Rumi laughs into her hand
you had thought that was the one and only time for it, but then came the meet and greet. preparations were being made and everyone was dressed but then you remembered to grab a coat
before you can even turn to your room a piece of clothing is thrown in your face. you remove it to reveal a red letterman jacket with Mira’s name on the back
you look up to her, “I can’t take this.”
she walks over snatching the bucket hat atop your head and putting it on her own. “You can if I take this.”
and that’s how it began, every other event it seems somehow one of you has a piece of the other incorporated into their clothing
sometime its bold, where one shoe is replaced for the others; sometimes its subtle where charms or makeup details can be spotted but only true fans who study the photos could tell
a few times it goes unnoticed by all but the two of you
the necklace is a cherished on by Mira one she doesn’t ever let out of her sight she clasps it around you like a promise
… and you are sure to keep it safe
ZOEY
— the yum yum squad
it was bound to happen
Zoey’s a real foodie at heart and a lot of the lives she posts or the youtube videos about her day almost always have something to do with food
rameyeon, jajangmyeon, tteokbokki, haemul pajeon; a lot of the local restaurants and food vendors have received a surplus in customers all thanks to her eating habits
you also play a part in this as well
playing into her temptations you’ve joined such lives every once in a while and the fans love it
trending tags of the yum yum squad hit the web like wildfire
at first you had no idea what it was until a fan approached you at a meet n greet speaking on how they enjoy watching you both eat.
they clarify it isn’t something weird but more like watching you both feels like a group of friends meeting at cafe to eat and enjoy one another’s company.
Zoey coos at the words and you hadn’t thought of it like that
after the interaction and a little talk with Bobby, soon the yum yum squad live becomes an official segment on the Huntrix channel
you greet the fans as if they were truly there setting them up on a tripod on the end of the table reading comments and sharing food
it continues on and sometimes it one hell of a turn out of folks as they all gossip to you both about one thing or another
but sometimes you forgo the cameras and visit a place more secluded, someplace zoey hasn’t posted for the owners only like serving a few people at a time
she sneaks you away to the hole in the wall restaurant that only makes one dish, kimbap
she explains how she comes here some night to get away from the fame and live in the moment without the fear of getting swarmed or recognized
the owners are an older couple and you learn that this was what they made on their first date and there is nothing better than a dish made with love
Zoey can barely keep in her seat as they make the food right in front of you, squealing as the woman blows a kiss and the man cradles it like it was his own child
when the plate is placed in front of you you don’t even get a chance to grab it before Zoey is thrusting a piece into your face
there is a glimmer of wonder in her eyes expecting you to go for a bite which you take
the flavors mix together so wonderfully and the secret sauce the couple mentioned is out of this world
no wonder they cherish it so
the night ends with you both sitting in laughter listening to the couple tell stories as you eat
Zoey feeds you another piece with a smile and a guarantee you’re food buddies for life
RUMI
— she is always the protector
being half demon you can’t be mad at her for it
Rumi knows how much power she holds over everyone else
as a direct descendant to some other greatest hunters known to man to top it off, she knows of the responsibility she holds all too well
the responsibility you all hold as a team
everyday you put yourselves through life and limb for the world but that doesn’t stop her from fusing over the small things
climbing a ladder for a book, you can feel the weight of her glare as you carelessly lean over to grab the one
when cooking at the stove, she is quick to hold the lid of a pan to keep the grease from flying at you
walking together with the rest of Huntrix, she makes the extra effort to keep you farthest from the street
she acts more like a body guard than the ones you have
it isn’t overbearing though
you’re friends and you would gladly do the same whenever you get the chance to be the protector but its just something she enjoys
you watch as she smiles while keeping a hand under the table so Zoey doesn’t hit it while looking for her dropped phone
you see it when she is holding a blanket waiting for Mira to exit the limo at a carpet event
and you can feel it when you’re suddenly grabbed at a fan meeting
your new album Rush was just released and of course a fan meet always follows
the barricades and body guards can only do so much to hold back excited fan
you’re reaching over to sign an an album one minute and the next you feel the iron grip on your sleeve the next
of course the loud screaming drowns out your plea for release, your awkward smile must be misleading
you turn to look for security but they are off somewhere else
the pulling starts next and you don’t know what to do until Rumi is at your side
her glare is ice cold and her grip is like a smoldering heart as she rips the hand off you
her look holds still as she holds you close and moves you closer to the other girls
it doesn’t make you feel weak nor does it fill you with some kind of envy
it does however fill you love knowing that you always have someone there to look after you
" In the name of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa — begin. "
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i. ONE ❆ THE MACHINE'S GAMBIT —
chapter description | With your return to his side, Pierro moves forward with the Tsaritsa’s plan. Let the trials begin.
word count | 5.400
noteworthy warnings | none of this is canon; ooc; gn!reader; canon typical violence; descriptions of death;
“So you’re just going to go along with it?”
There isn’t much for you to pack. Besides the clothes on your back, a few spare garments, and your polearm, the room looks just as it did five years ago. Five years of nothing, and suddenly he cares about your return? There’s more to this than what the Jester is letting slip.
“What else was I to do?” You sling the small bag over your shoulder and look between your friends, truly defeated. Lev’s glare is stone-cold to the floor, and Katerina has already cried every tear she could. Masha continues her angry pacing.
“We could have fought this,” Katerina finally says.
“We wouldn’t have lasted a day.”
“We could have tried!”
Masha’s anger is valid — out of all the people here in Lomas, she’s had the worst run-in with the Fatui. Her late child’s tombstone is a heavy sight at the edge of town. Still, this choice was the best option, or she would have been buried in the snow alongside him.
You don’t know the right words to say, nor can you think of the right thing to do but stand there in anger, sadness, and despair. You want to tell them everything will be fine, that it’s just some formality — but having the head of one of the world’s greatest organizations here offers no reassurance.
Your door opens suddenly, and all heads turn.
The rifleman from earlier enters, a sour expression on his face. “Enough goodbyes. We’re leaving. His Grace awaits.”
You adjust the items you carry. There will probably be no coming back here; you don’t know if you’ll ever see any of them again, and all you can offer is a sad smile. The weight of farewell fills the room, and all at once they rise to embrace you. It’s a brief moment — watched closely by the eyes at the door — but one you’ll cherish for as long as you can.
They pull away, and you steel yourself before moving past the rifleman and out into the village plaza. All the families have left their homes; each offers a nod, and some children wave as you pass, as if this were some official send-off. The moment feels too sweet for what you’re about to walk into.
A carriage waits at the village entrance. The horses leading it are bulky, fitting for the size of the carriage — large and heavily built. The interior is spacious, wide enough to house a small table between the seats. Pierro ushers you in first, and with one last sorrowful glance over your shoulder, you step inside.
It’s only the two of you when the door closes. His men walk beside the carriage in case of an attack you know no one would be foolish enough to make. Pierro leans back in the seat across from you, eyes closed. The gesture reminds you of younger years, and you wish they were fonder memories.
You don’t bother asking where you’re going; you know it would fall on deaf ears, and it’s not hard to guess you’re heading straight into the heart of the capital. The journey is silent. You pass through the thick forests and travel farther still until you reach the first enclosure of the city’s high walls.
Snezhnaya’s capital is divided into three sections: the lower district, home to common citizens, vendors, and restaurants; the mid-level, housing the Northland Bank and other influential landmarks; and finally, the third level — home to the Fatui’s main base and another building you glimpse in the distance, encased in ice.
That last place is what truly catches you off guard — and it’s the only thing that makes Pierro speak.
“The Fair Lady rests at peace. Her Majesty granted her a front-row seat for the battle to come.”
You stare at him, unsure what he means, but when it comes to the Cryo Archon, you know better than to question what lies beyond mortal comprehension. You drop the subject.
You don’t have time to ask anything else anyway; the carriage halts in front of a giant mansion you know all too well.
The doors open, and Pierro gestures for you to exit first. The quiet of the night greets you as you gaze up at the building in disdain. It wasn’t so long ago that you fled this very place, and now you walk back into it willingly. You want to curse yourself, but it would do little good — you’ve already walked into his hands again.
The Jester places a hand on your shoulder, like salt on a wound.
“Welcome home.”
He speaks plainly, and you do nothing but let him lead you through the doors. The hallways are long and just as tall as you remember. Like the exterior, little has changed — besides a few unfamiliar faces. Various soldiers stop and bow in respect, and you feel their lingering gazes as you walk close behind him. Being near him might seem like protection, but you know it only paints a target on your back.
Pierro leads you to a spare room. It’s larger than the inn rooms in Lomas — perhaps twice the size — and holds two beds with identical dressers on either side.
“Am I expecting a partner?” you finally ask, your throat dry from hours of silence.
The man doesn’t answer at first. He goes to the other bed, running a hand along the comforter before stopping at the end and glancing back at you.
“You know the answer to that,” he says. You turn away, choosing not to play his game. Moving to place your things in a drawer, you stop short when you find clothes already inside.
Pierro continues.
“Rest well. We’ll meet tomorrow for the start of the trials. Be ready. Think of that as my gift for your return.”
He gestures toward the clothes. A familiar design from your past, re-tailored to fit your build now. When you lived under the Jester as his disciple, you wore nothing else, for anything different would have killed you. The clothing is insulated to keep you warm and made of material strong enough to resist a hilichurl’s blade. You learned that through his cruel training — the hard way.
“I’ll come for you in the morning,” he says at last before he’s gone.
The door closes, leaving you alone. Standing in the quiet room, you should feel peace — but this is the Fatui. Peace never lasts long.
You move quickly, shoving the heavy mattress of the second bed against the door. Locking it won’t be enough to ensure safety, nor will the unbarred windows. You hurry to lock and shutter the window too, dragging the vacant dresser to block it as well. The heavy scraping might attract attention, but at least there will be a struggle if anyone decides to test the No. 1’s new recruit.
You take a moment to change. You hate the man, but you value your life — and these clothes are your best defense against the unknown.
Just as you throw your last leg through the pants, the doorknob rattles. You freeze.
The shaking stops, then starts again moments later. You move as quickly and quietly as you can, changing and reaching for your dagger just as you hear the telltale clicks of lockpicking.
You weren’t planning to sleep tonight anyway, and given how long it takes before the intruder gives up, you know it’s for the best. You glance at the clock on the nightstand.
3:42 a.m.
The clicking starts again.
It’s going to be a long night.
You wake to the sound of Pierro’s voice. It startles you enough to spring from bed, dagger drawn and pointed at him.
“I see you slept well.”
You can’t tell through the haze of fatigue, but you’re certain he’s mocking you. Your eyes dart around the room as you try to steady your breathing and lower the blade. You hadn’t slept long — you remember the sun barely peeking through the cracks in the curtains before you must have dozed off for a moment. That doesn’t surprise you. What does is how Pierro entered without you waking — and how the room somehow looks exactly as it did before you barricaded it, with no sign of disturbance.
The man pats down a pillow and looks you over, faint approval flickering in his eyes.
“You remember. That’s good. Come now, you should eat before the trials begin.”
He doesn’t wait for questions. With his usual, unreadable calm, he leaves the room expecting you to follow.
You take a second to get your bearings, grab your polearm, and fall into step behind him. The halls stretch long, your footsteps echoing faintly against the polished floors. You continue to feel the weight of curious eyes from passing soldiers as you’re escorted toward what you can assume is the dining hall.
Your suspicions are confirmed when Pierro pushes open the double doors to reveal a room full of people gathered around a lavishly set table. The moment the two of you enter, conversation dies. Every person rises to attention.
Pierro strides to the head of the table while you remain by the door, scanning for a seat. Of course, the only empty ones are the two flanking his own. You hesitate, then stalk forward, feeling the pressure of judgement following your every move.
As you pass, you take stock of the attendees. It isn’t just anyone — the entire roster of current Harbingers is present, each accompanied by their own chosen candidates at either side. The ages range wildly: children sit by the Knave, while seasoned veterans flank the Rooster. The sight alone promises that the trials ahead will be… lively.
You rest your polearm beside your chair and sit, reaching for a slice of bread — only for a man to cough delicately into his hand. You glance up, bread still in your fingers. The man stands near the Regrator — Pantalone, as he prefers to be called — and gestures beside you, though clearly directing his attention to Pierro.
You ignore him, choosing instead to continue filling your plate. You aren’t here for pride or honor or whatever illusions drive the other recruits. Making a good impression serves no purpose. Most of the Harbingers already know you as a runaway, and it’s not as though they respect one another — so the formalities are meaningless to you.
Pierro doesn’t react. He sits, and the room follows his cue. Breakfast resumes, subdued. No one dares raise their voice above a whisper. From the murmurs that reach your ears, it’s clear the other candidates are already plotting. Forming alliances, testing who might be friend or foe.
You study them carefully. Many meet your gaze; most look away quickly. It’s obvious — you’re either the greatest threat in the room or the most dangerous unknown. For a few their eyes are sharp with malice, a reminder to stay alert. The empty seat on Pierro’s other side doesn’t help. Every other Harbinger has two with them. Unlike you. You’re alone, isolated, an easy target.
You pluck a grape from its stem and chew slowly, thoughtful. Maybe you should consider a plan of your own — forge an alliance, perhaps, or play the waiting game and let the rest destroy each other first.
Pantalone is the one to shatter the silence, laughing far too loudly for the room’s tense decorum. The sound draws a roll of the eyes from the Marionette and a small, stifled laugh from the Damselette. Too perfectly timed to be spontaneous. You don’t doubt it’s rehearsed.
“Although this feast is a perfectly good show, dearest director,” Pantalone drawls, “what exactly are we doing here?”
The room stills again. All eyes turn from one figure of power to the next. Pierro dabs his lips with a napkin before standing. His voice is calm, almost lifeless, yet every word cuts clean through the silence.
“You are gathered here today because it will be the last time you see one another as comrades. You all serve under some branch of the Fatui but from this point forward, you stand as equals, fighting for a single goal: to join our union at its pinnacle. There will be no special treatment, no cutting corners. The next moment could very well be your last.”
“This feast is a good show,” he continues. “I allow the melodramas to play now so that business may proceed undistracted. The trials have been chosen. All that remains is to begin.”
