#Reader Immersion

[ancientroyalblood]

World-Building in Fantasy Writing: Crafting Unique Realms

In the realm of fantasy writing, the creation of worlds is an art unto itself, a meticulous process where each word, each detail, bears the weight of building something extraordinary. The task is daunting, for within these words, worlds must spring to life, realms that breathe and stir with unique cultures, landscapes, and histories. In this exploration of world-building in fantasy writing, we…

[katsukistofu]

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ k. bakugo x teacher! fem reader. fluff. ⭑ he keeps staring. the kids notice.

In your five years of teaching, you never thought you’d see Dynamight sitting cross-legged on the daisy shaped carpet in the center of your classroom, while your kids swarm around him to paint his face.

Warmth spreads across your chest as you take it all in. It’s quite the sight, to see the big, buff, seasoned twenty five year old pro hero letting all these tiny toddlers take turns taking clumsy swipes at his face with the colorful paints you bought for them the week before for art class.

What you don’t notice is the way his eyes trail to you wherever you are in the classroom. When you move to open the windows to let the fresh air in, to wipe the chalkboard, even when you’re organizing the mess of crayons on your desk into their rightful bins.

“Why do you keep staring at our teacher?” One of them, a little boy wearing his t-shirt backwards, curiously pipes up. Everyone else nods in agreement, they’ve been wondering the exact same thing.

“You gonna tell her what I said when I leave later?” Katsuki raises a brow. A chorus of playful noooo’s follow him.

“We’re gonna tell her while you’re still here!”

These little brats. He’s barely known these kids for two hours and already he knows that they love you like a second mother, and wouldn’t be letting him go so easily. There’s fondness in his eyes as Katsuki chuckles and leans in, and the kids eagerly lean in to hear what he has to say.

“I’m starin’ cause she’s pretty.”

Gasps and nods of agreement spread across the carpet just as you clap your hands together, your sweet voice ringing through the classroom, to which everyone, including Katsuki with his paint bedazzled face, turns to give you their fullest attention.

“Alright my angels, let’s give Mr. Dynamight some space now okay?”

Curious little eyes glance back and forth between you and Dynamight with, when someone loudly pipes up, “Ms. L/n doesn’t have a boyfriend!”

“Mr. Dynamight thinks you’re pretty!”

“He stares at you like the way my brother stares at ice cream!”

“Hey I was going to say that!”

Bickering ensues across the carpet and you simply gape at them as a hint of a smirk appears on Katsuki’s face.

Should we tell them after class? He mouths in your direction.

No, you mouth back, covering a giggle behind your hand at the continued chaos of your kids behind your boyfriend.

A little homework never hurt anyone.

[francisco-castle]

me everytime I read words like "reader blushed pink" in a fanfic

[bratscave]

This thought is about Batman specifically. It might a bit out of character?

(tw: dubcon)

So, there's this civilian, always hitting on him, teasing him, just getting herself into trouble to see him. It's a game for her.

Now, Batman or Bruce, he's pent up. He has a gaggle of kids and Gotham to look after. He doesn't get time to fuck or jerk off. So this is just getting on his nerves, even though he's known to have immense patience.

One day he snaps, he just hauls that civilian up into a dark alley. One that he knows is secluded. He ends up eating the civilian out until she's seeing stars and then promptly using her like a fleshlight while rubbing her clit almost raw.

At the end, he dresses her back up, drops her off at her apartment complex with a plan B pill and is back on patrol, feeling much, much better.

Also, I really love your work!

