#“Possessed?...no...questioning its very existence.” | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

vibelladonna · 4 months ago

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❛ 𝒽𝒶𝓊𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 ❜ 𝜗𝜚 𝑔𝓇𝒾𝓂 / 𝒸𝒶𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝓍 𝒶𝒻𝒶𝒷!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇

𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: You were just an average assistant at a high-profile fashion magazine, drowning in coffee runs, a horrible bitch boss, last-minute deadlines, and the occasional existential crisis. Nothing out of the ordinary.

That was until he showed up; a sharp-tongued, infuriatingly attractive grim reaper with a bad habit of haunting you. Why? Good question. Apparently, you were on some kind of hit list, and he was assigned to reap your soul.

But if he thought he could scare you into submission, he was dead wrong. Because if a little reaper wanted to haunt you…

…well, you might as well haunt him right back.

𝓇𝑒𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉: Me. A new obsession. So this one extra long and I wrote this while listening to 'Haunted' by Beyoncé, feeling every note, and watching The Devil Wears Prada.

𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: casper x afab!reader, subby!casper x dominant!Reader, soul-stealing, playful power dynamics, praise, pet names, teasing, love/hate relationship, possessive behavior, enemies to lovers, slow burn, seductive banter, gentle, blowjob then maybeeeee rough smut, anal sex.

The mortal plane was always predictable.

A annoying world of flesh and bone, ruled by where life start in the wound and ends with a tomb. No matter how any human they fought, no matter how desperately they clung to existence, all paths led to him in the end.

Life was but a momentary flicker in the abyss, and he was the hand that extinguished the flame.

The space between worlds was his domain. A place where the living dared not tread, where the air was thick with the murmurs of the forsaken. Here, in the endless dark, he watched.

They called him many things—Grim Reaper, Phantom of the Veil, Death itself. He was the silent end of all things, the whisper in the final breath, the inevitable shadow lurking behind every heartbeat.

With a touch, he unraveled kings, crumbled empires, and reduced the devout to weeping husks. His presence alone could halt the breath of creation.

Like there was no force he could not bring to ruin. No soul could resist his claim. He had never known hesitation. Never known failure. And yet now, something wrong stood at the threshold of his dominion.

You. A mortal—or so you should have been.

His gaze burned through the abyss, crimson eyes narrowing as he leaned forward, his presence stretching across the fragile boundary between realms. A cold wind stirred in the living world, unnatural in its weight, pressing into the earth, curling around your feet like unseen fingers.

A warning. A summons. A death sentence.

And yet, you did not move.

Other spirits shrank from him, retreating into the shadows, whispering their prayers into the void. They clung to you—not in terror, but in something else. Recognition. As though you were not an intruder among them, but kin.

It was unnatural. A violation of the natural order.

A mortal could not walk this close to death and remain. A mortal should not be able to meet his gaze and still breathe. Yet, you stood unshaken, silent at the edge of the veil.

At first, he thought it was something else—perhaps a simple mistake? Some foolish soul who had wandered too close to oblivion.

But then, he saw it.

The unnatural stillness in your breath, steady and unfaltering, untouched by fear. The way the spirits curled around you—not in dread, but in something eerily close to devotion. The way you stood, unshaken, where no living thing should linger.

You were not like the others.

The realization coiled in his mind, very much amused. His head tilted, strands of white hair slipping over his shoulder as his crimson eyes narrowed. Did you sense him?

Could you feel the weight of his gaze settling over you like frost, lingering against your skin like the cold fingers of the dead?

You should have.

And yet, even as the wind howled and the night pressed in, you remained unbothered. No shiver. No faltering breath. No fear.

A slow, eerie smile crept across his lips. How quaint.

It had been centuries—millennia—since anyone had dared to meet his gaze with such unwavering defiance. The bold ones never lasted long. The moment they recognized him for what he truly was, the bravado cracked, the terror set in, and they fell apart like all the rest.

But you… you were different.

Grim let the word slip from his lips like a curse, testing the weight of it in the space between you.

"Mortal."

The sound twisted unnaturally in the air, stretching across the veil like a breath of something ancient, something final. But even as it echoed through the abyss, it felt… wrong.

You did not carry the scent of death, nor the warmth of the living. You stood in the in-between, poised on the knife’s edge of existence. Impossible. An aberration.

His fingers curled beneath his chin, gloved and motionless as he exhaled, mist curling from his lips like the dying breath of a world. No, you weren’t quite mortal, were you? Something sharp and hungry settled in his chest, a curiosity he had not felt in a very, very long time.

Perhaps he should test you.

See what made you different.

The studio thrived with straight-up chaos—just racks of garments rolling between rooms, fabrics draped over mannequins like offerings to some unseen deity.

Photographers adjusted their lenses, capturing such perfection with every calculated click, while designers hovered over sketches, their minds frenzied with last-minute alterations.

The air smelled of high-end perfume, ink, and freshly steamed fabric, a scent so distinctly alive that it nearly repelled the presence lurking in its midst. It wasn’t long before he found himself within a space not meant for his kind.

Grim rarely walked among the living so openly, yet here he stood, a phantom amid the world’s most fragile creatures—so blissfully unaware of how close death brushed against their skin.

And then, there was you.

Moving effortlessly through the flurry of industry, weaving between designers and assistants, clipboard in hand, murmuring approvals, adjusting details. Unlike the frantic energy of those around you, you moved with certainty, never flustered, never scrambling, as if the world bent to your pace rather than the other way around.

Grim watched. Intrigued. How pretty.

The thought whispered through him, curling in his mind like smoke. But not in the way he usually observed mortal beauty—delicate, soft, doomed to wither. No, you were not something that would crumble at a mere touch. You were enduring. Again, soft, like a perverse flower. Something worth admiring.

And he should not have been admiring you at all.

He had come for someone else. A soul marked by time, its final grains of sand slipping irreversibly through the hourglass. But you...

You were full of life. Stubbornly so.

It was meant to be nothing more than a passing glance, his eyes filled with curiosity. And yet—something about you demanded his attention. How dare you?

Perhaps it was the way the golden studio lights framed your face when you stopped at your desk, scanning through today's catalog. The glow from your laptop screen reflected in your eyes as you sent out the requests your boss had demanded. Or perhaps it was the way you should have sensed him.

Because you did.

He saw it in the way your fingers lingered over your keyboard, a slight hesitation, the briefest flicker of something in your expression. The way your posture shifted—not in fear, but in awareness.

You looked up. Behind you. To the side. As if you expected something to be there. And still… no fear.

Grim's lips curled into the ghost of a smirk, a slow, knowing thing. How quaint. A mortal that did not cower in his presence. He had seen countless souls—broken, frightened, bargaining for more time.

They always begged. Always.

But you? Shit, you couldn’t care less.

You simply turned back to your work, unbothered, as if Death itself was not standing like right behind you, watching. Fascinating.

Like damn, this was going to be a long day.

You shouldn’t have looked at him.

Honestly, rookie mistake. Why, out of all the places to let your eyes wander, did they have to land on a pale figure just lurking at the edge of your vision? White hair, almost glowing in the bright golden office lights, just floating there menacingly.

At first, you barely reacted. Spirits followed you enough that one more ghostly presence in your life wasn't exactly a new issue. It was like another annoying email in your inbox—just something you learned to ignore.

But then... he got closer.

You’d think a literal death-bringer would have better things to do than stalk some underpaid assistant at a fashion studio, but nope, there he was, just lingering. Hanging around the clothing racks, floating down the hallways like he had nothing better to do.

"Mortals are usually more entertaining than this," he mused, materializing beside you as you sorted through today’s catalog.

You didn’t react. Nor said anything back.

"They beg, weep, try to strike deals, but you? Not even a glance?" He leaned over your shoulder, reading the emails you were responding to. “Are you truly this dull, or is this job slowly draining what’s left of your soul?”

Still, you ignored him. Just to pretend you were irritated about work rather than the undead menace hovering behind you. Your boss stormed past your desk, rambling about a last-minute change in the collection lineup, completely unaware that you were being haunted.

“You!” she barked. “I need all the model sheets and—ugh, coffee. Black. No sugar.”

You didn’t even blink. “Yes, ma’am.”

Grim tilted his head, amused. “So obedient. How tragic.”

Your eye twitched.

Twenty minutes later, he was still talking.

"So, what exactly do you do here? Fold fabric? Worship those absurdly tall skeletons you call ‘models’? Suffer?"

You exhaled sharply, flipping through the model sheets as you strode down the hall, hoping to outwalk itself.Spoiler alert: you couldn’t.

"Why can’t they see you?" you muttered under your breath, careful not to draw attention from your coworkers as you balanced a tray of coffee cups.

Grim laughed. "Because I don’t want them to."

"Then why can I?"

"Good question. Why can you?" His grin was infuriatingly smug.

You glared at him, resisting the urge to dump scalding coffee onto thin air just to see if he could feel it.

Instead, you set your boss’s drink down on her desk and marched straight to the breakroom, hoping for a few minutes of peace. You swore, though, he was practically waiting outside the door for his cue, like some kind of ghostly actor who knew exactly when to make his dramatic entrance.

And when he did walk in, it was with the kind of confidence that only the dead—and apparently, Spirt—could possess. He moved like he owned the place, a pale figure that seemed to suck the air out of the room. You just wanted to sip your lukewarm tea and get a moment of calm in this whirlwind of a day.

A quiet moment. As rare as they were in this fashion department. But, of course, the real problem started the moment he stepped into the room.

Because as soon as he entered, he decided to open his mouth.

And when you say talk, you mean he did not shut up.

“Is this your lunch break? How tragic. So much time wasted just sipping a tepid drink while the world spins itself into chaos,” he mused, hovering a little too close for comfort.

You blinked, fighting the urge to roll your eyes. “Could you not?” You muttered, but he didn’t care. Oh no. He had all the time in the world to follow you around and spout whatever grim commentary he thought would make him sound more ominous.

"Such a sad existence you lead," he added, his voice trailing through the air like the chill of a winter’s night. “So many frivolous tasks, chasing shadows, pretending they matter."

“I’m sorry, what?” you said, only half-listening, as you dumped more sugar into your cup. Honestly, you’d been through worse. Talking to spirits was one thing, but this guy? This one was special. He dared to follow you everywhere—like an annoying coworker you couldn’t escape.

The tea was forgotten, abandoned on the counter as you stormed down the hallway, desperate for a moment of peace. The last thing you needed was this annoying, pale figure following you around and spouting off endless nonsense about time, existence, and whatever cosmic philosophy he was into today.

Of course, he wasn’t done. No, he didn’t understand the concept of space. He was right behind you, still standing as if there were no boundaries between worlds. You could practically feel him breathing down your neck as he leaned in, his voice cold and unnervingly close.

“You can’t feel it, can you?” He asked his words low, almost like a whisper in your ear. “You’re untouched by the flow of time like you’re standing between worlds. It’s fascinating. You should be afraid of me."

That was it. You’d had enough.

You stopped so suddenly that he almost walked into you. The Grim Reaper ghostly figure nearly collided with your back, but you didn’t even flinch. Instead, you pivoted on your heel with the kind of speed that made your coworkers worry if you were secretly a superhero. You crossed your arms and gave him a look—a look so cold, so done, that even your interns would reconsider their life choices if they saw it.

“Yeah, well, I’m not, okay?” You snapped, finally locking eyes with him. “I just need to get through my damn day without hearing your creepy monologue about the futility of human life, all right?”

You exhaled slowly and stood a little taller, letting the words hit him like a wave. "Listen here, Casper," you hissed, your voice sharp. "I have a very stressful job, an underpaid salary, and exactly four hours of sleep. I don’t have the time—or the patience—for your existential whining. So either haunt someone else or sit there and shut up.”

Grim blinked, the oddest expression crossing his face.

How… how did you know his name?

For a moment, there was silence. He just stood there, staring at you with those piercing crimson eyes, like you had just solved a mystery he hadn’t even realized existed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. It was as if he was trying to process what had just happened. Maybe he was looking at you differently now like he hadn’t quite figured you out. Was that… curiosity?

Then, with a slow, almost sinister chuckle, he tilted his head, his white hair flowing like a ghostly mane. The sound sent an involuntary shiver down your spine, but you stood firm.

“You’re different,” he said, his voice a little lower, almost in awe.

You were about to snap something sarcastic back when you realized the absurdity of the situation. You—stressed, underpaid, and half-delirious from lack of sleep—were standing face to face with a literal Grim Reaper, and he was the one awed by you?

A bitter laugh almost escaped you, but you swallowed it down, irritated beyond belief. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re different too,” you muttered, grabbing your half-empty, lukewarm cup of tea from the break room counter.

You took another sip, feeling the sting of regret as the flavor barely registered on your tongue. “Definitely not what I signed up for today.”

Again, you were done with this. Absolutely, unequivocally done.

“Go away, Casper.” You were at your limit, your patience snapped into nothingness. His pale face was just too close—his crimson eyes staring at you with that unnerving mix of curiosity and amusement. You could feel his presence in every corner of the room like he was trying to worm his way into your very thoughts.

So you did what any person in your situation would do: you shoved him.

A simple push, just enough to send him stumbling back, and before he could catch himself, he fell into a rack of clothes. It was one of the designer gowns, a rich red that flowed like liquid, and the entire display tilted under his weight, sending a cascade of dresses crashing to the floor. The sudden noise was enough to startle your coworkers, heads swiveling as they watched the rack topple. But none of them saw the pale figure—just an empty rack of clothes spilling silk and fabric across the room.

You barely even glanced back as you walked away, your arms crossed tight, muttering under your breath.

“I’m not your plaything, Casper. Now get out of my face.”

Casper lay in the heap of tangled fabric, blinking in complete shock. His pale skin—almost glowing under the fluorescent lights—had flushed a deep red, a stark contrast against the rich tones of the gown still draped over his head. He lay there for a moment, completely disoriented.

No one—no one—had ever pushed him before. And yet, here he was, tangled in silks and stunned beyond belief.

For centuries, his presence had been feared, his touch the harbinger of death. When he stood near mortals, their very life force drained, absorbed by his touch like a dry sponge to water. No one touched him without losing something—some part of their essence, their time, their soul.

But you? You pushed him. And nothing happened. You didn’t wither. You didn’t fall to the ground, gasping for breath as so many others had.

Instead, you just stood there, that familiar, irritated look on your face. As if it were a bother.

He slowly sat up, pulling himself free of the mess of clothing. His usual confidence was shattered, replaced by a rare kind of vulnerability, an unfamiliar emotion twisting in his chest. He stared at you as you continued to walk away, your steps slow and deliberate, as if nothing in the world had happened.

How was it possible?

A mortal—you—had touched him, and yet, you weren’t dead. Or at least, you weren’t acting like it.

His heart—if he could still call it that—pounded with a new intensity. He couldn’t understand it. He had never met anyone like you, never encountered a mortal who refused to be touched by him, never one who dismissed him so… casually.

He pushed himself to his feet, brushing off the remnants of the clothes he’d knocked over, his pale cheeks still tinged red in a rare moment of fluster. He watched you, not moving, but he was already preparing for his next move.

Something about you intrigued him. You were far too interesting to just let go.

He took a step toward you but then stopped. His gaze fixed on the back of your head, your posture strong, as you walked away from him.

This... this was new.

Casper stood there for a long moment, uncertainty clinging to him like a ghost. Finally, his mouth curled into that familiar, eerie smile again. It was a slow, dangerous thing, full of intrigue.

You hadn’t just touched him. You haddefied him.

And that was something he hadn’t encountered in all his existence. Maybe, just maybe, this could be worth something after all.

Casper was… obsessed now. He had never encountered anything like you, and it gnawed at him, this unfamiliar sense of unresolved desire. You were not just some mortal, some fleeting soul to be reaped. No, you were a mystery—a puzzle that he couldn’t solve, and the very fact that you resisted him so effortlessly only deepened his fascination.

It wasn’t just the thrill of the chase that spurred him on. No. There was something else.

The high-ups, the ones who resided in the farthest reaches of the underworld, the ones who watched over him… they noticed.

A soul that couldn’t die? A soul that resisted the touch of death itself?

What did it mean? Was there something special about you?

Whispers spread like wildfire among the higher ranks. They didn’t understand it either, but they knew you were something worth having. Something that could change the rules. Something that could serve them—and maybe even him.

And so, Casper found himself following you like a shadow, lingering at your workplace, watching you from a distance when you left for the day, trailing you to the most mundane of places, his obsession only growing.

His pale figure appeared in glimpses—his white hair a stark contrast against the everyday world. He wasn’t trying to hide anymore; he didn’t need to. His focus was entirely on you, his every move calculated.

You had to know he was there.

You were far too perceptive to not notice the subtle shifts in the air, the flicker of his presence.

But he was clever. He was patient.

And he would get you to break.

The first time he cornered you after work, you were at the grocery store. It was a humdrum trip to stock up on essentials, the typical monotonous task that everyone in your position had to do. But not today.

No, today, Casper decided to make himself known.

You were scanning the aisles for something simple—maybe fruit, or a carton of milk—when you felt the unmistakable chill at your back. His presence.

"Hey," his voice was disturbingly casual, and when you turned, there he was, standing with his arms crossed, his usual eerie calm as ever. "Mind picking me up some original cup noodles and folded bread?"

You blinked, staring at him, incredulous. Of course, you had to question him. "What? Are you serious right now?" you asked, leaning against your cart. "Do you even eat?"

Casper tilted his head, the smile on his lips never wavering. "I do. Not like you. But still." He waved his hand absently as if it were the most normal request in the world. "Just a little snack, nothing too fancy."

You couldn't help but roll your eyes, your patience running thin. “You're dead, Casper. Why would you want cup noodles? And why would I go out of my way to get them for you?”

His response was a soft chuckle, cold and smooth. "Ah, but you see, the deal is this: I could give you something in exchange. Something you want. A little temptation, a trade. What’s your price?"

You glanced at the noodle aisle, ignoring him completely as you grabbed about 12-count cups of instant noodles for yourself. "Yeah, no. I’m good. You're not gonna tempt me with snacks."

Casper's eyes narrowed, a hint of frustration flickering behind his calm exterior. "What if I told you I could fix everything? The sleepless nights, the exhaustion, the stress. What if I could offer you peace?"

You tossed the noodles into your cart, uninterested. "I’m not looking for peace from a creepy grim reaper who can't take a hint."

Casper’s gaze grew darker. "You don’t know what I could give you. You don’t know how easy it would be to just—"

“Nope,” you interrupted, holding up a hand as if to stop him mid-sentence. You pulled out your phone, tapping away at a grocery list app to make it clear that he wasn’t worth your attention.

He let out an exasperated sigh, but his grin never faltered. “Still as stubborn as ever, huh?”

And just like that, you went back to your grocery shopping, effortlessly dodging his attempts to break through your calm.

The second time he tried was a little more… subtle. After your long shift, you decided to take a walk around the city to clear your mind. He appeared beside you on the sidewalk, as if he had been waiting, his steps soundless despite his form being right there.

“You know,” he started, his voice dripping with dark temptation, “I’ve been watching you. I could take away all your worries if only you’d trust me. Forget all this—your life, your struggles, the endless grind. Let me help you… Let me show you what I can offer.”

You didn’t even look up at him. “You keep offering me peace and I keep telling you I’m not interested.”

He stepped in front of you, blocking your path. “But what if you don’t have a choice anymore?” he asked, his tone darker, a little more insistent now.

You stopped and finally glanced up at him, your eyes narrowed. “I have a choice, and I choose for you to get the hell out of my way.”

He blinked, taken aback, as you casually sidestepped him and kept walking, your footsteps unhurried. You could feel his presence behind you, following, watching, but it didn’t matter. You had dealt with worse than some grim reaper with a vendetta.

Every time he tried, you outmaneuvered him with ease. Whether it was a carefully placed word, a choice to simply walk away, or the sharpness in your gaze that seemed to make him take a step back, you were always a step ahead. It was like a game, and with every move you made, he became more and more obsessed with you.

You were something impossible, and that was what gnawed at him the most.

The thrill of the chase, once so exhilarating, now felt hollow to him. He needed more. He needed to understand why you weren’t swayed by him. Why you couldn’t be broken. The problem was, he didn’t know how much you had already figured out about him—about death itself.

It started with something small. A quick moment when you were alone, a brief conversation when you thought no one was watching. He had asked you a question, one of those tricks to see if you would falter. Instead, your response had unsettled him.

“Do you ever think about what happens to you, after you die?”

You had looked at him like he was the mortal one. It wasn’t the question itself—it was the way you had said it, the way your eyes never wavered as you spoke.

Casper had chuckled, assuming you were making light of the topic.

But then, he saw it.

The way your gaze turned distant. Like you had seen something that wasn’t there. Like you knew something. “I’ve faced death many times,” you said, your voice so steady, so unbothered, it sent a chill through his entire existence. “It’s not as dramatic as you might think. You’d be surprised at how many times I’ve died without anyone realizing it.”

The words hung in the air. You weren’t joking. You weren’t pretending.

You knew what it was like to face death. To die.

That was the moment that he realized. It wasn’t just his touch that you could withstand. You were something else entirely. You had crossed paths with death more times than he could count—and you had survived.

The very nature of that unnerved him. How was it possible? How could you speak of it so casually, as though death was an old acquaintance you had learned to live with?

But what really disturbed him was the way you spoke of things even he didn’t know.

For the time you mentioned how the veil between the worlds had thinned after a certain incident, how the balance of life and death had shifted, even if it had seemed insignificant at the time. He did not know of it—none of it had been in the records, nothing he had been told during his training.

How could you know something like that? How did you see things he didn’t even see? There was something deeper inside you, something that made him uneasy.

You were not just a mortal.

Months passed, and he could feel his obsession intensifying, his frustration mounting. Every time you shrugged him off, every time you saw through his tricks, it was like a blow to his existence. It should have been easy to claim you, right? Just like any other soul. But there was something about you that turned everything he knew upside down.

And then, he followed you home. He didn’t care if it was stalking anymore. He had to understand you. Had to know what made you tick.

He watched you walk through the familiar door of your loft apartment, so effortlessly. To him, it felt like watching a predator enter its den. Yet, you remained unshaken.

It was a strange place for someone like you—too lived-in to be a typical mortal apartment, too quiet to be a place where anyone truly rested. You didn’t invite him in, didn’t even acknowledge his presence when you entered. But he followed.

His steps were silent, as always. He floated behind you, not wanting to miss a single moment. You didn’t even glance back, so used to his silent following that you barely reacted anymore.

The apartment was minimalist, but it had personality. A few things caught his eye—the piles of books that leaned precariously against the walls, the odd plants that seemed to be thriving despite your apparent lack of interest in them, and the dim lighting casting long shadows.

You moved around the apartment with practiced ease, grabbing something from the fridge, putting it into the microwave, your thoughts clearly somewhere else. He stood there, arms folded, waiting for you to break the silence.

And when you finally did, it wasn’t the question he expected.

“What do you want from me?” Your voice was sharp, and for the first time since he met you, he could hear the edge of tiredness in it. It wasn’t the usual disinterest or mockery.

It was weariness.

“I told you,” he started, almost sounding desperate now. “I want your soul.”

You didn’t respond immediately. Instead, you glanced over at him, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something in your eyes, something he couldn’t understand.

“But why?” Your voice was softer now, but still direct. “Why me? You’ve collected souls for how long, and you’ve never come across one like mine. Is that it? Am I some kind of… prize for you?”

He paused, thrown off by the unexpected vulnerability in your question.

“You know why,” he said, trying to regain his composure. “You’ve faced death, haven’t you? But you haven’t succumbed to it. You... you’re different. The high-ups... they’re curious. I’m curious.” He took a step closer, and this time, it wasn’t just about the soul. “I want to know why you can withstand it. Why you don’t die when you should.”

You didn’t look afraid. If anything, your eyes seemed almost… amused.

“Maybe I’m not meant to,” you said simply, taking a seat at your kitchen table and sipping your drink, casually uninterested in his presence. “Maybe I’ve seen things you can’t even begin to understand.”

Casper stood there for a moment, the realization dawning on him. He had always been the one in control, the one who made the rules. But now? It was clear. You were the one pulling the strings.

And it terrified him. Still, the obsession remained.

“I’m going to find out, whether you like it or not.” He vowed quietly, more to himself than to you.

You rolled your eyes at Casper’s words, his little declaration of trying to figure you out like you were some puzzle to be solved. Honestly, you had better things to do than entertain the idea of a grim reaper’s obsession.

Just as you were about to tell him to stop following you and to get out of your space, your phone rang.

It was another assistant you worked across from.

You sighed, already knowing this wasn’t going to be good news.

“Hey, quick heads up—I’m sick and won’t be able to make it to the event tonight. You’re going to my place for our boss. Dress nice, okay? You’ll be meeting with some big names—the ones that fund our department. They’ll expect a professional impression,” the assistant said, her voice a bit muffled from the cold she had.

You stared blankly at your phone for a few seconds after the call ended. Great. Just what you needed tonight. A high-profile event, and you’d have to step in at the last minute. Your peaceful evening, which had already been non-existent thanks to your favorite grim reaper stalking you, was now thoroughly ruined.

You sighed heavily, letting the irritation bubble up. You didn’t need the stress. You didn’t need Casper clinging to you, constantly breathing down your neck, following you from work to the grocery store, practically watching you while you tried to relax. It was like he thought he could wear you down and force you to acknowledge him.

Well, he wasn’t going to win that easily.

You turned to your bedroom and started walking toward it. The sound of Casper’s soft footsteps followed you like a shadow. “Can you just go?” You snapped, not bothering to look back at him. “I need to get dressed. Your presence is… annoying.”

His voice echoed behind you as you stepped into your room, already mentally prepping yourself for the headache that would be this event. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You shot him a look over your shoulder, eyebrows furrowed. “What do you mean ‘not going anywhere’?”

“I’m staying right here,” he said, his tone almost smug.

Of course, he would. He was as stubborn as a brick wall, and clearly had no intention of leaving you alone. But the idea of him lurking around your personal space? That crossed a line.

You had an idea—a rather ridiculous one, but hey, it would work.

“Fine, then.” You said with a sly grin, turning around as you walked toward your closet. “You stay then, Grimmy. But just… watch.”

Casper’s ethereal form hovered near the doorway, a little too close for comfort, but his interest piqued. “Watch what?”

You didn’t answer, instead focusing on finding the outfit you were going to wear. Casper stayed glued to the spot, curious as you began to undress, unaware of what you were about to do.

You removed your blouse first, feeling his presence lingering at the edge of your vision. The air felt thick with his silent attention. You casually let your shirt fall to the floor, then reached for the next item, your back turned toward him as you continued your task.

You could practically hear his ghostly breath hitch when you glanced back over your shoulder at him, a playful glint in your eyes.

“You like what you see, Grimmy?”

His body stiffened like he wasn’t sure how to react, but he didn’t move, still watching. His eyes, if you could even call them that, were practically burning holes into you.

You smirked, not bothering to hide your amusement as you casually slipped into the dress you’d chosen for the evening. “Don’t act so shy, Grim. I thought you liked souls.”

Casper’s reaction was almost comical, his form flickering as though struggling to maintain composure. “I’m not here for that!”

“Oh? Are you sure? Because I think you might be,” you teased, letting your hands linger over the fabric of the dress, turning slowly to face him. “You do know how to appreciate beauty, don’t you, Grimmy?”

Casper’s ghostly pale face had turned a noticeable shade of what could only be described as “flustered”—which was absurd. He was dead, for heaven’s sake. But there he was, looking like a deer caught in headlights.

Then, without another word, he vanished. Gone. Just like that. You blinked, a slight laugh escaping your lips. Well, that worked.

You finished getting dressed, the ridiculousness of it all sinking in. Somehow, you had managed to shake off Casper for the night by using his own discomfort against him. He’d been so caught off guard that he hadn’t known how to react. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself, feeling a small sense of victory. This night was going to be yours, even if it had started in chaos.

You grabbed your phone and checked the time—just enough time to grab your purse and head out. At least for the evening, you could pretend that everything was normal, and that meant no ghosts, no interruptions.

The moment you stepped out of your loft, you slipped into the role you had mastered: the calm, composed assistant who could handle anything, even the most unexpected of crises.

Tonight was no different. Your boss had trusted you to step in for her at the event, which meant your ability to perform under pressure was being tested once again.

The venue was a grand, multi-story ballroom with vaulted ceilings and an ambiance that screamed wealth and prestige. Crystal chandeliers glimmered above, casting a warm glow over the sea of guests mingling below. You entered with a practiced grace, your heels clicking softly against the polished marble floors as you navigated through the crowd.

Your boss, the editor-in-chief of a well-known fashion magazine you worked at, maintains her usual level of poise. She greeted people, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, and making small talk while you stood beside her, quietly observing the whirlwind of conversation.

As her assistant, you were in charge of handling all the logistics, ensuring the guests were taken care of and that everything ran smoothly. That meant taking note of important names and contacts, managing schedules, and keeping an eye out for any potential hiccups.

Tonight, you were the one making sure everything stayed on track. You took your place near the entrance, casually keeping tabs on the crowd as your boss moved through the room, chatting with potential investors and key figures in the fashion industry.

Every so often, she would glance over at you for a quick update or a reminder about certain guests, and you would provide her with the information she needed, always two steps ahead.

You kept a mental checklist of the key players in the room: the head of the fashion department’s major sponsor, and the influencer known for setting trends in the digital world. Each person needed to be addressed properly, and each interaction carefully curated.

When your boss handed you a list of names to memorize last week, you took it without question, scanning over the details and committing them to memory. It was no longer a matter of whether you would succeed tonight; it was simply a question of how flawlessly you could execute everything. And you knew you’d do it with ease.

As the night wore on, you glided between conversations, keeping track of your boss’s needs, occasionally stepping in to provide information to the guests, and always maintaining that cool professionalism that made you stand out.

At some point, you were asked to retrieve some drinks for your boss.

You navigated the crowd without a second thought, moving efficiently between groups of people as you made your way to the back office. You could hear the hum of conversation as you passed, the occasional laugh, the clink of glasses, but you were focused.

You made your way to the bar, your mind still buzzing from the whirlwind of the evening, but something felt… off. The familiar weight of being watched had slipped away, and it was strange. Normally, the pull of a presence, some ghost or spirit trailing behind you, would have been so ingrained in your routine that you’d hardly notice it.

But tonight? It was like the feeling had vanished entirely.

It was unsettling. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing, like an itch you couldn’t scratch. The eerie quiet made your thoughts drift back to your childhood—a time when seeing spirits was more of a curse than a gift. You remembered telling your parents about it, about the strange faces that would appear to you, whispering their names, hovering just out of sight.

And their response? A quick trip to a mental institution at a young age. "You're imagining things," they’d said. "It's just your mind playing tricks."

You had hated it.

Hated the way your parents treated your abilities as if they were a problem to be solved. And that hatred turned into bitterness. Ever since you’d learned to hide it—to pretend that you couldn’t see the spirits who followed you, pretending their whispers didn’t get under your skin.

You had learned to tune out the names that would sometimes float around the edges of your vision, names that would send a chill down your spine.

Death had always been a part of you, and you hated it. Hated how it was always there, how it clung to you like a shadow. You’d been forced into hiding your truth for years. And yet, here you were, working in fashion—a world so far removed from the grim reality of death that you could almost convince yourself that it didn’t exist.

But even this world was not free from its pull.

You looked around at the event, the glamour, the flashing lights, the elegant conversations, and you couldn’t help but feel slightly detached from it all. You loved fashion, no doubt about it. The creativity, the artistry—it had always been your escape. And even though the pay didn’t match your hard work, you had been content.

At least you thought you were.

But a part of you missed the thrill of the chase, the mystery—the way Casper had been, in his way, a strange, unwelcome source of entertainment.

Yeah, he was annoying as hell.

But if you were being honest, he had made things more… fun.

You took a deep breath, shook your head, and tried to push those thoughts out. You didn’t need to think about that little reaper. You just needed to focus on your life, and your dreams.

And then, as if the universe couldn’t let you have a moment’s peace, you turned the corner and ran smack into a man dressed entirely in black, with a red tie that mirrored the intensity of his eyes. His grip was firm as he caught you by the shoulders, steadying you as your balance faltered.

You blinked. You took a step back. No way.

There, standing in front of you, was none other than Casper—in human form?

His usual pale, translucent appearance was gone, replaced by a sharply dressed figure, his black suit crisp and immaculate. His red tie, sharp as his gaze, matched the color of his eyes—those eyes that gleamed with an unsettling amusement.

“Did you miss me?” he asked, his voice smooth and mocking as ever. The words slid off his tongue like a challenge, almost as if he were daring you to deny it.

You rolled your eyes, forcing yourself to recover from the shock. “What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, your annoyance rising instantly. The shock was wearing off, but the frustration remained. “I thought I told you to leave me alone.”

His grin widened, an almost smug look settling on his face as he tilted his head. “Well, I’ve been following you around long enough to realize something. You may not fear death, but there’s one thing I know for sure—you can’t escape it. So why bother running from me when you know it’s only a matter of time?”

You blinked again, incredulous. “Are you seriously trying to make a philosophical point right now?”

Casper shrugged, his hands still firmly on your shoulders as if anchoring you to this moment. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just here to remind you that I am the one who holds your fate.” His voice dropped slightly, a glint of something darker behind his words. “I don’t forget easily, you know.”

You felt the weight of his words settle in, but just as quickly, you pushed them aside. You were done with his games, done with the feeling that something or someone was always lurking. “If you're so hell-bent on being a problem, why don't you just leave me alone? I’m trying to have a normal night, for once.”

Casper raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his features. “Normal? Now that’s a word I never thought I’d hear from you.”

You sighed in exasperation. “Look, I’m really not in the mood for this. I’m here for work. Not whatever you’re trying to pull.”

He didn’t let go of you, though, his grip still firm. “Fine, but remember—death has a way of creeping in when you least expect it. And I’m still here. Watching. Waiting.”

You rolled your eyes again, pushing past him this time. “Yeah, yeah. Just... stay out of my way, okay? I've got a job to do.”

Casper didn’t follow you immediately. Instead, he stood there, his eyes flicking to you as you walked away. You could almost feel the weight of his gaze on your back as you made your way to the bar, shaking off his presence as best you could.

You were tired of this—tired of him. But deep down, some strange, unsettling part of you knew he wouldn’t leave until he got what he wanted.

With a sigh, you returned to your boss with the drinks, trying to keep a calm exterior. You handed her the glass, and she gave you a knowing look, a small smile curving her lips. "How’s your night going?" she asked, clearly not expecting much but offering the polite conversation anyway.

"Fine," you said, trying to keep your voice light. "Just ready to head--"

"I didn't ask for your life story." Your boss cuts you off.

Right, still a mean bitch, you followed your boss gaze and shifted across the room, scanning the crowd like she was looking for something—someone. You followed her line of sight, and for the briefest moment, your heart sank in your chest.

It was him.

Casper.

He was moving through the crowd, his pale skin glowing under the lights and his white hair catching the spotlight, almost unnatural in its radiance. And those red wine-colored eyes, always gleaming with a mischievous, almost predatory look. Of course, it had to be him.

You could feel the pit in your stomach grow. What the hell did he want now?

Before you could process it, your boss turned to you with that knowing smile again. "Do you know him? He’s heading this way."

You blinked, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling settling in your chest. "I… I think I’ve seen him around," you said, trying to keep your composure. But what the hell was he doing here?

Casper approached, his eyes locking onto yours as if he’d found the perfect prey. He was still dressed in that tailored black suit with the red tie, the sharp contrast of his appearance only making his otherworldly presence that much more noticeable. He didn’t even look like he belonged here, but there he was, standing in front of you.

Your boss, always the social butterfly, didn’t miss a beat. She extended her hand toward him with a bright, professional smile. “Good evening. It’s lovely to meet you. You’re so handsome.”

You felt a knot tighten in your stomach. You didn’t want to look, didn’t want to pay attention to the way she so easily interacted with him, the way she was completely unaware of the chaos that had been following you around.

But you couldn’t look away.

Casper gave her a smile that was all teeth. “Thank you, t’s a pleasure my name is… well, Casper,” he said smoothly, his voice like honey, deep and smooth, with a hint of mystery lacing every word. “I’ve heard a lot about you from your pretty assistant.”

“Oh really?” Your boss mumbled before looking at you.

Your eyes darted away, feeling the weight of the conversation that was unfolding around you. You weren’t quite sure what was happening, but you couldn’t deny that this was the last thing you wanted. You just wanted to get through the night without him stealing the spotlight.

“Casper,” your boss repeated, impressed, glancing at you as if waiting for some sort of confirmation. “So… which agencies you work at?”

"Agencies…?" Casper questioned, a little lost.

Oh no. Of course. How did you not see it before? The polished look, the charm, the smoothness to his every move—it was all so damn calculated. In your boss eyes, this wasn’t just some random guy trailing you like a ghost.

Casper has model features.

His facial features are close to the famous model standing, no less. You can already imagine his face in the glossy magazines scattered around the fashion industry. The sleek white hair, those eyes like liquid wine… the boyish charm that made him almost impossible to ignore.

"Aren’t you a model?" Your boss asked.

Casper’s smile widened, "Oh no I am not a model, but I sometimes do simple shoots when Halloween comes around,” he answered, his voice dripping with that signature smugness.

Your boss’s eyes widened at his words. Impossible. Simple was an understatement. He definitely have the potential to become one of the it models, the ones with major campaigns and ad spreads.

"I see," your boss said, her eyes practically sparkling as she examined Casper. "Well, I'm sure you're used to all the attention by now, but I must say, you're quite a striking presence, Casper." Her words were laced with a polite admiration that made you want to roll your eyes, but you restrained yourself, knowing better than to interrupt.

Casper gave another smile that seemed to gleam with just a hint of amusement, the edges of his mouth curling like he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Your boss glanced over at the growing crowd, spotting a few more important figures she needed to greet. "Well, I’ll leave you two to chat," she said, offering a gracious smile before turning to walk off. "Enjoy your night, but—" She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper just for you.

"Give him our card. Get him on board as a main model for the department. If he says no..." She stares at you, looking at you up and down.

You knew that damn look, however still, your mouth almost opened to protest, to shake your head and tell her you weren’t about to turn Casper into some kind of marketing tool. But she was already walking away, leaving you standing there, feeling like a pawn in her strategic little game.

The words died on your tongue. Fuck.

And just like that, your night—your whole world, really—had shifted. The man who had been haunting your every move for months, who had lurked in the shadows, was now casually interacting with your boss like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And you? You were standing there, trying desperately to ignore the knot that had formed in your stomach, trying to pretend that you weren’t feeling the flicker of dread creeping up your spine.

Casper, of course, noticed. He always did. His gaze, sharp and calculating, met yours. It was like he could see right through you, dissecting the unease that you couldn’t hide.

His voice, soft and almost teasing, cut through the air. "Did you think I was just an average looking grim reaper?" he asked, that ever-present edge of amusement in his tone, the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "You should've known better."

You couldn’t help the exasperated sigh that escaped you. You rolled your eyes, trying to keep your irritation at bay. "No, I didn’t think you were just an average looking grim reaper," you said flatly, your voice tinged with annoyance. "But I definitely didn’t expect you to fit fucking model capabilities, especially to my damn boss."

Casper laughed, the sound rich and deep like he was enjoying the frustration he’d caused. He leaned in just slightly, enough to invade your space, but not enough to make you flinch. "Well, life—or rather, the afterlife—has a funny way of surprising you, doesn’t it?"

You fought the urge to smirk or, worse, to smack him. It wasn’t that you were scared of him—not anymore—but there was something about the way he existed that made your skin crawl in all the wrong ways.

Everything about him was wrong in an almost alluring way—though you’d never dare admit it. He had become a constant, vexing presence in your life, and not even a career-defining event could grant you reprieve.