His words freeze the air. No one dares move or speak.
No one except one.
The youngest Harbinger — Childe, the one whose name travels quickest through rumor — lets out a laugh, smacking one of his recruits on the shoulder as he teases him for looking terrified. Across the table, the Knave — head of the House of the Hearth — sighs audibly and rises.
“Well, now that the pleasantries have been spoiled,” she says, “you are all to report to the courtyard. There, you will learn the details of the first trial, and the journey will begin.”
She says nothing more. Her candidates move first toward the doors, and gradually, the rest follow including you.
Though Pierro seems indifferent, he’s not called the Jester for nothing. He thrives on theatrics, always pulling strings for a larger purpose or spectacle. Still, you admit — just for a moment — it almost felt pleasant. The clinking of plates, the murmured conversation… if you closed your eyes, it could almost have been the Larimar Tavern again. Home.
You hope they’re all well.
The walk to the courtyard is short. There, you can finally see your rivals firsthand: fifteen of you in total, all vying for a single place.
The chatter dims as the Harbingers emerge on a balcony above. It isn’t Pierro who speaks first, but the Marionette, hoisted high by her ever-present ruin guard. Her voice, amplified through unseen speakers, carries easily across the courtyard.
“You all know who I am, so I’ll skip the introductions. I will proctor the first trial, and it goes as follows: several crates containing confidential Fatui technology have been… misplaced. You will locate these crates and establish a clear retrieval point for collection. Do not attempt to carry them yourselves — or I will disqualify you for so much as a speck of dust on my precious equipment.”
A few murmurs ripple through the crowd, but no one dares voice a complaint.
“Whether you work together or alone, I couldn’t care less,” she admits dryly. “Recovering what was lost is your only priority. Any questions can be directed to Katherine of the Adventurers’ Guild. You have two days. In the name of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa — begin.”
Her words snap like frost. She lowers her paper and fixes her gaze on all of you below, waiting for the inevitable scramble.
It doesn’t take long. A few voices whisper echo before someone breaks into a run for the exit. You watch as one of the mayor’s candidates tries to request a horse — only to be flatly denied. “No special treatment,” the guard reminds him. His rank means nothing here.
To your right, you hear others forming small alliances — the Marionette’s and Pantalone’s candidates leaving together.
Slowly, the courtyard empties. You linger, the last to move — not out of any grand plan, but to assess what you’ve learned. The Marionette is the only Harbinger truly obsessed with machines, which means she likely tailored this trial for her own advantage.
It’s a standard task, something given to rookies. You shouldn’t have expected much — especially from someone who despises humanity as she does. There is a catch somewhere along the lines. Still, you’ll need to make your move before the others get too far ahead.
With no real leads and only fragments of information, you descend the mountain, passing through the upper districts until you reach the lowest level in search of the Adventurers’ Guild.
By the time you arrive, the sun has reached its peak, and the working class is on break. The streets bustle with structured chaos, workers moving in streams toward cafés and market stalls, voices blending with the toll of the distant bell tower. You keep your head low.
The Guild’s booth stands at the square’s edge. Behind it, a woman waits, gaze forward and posture unnaturally straight.
You step directly in front of her before she reacts and realizes you're there.
She greets you in a rehearsed tone — “Ad astra, abyssosque” — introducing herself as Katherine. You don’t bother with pleasantries. Instead, you reach into your pocket and flash your Fatui insignia.
Instantly, her demeanor shifts. The mechanical rhythm of her voice doesn’t falter as she recites the details.
“Recruit registered: The Jester’s faction. Welcome. Out of the six packages marked for retrieval, two have been located and are currently en route to base. Four crates of confidential material remain unaccounted for. I cannot provide exact coordinates, but reported sightings are as follows.”
You didn’t expect specifics — it would be too easy. However, you’re grateful when she pulls out a map and marks several key landmarks to narrow your search.
She lists three locations you barely recognize: a Frostmoon Scion encampment, a clearing near a prohibited zone, and a shoreline you vaguely remember from childhood. None seem worth the trouble until she names the fourth.
“…and finally, a pack of hilichurls were spotted within Rosgrave Forest, tampering with a discarded Fatui convoy. Would you like me to repeat the selection?”
“No, that’s fine. I’ll be heading there now.”
Rosgrave Forest. Another woodland just off the main city road. The difference between it and the Gopeysk Forests lies in the sheer number of monsters that roam its depths. From hilichurls to abyssal corruption, it isn’t a place ordinary people can traverse without hiring a mercenary to watch their backs. That being said, it’s the only area familiar enough for you to form a potential escape route… should things go astray.
You turn away, ready to leave, until Katherine calls after you. Looking back, you see her extend a device you don’t recognize.
“This is a recommended tool from Marionette. Please establish a retrieval point and use it to bring the materials home.”
The tool looks somewhat like a beacon crossed with a remote control, though it has no buttons to press. You take it anyway, and the woman smiles faintly before returning to her rigid, lifeless stance — the same she held when you first arrived.
You decide not to think too much about it and glance up at the sky. No clouds. The sun still sits high. It’ll be dark by the time you reach Rosgrave on foot, you assume — and with a heavy sigh, it’s back to walking.
Thankfully, your time in Lomas kept you active, and traveling long distances has become second nature. Although you hate to admit it, you owe Pierro some credit as well. The thermal suit helps ward off the growing chill of Snezhnaya as you make your way toward the forest. Without you would have stopped to make camp several times due to frostbite.
Hours pass, and soon night consumes the bright sky. Rosgrave is as dismal as you remember — trees growing thick and clustered, only breaking near the mountains or where other vegetation forces its way through. In the dead of night, the darkness works both for and against you: it hides you from sight, but it also hides everything else. The monsters here are adapted to the cold, far more than you, and memorizing your route feels impossible. Still, you leave a trail by marking the trees, piercing their bark with your blade.
Even so, with the moon rising, the convoy remains unfound. Doubt creeps in.
What if the convoy has already been scavenged? What if the cargo’s been retrieved and you’re just wandering aimlessly? With fifteen candidates and only six objectives, there’s no telling how quickly this could all be over. Maybe you’ve already failed.
Your insecurities fester until the guttural cry of a hilichurl snaps you back to reality. Instinct takes over. Quickly, you stumble back and duck behind a tree for cover.
Peeking over, you spot two of them. Their blue skin and frost-covered masks mark them as Cryo-affiliated. Luckily, you haven’t been noticed yet. They grunt and gesture at each other, their strange language echoing through the quiet. Beyond them, you see nothing but more trees. One — the one with the crossbow — yells and swats at the other, irritated by his aimless digging. After a few moments, they stalk off together.
You can’t tell whether they were part of the group that ransacked the convoy, but you’re done second-guessing. You follow, keeping a safe distance.
Hilichurls aren’t known for their intelligence — at least, not these types — so the risk of being spotted is low. They’re noisy, too, making it impossible to lose them. After a few twists and turns, they lead you to what looks like a small camp near a cave.
Hidden behind the trees, you count four: the two you followed, one a Cryo archer and the other a Cryo grenadier; another archer; and a red-skinned Pyro berserker. Not the worst odds, if you plan it right. With the element of surprise, you could take them out one by one before the others react. The only real issue is the open terrain — fighting in the clearing would leave you exposed, but drawing them into the trees could throw off their aim.
No more waiting. You set your plan in motion.
Kicking through the snow, you find a rock. You lift it carefully, take aim at a nearby branch, and throw. The idea is simple: make a noise to draw one away, take them out, and repeat until the camp is clear. No room for error.
Unfortunately, you didn’t account for the uninvited company.
A sudden thud makes you flinch. A body hits the snow from where you threw the rock.
“Ow.”
A boy — no older than fifteen, and one you recognize as the one sitting beside the Knave — rubs his shoulder, grimacing. It’s not broken, but the fall’s loud enough to alert the camp. The hilichurls turn, spotting him instantly.
The boy laughs nervously, even offering a small wave. Then comes the war cry.
An arrow flies past, narrowly missing him. He dives behind a tree, rolling for cover, but his safety is short-lived. The Pyro berserker ignites his weapon and charges.
You hesitate.
The right thing to do is to save him. That’s who you are. But deep down, somewhere darker, you hear another voice. It tells you to leave him. To take the prize and run. To stop letting mercy weigh you down. You didn’t come here for friends.
Another scream cuts through the air.
Not from the boy. Something worse.
He’s nimble, darting from tree to tree, dodging the berserker’s blows and the Cryo arrows. But then, from the cave, the ground trembles. A Mitachurl emerges, massive and snarling. It slams into the snow pulling up a Cryo slime, then it forces it into his arm fusing the ice into a solid shield.
The danger spikes instantly.
A child can’t survive this, not alone.
Without thinking, you charge.
With all your strength, you hurl your polearm. It whistles through the air and pierces one of the archers square in the chest. The others react too late — then too fast. A volley of arrows rains down, forcing you to dive aside just as a Cryo slime bomb explodes nearby. You sprint to the trees, ducking another arrow and circling around a large oak.
Your only weapon lies skewering a corpse.
The Mitachurl bellows, charging without warning. Quickly, you move again. Its impact shatters its own ice shield and splinters the tree you hid behind. Heart hammering, you don’t sit for long.
The boy’s nowhere to be seen, but you can’t afford to think about that now. You have to survive this.
You dart back toward the camp, making for your polearm. As they reload, you shove the dead body off the weapon and grab its fallen crossbow as well. You move for the trees again, struggling to string it. The effort costs you awareness.
“Look out!”
The boy’s voice cuts through the chaos — but too late.
The explosion hits first. A hurled Cryo slime detonates beside you, sending you crashing into the leg of a construct. Frost bites through your suit. You gasp, trying to recover, but the Mitachurl is already charging again.
You brace for the end—
—and flames erupt.
A molotov, or something like it, shatters against the Mitachurl’s shield. The fire eats through it, melting the ice to water in an instant and burning the fur on its flesh.
Another follows, landing at the monster’s feet and sending it stumbling back a few steps. The boy appears at your side moments later, tossing yet another molotov at the remaining hilichurls before scooping you up and leading you into the trees. In his arms, your body heat rises instantly — the Pyro Vision hanging at his hip explains why.
He props you against a tree and offers your polearm. You take it gratefully, and he peers past the trunk to check if you were followed.
The boy’s hair is brown, and his clothes mimic that of a Pyro slinger like a child playing dress-up. You notice the small vials strapped near his Vision, glowing faintly orange the closer they sit to it. He looks back at you, giving a quick once-over to see if you’re hurt, and for a fleeting moment, you feel like the child instead.
“Uhmm— I can get the big one if you handle the little guys,” he says timidly, as though afraid to push you too far.
It’s dangerous — leaving a kid to deal with a Mitachurl isn’t something you’d ever be proud to admit — but given his Vision and your current condition, there’s little room for argument. You nod, and a small smile flickers across his face before he quickly grabs for his vials.
Using the tree for support, you force yourself to stand. The earlier explosion left you battered, but not beaten.
The boy offers two vials, then spits lightly on both, and they flare to life with Pyro energy. Visions work in strange ways, and you try not to grimace as you take the volatile orbs in hand. He nods once, determined, and runs back toward the camp. You follow out of instinct and worry.
You both charge the camp. He veers left while you break through the trees into the clearing.
A war cry echoes.
The Mitachurl digs into the snow, reaching for another Cryo slime but stops short when a bomb bursts against its back, flames licking its fur. It howls in pain.
You don’t have time to focus on the boy. Arrows whistle past as you charge headlong into their line of fire. Hilichurls train, but they lack precision. Their shots are easy enough to dodge until the grenadier starts hurling slimes, each one shaking the ground on impact. The combined assault leaves no opening to advance.
You can’t throw your polearm again, not after that last hit. Clutching one of the glowing vials, you aim for the grenadier mid-reload and hurl it.
The vial bursts against the ground, erupting into a wave of fire. Snow sprays in every direction, and when the haze clears, only a pair of charred legs remain.
You’d comment on the destructive power — but there’s no time.
With one down, you charge the last archer. Its shots are frantic now, wide and clumsy. Panic is your ally. You close the distance and slice its throat cleanly. The body collapses face-first into the snow, you kick the crossbow away.
You don’t rest. You turn ready to help the boy only to find a mound of burning flesh where the Mitachurl once stood.
The boy stands before it, the monster’s mask in hand, eyes gleaming with something wild. For a heartbeat, your chest tightens.
Don’t forget — these are a Harbinger’s chosen.
The thought strikes you like a blade, and your grip tightens around your polearm.
After finding himself, the boy’s expression softens. He runs over, smiling wide.
“We did it!” he shouts, raising his hand for a high five.
You think to turn away — to remind him there’s still work to do — but the joy in his eyes stops you. He’s just a child.
Your palms meet with a sharp clap, and his laughter rings through the night. He grins up at you, a tooth missing from his smile.
“What’s your name?” you ask.
“Call me Boris the Bombardment! It’s what they call me back at the Hearth.”
Fitting, you think. But what on earth is the Knave letting these kids get away with?
“Alright, Boris. Let’s see if these guys left anything useful.”
You toss the words over your shoulder as you head toward the cave. Beyond the large entrance, there’s not much: tracks in the dirt, clusters of crystal in the walls, signs of an abandoned mining effort. More hilichurl structures crowd the area, but there’s no sign of the convoy or the cargo.
Doubt creeps in again. But Boris wouldn’t have been staking this place out for nothing. Something must be here.
You search deeper, shoving aside rags and poking through the makeshift shelters until you spot a crate with a cracked lid. You approach cautiously. It’s intact. The hilichurls must have tried to pry it open before giving up.
Relief washes through you. The fight wasn’t for nothing.
You pull out the retrieval device Katherine gave you, turning it over in your hands to find a way to activate it — until the sound of splintering wood snaps your attention to the crate.
Boris is there, swinging a club at the lid.
“Wait—” you start, but the top’s already off.
The boy peers inside, curiosity bright in his eyes — until it isn’t.
He stumbles back with a scream, falling hard onto the ground.
You rush over and look for yourself — and your stomach turns.
The crate is filled not with materials, but bodies. Or rather, parts. Mechanical limbs and heads — each one identical to Katherine’s. Arms. Legs. Multiple faces. Their hollow eyes stare up at you through the dim light.