— i can totally imagine this omg

It started out as a joke. Your life was boring, you were mostly buried in your journalist work. Until Bruce Wayne started making headlines, and your company wanted as many articles on him as soon as possible. It became your job — obsession even, to keep up with Gotham’s most elusive billionaire. You, and your annoying snarky comments on his nepotism and his suits, his womanizer activities. Your writing style was something the average reader of Gotham couldn't look away from, not even bruce himself. He'd never admit that he actually reads your 'shit'. You were so incredibly infuriating yet he couldn't stop thinking about you. When he has his little one night stands after the galas you show up to, he thinks of you. pounds harder into said-woman at the thought of you under him. And when he sees you smoke on the large balcony, he thinks about how it would feel like to see those plump lips of yours, wrapped around his dick. He'd never admit that though. You had mumbled another jab at him the second you noticed his lingering gaze, which led to him dragging you across the main hall to the luxurious restrooms. It recks of those typical rich men cologne's, not the ones that bruce wears —not that you knew exactly what dior perfume, he was wearing. The exact one that you now scent while he's kissing down your neck, it's quick, it's rough. rough enough to surerly leave evident marks, in a matter that he knows everybody will see once you walk out. You'll become exactly something that you critize him for being. He slips your dress of, so fast like he has no damn time. Even though he doesn't event want to get back to the gala, he just wants to make you feel how you make him feel. annoyed and well- very horny. He lifted you up onto the marble counter like you weighted fucking nothing, his hands gripping your hips with bruising strength. Slipping your panties off, his fingers cold against your wetness. His mouth followed, finding your core with a primal hunger all while his groans vibrated against you. And how he loves the sound of nothing besides whimpers and whines coming from your direction, they are sweet noises, noises he'd love to hear more of. When he finally slides inside you, it’s with a harsh thrust that makes you cry out. His movements are powerful, driven by a raw need that leaves no room for gentleness. He’s using you, each thrust a release of the pent-up frustration he’s felt from your taunts and the constant grind of his dual life. His fingers continue to work at your clit, rubbing it almost mercilessly. And he's an asshole about it, taunts about how 'loud you are', muses about the fact that all your damn morals went out the window the second you saw some good dick. When he finally finishes, it’s with a low growl of satisfaction, his grip on you loosening just enough to let you catch your breath. He dresses you with a rough efficiency, handing you the Plan B pill with an almost clinical detachment. The look he gives you is cold, but there’s a flicker of something darker behind his eyes. Something that suggests that this will definetly not be the last time. Oh, and he loves that little complete dumbfounded expression of yours. He'd pay millions to see that rare one again.

[crimsonkat59]

The Infinights

The pixelated RPG game Infinights, developed by Tales From the Stinky Dragon, garnered many positive reviews from fans of the developer’s past works and soon brought in new fans, many of whom had never played a game of such style. 

Infinights is a story-driven game where you play as four ‘Infinight Interns’ trying to find the Infinights (a group of notorious heroes), defeat a devious woman called Paralyte, and save the realm of Faeza. There are many loveable NPCs scattered throughout the five realms of Faeza, each unique to their homeland. And the music changes throughout the land, even during encounters! 

What many have found interesting about the game is that the player does not control a specific character. The four Interns move as a group and the walking order of the players changes according to their environment (for example, Mudd leads the group through his home city of the BuhBayou while Kyborg will lead when they’re in Evirwinter). In combat, each Intern and their enemies are given a specific order to which they can take a turn. This is one of the many cases where Infinights uses luck and randomization to achieve unique playthroughs. Often, conversations will have dialogue options that will either succeed or fail based on the program’s virtual ‘coin flip’ and the amount of damage any attack will do it based on a ‘dice roll’ of sorts. 

Infinights has been praised for its simple but beautiful graphics and its simple design. However, it has gained criticism as well. 

One main flaw many players see is how rigid the story is. There are not many chances for exploration and though conversations can change due to luck, things end up the same in the end. After some time, the developers released an update containing a second playing mode. This mode, entitled ‘The Past’ (changing the main story mode to ‘The Present’), lets the player play in a more open-world concept. And as the original Infinights. 

What’s loved about The Past is that it allows the player to see more into the life of the characters the game is entitled after. There were complaints that, for being titular characters and the game’s main quest, the Infinights did not have a strong role in the story, especially Grislee and Elleve. The Past changes this, giving each Infinight more lines and a more fleshed out character. 

