𝐫𝐢𝐢

writing corner ₊˚⊹ talk to me on @https-chrry ♡

[sft-chrries]

﹒❀ 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐦𝐞 ₊˚⊹

𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞 : rii, ria, kae

𝐚𝐠𝐞 : 18 — 09 / 2007

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬 : she/her , can call me bro : )

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐬 : open

introvert 𐙚₊˚﹟’ maybe i, lost my mind ’ 🍒

𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ⸻ masterlists, ask blog || 𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬 ⸻ i, ii, iii

🍒 sft-chrries 2023 — present

[sft-chrries]

caveat

m.kibutsuji x fem!reader

summary: he leaves exactly as he promised, and she is left realizing control doesn’t make it hurt any less.

warnings: muzan, manipulation, unhealthy relationship , verbal conflict, implied sexual content, heartbreak

w.c: 1,778

muzan said it like he was talking about the weather.

the both of them were standing outside a convenience store that stayed open too late. the night smelled like asphalt that had cooled too fast with cars passed in uneven intervals and someone laughed somewhere down the block.

muzan leaned against the glass, hands in his pockets, posture loose in a way that always felt intentional. he had that look on his face, the one that said he already knew how things would go, that everything ahead of them had been mapped and measured and accounted for.

“i’ll be the one to leave you,” he said quietly.

(name) blinked. “what?”

he smiled, not unkindly. “i’m just saying. when this ends, it’ll be because i walked away.”

she laughed before she could stop herself and it came out sharp and a little bit surprised. “wow. confident.”

he shrugged. “realistic.”

she tilted her head, studying him. they’d been seeing each other for weeks now. coffee that turned into dinners, dinners that turned into walking until their feet hurt. she knew the lines of his face well enough to tell when he was joking yet this didn’t feel like one.

“you don’t even know that,” she said.

he pushed off the glass and stood in front of her, close enough that she had to look up at him. “i do.”

“why would you say that?” she asked. “that’s a weird thing to drop in the middle of a date.”

“it’s not a date,” he said easily.

she frowned. “we’re literally holding the same receipt.”

he glanced down at the paper in her hand, then back at her face. “doesn’t change anything.”

she wanted to argue. she wanted to point out that people didn’t talk like that unless they were trying to scare someone off, or prove something to themselves. instead, she just said, “you’re wrong.”

something flickered behind his eyes. “am i?”

“yeah,” she said. “if this ends, it’ll be because i got bored.”

he laughed then, a real laugh. “you won’t.”

she didn’t answer, not because she didn’t have one, but because she felt something settle in her chest, quiet and stubborn.

i’ll be the one to leave, he’d said.

she believed, completely and foolishly, that he was wrong.

they didn’t talk about it again, at least not directly.

they walked instead, down streets that smelled like fried food and damp concrete. he bought her a drink from a vending machine because she hesitated in front of it too long. she pretended not to notice that he remembered how she liked it.

muzan wasn’t affectionate in obvious ways. he didn’t hold her hand unless she reached first. he didn’t text good morning or good night. when he complimented her, it sounded like observation instead of praise.

“you always look like you’re thinking,” he told her once, watching her stir sugar into her coffee. “even when you’re not.”

she smiled. “maybe i just have that face.”

“no,” he said. “it’s different.”

she asked him what he meant. he said, “nothing important,” and changed the subject.

it was like that with him, edges always just out of reach. she told herself she liked it, that it was refreshing, and the fact that she didn’t need clarity to enjoy what they were doing.

on their fifth or sixth date—she couldn’t remember which because it had stopped mattering—they ended up at his apartment.

it wasn’t impressive, just clean, minimal, quiet. everything had its place, but none of it felt lived in. she sat on the couch while he poured drinks in the kitchen, listening to the clink of ice.

“you don’t have pictures,” she said.

he glanced at the wall. “of what?”

“anything,” she said. “people. memories. not even your diplomas”

he handed her a glass. “i remember things just fine without them.”

she took a sip and grimaced. “this is strong.”

he smiled faintly. “you’ll survive.”

they sat close, knees brushing. the city outside hummed low and constant, like a held breath.

“why me?” she asked suddenly.

he didn’t look at her. “why not?”

“that’s not an answer.”

“it’s the only one i have.”

she leaned back against the couch. “you always dodge.”

he turned then, eyes sharp. “i don’t owe you explanations.”

she stiffened. “i didn’t say you did.”

“you were thinking it.”

“don’t do that,” she said. “don’t tell me what i’m thinking.”

“then don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

the air shifted. not hostile, but tense as if something had been named without being acknowledged.

she set her glass down. “you don’t make it easy.”

he studied her for a long moment. “i never said i would.”

“you did say you’d be the one to leave.”

his mouth twitched. “still true.”

she felt a flare of irritation. “why are you so sure?”

“because i always am.”

she laughed, but there was no humor in it. “that’s arrogant.”

“it’s an experience.”

she stood, pacing once, then stopped in front of him. “you know what i think?”

“i’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“i think you say things like that so you don’t have to try,” she said. “so if it ends, you can pretend it was always part of the plan.”

he rose slowly, closing the distance between them. “or maybe i say it because i know myself.”

“do you?” she asked. “or do you just like being in control?”

something darkened in his expression. “careful.”

“why?” she challenged. “are you going to leave right now?”

for a second, she thought he might. the space between them felt electric and unstable.

then he leaned in, close enough that his voice brushed her ear. “not yet.”

her breath hitched, traitorous.

they didn’t talk after that. the space between them closed without a decision, mouths finding each other like it was the only language left. the kiss deepened until relief and tension tangled together, impossible to separate. his hand lingered at her waist, hesitant yet heavy with intent, like he was testing a boundary that he pretended not to care about.

when they finally pulled apart, neither of them spoke. their foreheads rested together for a breath too long, breaths uneven, shared. his hand stayed at her side—neither holding nor letting go—fingers warm. the closeness felt charged like something already tipping past the point of restraint. she didn’t ask for more because she didn’t trust herself to. she only leaned in again, letting the moment decide for them.

later, lying awake beside him, sheets twisted and warm, the air still heavy with what they hadn’t named, she stared at the ceiling. his presence was a weight at her back, undeniable even without touch, close enough that every small movement registered. his words replayed in her mind, quiet and persistent, settling deeper than she wanted them to, long after the room had gone still.

i’ll be the one to leave.

she told herself it didn’t matter. that she could walk away first if she wanted to. that she wasn’t attached.

but the thought came uninvited and insistent:

what if he’s right?

the next morning, she woke before him.

sunlight cut across the room in thin, pale lines. muzan lay on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing slow and even. for a moment, she let herself watch him, the version of him where he was unguarded.

she slipped out of bed carefully and went to the kitchen. the apartment felt different in daylight. 

she made coffee. he joined her a few minutes later, hair rumpled, shirt pulled on without care.

“you’re loud in the morning,” he said.

“sorry,” she replied. “i can leave.”

he watched her over the rim of his mug. “you don’t have to.”

“you always say that,” she said. “but you never sound like you mean it.”

he set his cup down. “what do you want from me?”

she hesitated. “honesty.”

he laughed softly. “that’s dangerous.”

“for who?”

“for you,” he said.

she folded her arms. “try me.”

he studied her for a long moment, then shook his head. “you wouldn’t like it.”

“i already don’t like half the things you say.”

“and yet,” he said, stepping closer, “you’re still here.”

that stung more than she expected.

days passed like that. just a slow accumulation of moments, meals, conversations that almost turned into confessions, silences that pressed heavy between them.

she started to notice the way he pulled back when things felt too real. the way he deflected with humor or distance. she wondered how many people had tried to get close before her, and how many he’d let go without blinking.

one evening, after an argument that started over nothing and spiraled into everything, she finally snapped.

“why are you like this?” she demanded, voice raised despite herself. “why do you keep one foot out the door?”

he stood across from her, expression flat. “because i told you i would leave.”

“that’s not an answer!” she shouted. “that’s a threat!”

“it’s a warning,” he shot back. “i was honest with you from the start.”

“no,” she said, shaking. “you were detached. there’s a huge difference.”

he took a step toward her. “if you want someone who clings, who promises things he can’t keep, you picked the wrong person.”

she laughed bitterly. “i don’t want promises. i want effort.”

“effort leads to expectations, and expectations lead to disappointment.”

“so you just avoid everything instead? that’s your solution?”

his jaw tightened. “i avoid losing control.”

“of what?” she asked. “your feelings?”

he didn’t answer.

the silence that followed was heavy, charged.

finally, he said quietly, “i warned you.”

tears burned at her eyes, unwanted and angry. “you don’t get to say that like it excuses everything.”

he looked at her then, really looked. “this is why i said i’d leave.”

“then do it,” she said, voice breaking. “prove yourself right.”

for a moment, neither of them moved.

then he stepped back.

“fine,” he said.

she watched him grab his keys, his jacket. her heart pounded, loud in her ears. she waited for him to stop. to turn around. to say something that would make it all make sense.

he didn’t.

the door closed with a soft, final sound.

she stood there long after, shaking, surrounded by the quiet he left behind.

he had been right.

just not in the way she thought.

she sank onto the couch, pressing her hands to her face, the weight of it all settling in her chest.

you said you’d be the one to leave, she thought bitterly. i just didn’t think it would hurt this much.

outside, the city went on, uncaring.

and somewhere out there, muzan walked away, exactly as he’d promised.

🍒 reblogs and notes are appreciated !

🍒 sft-chrries 2025

[sft-chrries]

sports to play when athletic

pairings: n. kamado, t. kamado, i. hashibira, z. agatsuma, k. tsuyuri, g. shinazugawa x gn!reader (separately)

n. kamado

blinks, then looks at you like she’s silently asking is this a trick question?

tilts her head, hums once, says “maybe something where you protect people…?”

doesn’t engage with the back-handed tone at all

t. kamado

laughs softly, scratching the back of his head

“oh—i’m not really sure. maybe kendo? or swimming?”

clearly trying not to assume the question was meant badly

only realizes hours later that the “if” in your question was more pointed than he first thought

i. hashibira

immediately steps closer

“what do you mean if.”

doesn’t wait for an answer. “all of them.”

starts shadowboxing absentmindedly, a little irritated by the implication

z. agatsuma

freezes.

“wait—what does that mean?”

panic-rambling starts immediately.

insists he could do track and sprints a short distance just to prove it.

k. tsuyuri

pauses for a beat too long

answers calmly, “gymnastics.”

tone is neutral, not defensive, nor bragging

meets your gaze steadily, letting the words do the wor

g. shinazugawa

scoffs

“what, you saying i’m not?”

answers “boxing” like it’s a warning, not a response

🍒 reblogs and notes are appreciated !

🍒 sft-chrries 2025

[sft-chrries]

i feel like i just revealed something to a scammer??

they dm’ed me saying that they accidentally “reported” my account because they thought i was the one who scammed them. they then proceed to tell that i need to contact someone in discord to which i did. they were interviewing me and shit and they asked for my government name🧍🏻‍♀️

i am just so glad that i went with my gut and used a pseudonym lololol anyway, awareness peeps ^^

the guy/girl that dm’ed me here has blocked me and the discord account that i reached out to is now deactivated

[sft-chrries]

dumbfounded

gyutaro x fem!reader

summary: growing into something neither of them expected.

w.c: 1,095

gyutaro never meant for it to start like this.

he didn’t mean to notice her first in the way that mattered. he noticed her the way he noticed everything else, through irritation, kind of sharp, defensive awareness. she was too clean, upright, and easy in her own skin. the kind of person whose presence felt like a question that he didn’t want to answer.

(name) worked two stalls down from him at the market. she sold pressed flowers and hand-bound notebooks, things that didn’t scream necessity but still managed to sell. people lingered at her stall and they smiled more there. gyutaro hated that.

he hated that they smiled at her the way they never smiled at him.

his own stall was metal and bone and blades—salvaged parts, sharpened tools, things people approached only when they needed them. his hands were always nicked, always stained. he kept his hood low, his posture defensive, like the world might try to take something from him if he stood too tall.

she noticed him anyway.

not in the way others did, not with discomfort nor pity. just noticing as if he was part of the environment, like he belonged.

it pissed him off.

“you always look like you’re about to stab someone,” she said one afternoon, voice light, like she was commenting on the weather.

he stiffened. “mind your business.”

she smiled, not offended. “i am. i’m making it my business.”

that should have been the end of it. it wasn’t.

she kept talking to him. not constantly though just enough to be present. she brought him tea once when the rain came down hard and his stall started leaking. she complained about the market manager under her breath and laughed too loud at her own jokes.

gyutaro told himself he didn’t care.

but sometimes, when he caught his reflection in the dull surface of a blade, he’d notice the way his shoulders were less hunched when she was nearby or the way his jaw unclenched when she spoke.

he hated that even more.

the first time they went out, he didn’t call it a date but she did.

“it’s a date,” she said, tying her hair back with practiced fingers. “don’t overthink it.”

he scoffed. “i don’t do dates.”

“you’re doing one now.”

he almost backed out. almost convinced himself she was joking, or bored, or pitying him. he waited for the moment she’d realize she’d made a mistake.

it didn’t come.

they walked instead. streetlights buzzing overhead, the city loud and indifferent. she talked about nothing and everything at the same time—her stall, her favorite books, the way she liked late nights because the world felt quieter.

gyutaro mostly listened because when he spoke, it comes out rough. he waited for her to flinch.

she didn’t.

when they parted, she smiled at him like it was the most natural thing in the world. “see you tomorrow.”

he nodded, too stunned to respond.

he didn’t tell anyone.

he didn’t tell anyone because saying it out loud felt dangerous. like if he acknowledged it, it would fall apart. like words themselves would object—no, not him. not someone like him.

the second date happened anyway.

that one had food. cheap noodles, eaten standing up, shoulders brushing. she stole from his bowl without asking. he snapped at her and then froze, waiting for her to get offended.

she just laughed.

something inside him shifted, subtle and terrifying.

he told himself it was a coincidence. anything but what it was.

after the third date, he stopped pretending.

he didn’t tell his friends right away. he waited until it was undeniable—until there were patterns. until she started showing up at his stall before he arrived, sitting on the crate behind it like she belonged there. until she learned the cadence of his moods, when to talk and when to let silence sit.

until he learned hers.

then the evidence piled up.

lines connecting them. invisible strings he hadn’t noticed weaving tighter and tighter. her hand brushing his wrist when she laughed. the way she leaned into him without thinking. the way she said his name like it wasn’t something ugly.

that was what got him.

the way she said his name.

gyutaro was jealous in a way that surprised even him.

not loud jealousy nor possessive shouting but just a constant, simmering awareness of anyone else who made her laugh. anyone who stood too close, anyone who looked at her with that soft expression she never quite returned.

he told himself it was instinct but sometimes, watching her talk to someone else, he’d feel that awful awe bloom in his chest.

she chose me.

the thought rendered him stupid like if he tried to articulate it, it would collapse under scrutiny.

because why him?

he knew what he looked like. knew how people reacted before they learned better—or didn’t. scars, posture, voice sharpened by years of being unwanted. he knew how the world sorted people, how quickly.

and yet she stayed.

one evening, after the market closed, they sat on the curb with their backs against the shutters. the air smelled like rain and rust.

she leaned her head against his shoulder without asking.

he froze.

“you okay?” she asked softly.

he swallowed. “why me?”

she tilted her head. “what?”

“you could have anyone,” he said, words scraping out of him. “someone easier, cleaner. or someone who doesn’t look like they’re angry at the world.”

she didn’t pull away.

instead, she looked at him—really looked.

“you’re not angry all the time,” she said. “you’ve just been hurt too long.”

he laughed, bitter. “same thing.”

“no,” she said. “it’s not.”

he didn’t know how to respond to that. silence filled the space, thick but not uncomfortable.

“i didn’t tell anyone about our first date,” she added suddenly.

his heart skipped. “why not?”

“because i wanted to make sure it was real,” she said. “i didn’t want to say it and then have it disappear.”

he stared at the ground. “me too.”

she smiled, small and genuine. “see? lines connecting us.”

he didn’t understand how she said things like that so easily.

sometimes, late at night, lying beside her, gyutaro would watch her sleep and feel that same dumbfounded awe crash over him. the jealousy, the doubt—they never really went away. they just quieted, dulled by the steady presence of her warmth, her breathing.

he never stopped being aware of how unlikely it was.

but instead of protesting, the words began to settle.

not why me.

but us.

and somehow, impossibly, that was enough.

🍒 reblogs and notes are appreciated !