Worse still? You were already suspected you might never be free of him. Not after your boss all but sealed your fate—secure him, or lose everything.

Now, you were playing this so-called ‘game’ on his terms, with his one outrageous demand: your soul. Right… he wanted your soul. But you? You had your sights set on something far more valuable—

Him.

Like might as well, he’s the one haunting you almost every day following you everywhere like a ghost with unfinished business. He practically owes you because your boss now wants him as a model only adds to the complexity. You were caught between your duty to your job and your growing, almost morbid fascination with the very reaper who’d been plaguing your life.

It was almost insanely perfect, really. Like the gods curse you.

You had to work with him, which meant you'd get more time to study him, and more chances to draw him into your orbit.

“Casper,” you said one evening as the two of you now stood near the bar at the event, his eyes glinting with an almost predatory curiosity as he watched you. "You know, I’ve been thinking. You’d be perfect for this project. The department would love you."

He cocked his head, clearly intrigued. “I thought I was just a ghost to you.”

You smiled, a little too sweetly. “I never said you were just a ghost. I’m just... very interested in how you can be so tangible and untouchable at the same time.” You tilted your head, leaning in ever so slightly. “You’ve got an aura. An energy that’s... rare. And I know people in the fashion industry love rare.”

He blinked at you, still unsure of what you were getting at. “So, you want me to become a model?”

You nodded, “Yes. My boss is already interested, and she’s the one who handles all the big connections. If you want to make a name for yourself, this is your chance.”

Casper, for all his otherworldly knowledge, still couldn’t quite fathom how things worked in this world. He was too used to being the one who took, not gave. His eyes narrowed as if trying to gauge whether you were being honest or playing some game.

“You think I need your help to get noticed?” he asked, voice low and almost amused. But there was that glimmer of something—doubt, maybe?—flickering behind his gaze.

“Well,” you said, holding his gaze with unwavering confidence. “You can get noticed any company, sure. But this? This would be the perfect opportunity. I can guarantee you’ll get all the attention you want. And... you’ll get what you want, too.”

He seemed to weigh your words, his expression thoughtful. He hadn’t expected you to play into his desire for influence, for control. He hadn’t realized how much you were feeding into his need for validation—something he desperately craved but didn’t understand.

“All right, then,” he said after a moment, his tone almost too eager. “But you’ll have to promise me something in return.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh?”

His red eyes gleamed. “When done with this little ‘becoming a model’—you’ll give me your soul, right? After all, I’ll have given you what you need for your boss.” He smirked, clearly thinking he had you cornered.

You sighed, “We'll see,” you said, that familiar, dangerous smile of yours creeping onto your lips. “Maybe there’s something else you’ll want more than my soul.”

Casper blinked, clearly thrown by your words. “Like what…?”

You rolled your eyes, you were already moving on to the next part of your plan. In the back of your mind, you knew the final step was going to be the hardest, but seriously, this?

You had to work with Casper—the Casper.

Again, the one who’d been haunting you for months. The one who’d made your life a walking nightmare in every way possible. And now, thanks to your boss's questionable decision-making skills, you became his assistant.

Your job, as if the universe wasn’t already laughing in your face, was to make sure everything went perfectly for him—fix his hair, calm his ridiculously over-inflated ego, and handle all the tiny, soul-crushing details that kept his modeling career afloat. Because, of course, who better to trust with all that than someone who literally hates their life?

You could barely look at him without feeling the urge to strangle him—or worse, do something far more dangerous, like giving into the strange pull he had over you. From the moment you started working for him, your patience had been put through the wringer. It wasn’t just that he was difficult—no, that would’ve been manageable.

It was the way he acted like you owed him something, like catering to his every whim was just an unspoken part of your job description. His arrogance knew no bounds, and every time he had to interact with someone—whether it was the stylist, the makeup artist, or literally anyone else—he made sure they knew how much of an inconvenience they were. A scoff here, an eye roll there. Like the whole world was wasting his precious time.

But nothing got under your skin more than his insistence that you had to be the one to do everything for him.

Today was a vampire-themed shoot that should’ve been straightforward. The concept was classic—dark, brooding, seductive. And Casper?

He was practically made for it. With his porcelain skin, blood-red eyes, and stark white hair, he already looked like he stepped out of a gothic novel. Under the dim studio lighting, he was equally ethereal and unnerving—the perfect blend of beauty and danger.

But, of course, things couldn’t be that easy.

First, he flat-out refused to let anyone else touch him. No stylists, no makeup artists—no one. And why? Because of his Probability Reaper abilities. As if one misplaced brush stroke or a stray hairpin would suddenly send someone to an early grave.

So, naturally, he demanded you do everything.

“Come here, you,” he said, his voice deep, almost a growl as he fixed his gaze on you. “I need the blood on my lips. Don’t just stand there. I’m waiting.”

You gritted your teeth, resisting the urge to tell him where he could shove his demands. You had work to do. "Fine," you muttered under your breath, moving toward him.

You could feel his eyes on you as you prepared the fake blood, the sticky red substance almost too realistic for comfort.

Your fingers brushed against his soft lips, and for a second, you almost forgot what you were doing. His eyes, as always, locked onto yours, and for a fleeting moment, you could see something in them—something dangerous.

A hunger.

It was the same pull. The same unsettling feeling that had haunted you since the day you first met him. But now, in such close proximity, with his breath mixing with yours, you couldn’t ignore it. His stare burned into your skin like a brand, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You quickly finished the task, wiping your hands off with a towel, keeping your gaze away from him. The last thing you needed was to fall for whatever it was he was doing to you. You were already playing with fire. You didn't need to get burned.

Casper, however, was not deterred by your coolness. He leaned in, looking at you with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "You know," he said, his voice low and teasing, "there’s something about the way you touch me... something different. Why is that?"

You swallowed, suddenly aware of how close he was. His lips—still stained with fake blood—were just a few inches away from yours. The faintest of smiles tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I'm just doing my job," you replied, trying to keep your tone steady.

But it didn’t work. His smile only grew, and for a second, you could see that strange glint in his eyes—the same one you had seen in his otherworldly stare when he first encountered you. The one that made you think he was far more dangerous than any of the spirits you’d dealt with in your life.

“Mm,” he hummed, the sound vibrating in his chest as he stepped even closer. His breath was warm against your face, his presence suffocating in a way that you couldn't ignore. "I don’t believe you."

You straightened, quickly distancing yourself. “Just finish the damn shoot, Casper. That’s all I’m here for.”

Before you could take another breath, he moved.

One second, you were standing firm, refusing to let him pull you in. The next? His hands gripped your waist, and with a smooth, effortless motion, he pulled you down onto his lap.

A startled gasp left your lips, but before you could protest, Casper’s arms settled around you—firm but unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. His crimson eyes gleamed with quiet amusement as he looked up at you, his head tilted just slightly as if studying a particularly intriguing puzzle.

“You’re acting so different today,” he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “I can sense it. Why?”

You stiffened. Another question. The weight of his gaze pinned you in place, more binding than his actual hold on you. His grip wasn’t tight, wasn’t forceful—but it didn’t need to be. His presence alone was enough to escape feel pointless.

Your lips parted, but no words came. What could you even say? That you didn’t know why? That you didn’t want to know? That some part of you had already accepted whatever this was, even as you kept pretending to fight it?

Casper hummed, one hand lazily tracing patterns against your hip, his other resting at the small of your back. Not quite pulling you closer, not quite letting you go.

Just holding you there, perfectly trapped.

"You don’t even realize it, do you?" His voice was almost amused, but there was something beneath it—something dangerous, something interesting.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, instinct screaming at you to push him away.

You didn’t.

"I’m just here to do my job," you forced out, trying to sound firm, unaffected.

Casper’s smirk deepened, his head tilting even more like you’d just said something hilarious. "Job, huh?" His voice was silky smooth, laced with quiet mockery. "I think you’re much more than that, don’t you?"

Your heart pounded.

He was too close. Too steady. Too unbothered, like he had already figured something out that you hadn’t.

You grit your teeth, every fiber of your being screaming for control. You refused to let him drag you into this—to make you want whatever twisted game he was playing.

“Just finish your damn job, Casper,” you snapped, trying to shift your weight, to push away from him. But his hands—so annoyingly casual—didn’t let you move far.

“Am I stopping you?” he asked, all false innocence, all easy confidence. His grip didn’t tighten, didn’t turn forceful. But somehow, that made it worse.

"Yes," You glared at him.

His smirk only widened. And then, slowly, deliberately, he leaned in—just enough that you could feel his breath ghosting over your skin. “We’ll see how long you can keep up that act,” he murmured, his voice like silk over a blade.

You wrenched yourself away, standing up fast, putting space between you two before you could do something reckless—something stupid. But as you turned, forcing yourself to focus, to shove this encounter into the back of your mind, one unsettling thought refused to leave you.

Who was really haunting who?

Turns out it can. As more news hits you like a slap to the face, leaving behind a sting of disbelief.

Apparently, Casper’s modeling career—something you still found utterly ridiculous—required both you and your boss to be flown out with him for a series of shoots in another city. You barely had time to process the logistics of it all before your boss, looking far too smug about this, handed you your flight details with a cheery “Try not to kill each other.”

As if that was even an option.

The moment you boarded the plane, fate decided to drive the knife deeper.

Your assigned seat? Right next to Casper.

You shot a glare at your boss as she strolled past, completely unaffected by your suffering. She met your glare with a saccharine smile and an enthusiastic thumbs-up before settling into her own seat several rows ahead.

Traitor.

Casper, of course, looked completely unbothered, the very picture of laziness as he slumped into his seat. One leg stretched out in front of him, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back like he was already seconds from slipping into a nap. If not for the way his white hair fell perfectly into place, he could’ve been mistaken for some overworked businessman instead of a supernatural menace in designer clothing.

You exhaled through your nose, scowling as you sank into your seat and buckled your belt. The flight hadn’t even taken off yet, and you were already bracing yourself for hours of pure torture.

The first stretch of the flight was silent. Almost too silent.

You weren’t sure if that was better or worse than his usual taunting. Normally, Casper never shut up, always had some smug remark, some sharp-edged teasing that made your patience fray like an overused thread. But right now? Right now, he was quiet.

And that was unsettling in itself.

Halfway through the flight, when the hum of the plane had lulled most passengers into a light doze, Casper cracked one eye open and glanced at you.

“You’re tense, mortal.” His voice was a low murmur, just enough to cut through the ambient noise.

You clenched your jaw. “And you’re breathing in my direction. We all have problems.”

Casper smirked, a lazy, knowing thing, but—for once—he didn’t push.

The moment you landed, exhaustion settled deep into your bones. You were already dreading the next few days—watching Casper glide through his modeling shoots like he owned the damn world, dealing with your boss’s usual demands, and trying not to lose your mind in the process. But just as you thought you could catch a moment of peace, your boss hit you with yet another bombshell.

“You and Casper are sharing a hotel room.”

You blinked at her, your brain stuttering to a halt. “…Come again?”

She sighed, rubbing her temples like she was already so over this conversation before it had even started. “Look, the agency only booked so many rooms. You’ll have separate bedrooms, and there’s a bathroom in between. You’ll live.”

You wanted to argue. Oh, you wanted to scream that you had already spent far too much time being haunted by this insufferable bastard. That you didn’t want to be anywhere near him, let alone sleeping under the same damn roof.

Instead, you swallowed the frustration in your throat, forced yourself to inhale slowly through your nose, and settled for a tight, clipped: “Okay.”

Not like you had a choice.

The hotel was sleek and modern, all glass and polished stone, the kind of place that oozed luxury in a way that made you instantly wary. As the car pulled up to the front entrance, your boss was already rattling off instructions, barely sparing you or Casper a glance as she rifled through her phone.

“All right,” she said, stepping onto the curb with the efficiency of someone who had a million things to do and no time to waste. “You’re also in charge of keeping an eye on Casper.”

You stiffened, already knowing exactly where this was going. “Excuse me?”

She finally looked up at you, arching a brow. “I need him to be well-rested and not a menace before the shoot. That’s your job now. Make sure he’s taken care of, make sure he’s on time, and for the love of all that is holy, make sure he doesn’t get arrested or something.”

You opened your mouth to argue but immediately shut it when she held up a hand. “Nope. Don’t wanna hear it. I have a million things to handle, and I need you to be the responsible one.” She paused, then gave you a flat look. “Which, let’s be honest, is a low-effort achievement compared to him.”

Next to you, Casper hummed in amusement. “I feel like that was an insult.”

“It was,” she replied without missing a beat.

Casper didn’t seem the least bit offended. In fact, he looked downright pleased with himself. You fought the urge to rub your temples, already feeling the tension knotting in your skull.

“And,” your boss continued, ignoring Casper entirely, “I need you to set my schedule for tomorrow’s shoot. I want everything organized before I wake up. Call time, location details, wardrobe check—everything. Understood?”

You sighed, already resigning yourself to your fate. “Yeah. Got it.”

“Good.” She shoved a keycard into your hand before giving Casper a sharp look. “And you. Try not to be difficult.”

Casper smirked, tilting his head like he was considering it. “No promises.”

Your boss exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of her nose before muttering something under her breath about ‘getting paid way too little for this’— even though she clearly gets paid enough—and stalking off toward the lobby.

Which left you and Casper standing at the curb, luggage in tow, facing the inevitable.

Casper turned to you, expression unreadable. “So. Roommates, huh?”

You exhaled slowly, staring up at the towering hotel before you. “Kill me.”

Casper’s voice rang out behind you, amusement clear in his tone. “You know you can’t actually be killed, right?”

You didn’t even turn around to respond, just kept walking toward the entrance.

“You’re really getting into this whole ‘mortal’ act,” he continued, his footsteps echoing behind you. “You’re not fooling anyone.”

You shot him a glance over your shoulder, your patience already running thin. “I swear, Casper, if you don’t stop talking, I’m going to do something you won’t be able to come back from.”

He laughed, the sound of it too rich, too knowing. “That’s cute. But you forget—I’m already dead.”

“Lucky you,” you muttered, your tone dry.

You and Casper stood in front of the shared hotel room, the silence between you two heavier than usual. You pushed the door open, the creaking sound echoing louder than necessary in the hallway. It was a strange kind of awkward tension, made worse by the fact that, well, you were stuck with him.

You sank into the couch, trying to distance yourself from his relentless, spectral presence. The exhaustion of the day—of the flight, the absurdity of it all—was settling deep into your bones, but you couldn’t relax. Not with him there. Not with that constant, oppressive, ghostly aura hanging over you like a storm cloud.

And then, of course, he had to go and speak.

“I need a bath,” Casper said casually, as if you didn’t have better things to do than cater to him.

You looked at him like he had just asked you to conjure up a hot tub out of thin air. “What?” you said, disbelief curling in your voice.

He didn’t seem bothered by your reaction. His red eyes flickered with something approaching amusement, though it was tinged with that ever-present arrogance.

“Come on, mortal,” he said, that ghostly smirk creeping up on his face. “You’re my caretaker now. My personal attendant. Run me a bath.”

Your jaw tightened, and you just stared at him. No way. He’d lost his damn mind. What was this? Some twisted, afterlife spa day?

“You have got to be kidding me,” you muttered, your voice low with irritation. “What, you seriously expect me to run you a bath?” You shook your head, giving him a flat look. “I’m not about to sit here and wash the grime off a literal Grim Reaper.”

His gaze remained unwavering. “Do you... do you know who you're talking to right now?” he said, his voice dripping with an insufferable calmness. “I’m a reaper. You’re the mortal. That means you have to do these things.”

You felt your eye twitch in frustration. “Oh, I know exactly who you are, Grimmy,” you bit back. “You’re the one who’s been haunting me, stealing my soul, and generally making my life a living hell. And now you think I’m gonna be your personal attendant?” You scoffed, pushing yourself upright. “I’ve been through way too much dealing with you, and you want me to play your personal spa assistant? Not happening.”

Casper didn’t even flinch. If anything, he seemed completely unbothered, as if he was entitled to this. "You are the mortal here," he continued, unfazed. "It's your responsibility, like your boss said." He shot you that superior, ghostly smirk that was quickly becoming the bane of your existence.

Your patience? Gone. You stared at him, wide-eyed. "No. I'm really gonna need you to rethink that request, Grimmy," you said, your voice rising in irritation. "You're a reaper! You don’t need a bath! This isn’t some weird form of grim hygiene—what is this, an existential crisis?”

Casper didn’t look at you like you were crazy. In fact, he tilted his head slightly, his expression almost... annoyed. “Maybe it’s a reminder,” he murmured under his breath, as though he wasn’t entirely aware he was speaking out loud.

“A reminder: the more you drag on giving me your soul, the more problems I’ll cause for you.”

You blinked, processing his words for a moment. Was he actually being serious?

Ohhh that little shit…

“Well, I’m sorry, Casper,” you said, forcing a smile, “but this mortal is going to pass on the whole bath-running service.” You stood up, stretching, as if you were done with this conversation, mentally checking out. “You’re on your own for that one.”

Casper’s red eyes never left you, though his smirk faded just slightly, as if he couldn’t quite figure you out.

And maybe, just maybe, that was the point.

“Why do you fight me so much?” Casper’s voice cut through the silence, low and prying—way too calm for your liking. “Mortal women usually like me, fall over heels for me, but you don’t. It’s confusing.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you buried your face deeper into the couch pillow, letting out a long, exhausted sigh, like maybe—just maybe—you could breathe out all the frustration clinging to you.

But of course, he wasn’t done. Casper had a way of getting all weird and philosophical when you least had the patience for it.

“I’ve been thinking about it, you know… taking your soul. At this point, is it even worth it?” He paused, then kept going. “I mean, I’ve spent months following you around, became your boss’s model just to stay close, watched you. And now I’m wondering—what does taking your soul actually do for me? Will it fix whatever this thing is that I’m feeling? Or am I just throwing myself into something I can’t undo?”

You didn’t even bother lifting your head. The pillow smelled like expensive hotel fabric—clean, crisp, and utterly unhelpful. You stared at it, brain a mess of exhaustion and irritation, before mumbling,

“I don’t know, Casper. I really don’t.”

For a while, there was only the quiet hum of the air conditioner, Casper’s weight in the room pressing down on you like a physical force. You could feel him standing there, his presence looming like a shadow—waiting for some kind of profound answer, something deep and insightful that could resolve this bizarre conversation he was having with himself.

But you weren’t in the mood for any of it. You were too tired to be dragged into his metaphysical crisis. Too tired to get lost in the strange dark depths of his soul-stealing philosophy.

“I don’t want to be part of your existential crisis,” you groaned into the pillow, the words muffled by fabric. “I’m just trying to survive my days here, man. The job. The constant stuff. You’re the last thing I need to get tangled up in right now.”

You could feel his eyes on you then. It was that burning sensation on your back, like lasers boring into your skin. You didn’t need to look up to know that he was watching you closely, trying to read into your words, trying to figure out if you were being sarcastic or if there was something deeper beneath the surface.

But honestly?

You couldn’t care less right now.

The mental exhaustion was starting to hit, and all you wanted was some peace. His gaze was intense, unwavering, but still, you refused to meet it, your eyes still locked on the pillow. You could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he processed your response, the gears of his mysterious, otherworldly mind working overtime to make sense of you.

“Well,” he finally said, breaking the silence, his voice softer this time, “maybe you're right. Maybe I'm just... looking for something I can't have." There was a strange tone in his voice, almost as if he was talking to himself as much as he was talking to you.

A little defeated, a little introspective.

Again, you didn’t say anything. Instead, you closed your eyes, hoping for sleep to come quickly, to shut out the weight of Casper’s presence and the endless swirl of thoughts he always left behind in his wake. Because no matter what he was trying to figure out about himself, you weren’t interested in being part of the puzzle.

And yet, deep down, you couldn’t help but wonder: what would he do if he actually figured himself out? Would he finally stop haunting you? Or would it just be another twist in this strange, never-ending game he was playing to claim your soul…?

You didn’t have the patience to unravel that mess. You had your own problems, after all. You were an adult—an assistant, no less. Work, deadlines, dealing with people who barely remembered your name, including your boss.

Your life had become a monotonous grind of early mornings and late nights, filled with coffee-fueled exhaustion and half-hearted pleasantries. You kept your head down, you smiled when necessary, and you pretended that everything was fine.

Your world had been mundane. Easy. Quiet. Predictable.

And now? You had a Grim Reaper hovering over your shoulder, stuck in some kind of self-inflicted moral dilemma about whether or not he should rip your soul from your body. Like some whiny, undead philosopher who thought way too hard about his own existence.

The absurdity of it all weighed on you, pressing down like a heavy blanket of fatigue. A whole-ass harbinger of death, a supernatural entity, was following you around like a lost puppy, struggling with his own version of a midlife crisis.

And somehow, somehow, you were the one stuck dealing with it.

It was ridiculous.

And then, out of nowhere, a song popped into your head—one that fit the mood a little too well.

All the people on the planet Working 9 to 5 just to stay alive How come?

The lyrics lingered in your mind, an unspoken anthem to the exhaustion of existence. Because wasn’t that all life was? A constant, never-ending loop of work and survival, of pretending everything was fine when it really, really wasn’t?

And now, even death itself was standing in your hotel room, trying to work through some kind of ghostly identity crisis. Without thinking, the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“What goes up, ghost around…” You blinked.

Oh. Oh, no.

Did you—did you just make a pun about Casper?

Your lips parted slightly as the realization sank in, horror slowly creeping up your spine. This was it. You had officially lost your mind. The universe had thrown a scythe-wielding, existentially confused Grim Reaper into your life, and instead of screaming or running away, you were making stupid puns.

You were so done. Done with the constant noise in your head, the pressure, the irritation of dealing with someone who thought he could just waltz into your life like some smug, otherworldly nuisance. You were exhausted—physically, mentally, spiritually—and if you had to put up with his antics for one more second, you were going to start throwing things.

Yeah. No. You needed a bath.

You slowly get up and head straight for the bathroom. Casper, ever the uninvited, followed right behind. “Where are we going?” he asked, like he had any right to be included in this plan.

You didn’t even bother looking back. “I am going to take a bath. You are going to sit your ass somewhere else and leave me alone.”

Predictably, he ignored the very clear boundary you just set. “Oh, perfect, I need a bath, too.”

You stopped in your tracks in the bathroom doorway, slowly turning to face him. He looked entirely too pleased with himself, hands in his pockets, head tilted just enough to be infuriating. “Casper,” you said, voice dangerously calm.

“Yes?”

“Get. Out.”

His smirk twitched. “Now, hold on, why—”

Before he could even think about arguing, you grabbed the nearest object—a rolled-up towel—and launched it at him. He barely dodged, laughing like this was the funniest thing in the world, but you weren’t in the mood. You shoved him back. He barely stumbled—damn grim reflexes—but before he could retaliate, you slammed the bathroom door in his face and locked it for good measure.

A satisfied exhale left your lips. Peace. Finally.

You turned toward the tub, already feeling the tension in your body start to loosen at the thought of just sinking into hot water and pretending the world—and annoying grim reapers didn’t exist. You twisted the faucet on, letting the steam rise as the tub filled, the sound of water rushing over the porcelain drowning out any lingering frustration.

Shedding the rest of your clothes, you stepped in, the heat instantly soothing every worn-out nerve in your body. You let yourself sink lower, eyes slipping shut, breathing in the faint scent of whatever overpriced bath soak you grabbed last time you were at the store.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you were alone. No reapers. No stress. No existential crises. Just you, the water, and—

Knock knock.

Your head snapped toward the door, eyes narrowing. “…You’re not drowning, right?” Casper’s muffled voice called from the other side. “Because that would be kinda ironic.”

You groaned, sliding lower into the water until it covered your ears. You were never going to be rid of him, were you? However, then silence on the other side of the door stretched on. Five minutes passed.

Casper had finally given up. Good.

You exhaled slowly, leaning your head back against the edge of the tub, your brows furrowing as the stress still lingered—coiled deep in your muscles, settled in the pit of your stomach like a weight that wouldn’t budge.

Maybe… just maybe.

The water cradled you, heavy with warmth, lapping lazily against your skin as you sank deeper into the tub. You felt the heat seeped into your muscles, loosening the tightness coiled between your shoulders, and you let out a slow breath, your arms sliding around yourself in a loose embrace.

Your arms slid around yourself, fingers dragging slowly over your collarbones, down your shoulders. Damn, you were tense. ‘Like, why-are-my-muscles-made-of-concrete tense.’ But the heat was working its magic, loosening things up one knot at a time. You pressed your thumbs into the tight spots, hissing a little at the ache before it melted into something softer.

You lingered there for a moment, pressing into the knots along your neck, kneading with slow, deliberate circles until the tension began to unravel, the water was perfect—hot enough to turn your skin red, but not so scalding that it hurt. You sank deeper, letting it wrap around you like a lazy hug, the steam rising in little curls.

Lavender, honey, whatever fancy shit was in this bath bomb—it smelled good, like one of those expensive spas you’d never actually pay to visit.

Legs propped up on the edge of the tub, you let one hand drift under the water, skimming over your stomach and your hips. The other lazily traced circles on your arm, catching droplets as they rolled down. Everything felt smoother in the water—your skin, your movements, even your thoughts, which were finally, finally shutting the hell up for once.

No grim reaper lurking like a weirdo. No stress tapping its fingers against your skull. Just you, the warmth, and the quiet slosh of water every time you shifted as one hand drifted down your arm, fingertips tracing the droplets clinging to your skin, while the other slipped beneath the surface, palm gliding over your stomach, lower, lower—until your fingers found the soft, slick heat between your thighs.

No rush. No urgency.

Just the slow, experimental drag of your touch, tracing idle circles over your clit, already swollen with anticipation. The water made everything smoother, your fingers gliding effortlessly as you teased yourself, testing pressure speed—each movement sending little shocks of pleasure radiating outward.

Your breath hitched, lips parting as you arched slightly, the water lapping at your ribs. The warmth of the bath only heightened the sensation, your skin hypersensitive, every brush of your fingertips electric. You let yourself explore—gentle at first, then firmer, your hips shifting just enough to chase the friction.

A sigh escaped you, head tipping back against the rim of the tub, eyes fluttering shut, and let out a long breath. Fuck, when was the last time you just… existed like this?

No overthinking, no distractions. Just your hands on your own skin, slow and unhurried, like you had all the time in the world.

You were so close to a stress-free moment—just you, the hot water, and your fingers working slow, teasing circles over your clit, already throbbing from the buildup. The bath made everything slick, and effortless, your touch gliding just right as you tested the pressure, the speed, biting your lip when a particularly good stroke sent a shiver up your spine.

Your breath hitched, hips lifting slightly, water sloshing as you arched two fingers inside you. Fuck, it felt good. The heat of the bath, the way your skin tingled, hypersensitive—every brush of your fingers sent little sparks racing through you. You let yourself get lost in it, touch growing firmer, more deliberate, chasing that sweet, mounting tension.

Then—of fucking course—your mouth betrayed you.

“Casper…” You moan. Fuck, Casper??

The absolute nerve of your subconscious to drag him into this. The guy who’d been stressing you out all damn day, and now here he was, lurking in the back of your mind like an uninvited guest. You groaned, half in frustration, half in reluctant amusement. Really? Now?

You tried to shake it off, fingers never stopping their rhythm, refusing to let him ruin this too. But the thought lingered, stubborn as hell, mixing with the pleasure in a way that was equal parts irritating and—okay, fine—kind of hot.

"Ugh, whatever," you muttered to no one, giving in just a little. If your brain wanted to play that game, fine. You’d let the frustration fuel you, turning the tension he’d caused into something better. Your strokes got sharper and needier, your free hand gripping the edge of the tub as you chased the release that had been just out of reach all day.

The way your body tensed and then melted beneath your touch, the steady rhythm of your fingers, deeper until your thighs trembled.

You took your time, dragging it out, letting the tension coil tighter with every deliberate stroke. Your breath hitched, coming faster now, lips parted as you sank deeper into the sensation. The warm water lapped at your skin, rippling with each subtle movement, muffling the quiet, needy sounds that slipped past your lips despite your best efforts.

And when it finally crashed over you—heat flooding through your limbs, pleasure cresting in slow, shuddering waves—you let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh. Figures. Even in your own damn climax, he was still lingering in the back of your mind.

That asshole.

“What are you doing, Mortal?”

You practically launched out of the tub.

Water sloshed violently over the edge as you jerked upright, your entire body going rigid with shock. Your heart nearly exploded in your chest as you snapped your head toward the source of the voice—only to see Casper, standing there like some smug little shit, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted in curiosity.

Oh, hell no. How did he get in here??

“WHAT THE FUCK—” You scrambled to grab the nearest thing—your damn loofah—hurling it at his face with as much force as you could muster. Casper barely flinched, the soft thing bouncing off his cheek like a tragic attempt at an attack.

He blinked. “Was that supposed to hurt?”

“YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE IN HERE!”

He looked genuinely confused. “But I live here.”

“But I’m in here,” you corrected, voice dripping with exasperation as you pulled your knees up to your chest, trying to salvage what little dignity you had left. “Big fucking difference.”

Casper’s gaze dragged down lazily, and you could feel the heat creeping up your neck. His lips parted slightly, his head tilting like he was putting together a puzzle he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

“I still don’t get it,” he admitted, his voice lower now. “I’ve seen mortals bathe before.”

“Oh my god—” You were going to die. Not from him taking your soul, not from some supernatural battle of wills—no, you were going to die from sheer secondhand embarrassment.

Casper took a slow step forward, and you held up a warning hand. “Do not come any closer.”

He stopped but didn’t look the least bit intimidated. In fact, he looked… intrigued. Like he was enjoying your frustration. Like he knew he had interrupted something and was now just here to be an absolute menace about it.

“You were making noises,” he pointed out, as if you weren’t already fully aware.

You clenched your jaw, your eye twitching. “I was relaxing.”

“Sounded more like suffering.”

“Oh my god...” You inhaled sharply through your nose, resisting the urge to drown yourself just to escape this absolute disaster of a moment. With all the strength of someone barely holding onto their last shred of sanity, you spoke through gritted teeth.

“Casper. I swear to whatever god you believe in if you don’t get out of my bathroom in the next three seconds—”

Casper grinned, taking one step backward—which was not fast enough for your liking. “Or what? You’ll come after me?”

Oh, you hated him.

Casper stood there, the grimmest of grim reapers, with his white hair like fallen ash and those red-wine eyes gleaming with amusement. He was a nightmare in the flesh, a creature that should have inspired fear—should have made you tremble at the very thought of his existence.

Instead, he was standing in the bathroom, casually crumbling what little patience you had left invading your private time, looking at you like you were the strange one.

You wanted to scream. Oh, you wanted to scream.

Maybe throw something. Maybe rip your own hair out. Or better yet, maybe grab him by that infuriatingly perfect collar and shove him straight into the tub, hold him under until all his smug little comments bubbled into silence.

But you didn’t.

Because that would mean ruining your carefully put-together appearance. And worse? It would mean hurting your boss’s prized model—the one person you absolutely could not afford to lay a hand on unless you wanted to kiss your job goodbye.

So instead, you forced yourself to breathe. Slow. Controlled. Fingers tightening around the porcelain edges of the tub like they were the only thing anchoring you to sanity. “Casper,” you said, your voice dipping into something low and dangerous, like a warning before a storm.

“Hm?” That lazy, infuriating hum, like he hadn’t just walked in on you at your most vulnerable.

“Get. Out.”

He tilted his head, looking genuinely—genuinely—confused. “Why?”

You clenched your jaw so hard it could’ve cracked. “Because I am naked and bathing, and you are not supposed to be here.”

He considered that for a long moment. Then, his lips curled into something devious. “Technically, I am supposed to be here. You and I made a deal. I’m supposed to be haunting you for your soul.”

“Then haunt me in literally any other room.”

Casper sighed, dramatic and slow, as if you were the one being unreasonable. “Fine,” he relented, but then—then—he smirked. That smirk, the one that made you want to smack him upside the head. “But just so you know, you really should be quieter. You don’t want your neighbors thinking you’re being murdered in here.”

Fuck this.

You were fuming, seething, gripping the edge of the tub like it was the only thing keeping you from losing your goddamn mind. Your eye twitched so violently that for a second, you swore the entire world flickered—as reality itself had short-circuited under the sheer weight of your frustration.

You had officially had enough.

With seething movements, you pushed yourself up from the bath, water cascading down your skin in slow, glistening trails.

You grabbed the nearest towel, wrapping it around your body without a second thought, the fabric clinging to your damp form as you stepped out of the tub. You barely noticed the chill of the air against your skin. You barely cared.

Casper must have sensed the shift in the air because the moment your foot hit the tile with a sharp, wet slap, his smirk faltered. For the first time since he had started haunting your every waking moment, he looked genuinely unsettled.

His red eyes flickered—uncertainty, hesitation, maybe even a hint of fear. Good. Because you weren’t playing anymore. Before he could get another word in, you were moving. He took a cautious step back, but it was already too late.

Like a force of nature, you stormed toward him, towel clutched tightly around your body, water still dripping from your hair. Casper did the only thing his undead brain could think of—he ran.

Straight out of the bathroom. Oh, hell no.

You chased after him, barreling through the doorway, barely even aware of the way the hallway light flickered as you passed under it.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" you growled, the anger burning in your veins hotter than any embarrassment over your current state.

Casper yelped—yelped—as he sprinted down the hall, his long coat billowing behind him in his panic. For someone who literally dealt with death, he sure as hell was scared for his life.

"Now, now, let’s be rational about this!" he called over his shoulder, trying to sound composed, but his voice cracked at the end. Oh, he was scared.

"Rational?!" you scoffed, lunging forward. "You have been tormenting me for months, Casper! Months! And now you wanna talk about being rational?! Oh, no—you don’t get to run from me now!"

You saw the exact moment he realized he was cornered.

Casper skidded to a halt at his bedroom door, scrambling to fling it open. But you were already there, shoving against it just as he tried to slam it in your face.

His eyes were wide, his expression somewhere between shock and sheer terror. “You—you’re unhinged!" he accused, voice going slightly high-pitched.

"You made me this way!" you snapped back, shoving your way inside. He stumbled backward, eyes widening at you before—bam.

Your body crashed into his, sending him stumbling backward onto the bed. You followed without hesitation, climbing over him, straddling his waist, and pinning him beneath you with a force that had him momentarily stunned.

His body was solid beneath yours, colder than you expected due to the whole undead grim reaper thing.

You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest, his breathing steady but slightly uneven now, like he was processing what just happened.

For the first time, you saw something shift in his expression—not his usual smug amusement, not his lazy arrogance, but something else. Surprise and

Confusion.

His wine-red eyes flickered over your face, searching, calculating. “Well…” His voice was quieter now, almost thoughtful. “I can’t say I saw this coming.”

You leaned in, your face just inches from his, close enough to see the way his lips parted slightly, how his throat bobbed with a slow, almost instinctive swallow. “Good,” you murmured, your voice low, dangerous. “Then maybe, for once, you’ll shut up and listen.”

Casper blinked up at you, the ghost of a smirk still lingering, but his silence—for once—was enough.

“I’m sick and over with you haunting me,” you yelled, dripping with something almost cruel in its amusement. “You think you can just waltz into my life, make my every moment miserable, and I’m supposed to sit back and let you have my soul?”

Casper wasn’t fully listening, like he could feel you—every inch of your body, barely covered by that frustratingly short towel, heat seeping through the thin fabric where it clung to your damp skin. It was a dangerous sight, teetering on the edge of revealing more than it should, and shit—why did a mortal have to be this pretty?

You tilted your head slightly, lips hovering just inches from his, teasing him with the ghost of a touch. “My soul isn’t for sale.”

His breath caught. His usual arrogance wavered, flickering into something less composed. For the first time, you had him unsure. His crimson eyes locked onto yours, and you could practically see the war raging behind them—frustration, fascination, something else he wouldn’t dare name.

“You make this so much harder than it needs to be,” he muttered, his voice laced with that same begrudging admiration, but there was something else, too—something red. His face, his ears, all betraying him as he took in the fire in your expression, the way you pressed against him, holding him down.

His breath hitched as you shifted, the pressure making his thoughts scatter.

“J-Just hand over your soul, and I-I’ll leave,” he stammered, but even he didn’t sound convinced anymore.

The stutter was so obvious; it was almost cute.

“No!” you shouted, your voice sharp with frustration, but that wasn’t even the worst part. The real problem? The unmistakable pressure beneath you. Shit. Right.

You already knew.

A slow, wicked smile curled on your lips as realization settled in.

“You reap what you sow, Casper,” you whispered, your voice nothing but a slow, taunting caress against his skin. You felt the way his entire body tensed, his throat bobbing, fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab you—to do something.

And then? He did move.

With a frustrated growl, he tried to shove you off, his hands gripping your hips, pushing at you in a way that was far too desperate, far too rigid. “G-Get off,” he snapped, his usual cocky arrogance cracking around the edges.

You didn’t budge. Instead, you pressed down just a little more, reveling in the way his breath hitched, the way his grip tightened just a little too much before he forced himself to let go.

“You’re really that eager to run now?” you murmured, tilting your head, watching the way his crimson eyes flickered between frustration and something he really didn’t want you to see.

“I’m not— I just—” His voice faltered, and that was enough to make you lean in closer, pressing your weight down just enough to make him shudder.

“You just what?” you teased, dragging the moment out, letting the heat between you thicken.

His fingers curled into fists, knuckles white. His lips parted, but whatever comeback he had died the second you moved against him, just barely, just enough to feel him really tense beneath you.

“Sh-Shut up,” he muttered, face turning a shade of red that had nothing to do with anger.

Oh, he was trying so hard to hold onto his composure. Trying so hard to shove you away without making it obvious why he needed you to move.

“And if you think I’m just going to hand over my soul…” You trailed off, letting the words dangle between you, thick with implication, like a loaded gun cocked and ready to fire.

Casper swallowed hard, his breath uneven, his self-control slipping—and for all the power he had, for all the ways he had haunted you, he was the one struggling now.

The tables had turned—now you wanted to see just how far you could push him. Because if he had spent all this time tormenting you, refusing to let you go…

Then surely, he must have realized by now—

You gonna haunted him right back.

You leaned down slowly, the space between you two shrinking, the anticipation thickening the air. Your breath mingled with his, a brief, almost electrifying moment before your lips finally met his in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It wasn’t soft—there was nothing delicate about it.

Your lips pressed onto his with force, firm, almost demanding, as though you were claiming something that was yours to take. Casper’s body stiffened for a moment, caught off guard by the intensity, the possessiveness in your touch. You could feel his hesitation—his confusion. His breath hitched as you deepened the kiss, pressing yourself closer to him, your hand finding its way to his jaw, tilting his face to match the angle of yours.

His lips parted slightly under yours, and you took it as an invitation, pushing forward with more urgency, more need. His warmth was overwhelming, contrasting with the coldness of his existence.

You felt him start to respond, slowly at first, tentative, like he was testing the waters. But the longer you kissed him, the more the tension between you snapped. He exhaled sharply, his fingers grazing the side of your neck as he finally gave in, his hand tangling in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss.

The shift was subtle, but you could feel it—the way he started to lean into you, his chest pressing against yours, his movements no longer hesitant but eager, almost desperate.

It was a kiss that felt like something had broken between you two like a barrier had collapsed, and now there was only the fire between you. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that was unfamiliar, unexpected.

When the kiss finally broke, you both pulled back just enough to catch your breath, but neither of you fully separated. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed for a beat too long before slowly opening, still hazy, still lost in the aftermath of it all.

You could feel his pulse under your fingertips, erratic, as if it wasn’t just his body reacting, but something deeper—something that couldn’t be ignored.

He didn’t say anything right away, the silence between you two heavy with the weight of what had just transpired. His voice, when it finally came, was low, almost a growl.

“W-Why did you do that…?” he asked, his words wrapped in uncertainty and desire as if he was finally understanding something about the mess between you two but still couldn’t quite make sense of it.