The sight chills you deeper than the frost ever could.
You slam the lid shut.
Boris still sits on the ground, chest heaving. You toss him the device gently, and he fumbles to catch it.
“Do you know how it works?” you ask.
He looks it over, then nods slowly.
“Can you start it for me? We’ll get you home after.”
He stands, fiddling with the device. You watch him closely. You’re not great with children—but Lev’s daughter taught you one thing: they’re stronger than they look.
After a few tense moments, Boris returns. The beacon glows faintly, pulsing in a steady rhythm. He smiles, proud but uncertain of what it’ll do. You don’t know either, so you both decide to stand guard outside until help arrives.
The “help” comes in the form of a Ruin Guard.
You hear it before you see it — the rhythmic thud of heavy footsteps shaking the trees. You brace for a fight, but the machine doesn’t attack. It marches past, straight toward the cave. Without hesitation, it reaches in, lifts the crate as if it weighs nothing, then turns and leaves.
You and Boris exchange a look. Then he grabs your hand.
“Come on!”
You barely manage to protest before he’s dragging you after the machine.
Following it seems smart — it knows where it’s going — but your confidence falters as Boris scrambles up its side, climbing until he’s perched proudly on its shoulders. Dangerous, reckless…but he’s laughing.
You climb after him, less graceful but determined, until you reach the top. From this height, the world stretches far and clear. The capital glimmers in the distance.
Boris raises his hands in triumph, shouting a cry of victory that echoes through the cold.
And you realize, almost numbly—
The first trial is over.
Two more to go. And the next Harbinger will be decided.
The thought hits you full force, heavy as stone.
You told yourself you weren’t doing it for the illusions the others have and yet you are one step closer to his goal.
What will you do if you reach the finish line?
a/n | omg hey yall its been a minute... so sorry for the random delay in posts i have been writing so much lately for classes that I needed a break from a keyboard but I got my mojo back so updates will becoming a lot sooner than what they have been !!
prompt : when did you get hot? by sanbrina carpenter but its about various hsr men
tags | sunday : maybe-regency-core!au, spoiled-rich-boy!sunday ( he does change ) | danheng : modern!au, college!au, preppy-kid!reader | welt : modern!au, tw.smoking, office-worker!welt & reader, himeko coffee still ass <3 |
SUNDAY, the spoiled rich idiot.
Truth be told, you never really knew him. His sister, though — Robin — you knew well. She was everything Sunday wasn’t: respectful, kind, approachable. Though she carried noble blood, she never let it wedge between you. Not that your family was lowborn, but the Oaks stood at the pinnacle of wealth, and Sunday believed that title demanded your deference.
She didn’t wear the title like armor. Not like him.
Whenever you played with Robin, he would find a way to intrude. A pointed glare. A reminder of her lessons. A smirk that cut deeper than words. Robin would assure you his cruelty meant nothing, calling him a meanie with the blind optimism of childhood. But his disdain stuck — sharp, unshakable.
You clung to her reassurances. Believed there was no divide. That shattered the day you were accused of theft, branded with a crime you hadn’t even known existed. Your family pulled you away without hesitation. You wept in the carriage, watching Robin blur into the distance. And there, framed in the doorway, Sunday smirked as though satisfied with your exile.
Years passed. You rose, inherited your family name, earned respect. Then the invitation came: the Oak Family gala. The feud was never resolved, but the world had changed. Favor mattered more than old wounds. Still, forgiveness was not yours to give.
The estate hadn’t changed. Same grand ceilings, same chandeliers glittering like stars. As you walked the familiar corridor, portraits of the family lined the walls. The last was of the current heads — Robin, and Sunday.
They looked different now. Older. Sharper. So did you.
The gala brimmed with nobility. You wore your mask of smiles, ignoring the ache in your cheeks, until the moment arrived. Robin and Sunday stood before you. The room stilled as you bowed, formal and cold. Robin shattered protocol with an embrace, gasps following her warmth.
Then — his voice. A whisper at her ear.
Sunday.
He didn’t touch you. He didn’t speak your name. But his gaze — unyielding, relentless — never left.
Robin brushed him off, but your gaze locked on his. A blank bow was all you offered.
The night turned into a dance of shadows. Robin at your side, Sunday always near, hovering at the edge of every conversation, watching with a hunger he couldn’t hide. You told yourself he was waiting for the chance to ruin things again. In truth, he was starving for the chance to make them right.
Then the waltz began. Couples spun beneath the chandeliers, Robin pulled away in Argenti’s eager arms, her laughter trailing behind. Alone, you stood at the wall, glass in hand.
Then — white gloves at your side.
You turned. Sunday. His hand extended, steady, insistent. You wanted to refuse, to humiliate him with a public rejection. But family honor bound you. You set your hand in his.
On the floor, he surprised you. He didn’t force control. He didn’t sneer. He only danced, measured, careful — as though afraid to break you. And when he drew you close, his voice was low, raw.
He confessed. Pride, jealousy, the weight of a name that had poisoned him. His weakness that cost him Robin, cost him you. You prepared to spit out that apologies meant nothing. But he cut you off. He didn’t ask for forgiveness. He only wanted you to know he had never meant to hurt you.
The dip came sudden, his arm strong beneath you. The rise was slower. The applause thundered, but for a heartbeat it felt like only the two of you existed. He pressed his lips to your hand, reverent, aching, like it was sacred. A worship he denied himself too long or as if to erase the boy he had been, you will never know. Then he turned and vanished into the crowd.
No, you did not forgive him.
But your heart whispered treason all the same.
When did Sunday become so compelling?
DANHENG, the loner.
It wasn’t like you never tried. You’d always been good at coaxing people out of their shells, good at making new friends. And every day at lunch, there he was — alone, tucked behind some book or another. You weren’t trying to bother him. Just… curious. Why did he always keep his distance?
Your approach was the same one that had always worked: warm, bubbly, easy. But with Danheng, you never got the chance. His rejection was instant, sharp. “Get lost.”
It was the first time anyone had said something like that to you so boldly. It stung. Your childlike wonder cracked, tears slipping free as you ran to tell March.
She was furious. Promised to give him a piece of her mind. He shouldn’t treat people like that. You agreed, and when she came back assuring you it was “handled,” you foolishly expected an apology. But visiting him again only earned the same cold dismissal.
It confused you. Why could he be friends with March and not with you? People said you and her were alike. Shouldn’t he like you too? But in the end, you learned something valuable: not everyone wants to be your friend.
So you stopped trying. You gave him the distance he seemed to want. And you kept it — for years.
By the time you reached university, you had plenty of friends. You weren’t obsessed with collecting them anymore. You joined March’s photography club, and today was practice day: models, lights, lenses. Most of the volunteers were there for the free gift cards March promised, or just to hang around her.
You drifted with your camera, snapping shots of the crowd: classmates surrounding March, fellow photographers fussing with equipment, the wide open space filled with laughter. You were in your element — until you turned. Click.
And froze.
Short black hair. Pale teal eyes.
Danheng.
You blinked. So did he. And then you scrambled — apologizing, promising to delete the shot. You even showed him proof before scurrying away, giving him no chance to speak. You already knew what he’d say. Something sharp. Something that would bruise the child inside you all over again.
But no matter how you avoided him, he slipped into your photos anyway. In every frame, somehow, there he was — those eyes staring through the lens, straight into you.
And then came pairings. Photographer with model. Of course, March sent you with him. You begged her not to, but she only smiled, calling it bonding.
All you could do was apologize. Promise you’d work quickly so he could go about his day.
“It’s fine,” he said at last. His voice low, measured. “The last photo you took was pretty nice. Even though you deleted it.”
You froze at the words, stunned. Compliment? From him? You buried it, forced yourself to focus. You snapped photo after photo, pretending not to hear your own pulse in your ears — until March called for everyone to switch.
You handed the camera over. He held it like something fragile. “How does it work?” he asked.
You guided him through the buttons, the dials, and then—
“Pose,” he said.
You had never been on this side of the lens. Every shift of your weight felt wrong. You knew you looked as awkward as you felt. Danheng lowered the camera. Stepped closer. Too close.
This close, you could smell him. Jasmine trees and coffee. He adjusted you gently, moving your feet, tilting your chin with the lightest touch of his hand. And you — helplessly — you locked eyes with him.
The air shifted. The closeness was too much, too intimate, too raw.
A flash startled you both. March, laughing, had stolen a shot, and Danheng lunged to snatch the camera back. They bickered playfully, her laughter ringing bright.
You barely heard them.
Because all you could think was—
When did he start looking at me like that?
When did he get so beautiful?
WELT, the nerdy boy in your English group.
You used to think he was the sweetest thing. The boy with wide-rimmed glasses, a shy stutter, and a habit of raising his hand with answers so careful it felt like he was afraid to be wrong. Welt was the quiet heart of your English class, and to you, he was perfect.
Your friends teased you relentlessly. They said your “crush” was just a ploy to get help from the smartest kid in the room. But you didn’t need his answers — you just wanted him. The way he pushed his glasses up when nervous, the way his ears turned pink when the teacher called on him.
But you never had the courage to talk to him. And he never found the courage to talk to you. So your crush stayed unspoken — one-sided, at least in your mind.
Time pushed you apart. Graduation came. Different partners, different paths. He vanished into the current of life, and eventually, you told yourself it had been nothing — just a silly teenage crush.
Except it hadn’t been nothing. Not really.
Years passed. Decades, even. You built a life, a career, friends. But every New Year’s party, every crowded room where couples kissed at midnight, you’d catch yourself remembering that boy with the stutter, and wonder where he ended up.
The countdown was still thirty minutes away, but soon the upstairs accounting unit would pour in, doubling the chaos. It wasn’t that the space couldn’t hold them — it just meant shoulder-to-shoulder noise, too much heat, too many voices. Without a partner to share midnight with, you felt no pressure to linger.
So you slipped away.
The rooftop air was crisp, carrying the promise of fireworks. From here, the whole city square stretched before you — open sky, perfect view. And you weren’t alone.
A man leaned against the fence, lighting a cigarette. For an instant, the flame illuminated hard brows, a scowl etched deep. You weighed your options: crowded room or brooding stranger. The breeze made the decision for you.
Your footsteps crunched on gravel, drawing his attention. He angled his head, blowing smoke away from you. A small gesture, but it softened him in your eyes.
Silence stretched — until you both spoke at once.
“Want one?” he asked, offering the cigarette pack.
“Escaping the chaos too?” you asked.
You both laughed, shaking your heads at the overlap. He turned toward you, still smiling — and in the moonlight, the glasses caught your eye. Ordinary, at first glance. But you noticed the tiny detail carved into the side, the same kind he used to wear back in school. You knew those glasses. You knew him.
Your heart stuttered. Welt.
Your heart thudded. “This is going to sound strange, but… did you go to—” you named the high school, tentative.
His brow lifted. “Yeah. Why?”
You whispered his name.
His breath caught, your name tumbling from his lips so fast it tripped into a stutter — that stutter — before dissolving into a cough. You reached out without thinking, hand on his back, and suddenly you weren’t in an office building on New Year’s Eve. You were seventeen again, watching him turn pink at the ears.
“It’s been forever,” you said, patting his back until he caught his breath.
The conversation flowed easily after that, warm and oddly youthful. You hated how it made you feel — like teenagers again, like no years had passed at all.
Then the countdown roared from below. Ten. Nine. Eight. You both turned toward the city, joining in, your voices trailing behind the crowd’s. Fireworks streaked across the sky, bright and bursting.
You looked back at him.
The boy you remembered was gone. In his place stood a man — worn, steadier, still carrying the quiet patience you had admired all those years ago. But there was something new in his eyes as he looked back at you, fireworks reflected in their glassy sheen.
And you thought, helplessly—
When did cute little Welt become the man I’d been waiting for?
thing to note — gn!reader | modern-idols!au | platonic ( slight romantic tone here and there ) | manger!reader ( abby, baby ) | trainee!reader ( romance, mystery ) |
author’s remarks — i told myself i wouldn’t and then i sat here and wrote about these devils smh….my sister made me watch and i am slightly obsessed lol so here is this out of the blue post might make a huntrix version idk
ABBY
— he really likes being close
The best and only way you could describe Abby is one word: physical.
It’s obvious he is the biggest out of all the SAJA BOYS and he tries to make up for it by trying to be the smallest in the room.
He succeeds, but that comes at the cost of somebody being the scapegoat he squeezes into. Normally it would be Jinu, as leader he has to take one for the team regardless if he is comfortable or not.
So no his facetimes with Rumi aren’t just between them, no they can’t be separated while going live for their fans, and he may absolutely not expect a quiet moment on the couch as Abby is always there to squeeze at his side.
If Jinu could describe Abby in one word it would be parasite.
So Jinu is the most grateful man to ever walk the earth when you become manager of the group because for whatever reason Abby ditches his side for yours.
You can’t pinpoint what exactly piqued his interest nor can you really tell when he just started appearing next to you
But you noticed one day after rehearsals.
Preparations for their newest comeback “Kingdom Come” was in full swing. Prerecording for the album had just finished and now it was time for choreography.
The boys were focused on mastering their moves while you typed away on your ipad responding to Gwi-Ma’s emails and getting details for the comeback stage’s outfits and layout.
Of course you’re focused
So focused you don’t hear the choreographer call time for a break and don’t feel the presence of the group's visual until he bumps your shoulder with his own.
You jump because when did he get so close and how on earth did you not notice six feet of muscle stalk towards you.
He isn’t fazed though and continues to look down at your ipad in curiosity.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks after a beat.
“Prepping your stage.” You reply.
“Cool.” he ends it and then is back up and on the dance floor smacking both Jinu and Romance on the back loud enough for the sound to make you hurt.
That is just Abby being well Abby so you had thought you could pay it no mind but ever since then you noticed he was always just…there.
When the boys go live and you are forced to supervise as to stop Baby from saying any spoilers, Abby places himself just at the edge of frame. Not so far to where his body isn’t seen but just enough that his arm is out of sight and placed near your own by the arm of the couch.