🍒 sft-chrries 2025

[sft-chrries]

flagrant

douma x fem!reader

summary: they live in comfortable denial as he offers steady affection without restraint, and her refusal to see it lets him wait quietly in plain sight.

warning: ooc douma huhu

w.c: 1,453

the toothpaste cap was off again.

it sat there on the edge of the sink, tilted slightly to the side, a pale ribbon of paste drying at the opening like it had been abandoned mid-thought. the bathroom light was still on. steam lingered faintly, softening the edges of the mirror.

(name) stood in the doorway, arms crossed, staring at it.

“you know,” she said, not raising her voice, “most people learn to put that back on when they’re, like, six.”

douma leaned against the doorframe behind her, hair still damp, a towel slung loosely around his shoulders like he’d forgotten what it was for halfway through drying off. he peeked past her with exaggerated curiosity.

“oh? is that a rule?” he asked, smiling. “i must have missed that chapter in my upbringing.”

she sighed and reached for the cap herself, twisting it back on with a practiced motion. “you miss a lot of chapters.”

“that’s why i like living with you,” he said easily. “you fill in the gaps.”

she rolled her eyes and brushed past him, bumping his arm lightly with her shoulder as she went. “don’t get sentimental over toothpaste.”

“who said anything about toothpaste?” he replied.

the apartment was quiet in the comfortable, lived-in way—morning light slipping through half-open curtains, dust motes floating lazily in the air. their place wasn’t big, but it was theirs in the sense that roommates’ places were: mismatched furniture, shared shelves, boundaries drawn in invisible ink.

(name) headed into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, then leaned back against the counter. she could hear douma moving behind her, humming to himself as he wandered in barefoot, entirely unconcerned with personal space or social cues.

he reached past her to grab a mug from the cabinet, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, the faint scent of citrus soap and something sweet that always clung to him.

“you’re doing it again,” she said.

“doing what?” he asked, sipping from the mug.

“standing too close.”

he glanced down at the distance between them—or lack of it. “this isn’t close.”

she nudged him with her elbow. “for normal people, it is.”

he laughed, bright and unbothered. “good thing i’m not normal.”

that, at least, was something they agreed on.

they’d moved in together out of convenience, originally. same building, same work schedule, same tolerance for chaos. douma had been charming in that overwhelming way that either exhausted people or drew them in completely. (name) had assumed she’d land firmly in the first category.

she hadn’t expected him to linger.

he leaned against the counter now, watching her with open interest as she drank her water. he always watched her like that—like she was a movie he’d already seen but still found entertaining.

“you slept well?” he asked.

“fine.”

“you always say that.”

“because it’s always true.”

he tilted his head. “you don’t sound convinced.”

she set the glass down. “why are you interrogating me before coffee?”

“because it’s cute when you get defensive,” he said.

she snorted. “you say that about everything.”

“because everything you do is cute.”

she froze for half a second, then waved it off with a dismissive flick of her hand. “there it is. flirting.”

“is it flirting if i mean it?”

she raised an eyebrow. “especially then.”

douma grinned wider. “you never believe me.”

“because you say things like that to everyone.”

he gasped, mock-offended. “i do not.”

“you literally told the barista last week that her handwriting was ‘a gift to the world.’”

“and it was,” he said earnestly. “don’t you think people should hear nice things?”

“not when you don’t mean them.”

he leaned in a little closer. “i always mean them.”

she met his gaze for a brief moment, then looked away, busying herself with grabbing her bag from the chair. “sure you do.”

if douma noticed the way she avoided looking at him too long, he didn’t comment on it. he never pushed—not directly. he preferred to circle, to hover, to make his presence known without demanding acknowledgment.

they left the apartment together, as usual, locking the door behind them. the hallway smelled faintly of cleaning solution and someone else’s cooking. douma matched her pace easily, hands tucked into his pockets.

“you forgot your jacket,” he said.

she glanced down. “it’s not cold.”

“it will be later.”

“i’ll survive.”

he shrugged out of his own jacket anyway and draped it over her shoulders without asking. she stiffened.

“douma.”

“what?” he asked innocently. “roommate privileges.”

she sighed but didn’t take it off. “you’re impossible.”

“and yet,” he said lightly, “you keep me.”

they walked in companionable silence after that, the city waking up around them. she told herself not to read into it—the jacket, the proximity, the way he always seemed attuned to her movements. douma was like that with everyone, she reasoned

he didn’t do subtle. and because of that, she never considered the possibility that he might be serious.

later that evening, they were back in the apartment, the day settling into something quieter. (name) sat on the couch with her laptop balanced on her knees, scrolling through emails. douma lay sprawled on the floor, chin propped on his hands, flipping through a magazine he wasn’t actually reading.

“can i ask you something?” he said suddenly.

she didn’t look up. “you just did.”

“you know what i mean.”

“depends,” she said. “is it weird?”

he smiled to himself. “probably.”

she glanced down at him. “try me.”

“why do you pretend you don’t notice things?”

she frowned. “what things?”

“this,” he said, gesturing vaguely between them. “us.”

she laughed. “there is no ‘us.’ there’s a lease agreement and shared utilities.”

he propped himself up on one elbow, studying her. “you really believe that?”

“yes,” she said easily. “and you should too.”

“but what if i don’t want to?”

she closed her laptop slowly. “douma.”

“what? i’m just saying,” he continued, unbothered. “i like you. more than i like most people. probably more than i should.”

she stared at him, searching for the punchline. when none came, she relaxed. “you like everyone.”

“not like this.”

“you say that to everyone.”

“do i?” he asked, genuinely curious.

she hesitated, then shrugged. “it feels like it.”

he was quiet for a moment. then he lay back down, staring at the ceiling. “maybe i should say it less, then.”

“maybe,” she agreed, a little too quickly.

but he didn’t stop. not really.

over the next few weeks, the little things piled up—the way he always waited for her before leaving, the way he saved the last slice of pizza for her without comment, the way he knew her coffee order without asking. he was open about it, unashamed, treating his affection like a fact rather than a confession.

and she kept shrugging it off.

“you’re just being you,” she’d say.

“i am being me,” he’d reply. “and i like you.”

“yeah, yeah.”

it became a rhythm. his honesty, her dismissal. neither of them pushed it further.

one night, she came home late, exhausted, shoes kicked off by the door. the apartment was dim except for the kitchen light. douma was there, sleeves rolled up, stirring something on the stove.

“you’re cooking?” she asked.

“attempting,” he said. “don’t sound so shocked.”

“i am shocked.”

he laughed. “sit. i’ll feed you.”

she dropped into a chair, watching him move around the kitchen with unearned confidence. “you didn’t have to.”

“i wanted to.”

“why?”

he glanced back at her. “do i need a reason?”

she shrugged. “you usually do.”

he plated the food and set it in front of her. “eat.”

she did. it was surprisingly good.

“wow,” she said. “this is actually—”

“don’t sound so disappointed.”

she smiled despite herself. “thank you.”

he leaned against the counter, watching her eat. “you’re welcome.”

there was a softness in the moment, something unspoken hanging between them. she felt it—and deliberately ignored it.

later, when she went to brush her teeth, she found the toothpaste uncapped again.

she laughed, shaking her head, and capped it herself.

from the doorway, douma watched her, smiling.

“one day,” he said lightly, “you’re going to stop pretending i’m joking.”

she met his eyes in the mirror. “and one day,” she replied, “you’re going to admit you just like getting on my nerves.”

he chuckled. “maybe both can be true.”

she turned off the light and walked past him. he didn’t follow this time.

but he watched her go as if he had all the time in the world—and she, still shrugging it all off, never noticed how careful he was being with her heart.

the toothpaste stayed uncapped.

and he never minded being the one to wait.

🍒 reblogs and notes are appreciated !

🍒 sft-chrries 2025

[sft-chrries]

hubris

yushiro x fem!reader

summary: lingering in the shared grief until he chooses silence over healing, and her leaving forces him to face the emptiness he mistook for loyalty.

warnings: grief, character death, emotional conflict, loss

w.c: 1,944

the forest around the safehouse was still heavy with smoke. it wasn’t the kind that rose and drifted away—it clung, it lingered, it sank into the soil and refused to leave. days had passed since the battle, though the word days meant very little anymore. neither of them slept because neither of them needed to. time had thinned into something shapeless, marked only by the pale rotation of the moon through the open shutters.

inside, the safehouse was sparse. the walls were stripped bare, the shelves mostly empty, and the tatami smelled faintly of ash. the air was too quiet, save for the faint creak of old wood and the soft shuffle of movement when one of them passed the other. yushiro barely spoke. (name) didn’t, either—not because she didn’t want to, but because every time she tried, the words felt too small for what had been lost.

he sat by the window most nights, the lamp light touching his hair in soft streaks. he didn’t look outside; he stared at the reflection of the forest in the glass instead, the distortion of it, like he was trying to memorize every detail of something that had already disappeared. his hand would rest against the windowsill, fingers still flecked faintly with red that he hadn’t bothered to wash away. 

(name) watched him from across the room. she’d taken to sitting near the small table by the corner, the one that held the things miss tamayo left behind—notes, vials, the faint remnants of her perfume that hadn’t faded even after the explosion that had happened in the ubuyashiki mansion which filled their nose with blood and burning flesh. 

“you should rest,” she said once, her voice barely cutting through the stillness. “you haven’t moved since dawn.”

yushiro didn’t look at her. “i don’t need rest.”

“you look like you do.”

“then stop looking.”

the reply wasn’t sharp, but it had weight. it landed between them, and (name) didn’t speak again after that. she only nodded, even though he wasn’t facing her, and turned back to the notes spread out in front of her. the handwriting was small, tamayo’s. graceful, even in her scrawl. (name) traced a line of ink with her finger, the edge of a half-finished formula that none of them would ever complete now.

she remembered tamayo’s hands, they were steady and gentle. she remembered yushiro standing beside her, the way he’d always looked at the woman like the sun itself was too dim in comparison. she’d seen that look long before she’d understood what it meant. 

silence folded over them again. outside, the crickets had long gone quiet. only the faint wind moved through the trees, brushing the side of the house. (name) exhaled softly and leaned back, her eyes drifting toward yushiro once more.

“when we leave here,” she began carefully, “where will we go?”

he turned his head slightly, just enough to show he’d heard her. “we won’t.”

“you don’t plan to move on?”

his mouth curved in something like a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “move on to what?”

she hesitated. “living.”

“we’re not alive.”

“you know what i mean, yushiro.”

yushiro didn’t answer. he looked out the window again, his reflection now faintly transparent against the night. the forest beyond looked blacker than before, the sky above it bruised and pale. he stayed that way for a long moment before he said, “this place will do.”

“for how long?”

“until it doesn’t.”

she wanted to ask and then what, but the tone of his voice told her it wouldn’t matter. there was no then for him anymore. only this—an endless stretch of nights and silence and ghosts that wouldn’t leave.

she rose quietly and crossed the small room, her steps careful against the floor. she stopped a few paces behind him, her hand twitching at her side. she wanted to reach out—to touch his shoulder, to remind him he wasn’t alone—but she didn’t. her fingers hovered, then fell back to her side.

“yushiro,” she murmured. his name felt too tender in her mouth. “you can’t stay like this.”

he finally looked at her then, his eyes reflecting the moonlight. for a brief moment, she thought she saw something soft there—something almost human—but it vanished as quickly as it came. “and what would you have me do?” he asked. “pretend?”

“no,” she said quietly. “but you can still—”

“still what?” he interrupted, and this time the sharpness was real. “forget her?”

the words cut through the quiet like glass. (name) flinched but didn’t step back. she met his stare, her throat tight.

“no,” she said again, softer. “i wouldn’t ask you to.”

“then stop trying to fix me.”

she wanted to tell him she wasn’t trying to fix him, only to reach him—but the difference had started to blur. she’d spent too long mistaking his silence for depth, his distance for something sacred. but standing this close, she could see the truth: it wasn’t depth, it was absence.

he turned away before she could speak again. the reflection in the glass caught both of them now, side by side but facing different directions. she thought, not for the first time, that maybe that was what they’d always been.

the night wore on, and either of them moved for a long while. when she finally did, it was only to return to the table and gather the scattered papers. the motion was small, but her hands trembled. she stacked them neatly, careful not to make a sound.

the house they stayed in was small, tucked between half-collapsed buildings and overgrown streets. a temporary safehouse, one of the few left after everything had burned. the walls smelled faintly of smoke and old wood, the floorboards creaked when either of them moved. it wasn’t home. just a place to stay until they could figure out what to do next.

(name) sat by the window, eyes tracing the edge of the horizon. it had been days since the battle, but the world still felt like it was shaking. even the light looked wrong, as if the sun itself didn’t know what to do with the ruins left behind.

yushiro hadn’t said much since they arrived. he’d fixed the door, patched the window, and then disappeared into the other room. she could hear him now, somewhere behind her—pages turning, the faint scrape of a brush against paper. the sound was familiar, almost comforting, but it only made the silence heavier.

“you haven’t eaten,” she said quietly.

“i don’t need to.”

his voice was flat, not cold exactly, but worn down to something that didn’t invite more. still, she tried.

“you should, anyway.”

“why?”

“because it helps. because you look—” she stopped herself. tired. empty. lost. none of those words would reach him.

yushiro didn’t look up from what he was doing. “don’t start.”

“i wasn’t—”

“you were.” he set the brush down. “you always do.”

(name) turned her gaze to the window again. “someone has to.”

the air between them went taut. she could almost hear his irritation, the way it filled the space like static. he stood, footsteps measured but sharp against the wood.

“someone has to,” he repeated under his breath. “you talk like i’m the one who—”

he stopped himself, jaw tight.

she turned then, meeting his eyes for the first time in hours. “like you’re the one who what?”

yushiro’s stare was steady, but there was something wild beneath it, something that trembled just enough to break through his calm. “you think i haven’t lost enough already?”

her chest tightened. “that’s not what i meant.”

“then what did you mean?” his voice rose—not shouting, not yet, but sharp enough to sting. “that i should move on? that i should forget her?”

tamayo’s name wasn’t said, but it didn’t have to be because it hovered in the air between them like a ghost neither of them could banish.

“i didn’t say that,” she said quietly.

“you didn’t have to.” he stepped closer, his expression flickering between anger and grief. “you think i don’t see it? the way you look at me? the way you wait for me to—”

“stop.”

“—what? to love you instead?”

the words hit harder than she expected. she stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. “don’t do that.”

“do what?”

“pretend you don’t know how cruel that sounds.”

yushiro exhaled sharply and turned away, pressing his palms against the table. the wood creaked under the weight of it. “you wouldn’t understand.”

“because i’m not her?”

his silence was enough.

(name) swallowed hard, stepping closer. “you don’t have to keep punishing everyone for the fact that she’s gone.”

“you think this is punishment?” he laughed once, bitter and quiet. “this is restraint.”

“restraint?”

“if i said what i really think, you’d leave.”

“maybe i should.”

that made him look at her again—sharp, startled. “you don’t mean that.”

“don’t i?” she whispered. “what am i even doing here, yushiro? you don’t talk to me, you don’t look at me, you act like i’m a replacement that didn’t take.”

he flinched. she saw it, the small flicker of hurt before it hardened again.

“you would never be her,” he said finally, the words like glass breaking between them.

the silence that followed was deafening.

(name) blinked once, slow, like trying to process the sound of her own heart cracking. “i know,” she said softly. “but you didn’t have to say it.”

he turned away, his voice quieter now, but no softer. “you wanted honesty.”

“not like that.”

she took a step back. he didn’t follow.

“i’ve tried,” she said. “i stayed when you wouldn’t even look at me. i cleaned the blood off your hands when you couldn’t stop shaking. i thought—” her voice caught. “i thought if i stayed long enough, you’d see me.”

yushiro’s hands clenched at his sides. “i do see you.”

“no,” she said, shaking her head. “you see her shadow standing where i am.”

for a moment, he didn’t move. then he slammed his hand against the table. the sound cracked through the room like thunder. she startled, heart skipping.

“don’t tell me what i see!” he shouted.

the echo lingered. outside, the wind shifted, pushing against the rattling windows.

“then what do you see?” she asked quietly.

his mouth opened, but nothing came out. he looked lost—furious and lost all at once.

that was enough.

she turned away, crossing the small room with slow steps. he didn’t stop her when she reached for her bag, didn’t speak when she started packing what little she had. the soft sounds of cloth folding filled the silence.

when she finally stood by the door, she paused. “i loved you,” she said simply. “and i think you know that. but i can’t keep standing in the shadow of someone who’s not coming back.”

yushiro’s hands trembled at his sides, but he said nothing.

she opened the door. cold air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of rain.