You didn’t answer.

Instead, your fingers lingered on his jaw, tracing the delicate curve of his face, feeling the soft, almost otherworldly smoothness of his skin under your touch. You watched him closely, the way his eyes fluttered shut as he tried to maintain his composure, his breath quickening the longer you stayed close.

But it wasn’t just about that anymore—it wasn’t just about the arrogant, cocky Grim Reaper who had been haunting your thoughts for months.

No, it was something far more complicated now.

You wanted him—all of him.

Slowly, deliberately, you shifted, moving your lips from his to the delicate skin of his neck, your breath warm against him as you kissed the soft spot just below his jaw. The moment your lips made contact with his skin, you felt him tense, his body reacting to your touch in ways that made your pulse quicken.

He let out a quiet gasp, his eyes snapping open as if he wasn’t expecting this. But you could feel it, the way his body betrayed him, how his pulse seemed to spike beneath your lips.

You couldn’t help but press closer, your lips moving along the smooth curve of his neck, slowly, teasingly. You felt him shiver under your touch, his breath hitching sharply. His skin was like silk, but it was warm, almost feverish beneath your lips.

You traced the delicate line of his throat with your mouth, paying attention to the places that made him tremble, the faintest of whimpers escaping him.

The deeper you kissed, the more you felt the tremor in his body, the way he couldn’t quite keep himself steady as your lips and teeth brushed against his sensitive skin.

And then, he couldn’t help it anymore—he let out a deep, strangled whine, a sound so raw, so desperate, it sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t the usual sharp, cocky tone he had when he spoke to you—it was something entirely different. His body arched onto yours, his breath coming in shallow gasps as if he was both resisting and wanting at the same time.

“W-What... what are you trying to do with me, mortal?” His voice was thick, almost breathless, the usual arrogance and bravado completely absent now. There was no defiance, no demand for power in his tone. Just confusion.

You paused for a brief second, but you continued your movements, pressing your lips further down his neck, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his chest, the heat of his skin against yours.

He whimpered again, louder this time, and the sound made something inside you stir—a dark satisfaction, a rush of power. He was so vulnerable under your touch, so... alive in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes, but you kept your hand on his neck, feeling his pulse flutter under your fingertips. His eyes were wide, a mix of emotions swirling in them—confusion, want, fear. His breath was shallow, chest rising and falling erratically as if he wasn’t sure if he was even breathing properly anymore.

It wasn’t long before your kisses trailed down, slow and soft, your lips teasing a path along his now shirtless, impossibly pale chest. Damn, he really was ghostly white, but soft—way softer than someone who spent all their time being a cocky little shit should be. You couldn’t help yourself; you bit down lightly, just enough to make him jolt under you.

Casper let out this ridiculous, choked noise, half-whimper, half what the fuck was that?! and you grinned against his skin. Oh, this was going to be fun. “What—what are you—” he started, but you cut him off with another bite, right over his ribs this time. He actually squirmed beneath you, letting out the deepest whine you’d ever heard from him.

“Would you look at that,” you mused, pressing another kiss just below his collarbone, feeling his muscles tense under your lips. “The big, bad grim reaper’s ticklish.”

Casper’s eyes shot open, his whole face twisting between frustration and pure, unfiltered panic. “I am not—”

You kissed a little lower. He let out a soft gasp.

You snickered. “Ohhh, you so are.”

His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t know if he should shove you away or pull you closer, and that alone made you even more entertained.

Casper was losing his goddamn mind. You knew it. He knew it. Hell, even the goddamn shadows in the room probably knew it. And you? Oh, you were thriving.

See, for months now, this insufferable bastard had been haunting you—literally and figuratively. He followed you everywhere like a bad omen, made your life a constant, unending hell, toyed with your sanity like it was his favorite pastime, and worst of all?

He had the audacity to be hot while doing it.

You were fed up. You were horny. And since he was always around, lurking in your damn shadow, you never had a single moment alone to deal with it. No time to take the edge off. No privacy to just breathe without him hovering like he owned the air around you.

And if he was going to keep haunting you relentlessly, refusing to let you have a single second of peace? Because of that, you’d make sure he felt what it was like to be relentlessly pursued—to be hunted the way he had hunted you.

And judging by the way he was struggling beneath you, red-faced, flustered, trying so damn hard to pretend he wasn’t affected?

Oh, he was feeling it all right as your lips pressed slow, lazy kisses along his stomach, dragging out every moment just to watch him squirm.

And oh, was he squirming.

His fingers clenched the sheets so hard you thought they might rip. His breath hitched every time you so much as existed near him. His legs were tense, thighs trembling slightly like his entire undead body was screaming at him to do something. But he couldn’t.

Not with you looking down at him like that. Not with that smug little glint in your eye, knowing full well the power you held over him right now.

“Are you—” His voice cracked so hard you nearly laughed in his face. He swallowed, trying to gather what was left of his composure. “Are you actually trying to kill me right now? Because—because this feels like some kind of cruel revenge plot.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Me? Oh, Casper… why would I ever do something so cruel?”

Another kiss. Another sharp inhale.

"You are,” he accused breathlessly, his crimson eyes burning into you. “You so are.”

You grinned. “Maybe I’m just trying to make you feel a little… haunted.”

His whole body shuddered. "That’s—That’s not funny."

“Oh, I think it’s hilarious.”

Casper groaned, tossing his head back against the pillow like he was physically suffering. “M-Mortal!” he sputtered, trying to sound authoritative but failing spectacularly.

“You can’t just—You—You can’t have my soul!”

Casper's breath hitched so hard you thought he might choke on it. His fingers curled tighter into the sheets, his entire body going stiff beneath you—frozen, like some helpless animal caught in the path of an oncoming storm.

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing as you watched him squirm. “What do you mean, Casper?”

Your fingers ghosted over the waistband of his pants, playing with the button, teasing but never quite undoing it. His whole body twitched at the contact, his throat bobbing as he swallowed hard.

“I-I mean…” he stammered, eyes darting anywhere but your face, ears tinged an adorable shade of pink. “My—My soul, mortal! That’s what I was talking about! Y-you can't have it! It's mine!”

You paused, blinking at him. And then it clicked.

Oh. Oh. Did he—? Had he been—? The realization hit you like a freight train, slamming full speed into your already frenzied brain. This whole time, when he'd been talking about souls, about taking yours, about you trying to take his… was he actually talking about—?

Honestly, you are a bit lost by his words… but you kept on the act! Your lips curled into a slow, wicked grin. “Oh, Casper…” you purred, pressing down just enough to make him gasp, your fingers still playing at his waistband.

“You’ve been talking about souls this whole time, and yet…” You sighed, “…it sounds like you’ve been asking for something else entirely.”

His entire body jerked like you’d just electrocuted him. “I—I—” His voice cracked so hard you almost felt bad. Almost.

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head at him with mock concern. “Are you sure you meant your soul, Casper? Because…”

Your fingers gave the button of his pants the tiniest little tug. “…from the way you’re acting, it really seems like you meant something else.”

Casper wiggles beneath you then let out a strangled noise somewhere between a whimper and an offended squawk.

“M-MORTAL! I—THAT’S NOT—YOU’RE TWISTING MY WORDS!”

You laughed, soft and velvety, reveling in the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers dug into the sheets like they were the only thing tethering him to reality. His crimson eyes were wide, frantic, darting across your face as if searching for an escape that didn’t exist.

"Am I?" you murmured, letting the words drip from your lips like honey—sweet, slow, dangerous.

“Yes!” he blurted, but his voice wavered, cracking at the edges, betraying him in the most delicious way.

You tilted your head, fingers trailing ever so lightly down his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch. His whole body was wound tight, like he was barely holding himself together. Like he didn’t trust himself to move.

“Then tell me,” you coaxed, your voice barely above a whisper, a soft, deliberate tease against the thick silence between you. “What is it, Casper?”

Nothing. No response. Just a tense, heavy pause. A second too long. A hesitation too thick.

And then—so quiet, so wrecked, like it had been dragged from the deepest part of him—

“…Because I think I want you as well, Mortal.”

Oh. Fuck. Like, deadass, that was kinda hot.

Your fingers stilled for just a second, then resumed their slow, torturous circles against his stomach, just barely skimming the skin. Featherlight. Just enough to tease. Just enough to torment.

“You don’t say,” you murmured, letting your nails graze lightly over his skin, watching the way his entire body twitched beneath you. “Such strong words, Casper.”

He sucked in a sharp, ragged breath, his back pressing deeper into the mattress as if he could somehow disappear into it—like it could save him from whatever this was.

But nothing was saving him now. Not from you. shit from me.

Not as the towel around you slipped, the fabric pooling onto the bed like a ghost of hesitation you no longer had.

You could feel the tension coiled in his body, every muscle taut beneath your touch, strung tight between restraint and ruin. His skin burned under your fingertips, feverish, as if he were caught in some exquisite purgatory—unsure whether to arch into your mouth or wrench himself away before he shattered completely.

“W-where will it be?” His voice was raw, stripped down to something fractured and wanting, each word a ragged breath torn from his chest.

You smiled—slow, deliberate, cruel in its sweetness—letting your lips ghost over the frantic pulse at his throat.

“My tongue?” you murmured, the words dripping like honey, thick and syrupy with promise. You let them linger, let them sink into his skin, let him feel them. “Is that what you want, Casper? My wicked tongue on you?” His cock twitched against your lips, already glistening at the tip—pale, flushed, aching for you. You could see the pulse of his heartbeat in it, the way his entire body trembled with the effort of holding back.

A shudder wracked through him, violent and helpless. His fingers twisted in the sheets, white-knuckled, like a man clinging to the last fraying thread of his control.

You exhaled, slow and warm, just to watch him squirm.

Then—finally—you pressed a single, lingering kiss to the head, tasting the salt-slick precome beading there. His hips jerked, a choked gasp tearing from his throat, but you held him down with one firm hand on his stomach, fingers splayed possessively over his trembling abdomen.

"Stay still."

A command, not a request.

You took him into your mouth with agonizing slowness, letting your tongue swirl lazily around the crown before sinking deeper, inch by torturous inch. His breath hitched, his fingers knotting in your hair—not pushing, just clinging, as if you were the only thing keeping him from drowning.

You hollowed your cheeks, dragging your lips up in a slow, filthy glide before plunging back down, savoring the way his thighs tensed, the way his stomach quivered under your palm.

Every movement was deliberate, calculated to unravel him—the flick of your tongue along the underside, the teasing scrape of teeth, the way you pulled off just to watch him whimper before swallowing him down again.

His voice was shattered, raw with desperation. "F-fuck—please—"

You hummed around him, the vibration wringing a broken moan from his lips. His grip tightened in your hair, his hips lifting in tiny, involuntary thrusts, but you controlled the pace, keeping it slow, maddening, until every ragged breath he took was your name.

My god—how you loved this—loved the way he unraveled, the way his breath came in sharp, uneven gasps, the way his hips jerked instinctively toward your mouth, betraying him entirely.

You dragged your nails down the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, feather-light, just enough to make him jolt, to pull another broken sound from his lips. His entire body was a live wire, every nerve alight, every tremor yours to command.

When you finally felt him tense, his whole body bowing off the bed, you locked your eyes with his—holding his gaze as you took him deep, deeper, until his release spilled hot and bitter down your throat.

And even then, you didn’t let go.

You milked him through it, lips sealed tight until he was shaking, oversensitive, gasping your name like a prayer. Only then did you pull away, licking your lips with slow, deliberate satisfaction.

"Good little reaper."

The words dripped from your tongue like silk, and just as you watched the shiver roll through him, an idea slithered into your mind—dark, tempting, irresistible.

Your smirk widened. “Oh… wait,” you purred, voice teasing, wicked.

“Grimmy, I have a surprise for you.”

Casper swallowed hard, his crimson eyes flickering with something caught between intrigue and apprehension. His hands twitched where they gripped the sheets, like he couldn't decide if he should push you away or pull you closer.

You smirked, trailing your fingers lazily down his chest before slipping away entirely, stepping back just enough to let the anticipation thicken between you. Slowly, deliberately, you turned, making sure he caught the full, teasing sway of your movements as you sauntered over to your suitcase in the hallway.

His breathing was uneven. He was watching you, waiting, completely caught in your spell. "You've been keeping secrets from me, mortal?" he murmured, his voice rough, strained.

You glanced at him over your shoulder, fingers toying with the zipper of your bag. "Oh, I was saving this for myself," you admitted, drawing out each word like honey, "but now? I think I need it right now."

You unzipped the suitcase slowly—so slowly it was almost maddening. The faint rasp of the metal teeth parting filled the dimly lit room, a whisper of sound against the thick silence. Casper tensed.

His haunted lungs hitched.

"You know," you mused, lifting out the little package you had tucked away, letting the low lamp light catch on the edges, "if you're onto me, that means I'm onto you, too."

A confession. A threat. A promise.

Casper's grip on the sheets tightened. "What… What are you planning?"

You turned fully now, holding the item in your hands, watching as his eyes darkened, his throat bobbing with an anxious swallow.

And with a wicked smile, you took a slow step toward the bed.

"Why don’t you let me show you, little reaper?"

It wasn’t long before you watched him, the way his body betrays every flicker of need: the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the restless curl of his fingers into the sheets, the way his throat works as he swallows hard, waiting.

Your hands glide over him, slow and deliberate, fingertips tracing the dip of his spine, the curve of his hip, the softness of his inner thigh—just to hear his breath catch.

Then, with a quiet, knowing hum, you press against him from behind, your body flush against his, the heat of your skin searing through the space between you.

The weight of your body against his back makes him shudder, and you smile, dragging your lips along the slope of his shoulder.

"Shh," you murmur, voice honey-thick, "I’ve got you."

Your fingers trail down the trembling plane of his thighs, circling the base of his cock with a teasing, featherlight touch. He shudders beneath you, breath hitching—already so close to unraveling, and you’ve barely begun.

You reach for your toy, covered in your slick, warmed between your thighs before you guide it to him, pressing in with a slow, relentless push—just enough to make his back arch, just enough to pull a low, his back arching as choked gasp spills from his lips.

"There you go," you croon, your free hand stroking him in time with each shallow thrust, your grip just tight enough to make his hips jerk. "Such a good little reaper, haunting me, trying to steal my soul."

You click your tongue, amused. "But you’re the one who’s trapped now, aren’t you?" You pause, letting him feel every inch, letting him burn with it.

“P-please ugh!” His fingers claw at the sheets, knuckles white, and you lean down, catching his earlobe between your teeth before whispering, "Tell me, Casper—do wraiths beg?"

Then your fingers find his, threading through them, palm to palm, your grip tight enough to ground him, to remind him—you’re here, you’re his, even as you take him apart.

And then you move.

A slow, deep roll from your hands, the drag of the toy inside him deliberate, maddening. His breath comes in ragged bursts, his fingers tightening around yours like a lifeline.

You thrust deeper, your hand working him faster now, twisting just the way he likes, and his answer comes in a broken moan, his body tightening around the toy as pleasure coils hot and desperate in his gut.

"That’s it," you purr, your breath hot against his skin. "Let me see you come undone. Let me watch you forget you ever wanted to haunt anyone but me."

His hips stutter, his cock pulsing in your hand as he spills over your fingers with a ragged cry, his body clenching around the toy in helpless, shuddering waves.

"It’s where you and I be." You started

A confession. A threat. A promise.

Your free hand skates up his chest, mapping the flutter of his heartbeat, the hitch of his ribs as he gasps. You can feel the way his body clenches around the toy, the way he trembles beneath you, caught between surrender and desperate, clawing need.

“If I’m on to you…" you whisper, your breath hot against his skin, pulling back just enough to catch his gaze—God, those eyes—deep red and drowning, pupils blown, lashes fluttering like he’s already lost to the tide of you.

"...then you’re on to me." A sharp inhale. A fractured moan. His lips part, trembling—wordless, aching, yours.

Your pace shifts—still deep, still relentless, but rougher now, each thrust punching a ragged sound from his throat. His fingers cling to yours, his body arching into every movement, every stroke, every touch like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

And oh, the sounds he makes—soft whimpers, breathless pleas, the way his voice breaks when you angle just right—it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard.

"Me... on to you." Your voice is a velvet snare, wrapping around him like smoke—dark, intoxicating, inescapable.

Casper arches beneath you, his body strung tight, every muscle trembling as you drive into him with slow, merciless precision. His fingers claw at the sheets, his breath coming in ragged, broken gasps.

"P-please—" he chokes out, his voice wrecked, desperate. "Let me—fuck, I need—"

You tighten your grip on his hips, nails biting into his skin just enough to make him whimper. "Need what?" you purr, dragging your lips along the shell of his ear. "Say it."

He shudders, his cock twitching against his stomach, already slick with pre-come. "Need to come," he rasps. "Please—please—"

You slow your thrusts to a torturous grind, savoring the way his body clenches around you, greedy and aching. “Aww, and what do I get?" you murmur, your breath hot against his throat.

His answer comes in a rush, raw and unguarded—

"My soul. My fucking—everything—just yours, only yours—"

Your hips stutter at that, just for a second. His soul? A reaper offering up the one thing he shouldn’t—couldn’t—give away. Your fingers slide up his chest, pressing over the frantic beat of his heart. "Careful," you warn, your voice rough. “…You don’t know what you’re asking for."

"I do," he gasps, writhing beneath you.

"I want it—want you to own me, ruin me, fucking keep me—just—ah!—promise you won’t take it. Promise you’ll leave it in me... so I can always be yours."

Your breath catches. Fuck.

"I'm on to you," you growl, sinking your teeth into his shoulder as you snap your hips forward, hard enough to punch a broken cry from his lips. "And you’re on to me."

Then you finally—finally—let him come.

His whole body seizes, back bowing off the bed as he spills over your fist with a shattered moan, his release hot and slick between your fingers. You don’t stop, fucking him through it, dragging out every last spasm until he’s sobbing, oversensitive and shaking.

When he’s limp beneath you, breathless and dazed, you lean down, lips brushing his ear. "Next time you try to steal my soul," you murmur, "make sure it's someone mine."

A weak, breathless laugh escapes him.

"Too late," he slurs, already half-gone. “I already have.”

You stare at him—really stare—before a slow, possessive smile curls into your mouth. “We’ll see…” you whisper, sealing the vow with a kiss pressed to his sweat-damp skin.

𝑒𝓍𝓉𝓇𝒶 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝑜𝓌: heheheheheh 🤭

The next day, the studio was bathed in artificial light, soft flashes illuminating the minimalist set—a white backdrop, an expensive chaise, and the ever-irritated grim reaper standing awkwardly in the middle of it all. The entire team moved like clockwork around him, adjusting lights, fixing props, and directing him to pose.

But Casper?

Casper refused to sit down. Not once.

Not even when the photographer, sighed dramatically and gestured toward the antique chair, "All right, Casper, just take a seat and—"

"No."

The team collectively blinked. The photographer looked ready to throw his clipboard across the room.

“Casper, darling, please,” the director whined, exasperated, “I promise it won’t kill you—”

Casper shot the man a look so venomous that it could have rotted a bouquet of flowers on the spot. Still, he did not sit.

Instead, he remained standing, shifting uncomfortably on his feet, the weight never settling. Every so often, his fingers twitched, like he was debating if it was worth committing homicide in front of an audience.

And you?

You were having the time of your life.

It was everything you could do not to burst into laughter as you lounged off to the side, sipping on an overpriced iced tea like you weren’t the reason for his predicament. “Casper, oh my, are you okay?” your boss finally asked, tilting her head, eyes narrowing slightly at the his suspicious behavior.

Casper tensed. His glare flickered toward you, burning and accusing, as if daring you to say something.

You met his gaze head-on.

Then, with all the innocence of a saint, you shrugged.

“Beats me,” you mused, sipping your drink, barely holding back a smirk.

Casper's fingers twitched violently.

You were the reason he couldn’t sit. You.

The reason he stood like he had a permanent problem. The reason he looked like he was seriously reconsidering his entire existence.

Casper exhaled sharply, silently cursing your entire bloodline, before begrudgingly suffering through the rest of the shoot. By the time it wrapped up, he was the first to disappear, slipping away the moment the cameras stopped flashing.

You found him soon after, tucked away at the back of the dressing room. The space was lined with racks of designer clothes, mirrors catching glimpses of his reflection at every angle—but despite all that, your attention never wavered.

The only thing that mattered was him.

Casper sat near the vanity, arms crossed, eyes still smoldering from earlier.

You, on the other hand, were having fun. While the others took their break, you stayed behind, deciding it would be an excellent opportunity to mess with him further.

And somehow, that led to you dressing him for another shoot.

“Why am I letting you do this?” he grumbled as you straightened his collar, adjusting the fit of the sleek black suit you had thrown onto him.

“Because you have no choice,” you mused, hands lingering just a little longer than necessary, smoothing the fabric over his chest. “And because, deep down, you love it.”

Casper scoffed. “I loathe it.”

"Aww, you hurt because I fucked you with my dildo, right?" Your voice dripped with mock sympathy, babying him, laced with the kind of teasing cruelty that made his spine stiffen. You dragged a finger down the sweat-slick plane of his back, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch. "Poor Grimmy. So ruined by me."

Casper’s breath hitched, his fingers digging into his clothing like he was trying to tear them apart. "Shut up," he growled, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him, a face fully red.

You laughed, low and wicked, "And here I though you loved it," you purred, relishing the way his body shuddered beneath you. "You fucking nutted everywhere... like some desperate little thing."

His reaction was instant—a sharp inhale, a flash of crimson in his darkened gaze as he twisted to glare at you.

"You said you wouldn’t say that out loud!”

"Did I?" You blinked, all false innocence, before grinning like the devil you were. "Oops."

His fingers twitched. Then again. Closer. Tighter. Oh?

You watched, amused, as his control frayed at the edges, his jaw clenched so tight you could almost hear his teeth grinding. For a second, you wondered if he’d actually do it—if those long, pale fingers would finally snap around your throat in retaliation.

And then—

He moved.

Casper had you pinned against the wall, his body caging you in, his eyes burning like hellfire. "This ends tonight," he snarled, gripping your chin hard enough to bruise, forcing your gaze up to his.

"I’m taking your soul, mortal."

You blinked. Then—you smiled.

"Oh, Grimmy..."

Before he could react, you struck.

A twist of your wrist, a shift of your weight, and suddenly he was the one pressed against the wall, your body flush against his, your knee sliding between his thighs just to hear the way his breath stuttered.

The dim light carved shadows across his face, highlighting the way his lips parted—in shock, in fury, in something far more dangerous. His chest rose and fell beneath your palm, his heartbeat a frantic, uneven rhythm against your fingertips.

You leaned in, close enough that your lips brushed his as you spoke.

"You can’t take my soul, Casper."

"Because I already took yours."

His breath stopped. For a single, suspended moment, the world held still. His crimson eyes widened, his body rigid against yours, his mind scrambling to process the words—to deny them. "You—" His voice was rough, raw, ruined.

You pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him with a smirk.

"Shhh," you cooed, tilting your head like he was some misbehaving little pet. “I mean you gave it to me, willing in fact.”

He jerked his face away, his jaw clenched tight, but you didn’t miss the way his pulse jumped beneath your touch. "U-Uh I mean—Like, How?" he demanded, voice low, trembling with something between fury and fascination. "You're a mortal, a human—"

You tsked, tracing a slow, deliberate path down his throat, feeling the way his Adam’s apple bobbed under your fingertips.

"Now, now," you murmured, your smile all teeth. "A person like me never reveals their secrets."

His entire body shuddered, his control unraveling thread by thread, his fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to push you away or drag you closer.

Fuck, he was beautiful like this.

The so-called Grim Reaper, known to be the terror of the underworld—reduced to this. To being yours.

You leaned in, your lips a breath away from his, your voice a whisper.

"You should be thanking me," you murmured, your hand sliding lower, teasing, taunting. "Not every reaper gets the privilege of being claimed."

His breath hitched, rough as a serrated edge. "Claimed—?"

"Mhm." Your lips brushed his jaw, slow, deliberate, savoring his pulse beneath your mouth. "The underworld gifted me something special..." Your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his pants, smirking as his hips jerked, and his teeth gritted against a moan.

"A little grim reaper to keep all for myself."

And then—his control shattered.

With a snarl, he grabbed your wrists, slamming you back against the wall. His body pinned yours, every hard line of him a brand, a conquest, a promise. His eyes burned like hellfire, lips parted around ragged breaths, chest heaving with the weight of something feral, something hungry.

And then he kissed you.

His mouth crashed against yours, such as teeth and tongue, and desperate. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound like a sinner taking communion, his grip on your wrists tightening to the brink of pain.

There was like no gentleness here, no hesitation—like damnnn you really dragged out of him.

You laughed into his mouth, "I know if I'm haunting you…" You pulled back just enough to watch his lashes flutter, to see the way his lips chased yours, already addicted. Your breath mingled, hot, and shared, the space between you thick with the scent of sweat and sin.

And as his groan vibrated against your lips, as his hands slid from your wrists to your waist, dragging you impossibly closer. Then, with a smirk, you kissed him again—slow this time, deliberate, a velvet stroke of the tongue that had him shuddering...

"…You must be haunting me."

#a date with death #grim reaper x reader #casper x reader #a date with death x reader #two and a half studios #a date with death casper #a date with death grim #sub casper #bottom casper #casper x mc #casper adwd #a date with death vn #adwd

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michanvalentine · 5 months ago

Text

Of course, Astarion wants to ascend. He wants it so much, it’s as clear as day. He has never hidden how much he ideally likes the idea of power—to elevate himself from his current position, to ensure his safety, to bend others to his will (instead of being the one who is bent). And if he can also walk in the sun and never feel the hunger pangs again, even better!

But let’s not forget that Astarion has a limited worldview. Cazador himself says it in one of his confrontations with Tav/Durge: "He is afraid. He is afraid because all he has ever known is you and me, and without us, he is nothing."

Astarion does not have a well-developed sense of self, and by default, he also lacks many of the skills that a well-adjusted adult should possess. So, to navigate life, he can either rely on the worldview presented by Cazador (power, power, power, and more power—to place himself above others) or the one offered by Tav/Durge, assuming they are a heroic figure. Otherwise, the only perspective left is that of power, and Ascending becomes almost natural in an evil playthrough (which I myself did in my villain run). Ascending Astarion in a good playthrough, however, seems completely contradictory to me, but whatever…

Let’s not forget that power is not Astarion’s driving force—power is only a means to an end. His real driving force is fear, as both Cazador and Scleritas emphasize. He would do anything to feel safe (like becoming a half-Illithid if scared enough by Tav/Durge—even though he rejects that idea with every fiber of his being, and yet…). The scene with the dryad, Naoise Nallinto, in Astarion’s origin run makes it crystal clear: when she uses her power on him, among all the possible choices (wealth, respect, power, etc.), Astarion’s personal wish is to feel safe, not power—even though power is explicitly one of the options. But it’s not his!

Oh, and Astarion himself spells it out, right before the final decision between Ascending or not. His exact words: "One final thrust, and I'll be free of you. I will never have to fear you again. And if I complete the ritual you started, I'll never have to fear anyone. Ever."

Everything revolves around fear, which is once again emphasized in the insight check—where it becomes obvious what is driving him and what is simultaneously holding him back from making a rational decision. Because while it’s true that he wants to ascend, he also wants to redeem himself. Well yes, it's shocking, folks, but two completely opposite desires can exist within the same person. They're called internal contradictions, and we all experience them every day or almost ("Oh, damn, I want to go out with my friends tonight, but I also want to just lie on the couch and watch TV").

Let’s not pretend this character is one-dimensional and that all these dialogue lines don’t exist when discussing Astarion. Of course he wants to ascend—he wants it so badly. The point is understanding why he wants it. And then questioning whether giving in to that fear is truly worth it, considering the consequences and what he would be giving up (because even Ascending comes with its own sacrifices, and I’m not even talking about his soul or the 7,000 people).

That’s why, if they choose to, Tav/Durge can intervene and make him reflect on the alternative (which, depending on how you play your Tav, could have been introduced to him from the very beginning of the adventure—it’s not something that just comes out of nowhere, unless you’re playing completely incoherently).

And it’s Astarion himself, in one of the most beautiful dialogues in the entire game, who explicitly states this lesson he has learned. When Durge is overcome with despair and fear—just like him—and tries to end the relationship, Astarion says: "This little adventure of ours has taught me that we can't let our lives be ruled by fear, or else we'll never truly live."

He has understood. He has grown. He has accepted that uncomfortable emotion and has decided not to be consumed by it—to choose for himself without letting fear dictate his actions. And I couldn’t be prouder of him.

One last thing, because I’ve seen it repeated a lot on social media: Ascending is not Astarion’s lifelong dream—it is Cazador’s dream. Astarion didn’t even know this kind of ritual existed until five minutes before it happened, so no, Tav/Durge is not cruelly ripping away his lifelong dream just for the sake of moral superiority. And above all, they are not forcing him to give it up—but I’ve already talked about this before, and I’m not going to repeat myself.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 astarion #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #baldurs gate 3 astarion #astarion bg3 #baldur's gate astarion

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edenesth · 8 months ago

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01. The Captain — By Order of the Black Pirates

An 'Ice On My Teeth' Comeback Special Series

Pairing: gang leader!Hongjoong x fem!reader

AU: gang au

Word Count: 18.1k

Summary: The Captain of the Black Pirates—respected, feared, and unmatched in strategy—lives by his sharp mind and unshakable resolve. But his carefully constructed world begins to crumble when a grave mistake leads him to torture an innocent suspect nearly to death. Haunted by guilt, his quest for redemption takes an unexpected turn, awakening a part of him he never thought existed: a desire to protect and care for someone.

Genre: angst, hurt/comfort

Trigger Warnings: violence, torture, abuse, blood, scars, mentions of murder and SA, language, contains dark themes in general

SERIES MASTERLIST | ATEEZ MASTERLIST

The dim glow of lantern light flickered across the room as the gang leader held the letter between his fingers, turning it over with a scrutinising gaze. His brow arched slightly, the ivory wax seal bearing the unmistakable insignia of the White Serpents—a gang notorious for their cunning and deception, their pristine image masking venomous intent. Silent but deadly, serpents poised to strike. And Hongjoong knew them well.

"Well?" His voice was calm, almost amused, as he studied the coded message in his hand.

Yunho exhaled sharply with a shake of his head, frustration etched across his face. "She's stubborn. Won't admit to a thing. Twenty-four hours, and still nothing."

The Captain's smirk widened, dark amusement playing in his eyes. "Really? Even with this treacherous letter in her possession?" He tapped the envelope lightly. "Twenty-four hours… that's impressive. No dog has ever lasted that long." His tone was laced with mock intrigue. "Perhaps she's an especially loyal one. How interesting."

He leaned back, nodding toward the heavy iron doors leading to the basement, his voice low and confident. "A tough one to crack, no doubt. But they all crack… eventually." The distant echo of chains rattling and the creak of the doors opening sent a chill through the air. The game had only just begun.

Let's see just how long you can last.

The room was dim, suffocating in its silence, the air thick with tension and the metallic scent of damp stone. Your breath hitched as consciousness clawed its way back, and the cold, unforgiving chill bit at your drenched skin. You blinked through the sting of icy water clinging to your lashes, your trembling gaze rising to meet the source of the voice that shattered the oppressive stillness.

"Congratulations, miss!" The sudden, mocking boom made you flinch, fear coiling tighter around your chest. "You're the first to last a full day in these chambers. How very impressive!"

The man before you was smaller than the one who had been 'questioning' you earlier—a tall, lanky figure whose blows you could still feel—but this one's presence was far more terrifying. Cold authority radiated from him, his smile a twisted mockery of warmth. He stepped closer, his sharp eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "I trust my boys have treated you well."

A shiver tore through you, body wracked with uncontrollable tremors—whether from the bitter cold or the malice in his voice, you couldn't tell. His grin widened, and the false politeness only made it worse. "Fear not, my lady," he purred, his tone soft and deadly. "I'll treat you even better… until you decide to be honest, of course."

Your heart sank into the pit of your stomach, despair crashing over you. You tried to shake your head, but your body was too weak and cold to offer feeble resistance. And yet, you knew—this was only the beginning.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you wished for the thousandth—no, the millionth—time that this was all a nightmare. The cold seeped into your bones, but it wasn't just the chill that made you tremble. It was the gnawing fear, the hopelessness that clung to you like a second skin.

How did it come to this?

You replayed the events over and over in your mind, searching for an answer, but all you found was confusion. Just a day or two ago, you had been weaving through the bustling port, arms laden with imported goods for your employer. The crowded streets were alive with noise—merchants shouting, sailors hauling cargo, smugglers slipping through the shadows. You had only wanted to return to work, unaware that fate had already marked you.

Then it happened. A sharp turn into an alley. The sudden grip of rough hands. Black-clothed men cornering you like wolves circling their prey, eyes sharp and merciless. Their accusations—espionage, treachery—made no sense. You tried to explain, voice trembling, but they didn't listen. Not until they tore through your belongings and fished out a letter—one you had never seen before.

The blow came swiftly, a fist to your face, and the world went dark.

Now, here you were. Broken. Bleeding. Trapped in a nightmare you couldn't escape.

"P-please… I d-don't know who the Wh-white Serpents are," you stammered, forcing your swollen eye open to meet the man who seemed to command the room, his presence suffocating. "I s-swear…"

Hongjoong's tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, his irritation barely concealed behind a mask of feigned calm. "You know," he said, his voice laced with a dangerous softness, "I was really hoping you wouldn't say that again." He exhaled in a mock sigh, his patience wearing thin. "Now you've left me no choice."

With deliberate steps, he moved toward the glowing embers at the far side of the room. The fire crackled, and your breath hitched when he wrapped his hand around a hot branding iron, its tip glowing ominously.

No, please...

Panic surged through you, and tears spilt uncontrollably down your cheeks. You didn't even have the strength to sob anymore. You could only watch in frozen terror as he turned back, the iron in his grasp radiating heat and menace.

"Come on," he cooed, voice deceptively gentle. "I'd really hate to ruin such pretty skin. All you have to do is be a good girl—tell me what this blasted letter says. Tell me the name of your boss." His grin was sharp, dangerous, but beneath it, you sensed his patience was threadbare.

The White Serpents. The name alone ignited his fury. Their faces were always hidden, their identities a mystery. Even their leader remained a ghost, a phantom in white. And that infuriated him more than anything—an enemy he couldn't see, couldn't predict.

And now, you were his only lead.

The room seemed to shrink under the weight of his frustration. The dim light flickered over the cold stone walls, shadows dancing like spectres of every soul that had suffered here before you. His grip on the branding iron tightened, the metal searing hot in his hand, glowing with menace. He didn't want to take this step—truly, he didn't. But the memory of how they found you replayed in his mind, solidifying his certainty.

You were guilty. You had to be.

He clenched his jaw, recalling the chaos at the port. The Black Pirates were in the midst of a crucial covert operation, tensions strung taut like a wire. They had been waiting for the White Serpents to make a move, for the elusive spy to slip through their defences. The streets were crowded, the perfect cover for deception.

Then there was you.

A simple girl, or so it seemed, navigating the busy market with unsuspecting ease. Unbeknownst to you, the real spy—the one they had been hunting—moved silently through the crowd. In a calculated move, the informant slipped the coded letter into your bag and vanished into the sea of bodies before anyone could catch him.

Hongjoong's men, sharp-eyed and vigilant, saw the handoff. They reacted swiftly, believing they had caught the elusive spy. You were cornered in the alley, fear etched across your face as you begged for understanding, your confusion only cementing their suspicions. The letter was damning enough. Evidence was evidence, and the Captain trusted his crew's intelligence.

But now, staring at you—broken, trembling, tears staining your bruised cheeks—he felt the edges of his certainty fraying. You persisted in your pleas, clinging to innocence with a desperation that should have crumbled by now. And yet… you hadn't.

"Last chance, woman," he said coldly, his voice like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. The heat from the iron radiated, the threat palpable. "There will be no going back from here. I'm sure you know that."

He meant the words as a warning for you, a final offer before he left mercy behind. But deep down, perhaps they were a warning for himself, too—a foreshadowing he didn't yet grasp.

You shook your head weakly, trembling from exhaustion and terror. Still no confession. Still the same maddening persistence.

Hongjoong raised the branding iron, holding it close to your battered face. His eyes burned with something dangerous, something teetering between anger and frustration.

"Well then," he murmured, his voice low and dangerous, the finality in his tone sealing your fate—or so he thought.

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The air in the torture chamber hung heavy with the acrid stench of scorched flesh, mingling with the damp chill of the stone walls. His cold, calculating gaze never wavered as he watched you, unconscious and crumpled on the floor, your body trembling even in unconsciousness. The mark of the Black Pirates seared into your back, raw and angry, a testament to the brutality you'd endured.

"That'll scar for life," one of his men muttered, a mix of awe and amusement in his voice.

Hongjoong let out a low, humourless chuckle, his eyes dark with unrelenting resolve. "For life?" he echoed, tilting his head slightly. "How optimistic. I doubt she'll live long enough to see the next sunrise if she continues to be this stubborn."

His voice was void of emotion, laced with a chilling indifference that sent a shiver through even the most hardened of his men. He didn't enjoy this—not exactly—but he had no patience for weakness. If you wouldn't talk, you were nothing but a liability, and liabilities were dealt with swiftly.

He turned away for a moment, tossing the branding iron back into the fire with a careless flick of his wrist. Embers exploded in every direction, but he paid them no mind. "We've wasted enough time on her," he said, voice cold and final. "If she doesn't confess after this, end it. Finish her."

The room fell silent, save for the crackling of the fire, the finality of his words hanging in the air like a death sentence. One of the guards nodded, his expression stoic. "Of course, boss."

Hongjoong motioned toward the bucket of dirty water beside you, its murky surface rippling with the slightest movement. "Wake her," he commanded, his voice devoid of mercy, anticipating the agony that would soon follow.

The guard lifted the bucket with ease, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim as he approached. Without hesitation, he tilted it, the filthy water cascading over your battered body. The moment the contaminated water hit your wounds, especially the fresh burn, your body convulsed violently.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and guttural, piercing through the oppressive stillness. It wasn't the kind of scream that came from fear—it was the sound of pure, unfiltered agony.

The Captain didn't flinch. He stood tall, arms crossed, watching with a detached curiosity as you writhed on the floor. "That's better," he muttered, almost to himself. "Now, let's see if you're ready to talk."

He crouched down beside you, his face an unreadable mask. "Final chance," he said softly, almost tenderly, as if mocking your suffering. "Who sent you?" His voice dipped lower, dangerously calm. "Or would you prefer to die in this filth, unloved and forgotten?"

The only response was the ragged sound of your breath, broken sobs wracking your body. His patience was wearing thin, and though he was a man known for his control, he was ready to end this.

A shuddering breath escaped your lips, each gasp searing through your lungs like fire. The icy water clung to your battered body, every drop seeping into your open wounds, amplifying the unbearable pain. Your vision blurred, the dim room spinning into shadows and smoke, but you clung to the fragments of your thoughts, the last remnants of who you were.

This is it, you thought, the realisation settling over you with a strange, hollow calm. This is how it ends.

You didn't know why these monsters had dragged you into their nightmare, why they believed you were a spy. You didn't understand the cruel fate that had brought you here, only that it had. And now, there was no escape. The man before you, with his cold eyes and cruel smirk, had made that clear.

Your body trembled violently, not from the cold but from the acceptance creeping into your heart. Death will be a mercy, you thought. Better this than more agony.

Closing your eyes, you let the numbness wash over you, a strange kind of peace taking root beneath the layers of fear. You thought of your friends—the laughter shared over simple joys. You thought of your family, their faces blurred by memory but still holding warmth. And you thought of your employer, the one person who had seen worth in you when the world turned away. You prayed they would not grieve too long. You prayed they would find solace.