When the group has down time at a hotel, you bask in the sun a little on a lounge chair and sure enough Abby leaves the pool to sit beside you and make casual conversation before leaving to play chicken with the boys.
Even when the boys are backstage and just about to go on, Abby spends the next five minute que with you shoulder to shoulder not saying a word but enjoying the proximity.
Abby is physical is all you think and all you believe.
Even when fans swarm them at the airport and you get pushed out the way, it's just Abby being physical when he grabs your arm and pulls you into his chest for protection and whispers to stay close manager
he can’t protect you if you’re too far.
ROMANCE
— he likes when you complete his hearts
It started out of the blue really and it just kind of stuck.
Romance has always been the most outgoing out of all the boys. He somehow ends up trending biweekly over some dating rumor or random pairing when he is spotted by the paparazzi out and about.
He plays into most of the shipping, standing closer to other idols or doing dance challenges here and there to show off the rare pairs.
Even amongst his fellow members, Romance would go the extra mile to show just enough love for his name to be number one online again, truly it cracks him up.
Especially when the boys are trying to get away from it.
Jinu keeps him at an arms length for most lives out of fear he’ll try and sneak a kiss, Mystery makes sure to keep six feet of distance during the breaks between dance practices unless he wants a romantic sweaty hug, Baby even makes sure he showers last just to keep Romance from coming in.
It’s all in good fun though, as idols they are paid to put on a show and that is what he intends to do.
So it is no surprise that during an award stage he end up next you for another one of his antics.
The only surprise is how well you fit in.
Your group just debuted and has been on a slow rise to fame. The saju boys have seen your stage as you performed before them and he has to give credit where it is due. You guys can perform.
Later on in the night, Huntrix wins an award for their newest single and the organizers have you stand around for congratulations as they always do.
Runner up idols are the ones normally placed in the front so the Saju Boys are standing ahead but your group is there too.
You catch eyes with Romance and smile which he returns and then he reaches a hand over. He curls his fingers making a half a heart and you are surprised with the forward gesture but complete the heart nonetheless as a camera man comes running by.
The moment is short with smiles and laughter and loud screams from fans, but you both don’t think anything of it as you exit different parts of the stage.
But of course that interaction was a big deal.
Mystery tells Romance he’s trending, and Romance shrugs until Mystery brings up your name and suddenly he’s interested.
That heart spiraled into something within the community and suddenly you both are the biggest ship since Miromabby.
That’s how it begins, every chance you pass by one another ( like some kind of personal handshake ) there is some form of heart involved.
Full-body, hand, cheek to cheek, whatever it may be it drives the fans wild and you both get a kick out of it.
Its all in good fun you say
Even when its in the middle of an award show, the heart meme grew so much they want you both as hosts and being thrust into the limelight is nerve wracking.
Cameras are on in five and the preshow jitters are getting to you until Romance extends his hand. You connect your hands and he intertwines your fingers in his own.
“You’ll do great.” he says with a smile
“You’re my other half and together we are unstoppable.”
BABY
— he’s a chief at heart, and you are his favorite critic
Truth be told you had no idea he could cook.
It wasn’t until they did an interview video with Kpop network, where the members were asked to name a hidden talent about their costar and they all agreed that Baby was a great cook.
You don’t visit the boys' rooms often unless to get them for events and Gwi-Ma just kinda thrusted the job onto you so you haven’t had the opportunity to actually get to know them besides catching up on the “Know Your Boys” reality videos they have on youtube.
The opportunity strikes when the boys are tasked with posting a “relay day” video compilation.
They are each given a few hours of the day and record what they do in that for the video.
Abby chose the early morning where he works out at the gym before breakfast. Mystery chose morning to noon where he eats breakfast and then builds legos for a few hours before treating himself to icecream.
Jinu and Romance got afternoon where they check out the neighborhood and visit random shops for thrifting.
Baby got night time where he cooks Abby’s meal preps and dinner for the rest of the boys.
You were told to supervise although there really wasn’t a need but you listen to the man at the top and go around with all the boys off camera until its time to watch Baby.
You sit on your phone not really caring as the camera sits on a tripod facing him at the stove. You admit the food smells absolutely divine but you can’t speak it because its his video.
So it surprises you drastically when a spoon is shoved in your direction and deep voice speaks up.
Try it.
You stare at the spoon and then him and then the camera.
Silently you shake your head but Baby stands persistent like a child offering their invisible dinner except this one is visible and smells like you should really eat it.
You cave in and take the spoonful.
Its a traditional korean dish but with a tang of spice that really heightens its flavor that you have to groan about it.
You nod in approval that its good and Baby turns around with a smug look on his face and then turns to the camera.
He does a little dance which is most definitely a spoiler to their comeback so you have to remind the other staff to cut it out but that is how it starts.
Almost every time you are at the boys dorm, Baby is cooking and before you could get a word in he is offering some piece of it.
Be it a side dish, the main course or his attempt at a hand-made dessert,
Baby always has a portion saved for you and he won’t let any of the boys eat anything until he has the manager’s approval.
You thought it was an exaggeration but one time Abby did facetime you that he was starving and Baby was hoarding the Gimbap he made because Manager-nim needs their share first.
MYSTERY
— his snack run buddy.
Mystery has always been strange to you.
Not because his whole thing is being mysterious, but because he has a few habits that leave you visibly paused.
His preshow ritual to do a handstand on the wall for two minutes
Why he named his cat hammerhead
Or why he only responds to you in emoticons you will never know.
But it is what makes Mystery, Mystery so you wouldn’t change it for the world.
You both trained together in the same reality show Gwi-Ma made for his idol group.
Although you didn’t make the final cut, you are still training under the label so you keep in touch with Mystery through your conflicting schedules.
Even though he debuted, the friendship between you both has never shifted so you still do all things you did while you were trainees
That includes his midnight munchies.
Mystery often stays up late nights during the time before a comeback to better his choreography and voice, a dedication you’ve seen since the start.
So it comes as no surprise after SAJA BOYS announces their new album that a text comes your way late into the night.
You know its Mystery because the rest of the world is resting, so you answer:
no eyes | (-_-)/~~
you | is it snack time already
no eyes | \ (-o-) /
you | lol alright all be down in three
He always waits just outside your building in a hat, dark hoodie and a mask. his hair is a dead give away but covered up he does always look like some guy.
The convenience store you visit is always the same one run by a nice older couple.
Sometimes you both get noodles and talk until the night’s purple hues turn orange, sometimes you get drinks and walk around a park talking about the good old days,
And sometimes ( like now ) you wake up in the dance studio.
Mystery’s head leans on your shoulder both having dozed off after helping him review cheo.
It is just like before he debuted as you both spent countless nights like these
And just like before you wake up to an extra banana milk at your side he bought for your morning snack.
when did you get hot? by sabrina carpenter but it’s about various honkai star rail men ( has anyone done this yet )
tags | modern!au | phainon : farmer!phainon, tw.bullying | mydei : bartender!mydei, tw.drinking, drunnk serval is praying on your downfall | anaxa : academic-rivals-to-something, very suggestive i don't know what came over me my god | khaslana : reversed roles, tw.bullying, bully!khas, best-friend's twin brother!au |
Phainon the farmer boy
You once rescued him from bullies in middle school — back when children thought alienating classmates wasn’t as cruel as it seemed.
Little Phainon, dirt-streaked and bruised, looked up at you like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. From then on, he followed you everywhere, while your friends whispered that the “puppy crush” was back. You swatted them away through their giggles.
By the end of the year, he finally gathered the courage to approach you. He offered a flimsy paper card sagging under too many charms and too much glue, his eyes watery as he promised that when he grew up, he’d be strong enough to protect you. You humored him, linking your pinky to his, though you never expected to see him again after moving cities. Still, you kept the card. You kept the promise, too.
Years later, you’re in college, busier than ever. A sustainability course sends you to survey a local farm. While your classmates complain about the smell and bugs, you quietly take notes, knowing most of the report will fall on you.
Then their whining turns into squeals. You mean to ignore it, as you’ve been doing, but curiosity wins. You glance over.
By the farmhouse, a boy with white hair, overalls hanging loose over his bare chest, hefts a hay bale like it’s nothing. He throws it down, splits it apart, and the cattle rush in to feed. The older man leading your group calls out, and the boy glances over. The moment he sees you, his grin falters into something softer, almost disbelieving, before he jogs toward you with renewed energy. The girls in your group quickly straighten their hair and clothes, but your shoulder is tapped instead.
Dan Heng, your childhood friend and the only reliable one in the group, murmurs, “Doesn’t he kinda look like Phainon?”
You don’t have time to respond — because he’s already in front of you. The farmer introduces his son. Phainon. The name makes the air rush from your lungs.
Your classmates go down the line introducing themselves, but Phainon doesn’t even look their way. His eyes are locked on you, wide and shining, as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks. When your turn comes, he whispers your name first — breathless, reverent, like it’s a prayer he’s been repeating for years.
You nod, and suddenly you’re in his arms. His grip is desperate, almost trembling, like he’s terrified this reunion might be a dream he’ll wake from too soon. He buries his face against your shoulder, murmuring how long it’s been, how he thought he might never see you again.
And all you can think is:
Wow. Has little Phainon really grown into… this?
Mydei the little brat you babysat for your neighbors.
Only a few years younger, but when you turned eighteen, his parents trusted you more than him — and he hated that.
Tantrums. Slammed doors. Shouted “I hate yous” from the stairs—Mydei never missed a chance to remind you he despised your authority. You brushed it off as childish fits. When Hysilens once suggested over the phone it was his clumsy way of confessing, you scoffed. Even years later, you laughed at the memories.
Until that night at the bar.
Cerydra’s promotion took the group to a hidden dive — warm lighting, wood counters, the kind of place that made you sink into your chair. After pool and too many shots, you tapped out early.
It was Serval who slurred first.
“I knew I recognized our bartender — he’s that bassist I told you guys about.”
Hysilens steadied her, but frowned at him before glancing your way.
“Doesn’t he kinda look like that kid you babysat?”
You barked out a drunk laugh.
“Mydei? God, I hope not. Seeing that gremlin again might make me vomit.”
The words carried farther than you thought. Serval’s confirmation wasn’t any help.
“Yeah, that was his name! Mydei.”
And when you turned back — he was there.
Leaning over the counter. Older. Taller. Tattoos curling like secrets from under his shirt you couldn’t help but stare at. His face was unfazed, but his eyes — locked on you — were anything but casual. They burned, holding you like he’d been waiting years for this chance.
A shot glass cracked against the wood, jolting you. He tilted his chin toward the sign behind him: Wandering eyes get you shot.
Heat ran through you instantly and it wasn’t just the drinks. You wanted to roll your eyes, toss back some snarky remark the way you used to when he was a brat. But your throat was dry. Your chest tight. You hated the way your pulse betrayed you. Too fast, too loud.
You tried to protest, but he slid the glass closer anyway, pouring one for himself. When you declined, his gaze swept over you — slow, deliberate — before he tipped his own back, throat working as he downed it.
“My house. My rules.” His voice was low, rougher now, and a smirk rising as he stared you down.
You told yourself to scoff, to break the tension, to remind him you’d once wiped his sticky hands clean and sent him to bed early. But the longer he held your gaze, the harder it was to breathe past the heat pooling in your chest.
Annoyance. Embarrassment. Something dangerously close to attraction — colliding in one dizzy rush.
When did little Mydei become… this?
Anaxagoras the know-it-all.
Anaxagoras was the boy every teacher adored and every rival resented: student council president, debate captain, a parade of trophies glinting in the school case. He bragged. He laid down rules. He demanded titles. “Beat me on a test,” he said, “and I’ll let you call me Anaxa.”
Transferred in because your parents thought your old district wasn’t enough, you slipped into Anaxagoras’s orbit without warning. He dismissed you as an easy mark, until the pop quiz. You handed it in at the same moment. For the first time, his certainty cracked. He treated you like a problem to be solved, a rival he had to vanquish. He tried to outshine you at every turn, obsessed enough to miss a detail and lose a point. Ninety-nine to your one hundred. You called him Anaxa in triumph. He called it betrayal — and he’s never let you forget.
Predictable that you both wound up at the same prestigious university. Less predictable that a professor would pair you for a joint thesis, praising you as the brightest minds she’d seen. You agreed because the project would shine on a CV — but neither of you accounted for what the rivalry would do to collaboration.
Anaxa pushed. You resisted. Breakthroughs were hard-won and fragile; victories evaporated into new arguments. The tension snapped one late night in the library.
“You’re full of yourself,” you hiss. He replies, cool and infuriatingly calm, “You’re overdramatic.” It’s patronizing, and that’s the last straw. You shove your things into your bag. He finally looks up.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Oh, surprised you can’t guess: I’m leaving.” The words are sharp. He laughs — dry, almost amused — and something tight coils in your chest.
“Running, as always.” He says it like he’s stating a truth. You scoff and leave the study room. Shelving books, mind racing you turn the last corner ready to leave the library — only to meet him blocking your path.
“You know what I think?” he says quietly. You want to slap him. You want to walk away, because you don't want to know. Instead he steps closer and you let him. “I think that if you weren’t so scared of me biting back, you’d stop with all this barking.”
The implication lands hot and raw. Your stomach flips — not merely anger now, but something else that thrums beneath your ribs. Your hand trembles with contradiction. You grab his shirt — harder than you intend — and pull him in.
His face is nearer than it ever was in the classroom: eyes sharp, lips a fraction parted, breath quickening. For a moment the world shrinks to the heat between you — annoyance braided with a pull you can’t define.
When did he become so irresistible?
Khaslana the big bad bully.
When Phainon mentioned a twin, you pictured the same sunny kid you’d grown up with. Khaslana arrived instead like a storm. He tucked gum into your sleeves, shoved you in the hallway, smashed your Lego kingdoms — he treated you like something small and breakable he could step on for fun. You never told Phainon; the thought of losing your best friend was worse than enduring Khaslana’s cruelty. So you learned to survive that childhood quietly.
A year later your family moved for your parent’s promotion. You were relieved to escape Khaslana, but crushed to leave Phainon. You wrote letters, then video-called; screens kept you connected, but couldn’t replace presence. Finally, that summer you returned and stayed with Phainon’s family.