Of course, the open-world style is appreciated as well. There’s a fully interactable map to navigate through and many new locations within each city to explore. New shops, new NPCs, new quests. And while The Past has a few scripted adventures and quests, the easiest way to explore the world is to travel to one city and simply walk around. More quests become available as the Infinights become more renowned throughout Faeza, with more people also willing to aid their adventures. 

The Past also created thought. As the main villain of the main story, Paralyte, is seen in this mode as just another Infinight. She is primarily called ‘Luce’, which is her real name, and is visually different. Many have joked that she looks ‘healthier’ in The Past as her skin is less pale. What many notice is that there’s no green infinity sign carved into her armor in The Past, but she instead wears an armband with the Infinight’s logo on it. (Just like Spectril!) 

Throughout the story, Luce and the others get along very well. Her voice is still ‘honeyed yet haunting’, but her interactions with the Infinights are full of smiles and jokes. Luce cracks a few herself, leaving the threats to the enemies encountered in combat. 

This mode, even when played to 100%, does not address exactly why Luce left the Infinights. Theories have been made through dialogue left throughout both modes of the game, but there has been no official response from the developers. Tales From the Stinky Dragon often prides itself on adding a bit of mystery to their games, with some questions getting answered while others are left up to the fans. 

The newest mystery they’ve unveiled is Grotethe, another RPG game in the works. Through released screenshots, it’s clear that the game uses the same base as Infinights. The combat and dialogue systems are the same, along with the game’s basic premise. However, one question that has been raised is how the story modes work. Will Grotethe have only a story-driven mode, only open-world, or will it include both? None of the released content points to any of these options. 

On a similar note, it is also clear that Grotethe takes is set in an entirely different place. The technology and locations (and even the appearance of one of the main characters!) that can be seen in different screenshots are causing speculation amongst fans. People wonder whether the two games are related or not and, if they are, how? No voice clips for any of the characters have been released yet, but fans hope that the voices of the main characters will aid them in this quest for answers. 

Until then, everyone continues to enjoy the stunning game that is Infinights. 

This project, with all visual details compiled on one Adobe Illustrator document entitled 'rot' because I failed to spell 'rpg' started on Tuesday, January 14th. Through various sessions of various lengths and occasional mouse usage, it has finally been completed. I now hate rectangles and squares. 

Various parts of the artwork should be recognizable to other games of a similar style. When I went looking for sprite bases when this project first started, I landed on a base sprite for Omori. I have never played Omori. Along with that, the way the combat screen looks is taken from Deltarune (which I have played) and the shop screen has influences from it. 

And it should be known that most things made in this work I had a trace (with pixels) from a random internet image. That dragon was NOT freehand, nor was that train, the map and pretty much everything from the shop screen (though, the shopkeeper whose name I cannot remember was drawn from a sketch I made). All text except title text (Infinights, Grotethe, Tales From the Stinky Dragon) is actual type, only the title text I drew (with a reference).

My school shouldn’t have allowed me to have an Adobe account or a teacher/class to teach me graphic design. I am using it for evil.

Sprite sheet:

The state my school computer's desktop was left in. Just because I think it's funny.

[pepperpixel]

Initial drawings of that old man… I literally, I haven’t finished reading the book of bill yet!!! I had to stop and take a break for a week to feverishly draw fanart of myself petting fords floofy hair and giving him attention and shit…!!!! The urge was too great….!! I’ve literally. I had a crush on this guy the instant he was first REVEALED in the show, but I did not have the artistic prowess to draw good looking old men back then… but I do now… thank god… thank fucking god

[heejamas]

tmi of the day but whatever we ball

i was talking to @dawngyu and i told her that when i was writing waiting room i was in SUCH a chokehold mentally like i literally couldn’t figure out how to write the smut scene

so what did my dumbass do??? i went on a DATE

i was like maybe if i kiss a man my brain will remember what attraction feels like idk and tbh it wasn’t even a date actually. it was a field trip. a research excursion. a lil data collection moment like i turned that man into a human writing plot sorry to that bozo😭

he thought we were bonding. and i was like hmm interesting so that’s where hands go duly noted

girl when i say i LEFT that date and immediately opened google docs

anyway the smut scene turned out kinda fire so i guess shoutout to him???