“goodbye,” she whispered.

the door shut quietly behind her, but it might as well have been the sound of a world closing.

yushiro stood there for a long time, staring at the space she’d just left. his breath came unevenly. he looked down at the table—the dent where his hand had struck, the faint smear of red where his nails had bitten into his skin.

he sank into the chair she’d used, eyes on the window she’d once looked through. the world outside was still dark.

and for the first time since tamayo’s death, he realized what silence truly felt like when no one was left to fill it.

🍒 reblogs and notes are appreciated !

🍒 sft-chrries 2025

[sft-chrries]

hey so how do you think Zenitsu and Inosuke would deal with having a s/o who they’re newly dating and it’s winter and the boys are whining a bit about the cold. And s/o doesn’t give a response, seems like they ignored the boys. Then s/o gets up and sits in their lap and wraps their own haori around them both and now they’re both cozy and warm?

zenitsu would absolutely short-circuit. he’s been whining nonstop about the cold, breath fogging up, hands shoved into his sleeves, fully expecting sympathy and when (name) doesn’t respond at all, he’s convinced he’s being ignored. he’s mid-pout when they suddenly stand up, walk over, and sit right in his lap, wrapping their haori around both of them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. his brain shuts off instantly. face burning, hands hovering uselessly like he doesn’t know where he’s allowed to touch. “w-wait— what—?!” but he’s already melting, warmth seeping in, heart pounding way louder than the wind and within seconds he’s clinging back, muttering about how warm they are and how winter suddenly isn’t that bad anymore, completely spoiled and refusing to move for the rest of the night.

inosuke is confused for exactly two seconds before deciding this is the best thing that’s ever happened to him. he’d been loudly complaining about the cold too—insults included—and when (name) seemed to ignore him, he was ready to get offended. then they just plop into his lap, haori around both of them, and he freezes. “oi— what are you do—” and then the warmth hits. he relaxes immediately, arms wrapping around them on instinct, chin resting on their shoulder like he belongs there. he doesn’t even pretend to complain after that, just huffs smugly like, “see? this is better.” if anyone tries to make him move, he straight-up growls. winter can do whatever it wants because he’s warm now.

[sft-chrries]

eclipse (IV)

summary: she was the moon, fading behind shadow until he became her eclipse, interrupting the darkness with a quiet and unexpected light.

pairing: akaza x fem!reader

genre: college au, suicide prevention month

chapter warnings: 7.6k w.c, mentions of suicide attempt (paracetamol overdose), emotional distress, depression, anxiety, implied smoking

masterlist ᯓ☾ page 5

two years had passed since the incident with (name)’s ex. the quartet was now patiently waiting for their parents to arrive—it was their graduation day. once their families arrived, they took pictures together with their parents and, of course, with each other.

akaza had been waiting for this day for a long time. he wanted to confess his feelings to (name) after two years of quietly liking her during their freshman and sophomore years, and two more years of being in love with her throughout junior and senior year. he decided to wait because he had been the first to witness her relationship downfalls and the way they affected her.

he remembered vividly the time last year when she almost overdosed on paracetamol, wanting to disappear.

akaza held (name) tightly as she threw up the dozens of paracetamols she had taken. akaza figured that (name) had forgotten about their unscheduled hangout, and when he came to check, he found her on the floor, struggling to make it to the bathroom.

he patted her back gently, tucking her hair behind her ear as she let out a weak sigh before muttering a soft sorry. akaza told her she didn’t need to apologize and asked how many she had taken and the dosage.

“lost count of it… but the dose is 500mg,” she said weakly, resting her head on his shoulder before leaning forward toward the toilet bowl again.

akaza’s chest tightened at her words, but he kept his voice steady. “alright… just stay with me, okay? i’ve got you.” he reached for the glass of water on the counter, pressing it carefully into her hand. she could barely hold it, so he guided it to her lips, making sure she rinsed her mouth before leaning back against him.

“you’re not alone, (name). i’m right here,” he whispered, more to keep her secured than anything else. her body trembled with exhaustion, the weight of everything she’d been carrying finally breaking through. akaza brushed his thumb gently across her shoulder, her eyes fluttering shut, tears streaking down her cheeks as her breathing evened out. 

akaza’s mind drifted again, this time to another night he couldn’t forget.

arisa had insisted the four of them go to a bar after the preliminary exam ended. full of tension, (name) agreed, trusting that at least one of them would make sure she got back to her dorm safely.

arisa and (name) kept drinking shot after shot, laughing at everything they said while akaza and douma just watched from across the table. by the time it was time to leave, arisa was the difficult one—wide awake and stubbornly wanting to keep drinking. (name), on the other hand, was fast asleep on akaza’s back, her breathing soft against his shoulder.

douma had to drag arisa out as she caused a commotion, while akaza carried (name). the two of them left akaza’s motorcycle behind, hailing a taxi to get the girls home safely. thankfully, arisa was sober enough to walk, though not to string a proper sentence together. douma dropped her off on the 3rd floor, where her older brother was staying. her brother clicked his tongue, muttered for douma to piss off, and took her inside.

as for (name), she clung to akaza’s arm in the elevator, still half-asleep. akaza, already resigned, handed his keys to douma to retrieve his motorcycle later—ignoring his friend’s complaints with a sharp look. when they reached their floor and stopped in front of (name)’s door, akaza fumbled with her keys. that was when she suddenly wrapped her arms around him, catching him off guard.

“thank you,” she whispered groggily, before slipping into her room. she lay down on her bed with a faint smile and, just before drifting off, asked him softly to stay.

akaza locked the door behind him and lowered himself onto the edge of her bed, letting (name) ramble on about nonsense while he listened quietly. resting his elbow on the mattress, his knuckle supporting his chin, he watched her with a faint smile. (name) turned toward him, a cheeky grin spreading across her face as she told him that he looks cute, then shuffled closer, curling up beside him to sleep. akaza’s gaze softened, watching her chest rise and fall before he finally leaned back, letting the quiet settle around them.

the memories came flooding into his brain as he was called to go and walk the stage. (name) had already walked the stage along with her psychology classmates, and it was time for the physical therapy students to walk. he marched his way towards the stage, and once he was ready to take a picture, his eyes wandered to find her. to his dismay, he didn’t see her. he walked towards his seat and opened his phone to see no message from (name). thinking that she was just in the bathroom, he decided to go on with the ceremony.

as the ceremony ended, they flung their graduation caps into the air. arisa informed them to meet at the stage to take some photos. the three of them waited for (name) before deciding that maybe she had already left. arisa, who had an idea of what akaza was going to do, patted him on the back with a tight smile. “we’ll see her tomorrow at the dormitory,” and he nodded.

the next day passed by, and the three of them waited for (name) to open her door. with no avail, they went to douma’s and akaza’s shared dorm, where douma leaped over the balcony railing to peek. when he came back, he said, “the room’s clean. no stuff of hers.”

the look on akaza’s face was dejected. how could (name) just go away with no explanations?

arisa then decided to message her best friend on social media, and to her surprise she found out that (name)’s account was deactivated. a curse left her lips as she realized that maybe (name) didn’t want them as friends anymore. as much as it hurt her because she saw (name) not only as a best friend but as a sister, she could only imagine the pain akaza must have been going through, having liked—no, loved—(name) for two years and more.

a day has passed, and they were already packing their belongings. at least douma and akaza were. arisa still wanted to take the licensed exams, which would happen in two months.

in the middle of her studying, arisa decided to text (name). to her relief, the message pushed through—but the chat stayed unread. there was no reply, no tiny notification that (name) had even noticed.

arisa tried to brush it off at first, but as the minutes stretched, the silence pressed harder against her chest. she stared at her books, the words blurring, until finally the weight of it all cracked something inside her.

she grabbed her phone and dialed douma.

when he answered, his voice was lazy as always. “you miss me already?”

“shut up and come here,” arisa snapped, her voice trembling. “i—just come. i don’t… i don’t wanna be alone right now.”

there was a pause on the other end. then douma’s tone softened. “alright. i’ll bring akaza with me.”

not long after, the knock on her door came. when she opened it, douma was there with his usual grin muted, and akaza stood beside him, quiet as ever but with worry flickering in his eyes.

arisa didn’t even try to hold it back anymore—her tears fell the second they stepped inside.

douma sighed, scratching the back of his neck before awkwardly patting her head. “jeez, you’re gonna drown the whole dorm if you keep crying like that.”

akaza, meanwhile, stayed close but silent, offering her a presence steadier than words. he handed her a tissue, his hand brushing hers just briefly, enough to remind her she wasn’t alone.

“it’s just…” arisa’s voice cracked as she tried to speak. “she didn’t even reply. i don’t know what’s happening, and i feel like she’s slipping away again. and i can’t—” she broke off, covering her face.

two days had passed since arisa’s breakdown. akaza remembered sitting quietly in her dorm, listening to her sobs while douma tried—and failed—to cheer her up with his clumsy jokes. he hadn’t said much then, just stayed by her side until she calmed down. but deep down, he felt the same fear she did: the fear of losing (name) all over again.

he told himself he would ask (name) out soon, before she disappeared completely. but as the days passed, hesitation ate at him. eventually, he decided maybe they were better off as friends.

yet (name) started to vanish again. she went from always reposting something to rarely, her page frozen in time like she’d stepped away from it. akaza checked her profile daily, waiting for signs of her, only to be greeted by the same post. the thought of her attaching herself to someone else made his skin crawl, but what could he do? it was her life, not his.

now, at 2:02 a.m., he sat in his dimly lit room, staring at the ticking clock. sleep refused to come. instead, memories filled the silence—vivid, unshakable moments that made his chest ache.

the first time she rode his motorcycle.

he had intentionally sped up just so she would hug him, and it worked—her arms clung around him as she screamed for him to slow down. instead, he pushed the throttle harder, earning a sharp smack on his forearm.

“i’m never going to trust you with your motorcycle again!” she shouted, legs wobbly from the speed she had just endured.

“fine, fine, i’ll go slower on the way back!” he laughed, placing a steady hand on her waist to help her stand.

“i mean it!” she huffed, crossing her arms even though her knees were still trembling. “one more stunt like that and i’m walking home.”

akaza chuckled, tilting his head. “walking? in this heat? good luck with that.”

she shot him a glare, but the corner of her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile. “don’t test me.”

“you already tested my brakes,” he teased, rubbing the spot where she smacked him. “pretty sure i’ve got a bruise.”

“good. maybe it’ll remind you not to be an idiot next time.”

he grinned, unbothered. “next time, huh? so you’re riding again?”

akaza then stared at his phone, thumb hovering over the keyboard. he typed, erased, typed again, but nothing felt right. if (name) didn’t respond to arisa, why would she respond to him? still, he couldn’t sit still anymore. finally, he typed something simple:

akaza: hi, do you maybe wanna catch up?

he pressed send before he could second-guess himself, the message already pushed through, but the screen stayed quiet. no “seen,” no reply, just silence staring back at him.

groaning, he ran a hand down his face and flopped back against his bed. he felt ridiculous like some desperate ex clawing for attention. though the thought stung, he corrected himself bitterly: he wasn’t even her ex. just desperate.

he remembered one afternoon at the library, when she had dragged him along under the excuse of “needing supervision” because she knew she’d get distracted. he’d slouched in the chair across from her, earphones in but nothing playing, just watching her scribble furiously in her notebook.

“you’re staring,” she muttered without looking up, her pen scratching across the page.

“i’m not,” he lied flatly.

“then why do i feel your eyes burning holes into my forehead?” she snapped, though there was no bite in her voice. finally, she peeked up at him, cheeks faintly pink, before scowling again. “stop. you’re making me forget my train of thought.”

he’d smirked, leaning back in his chair. “maybe i’m helping. you think better under pressure, right?”

she groaned dramatically, dropping her pen. “akaza, i swear, if i fail this moving quiz tomorrow, i’m haunting you.”

“deal,” he said without hesitation. “then i’ll never get rid of you.”

the memory made his chest ache. his thoughts lurched to another moment, late evening at a convenience store, both of them half-delirious after cramming all day.

she had grabbed the last pack of spicy noodles, holding it above her head like a prize. “mine.”

he raised an eyebrow. “we’ll see about that.”

the both of them wrestled in the middle of the aisle like children, muffling their laughter so the clerk wouldn’t kick them out. in the end, (name) kept the noodles, but only after promising—between wheezes of laughter—that she’d “allow” him two bites.

it had been stupid, simple, nothing special. but that was what killed him the most, how easy everything felt with her.

akaza rubbed his temples now, the weight of it pressing down on him. the contrast between the laughter and the tears, the light moments and the ones where she fell apart, was tearing him in two.

and yet, through all of it, he’d never once wanted to run, he just stayed. so why, now, did it feel like she was the one running from him?

months flew by quickly. akaza found a job near his place, one that finally allowed him to take care of his father while working. he even made a new friend at work, though, in truth, he found the guy more annoying than anything since he never stopped gossiping about the rest of the staff.

he told himself he had moved on—or at least, that’s what he whispered at night to make it easier to fall asleep. but the truth gnawed at him in the quiet. he, douma, and arisa rarely talked anymore, and sometimes he wondered if (name) had been the thread holding them all together. maybe she was just the starting point of their separation. 

akaza’s new routine was simple, almost mechanical. wake up early, make breakfast for his father, go to work, come home, repeat. some nights, he would stay out on the balcony with a cigarette between his fingers not because he liked the taste, but because the smoke kept his hands busy. 

but every so often, something would pull him back.

once, during lunch break, one of his coworkers passed him a cup of chocolate milk, saying the vending machine had two and they didn’t want the extra. akaza froze, staring at the condensation on the plastic bottle. it reminded him of that afternoon when (name) had dragged him to the convenience store across campus, insisting he had to try it because “it tastes like childhood, idiot.” she had watched him take a sip with her chin propped on her hand, grinning like she already knew he’d like it. he remembered the way she had hummed happily, proud of herself for converting him to something so simple.

he blinked, and the chocolate milk was just a drink in his hand. still, he finished it.

another time, the staff at work invited him out for karaoke. he almost said no—he hated crowds, hated the noise—but he ended up going anyway. the room was full of laughter and awful singing, and it should have been distracting enough. but then someone picked a song that (name) used to hum when she studied. akaza sat frozen for a moment, the lyrics hitting him like they were meant for him alone. he didn’t sing along, but his grip on the microphone stand tightened until his knuckles turned white. nobody noticed and he was glad nobody noticed.

sometimes it was even smaller things. a passing motorcycle. the scent of her perfume on a stranger in the train. the sound of someone’s laugh that almost matched hers. they all tugged at him in different ways, reminding him of a past he kept trying—and failing—to bury.

then an event came up that he couldn’t ignore. a personal friend reached out, inviting him to a gathering. at first, akaza didn’t want to go—he never did these days. the idea of smiling, of pretending he was completely fine, felt exhausting. but when he looked at his calendar, he noticed he hadn’t touched his monthly day off. 

the invitation was from muzan, one of his old high school friends. apparently, muzan had just taken over as the new head of his family’s business, and to celebrate, he was holding a small party. the word small made akaza raise an eyebrow as muzan wasn’t the type to throw casual get-togethers. in high school, he was always sharp, composed, and strangely distant. if he was the one arranging a party now, it had to mean something.

so akaza decided to go.

he told himself it was just to show his face, congratulate muzan, and leave after an hour or so. nothing more. but as he dressed up that evening, buttoning his shirt in front of the mirror, he caught himself hesitating. it had been a while since he’d gone out for anything other than work. 

arriving at the venue, akaza paused near the door, letting his eyes sweep over the room. laughter, music, and the clatter of glasses filled the space—an atmosphere far warmer than what he usually allowed himself to step into. he wasn’t much for parties, but this was muzan’s gathering, rare enough that skipping it would’ve felt like ignoring history itself.

as he moved further in, weaving past familiar-yet-forgotten faces, someone caught his eye.

“akaza?”

he turned, finding kaigaku grinning at him from across the table. they’d been schoolmates in college, though in different programs. kaigaku was the kind of person who always had a reputation for stirring things up—sometimes sharp, sometimes playful, always carrying a spark of trouble.