I'll watch over them, you promised silently. From wherever I'm going.

The wet, acrid air filled your lungs, heavy and suffocating. Every second stretched into eternity, and you waited for the final blow, the one that would release you. Your heartbeat slowed, the frantic rhythm giving way to a dull, distant echo.

And then, the room grew deathly quiet.

Hongjoong remained crouched, studying you, his iron grip on control unwavering. He didn't speak immediately, and that was almost worse. The silence pressed down, a suffocating weight, as if the world was holding its breath.

"Still nothing?" His voice was soft now, eerily gentle, like a predator savouring the last moments before the kill.

You didn't respond. Couldn't. There was nothing left to say. You were ready for the end.

And then, with a slow exhale, you heard him murmur almost to himself, "What a shame."

The gang leader let out a long, slow breath, his head shaking slightly, a humourless smile curving his lips. His eyes lingered on your broken form, slumped over, trembling and soaked, but utterly still, as if you had already crossed into death's grasp. Your eyes fluttered shut, the last spark of defiance extinguished. With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet, dusting off his coat with deliberate care, and with a curt nod, gestured toward his men.

"Finish it."

The words were cold and final, slicing through the room like a blade. One of the guards stepped forward, the metallic click of his gun cocking echoing in the dim space, followed by the low scrape of his boot on the wet floor. Hongjoong turned his back on you, jaw tight, waiting for the shot to ring out, waiting for the moment to pass so he could move on from this wasted effort.

But then— footsteps. Quick and urgent, echoing down the stone stairway.

"Wait."

The voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like a sudden gust of wind. The room froze, the guard's finger hovering over the trigger as all eyes turned toward the stairs. Yeosang emerged from the shadows, his usual cool composure replaced by something unsettled. His sharp gaze darted toward your barely conscious form before locking onto his captain, his face unreadable, but his unease unmistakable.

Hongjoong's brow lifted in mild curiosity, though his patience was wearing thin. "What is it, Yeo?" he asked, voice clipped as the Phantom strode forward, his expression grave.

Yeosang leaned in close, his voice low but firm as he murmured something into the gang leader's ear, too quiet for the others to hear. Whatever he said, it landed like a blow. Hongjoong's entire posture shifted. His jaw clenched, his fists curling and uncurling at his sides as he processed the whispered words.

The room held its collective breath.

After what felt like an eternity, the Captain straightened, his eyes dark with a new kind of frustration, though there was no mistaking the glimmer of something else—regret? Anger? It was impossible to tell.

His voice, when it came, was sharp and decisive. "Release her."

The room erupted in a flurry of confusion, but no one dared question him. The guard with the gun hesitated for only a second before lowering it, stepping back. Another moved to untie the chains binding your wrists, the cold iron clattering to the floor as your limp body crumpled forward.

Hongjoong's gaze never wavered, his face carved from stone as he watched you collapse. His men obeyed without question, though their confusion was palpable, the tension still thick in the air.

As you slumped to the ground, barely conscious, he let out another breath, slow and controlled, his eyes narrowing in thought.

"Take her to the infirmary," he commanded, voice icy but steady. "And keep her alive."

His men exchanged uncertain glances but quickly moved to obey, lifting your frail body with care as they carried you out. He remained rooted, his eyes lingering on the bloodstained floor, his fists clenched once more as Yeosang watched him silently.

"I hope for your sake," Hongjoong muttered under his breath, "this wasn't a mistake."

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The heavy oak door to his office slammed shut behind him, the echo reverberating through the grand but cold space. Hongjoong paced across the dimly lit room, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls, but offering no warmth. His hand shook slightly as he poured another shot of whiskey, the amber liquid splashing over the rim. He didn't care. He downed it in one swift motion, the burn doing little to drown the bile rising in his throat.

Wrong person.

His brother's words replayed in his mind like a curse, each syllable a dagger to his pride.

"Hyung, we got the wrong person. She's not the spy—the real one escaped. This woman was just... there. A scapegoat."

He squeezed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached. The whiskey glass slammed down on the desk, the sharp crack of glass against wood making his men just outside the door flinch. But none dared to enter. They knew better.

His fists balled at his sides, trembling with suppressed rage—at Yeosang, at his crew, at himself. The sight of your bloodied form flashed in his mind, the raw agony in your voice as he pressed the searing iron into your skin. He could still hear the echoes of your pleas, the desperate, broken words you had whispered over and over: I'm not who you think I am... please...

He should have known.

How could he have missed it? The way you had looked at him, not with defiance or guilt but with pure, unfiltered fear and confusion. He was Kim Hongjoong, the Captain of the Black fuckin' Pirates—his instincts had never failed him before. Yet this time, he had been blinded by rage, by the need for control, and it had led him to commit an unforgivable mistake.

His knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the desk, the polished surface groaning under the strain. No amount of wealth or power in this city could erase the image of your battered, broken body lying on the cold floor. The branded mark he had burned into your back would scar, not just on your skin but in his mind, forever.

The Black Pirates were ruthless, yes, but not reckless. Innocents were not meant to be collateral unless there was no other choice. This... this was different. It was unacceptable.

He let out a low, bitter laugh, hollow and laced with self-loathing. "How could this happen?" he muttered to no one, his voice cracking. "I'm the one who doesn't make mistakes."

But this was a mistake. A fatal one, if Yeosang hadn't intervened.

The storm inside him raged on, unrelenting. No amount of whiskey could drown it, no fire could warm the cold knot in his chest. For the first time in years, Kim Hongjoong felt something foreign and unwelcome searing through him.

Regret.

He sank into the leather chair behind his desk, elbows on his knees, head bowed. His hands covered his face, shaking as if he could scrub away the guilt, the shame. But it was branded on him now, just as deeply as the mark he had scorched into your skin.

After what felt like hours, he remained in his office, standing by the window, the golden light of the waning sun casting a sharp contrast against the deep shadows in the room. His gaze pierced through the glass, locking onto the tall, black gates of their mansion—gates that symbolised power, control, and security. Yet today, they felt like bars of a prison. He imagined how those gates must have looked to you, cold and foreboding, as you were dragged inside, far from the life you knew, thrust into a nightmare you hadn't earned.

He clenched his jaw, fists curling at his sides as the weight of his guilt continued to press down on him. One mistake. One mistake. That's all it had taken to bring you here. A mistake from his men, from him, and it had led to your torture. His throat tightened as those cruel memories clawed at him: your ragged pleas, your broken body, and worst of all, his voice—cold, detached, ruthless—demanding answers you didn't have.

Remorse surged through him, an agonising tide that refused to ebb. His own words echoed in his mind, venomous and unforgiving: "Be a good girl and tell us what this blasted letter says." His stomach twisted, the taste of bile bitter on his tongue.

He turned away from the window, squeezing his eyes shut as he clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp as if the pain could drown out the memories. But it only intensified the haunting vision that consumed him: his mother's lifeless eyes, staring into nothingness, wide with fear and betrayal. She had died for nothing—used, discarded, and left to rot by men who saw her as collateral damage. All for debts that weren't hers to pay.

He had been just a boy—useless and powerless—as he watched her lifeblood seep into the dirt, all because of his degenerate father, who had left them behind with nothing but mountains of debt. The loan sharks had spared him, a mistake they didn't live to regret. Hongjoong had spent years rising from the ashes of that helpless child, becoming the monster who hunted monsters, the leader who swore to tear down anyone who preyed on the innocent.

Yet now, here he was, no different from the men who had taken his mother from him.

He slammed a fist onto the desk, the sharp crack splitting the heavy silence. His breathing was ragged, uneven, as his mind spiralled into the past. He had sworn not to harm the innocent.

But he had failed. He had repeated the very sin that had shaped him.

They weren't heroes. The Black Pirates were thieves, smugglers, outlaws. But they lived by one code: never harm those who didn't deserve it. They stole from the corrupt, the greedy, those who exploited the powerless. They were not saviours, but they were not supposed to be butchers either.

And now, because of his blindness, you lay broken and scarred—an innocent woman caught in the crossfire of his rage.

His hands trembled as he dragged them through his hair, staring blankly at the dark wood beneath him. His reflection in the glass across the room looked unfamiliar—haunted, lost, and consumed by a regret that would never fade.

How can I ever make this right?

The oppressive silence in the room was broken by a familiar deep voice, one he always sought when the weight of leadership became too much. "She's stable," Seonghwa said, his tone calm yet sombre.

Hongjoong exhaled a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, relief flooding through him like a tide that couldn't quite wash away the guilt. "Stable," he echoed, the word offering little solace.

His brother stepped closer, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound between them. "They've patched her up... but I don't think some of the scars will ever go away." His voice dipped into something quieter, almost apologetic. "Especially not that mark."

The gang leader winced, his fingers tightening into trembling fists. The brand—his brand—seared into her back, a permanent testament to his cruelty. "The mark," he muttered, voice hoarse with regret. "She'll carry it because of me."

Seonghwa leaned against the edge of the desk, folding his arms, watching him with a measured gaze. "Because of us," he corrected, though the words offered no comfort. "But this isn't like you. You don't make mistakes like this."

Hongjoong let out a hollow, bitter laugh. "And yet, I did. I fucked up. She begged, Hwa." His voice cracked, raw and ragged. "She begged, and I didn't listen."

The eldest's face softened, but he didn't look away. "Regret is pointless if it doesn't drive change," he said quietly. "We can't undo what's been done. But maybe... maybe we can still make it right."

Hongjoong looked up, his eyes hollow but desperate. "How?"

Seonghwa met his gaze, steady and unwavering. "By giving her a choice. Her freedom. Protection if she wants it. You can't erase the scars, but you can make sure she's never harmed again."

The Captain's jaw clenched. "And if she wants nothing from us? If she wants nothing to do with the Black Pirates?"

"Then you let her go," Seonghwa replied simply, his voice steady. "With the assurance that she'll never have to fear us again."

Hongjoong leaned back in his chair, tension coiling in his shoulders. "I don't deserve forgiveness."

"No," the Gentleman agreed softly, his voice firm but kind. "But it's not about what you deserve. It's about what she does."

The words hung in the air, heavier than any weapon, cutting deeper than any blade.

Hongjoong dragged his hands through his hair, the tremor in them betraying the turmoil within. "Tell them to keep her comfortable," he whispered, voice barely audible. "And... let me know when she wakes up."

Seonghwa inclined his head, moving toward the door but paused before stepping out. "You may never forgive yourself, Joong," he said, his voice softer now, "but that doesn't mean you can't try to do better."

As the door clicked shut behind him, the leader was left alone with the echoes of his guilt—and the faintest, most fragile glimmer of hope.

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The quiet hum of the infirmary filled the air, broken only by the soft rustle of sheets and the faint crackle of the oil lamp on the bedside table. Hongjoong stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes locked on your still form lying on the cot. The sight twisted something deep inside him, the sharp pang of guilt slicing through him once again.

"Hyung?" Jongho's voice pulled him from his reverie, soft but laced with surprise. "Why are you here?" His brows knitted together in confusion as he stepped closer. "Seonghwa hyung said to only inform you when she's awake. She's not—"

The gang leader cut him off with a subtle shake of his head. "I had to see if she's okay... for myself." His voice was low, almost a whisper. "You're dismissed. I'll take over."

Jongho hesitated, his eyes searching his leader's face, filled with concern and something unspoken. "Hyung..."

"I won't..." Hongjoong's voice faltered, his throat tightening. "I won't hurt her any further, Jongho."

The youngest sighed softly, the tension in the room heavy between them. "That's not what I—"

"I know," Hongjoong interrupted, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. "It's fine. Just... go thank the doctor for me."

Jongho lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on the Captain's worn expression. Finally, he gave a respectful bow of his head. "I'll be nearby if you need me."

With that, the Anchor left, the door clicking softly shut behind him, leaving Hongjoong alone with the stillness once more.

He stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots, and sank into the chair beside the bed. His hands trembled as he clasped them together, resting them on his knees. He could barely bring himself to look at you, the bandages wrapped around your body stark against your pale skin, the ghost of the agony he had inflicted still lingering in the air.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words breaking like fragile glass. "Fuck, I'm so sorry."

The apology felt hollow, inadequate, but it was all he had. He sat there, staring at you, hoping that somehow, even in sleep, you might hear him. But the only response was the steady rise and fall of your chest, the rhythmic proof that you were alive.

Alive, but not whole.

He leaned back, his head tipping against the wall, the weight of everything crushing down on him. For the first time in years, Kim Hongjoong—the feared Captain of the Black Pirates—felt utterly powerless.

His eyes, unwilling to linger any longer on the bandages covering your wounded body, drifted downward. There, beneath the cot, something caught his attention. A crumpled, dirt-streaked tote bag sat neglected, its once vibrant fabric marred by careless fingerprints—his men's fingerprints.

He furrowed his brows and leaned forward, retrieving the bag with careful hands as if it might break apart at any moment. The stitching was amateur but charming, the drawings simple yet endearing. Scrawled in bright, cheerful lettering at the centre were the words Marigold Gift Shop.

It looked so out of place here in the dim and sterile infirmary, like a splash of sunlight drowning in shadow.

He set the bag on his lap and gently pried it open. The contents were jumbled, chaotic, but it was clear that everything inside once held meaning. Trinkets, small souvenirs from the port—a handful of seashells, a hand-painted keychain, and a delicate glass charm in the shape of a flower. These were not the belongings of a spy.

He reached deeper and pulled out a tiny notebook, its edges worn from use. His fingers brushed over the cover before flipping it open. The pages were filled with neat, dainty handwriting—simple lists:

Small wooden carvings

Candles (lavender & sea breeze)

Handmade bookmarks

Seashell jewellery

It wasn't just a list of purchases—it was a routine, mundane, innocent.

Hongjoong's throat constricted, and his hands trembled as the realisation struck him anew: you had been working. You had been on an errand for your job at the Marigold Gift Shop when they dragged you into their nightmare.

His vision blurred, his breath catching in his chest.

You had no idea who they were. No idea what danger you had stumbled into. You were just there, in the wrong place at the wrong time, and it cost you everything.

Hongjoong squeezed the notebook shut, resting it against his forehead as though it could somehow absolve him of the crushing guilt. People must be looking for you—your friends, your family, your employer. The ones who had sent you on this errand, trusting you would return safely.

And now, what could he give them? A broken, scarred version of the vibrant soul they had lost. How could he face them? How could he return you to them like this?

He sat in silence, the only sound in the room the steady rhythm of your breathing and the occasional drip of water from the infirmary's ceiling. His gaze lingered on the crumpled tote bag resting on his lap, its cheerful colours muted beneath the grime. His fingers traced the fabric absentmindedly before he noticed the bucket of clean water and a spare rag near your cot.

For reasons he didn't fully understand, he stood and reached for the rag, dipping it into the water. The cloth came away damp and cool, and he squeezed out the excess with slow, deliberate movements. It was a strange sight—Kim Hongjoong, feared leader of the Black Pirates, bent over a bag, carefully wiping away the dirt and grime.

He worked in silence, the world narrowing to this singular task. Each stroke of the rag against the fabric felt like an apology he couldn't utter aloud. Slowly, painstakingly, he cleaned the tote, rubbing away the stains until the bright colours began to peek through again. The cheerful drawings and stitched patterns reemerged, fragile yet resilient beneath the care of his steady hands.

Piece by piece, he began to arrange your belongings. The trinkets were cleaned and carefully set back in place—each seashell, the delicate glass flower charm, the hand-painted keychain. He smoothed out the tiny notebook, the pages no longer crumpled but straightened with the same precision he reserved for the most critical of plans.

As he worked, he felt a strange lightness settle over him. He hadn't noticed the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips until it faded, replaced by the weight of reality as his gaze shifted back to you.

The bag, now pristine, sat neatly on the table beside you, a quiet testament to his care—a care no one, not even his brothers, had seen in years.

He stood there for a long moment, staring at you, at the bandages wrapped around your broken body, and the regret clawed at his chest again. His smile had vanished entirely, replaced by the grim determination that only guilt could bring.

How could he make this right? How could he even begin? Would you ever be able to forgive him, or himself, for what he had done?

The questions lingered unanswered in the stillness as he sat back down, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.

He didn't know the answers. All he knew was that he had to try.

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The world swirled in an agonising haze as your consciousness began to claw its way back. Every inch of your body screamed in pain, each bruise, cut, and wound making itself known like fire crawling beneath your skin. It was almost impossible to grasp the full weight of the agony—how could anyone describe the sensation of pain this overwhelming? It was a deep, suffocating thing that made every breath feel like a battle.

You tried to open your eyes, but even that small movement was an assault on your senses. The brightness behind your eyelids was too much, the pressure of it sending a wave of dizziness crashing over you. When you managed to blink, your eyes watered uncontrollably, the effort alone nearly too much to bear. The burn on your back, the curse of that mark—his mark—lingered like a red-hot brand, the pain compounded by the memory of it being tainted with filthy, contaminated water. You couldn't even tell if the pain had dulled or if it was just the agony of everything else making it seem like the worst of it. Even if you didn't die from your injuries, you were certain that infection would claim you before long.

Slowly, with a whimper that barely escaped your cracked lips, you arched your back, instinctively trying to relieve the burning pain from the mark. The movement was weak, your body screaming in protest, but the sensation was a small reprieve. As you forced your eyes open again, blinking over and over to get your bearings, your vision began to sharpen, and the haze of confusion began to recede, bit by bit.

The white ceiling above you was a sharp contrast to the hellish basement you had been trapped in. A sterile smell filled the air, the kind that only came from a medical facility. You were no longer in that filthy, oppressive place. Were you safe now? Had someone rescued you? Was it the authorities? Or perhaps your friends, your family, or your employer had noticed you were missing and raised the alarm? Had they found you in time?

You desperately hoped for any answer that could bring you some sense of peace, but the sight before you shattered that hope in an instant.

Turning your head slightly, you froze. The tears that had started to retreat at the thought of safety now rushed back with full force. There, sitting in a chair beside your bed, was the man who had nearly ended your life.

His face was shadowed in exhaustion, his posture slumped slightly as if he'd nodded off in his seat. His presence hit you like a blow to the chest, a knot of raw fear twisting in your gut. The man who had tortured you, who had burned you, who had broken you was right there. The man who was responsible for every inch of pain you'd endured.

Your breath hitched in your throat, and despite your body's desperate need to remain still, the fear surged within you. You couldn't help but tremble, a silent cry of terror rising in your chest.

But even in your panic, something else stirred—a strange, foreign confusion. He was here. In this room. But he wasn't hurting you. Was he... watching over you? Was this some new kind of torment? A psychological game? The thought made your head spin.

Tears fell down your cheeks as you tried to shift, but your body refused to obey. You were broken in every sense of the word, and now, trapped by your own fear and pain, you couldn't make sense of anything. All you knew was that the man who had caused all of this—the man who had dragged you into this nightmare—was right there, inches away from you.

And you had no idea what it meant.

Your attempts to keep your sobs quiet failed, the soft, broken sounds escaping against your will. Each tremor in your chest seemed to echo in the sterile room, and despite the pain, your body recoiled in fear as you saw him stir. His brow furrowed, eyes fluttering open slowly, the grogginess of sleep fading as he registered the sound—and then, his gaze locked with yours.

Panic surged through you, your breath hitching violently as his dark eyes met your own, wide and trembling, your irises blown out with terror. You wanted to scream, to run, but your body betrayed you, too weak and broken to do anything but sink further into the thin blanket covering you. All you could do was shrink back, the ache in your body drowned out by the overwhelming fear coursing through your veins.

Hongjoong froze, his expression unreadable for a heartbeat. Then, he sat up straighter, slowly, deliberately, as if trying not to startle you further. His jaw clenched, and for a second, the silence stretched unbearably between you. He raised his hands carefully, palms facing you in a universal gesture of peace, his movements measured and cautious, like one might approach a wounded animal.

"Hey," he began softly, his voice low and careful, as though it might shatter you further. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

You didn't believe him. How could you? The fear in your eyes deepened, your body curling instinctively beneath the covers, though every movement brought fresh waves of agony. Your eyes darted around the room, seeking escape, seeking anyone else—but it was only him.

He sighed, a heavy sound filled with something that almost resembled regret. He stayed seated, keeping his hands up, as if showing he was unarmed would make any difference to the scars he had already left on you. "Nobody will hurt you again," he said, and his voice trembled, just barely. "That... that includes me."

You watched him, breath ragged, your body trembling with the effort to stay still. He swallowed hard, the guilt written in every line of his face as he continued, his tone thick with something you couldn't name—shame? Guilt? Desperation? "I know this is all very confusing, and you have no reason to trust me, but we made a mistake. I made a mistake."

He paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed again, struggling with the weight of the words. "You're not who we thought you were. And for that—for everything we... I put you through—I'm sorry."

His apology hung in the air, but it did nothing to ease the terror in your heart. It sounded sincere, but sincerity didn't erase the pain, the scars, the nightmare that still lingered in your mind. It didn't change the fact that this man, who now sat before you looking so remorseful, had been the one to destroy you.

Tears continued to stream down your face, and all you could do was stare at him, disbelieving and broken, the word sorry echoing hollowly in your mind. He had taken everything from you, and now he expected that word to make it right?

The silence stretched between you, fragile and suffocating, as you lay there—shattered, terrified, and unsure of what came next.

As if your body had decided to break the unbearable silence itself, your stomach let out a loud, insistent growl. The sound was jarring in the stillness, so absurdly out of place that it caught both of you off guard. You gasped, clutching the thin blanket tighter to your face, cheeks burning despite the pain radiating through your body. Humiliation and fear clashed within you. Would he be disgusted? Would he regret sparing you? Was this the moment he'd change his mind?

You couldn't help but brace yourself.

But instead of anger or disdain, he simply blinked in surprise before his lips parted, and he mumbled softly, "Oh, right. Stupid me. You must be starving." His voice carried a gentleness that was almost foreign, as if the words were meant more for himself than you.

The wooden chair scraped lightly against the floor as he pushed it back, the sound startling in the quiet room. He stood slowly, the motion casual, almost hesitant. "I'll bring you something to eat," he said, the words so ordinary, so kind, that they felt unreal.

And then, just like that, he walked out of the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

You lay frozen, staring at the spot where he'd been moments ago, unable to comprehend what had just happened. Your mind spun in confusion, trying to reconcile the man who had tortured you with the one who now spoke softly and promised food. Was this some twisted game? Was he really going to bring you food—or was it laced with poison, a final, cruel trick?

But if he wanted you dead, why not just finish it when he had the chance? Why tend to your wounds, only to kill you later? The questions swirled relentlessly.

You bit your trembling lip, tears pricking the corners of your eyes again. He could have killed you. You had seen it in his eyes that day—the moment he gave the final order. You had accepted it then, surrendering to fate, your body succumbing to the darkness.

Yet here you were. Alive.

Still shaking, you turned your head to the door, trying to comprehend the reality before you. Was this real? Was he truly changing—or was this a prelude to something worse?

The confusion and fear gnawed at you, but beneath it, a glimmer of something unfamiliar lingered.

Hope.

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"Here," he said softly, holding out a spoonful of chicken soup to your lips. The aroma was heavenly—rich and savoury, exactly what your starved body craved after days without food. Your stomach clenched painfully in response, desperate for sustenance. Yet, despite the temptation, you frowned and turned your face away.

He sighed, his hand lowering slightly but not withdrawing entirely. The bowl in his other hand trembled ever so slightly as if he wasn't sure what to do next. Finally, he set it gently on the table beside you, the warm liquid inside rippling quietly.

Eyes trailing after his movements, you caught sight of your bag resting there. It wasn't in the state you remembered—no longer a crumpled, filthy mess. It had been cleaned meticulously, every stitch visible and tidy, the fabric now free from dirt and grime.

His voice interrupted your thoughts, soft and almost hesitant. "Oh yeah, your bag. I... got busy while you were sleeping and cleaned it up."

You clutched the blanket tighter, sceptical. Him? Cleaning your bag? It was absurd.

"Everything inside too," he added, a small smile pulling at his lips. "You have some pretty cool stuff."

Your eyes widened, heart racing. He touched your things? Against your better judgement, you reached out, wanting to verify the state of your belongings, only to let out a sharp cry as pain flared through your body with the movement.

He was beside you instantly, his hands hovering, unsure whether to touch or retreat. His face twisted in something that looked suspiciously like hurt when you recoiled, sinking back into the bed to avoid him.

Clearing his throat, he asked, voice soft, "You want your bag?"

You nodded timidly, watching him closely. His small smile returned, gentle and relieved. "Let me help you," he murmured, pulling his chair closer. He placed the bag on the bed between you both, unzipping it carefully for you to see inside.

For the first time since waking up, your eyes softened. Everything was as he said—clean, neatly arranged. Trembling fingers reached out for the glass flower charm nestled inside, your favourite trinket. But before you could touch it, your stomach betrayed you again with a loud, desperate growl.

Humiliated, you drew your hand back, shrinking into yourself.

He chuckled softly, reaching for the bowl again. "I know you don't trust me, and you shouldn't," he admitted, his tone gentle and sincere, "but I can assure you, this is safe to consume." To prove it, he scooped a generous spoonful and took a bite himself, letting out an exaggerated hum of satisfaction.

You swallowed hard, the sight and smell tormenting you. Still, you hesitated when he held out another spoonful.

"If you won't eat it," he said with a sigh, "then I'll finish the rest." He raised the spoon toward his own mouth as if to follow through.

Before he could, you opened your mouth quickly, and his grin softened. Gently, he fed you, the warm broth sliding down your throat like liquid gold, soothing and comforting. The flavours were simple, yet after days of deprivation, it felt like the most luxurious meal you'd ever had.

He remained calm, every action slow and deliberate, offering care despite your fear and mistrust. His patience was unsettling, yet... somehow, in that moment, the terrifying man you had known felt like a distant memory.

But the pain in your body lingered. And so did the scars.

Hongjoong felt a warmth he couldn't explain swelling in his chest as you finished the final spoonful, the empty bowl resting between you both like a fragile truce. His eyes softened as he watched you, vulnerable yet still defiant, the faintest remnants of tears glistening on your lashes. He reached forward, hand poised to wipe the corner of your lips, but before he could, a sharp knock on the door shattered the moment.

He blinked, and it was as if a mask fell into place. The softness in his gaze vanished, replaced by the cold, commanding demeanour you knew too well. He set the bowl on the table, the clink of ceramic against wood too loud in the heavy silence. Straightening in his seat, shoulders squared, he uttered a firm, "Come in."

You shrank back into the bed instinctively, your body curling as far from him as your injuries would allow. The door creaked open, and another man stepped inside—his brow raising slightly when he noticed you were awake.

"Hyung," he said, his tone both respectful and urgent, "you're needed at the meeting. To discuss our next steps, now that the..." He hesitated, casting a brief glance your way, as if unsure how much to say in your presence. "The actual spy remains at large."

Hongjoong nodded, the authority in his posture unwavering. "I'll be there. Thank you, Jongho." His voice was clipped, businesslike, a stark contrast to the gentle tone he'd used with you only moments before. "Summon the doctor. Have her checked thoroughly and ensure she's comfortable."

The man named Jongho gave a short nod and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a moment, the Captain remained seated, his back straight, tension radiating from him. Then, as if reminded of your presence, he turned to you once more. His expression softened, just for a second, as he offered the faintest smile—fleeting but genuine. "It's okay," he murmured, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "No one will hurt you again. I won't let them."

Before you could react, the smile vanished, his face hardening once more as he rose to his feet. Without another glance, he strode to the door and exited, the soft thud of his boots fading into the distance.

You lay there, staring at the closed door, heart racing, mind spinning. The man who had nearly destroyed you had just promised your protection. And despite everything, a single, terrifying thought whispered through your mind:

I believe you.

The room felt unnervingly quiet after his departure, the air still heavy with the remnants of his presence. You stayed frozen for a moment, listening to the silence, your pulse still thundering in your ears. Slowly, cautiously, you shifted beneath the blanket, every movement sending fresh waves of pain rippling through your battered body.

But you endured it, your gaze locked on the bag resting beside you. Trembling fingers reached out, brushing against its fabric, now pristine compared to how you last remembered it—torn, dirtied, ruined. Carefully, you pulled it closer, clutching it to your chest like a lifeline, tears welling up as you stroked the surface. Your fingers traced over the familiar stitches and doodles, remnants of happier times, of days spent working, laughing, living.

Were your loved ones searching for you? How frantic must they be, wondering if you were still alive, hoping, praying for your return? The thought broke something inside you, and you wept silently, the tears streaming down your face as you reached inside the bag.

Piece by piece, your belongings greeted you, neatly arranged—your keychain, your tiny souvenirs, even the little trinkets you'd collected on that ill-fated day. None of them bore the grime and cruelty you had last seen, each one painstakingly cleaned, cared for. Despite yourself, a hollow sob escaped your lips, and you hated how much it affected you.

At the very bottom of the bag, your trembling hand closed around the familiar worn edges of your notebook. You pulled it out, your tears falling freely as you held it close, opening the cover with a sniffle. Flipping through the pages, you found the list you had written, the innocent to-do list that had led you into this nightmare. Your thumb traced the ink of your handwriting—dotted with tiny stars and hearts—and you almost smiled through the pain.

But it wasn't your handwriting on the newest page. You froze, blinking through your tears as you stared at the words, scrawled in a neat, unfamiliar script:

I'm sorry. I will make it right again, I promise.

Your breath caught in your throat, a sob escaping that you couldn't suppress. He had written it. The very man who had branded you, broken you. And yet here, in this quiet, fragile moment, his apology was inked into your most personal possession.

It wasn't enough. It could never be enough.

But it was something.

The notebook fell from your hands, landing on your lap as you curled around it, weeping not just from pain, but from the deep, agonising confusion that tangled with it. You didn't know what to feel anymore. Hatred? Grief? Or some terrible, unbidden hope that his words weren't just lies?

As the tears blurred your vision, you whispered brokenly to no one, "Why does it hurt more now?"

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The days stretched into a haze of silence and uncertainty. You hadn't seen him since that moment when he fed you soup and scribbled his apology into your notebook. In his absence, Jongho became a constant presence—a quiet sentinel, always bringing what you needed but never lingering too long. Aside from him, the kind doctor, with her gentle hands and soothing voice, tended to your wounds, her care meticulous and soft. But it was always just Jongho and her. Never the Captain.

At first, you felt like a prisoner, wondering what the end of this strange hospitality would bring. Would they let you go? Was this kindness a façade before some darker fate awaited? But as the days went on, your thoughts turned inward, your hands finding comfort in writing. You filled parchment after parchment with letters—letters to your parents, your best friend, your employer. They were full of reassurances you weren't even sure you believed. I'm alive. I'm safe. I will come back. But the ink soothed you, even if you knew they might never be sent.

Today was no different, except for the soft murmurs between you and the doctor as she changed your dressings. Her hands worked deftly, the cool air brushing against your skin as she peeled away the layers of gauze and replaced them with fresh, clean bandages. You let your mind drift, thinking of the promise he had scrawled in your notebook. He said he'd make it right. But how? Will I get to leave? Will I ever see my old life again? And if I do… will I ever be the same?

The faint creak of the door interrupted your thoughts, and you looked up instinctively, expecting Jongho's usual unhurried entrance. But it wasn't the Anchor.

It was him.

Your breath caught, and you froze, eyes wide as you met the gaze of Kim Hongjoong. He, too, stilled in the doorway, his expression unreadable, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps? Regret? His gaze fell to your back, to the horrid brand etched into your skin, and you saw the way he flinched.

He wasn't the only one.

Your body trembled involuntarily, an instinctive recoil from the man who had caused you so much pain. The doctor, blissfully unaware of the tension thickening the air, glanced up with a warm smile. "Oh, you're here! I'm almost done, just give me a minute."

The gang leader nodded stiffly, but he didn't speak. He quickly averted his gaze, turning away as if the sight of you was unbearable. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it should be.

But not for the same reasons as before.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, clutching the edge of the blanket as the doctor finished her work, her hands light on your skin. She hummed softly, her presence a soothing balm to your raw nerves. But your focus remained on him—on the way his shoulders tensed, on the way he refused to meet your eyes again. When he did chance a glance, he caught your gaze, and you saw it clearly: shame.

His lips parted, but no words came. You wanted to demand answers. Why are you here? What do you want from me? But your voice remained trapped in your throat.

The doctor stood, packing up her supplies with a satisfied smile. "There we are," she said brightly, glancing between the two of you. "I'll leave you to rest now." She nodded respectfully to Hongjoong before quietly excusing herself, leaving you alone with him.

The door clicked shut, and the silence between you thickened. You stared at him, your heart pounding, as he stood there, still and unsure. He finally spoke, his voice low and rough, as if it hurt to say the words.

"I didn't mean to... interrupt." He looked down, hands clenched at his sides. "I only came to see how you were."

You didn't know what to say. Under normal circumstances, perhaps a thank you would have been appropriate—but this wasn't normal, and he didn't deserve that. So you kept quiet, your lips pressed into a thin line, your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket.

He sighed softly, the sound barely audible, before clearing his throat and moving to sit beside you, just as he had that day with the soup. He settled into the chair with a quiet grace, attempting a small, hesitant smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze flickered to the books, papers, and pens scattered across the nursing table beside your bed.

"I hope Jongho managed to get you everything you asked for," he said gently, his voice low and careful, as if afraid to startle you. You nodded, but kept your eyes downcast, focused on your wringing hands.

His gaze followed yours, landing on the letters you had written—the stack of parchment covered in your careful handwriting. For a moment, you tensed, waiting for the inevitable backlash. Would he order his men to burn them? Would he scold you for daring to think of leaving, for daring to hope?

But instead, his voice was soft. "Would you like me to deliver them?"

You froze, lifting your head slowly, your wide, disbelieving eyes meeting his earnest gaze. He gestured toward the letters with a slight movement of his hand. "The letters," he clarified. "I could send them for you."

Your disbelief must have shown on your face, the way your brow furrowed and your lips parted slightly in shock. He saw it. He felt it. And it cut deeper than he expected. Of course, you still saw him as a monster. Why wouldn't you? He had given you every reason to believe that. If he wanted to change that, he would need to do more—much more.

He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying himself, before looking at you again with an expression that was raw and unguarded. "Look," he began, voice heavy with something that felt dangerously close to regret. "You're not trapped here, in case you're wondering. You're free to leave whenever you want."

You blinked, your heart racing at the words. Could you believe him? Could you trust that freedom was within your reach?

"It's just that…" He trailed off, searching for the right words. "After everything we—I've done to you, the least I can do is help you heal. To nurse you back to health, to give you what you need. I need to make it right. That's all I want. For you to get better, to return to yourself. And if there's anything you need to make that happen… just say the word."

His voice dropped to an almost pleading tone. "So tell me—do you want those letters delivered? Is that it?"

You stared at him, searching his face for any trace of deception, any hint of insincerity. But all you saw was honesty. Whether or not it was real, you didn't know. But the sincerity in his tone, the earnestness in his eyes—it was undeniable.

And you couldn't lie to yourself. The letters were what you wanted. To set your mind and heart at ease. To reassure your loved ones that you were still alive, still here, even if only barely.

So you nodded.

He exhaled slowly, as if relieved, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw a glimmer of something softer in his expression. "Okay," he said simply. "I'll make sure they're delivered."

You struggled, the words stuck in your throat like stubborn stones, not fear this time—but something else. Something unfamiliar and unsettling. You nodded again, the gesture small and hesitant, and to your surprise, he seemed to find it… endearing. His smile softened further, and though you wanted to resent him for it, there was something disarming about the warmth in his expression.

Noticing the way you hesitated, as if wanting to speak but unsure how, he shifted in his chair, intertwining his fingers and leaning forward, careful in his every movement. He stopped just short of your space, close enough to offer comfort but far enough to avoid overwhelming you. His eyes, soft and patient, held yours, and the corners of his lips tugged upward in that same gentle smile—a silent reassurance: I won't hurt you. It's okay.

He seemed aware of how much he was smiling, almost as if surprised by it himself. His eyes glimmered with something that felt out of place in a man like him—genuine kindness. It struck you then, how foreign that smile must have been on his face, as if it had gone unused for too long. You wondered who he had once been, before this life of cruelty hardened him. And you hated that part of you, the part desperate for softness, wanted to know.

"It's alright," he said softly, his voice gentle and warm. "You don't have to be afraid. Just tell me—what do you want?"

The tenderness in his tone felt unreal. This was the same man who had once stood over you, cold and unyielding, ready to snuff out your life. And yet here he was now, speaking to you as if you were fragile, precious even. It was maddening. Confusing. And yet, damn you for being nothing more than a frail human aching for kindness, your guard cracked, just a little.

You didn't know why you asked it, why this question had been sitting in the back of your mind, waiting for its chance to escape. But when you finally spoke, your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, trembling with vulnerability. "Your name."

He blinked, caught off guard. For a moment, silence stretched between you, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer, almost regretful. And then, in that quiet space, he realised the truth: from the very beginning, through everything he had put you through, he had never once told you his name.

He sat back slightly, exhaling a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Hongjoong," he said, his voice steady but tender, as if offering you something sacred. "My name is Hongjoong."

Your lips parted, and though you had imagined feeling hatred for this name, it didn't come. Instead, all you felt was the raw ache of everything left unsaid.

"Hongjoong," you repeated, tasting the name on your tongue like a fragile thing, and the way you said it felt like the start of something neither of you could yet name.

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Hongjoong had made it a point to visit you every evening, just before the world outside your room fell silent for the night. At first, you dreaded those moments, unsure of his intentions or what he might say. But as the days turned into weeks, those visits became routine. He would sit beside your bed or across from you at the small table, his demeanour always calm, his tone soft and steady, and slowly, piece by piece, he unravelled the mystery of who he was, what this place meant, and how you had been drawn into their world.

His name, you learned, was more than just a name. He was the leader of this place, a sprawling mansion that served as the heart of a powerful syndicate—a gang, as you quickly realised. The people here, the ones who moved with deadly precision and cold efficiency, were his crew. Not just criminals, but men who had pledged their loyalty to him and each other in the face of a world that sought to destroy them.

You had been caught in the crossfire of a feud between two factions, mistaken for an enemy spy in a moment of chaos. It explained the brutality with which you had been treated, the mistrust that lingered until the truth emerged too late. "You weren't supposed to be hurt," he told you one night, voice thick with regret. "I didn't know who you were. If I had known..." He never finished those sentences, leaving the unsaid to hang in the air like a bitter aftertaste.

And now, the pieces fit. The puzzle you had struggled to solve finally made sense, but with that clarity came an unsettling reality: you were surrounded by criminals. Even if Hongjoong had promised safety, you were in a den of people capable of murder, of violence, of unspeakable acts committed in the name of survival and loyalty. It went against everything you believed in—your sense of morality, the honest life you had led until now.

Yet, despite your fear and discomfort, you knew you had no choice. What had happened could not be undone. The only hope you clung to was for a swift recovery, a chance to leave this world behind and return to the life you had once known.

As your injuries healed, you grew stronger. The sharp, constant pain dulled to a distant ache, and with the doctor's meticulous care, you were soon able to move around. Hongjoong had a proper room prepared for you—one more fitting, spacious, with large windows that let in the light. It was more comfortable than you dared to expect, but you knew better than to interpret it as anything more than a gesture of atonement.

Still, you couldn't deny the strange, unspoken connection that had formed between you and him. You wouldn't call it friendship—you couldn't. He was still the man who had brought you to the brink of death. But there was something. Something fragile, a bond woven through shared guilt and reluctant trust. You found yourself relying on him in ways that shamed you. You hated it, hated how you felt a strange sense of calm when he was near, as if the very person responsible for your suffering was now the anchor keeping you steady.

It was complicated. Confusing. And worst of all, it made you question whether the lines you thought were so clear—between captor and captive, between right and wrong—had begun to blur.