(this is why i don’t go outside)

[bunniemoth]

[fic] The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb (Shane x f!Farmer)

Title: The mouth of the wolf, the eyes of the lamb Pairing: Shane x f!Farmer Rating: Explicit 🌶️🌶️🌶️ Words: 2,137 Warnings: pwp, p in v, Farmer's a bit of a brat, sooooper light d/s because Shane deserves a treat (and frankly that's how I roll, my dear), slight spoilers for the Immersive Shane Mod by tenthousandcats, references to addiction, references to alcohol, married life looks good from here (i.e. established relationship), barebacking, no beta we die like men Summary:

When the Farmer suggests that her husband take off that annoying Mermaid pendant if he's going to complain about it, Shane demonstrates just how bothersome the f*cking thing is.

In bed.

OR:

Farmer sets herself up to get smacked in the chin with the token of her husband's affection.

OR!!

They're stupid for each other and I love that for them. Also body fluids.

Notes: Inspired by this set of screens from the Immersive Shane mod by tenthousandcats. So many blessings on their house. Holy shit. The title's a lyric from Rain by Sleep Token.

Read it on Ao3 or below. 😊

“...Yeah, sunshine, I get that’s the practical thing to do but the only way you’re going to get this pendant off me is by prying it off my cold, dead body.”

Shane pauses, the mermaid pendant clutched in his fist. His cheek twitches, but while he controls the smile, he can’t hide the way his gaze glitters just a little bit.

He smoothes his hand down his chest, and standing a little straighter, he uses the three inches in height he has over you to the best effect, making it a challenge:

“I’m not taking it off for shit.”

As if you’d make him do anything of the sort. It looks good on him — that little ‘property of the farmer’ that glints blue and opalescent. You’ve woken up with it an inch from your cheek for three weeks, and maybe this is still the honeymoon phase, but you think he stands a little taller when he hangs it on the outside of his shirt like a declaration:

He’s yours and you’re his.

“Not for anything?” you tease.

He wags his head, gaze dipping to your mouth and back.

“Nope. Although I maybe I have a suggestion for demonstrating just how irritating it actually is.”

“Maybe you’re just sensitive,” you hedge, shrugging one shoulder in a mockery of innocence.

He flashes teeth. It’s your only warning.

“We’ll see.”

The part of you that sometimes wishes you knew your husband in his gridball days doesn’t need to wonder at it for too long.

Your shriek as he lunges for you rings around the first floor of the farmhouse, the world upending as Shane goes low and you go… upside down and over his shoulder, laughing as he charges you top the stairs and into the bedroom.

You swat at the seat of his jeans to no avail, because he braces the backs of your thighs to his chest and all the blood is rushing to your head and you know he’s wearing that diabolical grin he sometimes gets when you’ve made extra Pepper Poppers fresh for him and he’s thinking about eating them all in one sitting.

“Still got it,” he says, flipping you onto the bed.

You land with a whump of feathers and dust, shocked at the show of strength, but not for long because he asks, a little out of breath and a little flushed as he shucks off his hoodie. “Want a demonstration?”

The shirt comes off next, and between the tee-shirt tan and the patch of purple fluff that covers his chest and stomach, you notice that he never fumbles when the belt buckle comes undone.

When he gets like this, he’s hard to contain: the strength in that trunk under a layer of love of your cooking and too many days and nights at the the bottom of a pint, but he’s not shy and Shane doesn’t hide, not when your body on offer makes him that hard.

You love every inch of him — every dip and roll and scar. All of it. No exceptions.

So you stare at each other in amazement for a second, because it’s good being this stupid over each other. It’s fucking perfect even when it isn’t.

“Yoba, yes,” you manage, but the callouses on his hands rasp along your cheek, tilting you upwards to catch a flash of warmth in his grin; that golden glimmer of a man on a winning streak.

“Good answer.”