“been a while,” kaigaku said, lifting his glass slightly before setting it down. “thought you disappeared after graduation. didn’t think you’d show up tonight.”

akaza gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching. “i almost didn’t.”

kaigaku chuckled. “figures. you never did like crowds.” he leaned back in his chair, studying him with that same probing look he used to have in class when he wanted answers without asking directly. “so, what have you been up to?”

“working,” akaza answered, voice low but steady. “near home.”

“responsible as ever,” kaigaku teased. “by the way, have you seen douma?”

akaza let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “didn’t see him on the way here. don’t tell me that bastard’s going to annoy—”

“akaza!” a voice boomed from across the room, loud enough to turn a few heads.

“—me again…” akaza froze mid-sentence, his jaw tightening. 

douma shouted cheerfully, weaving his way through the small crowd like he owned the place, his grin so wide it was almost blinding.

kaigaku snorted, trying and failing to hide his laugh behind his drink. “speak of the devil.”

akaza dragged a hand down his face. “why does he always have to make an entrance…”

as the three of them chatted, catching up on small things and trading light jabs, akaza eventually excused himself when he spotted the host of the night.

“i’ll be back,” he muttered, brushing past a few people before reaching muzan. akaza thought it was only right to offer his congratulations, even if it was just in passing.

after that, he drifted toward the food table, finally letting himself focus on the smell of roasted meat and freshly cooked rice. he made his way toward the food area, plate in hand, scanning through the dishes laid out neatly.

he’d just begun to serve himself when a familiar voice broke through the chatter behind him.

“akaza?”

he looked back and saw a familiar girl, arisa. her hair was styled differently than he remembered, but the smile she wore was the same.

“wow, it’s good to see you,” akaza said, setting the plate down on the table. “though i might ask, why are you here? are you and douma still together?”

arisa laughed, shaking her head. “no, no. douma invited me because he didn’t want to go alone, and i’m not entertaining guys anymore, if you know what i mean.”

akaza blinked at her words, then let out a small chuckle. “huh. well, good for you. at least you don’t have to deal with idiots like him anymore… do you maybe wanna eat with me, arisa?”

“yeah, sure.” she grabbed a plate. “douma’s face can get really thick, you know? i didn’t really wanna come, but he insisted. if i hadn’t seen you, i probably would’ve just stayed in the corner or left already.”

they found a quieter table near the corner, away from the loud laughter and clinking glasses. akaza dug into his food, while arisa sat across from him, her plate barely touched as she talked animatedly about her life after graduation. she told him about her work, and the people she met. akaza listened, genuinely glad to see her doing well, occasionally adding in his own updates about his job and how he was balancing it with taking care of his father.

“sounds like you’ve been doing alright for yourself,” arisa said with a grin, twirling her fork between her fingers. “better than douma, at least. he’s still a mess.”

their laughter faded into a comfortable pause, the kind that came with years of friendship. but then arisa’s expression softened, her voice quieter when she asked, “hey… have you moved on from (name) yet?”

the question landed like a weight in his chest. akaza froze, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth before he set it down carefully. he didn’t answer right away but his silence said more than words could.

arisa sighed, “akaza… you need to. i know it’s hard, but you can’t keep holding on forever.” she gave him a faint smile, though her eyes were heavy with her own memories. “i’ve gone through it already, you know? the five stages of grief.”

“were you ever mad at her?”

“yes,” arisa admitted softly, looking down at her hands. “because i didn’t want to be mad at myself… for not trying harder to reach out.”

akaza stayed quiet but her words hitting deeper than he wanted to admit.

weeks slipped by like sand through his fingers. work, home, sleep—repeat. that was his life now. the routine dulled the ache, but it didn’t erase it.

at work, akaza found himself lingering longer in conversations with his coworkers. the guy who gossiped too much—who he once wrote off as annoying—turned out to be funny in small doses, especially when he wasn’t the target of the chatter. another coworker, a quiet woman from accounting, occasionally shared snacks during break, and akaza found himself saying “thanks” without the stiffness he used to carry.

then after work, he started taking the long route home. walking instead of riding his motorcycle, just to clear his head. sometimes he stopped by the convenience store to pick up canned coffee.

he began sleeping earlier. not always—sometimes the night dragged him into old thoughts—but more often than not, he let his body rest.

on weekends, he started cooking meals with his father. simple ones at first, but enough to remind him that taking care of someone else didn’t have to be heavy. his father, frail as he was, always insisted on chopping vegetables even when akaza tried to stop him.

“my hands still work, don’t they?” his father would grumble.

akaza would just smile faintly and let him.

bit by bit, the edges of his life softened and he didn’t think of it as moving on. he just thought of it as living again.

graduation felt like it was supposed to be an ending and a beginning at the same time, but for (name) it was only an ending.

the cap and gown, the pictures, the fake smiles—none of it mattered when her mother was already calling, already rushing her out of the auditorium before the applause even faded.

she barely got to say goodbye.

her suitcase had been packed days before, shoved into the corner of her room like an omen. her mother didn’t want her lingering, didn’t want her ex to get even the slightest chance of finding her again. the restraining orders hadn’t done much the last time—he still showed up, still watched, still made her family feel unsafe.

so when the ceremony ended, she didn’t go to dinner with her friends just as they promised, she didn’t laugh in the parking lot or take a lot of group pictures under the pink-orange summer sky with their diplomas and certificates. instead she climbed into the car, her gown still wrinkled on her shoulders, her stomach twisting with everything she couldn’t say.

renji sat beside her with a handheld game console in his hands, the bright screen lighting up his small face. he kicked his feet restlessly against the seat, unaware—or maybe just unbothered—by the heaviness that hung over the car. meanwhile haruna was quiet in her own way, sat on the other side of (name). she had one earbud in, music turned down low, but she wasn’t fooling anyone—she kept sneaking glances at her older sister with concern.

the drive to the airport was filled mostly with their mother’s anxious reminders—delete accounts, change numbers, no posting online, keep your circle small. (name) nodded along, but her mind drifted elsewhere.

she thought of arisa, her laugh ringing louder than the music that night they stayed up way too late in (name)’s dorm room.

arisa had sprawled across the floor, textbooks tossed aside, balancing a bag of chips on her stomach while (name) tried to paint her nails.

“you suck at this,” arisa teased, wiggling her fingers and smudging the polish on purpose.

“stay still—” (name) said before giving up and tossing the bottle at her, only to miss.

arisa was the first one to laugh before (name), and soon they both collapsed into laughter so hard that the person who lived across from (name)’s dorm had to come knocking on the door.

a bitter smile appeared on (name)’s face as she absentmindedly followed her mom’s orders. when she was done, she removed her graduation gown and cap and stored them away. she stared down at the dress she had picked with arisa’s help.

“oh my god.” she slapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “your breast is about to explode there. not that.”

(name) frowned, pulling at the hem. “it’s fine! you’re exaggerating.”

“exaggerating? please. one wrong move and we’re all going to jail because you flashed us and the audience look at you,” arisa said flatly, already waving her back inside.

grumbling, (name) went to change again. this time, the dress was long and plain, a muted color that hung too heavily.

arisa took one look and groaned. “absolutely no. you look like you’re attending your own funeral.”

“seriously?” (name) snapped, glaring at her in the mirror.

“seriously. i’d rather set the dress on fire than let you walk out in that.”

offended, (name) crossed her arms. “maybe i like it!”

arisa smirked, leaning back in her chair. “fine, wear it. look like a corpse on graduation. i’ll make sure everyone knows i tried to stop you.”

that finally cracked (name)’s stubborn pout, and she threw the hanger at arisa, who dodged it with a laugh.

after several more disasters, the fitting room floor was buried in rejected dresses. but then (name) stepped out in one that made arisa pause. her teasing stopped, replaced with something softer.

“now that,” arisa said, smiling, “is the one. you look like you already made it.”

as they arrived at the airport, (name)’s mom gently pulled her aside.

“i still have to work for a while, so i’ll be there with you three in about a week or so. i want you to take a rest, breathe, and let your grandma cook for your siblings and you. or better yet, get them to do something—help out or maybe learn cooking.” (name) nodded as her mom handed her the boarding ticket, along with instructions on where and when to go. when she was finished, she pulled all three of her children into a tight hug. “renji, behave, okay? and haruna—help your grandma. the last time we went there she told me you were just on your phone. i’m giving your older sister the leverage to confiscate that.”

haruna grumbled under her breath, something muffled about “favoritism” and “unfair treatment.” her mother only raised an eyebrow. “what was that?”

“nothing,” haruna muttered, clutching her phone a little tighter. renji snickered beside her, earning a light flick on the forehead from (name).

“ow—hey!”

“you deserved that,” she said, half-smiling. “now come on, we’re boarding soon.”

the announcement echoed through the terminal, calling their flight number. haruna sighed dramatically, slinging her backpack over one shoulder while renji bounded ahead, too excited to notice the faint tension in his sister’s voice.

(name) adjusted the strap of her bag, stealing one last glance at the bustling airport. the people, the chatter, the bright lights—it all felt oddly distant. she’d left in a hurry, telling herself she needed a break, a pause from everything that hurt too much to face. but as she followed her siblings toward the boarding gate, she couldn’t shake the quiet ache that settled beneath her ribs.

the flight attendant scanned their tickets, smiled, and gestured them forward.

haruna went in first, still sulking. renji waved at every crew member like it was his first time on a plane. and (name), trailing behind, exhaled softly before stepping through the narrow entrance—leaving behind the city, and everything she wasn’t ready to confront.

the house smelled the same as it always did—old wood, faint detergent, and something warm lingering in the air. she remembered it from when she was younger, visiting during long vacations. back then, it had felt like a temporary pause from the world. now it was the only place left that didn’t ask her to explain anything.

her grandmother fussed over them at first, telling haruna to help with the bags and renji to wash his hands before touching anything. (name) stood quietly by the doorway, her shoes still on, eyes darting between the small living room and the open window that looked out to the fields. it was almost sunset. the sky was a color she hadn’t seen in a while—soft orange melting into gray.

the first night, she couldn’t sleep. the room felt too still, too honest. in the city, there had always been noise to drown things out—the sound of cars, late-night chatter, the hum of the refrigerator in her apartment. here, there was only the chirping of crickets and her own breathing.

she turned on her side and stared at the faint pattern of light on the wall. her phone rested on the bedside table, dark and silent. she had deleted his number just a few hours ago, though sometimes she still scrolled through old photos she hadn’t managed to erase. not out of longing, she told herself, but because she didn’t know how to forget without proof that it had once been real.

it wasn’t until the third day that she started to feel time again. mornings were quiet—her grandmother would water the plants, renji would run errands to the nearby store, and haruna would sleep in. (name) helped where she could, but her hands always felt unsteady.

she would sit on the porch with a cup of tea, watching the clouds move lazily across the sky. it should’ve been peaceful, but peace wasn’t what she felt. it was more like floating—detached, as if she’d left some part of herself behind in the city and didn’t know how to reach for it again.

sometimes her grandmother would talk about neighbors or family friends. she’d nod at the right times, but most of the words slipped past her. her mind wandered back to a small memory—akaza sitting across from her in a dim café, the table cluttered with papers and coffee cups. he’d been trying to help her review for an exam, tracing notes on her pad with the back of his pen.

“you’re thinking too hard again,” he’d said, eyes narrowing slightly in that way he always did when he was both amused and worried.

“i’m trying to remember,” she’d answered, tapping her temple.

he’d leaned back in his chair. “your brain’s fine. you just don’t trust it.”

it was a simple exchange, nothing special, but it stayed with her—how easy it was for him to notice the things she didn’t say. she blinked the memory away, staring down at the empty cup in her hands. the tea had gone cold. she set it aside and stood, stretching slightly before heading back inside.

days turned into weeks, weeks into months. seasons folded over one another, soft and uneventful. the world outside her grandmother’s house seemed to move at a pace she could finally keep up with. mornings came slow; afternoons hummed quietly with the sound of radios from nearby houses. sometimes she’d walk along the narrow roads, counting clouds until she ran out of numbers.

she’d almost convinced herself this was enough—that stillness could be a kind of safety—until she stumbled upon an old notebook tucked behind a stack of folded linens. dust clung to its corners, the paper yellowed and soft. she opened it carefully.

one page stopped her cold.

“akaza used to joke that i could turn a grocery list into an existential crisis.”

the words blurred as her vision wavered. she shut the notebook before she could think too long about it.

her graduation had come and gone in a blur, and that night, she’d erased almost every trace of herself online. her mother had insisted—new number, no social media, no contact. it was the only way to stay safe. sometimes she wondered if he hated her for disappearing. she wouldn’t blame him if he did.

time went on like that. eventually, she started reviewing for her licensure exam. the pages of her reviewer smelled faintly of ink and time. she’d read until her eyes blurred, forcing herself to focus on what was in front of her—terms, theories, cases—anything that wasn’t memory.

still, she couldn’t help it. some words had ghosts attached to them.

“projection,” she read aloud one night. “the act of seeing one’s own emotions in others.”

she could almost hear his voice again, teasing her from across the study table.

“you do that a lot, you know.”

“do what?”

“pretend you don’t care about things that hurt.”

she had rolled her eyes back then, but he’d just smiled.

she closed her book and leaned back against the chair, her throat tightening. outside, the sky was heavy with clouds. a faint drizzle tapped against the windows, and for a moment, it felt like everything she’d run from had caught up to her again.

when her exam day finally arrived, she was calm in that strange way people are when there’s nothing left to lose. she sat in the testing room, eyes scanning the questions, mind oddly clear.

it wasn’t until she handed in her paper that the weight of it all hit her. she’d done it alone. no one to wait outside, no one to share the relief with. just herself and the long road home.

her grandmother cried when she passed. haruna clapped lazily, pretending not to care but smiling anyway. renji shouted that he’d always known she’d make it.

(name) laughed with them, but something in her chest still felt hollow.

somewhere between that laughter and the quiet nights that followed, she realized two years had slipped past her.

a week later, she received an email from a hospital in the city—one she must’ve applied to a month ago and forgotten about. they had a position open for a registered psychologist specializing in child development.

later that night, she showed her the email. her mother was sitting by the window, folding laundry, the faint sound of the television playing from the other room. when (name) handed her the phone, she read the message twice—once quickly, then again slower, like she was hoping the words might change.

“it’s in the city,” her mother said quietly.

(name) nodded. “i know.”

a long silence followed before her mother set the phone down on her lap, hands still gripping the edge of the folded shirt.

“you remember why we left,” she said finally. “he knew where you lived. where we lived.”

“it’s been two years,” (name) murmured, though even as she said it, her voice sounded unsure.

the words lingered in the air, and for a second, she felt small again—like she was back in that car after graduation, the city lights fading in the mirror, her heart beating too fast to breathe.

but she wasn’t that girl anymore, was she? she wanted to believe that the fear had faded, that the world had changed shape in her absence. maybe it hadn’t. maybe she had.

“i just want to try again,” she said at last, her voice quiet but steady. “i don’t want everything to end there.”

her mother sighed, folding the last shirt and setting it aside before speaking softly. “then be careful this time.”

(name) smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. that night, she drafted her reply. her fingers hovered over the send button for a long time before she finally pressed it.

on the morning of her departure, her grandmother hugged her tightly. “don’t let the past chase you,” she whispered.

renji tried to act brave at first, hands shoved into his pockets, pretending to be more interested in the suitcase than the fact that she was leaving. but when she knelt down to say goodbye, his lips trembled and his eyes filled fast.

“i don’t like it when you go,” he mumbled, wiping at his face with the back of his sleeve.