His mother met you at the gate with a hug, promising Phainon would be home in a few hours. You got to his house and unpacked in Phainon’s room, fingers tracing old photos and memory-stains. Later on while helping in the kitchen, you heard the door and hurried to meet him — only to find Khaslana filling the threshold. You froze, eyes fixed on the brother you’d feared for years, until Phainon shoved past and wrapped you so tightly you forgot there was anyone else. Khaslana watched, quiet and unmoved.
At dinner the house was noisy with reunion chatter, but Khaslana’s gaze never left you. You kept your back turned. Later, after the parents had gone to bed and Phainon cued up your childhood movie, you went to brush your teeth. Standing at the sink, toothpaste smeared at your mouth, you felt the weight of someone in the doorway. Khaslana leaned there, arms crossed, watching.
You were in pajama pants and a graphic t-shirt — his graphic shirt —and when he pointed it out you nearly jumped out of your own skin. He studied you: the toothpaste, the softness of your skin, the way the shirt looked on your frame. A sharp retort hovered on his lips — an old habit — but the joke splintered when the sight of you really hit him.
For the first time since childhood, the cruelty softened into something like hunger. He swallowed, voice low and rough. You felt the air shift.
Who was this — this dangerous, quiet version of him? Why did your chest tighten, a strange, guilty flutter mixing with the old dread? Your mind was betraying you, and so was Khaslana’s.
He simply couldn’t stop thinking about how you became… so undeniably, painfully hot?
↳ [ 01:15pm ] and sometimes you have to remind yourself they're gods |
↳ pt. ii [ fontaine version ] | pt.iii [ natlan version ] |
↳ [ 12:30am ] and yet, you still resist |
wc | 2k+ total
noteworthy warnings | gn!reader; dark themes; very-slight-body-horror [ ? ]; implied-forced resurrection; reader carves themselves; reader attempts to kill themselves ( mavuika ); brought-back-different!au; implied-arranged-marriage; so far from canon but i can do whatever i want ( specail mention );
a/n | I had been getting a few notifications recent on some of the other posts in the collection which reminded me that i should probably keep it going lol. so without further ado here is another continuation of gods, the all powerful!! extended authors note at end!
THE PYRO ARCHON HABORYM | wc. 1.2k
You died.
At least, you were sure you did.
All you can remember is the enveloping darkness that consumed your vision after the Abyssal invasion. Your party was overrun before word of their advance had even reached the city, and your death came soon after — from a Mitachurl mimic, a clean cut straight through the abdomen.
The memory is real; the thought is so vivid in your mind and the feeling so engraved in your body that it cannot be phantom pain. And yet, you’re still breathing.
You spring upright in your bed, drenched in cold sweat. Your eyes scan the room like a battlefield, ready to pounce on anything that dares to breathe — but all that greets you is the soft light of morning peeking through the curtains. The calm and comfort of your home should bring peace, but with this dream returning for the fourth night this week, home is just a word now.
Your strength wanes. It takes far too much effort to swing your legs off the bed, and you pause before rising, lest you collapse again.
Doctors from every nation have stood at your bedside, trying to determine what has come of you. None succeeded. It's as if your warrior’s blood has simply drained from your body. You're a husk of your former self.
Again, your mind returns to the dream — no, the death. It felt real, so real that you’re certain your soul passed on and never returned. You clutch the nightstand for support, jostling it in the process. The noise must have startled someone downstairs, because footsteps soon race up from below.
A wave of annoyance and slight regret washes over you. You already know who it is. You grab your cane just as she barrels through the door.
“You don’t have to come every time you hear me move. I’m weak, not helpless.”
You push past Mavuika as she stands in the doorway. Her face frowns, but it quickly softens as she moves to help you down the stairs.
“Is it wrong to check if you’re okay?” she says. It's rhetorical, meant as a joke, but after being cooped up for so long, it grates.
“If it were Xilonen or even Citlali, I would say no. But having Natlan’s radiant sun at my beck and call feels... demeaning.”
At the bottom of the stairs, you pull your arm away from her and limp toward the kitchen. Mavuika remains at the base, watching.
You know you're being dramatic; you're looking for someone to blame. But none of this makes sense. One moment you're fighting the Abyss with all your might — the next, you're in a home everyone swears is yours, but feels completely foreign.
And everyone you knew? Gone. Or worse — figments of your mind. Mavuika insists the dream was only that: a dream and you were starting to believe her but the people felt real. Their screams, their fight. The war wasn’t over in your head, no matter how much she says it is now.
The sink has been running too long. The glass under the faucet is overflowing, water spilling over the sides. You can’t be bothered to move it. Absentmindedly, you reach for fruit from the health basket someone gifted you. You grasp a few berries — but in the process, your hand scrapes across a forgotten thorned stem.
Pain flashes across your palm, and you pull back with a hiss. The basket tips, spilling fruit onto the floor.
Mavuika rushes in. You hear her say something about not being able to leave you alone, but her voice becomes background noise. Your eyes are locked on your hand.
She stops speaking. Her gaze follows yours.
There — where the thorn cut your skin — your palm should be bleeding. The gash is open. Not deep enough to be a wound, but deep enough to bleed.
Yet it doesn’t.
You’re sure you broke skin. You're sure it hurt — because it did. And now… it’s just gone.
“What is this?” you whisper, eyes still fixed on your hand. You don’t look at the god. But you know she has the answer.
“I can explain. Just... don’t panic.”
She tries to sound calm. But who wouldn’t panic at a time like this?
You move — fast. Faster than you’ve moved since waking in this strange home. A drawer is thrown open, utensils clatter, and a knife is in your hand.
“Wait— !” Mavuika shouts.
Too late.
The blade runs down your arm in a hard, deliberate stroke. It should be horrific. It is painful. And yet—
You feel nothing.
There is no blood. No real flesh. Only the illusion of skin wrapped around a hollow shell.
Your breath quickens. Slowly, you look to her. Her gaze is cast downward.
And a fire ignites in your chest.
“What is this?”
She raises her hands in surrender. “Your resurrection wasn’t complete. My memories weren’t enough to make you whole, and no one else alive had sufficient knowledge of you. This... this was all the Lord of the Night could do.”
You stare, unblinking.
She continues, voice softer now. “You had no ancient name. Nothing to remember you by. And I — I couldn’t let you go like that.”
Mavuika steps closer. Her hands move toward the knife still in your grasp.
“You brought me back. You changed my history. I should be dead.”
“I brought you back all the same. Isn’t it better, living together?”
“Am I even living?!”
You pull at your arm — peeling skin away to reveal the void beneath. You are not alive. You are a memory given form. A shadow of what died on that battlefield.
“I have no legacy. I have no home. I have no life. You brought me back to this world — for you?”
Your glare stops her in her tracks. She tries to speak again, but you’re faster.
The knife rises and you thrust it straight for your chest.
But the impact never comes.
A sudden warmth erupts at your sternum. You look down. The blade is gripped in Mavuika’s hand, her fingers ablaze. The steel melts away, and your shirt smolders where her fist nearly struck.
Slowly, your gaze lifts.
The sun is there, staring back at you.
Her hair blazes like wildfire, and the light she emits turns the whole house red.
“I brought you back for us. I sacrificed a lot to make this happen. Don’t be so selfish as to throw that away.”
You want to argue. To scream that this is wrong. But then—
Knock knock.
A voice calls from outside. Xilonen.
Mavuika moves fast. She burns what’s left of the knife in a flash, then grabs your wrist and welds your skin back together as if nothing happened. The fire fades the moment the front door opens, but it still smolders in her eyes.
We’ll discuss this later. Don’t make a scene.
You want to. Gods, you want to. But who would believe you, other than the Lord of the Night themselves?
Xilonen greets you with a smile, remarking on the heat. You brush past her, not stopping until you reach the stairs.
Your ascent is slow. The burning weight of divine eyes follows you until you shut your bedroom door.
Your life is a lie—
A forgery born from a god’s selfishness.
You look down at your arm. The scar she left behind doesn’t look like a wound.
It looks like a brand.
Your knees buckle, and you collapse into bed.
A grave sin has been committed.
And you will make sure it is undone.
THE FIRST OF THE ELEVEN HARBINGERS IL CAPITANO | wc. 828
"I... I don't understand."
The reports from Natlan had sounded like a fever dream — a nation of war coming to its end, the Pyro Archon’s alliance with the Fatui, and the Captain… gone. You stare at the soldiers, waiting for sense to break through their words.
"I'm sorry. It was his choice."
"So he's dead?" Your voice cuts sharper than intended. "And you didn’t even bring back his body? Nothing to honor him with?"
None of them can meet your gaze. Their silence weighs heavier than confirmation. The ache in your throat rises until your voice cracks:
“Do you at least have his sigil?”
More silence. Your stomach twists. You turn away before they can see the tears pressing at your eyes. When you finally speak again, your tone is colder, carved sharp to keep from breaking.
"For bringing me this news, I thank you. But for your lack of honor toward your commanding officer, I suggest you leave... before I decide to execute you myself."
They bow, salute, and retreat. Their boots fade into silence. Silence — except for the sound of your own pulse hammering and the distant rainfall. Home feels hollow without him. A word gutted of meaning.
The Captain. Il Capitano. Thrain.
A man of titles, yet the only name that mattered was the one he spoke to you in the dark. You had thought marriage to him would be a prison. Instead, he turned it into something unthinkable. Something almost tender.
Now — it's nothing.
A tear streaks hot down your cheek. You remember firelit dinners, gifts from Fontaine, the faintest curve of a smile meant only for you. It was precious. Fragile.
It is gone.
How do you mourn without proof? What use is a coffin without a body inside? There is nothing left but memory.
A knock startles you.
“Yes, Ingrid, just leave dinner—”
Another knock. Harder.
Your pulse spikes. You move to the bed in a quick motion and reach under the pillow, fingers trembling over cold steel. Thrain had insisted you keep a pistol for when he was away. Protection for the nights he couldn’t, though he promised you would never need it. Now it’s all you have.
You creep toward the door, every board underfoot loud as the thunder outside.
Word of the Harbinger’s death could have spread already. Enemies, opportunists — like vultures they circle fast. Alone, you are a wound left open.
You throw open the door, weapon raised.
The hall yawns empty. Shadows. Machinery hums from the cleaning bots gliding over the hardwood floor. No intruder. Only frost clinging to the wood where the knocking had been.
You slam the door shut. Frost. Frost in a house warmed by fire?
You turn — and freeze.
Feet. Inches from yours.
Your breath shatters in your throat. You raise the gun without thinking and fire.
The sound is swallowed. The shot never echoes like it should. Instead, ice coils around your wrist. The barrel is crushed in a hand that should not be here. The weapon is pulled from your grasp, clattering uselessly to the floor.
This is your end, but you’ll do it without fear. You raise your eyes to the intruder and your breath leaves you.
Cold radiates from him. Familiar armor. The Fatui crest.
It could only be one man.
"Thrain?"
Your voice fractures on his name. You reach, desperate, afraid. He does not speak. Does not breathe. His face is lost to shadow.
“My love?” The word tastes like a prayer and that sparks something in him.
His hand rises — the same hand that stopped your bullet — and pulls you against him. His embrace should bring warmth. Instead, it brings silence. No heartbeat. Only the crackle of rain on the windows.
Lightning rips across the sky. For a split second, his face is lit. Flesh torn. Bone exposed. Decay stitched by frost.
You wrench back with a strangled sound, but his grip pins you at arm’s length. The storm outside rages, but inside is worse: the weight of something that should not exist pressing close enough to feel.
Another knock. Ingrid’s voice, soft, muffled through the door: “Dinner is ready, your grace.”
His head snaps toward the sound. A growl, deep and feral, trembles in his chest. Steel manifests in his free hand, the blade catching a flicker of lightning.
“No—” You press into him, pushing against his chest, forcing the blade back before it swings. “Thank you, Ingrid. I’ll be down in a moment.”
The silence on the other side stretches. You force steadiness into your voice. “I need just a bit more time…alone.”
At last, her steps retreat. Relief is brief. His sword remains, now pressed to your spine like a threat. His body is colder than the rain outside, and when he leans in, his voice scrapes against your ear.
Like a whispered promise he finally speaks with the voice you remember but with a tone you can’t place as love:
“Nothing shall keep you from me. Not even death.”
a/n | so genshin has finally moved on from natlan and we are in nod-krai! so the series is on a slight pause as I go through the missions for the new area just so I could make my series a lot more true to the game but do expect that update soon! also i really wanna do a nod-krai version but i know in my gut rerir and colombina aren't the only gods we'll meet there so i'll wait sadly.
seeing you know, he can only wish he’d done things differently
previously | I HOPE IT BREAKS YOU IN TWO
( prequel — a necessary pre read before this i fear )
word count | 2.2k words
noteworthy mentions | agnst ( for him )/comfort; gn!reader; gojo’s perspective ( second person pov ); he want reader but cant have them; depression; shoko x reader x suguru; yes im doing this to him fight me; modern-university!au; the-one-that-got-away troupe [ ? ];
tune | what would you do ♪ Tate McRae
a/n | blame @/orphic-musings for this. they too have such a great mind i love putting this man through literal hell and back. anyways here is another piece for the man i hate.
“Obviously me.”
You’ve changed.
Gojo knows that. He can see it, and every day is another day he regrets the choice he made. Truth be told, he doesn't deserve another chance — and you think the same.
You retract your hands from his hold, and he feels his whole world shatter.
“No, you’re not.”
It hits him like a knife to the throat and drags down his chest as you continue.
“I need someone who likes me for me. Who sees who I am. You only see the version of me that you desire — the part you think you need, but not the part I want you to see.”
“You had your chance. Now it’s gone.”
Satoru takes in everything you said. The adrenaline from before is long gone, and now the frigid air is the only thing holding him close. He stuffs his shaking hands in his pockets.
“Yeah. Okay.” He finally gets out after a beat. “Sorry about that. And for ruining your date.”
You cross your arms, hugging yourself as the cold hits you too, both of you now more aware of the awkward tension.
“It’s fine. It wasn’t really going anywhere anyway. Zenin is kind of a douche.”
You both laugh at that, and then the silence returns. It's quiet for a long, uncomfortable moment before Gojo has to break it.