Shane doesn’t think he’s good at a lot of things, but one thing he’s an expert in is unfastening the snaps on your overalls. In two seconds, you’re half-undressed already, and his kiss slows the world on its axis.

Wet and warm, Shane’s affection is sweet and slow as maple syrup, his tongue thick and lazy when he tastes your mouth, and every breath that puffs against your cheek is as decadent as the heat of his hands on your body —

Skin to skin beneath your shirt to pull top and bra off in a heartbeat, your trousers tugged down your legs, the gusset of your panties tested with the press and rub of two fingers tugging them to the side as he leans over you on the bed.

“You ready?”

One finger slides through your folds.

“You’re going to ruin another pair of my panties.”

“Good.” He nips at your jaw, closing his mouth around a softest patch of flesh below your ear and giving you an experimental suck that makes you moan out loud. The shiver that follows pebbles your nipples when Shane growls, “I want this pussy accessible at all times when you’re wearing coveralls.”

He pushes in with two fingers, spreading them a little bit to test your resistance, and you practically climb up his shoulders as he pulls you onto the bed beside him.

The pendant is warm from his body, sliding off to the side in a way that must be uncomfortable, but Shane gives exactly no fucks the way he’s left you half-undone in the effort to make you come first — to make you come hard.

He curls his fingers, and sinking your fingers into his hair as if you think you’ve got control over the situation, he chuckles into your throat. “You’re already squirming.”

“Whose fault is that?” you groan as he taps into the spot that wakes up so easily to his touch. It’s not going to take long.

His grin is infectious. “I love that I’m the one that gets you this worked up.”

“Don’t let it get to your — to your — oh fuck.”

Shane’s laughter is the best thing when you come — better even than the flex of tendons and the slight protrusions of veins in his arms when you try to grip at him as he keeps pumping into you with his fingers; better even than his thigh between yours pinning you to the bed; better even than the sloppy, dishevelled grin he wears after you’ve given him head —

Granted, while you like seeing him fucked stupid, sometimes you have to make exceptions.

Now, though, his hard-on is poking you in the hip, and you know that this is just the warm up to him proving a point about the fancy bit of jewelry he’s holding between his teeth as you ride out the ebb and flush of pleasure. The heel of his hand presses into your clit, and you know he’s enjoying the aftershocks in your body, spasming around his fingers.

He’s got that small, smug grin again.

“That doesn’t prove anything,” you breathe.

He spits out the pendant, crawling over you and in-between your legs, trapped by your boots and denims, and the weight of his torso pinning you to the comforter — his hands do the rest, finding your wrists and tacking them to the mattress.

“Wasn’t done yet,” he murmurs.

Shane nudges your chin, capturing your bottom lip, all innocence, but the pendant swings free to bump into your chest. As if you didn’t know where this was going.

“Got a problem, farmer — I’ve got you dripping on my cock right now, but I’m a little concerned that if I let go of your wrists, you’re gonna get unruly,” he says.

“Sounds like a problem. What are you going to do about it?”

He grunts, his stubble rasping over your cheek as he kisses you again, rocking your hips against his length like you can soak him before he even arrives at a decision. The movement is limited, but he flexes in a way that gets him groaning into your throat a moment later.

“How ‘bout you be good for one second.”

You grind your hips, and he swears.

“There’s truffle oil in the bedside table, Shane.”

“Fuck me.” He laughs, the sound reverberating through your chest. You pull your boots up the back of his legs, clinging to his lower back, your overalls trailing.

“Trying to but you keep teasing.”

Shane growls. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were winding me up.”

His cock drags slow through your juices, and back again slicking himself with your spend, letting you get a good feel for how hard he is, and how thick. 

“Or suggesting that I put it in your —”

“What’s mine is yours, love.”

He freezes, breathing hard.

You kiss his jaw, arching your back to press your breasts into his chest, the tiny movements of your hips excruciating because he won’t bully his cock into the spot you want without begging for it.