Unbeknownst to you, Hongjoong wrestled with the same confusion—especially about the emotions that had begun to surface lately. He couldn't shake the persistent need to be near you. It gnawed at him like an unrelenting tide, wearing away the walls he had built over the years. He told himself it was duty, responsibility. After all, he was the reason you had nearly lost your life. If he hadn't acted so quickly on false information, none of this would have happened. He reasoned that it was only right to take full responsibility, to ensure your recovery—physically and otherwise.

That logic gave him something to hold on to, but it didn't explain everything. It didn't explain why his eyes instinctively sought you out whenever he walked the halls or the strange calm that washed over him when he saw you safe. It didn't explain the warmth that bloomed in his chest when he heard your voice or glimpsed your rare, hesitant smiles. No, it wasn't just responsibility anymore. It was something deeper, something he wasn't ready to name.

After another gruelling meeting filled with discussions of crisis management and strategies to track down the elusive spy, the Captain's head buzzed with tension. His face remained a mask of cold authority, his steps measured, his shoulders squared. He passed his men without sparing a glance, his thoughts elsewhere. Always on you. The dining hall was empty, your room vacant, and the painting room—where you often sat doodling, lost in thought—was deserted. A strange, unwelcome worry tightened in his chest.

Relief only came when he pushed open the heavy library doors and saw you standing there. You stood in a sunlit aisle, the golden light streaming through the tall windows, bathing you in a soft glow. The light illuminated your features—now mostly healed, the bruises reduced to faint shadows, the cuts mere whispers of what they had been. You were beautiful, he realised, and the realisation ached in a way he hadn't anticipated. He closed the door quietly behind him, the sound muted, careful not to startle you. His steps were slow and deliberate as he approached, his heart inexplicably racing.

You were focused on a pressed flower bookmark tucked between the pages of a book, your head tilted slightly as you admired it, your fingers gently brushing the fragile petals. The scene was simple, ordinary. Yet it stirred something in him, an unspoken truth he wasn't ready to confront.

"Marigold," he said softly, his voice low to not disturb the tranquillity. "That's my favourite flower."

You looked up, startled at first, but your expression softened when you saw him. "Really? It's mine too," you replied, your voice steady, though a hint of curiosity lingered in your tone.

A small smile tugged at his lips, softer than usual, though it carried the weight of everything left unsaid. "It is? Then you should keep it," he said, nodding toward the bookmark, surprising even himself with the offer.

"But—" you began, gesturing toward the marked page.

He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. "I never had time to finish the book anyway. Can't even remember what it's about. Just take it. It's yours now."

Anything you want, it's yours.

For a moment, the silence between you stretched, fragile yet profound, like a delicate thread holding more than either of you dared admit. Hongjoong didn't know what this feeling was, only that it was growing. And being near you eased a part of him he hadn't realised was broken.

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The evening air was still, and the faint glow of the lamp in your room cast a soft halo beneath the door, a beacon that drew him to check on you one last time before retiring. He knocked gently, expecting the usual soft response or even a brief acknowledgement, but there was only silence. His brows knitted in concern, and he knocked again, the sound a little firmer this time. Still, no answer.

Then he heard it—a muffled yelp.

Panic surged through him. He couldn't wait. "I'm coming in," he called, his voice urgent but not harsh, and without hesitation, he pushed open the door.

The sight that met him stopped him in his tracks. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, your shirt halfway unbuttoned, exposing your shoulder and part of your back. The fresh bandage you had been attempting to wrap around yourself lay unravelled on the floor, a tangle of gauze mocking your efforts. Your face was flushed with embarrassment, and the moment you realised he was there, you scrambled to pull your shirt back up, your movements frantic and clumsy.

He didn't look away, not out of disrespect, but because he couldn't ignore the mark on your back. That cursed brand. Every time he saw it, it felt like a punch to the gut, a cruel reminder of his failure. If he could change one thing in his life, it would be that—undoing the moment that left such a permanent scar on you. He swallowed hard, his throat tight, before finally speaking, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it.

"Do you need help?"

Your immediate response was a firm shake of your head. "I'm fine," you insisted, though the tremble in your voice betrayed you. He could see it all: the mess of your hair, the exhaustion etched into your face, the slight tremor in your hands. You had been at this for a while, stubbornly trying to do it alone, and it was clear that you were anything but fine.

Hongjoong sighed quietly, stepping closer, each movement deliberate and gentle, as if afraid he might scare you away. "You're not," he said softly, without accusation, without pity, only quiet understanding. He knelt in front of you, eyes level with yours, and held out his hand, palm up, an unspoken offer. "Let me help."

You hesitated, biting your lip, your pride warring with the exhaustion. But eventually, you let out a shaky breath and nodded, your eyes downcast. He reached for the discarded bandage on the floor, his movements slow, deliberate, as if trying not to disturb the fragile air between you.

Carefully, he unbuttoned your shirt just enough to reveal your shoulder, his fingers never straying more than necessary. The moment felt intimate but not in the way that made you feel vulnerable. It was gentle. Respectful. As he wrapped the bandage around you with practised precision, his hands were steady, careful not to brush against your skin more than needed.

"You don't have to do everything alone," he murmured as he fastened the bandage, his voice like a balm. "I know you're strong, but you can let someone help you."

You didn't respond immediately, the warmth of his words sinking in as you sat in silence. Finally, you whispered, "Thank you."

He gave a faint smile, one you didn't see but could hear in the softness of his voice. "Anytime."

You finally turned to face him, your breath catching when you realised just how close he was. His face, so much softer now than the man who had once been your captor, was mere inches away. As if more modest than you, he quickly moved to help button your shirt, his fingers deft but gentle, avoiding your gaze as if giving you privacy in a moment that was anything but private. Your eyes, however, couldn't stop following the sincerity etched into his expression, hating the way it made your heart race. How could your body betray you like this, reacting to someone who had once been so cruel?

You swallowed hard, trying to banish those thoughts, and lowered your gaze. That's when you noticed his wrist peeking from the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. It was the first time you saw them, the scars that twisted from his elbows to his wrists like angry, jagged reminders. Your brows furrowed, curiosity—and something deeper—propelling you forward. Without thinking, your hand reached out and grasped his as he pulled away, holding it gently.

"H-how'd you get these?" your voice trembled, more from the vulnerability in the air than any fear.

Hongjoong stilled. The small smile on his face faded, replaced by a haunting stillness. He pulled his hands back gently, as if realising for the first time he had no right to be near you, no right to touch you. He placed your hands carefully back in your lap, almost reverently, and turned toward the window, the fading sunlight casting shadows across his face.

A humourless chuckle escaped him, low and bitter, as he glanced at the scars on his arms before shifting his gaze to the darkened horizon. "Let me tell you the story of a boy," he began, his voice void of emotion but heavy with pain, "who had everything taken from him. Not that he had much to begin with—only a mother who loved him more than anything." His voice cracked, almost imperceptibly, but you caught it. "Even that wasn't enough for fate."

He didn't look at you, eyes fixed on the darkening sky, as if it held all the answers. "My father was a worthless drunk with a gambling problem. He left us with nothing but debts, and my mother… she worked herself to the bone, trying to keep us afloat. But it was never enough. The loan sharks came one night." His hands clenched into fists at his sides. "I was too young to understand what they wanted, why they were shouting at her. But I remember… I remember watching them beat her to the ground."

His voice dropped to a whisper, but it cut like a blade. "I watched them strip her, violate her, and when they were done, they slit her throat as if she were nothing." He exhaled shakily, his jaw tightening. "They left me there with her body. Taunted me. If they had known what they created that night… maybe they wouldn't have left me alive."

You sat motionless, your heart aching at the raw truth of his confession. Suddenly, everything made sense—how he had become this way, hardened and cold. You could understand now, even though it hurt to. Perhaps you would have become the same if you had endured such horrors. No one is born evil. We are all blank canvases, shaped by what we experience, by the pain life forces us to endure.

His eyes fell to the scars on his arms, and a bitter smile tugged at his lips. "These," he murmured, flexing his fingers as if feeling the memory burn anew, "are souvenirs from that night." His voice grew colder, distant, as if reliving the moment. "I remember their nails clawing at my arms, desperate to cling to life. But it didn't matter. Those bastards were never going to escape."

Despite the chilling edge in his words, you felt no fear. Instead, you saw the boy hidden beneath the armour, a boy the world had broken too soon. He turned back to you, his eyes no longer cold but filled with a deep, aching regret. "And that's why," he said, voice trembling with emotion, "I wish I could undo what I did to you. I swore I'd never harm the innocent, never become what they were. But I failed." His voice cracked. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. Nothing I do will ever make this right."

To his surprise, you reached out, your hand resting gently on his shoulder, offering comfort where he expected none. He turned to you, his eyes glistening with tears he refused to let fall.

"It's okay, Hongjoong," you said softly, your voice unwavering yet gentle. "Everyone makes mistakes."

And then you smiled—a small, genuine smile, brimming with forgiveness. It shattered something within him, but it also healed something far deeper, a part of him he thought was long dead.

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Things had shifted significantly between you since that fateful night when he first bared his soul, revealing the shadows of his dark past. Your understanding unlocked something in him, and in turn, you also began to open up. Little by little, you spoke more, smiled more freely, and allowed yourself to be vulnerable in his presence. Hongjoong, too, had changed. What once were brief visits to check on you became shared meals, quiet conversations, and the gentle ritual of him changing your wound dressings daily. It had become a routine—a comforting rhythm filled with tender moments, lingering touches, deep gazes, and countless almosts.

Almost kisses. Almost confessions. Almost something more.

Just a little longer, he told himself, fighting the constant urge to feel your lips against his. He needed to earn your trust fully before daring to take that step. He knew he didn't deserve you—but the heart wants what it wants.

But of course, just as he allowed himself to believe things were finally settling, reality reminded him otherwise. He should have known better than to think peace could last in his world. You and he had grown closer, but the life he led was never one to offer tranquillity for long. Conflict loomed on the horizon. An important meeting was fast approaching—a meeting arranged long before you had entered his life.

The Black Pirates, an organisation that had always operated with an exclusively male force, had struck a delicate negotiation with the Red Room, a renowned spy training facility specialised in producing elite female operatives. Though both syndicates had thrived independently, they saw mutual benefit in an alliance, especially as the shadowy threat of the White Serpents continued to grow. A treaty was in the works and was supposed to be one of Hongjoong's top priorities.

Yet, things had changed. You were here now, and part of him refused to leave you. The thought of being away, of leaving you vulnerable even for a moment, gnawed at him. So he made a decision: Seonghwa would attend the meeting in his place. The eldest, the Gentleman, was their best negotiator, and if anyone could secure a favourable outcome, it was him.

"It's set then," he said, his tone final. "Seonghwa will represent me for this." He leaned back slightly, eager to conclude the meeting and return to you.

But he should have known better than to expect it would be accepted without protest.

The moment the words left his mouth, Mingi's hand slammed onto the table, the force reverberating through the room. "Really, hyung?" he spat, his voice heavy with frustration. "You're going to send someone else on your behalf for something this important? I was already fed up with this nonsense, but enough is enough!"

The screech of the temperamental member's chair echoed as he shoved it back, rising to his feet, the fire in his eyes blazing. Yunho reached out, gripping his arm in warning, but Mingi shook him off, his glare fixed on their leader.

"No!" he growled, his voice rising. "When will this madness stop?! I'm sick and tired of you being distracted by her. At first, I understood—you felt guilty, like you owed her something. But now? You're letting it go too far! You've been wasting precious time hovering around her, growing soft! And now you're putting our work at risk. When does it end, huh?"

The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with the weight of Mingi's accusation. Hongjoong remained seated, his fingers interlocked on the table. He met the taller man's gaze with a cold, unwavering stare.

"Sit down, Mingi," he said quietly, his voice calm, but the authority in it was unmistakable.

Mingi didn't move, his jaw tight, defiance radiating from him. "Answer me," he demanded. "When does it end?"

The room seemed to hold its breath.

"You think I'm neglecting my responsibility," Hongjoong said, his voice low, even, and far colder than before. He rose slowly, pushing his chair back with a deliberate grace. "You think I'm growing soft. Maybe you're right." His eyes, sharp and cutting, bore into Mingi's. "But everything I do is for this gang's survival. Including ensuring her safety."

Mingi scoffed, disbelief written across his face. "Her? She's not one of us. She's a—"

"Enough," Hongjoong snapped, the steel in his voice cutting through the room like a blade. He stepped closer, towering over Mingi now. "You question my judgement again, and it won't be this quiet." His voice softened, but the danger in it was palpable. "I trust Seonghwa to handle this. And I trust you to remember your place."

For a moment, it seemed as if Mingi might push further, but his best friend, the Enforcer's hand tightened on his arm, a silent plea. He growled in frustration and, after a tense beat, finally sat down, seething but silent.

Seonghwa's calm voice broke the heavy quiet. "I'll handle it, Cap. You've made the right call." He shot a glance at Mingi. "We all want the same thing: to be stronger, united. Let's not lose sight of that."

Hongjoong's shoulders relaxed slightly, though his eyes never left Mingi. "Good," he said, his tone final. "Then it's settled."

As the others filed out, Mingi lingered near the door, shooting one last glare at his leader before leaving without another word. The Captain remained behind, letting out a long breath, the weight of the confrontation pressing on him.

He should have known peace wouldn't last. But as his thoughts turned to you, one question echoed in his mind.

How much more would he have to sacrifice to protect you before it all fell apart?

Fortunately—and unfortunately—you had already found the answer to his unspoken question.

"Hongjoong," you whispered, your voice trembling as it cut through the stillness of the dimly lit library.

The soft glow of the lamps cast gentle shadows over the shelves, wrapping the room in an intimate quiet. Across from you, he sat, his eyes warm and attentive, watching you with that familiar, close-lipped smile—the one that always made your heart stutter. His expression was gentle, full of a quiet tenderness that you both craved and feared.

But tonight, that smile felt like a dagger. It broke something inside you, making what you were about to say hurt even more.

"Yes?" he responded just as softly, his voice a soothing balm you didn't deserve. He leaned forward slightly, the care in his gaze evident, as if you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

You swallowed hard, your fingers trembling as they clutched the delicate bookmark he had given you, your lifeline in this moment of unbearable heaviness. "I'm… I'm all better now," you began, the words sticking in your throat. "I wish to leave. I want to go home."

The change in him was immediate. His smile vanished, and his hand shot across the table, grasping yours before you could pull away. His touch was warm but trembling, desperate. "Wha—where is this coming from?" His voice cracked, panic threading through every word. He hadn't known how long he'd have you by his side, but he never imagined losing you this soon. He wasn't ready. "Was it Mingi? Did he say something to you? I swear to god, if he—"

"No," you interrupted, shaking your head firmly, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest. "He didn't do anything." You squeezed his hand, trying to draw strength from the contact. "I just… I think it's time. Time for both of us to return to our own lives."

His grip tightened, his eyes wide with disbelief. "No," he whispered, shaking his head as if refusing to believe your words could make them untrue. "You don't have to do this. You don't need to leave yet. The doctor—I'm having her work on something for the mark. You're not healed, not really."

You bit your lip, his raw emotion tearing through your resolve. You wanted to stay—God, how you wanted to stay—but the memory of that argument was too fresh. You had stood outside the meeting room earlier, waiting for him to finish, only to hear Mingi's voice raised in anger, accusing him of neglect, of weakness. And you had heard Hongjoong's silence—heavy, burdened. You couldn't be the reason for his pain. You couldn't be the weakness he couldn't afford.

"I heard it all," you confessed, voice trembling. "The argument. I know how much I'm complicating things for you." Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them away. "It's not fair—to you, to them. We're from different worlds, Hongjoong. You and I… we were never going to work." Your voice softened as you finally named what had been unspoken: the feelings between you both.

His face crumpled, the pain etched into every line devastating to witness. "Don't do this," he begged, his voice breaking. "Please… don't."

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing. "This is how we make things right," you whispered. "You wanted to fix what you did, to give me a chance at freedom. This is it."

Silence engulfed the room, thick and suffocating. Slowly, he let go of your hand, as if releasing it would break him entirely. His head bowed, shoulders slumping under the weight of your decision.

"Oh…" It was all he could manage, and the raw pain in that single word nearly undid you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The quiet of the library, once a sanctuary, now felt suffocating. You had made your choice, and you believed it was the right one.

So why did it hurt so much?

"I'm sorry," you whispered, standing from your chair. You hesitated, wanting to offer some kind of solace, but knowing it would only prolong the pain. "Goodnight, Hongjoong."

With every step you took toward the door, it felt as though pieces of your heart were left behind. And when you reached the threshold, you heard it—his broken, whispered plea.

"Don't go."

But you didn't stop. You couldn't. Because sometimes, love wasn't enough.

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As if running from you could change the inevitable, Hongjoong buried himself in work, pouring over plans and strategies like a man determined to forget. Meetings stretched longer, tasks multiplied, and he worked late into the night, ignoring the hollow ache growing in his chest. But no amount of work could silence the truth—or erase the memory of your soft, breaking voice.

He could only run for so long.

One day, the quiet was broken by Jongho's hesitant knock on his office door. The youngest cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably under the Captain's tired gaze. "What is it?" he sighed, leaning back in his chair, trying to mask the weariness in his voice.

Jongho straightened, his eyes darting to the barely open door behind him. Hongjoong followed his gaze and froze. There, framed by the narrow gap, was the unmistakable outline of your back.

"It's her, hyung," Jongho said softly, his tone more hesitant than usual. "She... she asked the doctor to give her one final check. To make sure she's fully healed." He paused, as if reluctant to continue. "She expressed her desire to leave."

The words struck like a blade, sharp and final. For a long moment, Hongjoong said nothing, his eyes locked on the empty doorway as if he could will you to return. But deep down, he knew there was nowhere left to run.

He had been a fool to believe that anything could make you stay. He put himself in your shoes for a fleeting moment, imagining what it must be like. You had a life beyond these walls—a life waiting for you to return. And even if you chose to stay, how long could he truly keep you safe in his dangerous world? How long before the life he led consumed you, too?

And even if, by some miracle, you stayed—would your loved ones ever accept him? A gang leader with blood on his hands and sins too deep to cleanse?

No. The answer was clear.

As much as it tore him apart, he knew this was the mercy you deserved. He couldn't chain you to his darkness, couldn't selfishly hold on when letting go was the only way to truly love you.

"You're right," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. "You have a life of your own. I can't ask you to stay."

The Anchor remained silent, watching his leader with a rare softness in his eyes.

Men like him were never meant to love. Not after all the sins he had committed, all the lives he had taken, all the wrongs he could never make right. He didn't deserve you—not your kindness, your laughter, or the warmth you so effortlessly gave.

No matter how much he wished otherwise.

With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the door, his voice steady but hollow. "Thank you, Jongho. I trust you to make the proper arrangements for her departure."

The youngest hesitated for a moment, but when he met the finality in Hongjoong's eyes, he nodded and left quietly, the door clicking shut behind him. Silence settled over the room again, heavy and oppressive—until the door creaked open once more. The gang leader's head snapped up, irritation flashing in his eyes, but it melted away the instant he saw who it was.

You stood hesitantly in the doorway, peeking in like you weren't sure you belonged there anymore.

He shot up from his seat, his movements hurried. "O-oh, it's you. Come in..." His voice softened, and you offered a small, tentative smile as you stepped inside. He gestured toward the worn leather couch. "Please, have a seat."

But you shook your head. "No, I shouldn't stay long. I just… came to thank you for respecting my decision."

He exhaled, a bitter sound escaping his lips. "Don't thank me for that." His voice was low, laced with frustration, though not at you. "It shouldn't have taken me this long to agree. You were right." His lips curved into a smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. The pain there was unmistakable, and it clenched your heart painfully. "This… it has to end eventually. After all, I'm the one who did this to you. I can't possibly expect you to return my feelings—"

"Stop," you whispered, closing your eyes, shaking your head as if to ward off the self-loathing in his voice. Too late. You already had returned those feelings, and hearing him like this shattered you. "No, Hongjoong, don't say that. I just..."

He stilled, his gaze searching yours as you opened your eyes and met him, resisting the desperate urge to reach out and cup his face, to pull him into the comfort you knew he craved. But you couldn't. So instead, you smiled, soft but trembling, and extended a hand toward him.

"I'm feeling a little hungry," you said gently, your voice trembling just enough to betray your emotions. "Want to have dinner together?"

For a moment, he simply stared at you, as if unsure if he had heard correctly. But how could he possibly say no? Besides, this could very well be your last meal together. Everything else could wait—damn it all.

Until the moment you were safely returned home, you were all that mattered to him.

Just until tomorrow.

Jongho had arranged your ride back tomorrow.

Hongjoong couldn't pretend anymore. He knew this would likely be the last time he'd have you like this, in this fragile peace. So, tonight, he let the walls fall. He no longer resisted the urges that had haunted him for weeks. When he reached out to feed you, gently wiping a stray bit of food from the corner of your lips, you didn't flinch. When he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips brushing your skin with a tenderness that made his chest ache, you didn't pull away.

And you didn't say a word. You just let him.

By the end of the meal, when he saw the glimmer of hesitation in your eyes—knowing you were preparing to retreat to your room—he acted quickly, grasping your hand before you could leave. His touch was firm but not forceful, and when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost pleading.

"Would you like to… walk with me?"

You looked at him for a moment, your eyes searching his as if trying to memorise everything about this moment. Then, wordlessly, you nodded. He led you through the grand halls of the mansion, out to the sprawling, maze-like garden, where the soft glow of lanterns illuminated the paths.

Your hands remained entwined the entire time.

The garden was silent except for the rustle of leaves in the breeze. He guided you to the centre, where a marble fountain stood, the gentle sound of water trickling into the basin adding to the quiet serenity. Clearing a spot on the cold concrete, he shrugged off his blazer, laying it down carefully before gesturing for you to sit. You did, settling beside him as the horizon stretched before you, bathed in soft, silver moonlight.

"This is nice," you murmured, breaking the silence, your voice almost lost in the cool night air.

He smiled, his gaze softening. "It is, isn't it?"

For a while, neither of you spoke. The dim lanterns cast a golden glow, wrapping you both in a warmth that felt almost unreal. Slowly, as if afraid you might slip away, he placed his hand over yours once again. This time, your fingers intertwined naturally, effortlessly, as though they had always belonged that way.

No words were necessary. Every touch, every glance, spoke of everything you felt but couldn't say.

Your heart raced as you turned toward him, only to find he was already watching you. His eyes were dark, filled with emotions you didn't dare name. He leaned in, bit by bit, closing the space between you. Your breath hitched, trembling, but you didn't move away.

"Just for tonight," he whispered, his voice rough and raw. "Can we be together? Just for tonight."

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, your heart aching with the weight of the unspoken goodbye. You nodded, your voice barely above a breath.

"Please."

And then, there was no more distance between you.

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The morning light streamed softly through the curtains, painting the room in golden hues. Hongjoong stirred awake, the weight of sleep heavier than usual, but a comforting warmth grounded him. Instinctively, he snuggled closer, burying his face into the inviting scent that had become his solace.

It took only a moment for the realisation to hit him. The feminine scent, delicate and intoxicating, filled his senses. His heart skipped a beat as he opened his eyes to find you still in his arms, your back pressed against his chest, your breathing soft and even.

For a long moment, he stayed still, simply taking you in—the way your hair spilt over the pillow, the peaceful rise and fall of your shoulders, the warmth that radiated from you. Leaning closer, he pressed a tender kiss to your bare shoulder, the memory of last night rushing back like a tidal wave.

Kisses. Endless, intoxicating kisses, your lips against his as if you were trying to fill every unspoken word between you. His fingers tangled in your hair, your hands gripping his shirt, neither of you willing to let go. The clumsy, desperate stumbling through those kisses until you landed on the expanse of his king-sized bed—so often feeling too big, too empty for just one.

Articles of clothing had been shed piece by piece, carelessly scattered across the floor. And then… pure, unrestrained bliss. The feel of your skin against his, the soft sighs and whispered names, the way your bodies moved together like they were meant to fit. It was a night he would never forget, and one he knew he could never have again.

He swallowed hard as reality settled in. It was bittersweet, finally knowing what it was like to have you this close, only to face the cruel truth that he would have to let it all go soon. His gaze fell on the mark on your soft skin, the one that started it all, and he sighed deeply.

It was the right thing to do.

He repeated the mantra in his head, clinging to it like a lifeline. You deserved more—someone who could give you the kind of life you were meant to have, one without fear, without shadows. Someone who wasn't him.

But for now, just for this fleeting moment, he allowed himself to be selfish. He tightened his hold on you, his arm curling around your waist as if he could stop time by keeping you close. He etched every detail into his mind: the way your warmth seeped into him, the way your presence calmed his restless heart, the way this morning felt like a fragile dream he never wanted to wake from.

Because soon, it would all be over.

And he would have nothing left but these memories.

His temporary haven shattered with a jarring intrusion. The door to his bedroom flew open, and Jongho rushed in, his expression a mix of concern and urgency. "Hyung, she's not in her room—"

The Anchor's voice faltered mid-sentence as his eyes landed on you, curled up in his leader's embrace. The man sat up quickly, pulling the blanket to cover you to your neck, his glare sharp enough to cut steel. Jongho froze like a deer caught in headlights, his usual composure obliterated by the scene before him.

You stirred at the commotion, blinking yourself awake. It didn't take long to realise what had happened. Your cheeks flushed a deep red as you scrambled to free yourself from the blanket and darted off to the attached bathroom. "Excuse me," you mumbled hastily, your voice barely above a whisper, before closing the door behind you.

Jongho stood awkwardly, visibly cringing under Hongjoong's icy glare. "I didn't mean to—"

"Out," the Captain growled, his voice low and dangerous.

The youngest didn't need to be told twice. With a quick bow, he fled the room, muttering apologies under his breath.

Hongjoong exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples as the weight of the morning settled on his shoulders. Deciding to give you the privacy you needed, he rose from the bed, grabbed his robe, and slipped it on before leaving the room.

As he stepped into the hall, he was greeted by none other than the Firestarter, leaning casually against the wall with a smirk plastered across his face.

"Had fun, Cap?" Mingi drawled, his voice laced with mockery. "Hope that pussy was worth everything."

Hongjoong's expression darkened instantly, his eyes narrowing into a glare that could rival a storm. "Speak for yourself, Song," he shot back, his voice steady but laced with venom. "Come mock me when you don't need an exiled noblewoman to save your ass time and time again."

Mingi's smirk faltered as Hongjoong took a step closer, his words cutting like daggers. "Don't think I haven't heard about your multiple near-failures. At least I haven't fucked up anything critical. Also," he added, his tone dropping into something bitter and final, "she's leaving today. I hope you're happy."

The weight of Hongjoong's words left Mingi speechless, his cool façade crumbling. His jaw tightened as he struggled to muster a response, but nothing coherent came to mind.

Clearing his throat, he straightened and forced a shrug, attempting to reclaim his composure. "About damn time. Good riddance," he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual edge. Without another word, he turned and stalked off, leaving the gang leader standing there, his chest tight and his mind racing.

As much as he loathed the confrontation, he couldn't help but feel a bitter sense of satisfaction. At least now, Mingi might think twice before throwing careless words around. But the victory was hollow, his thoughts quickly returning to you.

With a deep sigh, he leaned against the wall, his fingers tracing the edge of his robe. The hours ahead loomed like a storm on the horizon, and he knew they would be some of the hardest he'd ever faced.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The air was thick with the weight of unspoken emotions as the black car idled behind you, its engine a soft hum against the gloomy backdrop. The overcast sky seemed to mirror the heaviness in both your hearts, the grey clouds threatening rain at any moment. You stood before Hongjoong, your trusty tote bag slung over your shoulder, dressed simply but beautifully, your hair pulled into a messy yet endearing style. You tried to smile, but it trembled at the edges, betraying the storm within.

Neither of you spoke right away, the silence filled with everything you wanted to say but couldn't. Instead, you reached into your bag, pulling out the glass flower charm—the delicate token you had cherished for so long.

"Give me your hand," you murmured softly.

He stepped closer without hesitation, his hand extended between you. The roughness of his palm contrasted sharply with the fragility of the charm as you placed it gently into his hand. His fingers curled around it instinctively, the same hand that once had only known destruction now cradling something so delicate with utmost care.

"For you," you said, your voice steady but laden with emotion. "It's no marigold, but—"

He cut you off with a bittersweet smile, the pain in his eyes unmistakable. "I'll cherish it," he promised, his voice quiet but resolute, as though the words themselves were a vow.

He didn't let go of your hand, his grip warm and steady. You nodded, returning his smile. "Good. Treat it with care," you said, stepping closer, your proximity making his breath hitch.

The scent of his familiar cologne wrapped around you as you leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. Your lips brushed against his skin as you whispered, "You did it, Joong. You made it all right."

His eyes fluttered closed, savouring the moment, the warmth of your presence etching itself into his memory. But then, as much as he wanted to keep you there, you pulled away gently, slipping out of his grasp.

Your backward steps toward the waiting car felt like a slow unravelling, each step tugging at the threads of his heart. He fought every instinct to run to you, to pull you back into his arms and beg you to stay, but he knew he couldn't.

As you slid into the car and shut the door, he stood rooted to the spot, his chest tight, his fists clenched at his sides. He watched helplessly as the car began to roll forward, taking you further and further from him until you were nothing but a distant blur.

"It's for the best," he whispered to himself, though the words felt hollow. "You did the right thing."

The sound of approaching footsteps broke through his haze of sorrow. Turning, he found one of his men standing hesitantly nearby. "Boss," the man said carefully, "we received an update from Seonghwa. His visit to the Red Room is going to be extended due to... undisclosed circumstances."

And just like that, Hongjoong was thrust back into the chaos of his world. He nodded, his voice cold and detached. "Got it. I'll speak with the others."

He turned and strode back toward the mansion, his steps purposeful despite the turmoil inside him. His men watched him carefully, unsure if the heartbreak would erupt into anger, but he remained composed, his demeanour unreadable.

Once inside, he glanced down at the delicate charm still resting in his palm. It caught the dim light of the hall, glinting faintly like the remnants of a dream. His grip tightened around it, not enough to damage it, but enough to ground himself.

It hurt—god, it hurt—but he found solace in the fact that he had been able to love again, even if only briefly. He didn't know how long it would take for the ache to fade, perhaps it never would, but one thing was certain: he would never forget you.

ـــــــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

The dim light of the room cast long shadows across the walls, the flickering of a single desk lamp providing the only illumination. The figure leaned back in his chair, his gloved fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of the table. Before him lay a folder, its contents an intricate web of intel painstakingly gathered. At the very top, clipped securely, was a photograph of the Black Pirates.

The leader's face was circled in white ink—a mark of vulnerability disguised as power.

"Seems we've secured the Captain's weakness right from the start," the figure murmured, a sinister grin spreading across his face. His tone carried a disturbing mixture of amusement and certainty as he flipped the folder shut, the sound of paper against paper breaking the tense silence.

A subordinate stood nearby, his posture stiff, his eyes darting to the file with barely concealed curiosity. "Should we proceed then, sir?" he asked, his voice low but eager.

The figure chuckled, a sound devoid of warmth, and shook his head. "There's no hurry," he replied, his gloved hand resting atop the closed file like a predator savouring its next move. "Time is what we've got. Let them believe they've found their footing. Let them think they're safe."

He pushed the file to the side, leaning forward, his grin widening as his eyes gleamed with cruel intent. "We'll gather them all, one by one. No need to rush—it's always better when the prey doesn't see the trap until it's too late."

The subordinate nodded, though a hint of unease flickered across his features. "Understood, sir."

The figure reached for a glass of whiskey sitting untouched on the desk, swirling the amber liquid as if it contained the answers to every question. "Patience," he said, almost to himself, his voice low and reverent. "Patience wins wars. Let's see how far the mighty gang can go when their carefully constructed world begins to crumble."

He raised the glass in a mock toast, the light catching the golden liquid. "To the Black Pirates. And to the beginning of their end."

The room fell silent again, the only sound the faint creak of the leather chair as the figure leaned back, eyes fixed on the file. Somewhere, far from the machinations of this dark plot, Hongjoong might have felt a shiver down his spine. But for now, he was blissfully unaware, the weight of his loss still fresh, the memory of your departure his only torment.

And so, the game began.

Would you believe it? About 90% of this was drafted in a sleep-deprived state HAHA the first thing I do as soon as I get home from work is write this, so I genuinely hope this met expectations!

Are you or are you not surprised by the lack of a happy ending? If you know me well (especially readers who have been here since TWTHH), you probably saw this coming🤠

As always, thank you for reading and let me know your thoughts! <3

General ATEEZ Tag list:

@aurasblue @marievllr-abg @itsvxlentine @minghaoslatina @huachengsbestie01

@evidive @weedforthoughtz @minkiflwr @cheolliehugs @ho3-for-yunho

@the-kpop-simp @itstheghostofmypast @vantediary @green-agent @skzline

@sharksandminhos @writingwieny @heyitsmetonid @tinyteezer @hollxe1

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@bangtannie7 @vtyb23 @khjoongie98 @scuzmunkie @anxiousskylar

@bunny4yungi @zl-world @quailbagutte @astudyoftimeywimeystuff

By Order of the Black Pirates Tag list:

@bethelighthalazia @tsunchani @starboyyoongi @soulphoenix1618 @dimeb29

@naps-over-degree @uniq-tastic @baeksofty @hanoishere @star-my

@skteezcursed @soocore @mountiiny @londonbridges01 @lemon-sage17

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@cotton-candycloudz @foxinnie8 @atinyreads @iwishiwasrichasfuck @sansaurora9904

#edenesth #by order of the black pirates #the captain #ice on my teeth #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fanfiction #gang au #kim hongjoong #hongjoong x you #hongjoong x reader #ateez fic

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strawberrymochin · 6 months ago

Text

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐝 ଳ⋆｡˚

Synopsis- On the night of the blood moon, you are offered as a sacrifice by the village chiefs to appease the enduring wrath of the sea god. As your fate unfolds, you find yourself transported to a mystical realm inhabited by enigmatic immortals and powerful deities. Stripped of your soul and surrounded by the unfamiliar, one particular immortal, named Gojo Satoru, challenges your perception of reality and leaves you questioning your very sanity.

Warnings- immortal au!, immortal!gojo x mortal fem!reader, mythology references, asian drama vibes, gojo is a jerk most of the time, the red string of fate, Mithridatism, fluff, heavy angst, suggestive, slowburn, mutual pining, hot geto, gojo again being a jerk, gojo getting dominated by our reader, toxic reader, poisons, blood, murders, forced proximity, no smut in this but reader kisses gojo and that specific scene is...just read it

Word count- 12.03k (trust me)

Trisha's mail- just read it, wrote continuously for hours, and i will edit it later not proofread so ignore the mistakes, happy reading

You have been awfully familiar with the ritual performed for appeasing the sea god— once in every five years, comes the great night of the blood moon.

The night whose darkness swallows the world in its greedy sheen, so deep and thick that it even blows out one single burning flame of hope. The moon on that particular night, bathes itself in red, and an eerie bloom of fathomed anger peers down on the muddy coastal sands— the anger of the sea god.

On that day, a young crane is to have her wings tied, thrown into the sea, sacrificed in hopes of hankering to cool the sea god's fury. As it has been sung by folks and danced on ropes, ancestors say only a bride can dimmen the rage of the sea god's soul.

A crane symbolises a bride— a girl chosen from the shores of eighteen villages, whose beauty is serene; voice spins a melody; eyes speak truth and finger sway in delicacy.

A girl chosen has her hands tied, eyes closed and in the tainted rage of the moon of the night, one drop of blood in the middle of the sea sweeps away a knight. The people who perform the ritual find themselves awake the next day and the bride sacrificed had no trace of her existence lay.

Though you never thought that one day I'd be you, bawling your eyes out, not wanting to give away your life to the cruel god who chose to turn a blind eye to his devotees, for a reason unknown.

Why did the sea god have to be this cruel? Why does he have to gobble down so many lives? And even if he does, why does it have to be you?

His rage has already unfurled enough misfortune in your life, and now it was going to seize your life. What will happen when you will be sacrificed to the sea god? What will happen when your life will be thrown in his mercy and swallowed by the deep of the ocean? What will happen to your father whose only child is you, torn away from his dear embrace?

The village chief among the 5 major coastal villages came forward near you and bent down to your level. You edge backwards, hands bound behind your back, and you keep scooting away till your back reaches the huge plum tree. It's faint scents of fresh and rotten plum trail near your nose. “It will be a noble sacrifice, young lady. You do not have long to live anyways.” he smiled at you with the most sickening polite expression you'd ever seen. “Mmfff” you resist try to speak past the barriers of fabric looping tight at your mouth.

So what if I possess a weak body? Is my life not worth the same as your daughter?

You wanted to spit these words out and you would have, if the fabric tied on your mouth weren't so tight that you could barely even muffle.

He forwards a hand and clasps the collar of your thin robe, dragging you away from the tree. You try to protest, looking horrified, there must be something, some key to run away….

You hear the footsteps of other chiefs surrounding you. If only you didn't help that girl, you wouldn't have to face this. You should have listened to your father's words and shouldn't have stayed out long outside searching for medical herbs, which would heal his health. Especially on the day of the blood moon.

And even if you did, you shouldn't have helped the girl run who was originally chosen to be sacrificed. But you just couldn't ignore her cries, her tear stained face, her pleading eyes asking for a chance to live, looking so similar to the blurred face of your mother in your memories who died during your childhood and which is why you helped her run.

You wanted to feel the rush and the puff in your chest as you dared to help the girl who was about to be another victim of the cruel sea god. And when you did that you felt as if you snatched back your mother's life from fate— from the sea god.

However, one of the guards followed her, and while helping her run home, you got caught instead. And now here you were pleading for your life, for your father who must be worried sick, eyes on the door waiting for your safe return.

A thin sheet of silk is tied around your eyes, one of the men securing the knot, before picking you up on his shoulders and making his way to the coast, where the sea meets the sand.

Soon you will be drowned to death in the name of sacrifice. Is this where your life ends?

You were never supposed to be a sea god's bride; The qualities needed to be chosen as a bride were far away from your hand. You owned a fragile body, sick since birth. You can't even manage lifting heavy weight, how are you supposed to carry the grace of a bride.

But aren't all these just a saying, all stupid beliefs of your dumb ancestors, to come up with such rituals pleasing a god?

If they claim the frequent storms and death of their family members as the wrath of the sea god, and as per the saying, a bride should calm his wrath. Up until this date you're sure more than 100 brides are sacrificed— none satisfied the sea god. None.

And none of them came back.

Because it was simple, that the god didn't care and the ritual didn't work. Or maybe it does work but all the god wants is blood and not love. All he wants is despair, cries and screams of hunger.

The sea has been raging off season, destroying the crops, sweeping away families, causing deaths and even after praying to the gods for their protection what did they do?

Nothing.

At this point you even wonder if the sea god is even real or just a myth.

Whatever it was, you realised none of them could stop fate from seizing your life away.

The guy who had you on his shoulders, threw your frail body into what felt like a flat round hollow structure— probably a boat. You muffle a cough at the jerk your body has to face, not even getting to ease the pain since your hands were tied.

The sound of the night thundering among the clouds, echoed through the vast coast. “So now we sail her away? The sea god won't be displeased finding her instead of the chosen bride? Won't he be angry?”

One of the men questions their doings, unsure if sending you as the bride might fuel the god's rage even more. “She helped Akihiko to run, if the sea god is displeased, he must be happy to punish her himself.”

Another loud thunder bolted among the clouds. If the gods do exist they seem angry, and the only subject of their anger for now seems to be you.

One of the men came near the round boat and took your right palm, causing you to bite your tongue with a shriek as you felt him stabbing the middle of your palm with a knife and then dragging it near the tip of your ring finger.

Tears stain the silk wrapped around your eyes. Do they even sacrifice a bride or murder them? If you're meeting death today can it not be any less painful?