“Let me at least walk you home.” He starts, but you raise a hand to stop him — and it feels like that day all over again.
“No need — I'm just over there, so I can make it on my own.”
You point to the building behind you and all Gojo can let out is a reluctant oh. You say goodbye quickly and walk off. No fleeting look back. No stutter in your steps. You meant what you said, and as he is left alone in the cold with cars passing by, Gojo can admit he ultimately fucked up.
-
It's December now and Gojo can safely say that the dynamic between you two isn’t terrible anymore. You both started having actual conversations and you don’t leave a room in his presence. You have even started to make your way into the trio he shares with Shoko and Suguru. Maybe, you’re even friends.
He can’t have you close to him, but he could settle for just having you in his life. Maybe later on he could try again and if he’s forgiven there might be a chance. The thought occurs on his way to Shoko’s place. Tonight is a ritual movie night the group normally has on occasion, and you’ll be there. Maybe he’ll even get the chance to plant the seed of his feelings.
The thought clouds his judgment. He enters Shoko’s apartment without knocking. It’s always been a problem of his — his utter disregard for privacy among his friends — but he does it all the time, so there’s no reason to think anything might change.
But it does.
The second he turns from the door and calls out to announce his arrival, the words die in his throat.
Shoko’s couch is occupied — by Shoko herself — and you right on top of her.
It’s obvious you both hadn’t expected him to come so early with how quickly she jumps off of you and pulls her shirt down, but with the way her lipgloss stains your swollen lips and cheeks he can’t really think straight and drops the grocery bags in his hands in the silence.
It takes a while for the awkward tension to die out. You left immediately after being caught, knowing you’d overstayed your welcome. Gojo watches the back of your head as you leave and just stands by the door when it gets slammed in his face. It takes even longer for him to look at Shoko and demand to know what the hell he just walked in on.
She says you’ve been chatting since Sukuna’s Halloween party, and that twitches Gojo’s brows.
“We sorta just clicked.”
Shoko lights a cigarette inside her apartment like she owns the world, and Gojo hates how casual she is about all this. Not that she really knows how Gojo feels — or at least he hopes she doesn’t. That would make things much worse.
Gojo tries to change the subject, but ultimately can’t.
“Are you guys… dating?”
Shoko stares, a look in her eyes that Gojo can feel digging through him.
“Something like that.”
Now he knows something’s wrong. She’s seen something he’s tried to hide. Shoko’s never been the vague type — there’s never been secrets between them. But now, having one of his own, Gojo doesn’t press.
Admitting to having feelings for the person your best friend is now seeing? That seems like hell on Earth.
He had his chance anyway. He blew it. So he brushes it off, like he always does.
He’s okay.
He’s good.
Until he isn’t.
Seeing you and Shoko together constantly brings about a bubbling type of envy he’s never known before. The kind of regret he hasn’t felt since he accidentally walked out of a store with an action figure and the alarm didn’t go off.
Seeing you sprawled on the couch together, sharing a café chair, walking in on kisses — it eats at him. Still, he persists in burying his feelings. He has no right to them anymore.
It’s Christmas before he realizes it. He’s wearing a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer sweater at Suguru’s Christmas party. You come in with Shoko, of course, and he has to make an effort to be cool.
He knows he’s better than this. So he does what he’s best at.
He puts on a face.
He has fun.
He jokes around, downs a few drinks, and even jokes with you. He smears pie on your face. You throw back jabs he knows are jokes. The white elephant gift exchange is hilarious — Suguru ends up with a lingerie set for being too greedy, and Satoru ends up sipping from a ridiculous swirly straw. The socks Shoko gets are hideous and you cannot stop laughing holding up the boxers with a “snake pocket”.
He’s genuinely enjoying himself. He’s even forgotten his feelings, and that helps him soar.
Until the bathroom incident.
The night goes on and the urge to relieve himself hits him like a truck.
He knows the apartment like his own and he stumbles through the hallways like it's nothing. When he reaches the bathroom it is obvious he should have been more aware. There is a light shining through the crack in the door but he has always been the intruder — never learning his lesson.
Satoru moves slowly to unfasten his belt and close the door behind him after entering.
The gasps behind him make him jump.
He should have apologized. He should have just left out the door right then and there but curiosity wins.
He’ll regret it for the rest of his life.
Gojo turns. He wants to puke.
He sees his best friend — the male one — with his other best friend's partner. You.
You are perched on the counter and Suguru moves from between your legs. It’s clear what just happened. His hair’s a mess, your sweater is riding up, your lips are kissed raw. Gojo says nothing. His throat is a battlefield of words he can’t speak. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, throw a punch at the glass mirror and see it shatter in his bloody hand, curse the universe.
Instead, he leaves.
He turns on his heels and is out the door, pants still undone. Satoru grabs his things in a rush and hurries to the front door. Shoko tries to catch him and asks what’s wrong but he ignores her. He doesn’t have the heart to say anything right now.
You’ve gotten with Shoko, doing whatever you were with Geto, but the most he’s gotten from you is… this. He can’t believe it saddens him, angers him, confuses him. He takes out his frustration on a trash can just outside his apartment building.
Was this your way of getting back at him? Some fucked up revenge plot for rejecting you.
He knows he’s projecting, knows he’s being irrational. But it doesn’t stop the storm.
Gojo is lost. He is seething.
He is in love, and he cannot hide it anymore.
-
It takes him a few days from the party to relax and collect himself and check his disregarded cellphone. Several missed calls and texts are from Geto. A few texts come from Shoko. Only one comes from you: an apology.
It takes him a week to reply, but not to everyone — just Shoko.
He doesn’t sugar-coat anything because he knows she can read him like an open book.
So, Satoru asks straight up: how long?
Her reply is instant: a few weeks — since Friendsgiving. It just kinda happened.
Gojo gets it. He’s seen both Ieiri and Geto naked before. Shared a bed once or twice during a few dry spells in their dating lives. The intimacy doesn’t bother him.
What bothers him is that he wasn’t told.
Like he’s too fragile to handle it… and maybe he is.
Satoru becomes a hermit for the remainder of December and January. Cup noodles and darkness are his only companions. Shoko sends him class notes. Suguru visits at least twice a week, but he never answers. He can’t face them — not like this.
He thinks he’s strong for it. That he deserves this solitude.
That all falls apart when you text: “I’m outside.”
It’s humbling — how fast he moves. He throws on maybe-clean clothes, brushes his teeth, smooths his hair, kicks trash into corners. He knows you can hear him scrambling, but he has no dignity left to lose.
After ten minutes, he opens the door
His eyes are still red, he couldn’t fix that without leaving you outside longer and he doesn’t even know why he’s let you in of all people. Yes he does but he still tries to fight it.
You’re bundled up, concern written on your face.
He lets you in, arms crossed tightly to mask his scent. You hang up your coat, sit on the couch. He rushes to turn off the cheesy rom-com he’d been watching and keeps his distance. For a second.
For as soon as he is sat, he is up again
“You must be cold. I’ll um… make you some tea.”
He flees to the kitchen before you can say anything. You give him a few minutes then follow after.
Gojo is hunched over the kitchen counter. The kettle warms to his left on the stove, and he keeps his head tucked into his arms. You move closer and place your hand on his back. The soothing circles you rub along his spine shouldn’t be as helpful as they are and Gojo curses his own body for reacting the way it does — melting into your touch.
The kettle screams. He flinches up, pours two mugs, and leans against the counter.
“Sugar and stuff is in that cabinet.”
“Gojo.”
He flinches again.
“Talk to me. Please?”
Looking into his mug, all he can manage is:
“Are you happy at least?”
You blink. Then:
“Yes, I am.”
“Ieiri hasn’t smoked you out yet, right? And Geto hasn’t bored you with his awful taste in music?”
You laugh and hit him lightly. He grins.
A smile. Something he hasn’t done in a whole month and it kinda aches his jaw.
“I am happy, Gojo. Really. Your friends are wonderful — and they’d be even better knowing you’re okay too.”
Your hand falls to his knee. He looks into your eyes.
He wants to kiss you. But he doesn’t. He just breathes.
He downs his tea in one gulp, then winces.
“God, that was awful. Not the tea. Just how cheesy you’re being right now.”
You smack him again. Laughter fills the apartment.
Suddenly, Gojo feels a lot more himself. He leaves to retrieve his forgotten phone. He texts the group chat he shares with Shoko and Suguru and tells them to come over and the reply is almost instant. With them on their way, you thrust a broom to his arms and ready his place for company.
You help him clean. You chase him with the vacuum. He soaks himself doing dishes and has to shower. It’s chaotic and warm.
Geto and Ieriei arrive soon after with takeout and warm hugs. It's like old times.
Late night comes quickly for the four of you, everyone nearly asleep.
The credits to Gojo’s romcom roll across the screen. Shoko sits on one end of the couch snoozing. Suguru is in the middle both his arms draped in the back of her and Gojo, head resting on his shoulder. Gojo is nearly asleep himself as he fights a losing battle against the urge to rest.
He feels a weight on his chest.
Shoko instinctively cradles your legs in her sleep, Surguru isn’t fazed by the shift in people but by Gojo’s surprised jump. He groans at him to settle which Gojo does after a moment.
You pull a blanket over the four of you, looking up at him.
“I missed you.” Is all you say with a soft peck to his cheek before settling into sleep like the other. Satoru goes red all over and he’s glad no one is awake enough to notice.
noteworthy mentions | gn!reader; slight stellaron hunters x reader if you squint; also slight kafka x blade idk the make me bi panic; tw. descriptions of blood; tw. descriptions of gore; canon typical violence.
“How will I know if I passed?”
“The same way you’ll know that you failed: you won't."
Silver Wolf replies, hands gliding over her holographic keypad like it’s second nature. Clicks, pings, and flashing colors flare as she fights a boss in one of her many games, fully ignoring your serious glare at the back of her head.
You wave your hand, and frost spreads across her keys, freezing them solid. She only needs a few seconds to bypass the damage, but it’s already too late. In big, bold letters, GAME OVER flashes across her screen. She grumbles, tucks the display into her pocket, and deadpans at you.
“I hate when you do that.”
You turn back to the mirror. The suit you wear is tailored to your exact measurements — a solid burgundy that makes your reflection feel like someone else’s. It chills your body to feel so alien in your own skin, and the room grows colder in response. Frost creeps along the edges of the mirror.
It isn’t until Silver Wolf touches your hand that you realize you’re the one bringing on the cold. You exhale slowly, a soft fog escaping your lips as you rein yourself in.
“You’ll do great,” she says. “If Blade can handle a dating sim, you can handle this — no sweat.” She means to reassure you, but the image of Blade gaming is more disturbing than helpful.
A curt knock cuts the moment short. You both look up as Elio stalks in, signaling your cue. You force the nerves down and step onto the podium.
Your first assignment isn’t complicated: extraction. Kafka and Blade are already in play on the planet below, tasked with locating a Stellaron embedded in the society’s neural network. Silver Wolf could crack that system in her sleep — once they deliver a way in.
The tricky part is getting on and off the planet. Blade and Kafka’s fake IDs have expired. Sam can’t extract them unless they reach her, and they can’t. That’s where you come in.
You glance up. Silver Wolf throws you a thumbs-up and blows an impressive bubble of gum. Elio’s tail sways as he activates the teleportation device.
In one blink, you're pixelated. In the next, you’re standing in the grand hallway of an expensive mansion. Self-portraits line the walls — far too many not to belong to the owner. The hallway is empty save for you and a broken teleportation beacon on the ground. It’s single-use. No sign of Kafka or Blade.
Worry prickles under your collar. You have no idea how big this place is or how long Sam can stay hidden with your way out. You look left. Right. Identical doors. No clues.
Running around is hopeless — but standing still is worse. You take your first step.
Then you hear it.
A thud. Heavy. A body hitting the floor.
You freeze, summoning your weapon. The noise came from the door behind you. Silence follows. If you could sweat, you would. You have no leads — and that room might be the only one that matters. Good or bad, now's not the time to question.
Slowly, you move toward the door. A tomahawk blooms in your closed hand. Breath steady. You’ve been trained for this — but training doesn’t account for dread.
With feline quiet, you twist the knob and crack the door open.
The sight is horrific.
Blood paints the room, dripping down the walls and falling from the ceiling like gentle rain. It’s far too much to have come from just the two men lying dead on the floor. A third figure sits on the bed, hunched over another body. Tall. Broad. Dangerous.
A blade exits flesh with a sickening wet sound. Carving.
This isn’t the right place.
You try to close the door slowly — but a hand yanks it open.
You stumble forward, releasing the doorknob to grip your weapon with both hands. Another person. They must’ve seen the shift. Careless. You’ve already royally fucked up.
You plant your feet.
But it’s already over.
A submachine gun presses against your forehead.
Fuck.
You let your weapon fall. It hits the floor and dissolves into frost. Hands raised, you follow the arm holding your life by a trigger.
It’s a woman — stunning, dressed in silk. Her deep purple dress hugs her figure, and an amethyst necklace rests on her pale skin beneath a fur stole. You meet vibrant violet eyes.
Kafka.
“Kafka,” you breathe. The gun lowers.
She studies you — head tilted, smile slow.
“You must be the new one.”
You nod. What else can you do? You’ve only met Silver Wolf face-to-face. The rest were in the field while you trained. Posters, profiles, and surveillance footage aren’t enough to earn trust.
“Interesting,” she murmurs. Maybe a compliment.
She shifts an inch to the side. Before you can react, a sword screams toward your eye.
You dodge, just in time. The blade lodges in the door behind you, rattling the portraits.
You look to the source — the man from the bed, now charging you. If Kafka hadn’t stepped back in front of you, you'd probably be strangled about now.
The man wears a brown trench coat over a clean suit. Somehow untouched by the blood-soaked room. Kafka, too, is spotless.
That confirms it.
This must be Blade.
Kafka opens her arms. “This is our newest Stellaron Hunter, Bladie. Listen to me. It’s time to go now.”
She cups his face, makes him meet her eyes. Instantly, the malice drains from him. His wild expression fades to something eerily calm.
She might be stronger than him.
Blade hums. “Sorry.”
Definitely stronger.