He presses his lips together, breathing heavily, getting just irritated enough to make it a thing, but —

The tip of his cockhead notches into right place — just on the edge of easing past the point of entry. You clench. It’s involuntary. You need him. You want it. You’re not above begging, and he knows it.

“Shane.”

He looks like he’s barely holding it together.

Nothing’s more rewarding than that flustered, fighty look slanted in your direction.

In the sweetest, most adoring voice that doesn’t falter when he gives your wrists a squeeze, you ask him from between your teeth, “Will you fuck me raw, please?”

“I love it when you whine like that for —” the rest is lost under his groan as he buries himself inside you, pushing past the brief resistance of tension because you’re still just a little too tight for his girth, and when he bottoms out, you choke out a cry that makes him shudder.

“S’fucking —” he slurs into your neck. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

His balls clench upward, the flex against your ass delicate and warm, but the burn is brief and he flexes once, twice and pulls out in a sure stroke that earns a groan before pushing back in to the hilt.

You catch your breath, blinking back the sting.

This good kind of discomfort reduces you to monosyllables. He’s fighting giving into it, just a little longer.

“— Hurt?” He asks.

You shake your head, the air caught in your throat. It comes out an airy sob: “More.”

“Yoba.” Shane crumbles, and then he frees your wrists to rise to a pushup where that pendant falls free of the spot it had been pressed between your hearts to slap you in the chin. It tickles, and you shrink away as it dances over your skin.

“Fucking annoying, isn’t it?” Shane breathes, but he’s grinning.

“You’re annoying and I still like you,” you manage. You grip the cord, pulling him into you as he chuckles, surprised, and kisses you back.

“I see how it is,” he murmurs, but he gives in, gathering you into him.

It takes three strokes of his thick cock before your arching off the bed, your heels digging into his hips to bring him closer, your hands groping up his shoulders as the only sounds are the squeaking bed and the slap of his hips against your ass. It’s bright and fiery for a second, the stretch too decadent to feel anything but the ripple of friction, and then the strike of pressure against the exact spot that makes you gasp.

He grins against your mouth, knowing he’s in the right vicinity. “I can feel you clenching.”

Your vision spots.

“You’re gonna come for me,” he says.

You grip the cord a little tighter, and he keeps going, “And you’re gonna thank me afterward.”

A half-garbled curse slips out as your fingers loosen, your death grip loosening as you start losing focus. The feeling crests into that liminal edge that teeters on darkness — a shadow behind the vision — and all the world narrows to your point of connection and the slick sounds of Shane’s cock gliding in and out of your body the wetter you get. It’s just friction. It’s just pressure. It’s just the feeling of fitting together in an assembly of discordant pieces that seem to make sense, and doesn’t that make you the lucky one in this arrangement?

You’re dripping, and he’s indulgent, his murmur in your ear making you whimper, “I’ll take being mushy over a bit of jewelry if it means I get to feel you coming on me like this for the rest of my life.”

Release breaks with a sob, your body going rigid in Shane’s arms as the mermaid pendant rocks into you again, its smooth edges knocking into your chin.

He shudders, his hips lurching as his resistance breaks, and with a warm gush, Shane comes.

Sagging, his arms shudder as he sinks his weight onto you, but you wrap your arms around his sweaty shoulders as he mutters, “Like I said. This thing is going exactly nowhere.”

Laughing, you kiss his shoulder, his neck, his cheek.

He glowers, struggling not to smile about it.

“You made your point,” you tell him, giving the string one last tug. “It has its uses.”

[aimfor-theheart]

feel like when ppl talk about the xreader community, they very desperately want to keep the genre and its writers in a box of what they believe it to be. and they can’t fathom that the style of xreader by nature uses certain literary devices (specifically the second person perspective) to tell its story as a way to be immersive. like yeah whatever we can argue about the semantics of an OC vs a reader-insert forever but at the end of the day, if i put my OC fanfic in second person perspective, doesn’t it then become xreader? because of the nature of the genre and the devices it’s using? i think some folks think of these fanfic genres very narrowly and only through the lens of fandom and not of writing as a craft (which predates fanfic genre you know?)—and writing itself uses literary and storytelling devices, which we can then categorize into genres if we see them repeated in certain ways.