You stilled for a while as you feel the man digging the knife among the tied bunch of fabrics binding your hands together and tearing them apart with its sharp blade.

The crane's wings were not tied anymore. She could run.

But before you make any action on running, or even removing the piece of silk blocking your vision, your body slips to the opposite of your boat—a high tide.

You try to get the silk of your eyes or get off the boat so you could swim your way to the shore but it was useless. The more you tried the more harsh waves played with you. They mocked your every movement, salty water drenching your robes, and its splashing noises squeak out laughing at you. Probably laughing at how weak and helpless you are.

The water is even making the cut on your hand burn even with tingling pain. At this point you were nothing but devastated, you surely realise that you're far away from the shore, and even far from your home. All you prayed for was your boat not being in the middle of the sea.

The movements stilled, the boat danced gently on the waves, you could feel the furious tides shifting into a sweet calm— the calm before the storm.

You raise your hand up, feeling the fabric of silk tied around your eyes, fingers tracing it's knot on the back. Once your fingers find it, you pull one strand of it. The drenched silk stuck close to your wet skin as you peeled it off.

You were about to open your eyes, but something told you not to, as if you were to open your eyes, you would see your world shift altogether. Nothing would ever be the same.

But you weren't dead yet. Even though you realise that you've come really far from the shore, if you somehow make it up, somehow struggle and reach the shore you can make it back to your father.

To your home.

Your eyelids flutter open, pupils slowly adjust to the little amount of light, making your vision clear.

You freeze.

Something was behind you, or I'd be perfect to say something was looming above you, preying on your tiny body. Its huge shadow floated over the cool waters, shielding the only dim red of the moon.

Is this the sea god? The one you cursed so much for causing the death of your mother? The one whose bride you helped eloping?

Is he here to punish you for your deeds or to savour you as his sacrifice? Just like any other soul, each five years.

You dare to look behind your back. If today's the day you meet the serene of death, who has always caged your body till now, you decided to numb your emotions and face it. How long will you be a coward? How long will death haunt you?

There was a creature, its scales shiny, half emerged from water. Gulping down a gasp you raised your eyes up tracing the elongated body till it's silhouette contrasted a sharp dark under the bright red of the moon.

Sapphire blue eyes peered down at, huge scaled head tilting ever so slowly. It was a dragon— a sea dragon. The scene was so terrifying and yet something about the dragon drew you in. It curled his head in a loop before the huge face was right inches near you, letting out a low growl.

His warm breath grazed your skin, so fierce it blew a few wet locks of your hair. The only word your unconscious shouted was ‘run’ yet it was as if you were tranced, your body wouldn't move. There was something so not right with you, and if anything you had this unwanted urge of consoling the dragon, in your arms even if his head was solely 3 times bigger than your body.

His eyes— looked so, what do you even describe, lifeless? Such a huge creature of might, yet eyes were of an unusual drear.

The dragon’s pupils slit at your figure as an unyielding force tugged at your right hand, forcing open the palm, trails of wet blood smearing itself on your fate lines.

The dragon scrutinized your cut and all you could do was look at him, standing still, as if all of your senses were gobbled down by him the moment you looked into his dull blue eyes.

The blood of the bride shall appease the god's soul, a mortal is to be honoured with a sempiternal stroll

You couldn't figure out where the words echoed from, there was no one in the middle of the sea except you and the blue eyed dragon.

Was it him?

In moment you could use any of your senses, the sea erupted in its violent desires and one high splash of the dragon's, tearing his way down the surface of water caused you to lose your balance and fall down the boat.

You panic, fluttering your hands as desperately as possible. You thought before you won't run from death yet your actions caused you to question your resolve.

The dragon spinned his long body in peculiar loops around you. Your erratic movements of panic weren't helping to save the small amount of oxygen still left in your lungs.

With one last try you try to throw your body up the surface, yet all you see is more blood oozing out of your wound and the last bubbles of oxygen escaping in blobs of air.

Your mind grew foggy as eyes could barely make out the blur in the deep waters, your body losing its senses growing limp just like when you looked at the dragon's eyes, sinking down beneath the sea. And the last thing you could make out before losing your consciousness, was the same lifeless unearthly blue eyes.

You open your eyes feeling a sharp tug at your hand— right hand to be specific. You sit up straight as the flashbacks of your desperate cries strike you. Weren't you drowning? How come— you looked around your surroundings, you were in the middle of a lake, on a pavilion. Several blue lotus blooming emitted some sort of strange sweet intoxicating smell. It was as if they were luring you, but if you drowned how come you can still breathe? Is this the immortal land? Are you in the afterlife?

As you were chewing over your thoughts, you noticed something tugging at your right hand and when you brought a closer look to your hand it astonished you, for the wound which hurted so bad was healed without a scar, as if it was never there in the first place.

You might as well think that all of it was nothing but a pretty terrifying fever dream. However, you knew better. The scar did vanish but it left a crimson thread tied around your ring finger. It was floating in the air, rippling as you move, dancing with all the grace, twisting and turning, but most importantly it was tugging at your ring finger.

It was meant to show you your direction to the sea god, the one with whom your soul was bound with yours, the moment you presented your blood to him— the moment you became the bride of the sea god.

The thread kept pulling your finger to a direction wrapped in mist and the sweet smell of the sea petaled flower. You decided to follow it, now that you're already so far from your home you have no other choice but to comply with the current of the river of your fate. You stepped down the marble stairs of the pavilion, mist obscured the path, refraining your vision to even make out your surroundings.

You look back to the pavilion and it was no longer there, the mist swallowed it in whole, if it were not for the glowing translucent thread of blood, you would have been lost as soon as you stepped down the pavilion.

Will it take you to the sea god?

Will seeing you calm his anger? You didn't have any answer to satisfy your curiosity, the fact that even thinking about the sea god makes the veins of your neck pop, your jaw tick surprises how on the entire Earth could you be chosen as his bride.

You don't understand how long you were walking in the mist following the thread floating, elongating and contracting in mid air, showing the pathway of the unseen world beyond your eyes could ever do.

After walking for what seemed like a long time, the thread stilled, a slow burn of fire seemed to run through the string and became awfully straight.

The mist slowly cleared, and in front of you stood a huge dais, over there was a canopy, made from the mother of the pearl reflecting colours so serene, that made your pupils dilate. The canopy was draped with a red fabric, probably of delicate muslin, which allowed to make out the silhouette of the figure sitting in it.

The thread vanished behind the fabric, which only meant that the god who you are sacrificed to was sitting there, on his huge throne.

Unconsciously, you step forward on your feet.

One step.

Two steps.

Three steps.

Raising your hand, you slowly part the veil of secrecy, peering inside, forgetting any poise or courtesy you ever possessed.

Fingers halt midway, no more bunching the fabric to get a proper look, for what you saw inside shook you to the core. Is this the sea god?

A sharp pull on the back of your head, yanked you away from crossing any other borders of seclusion. “Ahhhh” you couldn't help but let out a shout at the grip on the roots of your hair. Someone was dragging you down miserably and when you tried to see who it was you could only make out the vague tresses of long white hair and robes of black.

The hand dragged you by your hair and threw you down the dais, violently till your body hit the cold marble floor and made you cough at its brutal force.

Your chest heaved and burning pain on your head made you look up at the person who inflicted such discomfort.

A man with long silvery hair stood infront of you, his figure was feets above you, hovering as his head peered down at you, expression neutral, while his eyes were veiled with a silk of midnight, robes of similar shadows, some gold streaks running around the edges.

How did the man even saw you if his eyes were concealed to let the light of the world pass?

“Another year of the blood moon has another crane caught.” an unfavorable voice laced through the heavy air, it's tone mocking straight up.

You turn your head to the owner of the voice— a man in violet robes, dragons were finelly embroidered with threads of gold on the hem, his hair was tied up in a knot, upheld by a pin of gold with pearls dangling from it.

He slowly came near you, before crouching down to your level and taking a few strands of your hair to raise to his nose smelling it. “ A favourable crane instead,” you don't like how it sounded, backing away as far as possible.

Looking around the hall you are able to make out a few more people present in the same marble hall as of you, which was probably— no, surely the royal throne chamber of the sea god.

Another man in white and of similar age, to the violet one watched the scene unfold amusingly. Two others were standing a little bit far away from the man who yanked you by your hair.

“Gojo, say what if I have this crane after 13 days, I'm sure you can keep this one aside for me,” the man in violet spoke, something so dark lacing through his intentions. He scoffed with derision, eyes feverishly measuring your each move. “Can't I, my dearest brother ren?”

“Sure brother shota, I wouldn't mind leaving out on this crane, though I must express my condolences on missing out on such a vicious beauty.” the man in White offered a smile of kind to his brother.

Gojo, the midnight veiled man, stepped forward bowing his head down to both of them, ren and shota, who looked like royalty.

“But before that,” ren came near you, his sime as polite as ever, “my dear crane, by chance had a proper look inside the canopy?”

You gulp, the burning sensation of gojo dragging you down the dais by your hair pulsated even more with pain, “n—no”

“My, are you sure you're not lying?” He bent down, one hand gently caressing your cheek, “i-it was dark.”

“That's very good of a situation, our god prefers solitude,” he said, straightening himself up and signalling gojo with a nod. You look at him as he takes out a crystaled knife.

What?

“No wait, don't kill me —please,” before you could say any, gojo caught the crimson of your hand and severed the thread which connected your soul to the sea gods.

The broken string burned with an intense blaze before vanishing away in thin air.

“What did you do?” you ask, horrified at what just happened— a red string of fate was never to be severed, that's what you've always heard but then how?

“Oh nothing young crane, breathe in calm, I will be waiting for you in my parlour.” With that said, shota marked his leave. Ren scrutinized you for a while before following shota out.

Left in the throne chamber was you, gojo and two other men standing a bit far away. Both were dressed in shades similar to the silver haired.

“Capture the crane”, gojo’s voice erupted in a velvet tone, devoid of any emotions. You look at them bewildered as you try to run but it was useless, the other two men, one of striking pink hair and other of a raven caught you from both sides, “sorry little crane, didn't wanted to hurt ya’” the pink haired guy muttered before you lose your consciousness.

“Had a pleasant dream?” The pink haired guy asked, sweeping behind small strands of your hair, you wildly flinch as you dart around your eyes scanning the area. Your hands were tied and so were your legs, just like how the village chiefs tied you up, “why am I here?” You demand answers with a frustrated frown. The room was small and cramped and after all that you've gone through in the span of the last 24 hours you've decided you'd had enough.

“What do you mean little crane?” Said the pink haired guy tilting his head in a confused manner.

“Y/n.”

The boy looked confused for a while before baring a bunch of teeth in a silly grin, “Itadori Yuji.”

“That's your name?”

“Yes it is what people address me as.”

“Okay whatever, mind telling me why am I here?” You grow more and more annoyed at your questions being ignored.

“Little crane, you're the bride of the sea god, it is absolute of you being safe in our protection.” Yuji said with the same wide grin.

“By protection you mean this? If you lack basic knowledge, I shall teach you this is called incarceration.”

“Oh you can consider this being the only means for your protection” his answer made your head pulse with rage, “by imprisoning me? If I am the bride of the sea god shouldn't you let me see him, so that his wrath calms down.”

“Well, speak about wrath less, think about your precious life, if we let you roam outside, in such crucial time of coronation, you won't live longer than an hour or two.” He mentioned casual, straightening himself up and walking to the low table, to plop one carved flesh of fruity apple inside his mouth.

“What?”

“The coronation…the sea god will be replaced soon.” He said gulping the apple before plopping another, “you know our sea god, have concealed himself for ages, ever since the moment he was crowned. The only ones who ever pay him a visit are his brothers, Prince Shota and Crown Prince Ren.”

“The ones in white and violet robes?”

Yuji nodded his head, leaning one elbow on the low table, placing his head on it, and smiled as pure as a kid. “Since you mortals are even stupid than me, you won't stop sacrificing cranes and just like each blood year, a crane— you appeared.”

“So the god my soul is tied to won't be the god anymore?” you ask bewildered, unable to fathom whether to be happy or sad.

“Yeah, it's not like you're tied to him anyway.” Yuji shrugged, causing you to frown at his words. “the bond has been severed by the crystal knife, so you're nothing but a useless mortal in the realm of immortals.”

“Useless you say, so let me go home….my father will be worried for me, he's sick, I need—”

“Speak less, you mere mortal.” The black haired boy from before entered the room, sliding the fusuma doors shut. “Oh Fushiguro, have a bite, these are real delicacy, I didn't knew the zenin houses cultivate such fine produce.”

“Could you speak any less too?”

“God! I still don't understand why you left the zenins to serve our bounded master.” Yuji huffed, picking up another piece of apple pointing it to you, “want some?”

“master? Who's your master, the white haired one? Gojo?” Yuji nodded at you, lowering the piece of apple, “shall i feed you, we are not allowed to free you from thos—”

“Yuji please, let me go back home I need to see my fathe—” you beg desperately cutting him mid-sentence.

“Such an intelligent, vacuous crane, who even chose you to be a bride, don't you understand once you are sacrificed to the immortal realm you cannot go back to the mortal world without your soul?” Fushiguro groaned at you, shutting you from whining anymore.

“Without a— soul?” You ask uneasily, what was that even supposed to mean, you were still alive how can a person without a soul be alive? “But I'm still alive…”

“Just because you are in the realm of the immortals, you cannot go back nor leave this room considering the risk of you getting murdered, not until you become one of us— an immortal.”

“So if I become an immortal I can return.”

“No! How can you be even more dull witted than Itadori, you can leave this room, after that, go find any work to suit your pleasures and work till you earn another chance in life.”, Fushiguro finishes, rolling an eye at you.

“I am not dull witted and just to let you know I had no intention of being around such immortal beings who aren't familiar with a shred of kindness, why pray to you then? And since it was my soul in the first place I have the right to ask, what happened to it.”

Fushiguro raises a brow at you, “considering such fragile body, you sure have a tongue of fire,” Yuji laughs at his comments, “your soul was severed from you along with the string of fate, it will be kept in the house of the death god. Another reason for you to keep your voice down and accept whatever is going on.” said Fushiguro, looking outside the window at the moon, it's glow so illuminating, that the entire room was better off without the half burning wax candle on the low table.

“The god of death?”

“Suguru Geto, the god of death. He owns your soul for now and will be in account of it till the 13 days pass by.” Said Yuji, stretching himself. What an odd situation you found yourself in…will you ever be able to get back?

“But as you said, I am more or less useless to you, why not let me go?” This came out as a whisper, you were doubtful of anyone listening, however Fushiguro sighed, “you're right, but we aren't the one who gets to decide that, prince shota seemed to have taken a liking for you, once the coronation is fulfilled and our new sea god sits on the throne, you will be sent to his parlour.”

“Will talking to prince shota can help get me out of here?” You ask hopefully, while Fushiguro’s eyes darkens, “if anything I would suggest you stay as far away as you can from that certain princeling” with that said he abruptly leaves the room, Yuji’s expression too grave, followed Megumi out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the bone gnawing silence as the moon light pours into the room, pooling itself into the tatamis, where you laid tied.

They made it very clear it was unlikely for you to leave this realm, but if you no longer had any connections with the sea god, what's the problem returning your soul to the mortal realm? What could possibly be the reason behind the immortals stealing a mortal soul? And what could be the reason for the sudden coronation?

Prince ren’s voice echo near your ears, causing you to flinch a little, his polite facade wasn't entirely able to conceal the chill in his voice when he asked you if you got a glance at the sea god….and his sceptical eyes studying you even after his brother left. Probably he knew you lied to him, he knew that you saw the sea god and what you saw was sure to make you question your eyes, but then it was not much of a topic to think about.

What could be certainly odd about a sea god that looked half your age?

You don't know what to assume, Fushiguro mentioned the only people to meet him are— Prince Ren and Prince shota, his brothers. So it means they belong from the same family, the same blood runs in their veins, then what could be the reason to crown such a young boy who looked barely ten years of age?

The sea god wore a mask to his face— a dragon mask. Similar to the one dragon who drowned you into this realm. He was dressed in bright blue robes with delicate threads of embroidered lotus, dragons and clouds sewn perfectly to match his unearthly young presence. The mask on his face was painted in an expression of slumber, as if a dragon sleeping and—

But this is not the time to reminisce about the sea god’s attire, not to mention just a few days to go, when the young boy would no longer bear such a heavy title, for his age.

Suguru geto, the death god was the one to possess your soul, and if only you could go to his house, it would benefit you to steal your soul back from them, but your hands are tied and so are your legs.

You dart your eyes around the room, there must be something, anything, any sharp— you glance at the plate of crisp apples, cut in beautiful shapes and placed over one another in a decorative way, next to it layed a small fruit knife, sharp enough to cut past the fabric bound around your wrists and feets.

Awkwardly you struggled near the low table in your restricted position, wriggling and squirming, close enough for you to grab the knife with your mouth.

Seizing the knife with your mouth you let it fall beside you, as you reposition yourself in order to pick it up with your tied palms and cut through the fabric. After what seemed for such a long time, is when you feel the fabric loosening up and finally letting your hands free of restriction.

You immediately massage your wrists and get down in the work of freeing your legs, once you get done with it, you peer out of the window.

It seemed like you were in the second floor of a wooden pagoda, surrounded by a lake and small connected pavilions to make commuting easy, the problem was sneaking outside the pagoda seemed enough with risks if not getting caught by anyone of them, considering how busy it was even at what seemed like already midnight?

You let yourself calm down, all you need is to sneak out of this specific pavilion, you can trick immortals asking for the god of death, right? Except they would recognise you as a mortal instantly. Still you couldn't seem to keep your feet in this pavilion, you wanted your freedom back, you wanted your soul back.

Sliding the doors very softly you speculate the corridor which seemed empty for now, you waited a while to finally set a foot outside, for now your plan is to just somehow or the other make your escape from this pavilion.

Your heart thumped like drums in your chest, when was the last time you ever showed this defiance, you don't remember. This was probably the first time.

You took a few steps out in the corridor, when a hand clamped around your lower face, the movement was so fast that you could barely sense anything, rather think any. Its iron grip forced you backwards, till you noticed you were back into the small room, and the sharp sound of doors shutting closed behind you.

You laid stricken to the tatami floors, the hand still locked around your jaw and a huge figure hovering over you.

Gojo.

His Silver long hair pooled on the floor as he supported his body with one hand while pressing you down from any movement with the other. He snuck his veiled face near you, “Don’t. Even. Try.”

“Mfffff” you tried shouting yet nothing came past your clamped mouth except pressed muffles. You were just so, so close yet he has to come right on time to snatch that one ray of hope from you.

You protested, trying to thrash out of his grip, yet your body moved none, and the more stronger the grip of his hands became that at one point you felt he would crash your head right on the floor staining the tatami red.

Were you scared? Yes.

The man, supposedly named gojo, still had his eyes veiled on the very midnight sash you'd seen before, yet you felt like it was staring at your soul. Not liking the feeling, you pressed down your nails into his skin scratching it down till drops of blood start oozing out. Yet he didn't move an inch.

You throw a hand at his face trying to make another desperate move of your leave, pulling the veil down, till it unloops entirely, falling down on the floor, along with your hand.

You stilled, your movements stilled, he stilled.

His eyes sparkled in a distant bright, hollow black that makes you shiver in fright. His pupils were black, entirely black, glassy and vacant. It was as if you weren't staring into a man’s eyes, but rather a void of such murky iniquity, that even the night of the new moon might turn out being shades lighter than his sinful eyes.

Gulping hard, unable to breathe, you tap two times on his hand, whose grip he loosened further, he stared blankly at you, with no expression on his face, it was as if he was a statue himself, hollow from inside, even more dead than a dead plant in the hot of a desert.

You let out a shaky breath, unable to tear your eyes away from him nor move your body in anyway. Your eyes started burning, tears brimming up your eyes at the sheer amount of fear you're experiencing. But you didn't want to cry, you just didn't want to show that you were afraid— Afraid of him.

He yanked you by your hair before, slammed you on the floor, most importantly he hurted you. And you wanted to do the same, even when you were scared of him.

Near your hand, layed the fruit knife perfectly in reach for you to grip, and you do so. You grab the knife and aim to stab it right at his neck. And you do so. You stab right at his neck yet the knife would pierce through his skin. You noticed a subtle space which prevents the knife from touching his skin. So was the case with his hand, which wasn't directly touching your face now, it was a slight space of void pressing you down on the floor.

You looked at gojo, staring at you with the same face without any sarcasm or humour, as if he felt finding your little attempts to escape humourous was not even worth mocking. You felt even more shame and embarrassment creeped up your face.

“Master!” Yuji's voice rammed through the room. Gojo’s hollow pupil moves to the side, before he gets off you, finally letting you out of his grip, before grabbing the piece of midnight silk and looping around his eyes again.

You cough and back away to the corner of the room, the knife still in your hands.

Yuji threw a concerned look over you, fushiguro was standing behind, face unreadable. Gojo turned over to them, “tie her up well and make sure there aren't any weapons near her to help her escape”

The boys nodded at the white haired man who was about to take his leave, “wait! Gojo!” You shout, causing him to stop his movements. He turned back facing your frail body. His eyes were covered behind the fabric, still he faced you as if he could see you right through the fabric, or maybe he did see you right through his fabric.

Maybe you're forgetting that all of the persons present in this room are immortals, except you, they are sure to possess some otherworldly power.

“I want to see the god of death. Please take me to him, I give you my word I won't try to escape. Please.” You demand, eyes pleading even if you didn't like the idea of begging to this certain guy.

And yet. You did.

Gojo remained still for sometime, before turning his back and leaving you alone with the other two boys, not faltering the vacant facade.

What? You swear you'd kill this guy, if he were any near, and if there wasn't such a power difference between you two.

“Listen, little crane, your demand is far away to be fulfilled.” Said Yuji coming near you, a rope forming in between his hands as a he makes a certain gesture, probably his magic. “Why? All I want is to see the god of death—”

“You dull-witted crane, that's not possible.” Fushiguro taunts you, massaging his temple with two fingers.

“My name is y/n and I'm not a crane. I am a human and yes a mortal, and I want my soul. If I serve no purpose to your god now or in near future why not serve my demands. I am unable to understand why I have to remain as a captive of you. And why can't I see the god of death?”

Yuji sighs, “its not as easy as you think, it would have been possible for you to meet the god of death, if the friendly bond between master and him wouldn't have been severed.” He stated blandly, winding the rope around your wrists. Fushiguro gets annoyed at yuji reciprocating your answers and leaves the room.

Not paying any heed to his exiting figure, you ask “why? Why happened between them?”

“Hmm?” Yuji hums at your questions, before making up a troublesome expression, “well a lot happened at once. You see, our master and the god of death suguru geto were quite good friends but since the last few years nothing has been the same. I don't know the details, but the news was in the air that it was in regard of the sea god.”

“The sea god?” You ask, the fact that hollow guy you faced right now, was capable of being in a friendship was strange enough for you to twist your face, especially with the god of death.

“Yeah, and then they had a huge fight, in which a very dear friend of suguru got hurt, since then both of them aren't on speaking terms.” Yuji stopped looping the rope around your wrists, about to bound them in a knot again, when you distract him with another question, “why? Why did they fight over the sea god?”

“You see, the god of death is severely against the reign of our current sea god. He has always made a strong opposition to the sea god's decisions, even though the crown binds all of us to the words of the sea god. This also counted as another reason for the passing down the crown to Prince Ren.” You clasp Yuji's hands, pressing them a bit and he grows a bit flustered, if the only person who can get you out of here was Yuji Itadori, who seemed too innocent and kind. Never have you ever thought of using someone’s kindness to your favour, but when even gods were selfish who were you to walk on a path of morals.

“Yuji, please I promise I will not escape, please take me to the god of death,” Yuji backs away, freeing his hands from your grip, shaking one palm at you, “that's not possibl—”

“Please Yuji, you're the only one I can trust. Help me, just let me go once to see the god of death, I swear I will not run.” You assure him with pleading eyes, nearing him till you get hold of his hands again. “Please.”

“Little crane, I am not allowed to let you leave this pagoda…” his stubbornness to his higher ranks made you leave any hope you had for seeing the god of death when, “but I wasn't instructed on helping you or not.” he tilted his head in a fond way and frowned his eyebrows with a sad smile on his face.

“Huh?”

“Maybe it's best to retrieve your soul back, no matter what. You must retrieve your soul back, and return to the mortal world as fast as you can. So I guess I will help you run to the house of death god, but beware of the wolves, you won't want them catching you on the way.” Yuji said, unlooping the rope off your wrists before snapping his fingers to dispel his magic.

“Thank you, thank you so much Yuji!” You expressed your gratitude, to the pink haired, feeling sad he had to serve such a severe hollow master.

“Now listen to me very carefully, I will kiss your forehead with my magic, it will conceal you from the other prying eyes for a few moments of time, say about and hour or so,” he stops whispering and walks near the door making sure fushiguro isn't present near. Being sure he walks back to you and continues, “during that one hour of your concealment, you must leave the Tsubaki pagoda and at least be about a mile or two away from the entrance gate.”

You nod trying to process all the information together, Yuji was dumping on you, “and while you do that, you must make sure not to cross or be any near master gojo, stay as far away as possible. He can sense reeks of my magic and my concealment is very feeble in his eyes, he would recognise you in a second so do not ever cross paths with him.” You nod at yuji, your heart thumping as if you were about to face a war, and the way his voice had the serious hint in it, you were sure that running into gojo would be the last thing you want in the entire world.

“As soon as I conceal you run from here, no one will be able to see you, take the left corridor and search for the nearest stairs leading to the floor underneath. Find the door with a huge old camellia flower carved on to its body, that's the back door…you will take the way to the left pavilion and not stop running, still you cross all three of them and exit the main entrance. Remember even if you exit the entrance don't stop running, run as far as you can. And if you see any group of people with designs of wolves embroidered, do not linger around them, ask the commoner to show you the path to the house of death god and they will.” He shuffles his one hand inside the sleeve of his robes, and takes out a thread of gold coins, shoving them to you.

“Give them these for payment and you will be just fine, insist them to drop you near instead, it's dangerous roaming alone. When you meet suguru geto, beg him for your life, he won't agree to give your soul back right away so crack a deal with him, offer him something precious to you and he's sure to help. If he insists having your soul till the coronation let him be but ask him to hide you in his house till the thirteenth day, and once you have your soul back pray to him to send you back.”

“And he will?”

“Probably. Keep praying till he agrees, no matter what he is still a god, if you devote yourself to him with pure heart he is bound to comply.” Yuji explains, dragging you near the door, one hand cupping your cheek gently.

you never had a brother, which always made you wonder how it feels to have one. Now you might have an answer to this. Yuji brings his lips to your forehead. “Run as far as possible, little crane” he whispered before pressing his lips to your forehead. A tingling sensation coursed through your veins and the moment you open your eyes, Yuji rushes you out of the room.

You run.

You ran and ran and ran. Two times nearing the failure of Yuji's concealment, when you passed near fushiguro but he was busy in conversation with a official in fancy robes. And the second time when you were about ten fleeting steps near gojo. But you ran. You somehow ran. And you're pretty sure you're miles away from the pagoda, which Yuji mentioned as Tsubaki pagoda— domain of gojo.

Your chest was heaving, throat itching of thirst, and your knees were shaking from running so long. The place where you were in currently resembled a busy market in the immortal realm, yet you could barely find people as it was still very early in the morning.

You didn't sleep for an entire night, the thread of gold coins Yuji gave you jingled heavy in the small coin purse which belonged to your mom as you walked around finding a place to sit.

Retiring yourself under a big osmanthus, you let out a breath, reflecting what you went through just in the past few hours, which now had been a day and a half you'd say to be exact.

You sit up straight, noticing something weird. Ever since childhood you couldn't run a mile distance without coughing or gasping for a bunch of oxygen which seemed to be slipping from your lungs. Yet, you ran continuously for an hour and probably more than that, and nothing really happened?

The thing just didn't sit right with you. But it was useless finding this thing odd, which could probably be one of the perks of Yuji's magic.

You huff out another breath leaning your back on to the bulk of its massive trunk. Breathing in the trails of its honeyed sweetness, with delicate hints of sun warmed peaches and somewhat complex undertone of the scene of rope apricots dancing in between— you gulp, trying to ease your thirst.

The smell of osmanthus relieved you, reminding you of your sweet home, where your mother once cradled you, where your father taught you how to walk. Feeling nostalgic and worry seeping in your thoughts of your father's health, you look up not wanting to cry.

You squint your eyes as you see a silhouette of something, deliberately peering down with curious eyes. You shriek of horror as you realise it was a figure of a girl, hurrying away from the osmanthus.

Sensing your panic, whatever the thing it was, landed on the group with a smooth jump— a girl....who seemed kind of human.

“Umm—”

“What are you doing here?”

“Shouldn't I be the one asking you this as you were hanging on the branch of the tree like a dead corpse?” You burst out, trying to calm down your pacing heartbeat.

“Dead? Aren't you dead too?” She said in a tone which caused a gush of familiarity, where have you heard it before?

“I am not,” you say, the girl who looked awfully cheerful, came near you, “do you need my help standing up?” She forwarded a hand which you refused to take. “No.” You said standing up on your own and dusting your clothes.

“You smell….very…very mortal.” She commented, pouting at you causing you to gulp, she realises the smell yet not able to distinguish you, “is that so? Do you want something?” You try to change the topic, unwilling to discuss any about your mortality.

“No. Nothing. Just curious about something heavy jingling on that very beautiful coin purse of yours.”

Oh.

“Well, I will be very happy to give you some if you do me a favour.” She jumped at you with curious eyes of excitement, “what favour? Yes I will.”

“umm..I would like to visit the…god of death, do you know where his house must be?” You ask not wanting to sound too obvious, afterall what business might a commoner would have with the god of death.

The girl nodded without any further questions and gestured to you to follow her, by now you forgot about your thirst and not wanting to lose track of her, you followed close by.

The girl left with some coins of gold leaving you at the doors of the huge palace which is known as the house of death. You sneaked in, through the gates, feeling no less of a thief, the palace guards were not present near the gate so you didn't have anyone to take permission from, which was to your advantage. You wouldn't want to spread the news of your escape.

After crossing two huge shrine-like gates, you enter a palace finding no guards there too. Following an elongated corridor you check the entire floor before taking the steps to the upper floors.

Even after checking the entire palace you found no one. Did the girl trick you? And now you ended up in an abandoned palace, with no surety of—

“Any problems, young mortal?”

You flinched at the voice behind you, a man stood behind you, tall enough to hover over you, somewhat near gojo, you could see hints of black yukata with some gold robes. Under the chilling intensity of his gaze, you slowly turn back to face him.

He was awfully beautiful, to be termed as the feared god of death. Black streaks of hair falling down while half of them were tied in a knot, his eyes held a curved sinister gaze as lips twisted in another pout. “Tell what mortal, you come in my house, take a look at each and every corner in here and when I decide to appear in front of you, you freeze?”

“God of death?” You ask, even though every single hair on your body knew whose presence you were under.

“Yes, I am the god of death, Suguru geto.” He said before letting out a chuckle “What demand do you have? You want your soul back?”

“Yes! Please give me back my soul, I wish to return to my world, please I beg you—”

Geto lets out a laugh before coming extremely close to you, till your back hits the wall and he is hovering over you, face inching closer each moment, “and why shall I? If satoru gojo expects me to return your soul, I must make it clear, poor thing. I. will. not.” he says, tucking his index finger beneath your chin plopping your head up to face him.

Tears brim down from your eyes, “what does it have to do with gojo? I came here to expect help from a god, a god who is expected to help his devotees. And if you don't know what the sacred relation between a god and a devotee is, you should know better to leave your position.”

His face twisted in mockery, the index beneath your chin slid down to grab your throat, hand tightening around it, strangling you, making it difficult to breathe. “You sure have a lot to say, but my dear crane, you should think properly, what sacred relation? I am the God of death. I am to be feared not to be prayed. I am not to be worshipped, but to be dreaded.”

“Isn't death the start of a new life?” You choke your words out, “doesn't that mark you not only as the god of death but the god of life?”

“You speak too much mortal…the god of life is the sea god, who has ignored all of your pleas of help for decades, he trampled down on all of your cries and you expect me to—” you can barely make out what he was saying, your mind was growing dizzy and your body was going limp. Yuji’s voice echoed from the back of your mind. ‘crack a deal with him’ he said.

“I will give you anything you want, return me back to my world, to my father.” Your voice came out in a choked whisper, geto stared at you for a while, before loosening his grip on your throat, “too late, I expect another visitor.”

You look behind geto to see prince ren staring at both of you with unreadable eyes, his calm demeanor sent chills to your spine, “did I interrupt your fun with the mortal crane?” He asked, his voice was nothing other than composed, “what if my answer is a ‘yes’...”

“Guess I will have to apologise, however the crane is already decided to be taken under my brother, so—” geto interrupts him mid-sentence. “Oh don't worry, I'm not interested in hunting cranes from the very beginning, crown prince ren.”

“Ah, I guess then we can leave her out of the conversation.” Prince ren's face displayed a polite smile as geto skims his fingers to your forehead head, rendering you unconscious.

The next you opened your eyes, you found yourself tucked in a bed, mattress filled with what seemed very soft cotton, the room you were in seemed different than the rooms of the house of death, shifting yourself out of the feathers you walk up to the door, feeling uneasy about opening it or not. You had no idea where exactly you were in or who might be waiting outside this room— the death god? Prince Ren? Or gojo?

You could hear something going on, as if an interrogation, “I am the one responsible.”

A chill runs down your spine, you slowly part the doors creating a small gap enough for you to peek in. You see prince ren moving in circles and the one standing still was— gojo.

You were back in the Tsubaki pagoda. Cursing yourself mentally, you feel your hands getting clammy, all of the hard work for nothing? You traveled so far to retrieve your soul from geto suguru yet—

“So you're telling me you're the one responsible and she ran away without receiving any help from your subordinates?” Prince Ren asked him as he stood silent. His face was still the same expression, vacant.

“Might be so when you render yourself responsible. Must take the responsibility. Grab the knife near and stab right through your hand”

What?

The prince said it so casually as if it meant nothing and you could only widen your eyes when Gojo took a knife and stabbed it right through his palm.

You gasped, trying to calm down your breathing, the sharp blade was still stuck in his palm as blood slowly trickled down tainting the tatamis.

Unable to see anymore, you shut the door and return back to the bed. Your hands were shaking, whatever you saw you no longer understood what you felt, because why would you feel such extravagant unfurling of excitement when gojo did stab right through his hand. Why would your hands shake of envy instead of fear, wishing you would have stabbed it instead of him.

You try to shake off these thoughts from your mind. What the heck were you thinking anyway? Yes he did yanked you by your hair, seized your jaw and threw your fragile body to the floor, even ignored your pleas, but it doesn't mean he deserved that…right?

You had no answer.

What troubled you even more is his expressionless face, who didn't even display a hint of pain at such a brutal attack, inflicted by himself. What exactly was wrong with him?

You decided to care less. What mattered more is the movement of the doors which opened to reveal prince ren. He entered the room with his calm demeanor, and polite expression.

You cannot fathom how he was the same person who made gojo stab his hand in just one order.

“You're awake.” He said nearing your bed, and dismissed your effort of standing up with a hand gesture. “Do you feel better now?”

“Yes, I do prince ren.” You bow your head, “that's great, I was quite worried for you,..”

“Worried? Excuse my words but why must the crown prince worry for me?”

“I just happened to make an observation,” he settled on a chair near your bed, picking up some freshly cut pears and passing it to you, wanting you to have it. Not wanting to refuse the prince you comply with his desires, “that your body is quite frail, how long have you been practicing it?”

“Huh? Practicing? Practicing what, your highness?”

“Mithridatism.”

You still, no more chewing the fleshy fruit rather gulping it down, “ah…I apologise I don't get it.”

“How long have you been poisoning yourself?”

“Why would I poison myself?”

“Oblivious. Aren't you? Your body reeks of strong poisons, these veins on your wrists, don't you think they are too blue, too noticeable? Since you seem to know nothing about this, it concludes your parents or specifically your father, the one you're so desperate to return back to— has been poisoning you little by little for years.”

“You're sprawling nonsense…” the prince chuckled in amusement, particularly not minding the lack of your poise, “am I?” He picked up another piece of pear, going to the other corner of the room, where caged was a little swallow. The small bird innocently fed on some of it as the prince smiled, humming a tune which made you uneasy.

“What exactly are you doing prince ren?” You couldn't help but question his actions. Whatever he was doing didn't feel right. “Hmm, just feeding a bird.”

You watched him confused, a while later the bird fell off the perch, the little swallow was dead. “What?” You're breathing quickened as you realised what exactly the prince was implying. “I fed the same poison to you and this bird, yet you're still alive whereas the bird is not, do you know what that means? It means your body has been consuming poisons for so long that it has grown immune to it....”

You swallowed thickly, unable to form any words, the prince came near you, “I wasn't sure so I decided I'd try experimenting.”

“And what if you were wrong…what if..what if I died?” You ask, letting out a calculated breath, trying to process whatever truth about you were getting enlightened on. “Then I could have blamed your death on the enemies, plus who would care for a crane.”

You still couldn't believe it, you didn't know why you agreed to the prince’s terms but you did. For you had no other choice, the prince promised you anything you want would be granted if you spy for him. All you wanted was to go back home to your father, but all this while he'd been poisoning you? You didn't know what to feel about it. You said you'd take time thinking about what you want after all the prince wants is for you to spy for him in the Tsubaki house, and report any interaction between prince shota and gojo.

“Why prince shota? Isn't he your brother?” You questioned, when he chuckled at you, “brother by blood is a crack forged on a sword. I do not grant my trust simply…”

“But you're trusting me to spy for you…”

“Since you're bound to follow my orders. And I know you don't trust me nor I'd ask to. Only a fool would make such a mistake.”

“I'm not bound, I am meant to be taken in by your brother, and If I want I can reveal it all to him, about how you ask me to spy on him.” you hiss your defiance at him, which twists his court smile into one of satire.

“oh do you think you will be safe under his wing? Young crane, have not understood him yet, he's a hunter, all he wants to do with you is to green-gown you, and once it's done he will throw you away to get you used by his followers.”

You felt numb, confused and lost. It was too much for you to take and too much for you to grasp, unsure of what was happening around you.

He even removed restrictions on you being held captive. you were free to move as long as you're inside the boundaries of the Tsubaki house. All you had to do is spy on each movement of gojo; let the other spies of prince ren in the Tsubaki house and report to him your observation. And in between all the 10 days you've spent in the Tsubaki house near gojo, Fushiguro and a guilty Yuji who has been avoiding you, nothing happened which needed serious report.

It was the day of coronation, a three day function to celebrate by the immortals and vow their oath as a new king is crowned. You heard Fushiguro speaking to Yuji about how prince ren isn't going to start his reign with the blood crown passed down since generations, rather he ordered the forging of a new blood crown, which is why this coronation would be three days long.

And as promised, after his coronation, the prince would grant you anything you want, but what would you ask? You had nothing to desire anymore. Except for your soul, and even if you have your soul you'd have to go back to the mortal realm— to a father who poisoned you.

But staying is even worse, it'd question your chastity.

The royal chamber swayed with immortals of high ranks and officials, you notice the other kins to the royal family—Princess nanako and najimi. You also spot the betrothed of prince ren, lady harumi.

The god of death soon made his arrival and so did the god of wind and goddess of motherhood and even more, that you struggled remembering their titles.

Prince Ren made sure it was perfect, and it was until— princess nanako, the eldest kin to the sea god clan, came forward, her hand glazed with the new blood crown, gold threads of pearls suspended to it. The former blood crown laid behind the canopy, on a low table, where the soon to be former sea god sat on his throne. Its silhouette is visible to all.