(name) smiled softly, brushing a hand through his hair. “i know. i don’t like it either.”

he threw his arms around her neck, clinging tight like he used to when (name) goes back to her dorm in college. she held him just as firmly, breathing in the faint scent of soap and grass that always followed him.

when he finally let go, she kissed his forehead and stood, forcing herself not to look back as her grandmother pressed a small charm into her palm.

the flight back to the city was quiet. clouds drifted beneath the window, soft and shapeless, and she wondered if coming back meant starting over—or just returning to what she’d tried to escape.

by the time she landed, the sun had already dipped below the skyline. she took a taxi to a small apartment near the hospital, the kind with thin walls and a single buzzing light in the hallway. it wasn’t much, but it was hers.

she unpacked carefully, folding clothes into drawers, arranging dishes into cabinets. by the time she finished, it was past midnight. exhaustion weighed heavy on her shoulders, but sleep didn’t come easily. she lay in bed staring at the ceiling and for the first time in years, there were no cicadas, no distant ocean—just the low murmur of traffic and the occasional bark of a stray dog.

morning came slow and gray. she dressed neatly—a beige blouse, slacks, her hair tied back—keeping everything simple, professional. her reflection in the mirror looked composed, though her heartbeat said otherwise. she double-checked her folder: identification, résumé, recommendation letter, certificates. everything had to be in order.

before leaving, she lingered by the door for a moment, staring at the single potted plant on her windowsill. she wasn’t sure why she’d bought it, but the quiet green made the apartment feel less empty.

the taxi ride to the hospital was quiet. she watched the city pass by—the people, the buildings, the blur of lights—until the sight of the hospital gates filled her chest with something between hope and dread.

the hospital smelled faintly of antiseptic and paper and almost too bright for her still-adjusting eyes. she arrived fifteen minutes early, clutching her bag a little too tightly as the receptionist led her through the maze of corridors. the walls were lined with cheerful posters about mental wellness and empathy, though most of the staff looked too tired to notice them.

her new supervisor, dr. hayashi, greeted her with a polite smile. “we’re short on child specialists,” she said, flipping through her file. “i called your professor when you submitted your résumé online and she spoke highly of you. said you were patient and observant. and you told her before that you wanted to be a child psychologist.”

she nodded, unsure how to respond. patient didn’t feel like the right word—not when her hands still shook at sudden noises, not when she sometimes woke in the night, heart pounding from dreams she couldn’t shake.

after a long interview, dr. hayashi told her to go sit in the cafeteria while they discussed her application. she wandered there quietly, clutching her bag, and sat at a corner table, pretending to busy herself with the paperwork even as her stomach twisted with nerves.

by lunchtime, she sat alone in the cafeteria, staring into her untouched food. conversations buzzed around her—doctors laughing, nurses sharing gossip—but it all felt distant. she was used to being quiet, invisible even, but this kind of silence pressed against her ribs.

her phone buzzed on the table. a message from her mother.

[mom]

mom: how was your first day?

(name): it’s fine. i think i’ll be okay.

she set the phone down and exhaled, eyes unfocused on the window’s reflection. she almost didn’t notice when a nurse approached her table.

“(last name)?” the woman said gently. “dr. hayashi asked me to let you know she’s ready to see you again.”

her stomach lurched, and she nodded, gathering her papers. the cafeteria noise seemed to fade as she walked back toward the supervisor’s office. the corridors felt narrower this time, the fluorescent lights harsher.

dr. hayashi looked up from her desk, offering a small smile. “thank you for waiting,” she said. “we discussed your application, and we’d like to offer you the position. starting next week.”

relief and anxiety collided in her chest. she nodded, trying to steady her voice. “thank you. i appreciate the opportunity and will work hard to meet your expectations.”

“i know you will,” dr. hayashi said, handing her the official schedule and office key.

she took the papers, her hands still trembling slightly, and tucked them into her bag. the moment felt surreal—like stepping into a world she had imagined but hadn’t dared to reach for until now.

she left the office with her key clutched in her hand, walking past the corridors that had once seemed overwhelming. now, the same halls felt slightly more like they could hold her.

later, in her small apartment, she unpacked the forms and placed her office key on the desk. she checked the schedule once more, double-checking her first week’s assignments, then set her bag aside.

that night, she slept early, letting the quiet hum of the city seep through the thin walls and when morning came, she dressed carefully, packed only the essentials for her first day—pens, notebook, water bottle—and took a deep breath before stepping out. the hospital awaited, bright and sterile, and for the first time in a long while, she felt ready to meet it.

she arrived slightly early, the lobby buzzing softly with the usual morning chatter. she nodded to the receptionist and made her way to the elevator, clutching her bag a little tighter than necessary. her office was quiet, the fluorescent lights and the faint scent of antiseptic filling the room. she set her bag down, took a moment to organize the pens and papers on her desk, and reviewed her schedule—appointments with children, consultations with parents, and a few follow-ups. the rhythm of the day settled around her like a careful plan, waiting for her to step into it.

her first patient was a young boy, shy and withdrawn, gripping a worn toy car tightly in his small hands. she knelt slightly to meet his gaze, speaking softly. “hi, i’m (name). would you like to tell me about your car?”

he hesitated, then nodded, a faint smile breaking through. she listened carefully, encouraging him with gentle prompts, observing not just his words but the subtle movements of his hands and eyes. every tiny interaction felt significant, and she wrote down notes, careful to capture the details that might help her understand him better.

as the morning passed, she began to find a rhythm—listening, observing, guiding. each session left her exhausted but strangely energized, the sense of purpose quieting the tension that had lived in her chest for so long.

lunchtime came, and she found a corner table in the cafeteria. she ate slowly, letting the buzz of conversations and footsteps wash over her without feeling pressed to join. 

the afternoon stretched on with more sessions, each one a careful balance of attention, patience, and empathy. by the end of the day, her notebook was full, her mind heavy but her spirit steadier. she packed her bag, locking away her notes, and stepped out into the soft glow of evening and made her way near outside, her attention half on her phone and half on the world around her. as she glanced up, her eyes flicked to where someone had been standing before she left the building.

akaza stepped out of his office, bag in hand, his friend already gone and the shared office left perfectly tidy. he froze for a moment when he saw her, the familiar curve of her shoulders, the way she held herself slightly apart from the crowd, and his chest tightened as their eyes met, even if only for a brief heartbeat.

“(name)...?”

☾☼ reblogs and notes are appreciated !

☾☼ eclipse — sft-chrries 2025

[sft-chrries]

hey so how do you think Giyuu would deal with a girl hashira crush sometimes standing up for him when other hashira bad mouth him. Like Obanai’s like “you never take this seriously! You’re a loser who won’t amount to anything”. And crush happened to be walking nearby and is like “Hang on, hasn’t Tomioka been doing this longer than you and in his own territory? If he didn’t do it seriously, he’d be dead years ago*laughs when Obanai looks upset*” or like he’s being quiet and people are like “he’s a smug asshole”. And crush is like “He’s only being quiet. Why are you so mad?”

giyuu would be completely taken aback the first time (name) steps in for him. he’s used to shrugging things off, letting words slide, and not drawing attention to himself, but when someone like obanai starts laying into him—“you never take this seriously! you’re a loser who won’t amount to anything”—and (name) suddenly cuts in with, “hang on, hasn’t tomioka been doing this longer than you and in his own territory? if he didn’t do it seriously, he’d be dead years ago,” he just freezes. the subtle laugh she adds when obanai looks upset sends a strange warmth through him, because it’s both protective and playful, and she’s not just defending him, she’s seeing him in a way few others do. later, when people accuse him of being a “smug asshole” just because he’s quiet, he’s about to brush it off like usual, but (name) again speaks up, soft but firm: “he’s only being quiet. why are you so mad?” and he can’t help it—a small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at his lips. it’s disarming, in that rare, grounding way only she manages. he feels a strange mix of gratitude and embarrassment, because she’s not just defending him, she’s challenging people’s assumptions while showing she understands him. from that point on, he notices her even more, the way she tilts her head and how she always seems to know exactly when to speak up for him.

[sft-chrries]

hey so how do you think Inosuke would deal with a girl crush who has a giant pet boar which they raised when they found it orphaned? The boar will sometimes attack demons as distraction and crush is baby talking it at end of fight like “who’s my favourite killing machine? Yes! You are! You’re getting all the treats tonight” and the boar squeals happily ? The boar tries to eat people’s clothes and s/o pats it on nose gently, “no. No. No. Don’t do that”, and the boar listens and lazily plops it’s head on her lap? (Thought of this cuz he was raised by board as a baby).

inosuke would be completely thrown off the first time he sees (name) with that massive boar. at first, he’s ready to fight it on sight, shouting, “another boar?! finally, a worthy opponent!” but then he realizes it’s her pet. and not just any pet, but one that listens to her like she’s its pack leader. it’s confusing for him in ways he doesn’t want to admit; there’s something about watching her coo at this giant creature that makes his brain short-circuit. after a fight, when she’s baby-talking and it squeals happily, inosuke just stands there, mask tilted, trying to process the softness in her voice. he’ll cross his arms and huff, “tch. you never talk to me like that,” but deep down he’s weirdly jealous, not of the boar, exactly, but of how gentle she can be with it. when the boar starts trying to chew on someone’s clothes and (name) just pats its nose, softly scolding, “no. no. don’t do that,” and the thing actually listens, inosuke’s jaw practically drops. the fact that something that big and wild obeys her just makes him even more fixated. later, when it lazily plops its massive head into her lap, he finds himself crouched nearby, watching, muttering, “it listens to you... even better than i did to the wolves.” and it hits him, it’s not just admiration. it’s that same feral kind of affection he understands best, the kind that makes him want to stay close, protect, and maybe even learn how to be gentle the way she is.

[sft-chrries]

Hey so how do you think Zenitsu would deal with a s/o who’s just as easily terrified as him, but instead of flight instincts, they have fight instincts, the demon jump scares them and just as soon as they think they have victims running away, s/o screams and ruins that demons entire life? And at end s/o is like “BITCH*!”? (Also flip side, happens with human’s too, Inosuke is prone to jump scaring people on purpose. So Inosuke scared Zenitsu and s/o and s/o punched Inosuke in the face and cracked his skull. Followed by s/o apologising to him rather than Inosuke needing to apologise).

zenitsu would be absolutely losing it. the moment the demon jumps out, he’s already screaming his lungs out, legs ready to bolt but before he can even take off, (name), who’s just as terrified, goes completely feral. they let out a bloodcurdling scream, whip around, and annihilate the demon in pure panic-fueled rage. the creature doesn’t even get a second to react before it’s on the ground, half-dead and regretting every choice that led it here. zenitsu’s frozen behind them, eyes wide, shaking from both fear and awe as (name), panting and trembling, points their weapon at the corpse and yells, “bitch!” with the kind of fury only terror could summon. he just stands there in silence because he's too scared to move, too in love to speak, and fully convinced he’s dating the most terrifying person alive.

inosuke, he thinks it’s hilarious to sneak up and scare them both, so he leaps out from behind a tree, screaming like a maniac and the reaction is instant chaos. zenitsu screams, (name) screams louder, and before inosuke can even laugh, (name) punches him square in the face. hard. the loud "thwack" sound echoes through the forest, followed by inosuke hitting the ground with a dazed groan. zenitsu’s frozen, hands on his head, losing his mind, while (name) still shaking, still trying to process what happened before blurting out, “oh my god, i’m so sorry!” as inosuke twitches on the floor. zenitsu doesn’t know if he should cry, call for help, or swear never to stand too close the next time someone jumps out at them.

[sft-chrries]

hey so how do you think Tanjiro, Zenitsu, Giyuu and Rengoku Would deal with doing or saying something that tickles their crushes funny bone. Their crush doesn’t laugh often. Like crush is silent as the next moment processes what just happened and then they burst out laughing. Cover their face with their arms. It’s very genuine and loud laugh. Their laughing sounds a lot like crying though. Crush calms down at some point, with tears in her eyes and smiling and is like “I can’t breathe. Ok. I think I’m done”. And it seems like things have calmed down, but crush gets in another giggle fit again?

tanjiro would be so stunned at first like he’s not even sure what he did that was so funny, but the moment his crush bursts out laughing, it’s like his brain short-circuits. he just stands there, blinking, then suddenly he’s beaming. that warm, sunshine smile that reaches his eyes. he’s laughing too now, not because he finds it funny, but because he’s so happy seeing them laugh that hard. when they’re covering their face and gasping for air, he’s hovering all worried, like, “wait— are you okay?? do you need water??” but the second they start giggling again, he just softens completely, chuckling, “you’re adorable when you laugh like that.”

zenitsu would lose it immediately. like the second they start laughing, he’s clutching his chest like, “i made them laugh—! oh no, i made them laugh!!” and then he’s dramatically tearing up because it’s the cutest thing he’s ever seen. when they’re doubled over saying they can’t breathe, he’s panicking but also giggling right along with them, face red, and when they start laughing again after calming down, he just melts, whispering to himself, “i’m never forgetting this moment.”

giyuu would freeze. absolutely motionless. he didn’t even mean to be funny—maybe he said something too blunt or accidentally serious in a ridiculous situation—but when his crush suddenly starts laughing that hard, he’s just staring, unsure what to do. there’s this tiny flicker of surprise in his eyes, then something softer. he doesn’t laugh out loud, but the corners of his mouth twitch, and he looks away, trying to hide the faintest smile. when they calm down only to start giggling again, he lets out a low breath, murmuring, “i’m glad you’re laughing,” almost too softly for them to hear.

rengoku would absolutely light up. the second they burst into laughter, he’s booming right along with them — loud, delighted, “AH-HA-HA! that’s the spirit!” and he looks so genuinely overjoyed it’s almost contagious. when they’re wiping tears from their eyes, saying they can’t breathe, he’s grinning ear to ear, absolutely glowing. but then they start giggling again and he just laughs harder, and for the rest of the day, he’s smiling to himself every time he remembers it because knowing he made them laugh like that

[sft-chrries]

veil of the rain

o.iguro x fem!reader

summary: beneath the quiet rain, he saw her not as a duty, but as the calm he had been waiting for all his life.

warnings: arranged marriage, mild injury (bandaging scene), attempted intrusion/implied violence (brief), slow-burn intimacy, hurt/comfort themes, angst (in a way??), prince × princess dynamic

w.c: 8,542

the day her marriage was announced, the entire court rejoiced. banners were raised, drums echoed across the hills, and the scent of incense drifted through every corridor of the palace. they said it was a day of celebration—an alliance that would secure peace between provinces, a promise of prosperity for generations to come.

but (name) had never felt so small.

from her chamber window, she could see the courtyards below blooming with color. attendants carried trays of flowers to decorate the shrines; messengers came and went, their horses kicking up clouds of white dust. everything moved with purpose, with joy, except for her. she sat before her mirror, hands resting in her lap, still in her morning robes, her reflection framed by sunlight that felt too bright.

her mother had told her it was an honor. her father had called it duty. both of those things, she thought, sounded the same when spoken by someone who didn’t have to live them.

there was a knock at her door.

“princess,” came the voice of her maid, soft and careful. “his majesty requests your presence in the east hall.”

her pulse quickened. her father never asked—he summoned.

“tell him i’ll be there shortly,” she murmured, rising. she adjusted the layers of her kimono, smoothing the silken sleeves with trembling fingers. when she finally left her chambers, the corridor stretched long and quiet before her, the painted walls depicting scenes of warriors and dragons—stories of glory she had grown up hearing but never wanted to live.

the east hall smelled faintly of sandalwood. her father stood at the far end, surrounded by advisors and scrolls. his posture was rigid, his voice sharp even when he wasn’t shouting. when he turned to her, she saw in his face not a father, but a ruler—the man who weighed affection against advantage and always chose the latter.

“you’re late,” he said.

“forgive me,” she replied, bowing low.

he dismissed the attendants with a wave. when the doors closed, the silence became heavier.

“the envoy from the iguro clan arrives tomorrow,” he began, pacing slowly. “you will greet them properly. remember your place—speak with grace, keep your head lowered. the marriage will be sealed within the month.”

she looked up, her voice quiet but steady. “and what if i don’t wish to marry him?”

his steps faltered. “you don’t have a choice.”

“so i’m to be traded like one of your treaties?”

“watch your tone.”

the warning in his voice was enough to make the air thin. still, she couldn’t stop. something in her chest had been burning for days, and now it was spilling out. “i’ve done everything you asked of me. i’ve studied, i’ve smiled, i’ve bowed. but this—” her breath caught. “this is not for me. it’s for you. for your pride. for your politics.”

“it’s for your people,” he snapped. “for your mother, for this kingdom’s safety. do you think our peace comes without sacrifice?”

“then why is it always me who has to sacrifice?”

the silence that followed was colder than his words. he looked at her for a long moment, then turned away, his robes sweeping across the polished floor. “you will understand one day,” he said. “when you’re queen, you’ll thank me.”

“i won’t,” she whispered.

but he had already left.

her mother found her a few minutes later, sitting at the base of one of the hall’s pillars, her hands curled in her lap. the queen’s steps were soft, her perfume faintly of plum blossoms. she sat beside her daughter without speaking for a while, just watching the light filter through the paper screens.

“he doesn’t mean to hurt you,” her mother said at last. “he only wants to protect what we’ve built.”

“then why does it feel like he’s destroying me instead?”

her mother’s smile was sad. “because love and duty often wear the same face. one day you’ll see that, too.”

(name) looked down, her throat tight. “i don’t want to be like him.”