He turns to you. His amber eyes look through you. You nod — quiet, unshaken — and he accepts it.
“Open your coat for me, Bladie.”
He obeys. Inside: weapons. A violet longsword. A vial. Kafka retrieves it, inserts a chip from Blade’s gloved hand, and stores it. She holsters her guns across his chest, closes the coat, pats him twice.
You catch a glint in his eye. They hold the eye contact for a moment longer and you dare not breathe as to not interrupt… this
Kafka faces you after another beat. “Shall we go?”
You exit into the hallway, feeling calmer once the sword is gone. Kafka adjusts her appearance. Blade follows, closing the door behind him — just as another opens at the far end.
A guard steps in. Eyes lock. He storms toward you.
“State your identification. How did you get here?” He reaches for his weapon.
Blade’s aura spikes behind you. You can hear Kafka whisper to calm him and see her reach into his coat. Wrong place, wrong time.
You act fast.
You wave your hand. Cold sweeps the hallway. The guard stumbles, blinking away frost. He falters—
Then laughs.
Suddenly, he wraps you in a hug and spins you in two full circles.
Kafka and Blade just stare.
He sets you down, gripping your shoulders with a wide grin. “When did they deploy you? God, it’s good to see you again!”
You play into the false memory planted into his mind. “Just got in. Stuck me on escort duty—can you believe it?”
He groans. “They always give us the worst jobs. I’m stuck watching Atres now, the big oaf.”
You roll your eyes. “You’re telling me.”
“Well, I’ll let you get back before the syndicate fries us for being late.” He turns toward the bloodied room.
No.
“Wait — don’t. He’s... uh... rejuvenating. After dealing with those two, he asked for an hour alone.”
He glances between you and the others. Kafka leans into Blade’s arms. Blade holds her close. You shouldn’t be surprised how quickly they catch on — they are naturals.
“Right,” the guard says. “I see.”
“Could you lead us to the exit?” you ask quietly. “The master wants this kept quiet, and I haven’t memorized the layout.”
He nods. “Of course. This way.”
He leads you through quieter halls. You pass others, but a flash of his badge clears the way.
“What happened?” Blade murmurs behind you.
Kafka smiles at his curiousity. “Our little snowflake is an ex–Garden of Recollection Mirror.”
The words sting.
But there’s no time for that.
You reach a back door. He waits for your signal, then seals it behind you.
Outside, you finally breathe. Kafka offers a slow, satisfied clap. Blade watches you — maybe impressed. Maybe deciding how you die. You can’t tell really.
The path to Sam is smoother than the entry. You rendezvous in a forest clearing behind the mansion. A girl stands there — unknown to you. Known to them.
She signals. In a blur, she shifts into the machine known as Sam.
No time to marvel.
Sirens blare.
Kafka chuckles.
Blade moves fast. He pulls half a device from his coat. Sam has the other. They click together and drop it in the grass. It expands into a teleportation pad.
Gunmen rush the clearing.
Sam launches rockets. The men scatter.
Some aim.
You freeze their barrels.
Weapons jam.
Before they can regroup — it’s too late.
You vanish.
Back on the ship, Silver Wolf presses a button, and stars smear past the window. You're jumping through the cosmos again.
Your knees buckle. The others walk past like it’s nothing.
Kafka removes her heels.
Blade drops his coat, sets her guns down.
Sam reverts and pats your back.
Silver Wolf takes the vial and disappears, eyes bright.
Elio nods once. Moves on to discuss the next phase with Kafka.
You sit still, heart slowing.
You’ve officially joined.
You’re not playing a part anymore—you’re in it.
You’re a Stellaron Hunter.
And the chill that follows has nothing to do with your powers.
you aren’t the same person he rejected a few months ago, he finds that out the hard way
word count | 1.7k words
noteworthy mentions | agnst/comfort [ ? ]; gojo x reader; gn!reader; from-not-to-hot!au; reader is insufferably shy but they change trust; modern-university!au; gojo is kind of a dick in this so slight ooc; no they do not end up together and i will not change that …maybe;
tune | what would you do ♪ Tate McRae
a/n | based off this post i came across while doom scrolling. let me just say the mind you have has me spiraling!! i was thinking about this so hard i couldn’t stop myself from typing my god. like i should be sleeping but here we are. anyways here is another post of the man i hate.
“Excuse me.”
Satoru has gotten a lot of confessions during his time at Tokyo Jujutsu Tech University from many different people, but never from someone like you.
He looks over to his left, and there you stand — timid and reluctant. He half expects to see a group of people off in the distance cheering you on or pretending not to notice your approach, but it’s clear you’ve come of your own accord. Suguru cuts his joke short, and Shoko blows a long puff of smoke off to the side. The silence is loud, and it seems to make you uneasy as you curl into yourself more, digging your shoe into the dirt. Shoko nudges his foot.
“Yeah?”
Gojo finally speaks, and he sees you jump slightly. He knows where this is going. You can’t even look at him when you muster enough courage to say it, and he has to resist the urge to sigh.
“I, um… I’ve seen you around, and I… I just wanted to know if — if you’d ever want to, um…” You continue, hands disappearing deeper into your sleeves the more you talk. From any onlooker’s perspective, it would look like he had you at gunpoint or something. In the end, Gojo does sigh and raises a hand to silence you.
“Not interested. I wouldn’t date someone like you.”
Suguru whistles low, and Shoko smacks his arm, but that is the truth — and the truth hurts. He could admit he laid it on a little thick, but with the way he lives, you wouldn’t last a week. He’d honestly chew you up and spit you out way worse than this could hurt you. You look up at him, and he gets a clear look at your face. Eyes glassy but no tears; you’re hurt, but you don’t want him to see you cry, so you leave.
Suguru calls him harsh, but all Gojo does is shrug. He didn’t even know your name, so it would’ve been worse to say yes — he isn’t some douchebag. Shoko shoves her phone in his face, and he takes it, seeing your social media profile. A few followers and even fewer posts. He still draws a blank until Shoko says you were in their chemistry lab last semester as her partner. Thinking back, it rings a bell, but it means nothing now.
You’re gone, and you’ll move on. So will he.
That was June. This is September.
Satoru had thought about giving you a follow, at least to apologize for being so blunt, but the last he checked, you’d deactivated, and Shoko said you wanted time for yourself. It had made him feel bad — but he was over it not too long after. With the start of the new semester, he has more pressing worries than that.
Or so he thought.
He catches sight of you — or who he thinks is you — while rushing to his Astronomy lecture he nearly overslept. You look different. Really different. A good different that he can't help but slow down for. You’ve changed your hair, dyed it even, and the clothes you wear now suit you far better than what you wore before. If Gojo could, he would compliment you on it. But it looks like someone else already had the same idea.
By now, he’s come to a full stop and is just staring, but he can’t care right now ( lecture be damned ). Sitting by the campus café, two guys are obviously hitting on you, and you smile up at them, seeming to play into it. A sour wave rolls through him as he sees them hand over their phones and you take them. He grips the straps of his bag tighter when you hand the phones back and clenches his teeth when you shake their hands. It’s neither jealousy nor affection — he doesn’t even know you. No, he just knows their frat, and those guys are no good for someone as sweet as you.
You go back to your book without a second glance, and Satoru stares a little longer before the bell strikes two and he’s officially late. He runs to his lecture in record time after that and gets a mild earful from the professor, but he doesn’t care. He falls into the seat next to Shoko, a little sweat on his temples.
“When did they change so quickly?”
Two weeks since then, Gojo can’t escape the thought — or the sight — of you. He sees you everywhere: the lounge, the library, the clubs. Maybe this campus isn’t as big as he thought, or maybe he’s just looking more than he wants to admit.
He tells himself it’s just coincidence. You’re not haunting him — don’t flatter yourself. Still, every time he spots you in passing, something tightens in his chest. Not quite regret, not quite longing. Just...something.
He’ll spot you in the distance, think now, think just say something, but it’s always too late. You’re already gone. Or maybe he’s just too slow.
A week ago, he even tried to strike up a conversation at the campus café. You were waiting at the register for a drink, and he’d made it all the way to your side. He opened his mouth — then his phone buzzed. One glance. That’s all it took. When he looked up again, you were gone.
Satoru had stood there like an idiot, drink half-melted in his hand.
You disappeared.
No goodbye. No glance. Just… gone.
Shoko’s noticed, of course. She watches him like she knows exactly what’s going on. He keeps brushing her off, pretending he doesn't care. That he didn’t screw something up months ago that maybe — just maybe — he shouldn’t have.
He shrugs it off, again. It’s just timing. Bad luck. He’ll forget about you eventually.
He has to.
But then — on a random Saturday — it all comes to a head.
Satoru is out with Suguru and Shoko clubbing, not really paying attention to what club they go to just on the move. He is about to say something sarcastic, when he sees you in passing.
Sitting at the bar. Laughing.
With Naoya Zenin.
Something in his chest goes very still.
You’re dressed like you wanted attention, and you’re getting it — legs crossed, skin showing, face lit up with the kind of smile he hasn’t seen in months. Not since you were fumbling through a confession you probably wish you’d never made. Not since he shut you down without even thinking.
And now here you are. Moved on. Glowing. Gorgeous.
With him.
Gojo doesn't realize he’s stopped walking until Suguru calls his name and Shoko yells something about a cover charge in a few minutes. He doesn’t listen, attention all focused on the sight before him.
He shifts on his feet, fists tightening at his sides. Maybe he should just leave. It’s not his business. But when Naoya leans in again and you laugh — that laugh he remembers from the chem lab — you tip your head back and Gojo sees red.
It’s not jealousy. Not really. He doesn’t want you.
...Right?
Then Naoya reaches out — fingers brushing the bit of skin where your shirt has ridden up—and Gojo moves before he can stop himself.
He’s crossing the bar, cutting through the crowd, not even thinking. His heart is loud in his ears. He hears Shoko shout after him, hears Suguru curse, but none of it sticks. He’s already at your side, and he doesn’t even have a plan. Just a single, brittle word:
“Hey.”
Naoya turns, surprised. “Gojo? Didn’t think you even came to bars. You hate bars.”
Gojo doesn’t look at him. He’s looking at you. But you’re not looking back.
You’re staring into your drink like he’s not even there.
And that — that one thing — bothers him more than it should.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
Naoya thinks he’s talking to him. “Umm… getting drinks? On a date. What are you doing here?”
Date.
The word drops like a stone in Gojo’s stomach. Not a casual hangout. Not flirting. An actual date. With him. With Naoya Zenin, of all people. Why not those guys you got the numbers from? But Gojo shovels the thought deep in his mind because that only seems to make him more upset. Something bitter crawls its way up his throat and his hands clench into fists. Naoya notices and tilts his head.
“You good, man?”
“Do you mind?”
The words don’t come from Naoya this time — but from you. You finally spare him a glance, the first in what feels like forever to him, and that’s all you have to say.
Three words. Flat. Dismissive.
There’s nothing in your eyes. No pain, no softness, no hurt he can fix. Just indifference. Like he’s noise. Like he’s nothing.
And that pulls him over the edge.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do mind.”
Satoru grabs your hand — gentle and insistent — as quickly as he came, and before you even know it, you’re being dragged through the crowd, out of the bar, and down the street. Naoya calls out to him, as do Suguru and Shoko, but he ignores it all. None of that matters now.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you yell, fighting against his hold. You’ve made it down the street and the cold night is all that surrounds you.
Gojo can’t really think at this moment — because what is wrong with him? So, he blurts the first thing that comes to mind.
“He isn’t right for you, is all.”
Still dragging you off to who-knows-where, you yank your arm out of his hold just outside his building — conveniently close to yours. Maybe that’s why you let him drag you this far. Maybe not. Either way, you’re furious.
“So then who is?” You shout.
Gojo looks at you. Really looks.
You're standing in front of him, breathing hard, eyes blazing, and he feels everything he's been shoving down rise all at once. The months. The regret. The quiet ache he’s been pretending isn’t there.
He exhales through his nose, a half-laugh catching on his tongue.
He reaches for your hand again his time slower, like he is daring you to pull away. You don’t.
And with the softest kind of certainty — to convince more than you and mostly himself — he mutters:
chapter description | For a Snezhnyan, the cold is home. However with the recent weather you fear the worst for your small village, that is until an unexpected guest brings forth a much needed blessing and a dreadful bargain.
word count | 3.4k words
noteworthy mentions | none of this is canon; obvious ooc things; gn!reader; canon typical violence;
Ever since the day La Signora’s remains were brought to the capital, Snezhnaya’s climate has not known peace.
The blizzard came in with a fury just after her funeral ceremony concluded and the storm still rages on without any signs of dissolving. For those who live in the city it was a blessing. All work would conclude an hour earlier until the storm subsided as signed off by Mayor Pulcinella, and there was even a relief fund distributed to the masses from the Northland Bank as a way to help get through these troubled times. However, to those who live outside the high walls the storm is nothing but the wrath of the Archon.
“We cannot go any further!”
White. No matter which way you turn, all that can be seen is the pure raging white of snowfall. The ground is buried by it, the trees are smothered in it and anything worth hunting is either frozen or has long since left for shelter. Even the sky is like a forgotten canvas. It weaves its way into layers of snow below, perfectly leaving the way forward a long landscape of just white. You scoff into your scarf fighting to lift your nearly frozen foot out of the snow to keep moving forward.
“Captain!”
The winds are heavy and loud. So heavy that the three feet of solid snow on the ground is your only stabilizer to fight its aggressive push, and so loud you cannot even hear the sounds of your own heartbeat in your ears. If it weren’t for Lev — the craftsman of your town and one of the few people well enough to accompany you, physically forcing you to look back you might have left your party behind. He removes his scarf from his mouth, yelling with all his might to be heard.
“The hunt is over. We have been out here for hours with no signs of life other than ourselves and the storm is getting worse. Maksim won’t make it any longer in this weather!” You look past Lev and see the sorry state of your party: a few of the volunteers still stagger behind fighting to move against the snow as the quiver in the cold, Maksim is the worst of them shaking violently within Katerina’s hold as she tries her best to provide him warmth with power of her pyro vision to no avail. She catches your gaze and meets you with desperate eyes likely seeking the same thing as Lev. You turn back to the snow one last time. They are right of course, this plan wasn’t going to be a successful one from the start. It’s far too cold and the routes too perilous for any untrained man to keep going.