The new oaths were to be taken and the crown was soon to be adorned on the prince's mighty head— as long as he had a head.

Prince shota twisted his sword, wrenching the guts of his kin, his eldest sister before drawing the sword back, her screaming figure fell to the floor, so did the new crown.

Everything was a mess, the crowd freaked out and when Ren came protesting with a sword ready to fight his kin, it was the god of death stabbing him right through his stomach.

He betrayed prince ren— for prince shota. And the next you blink your eyes you see Ren's head cut off rolling on the marbled floor.

You felt something wet on your face. These 10 days you've been convinced you couldn't feel anything yet when you raised your hand to wipe it off your face, expecting to see the splattered blood, you see your tears, spilling continuously from your eyes.

Prince Ren was dead. And so was your only guarantor of your wish. Even though you couldn't trust him, prince shota is even more not to trust, now that you knew what his intentions with you were.

You dart your head around, coming out of your daze, you need to run as fast as you can from this place or else you will be dead meat. Everyone was running here and there while some took the scene in amusement. The goddess of motherhood, who was supposed to be kind, glances at the scene, quietly sipping on her drink, not a single drop of motherly kindness glazed in her eyes. It was as if she was enjoying the indiscriminate slaughter.

You shift your focus to fushiguro and Yuji, who seemed to help commoners get out of the high palace. Gojo was nowhere to be seen, you make your way to them when some commoners among the massacre take out their grudges, seeking this as their perfect chance to get away with a murder.

Horrified you fall back, your robes are now tainted in red, you don't know how or from where, pushing past crowds of so called immortals, you find yourself in a secret chamber, where the figure of gojo, seemed to be in a daze.

Bewildered, you grab a candelabrum, posing as a weapon to any threat he displays. Gojo, who seemed to have noticed your presence, didn't stand up, rather stayed stuck to his place. His long white hair fell from the top of his ribbon knot. The piece of midnight silk was discarded on the floor, “y/n…” he said.

Hearing your name from his mouth sounded unfamiliar to you. For a moment you found yourself contemplating if you heard it right, and then doubting he even knew your name. He turns his head at an angle, which allows him to side eye you as if he'd jump out right now, and the next thing you know is you'd be dead, “Don't you dare…”

Gojo stills at your words, before asking “dare what y/n?”

“Don’t come near me…”

“....I understand. I won't. And I can't.”

You frown even more. He just simply agreed? Something about him doesn't sit right with you. It just doesn't. Taking your surroundings properly you notice, he wasn't sitting on the chair, rather he was plopped perfectly bound to the chair, chains of metal wrapped around wrists and feets, securing him tight, unable to escape.

You swallow an unwanted bubble of laugh creeping past your lips. He, once ordered to enslave you, was here captured and chair to a mere chair. What a shame.

Gathering more confidence than you needed you put the candelabrum down and search around the room until you find a perfect piece of dagger— to threaten him.

You already have enough of it and it's not like days spent in this immortal realm made you any less crazy. “And who dared to bind you to this mere chair?

“Suguru.” face still devoid of any expression.

“ahh I see, you kind of deserve this.” you mock, staring into the hollow eyes of the white haired, till you felt something so overpowering that you turned your head away. “Oh.” He said.

“And you won't attempt running away?” You say grazing the tip of the dagger down his face to his neck, wondering if the space barrier would avoid the tip touching the skin but it didn't. “I am not allowed to…”

“And why so?” he didn't answer you for a few minutes, before you realise he doesn't want to answer you, when you press the tip of the dagger more firmly to his neck.

“.....a curse.”

You tilt your head, amused, finding it hysterical. So the gojo satoru, head of the Tsubaki house, and the right hand of the dead crown prince all while bound to a mere curse, “what curse?” you interrogate further, unable to best yourself taking advantage of his situation.

“...a curse which binds me to words.” You pinch your brows together, at which he explains further, “of any person imposing those on me.”

“So you won't be able to do anything unless someone tells you to…” he nods, “and by that you mean anyone?” He nodded, hesitation peeking his vacant face for the first time, exciting you even more. You still find it hard to look straight to his dark hollow eyes but the way knowing about his weakness courses energy through you, you find yourself mocking him, staring right at his eyes.

“even me?” You ask in a knowing tone, already guessing his answer at the delay of his response, “I'd count that as a yes.” It is fun. Why did you even come here in the first place, you didn't remember, but seeing him, satoru gojo weak, had you giggling inside your head.

“So gojo, you know that I hate you…right? What do you feel about me?” you ask, bringing your mouth near his.

“If you want an answer, I would like to reciprocate the same feeling of hatred, which you hold in account for me.”

“And how would you feel, if the person you hate so much had you underneath…” you closed a bit more distance between you both, similar to the situation you'd been in before, when he hovered over you, limping your body to the floor. His eyes still had chills running down your spine yet you refused to look away. “I'd be humiliated.”

“Is that so? How about you kiss the person you hate instead, that'd be even more humiliating, don't you think.” gojo doesn't answer you, rather slips his eyes down to your lips and gulps as you bring them even closer. You press the dagger in his neck, piercing his skin, yet he didn't seemed as alert as when you bring your other hand near his hair and yank his head.

“Isn't this what you did to me? How does it feels?”

Gojo doesn't answers you, bringing your head near, you open your mouth to ask again, when gojo tilts his head at you, as if begging to— you near his lips as he captures yours with a devouring kiss.

His lips moved around yours, sucking the plump of your fleshes so feverishly, if you didn't knew better you'd think he has been secretly craving for you all this time, but you did know better, he was just disgusted by the fact that he was kissing you. And it humiliated him, the first expression you've ever seen in his face, as you find hits of crimson slowly spreading across his ears.

His lashes brushed against your skin, and in order to humiliate him even more, you let go of the dagger, hands cupping his cheeks deepening the kiss.

You slipped your tongue in his mouth, as gojo sucked on your sweet juices, the tingly sensation seemed to grow your brain mushy, when all of a sudden he pulled away.

“What happened?” You blink innocently as you watch him coughing, and wheezing, soon followed by blood spilling out of his mouth, staining his robes.

“Oh, I might have poisoned you…” you forgot you had the toxin of the crimson lily before on your way to the high palace. Or maybe you didn't.

Gojo halts his coughing a bit as he looked up at you, he spits blood from his mouth, some dripping down his chin as a smirk spreads across his cheeks, causing you to take back your taunting smile.

His dark pupils dilated, and if you weren't hallucinating, you might have seen his dark eyes break out in a colour of brilliant blue.

“What vicious plan are you plotting against my heart y/n?”

tags- @teddiiursulas-ink @jkslaugh97

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shotmrmiller · 2 years ago

Text

Multiverse part 3

You sat in a small room on a padded chair, with equipment set up around your arm, chest, and fingertips. A polygraph test. That's what you were being forced to take. And to your chagrin, Ghost is in the room with you and Captain Price.

"Try to relax, yeah?" Price commented. He must've noticed your restless leg.

"I'll do that, shall I? I've done nothing wrong, other than exist and I'm being interrogated. Because that's what this is— an interrogation." You finally turn your attention from Ghost to look at Price, who's sitting at the desk by your side. "Tell me, Captain. Did you get this same treatment when you came back after spending all that time locked up in the gulag?"

His dark eyebrows furrow in confusion. A sigh escapes your bitten lips. That's only in your...world, for lack of a better term. Dimension? Universe?

"I haven't been to the gulag here." Yeah, obviously.

With an impatient wave of the hand that doesn't have cables strapped to it, you mutter, "Let's get on with this circus act, then. Ask your questions."

Ghost steps forward, his arms unfolding as if he's about to speak to you, but Price swiftly intervenes, halting him with a raised hand.

"Alright then. Baseline questions first. Name." Ghost gives away nothing when you say your last name is Riley.

It goes like this for a few, then he switches to the control questions, until finally moving on to the relevant ones.

"How did you get here?" I don't know.

"Do you know why you're here?" No.

He pulls up a photograph. "Recognize him?" Captain MacTavish.

Another photo. "Him?" I don't know.

"What do you mean by that?" If that's Roach, I've never seen his face unmasked.

"You're sure you don't know him?" Unless that man's name is Gary Sanderson, no. I do not know him.

Price acknowledges your response with a nod, then shifts his gaze towards Ghost, whose head slightly tilts forward. Returning his attention to you, he retrieves a final photograph. "What about him?"

As you look at the picture, your eyes begin to well with tears, lip trembling violently. A new fracture reverberated through your tender heart, intensifying the ache in your chest. Yes.

"Who is he?" Price softly asks.

"That's my Simon," your voice broke on the last syllable. It was hard to not use a possessive adjective when the face of your husband was in that picture.

Blinking the tears away, you clear your throat. "Anything else, Captain?"

Price purses his lips under his hefty facial hair and responds, "Just a few more questions."

Once finished, you sat unabashedly staring at Ghost in the tiny room. "I wear Roach's tags alongside yours, in honor. He was with you until the very end, and for that, I couldn't be more grateful."

Ghost is completely silent, but you continue talking anyway. "I've been married to you since a bit after you came home on leave that one time. You know the one."

His eyes are emotionless, blank, as he stares at you. But you know him like the back of your hand. You've got his full attention.

"I accompanied you to your brother's wedding. He married a woman, Beth. She was good for him. They had a baby, your nephew, named Joseph. The love you had for him was one of a kind. I had told you later that evening that I dreamed of the day you'd look at our children like that."

With a shuddery breath, you tell him how none of those matters. Because your husband is dead, and you're stuck here. With his counterpart that hates you.

With a hushed click, the door closes shut behind him as he leaves, yet its resounding noise fills the compact room you're in.

You begin to fidget with the sizeable ring that hangs on a thin necklace beneath your shirt— the metal is warm under your touch as if it had never gone cold in the first place.

As if Simon had never taken it off his finger to go find Makarov.

ah theyre short but hurt. much pain.

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#call of duty #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #multiverse cod #09 ghost #22 ghost #cod mw2 #cod mwii #cod #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #simon ghost riley x you

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calmcoldevening · 18 days ago

Note

can you do slashers x mute reader? Love ur stuff, btw

Slashers x mute!reader

Michael Myers

• You have a literally perfect relationship. He is silent, you are silent, but this silence is the most comfortable you have ever heard in your life. You are the only one who does not break the silence of his inner world, so you are already an integral part of it. You are like his shadow, without which he no longer perceives his existence.

• Michael has a very good sense of the atmosphere, so he always guesses your mood or subsequent actions by the slightest change in your face or body.

• Michael likes to stand for hours and just watch you as you do some of your things. He doesn't look menacing, no. Rather, he looks at you in a way that is more like a study, like a young child studying the world and those around them. But this act of ordinariness means a lot to him. He remembers every feature of you, every action you take.

• His highest sign of trust in you is that he allows you to touch his mask. He doesn't allow anyone to do that. But you are a big exception in his life. He might even allow you to remove his mask so that you can study the face of the person you love. He finds your touch strangely pleasant.

• He will kill anyone who says a word or laughs at you because of your specialness. No one has the right to touch his treasure.

Jason Voorhees

• Deep down, there's a little hurt child inside Jason who hates the world for its peculiarities. So, he's pleasantly surprised that you share some similarities. This awakens a childlike, genuine interest in your personality.

• Your silent understanding instills genuine confidence in him. He feels almost normal, worthy of love. Your calm, non-judgmental presence soothes him.

• His mother's voice in his head often makes him smile, as Pamela considers you a good person for her boy. She also tells Jason how to take care of you so that you can truly see his love, for which Jason is immensely grateful.

• Your silent world is filled with the singing of birds, the soft rustling of trees, the sound of rain hitting the roof, and the gentle crackling of logs in the fireplace. This is more than enough for both of you. This peaceful world is very comfortable for both of you, and Jason will not allow anyone to disrupt it.

• You are teaching Jason sign language, and he is very successful. He quickly grasps the meaning of all the signs. And he gets very possessive about it. He wants to be the only one who can truly understand you.

Bubba Sawyer

• Bubba doesn't talk either, so it was quite easy for him to get used to you and your special feature. You quickly found common ground, started to understand each other without words, even came up with some of your own chips.

• Sometimes you use a notebook to "talk" with him. You write some sensible questions and phrases there, and Bubba draws flowers, butterflies or funny faces.

• He can easily sense your mood, and if you're tired or hungry, he'll immediately take you to bed or to the kitchen, where he'll heat up the biggest piece of meat. If someone dares to criticize your inability to speak, he'll enter his "possessive territorial" mode. He'll kill them no matter what (his family doesn't laugh at you because they're used to Bubba being mute).

• Your love is the best thing that ever happened to him. He loves your silent acts of love, the way you hug and kiss each other. If he doesn't know how to express his feelings for you, he'll just rub against your body, mostly your shoulder or forehead, like a cat.

• Bubba often wakes up before you because he's a very hardworking boy. That's why he leaves cute notes for you on your bedside table. Although it looks more like a child's messy handwriting, he really tried. He even drew you and him and hearts!

Thomas Hewitt

• Thomas is a simple man, and he doesn't care if you can speak or not. This is the first time he has fallen in love, and he loves you deeply, which is all that matters to him. He also appreciates silence, so you are a great find for him.

• His actions speak louder than words. In his free time, Thomas makes every effort to be close to you. He hugs you, holds you close, kisses your neck through your mask, and caresses your sides and thighs. Physical contact with his partner is very important to him, it helps him to feel needed and loved.

• His mother quickly fell in love with you, because you are so nice and good. In addition, she does not mind another polite and nice child. Therefore, most of the time you spend exactly to help Luda. Thomas is just happy and immensely grateful to you.

• He loves your silent presence near. You are the only one who can enter his basement without knocking and permission. You can touch his mask, although he's still a little unsure and only allows you to remove it in the dark.

• His way of saying "I love you" is by leaving you the biggest pieces of meat, bringing you various gifts he finds from his victims, carving you something out of wood or bone, or even sewing something for you. He loves you immensely, no matter what.

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readingkitty22 · 3 months ago

Text

Shared Walls, Shared Heat

Pairing: Alpha! Satoru Gojo x Omega! Reader

Description:College wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. As an Omega determined to carve her own path, the last thing she expected was to be forced into a new living situation,especially not one involving a too-handsome, too-smug Alpha like Satoru Gojo. Aloof and infuriatingly hot, he seems like the last person she’d trust with her secret. But Gojo has secrets of his own… and instincts he’s been holding back. What begins as reluctant cohabitation slowly spirals into something deeper, hotter, inevitable. In a world that expects her to fall into place, she dares to fall in love.

roommates AU, omegaverse, modern fantasy, slow burn to HOT burn, mutual pining, scent kink, protective/possessive Alpha Gojo, non-traditional Omega reader, emotional heat, soul-deep bond, claiming/bite, post-heat cuddles

⚠️ Warnings: Omegaverse dynamics (heat/rut, claiming, knotting, scenting), NSFW/explicit content, emotionally intense scenes, dominance/possessiveness (consensual), light breeding kink, gender-neutral reader language in parts but female-coded anatomy implied, mild angst and past discrimination themes

w.c. 5.8k

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

Life as an omega was hard. It always has been.

You weren’t the delicate, sweet-scented kind that made alphas swoon and governments comfortable. You were sharp, stubborn, and worst of all ambitious. Your existence made people uncomfortable because you refused to be grateful for the box they'd tried to put you in.

From your very first heat, you knew the world had already made its decision about what kind of life you were meant to live: quiet, mated, marked, and out of sight.

But you had other plans.

At twenty, you’d done the unthinkable: applied to Jujutsu University. Not for a husband-hunting degree or some decorative arts program, but for a brutal, sleep depriving double major in biology and chemistry. You didn’t want comfort. You wanted autonomy.

Your suppressants worked well enough. The scent-blockers were top shelf, illegal to import without a license. And for the first four weeks, you thought you’d pulled it off. Two friends, Shoko and Utahime, both sharp tongued betas with no patience for alpha or omega drama. A studio apartment you could just barely afford. A schedule full of labs and lectures and no time for anyone to notice what you were.

Until the day your landlord let himself in for a “routine inspection” and didn't bother hiding the way his nose twitched. Thirty minutes later, you were standing on the curb with your textbooks in a trash bag and your omega status fully exposed.

You hadn’t cried, although your eyes shined with unshed tears. You didn’t argue. You were too used to people making decisions for you the second they smelled what you were.

And now?

Now you were on a stranger’s doorstep with your phone at 4% and your backpack digging into your shoulder, ringing Shoko’s buzzer at ten minutes past midnight.

She’d said it would be fine. She’d said she had space.

The door creaked open, casting a sliver of warm light across the dark hallway.

He filled the frame lazily. Tall, shirtless, tousled white hair falling into sleepy blue eyes that barely registered you for a second. A faint clink sounded as he shifted, the silver chain around his neck catching on his collarbone. He looked like he’d just woken up from the kind of nap that only people without real problems got to take.

And then his nose twitched.

It was subtle. The slight narrowing of his eyes. The way his jaw ticked once, almost like a reflex.

“...You’re the omega,” he said, voice low and flat.

Not hostile. Just observational. Like you were the answer to a question he didn’t remember asking.

You didn’t have the strength to answer. Not properly.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it, and you hated that it was the first thing he heard from you.

You were crying.

Not sobbing, not messy, not dramatic. Just silent, relentless tears that blurred your vision and soaked the collar of your shirt, born from exhaustion and rage and the bitter sting of being reminded that the world didn’t want you unless you were obedient.

He stared at you for a second. Not unkindly. Not kindly either. Just seeing you. Like he was reading something behind your eyes that you didn’t want anyone to know was there.

You dragged the back of your sleeve across your face and forced out something like, “Yeah. And you’re not wearing a shirt.”

The smirk came instantly, practiced and slow. “Guess we’re both a little exposed, huh?”

He didn’t ask if you were okay. Didn’t say you looked like hell, even though you did. Instead, he stepped back and opened the door fully. “Well, come in. You’re dripping on the welcome mat.”

His tone was dry, bored.Like letting in stray omegas at midnight was a weekly event.

You hesitated in the doorway.

He didn’t reach for your bag. Didn’t crowd you with fake concern. Just turned on his heel and walked down the hall, voice echoing casually behind him. “Sho said you’d be crashing for a while. Room on the left’s empty. Sheets are clean.”

You stepped inside, shutting the door quietly, the lock clicking louder than expected in the silence. The apartment was warmer than you thought it would be. Lived-in. Someone had stocked the kitchen with snacks. A spare hoodie hung over the back of the couch.

You tried not to fall apart again when you realized someone had put a box of tissues on the nightstand in the spare room along with a small chocolate bar.

You weren’t sure if it was Shoko or him, but either way, you’d been expected. Not welcomed, maybe. But not unwanted either.

From somewhere down the hall, his voice drifted again.

“Try to keep the crying down after 2 a.m., yeah?”

A pause.

“And drink some water before you pass out. You smell dehydrated.”

You let out something between a laugh and a sob, pulling the door shut behind you. Maybe this wouldn’t be the worst place to fall apart after all.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

Two weeks in, and you’d almost convinced yourself that living with Gojo Satoru was fine.

Sure, he was loud in the mornings, had a weird habit of opening the fridge 10 times in a row as if that would magically make a snack appear, and walked around the apartment like pants were optional. But he hadn’t crossed any lines.

If anything, he was... surprisingly easy to live with.

And that was the problem.

Because Gojo Satoru didn’t act like an alpha who’d been forced to room with an omega. He didn’t leer. He didn’t comment on your scent, even when you’d gone a little too long between suppressants. He didn’t hover. Not obviously.

But he noticed.

Shoko technically still lived there, too. But most nights, she was holed up at her girlfriend Yuki’s place on the other side of town. The apartment still smelled faintly like her beta-neutral sandalwood shampoo, but her laundry basket hadn’t moved in a week. The only sign she hadn’t moved out entirely was the occasional shift in the fridge contents and the echo of her sarcasm in your text history.

Which left you and Gojo. Alone. Constantly.

The first time, it was subtle. You’d forgotten to eat, late lab, two exams, and when you came home half dizzy, there was a takeout box on the counter with your name scrawled in Gojo’s messy script on a sticky note. No explanation.

The second time, you’d gone to leave the apartment without your coat. It was cold, but not unbearable. Still he’d watched you reach for the doorknob and tossed your jacket at your back without looking up from his phone.

“Wear that,” he muttered. “You smell thin.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean.”

He never said omega. Never flaunted the biological advantage, never made it feel like a power thing. But he watched you in that quiet, infuriating way that said he knew more than you wanted him to.

And worse?

You were starting to notice him, too.

You told yourself it was nothing, the way his voice sounded too warm when he called you “princess” just to piss you off, or how your stomach twisted every time he stretched in the kitchen, shirt riding up to show a sliver of toned skin.

But it wasn’t nothing.

He was stupidly attractive. And worse, he smelled good. Like cedarwood and fresh air and something expensive you couldn’t name. The scent clung to the apartment. The couch cushions. The back of your throat.

And it was starting to drive you insane.

Because your body knew before your brain did. Every time he passed behind you, something in you tensed. Not in fear but awareness. That low, instinctive itch that whispered he’s strong, he’s close, he’s paying attention.

You caught him watching you once. Late at night, the hum of the fridge was the only sound between you. You were bent over your notes, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows, gnawing the cap of your pen, and you felt it, his gaze on the side of your face.

He didn’t look away when you glanced up.

Just smirked faintly and said, “You smell stressed. Eat something.”

You threw a granola bar at his head.

He caught it, one-handed.

“Violence,” he sighed dramatically. “How you show love.”

You rolled your eyes but the flush on your face didn’t go away for a full hour.

He was annoying. And bossy. And far too smug.

But he noticed when you were cold. When you were hungry. When your eyes were glassy from not sleeping enough.

And sometimes when he walked past you in the hall, too close, too casually, you noticed that his scent changed. Just slightly. A little deeper. A little sweeter.

And you weren’t sure if it was you reacting to him, or him reacting to you.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

Gojo’s P.o.v

She fell asleep at the kitchen table again.

Gojo found her there around 1 a.m., face tucked into the crook of her arm, pen still in her hand. Textbooks spread out like a battlefield. Half a granola bar flattened under her elbow.

He stood in the doorway for a minute. Didn’t move. Just watched.

She was curled up tight: hoodie too big, knees pulled to her chest, a frown ghosting across her face like she’d fallen asleep in the middle of being frustrated. He could see the edge of her scent suppressor patch poking out from under her collar, slightly askew.

Probably forgot to change it.

Again.

His nose twitched. Her scent was bleeding through faintly, warm and soft and fucking distracting. Not the full hit, not even close, but enough to make something low in his chest tighten.

Gojo rubbed the back of his neck, leaned a hip against the counter.

He shouldn’t care. It wasn’t his job to care. They weren’t even friends. Not really.

Except he knew her class schedule now. Knew she chewed her pen when she was anxious and tapped her foot when she lied. Knew she always tried to look tougher than she felt.

He also knew she hadn’t eaten anything but caffeine and vending machine trash in two days.

He moved before he thought about it. Quiet steps. Careful hands.

Tugged a blanket from the couch and draped it over her shoulders. Not too close. Not too intimate. Just enough to keep her from waking up stiff and freezing.

He reached to straighten the suppressant patch.

Paused.

Didn’t touch it.

Didn’t trust himself to.

Instead, he pulled the box of them from the cabinet and dropped it next to her notes. No comment. No lecture. Just a quiet reminder.

And then he left. Not because he wanted to.

Because staying would mean inhaling her scent again.

And thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

You woke up with a blanket draped over your shoulders again.

Second time this week.

And, like clockwork, your box of suppressants was sitting beside your notes, unopened, just far enough from your arm to say I didn’t touch you, but close enough to say I noticed.

Gojo never mentioned it. Never teased. Never hovered.

He just... did things.

Moved your laundry from the washer to the dryer without asking. Left your favorite ramen on the counter with a post-it note that said don’t skip lunch. Adjusted the thermostat at night when he thought you were sleeping cold. Always brushed past you in the hallway with a casual You good?, but never pushed if you weren’t.

It was starting to get hard to pretend you didn’t notice. Or that your stomach didn’t flip a little every time he did it.

And now you were heading to a party with him.

Well not with him. Shoko invited you both.

Apparently, Yuki’s best friend was throwing something “low-key” for the department’s upperclassmen. Shoko had waved off your half-protest with a wine glass in hand and a lazy grin. “Come on,” she’d said. “You’re overdue for a night where your blood isn’t 70% caffeine.”

So now you stood in the mirror, half-nervous, half-curious because it wasn’t often you got the chance to wear something nice. You’d gone simple: soft makeup, perfume light enough not to clash with your suppressants, a fitted dress that stopped a few inches above the knee. Classy. Subtle. A little daring for someone who lived in hoodies and sweats.

You heard Gojo’s voice from the hallway. “You ready yet? Shoko’s gonna start pregaming without us—”

The second you stepped out of your room, his words died in his throat.

He blinked. Once. Twice. He breathed in deeply before speaking.

“…Wow,” he muttered.

You shifted your weight. “Too much?”

“No.” His voice was low, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “No, you look good.”

The ride to the party was quiet, except for Shoko mumbling in the back seat about Yuki’s inability to remember which apartment she actually lived in. Gojo didn’t say much. Just glanced at you once or twice like he was trying not to.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

The party was packed.

Sweaty bodies, loud bass, someone already spilling something sticky on the floor. You stuck close to Shoko until she predictably disappeared into the hallway with Yuki, laughing over some inside joke that involved tequila and a stolen salt lamp.

You found yourself by the kitchen, fiddling with a drink, trying not to notice how many people were there, and how many of them were alphas.

You weren’t in heat. Your patch was fresh. But that didn’t stop the attention.

“Hey,” a voice said behind you, smooth and too-close. “Haven’t seen you around before.”

You turned to find a tall, broad-shouldered guy with a grin just a little too confident. He stepped closer, his eyes raking down your dress. “You here with anyone?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly. “My roommate.”

“Oh?” he smirked. “He your boyfriend?”

“No. Listen, I'm really not interested…”

“Then he won’t mind if I—”

You flinched as his arm wrapped itself behind you, his hand brushed your lower back, fingers dipping just low enough to make your stomach twist. You stepped back in fear and shock.

And then he wasn’t touching you anymore.

Because Gojo was there.

Fast. Quiet. Close.

His hand curled around your elbow, not hard, but firm. His voice low, almost lazy.

“She said she wasn’t interested.”

The guy scoffed. “Chill, man. I was just talking—”

Gojo smiled. It wasn’t nice.

“That wasn’t talking. That was a mistake.”

For a second, the tension was thick enough to cut. Then the guy muttered something under his breath and backed off, disappearing into the crowd.

You exhaled shakily.

Gojo still hadn’t let go of your arm.

“You okay?” he asked, finally looking at you, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded uncertaintly, pulse skipping. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you,really looked, and something in his expression shifted.

Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to drag you out of the party or kiss you against the fridge.

Instead, he leaned closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for you to feel his breath by your ear.

“You smell scared,” he murmured. “I don’t like it.”

And then he was gone,disappearing into the crowd like nothing had happened.

But your heart was still racing.

And his scent sharp, grounding, alpha still lingered around you like a promise.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

The party had thinned out by midnight, and you were tired, buzzed, but not drunk, and still wound tight from the incident in the kitchen. Shoko had waved you off with a wink and mumbled something about “staying the night at Yuki’s, obviously,” before disappearing into an Uber.

Which left just you and Gojo.

The car ride home was quiet.

Not awkward, not exactly. Just… loaded.

You could still feel where his hand had gripped your arm, where his voice had dropped into something dangerous something protective. You kept your eyes on the window. The streetlights smeared into gold streaks, but you weren’t really seeing them.

He didn’t say anything until you were almost at your building.

“That guy’s lucky I didn’t break his hand.”

You blinked, turned toward him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”

Silence again.

Then, as he pulled into the lot and put the car in park, he added more quietly, less sure of himself, “You looked good tonight.”

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

“Not just the dress,” he said. “You. You just... looked good.”

That made your chest tighten.

You didn’t know what possessed you to say it, but you did.

“I noticed you watching me.”

He looked over at you, sharp blue eyes catching yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly. “Not just tonight.”

His jaw flexed, and for a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

Then he cut the engine.

You didn’t speak as you walked up to the apartment. Your heels clicked against the stairs. The tension between you stretched like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point.

When you reached the door, you fumbled for your keys.

And that’s when you felt it.

Him.

Close.

Too close.

He was right behind you, just enough that his scent brushed along your back, thickened slightly with something sharp and warm and undeniably alpha. You froze.

“Gojo,” you said, warning, breath catching.

He didn’t touch you.

But his nose dipped low, barely an inch from your hairline. Just one long, slow inhale.

You felt it like a shiver down your spine.

“You changed your patch late,” he murmured, voice husky. “I can tell.”

You turned your head. Not enough to face him. Just enough to ask, quiet and unsure, “What are you doing?”

His breath was warm against your neck.

“Nothing,” he said. “Not really.”

But you felt it when he leaned in just a little closer. Just enough for the tip of his nose to skim the curve where your neck met your shoulder.

You swore the air itself went still.

“You smell like someone touched you,” he whispered. “Someone else.”

Your heart thudded, loud in your ears. “He didn’t really, just grazed me with his fingertips.”

“I know.” A beat. “But the scent’s still there.”

And then he did it, barely there, not skin to skin, but he dipped just low enough that his scent pressed over yours. Just a breath. Just a flicker of possession.

Your knees nearly buckled.

He stepped back first. Like it cost him.

“You should wash up,” he said, voice carefully neutral. “That guy’s scent, it’s annoying.”

You stared at him, pulse fluttering wildly.

Gojo opened the door like nothing had happened. Tossed his keys on the counter. Wandered to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water like it wasn’t still crackling in the air between you.

But his scent lingered. Hot. Thick. Claiming.

And when you passed him on the way to your room, he didn’t look at you.

But you felt his eyes on the back of your neck the entire time.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

The next morning, you tried to pretend everything was normal.

You woke up late. Took a long, scalding shower. Changed your suppressant patch early, even though the old one still had hours left on it. Just to be sure. Just to feel like yourself again.

But Gojo’s scent clung to you like phantom heat.

The worst part?

You didn’t want it to wash off.

He was already in the kitchen when you emerged, dressed in a hoodie and sweats, barefoot, mug in hand. You paused in the doorway, awkward, heartbeat stuttering.

He didn’t look up from his coffee.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Took a step forward. “About last night—”

“Nothing happened,” he cut in.

It stung more than it should have.

You folded your arms. “Didn’t feel like nothing.”

Silence. A muscle in his jaw ticked.

You shifted, suddenly angry. “You scent-marked me.”

“Barely.”

“But you did.”

His gaze finally snapped to yours, sharp, heated, cornered. “Yeah,” he bit out. “I did.”

You flinched. “Why?”

Another beat of silence.

Then, quieter: “Because I couldn’t stand that someone else did.”

You stared at him, breath catching. “Gojo…”

His name felt different now. Heavy with knowing.

He ran a hand through his hair, finally breaking. “I’ve been trying not to want this. You think I haven’t noticed how you smell when you're stressed? How you hold your breath when I get too close? You think I don’t know how you fake normalcy just to survive in a world that makes omegas feel like liabilities?”

Your chest tightened. “You make me feel safe.”

His breath hitched.

“And I don’t think I realized how much I needed that,” you whispered. “Until you.”

That finally broke something in him.

Gojo crossed the space between you in two strides, didn’t touch you, but hovered close. His voice dropped, lower than ever. “I don’t want to hurt you. You’re not mine.”

“Then say it,” you said. “Say you want me.”

His nostrils flared.

“Say it, Satoru.”

He growled deep in his chest and pressed his forehead to yours. “I want you,” he whispered. “Not just because you’re an omega. Not just because you smell like comfort and fucking home. But because you’re you.”

You shuddered, breath stalling, heart thudding.

Then carefully, achingly he brought his lips to your neck.

And this time, he didn’t hold back.

It wasn’t a full bite. Not yet. But it was a press of his mouth to the curve of your throat, warm and deliberate, teeth just barely grazing over sensitive skin. The mark he left was temporary. But his scent—

His scent drowned you.

Hot. Safe. Possessive. Yours.

You exhaled shakily, hand fisting in the front of his hoodie. “I want you too,” you whispered.

He pulls himself away from your neck to bring his lips to yours in a heated, messy kiss.

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes.

And smiled.

But it wasn’t cocky, not this time.

It was reverent.

Like he’d been waiting forever to hear that.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

Things changed after that.

They didn’t explode, not right away. There wasn’t some dramatic claim or frenzied marking. Just a shift, subtle, constant, undeniable.

You were dating. That was clear.

Or at least, you were doing everything that looked and felt like dating:

Gojo started sleeping in his own bed less. Then not at all.

His hoodies migrated into your closet, and you stopped giving them back.

He’d come home from class, kiss the top of your head like it was second nature, toss his shoes next to yours by the door. Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you from across the room like he couldn’t believe you were real. Other times, he’d just silently pull you into his chest and breathe you in, fingers curling around the back of your shirt like he wanted to keep you there.

And the scenting?

He was shameless now.

Not in public, not yet, but every time you left the apartment, he’d hug you just a little too long. Let his scent stick to the back of your neck, the collar of your sweater, the inside of your wrists.

“You’re mine,” he’d murmur casually. “Just making sure people know.”

It made your heart flutter.

Made your body ache.

Because you knew it was coming.

Your heat.

The last few cycles had been short and mild, mostly regulated by the patch. But this one? It was going to be different. You could feel it in your bones, in the way your skin buzzed under his touch, in the way your scent was already shifting.

Worse still?

He could feel it too.

He was tense lately. Even more protective. Growled when guys stared too long at the library. Gave your professor a death glare when he touched your shoulder. Carried your bag. Checked your patch levels. Made you eat. Drink water. Sleep. Rest.

You caught him sniffing your laundry once. He didn’t even look guilty.

“You gonna tell me what’s in your hoodie drawer or do I have to break in?” he teased one night, lying sideways across your bed like he owned it. You were brushing your teeth, wearing one of his shirts, slouchy, soft, scented.

You spat and leaned in the doorway. “Literally just your hoodies.”

“Oh,” he said, smirking. “So I was right to check?”

“You checked?”

“Every day,” he admitted, like it was no big deal. “You smell better in them than I do.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks. “You’re such a weirdo.”

“I’m your weirdo,” he grinned, arms open.

And like always you melted into him.

He pulled you into his chest like he was born to do it. Nuzzled your temple. Pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your hairline, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. Not sexual,not yet, just possessive.

And underneath all of it was the tension.

He smelled too good. Woodsy and fresh and sharp. You found yourself curling into him deeper, inhaling him like you were starved for it.

You were, in a way.

He caught it.

“You getting close?” he murmured.

You didn’t lie. “Yeah.”

His jaw tensed against your temple.

“We need to talk about it.”

“I know.”

“If I stay,” he said, “I’m not going to hold back.”

You shivered.

He exhaled roughly, and the sound of it near your ear made your thighs press together. He noticed that, too.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I can already smell the shift starting.”

You buried your face in his neck. “Then don’t leave.”

His arms tightened around you instantly. He growled. Low. Deep in his chest.

And when he spoke next, his voice was barely more than a whisper:

“I wasn’t going to.”

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

It started in class.

You were trying to focus. Scribbling notes, nodding along with the lecture, pretending everything was fine. But your patch had started to slip. Literally and figuratively. A dull burn had settled low in your belly hours ago, and now it was turning sharp, liquid heat spreading through your limbs, fogging your brain.

You could feel it happening.

Your scent was changing.

And worse, you weren’t alone.

Gojo was waiting outside.

The moment you walked out of class, it hit you like a freight train. He turned toward you with that usual lazy smile and then froze. His pupils dilated instantly. His nostrils flared. You could see the shift behind his eyes: instinct, raw and undeniable.

“Shit,” he muttered. “You’re—”

“Go home,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Now. I can’t—”

He was already moving.

He didn’t say a word. Just pulled you to his side, threw his jacket around your shoulders, and practically marched you out of the building. People stared. You didn’t care.

You were shaking.

You didn’t even make it through the apartment door before your legs gave out.

Gojo caught you,arms around your waist, lifting you like nothing.

“You waited too long,” he growled, voice rough with restraint. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You buried your face in his neck, whining softly. “Didn’t want you to feel pressured.”

He carried you straight to the bedroom, kicked the door shut behind him, and laid you down carefully on the sheets. The scent of him flooded around you,rich, heady, grounding, and you felt yourself unraveling fast.

Your voice cracked. “It hurts.”

“I know, baby,” he whispered, crouching beside the bed, one hand smoothing down your arm. “I can smell it. You’re burning.”

Tears leaked from the corners of your eyes. “Please…”

That was it.

The last thread of his control snapped.

Gojo climbed onto the bed slowly, like you were something fragile he was terrified to break. But his body said something different his scent said something different. It wrapped around you like smoke. You whimpered and turned your face into his hoodie—his scent all over you, his hoodie, his bed, his body.

“Tell me what you need,” he said, voice low and guttural.

“You,” you breathed. “I need you. Satoru, I need you.”

He let out a low, hungry sound half growl, half whimper and leaned down to nose at your neck. “Say it again.”

You curled your fingers into his shirt, hips arching. “I need my Alpha.”

That was it.

He kissed you like he was starving, possessive, deep, desperate. His hands were everywhere: mapping your skin, soothing your trembling, pulling you closer until there wasn’t an inch of space between your bodies.

“I’ve got you,” he rasped. “No one else. Just me.”

Your scent filled the room, sweet and slick and overwhelming. He rutted against you with a groan, every inch of his restraint slipping through his fingers.

“You want me to claim you?” he murmured against your throat. “Want to be mine?”

You whimpered helplessly, needy.

“Yes. Please. Want to be yours.”

The second the words left your mouth,“I want to be yours”,he snapped.

Not violently. Not uncontrolled. But with purpose.

Gojo surged forward, pressing you down into the mattress, his body trembling with restraint he wasn’t going to bother holding anymore. His lips crashed to yours again, messier now teeth, tongue, need. Every sound he made was low and rough and Alpha.

“Say it again,” he groaned against your mouth. “Say it’s mine.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped. “Satoru, I’m yours.”

That lit him on fire.

He nosed at your throat, dragging his mouth down the curve of your neck, sucking kisses into your skin like he was already staking a claim. His hands slid under your borrowed hoodie,his hoodie,ripping it off in a single motion, scenting the skin underneath like a starving man.

“You smell like me,” he whispered reverently. “Fuck, you smell so perfect.”

You whined, writhing under him. “Please,please, it hurts—”

“I know, baby, I know. I’ve got you,” he murmured, one hand bracing your hip, the other slipping down, finally, to where you were soaking, swollen, ready. “Let me make it better.”

You arched with a gasp as his fingers slid in easily, heat spiking at the contact. He groaned at how wet you already were,slick and pulsing and desperate. His scent wrapped around you even thicker now, heavy and heady, like musk and fire and safety.

“This all for me?” he rasped. “Fuck, you were made for me.”

“Only you,” you choked out. “Need you—need your knot—”

That broke the last of him.

He lined himself up, hands gripping your hips like he owned you because he would. Soon. Forever.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled. “Breed you so good. Knot you so deep no one’ll ever think about touching you again.”

You cried out as he sank into you,slow, deep, thick,and the stretch of him was perfect, the relief so blinding you nearly sobbed. He went slow at first, grinding in deep, dragging every ounce of friction against your walls.

“So good,” he whispered. “You take me so fucking good.”

You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop—please—want your bite—want to be yours.”

Gojo’s breath stuttered.

“Yeah?” His voice was shaking now. Unhinged. “You want my mark? You want to belong to me?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Please, Satoru. Bite me.”

He snapped his hips forward hard once,twice,then leaned down, mouth brushing the sensitive spot where your neck met your shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Mine.”

Then he bit.