[fics-lovebot]

maladaptive daydreaming is really something bc i´d rather be pretending to be a fan being interviewed with my fav kpop group while i lay dead still on my bed, rotting, with my airpods on,, than living.

[silversinfinity]

Cabin Fever

*this is a fetish blog- non-fet blogs and minors DNI (no age in bio -> blocked)*

Fandom: L/ove and D/eepspace Spoilers: None Pairing/AU: Z/ayne X f!Reader, normal universe Length: 5.4k

Contains: sneeze fetish content (duh), sickfic, fevers, caretaking, that trope where a character’s powers act up because they’re sick, reader insert

Summary: L/ove and D/eepspace's "Winter's Emissaries" summer event, wherein everything is the same, except I made it better gave Z/ayne a cold.

Notes: Backstory time! This game had an event last summer that included four different virtual roleplaying games to complete (one for each guy). In the one featuring Z/ayne, you play as “Winter’s Emissaries” searching for treasure to save a village. While playing through these, you also receive special social media interactions, one of them being this one from Z/ayne. I think my inspiration should speak for itself… 🥴

I wanted this to feel like it could seamlessly fit into the original canon plot, so a few lines of dialogue and description were adapted directly from the game. There's also gonna be casual mentions of things which might go over your head if you haven't played, but it shouldn't ruin the fic reading experience!

Okay, enough yapping. Enjoy 🫶

Fic Masterlist

Your reflection was barely visible in the glass as you stared out the window. Snow swirled in a gray and white cacophony, past the glass pane and all across the region as far as you could see. The conditions seemed more treacherous now that you had escaped them, free to observe rather than experience it. 

You'd experienced it enough today, anyways. Your face still stung of whipping, icy winds, and your hair dripped as clumps of ice and snow melted off your head. Every part of you felt chilled- your fingers, your toes, hell, your very soul. This little cabin was truly the desert oasis of the frigid mountain forests. There was no way either of you could've survived a night out there. 

To your right and behind you, a stunted rush of flames brought the fireplace to life. Your hand curled over your chest, relieved. There was never a situation where you weren't grateful to have Zayne around, but this one especially so. His simple presence was enough to flip an unfortunate situation into a favorable one, or at the very least, an okay one. This would be okay.

Another bundle of snowflakes rushed past the window as a new gust of wind took to the air with violence. You leaned into the knotted pine of the window sill and walls, pressing one ear to the glass.

Your brow furrowed. Only the crackling of the fireplace registered to your senses. Not even a muffled echo of the blizzard’s roar could be detected through the glass. Was the soundproofing of this cabin really that thorough?

Zayne’s hand on your shoulder shook the question out of your mind. “You shouldn't stand so close to the glass. A blizzard can break the window.” His voice was calm. “Come sit by the fireplace. It'll warm you up.”

You stood back from the glass, and one of Zayne’s hands caressed your cheek, palm hot against the chapped skin of your face. You found him in a similar state, skin flushed and wind-broken around and across his nose.

Zayne led you to the fireplace with a hand to your back. Heat instantly washed over you, and you tugged off the heavy coat that still clung to your shoulders. 

“You say I need to warm up, but you're the one who gave up your coat,” you said, hanging it on the hook off to the side of the hearth. He'd insisted you take it, once you realized the hard way that your own coat was highly insufficient for the weather.

“You're right. Come sit.” Zayne had seated himself in a wicker chair a few feet back from the fire’s glow. You paused to consider whether there was enough room to join him. If you were expected to fit next to him, you’d practically need to be sitting in his lap.

…Not that you minded. You never minded that.

As anticipated, you found yourself crunching your knees up to settle yourself next to him. You were squished against him, legs to legs, warm body to warm body.

It occurred to you, though, that there was plenty of sitting space throughout the cabin suitable for two people, much unlike the chair you had just forced your way into. You looked at Zayne and smirked. “I get it. You're using the fireplace as an excuse to cuddle, aren't you?” 