Your sigh is heavy and defeated, “Let's go back.”
Lomas. A small village due west of the city within Gopeysk Forest. Its population is small, population consisting mostly of refugees that needed an escape from the city or mercenaries trying to get that second chance. The village isn’t much with no high walls or generators to provide warmth but it is the closest thing to home you have ever had in your lifetime…and it pains you to come back to it with nothing to give it thanks.
When your expedition returns with less supplies than when you left, you expect to see the people more disheartened. Maybe a few curses, sobbing, anything but the open arms and smiles you are met with. There are a few people awaiting your arrival: among them Lev’s wife and daughter who greet him with a warm embrace the moment he reaches them; the Innkeep Maria, gently takes Maksim, Katerina and a few of the others back to her establishment with a promise of a fire and warm food; the last of them take to their own family and friends as they are all surrounded with heartfelt welcomes. You take it all in for what it is: they knew you would be unsuccessful. None of them expected you to return with any good news because it has been like this for weeks, with the food preserves running low and the water still frozen over. The best anyone can do is be there for one another.
With the times as is, it’s all they have left.
You catch eyes with Chief Igor behind the masses. Just as he is noticed, he smiles at you before stalking back into his home. The implication is there for you to follow, so you place your sword back at the armory and head over.
When you enter you’re engulfed in the warmth of a fire you can hear burning in the living space. The house is more like a hut with only this hallway separating each room. You can hear the sound of a tea kettle steaming on your left and follow the noise. The Chief sits in a large fur chair in front of a fireplace, in his hands is the kettle you heard. He pours two cups full of the hot liquid as you move to remove some of your layers before joining him by the fire. You sit in an identical chair adjacent to him and he motions for you to take the other cup as he sips from his own. You do it out of respect but don’t drink it, your eyes locked on the fire.
“If you don’t drink it, it will get cold.”
“We won’t last through this storm, Igor.” You speak finally, eyes jumping to meet his old and tired ones. “I’ve seen our supply — it's the only reason we left — and it isn’t good. We have to do something.”
“And what do you think we should do? Go back into the storm and freeze or ask the capital for help?” You sit silently.
“You worry too much. That’s my job.”
Shakily, he reaches for the kettle again. Slowly he pours a little more into your cup bringing back the steam of heat it once lost. “It is difficult now, I know but we will get through this. Lomas was not born in a day, she has survived worse before you came along.”
He is right; the elders take pride in bringing up past endeavors with bandits and blizzards alike over a drink and this place has had its ups and downs. “If we ration well, we’ll last a month. Maybe even a few extra days at best but this storm will pass as they always do.”
You try to relax, drinking down the tea and feeling the heat sooth over your senses. m It's clear worrying won’t do anyone any good so you bottle up whatever else you have to say and offer the Chief a smile as best you can. You sit in idle chatter for a while until the sun dies past the trees. You thank him for the drink and retreat back to the coat hanger for your things, bracing yourself for the outside once again. It is a lot more peaceful at night, the snowfall.
It’s almost as if the archon herself is at rest and yet still subconsciously mourning her loss, the snowflake like tears gently falling down her cheeks falling into our own world.
With heavy steps, you trek over to the inn. As you draw near, the sounds of laughter and music grow in volume and when you get to the doors they are thrust open before you. Instantly you are engulfed in the arms of men as they chant and carry you off to the dance floor. You’re spun in circles, whisked away from partner to partner and given a drink from the hands of a child. It takes too long to escape their merriment but luckily a change in tune has them calm down enough for you to sneak away. “So the great warrior hasn’t lost their fight I see.”
As you drink down your cup for all its worth, you throw your gaze to the side to catch sight of the voice. To your left sits your party all enjoying a fine meal and drink. Lev offers a seat to you and you take it gladly. “Finally decided to join us!” Maksim, clearly having traded in his frostbite for drunkenness, refills your cup with some of the hard booze from his own glass. The glare you throw him sends a laugh through the table.
“Listen, listen… for what it's worth I lost ten mora on a bet that I would be the one to send us home so cut me some slack alright.” His words slur and he nearly tips over his own stool trying to chase the cup in his own hands. You shake your head at him and take a sip from your no longer empty cup. Soon a bowl of hot potato soup is placed in front of you and you look up to see Katerina. Her flaming red hair is in a bun and with the apron to match she perfectly fits into the inn staff. She places one more bowl down for your table off her tray before sitting next to you. “How did it go with the chief?”
“Let's just say we are in for the winter. How has the inn been holding?” You both talk loudly amongst yourselves as the music has once again picked up along with the chatter. “Nothing can break their spirits really!”
“Not even the archon herself. Bless her ever cold heart!” The exclamation comes from somewhere over your shoulder you don’t see but it was loud enough to earn a cheer and a toast. Almost every glass is raised to the air and in unison they are all emptied like there will be no tomorrow. You have half a mind to speak for it, but as Igor said this storm will pass. So you finish your own cup slamming it back on the table and pulling Katerina by the arms to the dance floor. She fights back poorly and another cheer is brought out into the night as you both join the group. You spend the rest of the late hours in the comfort of friends and family, letting the faux embrace of hard liquors and music lull you into a sense of peace. It makes you think of a brighter tomorrow, offers you hope you have yet to know will be crushed.
When morning breaks through, you’re shaken awake. It startles you, flinching in your own bed and reaching for the dagger under your pillow before you realize its Katerina. “What’s going on-?”
“You have to see this.” She cuts you off before moving to your curtains and thrusting them open. The light is blinding but still you walk over to the window. You're still a little delirious and getting up so quickly isn't helping but at first glance everything seems fine. The snow storm has passed overnight it seems and a good chunk of snow has already been shoveled clear from the food reserve and the armory which is now lit with a fire. You almost question Katerina’s hysteria until you catch sight of a man leaving the reserve. A mask covers most of his face and the rest of him is covered head to toe in black winter gear. He stands out like a sore thumb in the snow but that isn’t what catches your eye. No, it's the etchings of an emblem that stirs a sour pit in your stomach and brings new found vigor to your body.
“Move.” It is all you give her as a warning before you launch your nightstand through the window. The glass shatters open and while she is still surprised you grasp her sword and jump through. Thankfully you land on snow instead of glass but that is the least of your worries as you bolt for the man ahead. He sees you coming and he panics, hands raising in surrender but you pay it no mind. Of course you wouldn’t jab an unarmed man, so you flip the sword in your hand to thrust the hilt into his stomach and deliver a kick to the back of his knee. He falls over in pain and you bring the tip of the sword to the back of his neck as soon as he hits the floor. He wails and you press the blade closer to silence him, by now you have drawn the eyes of a crowd but still you don’t care. Not now, not when they are involved. Through greeted teeth and anger you ask, “What are you doing here?! Where is your commanding officer!?”
The man does nothing but breath heavily into the snow shoved in his face. You almost let the anger get the best of you in his silence, almost breaking flesh but the head of a rifle stops you short. Your head whips over coming eye to eye with the barrel of a pyroslingers gun. The man with the rifle looks as calm as his covered face could show, “Why don’t you put the sword down and we could talk?”
“As if I’d listen to your kind!” The man below tries to inch away but you bring your foot down on his right calf - not enough to break but enough to keep him still. The gunman flinches closer at his partner’s scream of pain.”You all have no power here so why-?”
“By the archons, what is happening here?” Igor leaves his hut in a hurry probably having heard the screams.
“Igor! Quickly get the others we need to…”
“No, you will put the sword down now and stop this foolishness!” Igor looks at you as if you’re insane and you stare back just as puzzled. “What?”
“They’ve come to help us.”
“Help? Help!” The word dives your foot harder into the man's calf. “I’m sorry, have I missed something. What could these people possibly do to help us?” The anger rises exponentially within you so much so if you had a pyro vision you're sure you would have caught fire by now.
“I know it is hard to believe and I will explain it all, but please release him.” Igor begs, eyes showing nothing but sincerity however your guard remains held. “Not until he loses the gun.”
“Fat chance.” The gunman cocks his weapon, eyes challenging you to be the first to break. By now the commotion has brought everyone to watch; Lev holds his family close, Katerina stands in suspense and many other onlookers wait to see how it unfolds.
It is his voice that stuns you both into submission.
“Lower your weapon and return to your post.”
You look past Igor to the man behind him. He stands tall in a white cloak encrusted in a deep sea blue, half of his face is encased by the decay of a mask molted to his skin but it does not hinder his piercing gaze as locking eyes with him. Your breathing quickens and you can’t move; whether it be from the cold finally catching up to you or him you don’t know. What you do know is that your body complies without you willing it; you drop the sword and the gunman lowers his weapon all the same. He bows deep before leaving and so does the man you injured as he hobbles off. Igor moves past you to try and disperse the crowd.
It only leaves you to stare him down.
The head of the fatui and the Harbingers.
The Jester, Pierro.
Igor returns sighing deeply, uncaring of the tension present between you two. “Let us return to my hut. We have much to discuss.”
“Indeed.” Pierro says coldly, eyes never leaving your own.
The room is in utter silence.
Igor had explained everything: they had come at dawn, didn’t ask for a thing or want anything except to help. They had brought food and generators for heat and power they would soon install themselves in all homes and businesses. They had brought weapons and materials to give as well as blueprints for expansion if that be the case. A bucket load of gifts with no strings attached that Lomas so conveniently needs. Igor tried to get you to understand, the storm has passed on he said this is the new but you knew better than that. For the entirety of the meeting you never break Pierro’s gaze and neither does he yours. You try to see his angle or true purpose for being here but you come up with nothing. It is all too random.
“I think they need time to process.” Pierro finally speaks, gaze unmoving.
“Of course, you’re right. Come I'll get Maria to…”
“Process alone.” Pierro cuts Igor off, resting his face on his intertwined fingers. Igor looks between the man and you, he nods knowing that he is not needed in this conversation so he takes his cane and goes. You wait for the door to close fully before you stand and slam your fists on the table, “What are you doing here?”
Pierro doesn’t speak but lets you talk. “It's been years. Years. No search parties, no bounties, no commissions, nothing so why here? Why now when things were just getting good. I don’t understand!”
“La Signora is dead.” He waves his hand using the power of cryo to move the tea kettle and pour himself a glass. “The Fatui is losing influence as our numbers decline. Only whispers but whispers soon turn to challenges and challenges turn to trouble.” He takes a long sip then.
“Her majesty, The Tsaritsa, beckons us all home to fill the void the Fair Lady has left behind. She wants to advance forward and with the plan moving in such succession it is crucial we keep our ranks in line. Her judgment is always best and this is no exception.”
“But what does that have to do with me?” You make the mistake of asking. He stands then himself, finally breaking away from your staring contest to move over to a window. Just as before, he uses some power of cryo and the window swings open on its own. He beckons you over and reluctantly you approach. Pierro then speaks, “Each Harbinger is tasked with bringing in their own disciples and through a collection of trials they will each compete for the honor to close the void and restore the order that was lost.”
It clicks then for you, his purpose for being here but still he continues. “You will compete in the Harbinger trials as my chosen and fight for the honor of her majesty.”
“I will never help or go back to that life.” You spit on his shoes. The life you had with the fatui is gone, long gone and you can't go back to that. You won't go back.
“Hm.”
Pierro stares at the spit stain until it freezes over and blows away like dust. “Lomas is beautiful isn’t it.”
The implication drops your heart into your chest, a sudden pressure to your shoulders. “You won’t lay a hand on these people!”
“Their safety is my guarantee, if you return. Lest you continue to fight then by morning a blizzard will be your last concern and you will beg for her majesty’s mercy.” Pierro threat isn’t a threat, with the way his pale grey eye pours into you it only speaks of a promise. Anger fuels you and your fist rises to punch in frustration but your body yet doesn’t listen to you. Just like the kettle and the window, Pierro uses some kind of power to freeze you in place.
“Join me willingly and become the Harbinger by my side as you were raised to be, or let these people die for your selfish theatrics and I bring you by force over their graves.”
Again he means business, his words a guarantee and you know Lomas wouldn’t stand a chance against the might of the Fatui let alone Pierro’s regime. Your gaze shifts outside, you can see his workers moving and placing various mechanics around the village but you can also see the ones you love. Katerina and Maksim both stand watch over the men working, Lev holds his daughter close as she clings to his neck and Maria refuses to let the men in her Inn. If anything were to happen to them you don’t know what you would do but this is…
Slowly your gaze is shifted back to him, Pierro doesn’t smile at your struggle or show any real sign of concern. Just that same old straight face you remember in your nightmares.
“So, my child, what will it be?”
The question is raised and there is only one answer.
You give your response hushed and with the utmost anger you could muster through your defeat, “I accept the invitation, master.”
author's note | here is the opening chapter to a Ballad of Winter's Embrace! Thanks to everyone's patience with me, university is weird at the moment but now I have the free time to actually keep moving forward with my wips! heavy filler chapter this is but i did want to give a bit of something before just jumping into everything I have planned out.
“ we welcome innamorati, sixth of the fatui harbingers. “
BALLAD OF WINTER’S EMBRACE —
#agnst. #fatui-harbinger!reader. #gender-neutral!reader. #fatui harbingers x reader ( both platonic and romantic ).
SYNOPSIS | With la signora gone, one too many spaces are left unattended within the harbingers. The Tsaritsa, in all her glory, summons the harbingers back to Snezhnaya where they will present two of their finest chosen to compete for the honor of replacing the fallen. You had no desire for honor or any respect for the fatui, but when The Jester comes knocking at your door you have no choice but to answer your calling.
THINGS TO NOTE | none of this canon, angst heavy, minimal fluff and humor, profanity, descriptions of blood, death, gore and canon typical violence, themes of addiction, character death(s) [ subject to additions ]
MISCELLANEOUS | to be crafted…
ADDITIONAL NOTES | my first series so bear with me y’all. a lot of what this is will be ooc as we do not know a lot about the fatui inner circle so apologies on that.
STATUS | ongoing, no update schedule |
( warnings will be present within each chapter respectively )