The pain was sharp, bright, perfect. A flood of pheromones burst through your system the second his fangs pierced you, sending you both over the edge. You screamed his name as your body clamped down around him, your climax tearing through you with a sob.

He followed instantly groaning your name, knot swelling, locking you together with a desperate, grinding thrust that drove him as deep as he could possibly go.

He stayed there.

Buried in you. Breathing hard. Arms around you like a shield.

His mouth left your neck only to kiss it tenderly now, as he licked the blood from your bond mark. “You’re mine now,” he whispered. “My Omega. My mate.”

Your vision blurred, heart hammering, body aching—but safe. Sated.

Loved.

You smiled softly against his jaw.

✦ ⋆｡˚ 𓆩♡𓆪 ˚｡⋆✦

The world had gone still.

You were tucked beneath the comforter, his arms wrapped tight around your waist, bare skin against bare skin. Gojo’s knot was still nestled deep inside you, keeping your bodies locked, and neither of you minded. It felt right. Like the place you were meant to be.

His breath was warm against the back of your neck. He hadn't said much since the bite. Just small things:hushed praise, murmured reassurance, the occasional kiss pressed to your shoulder as if to prove you were real.

You rolled to face him slowly, carefully. His eyes,normally teasing and bright,were softer now. Blown wide. Worshipful.

He stared at you like you were everything.

“I was scared,” you whispered, your voice small in the silence. “Not of you. Just… of this. Of being an Omega. Of being claimed.”

His brows furrowed. “Why?”

You hesitated. “Because people act like that’s all we’re good for. Like we’re made for heat and nesting and breeding and nothing else. I thought if I let this happen, I’d lose myself.”

Gojo was quiet for a long time.

Then, slowly, he reached up and brushed your hair from your damp forehead. His touch was reverent.

“You didn’t lose anything,” he said, voice low. “You chose me. That’s not weakness.”

You looked away, embarrassed. “But I’m not like other Omegas.”

He smiled.

“I know.”

That made you glance back at him. “Do you?”

He nodded once, firm. “You’re smart. You’re stubborn. You’re brilliant. You’re reckless sometimes, but in the way that makes people pay attention. You work harder than anyone I know, and you fight twice as hard just to exist the way you want. I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Heat prickled behind your eyes. “You’re just saying that.”

“No,” he said firmly. “I’m saying it because you need to hear it. You're not just an Omega. You’re my Omega. And I don’t want you small, or quiet, or safe. I want you. All of you.”

Your throat tightened.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

“They don’t get to decide who you are,” he whispered. “But I do get to love you for it.”

You let out a soft, broken sound and curled into his chest.

He held you like the most precious thing he’d ever touched. “You’re not a bond mark or a heat cycle. You’re a person.You’re mine.”

You smiled into his skin.

“And you’re mine, Alpha.”

#gojo x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #omegaverse #reader insert #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #jjk x reader #gojo smut #pining #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jujustsu kaisen smut

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astra-ravana · 6 months ago

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How To Amplify Your Magick

✵Accept That You Do Not Know: It's okay to not have all the answers. You don't have to be certain all of the time. Magick is the realm of the unknown. If it was ultimately knowable, then science would have already measured and verified it. On the other hand, things that would have once been considered magick are now common technology. So, there is a spectrum from useless knowledge to solid fact. It's up to you to decide which is which and keep a sharp, critical mind.

✵Think For Yourself: Anything that someone else has figured out , you can figure out too. The human mind's potential is illimitable. But we are continually duped into believing that we can't do it, that someone else should do it for us. Unless you're ready to think for yourself, you'll end up as a fake, or worse, someone else's pawn.

✵Keep An Open Mind: You have to be open to new ideas. An open mind is half closed, so they say. A door that is half closed is still open, and it's much the same with the mind. Don't accept as truth anything you hear, only accept the possibility that it may be. You'll have to rigorously seek out truth for yourself with a critical mind. The emphasis on truth is essential. Illusion is based on deceit, real magick on truth.

✵Reduce Your Assumptions: An assumption is basically just a guess. We make a lot of guesses in life from if gods exist to whether the floor will be there when we get out of bed in the morning. Guessing is a psychological reflex and its unlikely that we can ever fullybe free from it. The more you can manke conscious your unconscious assumptions, the more you will notice strange and magickal things about yourself, others, and the Universe.

✵Judge Not: Judgment of others clouds your awareness. Like assumption, it's a reflex. Try reserving judgment when you can. Allow yourself the patience the gather more knowledge and insight into matters. If someone seems like an idiot, ask them genuine questions. Get experience with why others think and act the way they do. Whenever you avoid judging others, you can gain wisdom.

✵Shed Expectations: Another habitual block to your magickal potential is your expectations. Our imagination is always in use, whether consciously or unconsciously. Things are going to be as they are, whether you like it or not. The thing about expectation is that people see not what they want to see, but instead what they expect to see. Projecting our image of things on the present moment or into the future is an unnecessary expenditure of energy that can be freed for authentic magickal experience.

✵Stop Labeling Everything: What is our obsession with classifying things? As soon as we have a word or a name for something, we believe that we understand what that thing is. We can't help this, it's just how our minds work. Try to notice when you are doing this. Naming can be a very powerful magickal act, but only if it's conscious. Habitual labeling will actually end up as an obstacle to true understanding.

✵Surrender To What Is: This is about allowing the present moment to just be. We tend to believe that the present is similar to the future, in that we can change it. But the present is more like the past, in that once it's here, it's here, real and unalterable. If you don't accept that, accept that you can't accept it. Look at what is around you and see that is is how it is.

✵Cultivate Courage: Courage is essential in many traditions, and the Universe rewards courage with 'Hamingja', a form of luck or charisma. It goes by many names in many traditions, but the basis is simply that courageous acts are rewarded by the Universe. Start small and work your way up. You may not br able to start with your ultimate fears, but tackle what you can and you will get there in time. The more courage you possess, the greater your magickal ability.

✵Trust The Universe: If you only have faith in one thing, have faith in this... Ultimately this Universe is here for you to learn what you must learn, to face what you must face, and to allow you to find enlightenment. It's not out to get you, quite the opposite. Enthusiasm and playfulness are two of the strongest mindsets with which we can engage in our exploration of magick. Go with thr flow!

✵Meditate: Meditation can be very simple. Sit up straight, focus on your breathing, and the feeling of your life force. Connect with yourself. It will help you master your mind and achieve grounded clarity.

✵Put It Into Action: You can read all the books, attand all the lectures, join all the groups, and talk on and on about magick, but in the end, nothing will happen unless you find some practical means to put it into action. Don't just think, do. Manifest your desires by practicing and experimenting. Learn through trial and error and it will be more valuable and powerful than anything anyone can tell you.

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w1w2 · 5 months ago

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The Price of Affection

Previous part | Part 2 | Next part

Minatozaki Sana x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ca. 7k

Synopsis: The boundaries between what is given and what is taken begin to blur. In a game where emotions were never meant to exist, one question remains: how long can desire masquerade as indifference before everything falls apart?

Req by Anon

English isn’t my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

♡ Enjoy! ♡

Sana never kissed her.

Not once.

No matter how many nights Y/N spent tangled beneath her, no matter how many times Sana’s hands claimed her with an ease that left her breathless, no matter how completely she unraveled beneath her touch, her lips never found Y/N’s mouth.

It was a boundary unspoken, a rule neither of them had ever acknowledged, but one that was upheld with an almost rigid precision. Sana’s lips traced the curve of her throat, the sharp edge of her jaw, the fragile dip of her collarbone. Her hands moved like they had mapped Y/N’s body long before ever touching it, like they had memorized the places that made her shiver, the softest parts of her that yielded too easily to the way she pressed, pulled, took.

But no matter how close they became, no matter how thoroughly Sana consumed her, she never kissed her.

Never there.

Y/N told herself it didn’t matter.

Told herself that it wasn’t important, that it was simply another unspoken rule of their arrangement, a line drawn so neither of them would forget what this was, what it wasn’t. And yet, she couldn’t ignore the way it lingered in the back of her mind, an absence she wasn’t meant to notice, a silence where something should have been.

Because for all the ways Sana possessed her, there was always something held back.

She could be touched, but she could never reach.

She could give, but she could never take.

And when it was over, Sana always left.

There were no whispered words in the quiet moments after, no arms wrapping around her, no soft breath against her skin as the night stretched on. Instead, there was only the shift of the mattress, the rustle of sheets sliding away as Sana slipped out of bed with the same composure she carried everywhere else, as if nothing about this, about them, was ever meant to last beyond the moment.

Y/N would lie still, her body cooling where Sana’s warmth had been only seconds before, her heartbeat settling into something hollow, something restless. And in the silence, she would listen, the soft sound of retreating footsteps disappearing down the hall, the quiet click of a door closing behind her.

She never stayed. She never hesitated.

And Y/N never left first.

That was how it always was. How it was supposed to be.

She had agreed to this, had stepped into this world with her eyes open, had understood the terms of what she was offering and what she was receiving in return. She had known, from the very beginning, that this was not love, that it was never going to be love.

It had been a few months since Y/N had stepped into Sana’s world, since she had willingly allowed herself to become something kept, something claimed, something that wasn’t hers to own but belonged to someone else entirely.

The transition had been jarring at first, like slipping into a second skin that didn’t quite fit, suffocating in its unfamiliarity. The weight of expensive fabric draping over her body, the taste of wine she could never afford, the sensation of standing beside a woman who commanded rooms with nothing more than her presence, all of it had felt foreign, like a life she was only borrowing.

But now, she had adapted.

Or at least, she had learned how to exist within it.

The expensive restaurants, the weekend trips, the charity galas, they had all become routine. She no longer stiffened when a dress worth more than her monthly rent was handed to her without so much as a glance, no longer hesitated before slipping into the backseat of Sana’s car, no longer questioned where they were going or why, because it never really mattered.

Sana called for her, and she came.

That was how it worked.

And Sana was consistent. Cold. Controlled. Unyielding.

She never wavered, never broke the rhythm of the carefully structured existence she had built. She remained as distant as she had been the very first night, never asking more than she was willing to give, never offering anything beyond what had already been agreed upon.

Except she wasn’t.

Not always.

Y/N wasn’t sure when she first noticed the shift.

Maybe it was the way Sana had started lingering in bed a little longer than before, her breath warm against Y/N’s shoulder, her fingers barely brushing her skin as she lay there, unmoving, even after Y/N expected her to leave. A pause. A hesitation. Something fragile in the quiet between them.

Or maybe it was the way Sana had started watching her, not with detachment, not with that careful calculation Y/N had grown so used to, but with something else, something almost… curious.

Or maybe, maybe it was the way Y/N had caught her once, just once, hesitating at the doorway before she left, standing in the dim glow of the hallway light as if something had momentarily anchored her in place, something that flickered too quickly, too fleeting for Y/N to decipher before Sana turned and walked away.

It wasn’t much, but it was something, and it left Y/N wondering. Was she imagining it? Or was something changing?

She didn’t have an answer. Not yet.

But that was before she saw it.

The first crack in the armor.

The moment was so small, so fleeting, that Y/N almost didn’t notice it.

They had just left the gala, stepping out of a world where crystal chandeliers hung like constellations over rooms filled with the rich and the powerful, where laughter was crisp like the clinking of champagne glasses, where Sana had moved effortlessly through the crowd, playing her part with practiced ease. Untouchable. Composed. Perfect.

And Y/N had stood beside her, playing her own role, wearing another dress she hadn’t chosen, slipping further into a life that still didn’t feel like it belonged to her.

The city outside was quieter than the one they had just left behind, wrapped in the dim glow of streetlights, the occasional car passing by, its headlights cutting through the silence. The heels of Sana’s designer stilettos clicked against the marble flooring as they stepped into the lobby, the sound sharp, deliberate, another reminder that she was a woman who never rushed, never faltered, never lost control.

And then, Y/N saw it.

A stray cat.

A small, scrawny thing, curled up near the entrance, pressed against the cold glass of the revolving doors. Its fur was dull, patchy in some places, its frame too thin to belong to a well-fed city pet. It lay still, unmoving, save for the lazy flick of its tail, eyes half-lidded in exhaustion.

Something about it hit her all at once.

She knew this kind of exhaustion.

She knew what it felt like to curl in on yourself, to take up as little space as possible in a world that had no place for you.

Y/N slowed, her breath catching slightly as she took a hesitant step forward. She had always had a soft spot for strays, for the forgotten things of the world, the ones left behind, the ones that didn’t belong. She wanted to reach out, to crouch down, to offer something, anything, but before she could move, before she could even turn to Sana, she moved first.

Y/N froze.

Without a word, without hesitation, Sana stepped forward, lowering herself into a graceful crouch, the silk of her gown pooling around her like liquid moonlight. There was no reluctance, no flicker of disgust at the thought of dirt or fur marring the expensive fabric, no moment of hesitation.

She extended a hand, not to touch, not to startle.

Just to offer.

A test of trust.

The cat flinched slightly, but only for a moment.

And then, slowly, cautiously, it leaned forward, pressing its small head against the warmth of Sana’s palm.

Y/N stopped breathing.

Because this was not the woman she had come to know.

This was not the cold, untouchable force who carried herself like she was made of something sharper than the rest of the world, who never gave more than what was required, who never let herself be seen as anything but composed.

Sana’s fingers moved with a kind of careful reverence, trailing lightly along the cat’s thin frame, her touch impossibly gentle, as if she understood something about fragility. As if she had held something fragile before and had learned how to be careful with it.

Y/N had never seen her like this.

Her expression wasn’t calculated. Her movements weren’t controlled.

For the first time since she had met her, Sana didn’t look like someone untouchable, someone impossibly distant, she just looked human.

And it was over too quickly.

Sana exhaled softly, so softly that Y/N almost didn’t hear it, and then, just as suddenly as she had crouched down, she pulled away.

The moment broke like shattered glass.

She rose to her feet without looking at Y/N, without acknowledging what had just happened, without offering an explanation. She said nothing, not about the cat, not about the way she had touched it, not about the quiet tenderness that had flickered across her face, too fleeting to hold on to.

But as she strode toward the waiting car, the picture of indifference once again, she paused, just for a second. And then, in a voice so effortlessly composed it could have been mistaken for a passing thought, she spoke.

"Call the concierge," she murmured to one of the hotel staff standing near the entrance. "Have someone take it to the vet. Make sure it’s taken care of."

Her tone didn’t waver, didn’t soften, didn’t betray a single emotion.

To anyone else, it was an order, simple and efficient, nothing more than another task to be handled, another problem to be solved.

But Y/N knew better.

She had seen the way Sana’s fingers had trembled, just barely, when they skimmed over the cat’s fur. She had seen the way she lingered, the way she hadn’t pulled away immediately, the way she had allowed herself that moment.

And now, as Sana slid into the car beside her, her posture as impeccable as ever, her gaze fixed out the window as if the whole thing had already been forgotten, Y/N remained quiet.

She didn’t say anything.

Didn’t point out the kindness hidden beneath the command. Didn’t ask why Sana had stopped in the first place.

But she knew.

And as the car pulled away, leaving behind the city lights, the hotel, and the stray cat that was no longer alone, Y/N realized something she hadn’t before.

Something was changing.

Y/N noticed it in the way Sana started remembering things. Things she had no reason to remember.

It was the way, one evening, after a long event that had drained Y/N to her very core, she had collapsed onto the couch beside Sana, her body sinking into the cushions, exhaustion pressing against her bones. She hadn’t meant to say anything at all, but the words had slipped out, murmured into the quiet space between them, more to herself than to the woman sitting just a few feet away.

"I used to love this one book when I was younger," she had murmured, barely aware that she was speaking aloud at all. "But I lost it somewhere along the way. Never got a chance to replace it."

It had been a passing thought, a piece of nostalgia that meant nothing, words she had already forgotten by the next morning.

But then a week later, there it was.

Waiting for her.

She had come home late, exhaustion weighing heavy in her limbs, barely having time to take out her keys before she noticed it, a package, sitting just outside her door. Wrapped in crisp, expensive paper, a small card resting on top, her name scrawled in familiar, careful handwriting.

Y/N’s stomach twisted as she bent down to pick it up, fingers tracing the neat folds, the weight of it solid in her hands.

Inside, the book.

New. Pristine. Untouched by time.

Her breath caught in her throat. There was no message inside, no grand gesture of explanation, just the undeniable presence of something she had once lost, placed back in her hands as if it had been waiting for her all along.

There was only one person who could have sent it.

And Y/N didn’t know what to do with that. She told herself it was just Sana’s way of keeping her comfortable, satisfied and entertained.

But there was nothing extravagant about this.

This was personal.

Sana had listened. She had heard something Y/N hadn’t even realized she was saying.

And then, there was the time Y/N had made an offhanded comment, so fleeting, so insignificant, about how much she hated white roses.

"White roses always feel like mourning," she had muttered at one of the endless, lavish parties Sana had taken her to, pushing a bouquet aside on the dinner table. "Like a funeral. Like something is ending."

Sana hadn’t responded. Hadn’t even looked up from her wine glass.

So Y/N hadn’t thought anything of it.

But then, she had walked into the penthouse for the first time in days, expecting to find things exactly as they had always been arranged in Sana’s place.

She had stopped mid-step.

Because the usual arrangement of white roses, the same ones that had always sat near the grand dining table, pristine and untouched, was gone.

In their place, a new bouquet.

Not roses.

Peonies.

Deep, rich in color. Full and alive. The kind she had once mentioned, long ago, that reminded her of warmth. Of something safe.

And just like before, Sana said nothing.

But Y/N knew.

Then, there was the night she got sick.

It had started as nothing. A dull ache behind her eyes, a scratch in her throat, the kind of exhaustion that Y/N had long since learned to ignore. She had pushed through it, dismissing the warning signs, convincing herself that she just needed sleep, that by morning, she would be fine.

But by the time the sun had set, her body had other plans.

The fever hit her hard, leaving her shivering beneath too-thin blankets, curled up on the worn-out couch she had owned since college, body aching in protest against even the smallest movement. Her phone buzzed somewhere in the room, but she barely had the energy to register it. Whoever it was, it could wait.

Sana wouldn’t call for her tonight.

She could be sick in peace, let the fever run its course, and by the time Sana reached for her again, she would be fine. She would be ready.

At least, that’s what she thought.

Until she woke up hours later to the sharp, persistent ringing of her doorbell.

The sound dragged her out of sleep, her body still sluggish, still unbearably heavy as she forced herself upright. Her head spun. The room was too warm. She barely remembered falling asleep at all. What time was it?

The doorbell rang again.

Y/N groaned, pushing the tangled blankets off her as she stumbled toward the door, one hand gripping the wall to steady herself. Her stomach twisted, who the hell was at her door at this hour?

She unlatched the lock with unsteady fingers and pulled it open, squinting against the harsh hallway light.

A delivery driver stood there, looking mildly impatient but otherwise unbothered, holding up a large brown paper bag.

"Delivery for Y/N," he announced. "Paid for in advance."

Y/N blinked at him, sluggish. She hadn’t ordered anything.

Confused, she took the bag with trembling hands, mumbling a quiet thanks before shutting the door again. The scent of warm broth and steamed rice curled into the air, filling her small apartment with something comforting, something unfamiliar in a way that sent a strange chill down her spine.

She placed the bag on the kitchen counter, hesitating.

As she turned back toward the living room, her eyes landed on the coffee table, and for a moment, she thought the fever was playing tricks on her.

A bottle of medicine sat neatly beside the glass of water she had poured earlier.

Her stomach twisted.

She hadn’t left it there. She hadn’t bought it. And yet, it was there, placed with careful precision, as if someone had set it down and stepped away without wanting to be caught.

Something in the air shifted. Her apartment wasn’t disturbed, nothing was broken, nothing was stolen, but it felt different, just enough to make the fine hairs at the back of her neck rise. Not wrong, but not untouched either.

Her heart pounded as she turned toward the couch, spotting her phone where it had slipped between the cushions. The screen flickered to life as she reached for it, her sluggish, fevered mind struggling to focus, her limbs still heavy with exhaustion. The notifications blurred for a moment before sharpening into something that made her breath catch.

Three missed calls. One message.

From Sana.

Her thumb hovered over the screen, hesitation curling around her ribs, something fragile and unsteady pressing against her chest. She already knew what it would say. But knowing didn’t stop the way her stomach twisted as she opened it.

"Take your medicine and I’ll see you in a few days."

That was it. No questions. No unnecessary words. But it was enough.

Her pulse thrummed, her gaze shifting back to the coffee table, to the bottle of medicine sitting there, silent proof that she hadn’t imagined any of this. That Sana hadn’t just noticed her absence, she had acted on it. She had come. She had let herself in.

Her fingers tightened around the phone, the cold metal grounding her as her mind tried to catch up with reality. Sana had been here. She had crossed a threshold she had never crossed before, stepping into Y/N’s space, into her world, one she had always kept separate, one Sana had never cared to know.

But she knew now.

Y/N could picture it too easily, Sana standing in this very room, sharp eyes scanning over the crumpled blankets, the unfinished glass of water, the phone she had ignored, taking in everything without a single word. She wouldn’t have panicked. She wouldn’t have let herself. But she would have noticed. She would have stood here, silent and calculating, making a decision before slipping away, leaving behind nothing but the weight of her presence and the quiet reminders that she had been here at all.

The medicine. The food.

Y/N exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead, trying to steady the thing unraveling inside her.

She should have been angry. She should have felt violated, unsettled, irritated by the fact that Sana had let herself in uninvited, that she had taken it upon herself to intervene when Y/N had never asked her to. But instead, something warm and sharp twisted inside her, something she wasn’t ready to name.

Because this wasn’t just about control.

This wasn’t just obligation.

And Y/N didn’t know what scared her more, the fact that Sana had noticed she was gone, or the fact that, for the first time since this had started…

She wanted her to stay.

It was dangerous, the way she was starting to see Sana differently.

Because no one else did.

To the world, Sana was a force, a woman who moved through life with effortless grace, untouchable in a way that wasn’t just about wealth or power, but something deeper. She was a presence that commanded attention, someone whose name alone carried weight, whose silence spoke louder than words, whose gaze could hold an entire room in place.

She was admired, envied, revered, but never known.

Never touched. Never understood.

But Y/N? She was starting to understand.

Because she had seen it. The moments that slipped through the cracks, the tiny fractures in the polished veneer, the quiet hesitations that no one else seemed to catch.

She had seen the way Sana’s fingers trembled, just slightly, when they brushed against the stray cat’s fur, her movements careful, reverent, as if she were afraid of startling something fragile. She had seen the way she pulled her hand back too quickly afterward, like the moment had caught her off guard, like the tenderness had slipped out before she could stop it.

She had seen the way Sana’s breath hitched, so faint, so barely there, when she lingered in bed longer than she meant to, when the warmth of another body pressed into her side, when the sheets felt too soft, too real, too much like something she shouldn’t want. She always left before it could mean anything. Always pulled away before the weight of it could settle.

And Y/N had noticed.

She had noticed the way Sana hesitated in doorways, as if standing on the edge of something she wasn’t ready to cross. The way she would start to speak and then stop herself, swallowing words before they could form, holding them back like secrets she had never learned how to share.

And now, she couldn’t stop noticing.

She couldn’t stop seeing the cracks beneath the surface, the moments where the mask slipped just enough to reveal something real, something aching beneath it all.

Something that made Sana feel less like a storm, less like an untouchable force of nature and more like a person.

A person who had spent too long pretending she didn’t need anything.

A person who had spent too long alone.

And Y/N wanted to know her.

She wanted to know the things Sana refused to say, the thoughts she buried beneath cool smiles and careful distance. She wanted to know what would happen if Sana let herself stay for once, if she let herself be known.

She wanted to see it all.

That was dangerous and Y/N should have known better.

She should have known that hope was a dangerous thing, that allowing herself to believe in something, in someone, was like walking willingly into a storm, knowing she would get caught in the downpour.

But it had been impossible not to believe.

Because Sana had started to change. Not in grand, sweeping gestures, not in ways that anyone else would notice, but in small, quiet ways that mattered. The kind of things that crept up on Y/N before she realized just how deeply they had settled into her bones.

Maybe it was foolish, but Y/N let herself believe.

That despite how this started. Despite the rules. Despite the silence where words should have been, there was something real between them.

So when Sana asked her to come to the dinner party, Y/N said yes.

Not because she had to. Not because it was expected of her.

But because she wanted to be by her side.

The venue was breathtaking in the way that all of Sana’s world was, a place built on quiet opulence, where wealth was stitched into the very fabric of the walls, where chandeliers dripped in gold and crystal, where laughter was light and effortless, belonging only to those who had never known hunger, never known struggle, never known anything but excess.

Y/N had grown used to places like this.

She had learned how to move through them, how to blend in, how to let the expensive dresses and diamond-studded jewelry serve as armor when the weight of it all felt like too much.

But tonight felt different.

Because tonight, she wasn’t just another beautiful thing in a room full of beautiful things. Tonight, she was here with Sana.

And it meant something.

At least, she thought it did.

The evening passed in a blur of conversation and champagne, of clinking glasses and careful smiles, of Sana’s presence at her side, grounding, steady, constant. People looked at her, the way they always did, but this time, Y/N didn’t feel like she was on display. She felt like she belonged.

Until she didn’t.

It happened so quickly that at first, she thought she had imagined it.

She had been standing beside Sana, their bodies close but not touching, listening to idle chatter from a group of men who reeked of wealth and arrogance. The conversation had been meaningless, a series of carefully curated pleasantries, until suddenly, it wasn’t.

Until one of them, some man whose name she hadn’t bothered to remember, whose suit was worth more than her tuition, whose voice carried the sharpness of someone who had never been told no, laughed, tilting his glass toward Sana with an easy smirk.

"I see you’ve brought another one."

Another one.

Y/N barely had time to process it before he kept going, voice dripping with amusement, like this was nothing more than a joke to him.

"You really do have an eye for them. I swear, you always pick the most stunning things."

The word lodged itself in Y/N’s throat, sharp and cold and suffocating.

Things.

Not people. Not someone.

A thing.

Another beautiful thing Sana had acquired. A prize. A possession.

She waited for Sana to correct him. To say something. To acknowledge her.

But Sana only took a slow sip of her wine, saying nothing at all.

The moment stretched, the laughter carrying on around them, the conversation moving forward as if Y/N wasn’t standing there, as if she wasn’t hearing every word, as if she wasn’t waiting for Sana to tell them they were wrong.

But she didn’t.

And suddenly, Y/N felt cold all over.

It wasn’t the words themselves that hurt the most, it was the silence that followed.

Because for the first time, she wondered if she had been imagining everything.

If all the glances, all the quiet hesitations, all the unspoken things she had started to believe in, if none of it had ever meant anything at all. If this version of her, standing beside Sana, silent, beautiful, just another thing to be admired but never acknowledged, was all she would ever be.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her dress, the sequins biting into her palm, something bitter curling at the back of her throat.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he had said it.

It was that Sana had let him.

That night, Y/N barely spoke as the driver took her home. She didn’t ask Sana why she had stayed silent, didn’t demand an explanation, didn’t break the quiet that settled between them like a fragile thread stretched too thin. Maybe she was afraid of the answer. Maybe she already knew it.

And maybe, just maybe, she was done waiting for Sana to prove her wrong.

She had been waiting for too long. Waiting to be acknowledged. Waiting for proof that she was more than this, more than just something beautiful to be possessed, something delicate to be admired but never truly seen.

But she was tired of waiting.

And for the first time, she realized she didn’t have to.

Y/N had spent years being overlooked.

She had learned how to move through life unnoticed, how to slip into spaces without making a sound, how to exist in the background as if she had been born to be unseen. It had never mattered before, because blending in had been safe, because being invisible meant that no one could take something from her that she wasn’t willing to give.

But lately, things had changed.

It hadn’t happened all at once, but in quiet, almost imperceptible ways.

A slow shift in the way she carried herself, a newfound steadiness in the way she held a gaze rather than looking away, the subtle confidence that had begun to seep into her movements like ink spreading through water. She hadn’t meant for it to happen, hadn’t expected it, but it was there now, impossible to ignore, curling beneath her skin, unfurling in ways she didn’t yet understand.

Maybe it was the time she had spent with Sana.

Not because of her, but in spite of her.

Because in a world that had never felt like it belonged to her, she had found something that did.

Her art.

And now, for the first time in her life, people were beginning to notice.

It had started small. A quiet encouragement from a professor, a few sketches shared in passing, whispers of things she had long kept locked inside herself. But then there had been an opportunity, a gallery seeking new talent, an open call for emerging artists, a chance to step beyond the confines of her own uncertainty and into something bigger.

For the first time, she had submitted something of her own.

She hadn’t expected much.

But when her piece was accepted, when it stood beneath gallery lights, framed and displayed like it belonged there, when strangers paused to look, when soft murmurs of admiration filled the space around it, it was as if she had been given proof that she was real.

That she was more than just something kept.

That she was herself.

And someone else had noticed.

The gallery owner. Someone older, someone accomplished, someone who saw something in her, really saw her. Someone who called her work fascinating, who lingered beside her as he spoke, his voice warm with encouragement, with interest, with the kind of quiet, measured attention that made her feel as though she were standing on the edge of something unknown.

Someone who looked at her like she was not invisible.

And Sana saw all of it.

She arrived without warning, stepping into the gallery as if she had always been meant to be there, as if her presence was inevitable. And maybe it was.

But this wasn’t her world.

Not here. Not now.

Y/N hadn’t noticed her at first, not until the weight of her gaze pressed against her skin, heavy and smoldering, sinking into her bones before she even turned her head. And when she did, when her eyes found Sana standing near the entrance, watching, silent, unreadable, something inside her twisted.

There was no expression on Sana’s face, nothing that could be deciphered, but the air around her was thick with something unspoken, something waiting, something dangerous in its restraint.

And Y/N felt it immediately.

She felt it in the way her heartbeat stuttered, in the way the warmth that had been curling beneath her ribs turned sharp, edged with something she couldn’t quite name. She felt it in the way she suddenly became acutely aware of herself, of the space between them, of the way Sana had chosen not to move.

Not yet.

But Y/N refused to shrink beneath it.

Not tonight.

So she let herself stay where she was, let herself turn back toward the gallery owner, let herself laugh at something lighthearted, something fleeting, something easy, letting the sound of it drift through the air like defiance, like a declaration.

Let herself exist in this space, wholly and fully, without the shadow of Sana’s presence swallowing her whole.

And when the conversation finally ended, when the gallery owner stepped away, Y/N turned again, only to find that Sana was still there.

Still watching. Still waiting. Still silent.

And Y/N should have known what was coming.

She should have braced herself, should have steeled herself against the inevitable, should have understood that Sana had never been the kind of woman to let something slip through her fingers without consequence.

But even then, she still wasn’t ready for it.

Sana didn’t speak until they were outside.

Didn’t say a word as they stepped onto the sidewalk, the cool night air pressing against their skin, thick with the lingering scent of rain, of pavement, of something unspoken stretching tight between them. The city hummed in the distance, cars passing, conversations drifting, the world moving on as if nothing had just happened, as if Y/N’s entire chest wasn’t cracking open from the inside out.

But Sana was silent.

Silent as they walked. Silent as she led them toward the waiting car, her strides long, measured, precise. Too precise. Silent in the way only Sana could be, when she was trying too hard to seem unaffected, when something was clawing beneath the surface, threatening to spill over.

Y/N should have left it alone.

Should have climbed into the car, let the night end without another word, let whatever this was between them linger unspoken, untouched, unresolved, the way it always did.

But she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Not anymore.

She stopped, barely noticing the way her heels scuffed against the pavement, barely caring that they were still in front of the venue, that people might still be watching. Her pulse was hammering too hard, her breath uneven, her hands curling into fists at her sides, and Sana still hadn’t looked at her.

"Are you going to say something," Y/N demanded, voice sharper than she intended, shaking with the weight of everything she wasn’t saying, "or are you just going to glare at me all night?"

Sana halted, the only indication that she had heard.

For a moment, she didn’t turn. Didn’t react. Just stood there, spine straight, shoulders stiff, the soft glow of the streetlights casting shadows along the edges of her face.

And then, slowly, carefully, in that way that always made Y/N feel like she was being studied rather than seen, Sana shifted, tilting her head just slightly, her gaze finally locking onto hers.

"Do you enjoy it?" she asked, voice smooth, deliberate. Too deliberate.

Y/N frowned, thrown by the coolness of it. "Enjoy what?"

Sana let the question linger, her eyes dipping, just briefly, toward where the gallery owner had touched Y/N’s arm earlier in the night, his fingers light, lingering, respectful. But that didn’t matter, did it?

Because Sana wasn’t looking at her arm.

She was looking at him. At the memory of him. At the space he had occupied, too close, too interested, too much.

"The attention," Sana said finally, voice soft but sharp, a blade hidden beneath silk.

Y/N felt the words like a slap.

A slow, cold disbelief unfurled in her chest, creeping into her veins like ice, like something poisonous.

"What?" she whispered, barely recognizing her own voice.

Sana’s gaze flickered, just for a second, something shifting too quickly for Y/N to catch it. But then it was gone, buried beneath the weight of something heavier. "He was looking at you," she said, low, measured, certain. "Like he wanted you to be his."

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat.

And then she laughed. Sharp. Bitter. Completely devoid of humor.

And God, it should have been enough to break the tension, should have been enough to let her shove this moment aside, to turn around, to climb into the car and let Sana have her silence, let her keep whatever it was she refused to name.

But it wasn’t enough.

"You didn’t like that, did you?" she asked, voice quiet but biting, the edge of something sharp curling around the words, threatening to cut.

Sana didn’t answer.

And that was answer enough.

Y/N let out a slow breath, head tilting back, staring up at the night sky as if it could somehow steady her, as if it could somehow quiet the storm inside her. But it didn’t.

Because it wasn’t the man at the gallery. It wasn’t the way he had spoken to her, had complimented her, had seen her as herself rather than as someone else’s possession.

It was Sana.

It was always Sana.

"You don’t get to do this," Y/N said finally, her voice quieter now, steadier, even as her pulse rioted beneath her skin. "You don’t get to act like this bothers you. Not when you’re the one who made the rules."

Sana’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

"You never let me touch you," Y/N continued, every word dragging out of her like a wound being torn open. "You never kiss me. You never let yourself be seen with me as anything more than…" Her breath shuddered, a sharp inhale that barely steadied her. "This thing that you own. And now, suddenly, you care?"

Sana took a step closer.

Too close.

Close enough that Y/N could feel the warmth of her skin, the sharp inhale of her breath, the heat curling between them in the space that had always been too much and never enough.

"I never said I didn’t care," Sana murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N swallowed against the ache in her throat.

"Then what is this?" she asked, voice breaking, because God, she was so tired. So tired of this endless push and pull, so tired of grasping at something that was never meant to be hers. She gestured between them, between the distance that had always been there, even when they were tangled together in the dark. "Because I can’t keep pretending that this is nothing."

Sana said nothing.

Not a word, not a breath, not even the smallest shift in her expression to indicate that she had anything to offer in return. And somehow, that was what broke Y/N the most. Not the jealousy, not the sharp words they had thrown at each other like weapons, not even the way Sana had pulled her closer only to keep her at arm’s length.

It was this.

This silence, heavy and absolute, filling the space between them like a wall Y/N would never be able to break through.

Because Sana had nothing to say. No defense, no justification, no attempt to make this hurt any less than it already did. No reassurance that Y/N had ever been anything more than what she feared, something temporary, something to be kept but never held, something that was always meant to be let go.

Y/N exhaled, but the breath that left her wasn’t relief, wasn’t acceptance, it was something unsteady, something that fractured at the edges, something that felt far too much like breaking.

The moment stretched too long, too tense, too heavy with everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

Y/N turned, not to leave, but because she couldn’t look at her anymore. Couldn’t bear the weight of that unreadable expression, the sharp line of her jaw, the way Sana stood so still, as if anything more might make this real, might make it something she had to face.

Sana didn’t move.

Not much, not enough to change anything, not enough to undo the silence settling between them like an ocean too wide to cross. But there was a shift, barely perceptible, a twitch of her fingers, a fraction of a breath held too long, the smallest, most fleeting hesitation. And in that hesitation, there was something, something raw, something restrained, something that almost felt like longing, like regret, like the remnants of words she couldn’t bring herself to say.

For a second, just a second, Y/N could feel it.

Could feel the weight of almost. Almost reaching for her. Almost closing the distance. Almost saying something that might have changed everything.

But Sana didn’t.

She didn’t touch her. Didn’t stop her. Didn’t give her anything at all except the suffocating weight of silence, of everything left unsaid, everything she was too afraid to offer.

Just hesitation.

Just that brief flicker of something, a crack in her carefully constructed armor, a glimpse of something Y/N wasn’t sure she was even meant to see, before it was gone, before Sana forced it back down, swallowed it whole, and let the cold detachment slip back into place like it had never wavered at all.

And Y/N felt it.

Felt the way it lingered, the way it dug beneath her skin like an ache that refused to fade, the way it left her standing there, caught between leaving and staying, between hope and resignation, between believing that maybe she meant something and accepting that maybe she never had.

Because Sana hadn’t let her go.

Not entirely. Not enough.

And that was somehow worse.

The realization hit her all at once, the unbearable weight of what this was, what this had always been, what it was never going to be.

A transaction. A role she had agreed to play.

And she had been a fool to think it was anything more than that.

Y/N turned back to her, breath unsteady, something burning beneath her skin. "Say something."

Sana blinked, her expression perfectly composed, like she hadn’t just hesitated, like nothing had cracked at all.

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

"You don’t get to just stand there," she said, voice rising now, too sharp, too raw, too full of everything she had been holding back for too long. "You don’t get to look at me like that and then say nothing."

Sana exhaled slowly, steady, unaffected, her eyes dark in the dim glow of the streetlights. "What do you want me to say?"

And God, that was it, wasn’t it?

That was the problem. Sana didn’t know.

Didn’t know how to apologize. Didn’t know how to admit that she cared, didn’t know how to take the thing simmering beneath her ribs and turn it into something real, something she could hold onto instead of pushing it away.

Y/N let out a hollow laugh, shaking her head. "I want you to tell me what I am to you, Sana. Right now. No games, no carefully chosen words, no more of this…" She gestured between them, this thing that had never been enough. "Just say it."

Sana’s jaw tightened. "You know what this is."

Y/N scoffed. "No, I don’t. I really thought I did, but I was wrong, wasn’t I?"

Sana didn’t answer.

And the silence between them said everything.

Y/N inhaled sharply, forcing herself to stay standing, to hold onto the anger rather than the ache. "I must be so pathetic to you."

Sana’s expression flickered, just slightly, just enough for Y/N to see something there, something that looked dangerously close to panic. "That’s not…"

"I must be," Y/N continued, cutting her off, voice trembling now, not with sadness, but with something so much sharper. "Because I let you do this to me. And you were right, Sana. You were right when you made those rules, when you said no emotions, no attachments, no expectations."

Sana’s throat bobbed.

Y/N took a slow breath, then exhaled. "I broke them."

Silence.

Sana’s fingers curled into fists at her sides.

"Did you?" she asked, but the words came too slow, too careful, like she was trying to delay the inevitable.

Y/N held her gaze, steady, unwavering. "Yes."

Something shattered behind Sana’s eyes.

And Y/N let it.

She exhaled, a slow, final thing, and took a step back, then another, until the distance between them was no longer suffocating but freeing.

"This is over," she said, and the words didn’t tremble. Didn’t waver. Didn’t break.

Sana’s breath hitched, but her lips pressed together, her walls slamming back into place so violently that for a moment, it was like nothing had happened at all.

Like Y/N hadn’t just bared her heart.

Like she hadn’t just ended it.

But Y/N didn’t care anymore. Didn’t wait for a response. Didn’t wait to see if Sana would stop her, if she would finally break, if she would finally be the one to reach out.

She turned.

And this time, she walked away.

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