“then don’t be.”

the simplicity of it stung.

outside, bells began to ring—the sound of soldiers preparing for the envoy’s arrival. the whole kingdom moved around her, every noise reminding her that time was running out. she would leave soon. she would meet the man she was meant to marry.

and no matter how still she sat, the world would carry her toward him.

that night, she packed in silence. attendants folded silks into trunks, whispering about her future as though it were a blessing. (name) stood by the window, watching the sky deepen into violet.

in the distance, lanterns glimmered along the coast. their light flickered like a hundred fragile promises drifting away from her reach.

the morning she left, the sea was still. a thin mist clung to the harbor, softening the edges of everything—the boats, the guards, the waiting crowd. she didn’t remember walking down the stone steps toward the carriage, only the faint hum of voices and the sound of her mother’s breath beside her.

her father didn’t come to see her off.

someone had said it was because he was overseeing trade negotiations, but (name) knew it wasn’t true. perhaps he couldn’t bear the sight of her leaving, or perhaps he didn’t think it mattered. either way, she didn’t look back.

the journey to her soon-to-be-husband’s kingdom took three days. they traveled through forests of pale cedar, across rivers that shimmered like glass. every night, she lay awake beneath a sky that refused to be kind. she thought about the stories she’d heard of the iguro clan, they were disciplined, stern, their palace built among mountains where the air was colder and thinner than she was used to.

by the third morning, her hands had stopped shaking. she wasn’t sure if that was strength or surrender.

when the carriage finally reached the mountain pass, she saw it, the main city, sprawling beneath the mist like a secret carved into stone. roofs of dark wood and curved eaves glinted under the weak sunlight. banners embroidered with the iguro sigil—twin serpents coiled around a sun—fluttered in the wind.

“we’ve arrived, princess,” said the attendant softly.

the palace gates were tall and solemn, guarded by soldiers whose armor gleamed with precise order. when her carriage stopped, she drew a breath she didn’t feel ready for.

and then he was there.

prince obanai iguro stood at the top of the steps, a small entourage behind him. his posture was formal, expression unreadable beneath the cascade of his dark hair. there was something about his presence—quiet but cutting, like a blade sheathed in silk.

he bowed, and she did the same.

“princess,” he said, his voice low. “welcome to our home.”

she lifted her gaze. “thank you, your highness.”

his eyes—mismatched, one pale and one dark—met hers briefly before he looked away. the moment passed like a flicker of wind between them.

servants came to escort her inside. she could feel the weight of unfamiliar stares, whispers pressed into sleeves. her new home was colder than her old one; even the air seemed to carry restraint.

as they walked through the corridors, she noticed how different everything was—walls of lacquered wood, gardens of stone and moss, courtyards open to the sky. it was beautiful, yet not welcoming.

her quarters were large and quiet, overlooking a koi pond surrounded by willow trees. an attendant knelt by the door. “his highness will host a small welcoming dinner this evening,” she said. “you will be escorted when the hour comes.”

“i understand,” (name) replied softly.

when the door closed, she exhaled for the first time in hours.

the silence pressed in around her. she wandered to the veranda, letting her fingers brush against the paper frame of the shoji doors. the pond below rippled with color as the fish swam lazily beneath the surface.

for a moment, she thought about running—just slipping out into the garden and walking until the world swallowed her whole. but that would change nothing. there was nowhere to go where duty wouldn’t follow.

the dinner came sooner than she expected. she was led to a private hall, dimly lit with candles. prince obanai sat at the head of the table with his hands folded neatly in front of him. he then rose when she entered.

“please,” he said, gesturing to the seat beside him. “sit.”

his politeness startled her more than if he’d been cruel.

they ate in near silence, save for the sound of the rain beginning outside. the attendants stood quietly by the walls, ready but unseen. halfway through the meal, she realized prince obanai had barely touched his food.

“is the journey here tiring?” he asked finally.

she blinked, surprised he spoke first. “it was long, but peaceful. your lands are… beautiful.”

a faint nod. “and your home? you must miss it.”

she hesitated. “it feels far away already.”

“distance does that,” he said simply, as if he knew something about it.

later, when the attendants cleared the dishes and the rain deepened into a steady rhythm, she stood to leave. she bowed, the way her tutors had taught her. “thank you for your hospitality, your highness.”

he regarded her for a moment. “there’s no need to thank me. this is your home now, too.”

her chest tightened at that. the words were meant to be kind, but they settled heavy. a home was not built by decree—it was something one had to find.

back in her quarters, she sat by the veranda again, listening to the rain. in the pond, the water rippled with each drop, scattering the reflection of lantern light into trembling fragments.

she wondered if he was also awake somewhere in the palace, listening to the same sound, carrying the same silence.

they were married in a quiet ceremony two days after her arrival. no celebration, nor laughter echoing through the halls. only the muted rustle of silk and the steady murmur of rain against the temple roof.

it happened at dawn, when the mist still clung to the mountains and the air carried the smell of incense. the shrine stood open to the garden, pale light filtering through the paper screens. she knelt beside him before the altar, hands folded neatly in her lap, her pulse loud in her ears.

the priests chanted in soft, rhythmic tones, their voices weaving through the stillness. when it was time to bow, she did so automatically, her movements were precise and practiced the way she had been taught.

obanai spoke his vows in a calm, even voice. she could not read his expression—only the way his words seemed careful, almost too careful, like someone afraid of breaking something fragile.

when her turn came, her throat felt tight. she repeated the words that had been written for her, promising loyalty, respect, unity. the syllables left her mouth like smoke—visible for a moment, then gone.

there were no witnesses beyond the court ministers, no family to hold her hand, no mother to whisper reassurance. she thought briefly of home, of the sea breeze that used to carry the scent of salt through her window, and how different this air felt—thinner, colder, like breathing through silk.

when the ceremony ended, she and obanai exchanged cups of sake, their sleeves brushing lightly. it was the first time their hands had touched. his skin was warm and his hold was steady. 

“our union marks the harmony of two realms,” the high priest intoned. “may it bring peace that lasts beyond lifetimes.”

peace, she thought, was such a delicate word. it never mentioned what it cost.

afterward, they walked together down the corridor toward the inner court. attendants bowed as they passed. she could hear the faint scrape of their footsteps—hers light, his measured. no one spoke.

in her new quarters, she sat by the window for a long time, watching the morning mist rise and dissolve. her hair was still pinned from the ceremony, the ornaments heavy against her temples.

a wife. the word felt foreign on her tongue.

that night, she shared the same last name as him, yet not the same room. his chambers were across the garden, separated by a small bridge of polished wood, but close enough that she could see his light burning through the shoji screen. sometimes the shadow of his movement would cross the paper wall, faint and fleeting, and she would wonder if he could feel her gaze through the rain.

she didn’t sleep much. the rain started sometime after midnight, gentle at first, then steady, until it became the only sound that filled the palace.

the rain did not stop for three days.

it came in soft sheets that blurred the gardens and filled the air with the smell of wet cedar. servants moved quietly through the corridors with their robes brushing the floor. (name) spent most of that time in silence, learning the rhythm of a palace that wasn’t hers.

in her home, mornings began with song—attendants opening screens to let in sea air, her mother humming while the maids brushed her hair. here, the mornings began with stillness. no laughter, no chatter. just the sound of rain and the faint echo of wooden geta on stone paths.

on the fourth day, she decided to walk the gardens despite the drizzle. she carried a small paper parasol, the handle slick beneath her fingers. the willows bowed low, their branches heavy with water.

she didn’t expect to see him there.

obviously, he was alone, standing under the covered walkway that framed the koi pond. his haori was dark, sleeves tucked neatly at his wrists. he watched the rain hit the pond with the kind of quiet attention that made her hesitate to interrupt.

still, she bowed. “your highness.”

he glanced her way, surprise flickering briefly before his composure returned. “princess.”

the title still sounded strange on his tongue.

“i thought you disliked the rain,” he said after a pause.

“i never said that.”

“most people do.”

“it’s quieter when it rains,” she murmured, stepping closer under the eaves. “no one expects you to smile.”

that earned the faintest curve of his lips, gone as quickly as it appeared.

they stood there for a moment, both watching the pond ripple with the same unspoken thought: how strange it was to stand beside someone and not yet know who they were.

when a gust of wind sent a spray of cold droplets across the veranda, she flinched. obanai’s hand moved automatically, catching the edge of her sleeve and pulling her closer under the roof. his grip was gentle but sure.

“you’ll catch a cold,” he said softly.

she blinked up at him, caught between gratitude and something she didn’t want to name. “thank you,” she murmured, voice barely above the rain.

he released her then, taking a small step back. “your attendants mentioned you’ve been walking alone.”

“am i not allowed to?”

“you are,” he replied quickly. “i only meant it might look strange to others. the court watches everything.”

“they would watch me even if i stood still,” she said. “at least this way, i can breathe.”

something in his expression shifted then—a flicker of recognition, almost sympathy. but he didn’t press further. instead, he nodded slightly and turned back toward the rain.

“next time,” he said quietly, “let someone know before you wander. not because you shouldn’t—but because not everyone here wishes you well.”

“is that a warning?”

“a courtesy.”

and with that, he left her under the eaves, his steps soundless against the polished wood.

the next few days blurred together in slow, cautious rhythm. she began to see him more often—passing in the halls, at tea with advisors, in the gardens at dusk. their words were brief, but each exchange left a trace of warmth behind, like ink spreading through paper.

once, she caught sight of him training with his retainers in the courtyard, a blade of focus and control. she lingered by the balcony, unnoticed, until his gaze suddenly lifted. their eyes met across the distance, and she stepped back so quickly her sleeve brushed the doorframe.

later that evening, as she was arranging flowers in a vase, there came a knock at her door.

“you may come in,” she said quietly, smoothing the edge of her sleeve.

obanai stood there, a shallow cut along his knuckles, half-hidden beneath his sleeve.

“you’re injured,” she said before she could stop herself.

“it’s nothing.”

“still,” she said, motioning for him to sit. when he didn’t move, she added, “please.”

he hesitated, then obeyed. she took a small cloth and dipped it in clean water, the air between them fragile as glass. when her fingers brushed his skin, she felt him tense—but he didn’t pull away.

“you shouldn’t ignore wounds,” she murmured. “even small ones can fester.”

he watched her work quietly, mismatched eyes fixed on her hands. “you’ve done this before?”

“my mother taught me.”

“she must be proud.”

the words made her still. “perhaps she was,” she said finally, voice almost breaking on the past tense.

he said nothing after that. only when she tied the last strip of bandage did she notice how closely he was watching her, not with coldness, but with understanding. 

“thank you,” he said.

she smiled faintly. “a courtesy,” she echoed.

he looked down, and for the first time, she thought he might have wanted to smile too.

the rain eased that afternoon, tapering into a fine mist that softened the light. a faint chill clung to the corridors, and the scent of wet wood followed wherever they walked. servants lit the braziers one by one, their glow rippling against the lacquered floors.

obanai had offered to guide her through the inner gardens. she wasn’t sure if it was duty or something gentler, but she followed him anyway.

they walked in silence for a while, the air heavy with the kind of quiet that felt almost fragile. he seemed to know every stone, every turn, his steps steady even on the slick path. she, on the other hand, moved cautiously, her sleeve brushing against his whenever the wind shifted.

“the flowers here bloom late,” he said after a long pause, stopping before a small cluster of pale camellias. “they don’t like the cold.”

she glanced at them—white petals cupped in rainwater, trembling faintly under the weight. “they’re beautiful,” she murmured. “i used to have a garden like this near my window. my mother said flowers teach patience.”

obanai nodded, his gaze fixed on the petals. “patience… not everyone learns it easily.”

she looked at him then, studying the faint lines of tension at the corner of his mouth. she’d heard whispers about him from her attendants—how he was strict, difficult to read, how the court admired his discipline but not his warmth. standing beside him now, she realized they were wrong. he wasn’t cold, just careful.

“do you miss your home?” he asked suddenly.

the question startled her—not because of its weight, but because of how softly he’d said it.

“sometimes,” she admitted. “but it feels far away now. like something i dreamed.”

he hummed, a sound low in his throat. “dreams fade when you wake,” he said quietly.

for a moment, neither of them spoke. the silence stretched between them like a bridge—fragile, but holding.

when they returned to the main hall, evening had settled in. lanterns lined the veranda, their flames swaying in the damp air. he paused at the steps, glancing toward her with a brief nod.

“thank you for walking with me,” he said.

she smiled, faint but genuine. “thank you for asking.”

it became a small thing between them after that—these moments of quiet company. sometimes they shared tea in the morning, their words sparse but comfortable. sometimes he’d leave scrolls by her door—histories of the kingdom, poems about distant lands. she never saw him place them, but the handwriting was unmistakable.

and in the soft rhythm of days that followed, she began to understand the shape of his gentleness—not loud or grand, but careful.

still, not everything softened with time. there were days she caught him standing by the shoji, looking out at the rain, his shoulders tense. on those days, the distance between them felt as wide as the river that divided their kingdoms.

and she, despite herself, wondered if patience alone could ever bridge that.

moments later, she sat by the veranda, her hair half-pinned, a cup of tea cooling between her hands. it was jasmine, faintly sweet, a scent she’d asked for herself this time. the stillness was fragile, as though even the wind hesitated to break it.

she didn’t expect to see him.

obanai appeared quietly, as he always did, the shoji sliding open just enough for him to step through. his sleeves were rolled slightly at the wrist, and he held a second cup in his hands.

“you start your mornings early,” he said.

“so do you,” she replied, smiling faintly. “i thought i was the only one who couldn’t sleep through the light.”

he set the cup down across from her. “the palace is quieter before sunrise. it is easier to think.”

she poured for him. he didn’t refuse.

for a while, they sat in silence, the steam rising between them in pale threads. he watched her with the kind of calm that always made her a little uneasy—steady, unreadable, as though he weighed every word before it left his tongue.

“how are you finding the west wing?” he asked.

“it is beautiful,” she said. “the gardens look different every day. yesterday, i saw a heron by the pond. it stood there so still i thought it was carved from stone.”

obanai’s lips curved faintly. “they come when it rains. they like the quiet.”

“then perhaps i do, too.”

she hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but his eyes flicked toward her, something soft passing through them.

the quiet that followed wasn’t awkward—it was fragile, like the moment before glass breaks. he refilled her cup before his own, the motion practiced, careful. their hands brushed once, light as breath.

the jasmine was sweeter this time. or maybe she was just beginning to taste it properly.

“your father sent word,” he said after a pause. “his envoy will arrive soon. i imagine there will be matters to discuss.”

she nodded, looking down at her cup. “there always are.”

he seemed about to say more when a voice called from the corridor. one of his advisors, perhaps—formal, polite, asking about the morning council. obanai stood, inclining his head slightly before turning toward the doorway.

“tell them i’ll join them shortly,” he said over his shoulder. his tone was calm, quiet as ever.

but (name), who had been rising too, caught something else—an echo of his voice that carried faintly through the open shoji as he spoke again, lower this time, to whoever waited outside.

“she’s different,” he said.

and then another voice whose unfamiliar, answered from beyond the screen:

“different how? she doesn’t seem suited to our court.”

she froze. she couldn’t see who he was speaking to. couldn’t tell what came next. only silence—then the faint sound of footsteps fading down the corridor.

she didn’t know why her chest tightened. it was such a small thing, a handful of words she hadn’t even heard fully. but they settled in her like a pebble dropped into still water, ripples spreading until they touched everything else.

when he returned, she had already turned away, her gaze fixed on the garden.

“will you join me for breakfast later?” he asked.

she smiled, polite, careful. “perhaps another time.”

obanai hesitated, the faintest trace of confusion crossing his features. but he didn’t press. he only bowed slightly before leaving, his footsteps soft against the floor.

the jasmine tea had gone cold by the time she set the cup down.

she began to rise before dawn.

at first, it was only to watch the mist crawl across the garden—the same mist that used to fascinate her—but now it was simply to avoid crossing paths with him in the morning corridors.

the prince no longer joined her for tea. he didn’t insist, nor did he ask why. it wasn’t in his nature to chase. still, she sometimes heard his voice through the thin walls of the council chamber, clear and composed, issuing commands with the same calm he used with her that day.

she’s different.

the words still lingered. she’d tried to reason with herself—it could’ve meant anything. different could mean gentle, foreign, unlike the others. but the memory of the second voice, low and dismissive, always followed close behind, curling like smoke around her thoughts.

when she saw him next, it was by accident.

she’d been walking along the east wing, a bundle of letters in her hands, when he appeared from the opposite end of the corridor. they both stopped. the moment stretched, thin as silk.

“princess,” he greeted, inclining his head.

“your highness,” she replied in her voice, perfectly polite.

he looked at her for a moment—too long, perhaps. “you’ve been well, i hope.”

“i have.”

“i’ve noticed you no longer join me for tea,” he said carefully, as though afraid the words themselves might break the quiet between them.

she hesitated. “i didn’t wish to intrude.”

obanai frowned faintly. “you wouldn’t have.”

the air between them tightened. she lowered her gaze. “even so. i thought it best.”

he didn’t respond at once. only the sound of wind passing through the screens filled the silence.

“if this is because of something i’ve done,” he said finally, “i would ask that you tell me.”

she smiled softly, almost convincing. “you’ve done nothing, my lord. truly.”

he didn’t believe her. she could see it in the way his fingers flexed at his side, in how his jaw shifted ever so slightly before he bowed his head.

“if that is your wish,” he said. “then i shall respect it.”

“thank you,” she murmured, though it felt wrong, too formal for what it was.

he stepped aside to let her pass. as she did, she caught the faint scent of cedar from his robes—clean, grounding, familiar in a way she wished it wasn’t.

for the next few days, she busied herself with meaningless things. reading old poems. rearranging the vases in the audience hall. pretending she didn’t notice how quiet the palace had become when he wasn’t around.

once, she caught sight of him in the courtyard speaking with a foreign envoy. his tone was patient, his posture as precise as ever. but when he turned, for just a moment, his gaze drifted toward the veranda where she stood. their eyes met.

she looked away first.

later that evening, when a servant came to her chambers bearing a tray of freshly brewed jasmine tea, the scent hit her before the steam. she stared at it for a long time.

“who sent this?” she asked.

the servant bowed. “his highness, princess. he said it might comfort you.”

her fingers tightened around the porcelain cup.

the tea was still warm when she finally took a sip, but it didn’t taste the same.

the days that followed passed like mist through glass as if it was visible and momentary because it was gone before she could name them.

the court resumed its rhythm with its measured bows and rehearsed smiles. however something beneath it had changed. the attendants glanced at her with the kind of politeness for strangers of higher rank. guards bowed deeper and spoke less. even the ladies who used to fill her mornings with chatter now stopped their visits altogether, claiming fatigue or sudden duties.

the silence felt planned.

when she passed through the gardens, the sound of her own footsteps seemed too loud. the koi pond that once mirrored the sky now reflected only gray, its surface unbroken even by the wind.

the prince, too, seemed to exist only in fragments—glimpses of him across the courtyard, his voice carried faintly through a half-open screen. she didn’t look for him anymore, but her eyes always found him nonetheless.

and when they did, he was always just out of reach.

the rainy afternoon once returned as (name) walked along the covered walkway toward the eastern hall, her maid trailing a few paces behind, holding an umbrella though the roof sheltered them well enough.

as they turned the corner, voices reached them from ahead—two young attendants by the lattice window, folding linens as they spoke. the words were low at first, almost drowned by the rain.

“they say his highness barely visits her wing anymore,” one said with her tone, curious yet not cruel. “perhaps the princess prefers solitude.”

the other laughed lightly. “or perhaps he does. men tire quickly of what they don’t understand.”

the first maid frowned. “hush. someone might hear you.”

but the other’s voice softened, tinged with pity. “it isn’t unkindness. she’s gentle, but… different. she doesn’t know our ways. the other nobles whisper about her already. they say the match was too sudden—that it was decided by her father’s will, not his.”

“then it’s no wonder,” the first replied. “if it weren’t for her title, she might not have been chosen at all.”

their laughter was quiet, almost apologetic.

(name) stopped walking. her maid did too, uncertain, eyes darting between her mistress and the corridor ahead.

the attendants hadn’t seen them yet. they continued folding, talking—harmless in their ignorance.

but every word struck her like an echo of something she’d tried not to think about.

she’s different.perhaps he regrets it.if it weren’t for her title—

the rain outside thickened, filling the silence that followed. she forced herself to move again, but her movements were slow and measured as each step recalled to maids words. when the attendants finally noticed her, they dropped into hurried bows, stammering apologies.

she only smiled faintly. “it’s all right. continue your work.”

her voice was smooth with her calm expression. she didn’t stop again until she’d reached the far end of the corridor.

once she was out of sight, she released a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. her maid—young, nervous—opened her mouth as if to speak, but (name) shook her head gently.

“it’s nothing,” she said.

but it wasn’t nothing.

it followed her into the afternoon, into the quiet of her chambers. she sat before her writing desk, staring at the half-finished letter to her mother, the ink drying mid-sentence. the words blurred slightly in the lamplight, her vision prickling though she didn’t cry.

she thought of the prince—his voice that day when he said she was different. she had tried to bury it beneath courtesy, to convince herself she’d misheard. but now those fragments returned, pieced together by the gossip of others until they formed something whole, something sharp.

and yet… a part of her still defended him.

he had never been cruel. distant, yes—but never cruel. perhaps he’d meant something gentler, something she had twisted out of fear.

still, she couldn’t help wondering if the others were right. if her father had forced this union, if her presence here was just another command she had obeyed without question.

obedience was the language she had been raised to speak. affection, she had been told, could come later—if she was lucky.

she folded the unfinished letter and set it aside.

as evening deepened, she ordered her attendants to retire early again. when they left, the room fell into the soft hum of rain against the veranda roof. the air smelled of cedar and damp earth.

she rose and crossed to the garden door, sliding it open just enough to feel the chill seep in. the courtyard lanterns flickered under the drizzle, their reflections trembling in the puddles below.

from across the garden, faint light glowed behind the shoji of his study—the only sign of him she ever saw these days.

she stood there for a long time, watching the rain blur that light until it looked like something breathing.

a sigh escaped her, barely a whisper.

why should she care, when she herself had never wanted this wedding?

(name) couldn’t sleep. she had dismissed her attendants hours ago, claiming fatigue, yet her thoughts kept circling the same hollow path. she’d already poured herself tea twice, though she hadn’t drunk either cup. both sat cooling beside her, their steam has long vanished.

the silence was strange. the palace was never this quiet.

she moved to the veranda and slid the shoji open halfway, letting the night air brush against her skin. the moon hung pale above the courtyard, its light catching on the wet stones below. across the garden, she could see his study faintly illuminated—one small square of gold against the dark.

she wondered if he ever looked toward her window too.

then, faintly, she heard something.

a soft scrape. wood against wood. too loud to be the wind.

she stilled, heart tightening. another sound followed, a slow, measured step like a careful tread that spoke not of hesitation, but intent.

she turned, scanning the corners of her room. nothing moved. the candle flickered slightly, though no breeze reached it. she waited, breath held.

and then came the faintest whisper of fabric—someone brushing past the inner screen.

her pulse surged. she reached instinctively for the silver hairpin on her vanity, its edge cold in her hand. the thought of calling for help crossed her mind, but the corridor beyond her chambers was long, the guards posted far. by the time they came—

another creak, closer now.

she moved soundlessly toward the far door, the one that led out to the side veranda. the pin glinted faintly in her grasp as she slid the shoji open and slipped through, her feet bare against the wood.

the garden lay in shadow, the damp air thick with the scent of rain. she kept low, moving quickly toward the bridge that led to the other wing.

behind her, the faint patter of steps followed.

a whisper of metal unsheathed.

panic gripped her chest. she turned, just enough to glimpse a figure stepping through the doorway—dark robes, a blade glinting faintly beneath the moon. she didn’t wait to see more. she ran.

her breath came sharp and fast as she crossed the bridge, the wood slick beneath her feet. the garden stretched wide and empty around her, the night swallowing every sound. she nearly slipped as she turned the corner, her hand catching the post just in time.

and then—

“princess.”

the voice cut through the quiet like the sharp edge of light.

she froze, turned—he was there, emerging from the shadows of the covered walkway, his lantern raised. his expression was unreadable for a moment, then changed—eyes widening as he took in her bare feet, the terror in her face.

he moved instantly.

“what happened?”

“someone—inside—” she managed, voice breaking.

before she could finish, movement flickered behind her. the prince’s eyes caught it first—his hand shot out, not for a weapon, but for her wrist.

“come,” he said under his breath.

he pulled her toward the corridor, his pace quick but soundless. they slipped through the narrow passage leading to his quarters, the echo of footsteps following somewhere behind them—soft, measured.

once inside, he shut the door quietly and motioned for her to stay back. the faint glow of the brazier lit the edges of his face, his jaw tight, his breathing controlled. he crossed the room and opened a lacquered chest, retrieving the sword he rarely carried indoors.

she stood near the shoji, the air around her sharp with the scent of rain and oil from the lamp. outside, faint voices drifted—low, tense, unfamiliar.

she froze.

“your highness,” one said, the tone thick with false respect. “you know she doesn’t belong here. her family only seeks your favor for their own advancement.”

her breath hitched, the words cutting with more precision than the blades they carried. she looked toward him, but he didn’t turn.

he stepped into the open, his silhouette framed by the doorway’s pale light. his voice, when he spoke, was calm but cold, “you must be bold to bring that insult here.”

a faint laugh followed. “no insult, your highness. a warning. you will soon see that she is not suited for this place, for you. she is... different. fragile. hardly the kind of woman who could bear the weight beside a prince.”

then, his reply—quiet, precise. “and yet, she is here. which means the king’s word outweighs your opinion.”

“your father will come to regret—”

“who ordered this attack,” he said, his tone cutting clean through the rain-soaked quiet.

the intruder gave a short, humorless laugh. “and you must be insulting me, your highness, to think i’d hand you that name.”

the prince’s grip on the hilt tightened. “you broke into my palace. speak carefully.”

“your palace?” the man sneered. “or hers? the one they call a princess—your foreign bride. everyone knows her family only sought this union for power. she doesn’t belong here, your highness. not among us and most certainly not beside you.”

the prince’s voice stayed low, but his words were sharp enough to draw blood. “you presume much for a coward hiding behind shadows.”

“truth sounds like cowardice to those who fear it,” the intruder said. his tone shifted, lower, crueler. “you’ll understand soon, your highness. she’ll bring you ruin before she ever brings you peace.”

the prince took one step forward, the sound of rain against the eaves swallowed by the weight of his silence.

a shout broke it—a guard’s voice echoing from the corridor, followed by hurried footsteps and the clatter of steel. the intruder shifted, the movement abrupt, and then he was gone, slipping through the far door just as the guards burst into the room.

“find him,” the prince ordered, his voice calm but iron beneath it. the guards bowed and scattered into the storm.

only when the room fell quiet again did he turn back to her. she was standing by the window, the faint tremor in her hands betraying her stillness.

“it’s over,” he said softly. “you’re safe now.”

she didn’t answer at first, only met his gaze with eyes that looked too wide, too shaken. he crossed the space between them and took her hand gently, his fingers cold but steady.

“you’re trembling,” he murmured.

“i’m fine,” she said, though her voice betrayed her.

“no,” he replied, his thumb brushing the back of her hand, careful. “you’re not.”

she drew her hand back slowly, bowing her head. “i must return to my chamber.”

he stepped forward, just enough that the space between them shrank. “no,” he said, quiet but firm. “i insist you stay here. it isn’t safe.”

her gaze flickered toward the rain beyond the shoji, her voice steady though her pulse wasn’t. “forgive me, my lord, but i wish not to stay here.”

“you think i can let you walk back alone after what just happened?”

“i think,” she said softly, “that you have more important things to attend to than the fears of a foolish wife.”

his breath caught—barely a sound, but it cut through the air all the same.

“you’re not foolish,” he said. “nor have you ever been.”

she didn’t answer. she only turned slightly, as if to go, and that small movement—hesitant, trembling—undid whatever composure he’d been clinging to.

“then tell me,” he said, voice low, raw at the edges, “what have i done to make you look at me as though i’m a stranger?”

“you’ve done nothing,” she said finally, the words careful, polished smooth by restraint. “and perhaps that is the problem.”

he frowned, the quietest crease in his composure. “you speak in riddles.”

“no,” she whispered, “only in the way that is safest.” she turned then, her eyes meeting his—wet light flickering through the paper screen behind him, casting his face in pale gold. “you’ve been kind. dutiful. everything a husband should be. and yet…” her voice faltered, barely above a breath, “i can’t tell where kindness ends and obligation begins.”

he was silent for a long moment. then, quietly: “is that what you believe? that i act from duty alone?”

“should i not?” she asked, something brittle hidden beneath her calm. “you’ve said it yourself. i am different. not suited to your court. perhaps even to you.”

he stepped closer—just enough that she could feel the faint warmth of him through the damp air. “is that what this has been about? those words?”

“they were about me. tell me, my lord, how else should i have taken them?” she said, her tone soft but trembling.

his eyes darkened, regret flickering through them. “you misheard,” he said quietly. “when i said you were different, i meant it as truth, not insult. you are not like them, not like this court that feeds on pretense.”

she hesitated because the sincerity in his voice was disarming and almost painful.

“and the rest?” she asked after a moment. “what of the man who said i didn’t belong?”

his gaze hardened. “he won’t say it again.”

she looked down at her hands, still faintly trembling. “you can’t silence what everyone else already thinks.”

he exhaled slowly. the sound was uneven, a quiet tremor that betrayed everything his posture tried to hide. “then let them think it,” he said. “i’ve long since stopped caring what they whisper.”

the words were rougher than she’d ever heard from him—less composed, less measured. something in them caught her off guard. for a moment, neither spoke. the world outside had gone still, as if the storm itself leaned in to listen. 

he took a step closer. his hand lifted, hesitated midair, then finally brushed against hers. the touch was faint, barely there, but it felt like a spark against the quiet.

“stay,” he said. this time, his voice held none of the command of a prince. it was almost uncertain, almost human.

she didn’t answer immediately. her gaze drifted to the small table beside them, to the lantern that had burned itself out. a thin curl of smoke still rose from the wick, winding lazily upward, dissolving into the dim air. it smelled faintly of cedar and rain.

when she finally spoke, her voice was soft—careful, like she was afraid of breaking the moment. “just for tonight.”

he exhaled again, slower this time. the sound carried something lighter in it, something like relief. he didn’t move closer, but the space between them felt different now—less like a wall, more like an understanding waiting to take shape.

she sat beside him, folding her hands in her lap. for the first time in what felt like days, silence didn’t feel like distance. it felt like breath shared between them, fragile but alive.

beyond the walls, the rain began again. gentler this time, like the world had grown tired of its own noise. it traced patterns down the windows, soft and endless, as if the sky itself had decided to forgive.

inside, neither spoke because they didn’t need to. the warmth of his sleeve brushed hers, the faint scent of rain clinging to his hair, and that was enough. for now, the world could stay small—just them, and the sound of water falling softly into the night.

morning came softly.

(name) sat at the low table, watching the steam curl from her tea. the prince poured his own cup without speaking. he’d changed since the night before with his hair tied back, his robe plain, though his movements still carried that careful precision she’d come to recognize.

for a while, neither spoke. the sound of pouring tea filled the quiet like a thread holding them together.

“you were awake before dawn,” he said at last.

“i couldn’t sleep,” she replied, eyes still fixed on her cup. “the storm kept echoing in my head.”

he hummed, a low sound of acknowledgment, and leaned back slightly. “i suppose i deserved that storm. i let too much go unsaid.”

her lips curved faintly, but the expression didn’t reach her eyes. “words don’t come easily between us, do they?”

“they will,” he said. “if we let them.”

the answer lingered between them, neither promise nor apology. and then—because she’d been holding the question too long, because last night had left her shaken in ways she couldn’t name—she asked, softly,

“why did you choose me?”

his hand stilled over his cup. the question didn’t sound accusatory. more so it sounded curious.

“you could have had anyone—someone more influential, with greater riches, more beauty,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “and yet—me.”

he looked up then, and his gaze softened. “do you want the truth?”

“only if it isn’t a polite one.”

a faint smile touched his lips. “then i’ll tell you the real one.”

he turned his cup in his hands once, as if steadying a thought, and then began—

it was the night of the autumn ball.

the first time they had met was when she was standing near the far window. the rain had just stopped, and she was watching it drip down the glass instead of watching the dancers. she looked misplaced, but calm about it, like she’d already accepted she didn’t belong there.

her sleeves were damp where she must have brushed against the garden gate. he wondered if she’d gone out just to breathe. everyone else was laughing, showing their practiced smiles to whoever passed, their laughter too sharp to be genuine. but she—she was quiet. she looked at the moon through the rain, not at the glittering chandeliers or jeweled crowns. and he thought, there, finally, someone who doesn’t look at a crown first.

the room had been crowded that night, voices blending into a blur of names and laughter, but he couldn’t stop glancing toward her. while others circled him with their carefully chosen words, she remained by the window, unmoving. the candlelight caught on the edge of her hair, the faintest glimmer against the pale silk of her gown. she looked like a secret the palace hadn’t meant to reveal.

when he finally approached her, he wasn’t sure what he’d planned to say. she turned at the sound of his footsteps, surprise flickering in her eyes before she bowed slightly.

“your highness.”

he asked if she was enjoying the ball. she hesitated, then answered simply, “it’s too loud.”

he remembered how he’d smiled at that—something small, genuine, unexpected. she looked back toward the terrace then, and said, “the flowers look tired.” he followed her gaze, seeing for the first time how the blooms really did hang low, their petals heavy from the rain.

they talked, quietly, away from the noise. she spoke first, her tone thoughtful rather than shy.

“the musicians,” she said, tilting her head slightly, “they tune their strings before every song. doesn’t it ever tire them, to keep fixing what already sounds right?”

he smiled faintly. “perhaps that’s how perfection works—it never stays long enough to rest.”

her lips curved, just barely. “that sounds exhausting.” she looked toward the terrace, watching the lanterns sway in the wind. “do you think they’ll fall?”

“the lanterns?” he asked, following her gaze.

“mm.” she nodded, eyes distant. “the wind’s stronger near the garden. i saw one flicker earlier, like it wanted to go out.”

he then spoke. “maybe it prefers to burn a little longer.”

that earned a quiet hum from her. then, after a pause, she glanced at him again, curiosity softening her voice.

“what kind of tea does the palace serve in winter?”

the question caught him off guard. “tea?”

“yes,” she said simply. “different seasons deserve different warmths. ours changes with the harvest.”

“roasted barley,” he replied after a moment. “sometimes cinnamon, if the merchants remember to bring it from the southern ports.”

she smiled at that, the first real one he’d seen from her. “that sounds… kind.”

“kind?” he echoed, amused.

“yes,” she said. “some teas are bitter. others are gentle enough to make you forget the cold. that one sounds like it would.”

he found himself watching her more than listening—the way she spoke without trying to charm, without the guarded grace everyone else wore like armor. there was honesty in her words, quiet but steady, like the rain that still clung to the windows.

“you speak of tea as if it were a person,” he said.

he’d never met anyone who spoke like that, as if the world existed in the spaces between silences. he found himself listening more than speaking, drawn to the calm in her voice, the way she seemed untouched by the need to please.

when the orchestra began another song, he offered his hand, but she only shook her head, saying, “i’m afraid i’m not very good at pretending to enjoy this.” and he laughed—really laughed—for the first time that evening.

later, when she slipped away toward the garden, he followed at a distance. she stood beneath the arch of ivy, the scent of rain still in the air, and for a moment, the noise of the ballroom vanished entirely. he thought then that if he were ever to choose, it would be her—not because she shone the brightest, but because she didn’t try to shine at all.

“oh… forgive me, my lord,” she said after a moment, a faint, almost self-conscious laugh escaping her. “but i do not have a perfect memory. i tend to forget things.”

he smiled faintly, not offended. “that is quite all right.”

her gaze dropped to her cup, the reflection of the morning light trembling on its surface. “it never once crossed my mind,” she murmured, “that we had spoken before.”

he studied her quietly, the soft light from the shoji tracing the curve of her cheek. “perhaps that is what makes it worth remembering,” he said. “you never tried to be remembered.”

her lips curved faintly, though her eyes remained lowered. “and yet you did,” she murmured. “you remembered.”

“how could i not?” he replied, his tone gentle but certain. “every other conversation that night was rehearsed. practiced smiles, predictable words. but you…” he paused, searching for the right thing to say. “you spoke like you had no need to impress anyone.”

“perhaps i didn’t,” she said softly. “i was only trying to survive the evening.”

his expression shifted, something fond flickering there. “and i, apparently, was trying to find a reason to stay.”

the air between them grew quiet again, but not with distance. it was the kind of silence that hummed—unspoken understanding settling between them like dust in sunlight.

after a while, she said, “you must think me foolish, not remembering. not realizing who you were.”

“no,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “i think you were the only one who saw me without the title.”

she looked up then, meeting his eyes. “and now?”

he held her gaze for a moment before answering. “now i hope you still do.”

the words hung between them, unforced and simple—yet they carried more weight than any vow could. she didn’t answer right away; instead, she let the silence linger, watching the way the morning light softened the edges of his face.

finally, she said quietly, “perhaps i do.”

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[sft-chrries]

unspoken

g.tomioka x fem!reader

summary: after years apart, they met again by chance, and in the quiet comfort of old familiarity, they found that maybe love hadn’t really left after all.

w.c: 1,232

the nights had been quiet lately.

even after two years, (name) still wasn’t used to it—the stillness that came when she closed her apartment door, the way sound seemed to fall flat without someone else to catch it. the hospital was loud, full of calls and footsteps and chatter, but whenever she got home, there was only her. 

she’d told herself she was fine. she had everything she’d ever wanted: the white coat, the title, the patients who thanked her with tired smiles. she had her independence, her space, her own life. but sometimes, while washing the dishes or heating leftover takeout, she’d catch herself glancing toward the other side of the table, half-expecting him to be there.

and whenever that happened she would realize that she was lonely.

“you’re lonely,” her friend said one afternoon in the hospital break room, between bites of bread and cold coffee.

(name) barely looked up from her laptop. “i’m exhausted,” she corrected.

“same thing, in your case. you barely ask for days off, and your social media is like a ghost town.”

she sighed. “i don’t need another diagnosis, thanks.”

her friend leaned back in the chair, eyeing her. “what you need is a break. i know someone—a friend of a friend. also a workaholic, from what i’ve heard. you two might actually understand each other.”

(name) snorted softly. “that’s not a great sales pitch.”

“it’s not a pitch. it’s a rescue mission,” her friend said, scribbling something on a sticky note. “saturday. café on 8th. six p.m. just go. talk. worst case, you waste an hour. best case, you stop moping and remember you’re human. and please, wear something decent—not your typical ‘i’m a doctor’ outfit.”

“you’re unbelievable,” (name) said, rolling her eyes as she updated her online worksheet.

“you’ll thank me later,” her friend replied, ripping the sticky note off and sticking it to (name)’s table near her laptop.

(name) stared at the note for a moment before crumpling it and shoving it into her pocket.

she didn’t plan to go. honestly, she didn’t even know why she did.

but when saturday came, she found herself standing outside the café anyway—hair neatly styled, dressed in a soft beige sweater and dark jeans, a long coat draped over her shoulders. the air was cool, and the sky carried that muted blue of early evening—the kind that made the world feel briefly suspended.

inside, the café was warm and dim, a quiet hum of low conversations and the scent of roasted beans. she told the barista she was meeting someone and sat by the window.

five minutes passed as she started to think maybe this was a bad idea after all—until the bell above the door chimed.

and there he was. 

for a heartbeat, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her.

tomioka giyuu. standing there like a memory brought to life. the same stillness in his posture, the same calm presence she’d once found both infuriating and comforting. his hair was now shorter and his expression older somehow, but those ocean blue eyes—steady, quiet, unreadable—hadn’t changed.

he spotted her almost instantly, and for a moment, she saw surprise flicker in his gaze before it softened into something she couldn’t quite name.

“…(name),” he said quietly, his voice carrying that familiar hesitation, like he wasn’t entirely sure she was real or if time was playing a trick on him.

she blinked, her breath catching somewhere between disbelief and something deeper. “you’ve got to be kidding me,” she murmured, a half-smile tugging at her lips even as her heart stumbled in her chest.

his lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile breaking through. “you’re my blind date?” he asked, almost like he already knew the answer but needed to hear it anyway.

she let out a breath that came out half a laugh, shaking her head. “apparently,” she said, because really, what else could she say when fate decided to have this kind of sense of humor?

they sat down, both pretending not to feel the weight of everything unsaid. the silence wasn’t strange despite everything that had happened between them but it was familiar, almost comfortable.

for a while, they talked around the truth, circling it carefully like it might break if touched too soon. they talked about work, about traffic, about the little frustrations of adulthood that filled the spaces where laughter used to be.

he told her he’d been working on a new project that kept him up most nights—different company, same long hours—but he didn’t seem to mind it as much now. she told him about the promotion that had eaten up her weekends but came with a sense of stability she’d spent years chasing. they traded small smiles at each other’s quiet accomplishments, both careful not to reach too far back into the past they hadn’t quite learned how to handle.

when the waitress came by, he ordered first, then looked up at her and asked if she still took her coffee black. she blinked, caught off guard, before nodding slowly. “you remember that?”

he gave a quiet shrug, eyes softening just a little as a faint smile tugged at his lips. “well,” he said, almost like it was an afterthought, “sometimes i order that for myself.”

for a second, she didn’t know what to say. the words hung there between them, gentle but heavy, the kind that didn’t need a response. so instead, she smiled—small, a little unsure—and took a sip of her drink when it arrived.

their conversation stumbled at first, catching on the edges of politeness, but slowly it began to find its rhythm again. giyuu asked about her residency, the long hours, the way she somehow managed to keep going even when it looked impossible. she teased him about his habit of downplaying everything, about how he could talk about twelve-hour workdays like it was nothing more than a walk in the park.

he chuckled at that, quietly, and the sound made something loosen in her chest. the café around them blurred into background noise—the hum of soft music, the low murmur of other tables, the clink of cups being stacked behind the counter. for the first time in a long while, (name) felt like she could just sit and be, without having to rush to the next thing.

by the time the waitress came by to clear their cups, they were laughing over something small—a story about a clumsy intern on her end, a broken coffee machine on his. and when they finally stood to leave, she realized she hadn’t checked her phone once.

outside, the air had turned cold, and the streetlights cast a soft glow across the wet pavement, their reflections shimmering like stars underfoot.

“i didn’t think it’d be you,” she said, half-smiling, half-stunned.

“me neither,” he admitted. “when my friend said it was a doctor, i didn’t think they meant you.”

she laughed quietly, rubbing her hands together for warmth. “guess our friends conspired.”

“seems so.”

they stood there for a long moment, the silence no longer heavy.

then, softly, he asked, “would you want to do this again? properly, this time. not as strangers.”

she hesitated, looking at him—the man she’d once loved, lost, and now found again by accident. he looked different, yes. steadier. maybe she did too.

she smiled. “yeah. i think i would.”

unraveled — part one

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[sft-chrries]

autonomy

y.tsugikuni x fem!reader

summary: as they settle into their new home, he learns that loving her means giving her space, and she learns that staying doesn’t mean losing herself.

warnings: i did not like the execution of this but my friend did so im posting

w.c: 1,168

the morning they moved in together was quieter than either of them expected. there were no friends to help, no noise, no boxes stacked high to the ceiling, just a few carefully packed things, a kettle, two mugs, and the slow creak of the new apartment’s wooden floor.

(name) had arrived first, balancing a paper bag of groceries against her hip while she tried to unlock the door. yoriichi watched her from the hallway, his own hands full with a small potted plant and a folded blanket that he insisted on carrying himself. he didn’t say anything when she finally got the door open—he simply smiled, the kind of soft, brief smile that existed more in his eyes than on his mouth.

the air inside smelled faintly of dust and sunlight. the place wasn’t big—one bedroom, a narrow kitchen, a window that faced east—but it was theirs and that was enough.

“it’s smaller than i thought,” she said, standing in the middle of the empty living room.

“it’ll feel bigger once it’s lived in,” yoriichi replied, setting the plant down by the window. “rooms always do.”

she looked around, her eyes landing on the empty wall across from the sofa. “that’ll be where the shelves go.”

“for your books?”

she nodded, smiling faintly. “they deserve their own space.”

yoriichi’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than it should have. there was something about the way she said it—simple, certain—that made him feel like the decision to share a home was already right. she wasn’t asking for space from him; she was claiming her own within something they would both build.

and that, he realized, was how love worked. it wasn’t about closeness alone—it was about still having room to breathe.

they unpacked slowly, without urgency. yoriichi worked in quiet concentration. every book she handed him, he placed gently on the floor in small, neat piles, already envisioning where they might go when the shelves arrived.

the hours slipped by like water through open fingers. afternoon light slanted through the blinds, cutting soft gold across the walls. when she passed behind him to plug in a lamp, her sleeve brushed his shoulder and lingered there a moment longer than necessary. he turned his head slightly, catching the scent of her—something faint and floral.

“you’re thinking too much again,” she said, her voice light.

“maybe,” he admitted.

“about what?”

“about how quiet it is.”

“is that bad?”

he looked up at her then, his expression unreadable for a second before softening. “no,”

they worked until the sun began to fall, until the light faded from gold to a gentle blue that filled the apartment with the calm of evening. the books stayed in their piles for now; dinner came instead—a simple one, rice and vegetables, cooked together in a small rhythm that didn’t need instruction.

he cut while she stirred. she reached for the seasoning before he could, and he smiled, quietly, when their fingers brushed.

the domesticity that would have embarrassed him years ago. now, it felt like breathing.

after dinner, they sat by the window. she drew her knees up to her chest, sipping from her mug, while he leaned against the frame beside her. the city below murmured softly, cars passing, a stray dog barking somewhere far away. the moon hadn’t risen yet, but the sky carried that expectant hush just before it did.

“what are you thinking?” she asked after a while.

yoriichi glanced at her. “that this doesn’t feel new.”

“no?”

“no,” he said. “it feels… inevitable. like it was supposed to happen this way.”

she smiled, resting her chin on her knees. “you make it sound like fate.”

“i don’t believe in fate,” he murmured. “but i believe in you.”

she turned to him then, and for a heartbeat, he saw something unguarded in her eyes—something that reminded him of all the mornings they’d spent apart before this, all the evenings they’d said goodnight and gone back to their separate places. and how, now, they wouldn’t have to anymore.

the thought filled the air between them like warmth.

she reached out and tugged gently at his sleeve. “come here,” she said.

he did, shifting closer until their shoulders touched. the windowpane was cool against his back; her body was warm against his side.

for a while, they said nothing. the city kept moving beneath them, but their world had narrowed to this—shared breath, quiet presence, a silence that didn’t need breaking.

when she finally spoke, her voice was softer. “do you think we’ll be okay?”

he didn’t answer right away. his eyes traced the faint outline of her reflection in the glass, the way her hair caught the light from the kitchen.

“yes,” he said finally. “because you want your books to have their own shelves.”

she laughed quietly, turning to look at him. “that’s your reasoning?”

“it means you know how to stay without losing yourself,” he said. “and i’d rather live with that kind of person than anyone who’d give themselves away completely.”

her laughter faded into a smile that lingered, small and real.

outside, the first stars began to appear.

when she leaned her head against his shoulder, he didn’t move. he let his hand find hers, their fingers fitting together in an easy way.

later, when the apartment dimmed into night, they lay side by side on the floor because the bed frame hadn’t arrived yet. the window was open just enough to let in the cool air; the curtains swayed faintly, brushing against the wall.

she curled closer, one arm resting across his chest. “do you ever get scared of this?” she asked quietly.

“of what?”

“of it not lasting.”

he thought for a moment. “everything changes,” he said. “but not everything fades.”

she hummed softly, her breath fanning against his skin. “you always sound like a poem.”

“that wasn’t one,” he said.

“but it could be.”

he smiled—barely, but she felt it.

after a while, he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper. “do you still want separate shelves?”

“of course,” she said. “you don’t get to mix your training manuals with my novels.”

“that’s fair.”

“but you can help me organize them.”

“how generous.”

“don’t make fun,” she said, but he could hear the smile in her tone.

her hand found his again in the dark, fingers tracing the lines of his palm. he closed his eyes, feeling her there, real and warm.

minutes passed—or hours. it was hard to tell when time moved this softly.

he felt her breathing slow, her body growing heavier as she drifted toward sleep. he turned slightly, enough to press a kiss to her hair, light as a thought.

the world outside might’ve been endless, but this—the shared warmth, the hush of the apartment, the quiet promise of ordinary days—was enough.

and when he closed his eyes, the last thing he heard wasn’t silence at all.

it was the sound of her breathing beside him.

their conversation, without words.

🍒 reblogs and notes are appreciated !

🍒 sft-chrries 2025

[sft-chrries]

a peak on future posts??