Zayne tilted his head and met your gaze. His lip curled so subtly you had to squint to see it: “Well, if you knew that was my goal, why did you still join me?” 

You nearly got lost in his eyes, aglow with a sunset orange reflection of the flames. “Because… I may or may not have the same goal,” you finally admitted, nestling the rest of your body to Zayne’s. Your head settled perfectly against his chest, like a puzzle piece to its match.

“I'm honored to be your personal heater after serving as your navigator.” 

A comfortable silence followed Zayne’s words. Your attention honed in on the crackling of the fireplace, the flames within wiggling their unsteady dance and casting a faint, smoky scent into the air. You inhaled deeper, chasing the nostalgic memories of summer bonfires lingering behind. The air was dry, but warm enough now that you didn’t feel moisture chasing every breath in through your nose. But the same couldn’t be said yet for Zayne, based on the still frequent sniffling above you. It really was dreadful out there…

The whole reason for your journey here slowly crept back into your mind. Today the blizzard would keep you both within the safety and warmth of this cabin, but you knew there was still a long journey in the cold ahead of you. As Winters Emissaries, it was your duty to complete the task given to you. The whole of a village was counting on it. 

As to what it was though, you still weren't completely sure.

“Hey… do you think the treasure the villagers mentioned is something like this?” 

You felt Zayne move above you at the sudden sound of your voice. He pondered your question. “A treasure that brings warmth in winter… the concept is similar enough,” he eventually said. 

“But visiting the palace just to get firewood for them would be pointless. They could just go into the forest themselves, couldn't they?”

“Perhaps the treasure is a self-heating energy stone. Winters Emissaries are like torchbearers. They've been entrusted with the responsibility of bringing energy to the village.”

An image of yourself and Zayne wearing special ceremonial attire during an Olympic opening ceremony, sacred torch and all, flashed in your mind. It was far more flashy and loud than your actual reality, traveling alone together in the winter wilderness of the mountains as the elements assaulted you. “Zayne, your imagination got a little wild there,” you giggled. 

“Oh? Then what sort of fantasy would you prefer to listen to?” Zayne sniffled again. Outside, the world had begun to turn dark.

“Something real, maybe.” Your eyes searched the space above the fireplace, as if the answer would appear there for you. “Hmm… talk about your childhood memories. When we were kids, wasn't there a time a snowstorm trapped you at my house?”

Long was the history between the two of you. You spent your childhood together, grew up together, and now Zayne was a unique combo of your primary doctor, lover,  and a formidable fighter you could rely on in any Wanderer encounter. 

So, you were a little hopeful Zayne would still remember your early days, after everything you'd been through. 

Zayne’s hand fidgeted at the small of your back. “...I remember that,” he finally began. “My parents and I went to your place for dinner. And then it suddenly started snowing. It was getting late, and we tried to head home but the car wouldn't start. We had no choice but to spend the night there.” Zayne paused, swallowed, and cleared his throat. His voice was noticeably rougher when he spoke again though, as if he hadn't cleared anything at all, “But you had already returned to your room. We had barely talked that day…”

There was a tremble you noticed in his voice too, as though the memories themselves manifested within the language he spoke. He wasn't always the most straight forward with his sentimentality of your shared youth, but there were always signs he cherished them the same way you did.

Yet you always felt strange, separated from yourself whenever you reflected on it, everything being the same and yet so different from what you had with him today. As children, could Zayne and I have ever imagined ourselves nestled by the fireplace one day, enjoying idle conversation?

“Maybe it's because I went to bed too early that day. If only I had known…”

You waited for Zayne to respond, or continue, but it never came. His breathing steadied and slowed above you, and you craned your neck to look up at him. 

His eyes were closed, long, dark lashes completely still. No surprise sleep took him so quickly; for as often as he would lecture you about getting enough sleep, you knew his line of work didn't allow him to rest as well as he'd like. He was known for taking any time he could between surgeries to nap. This quiet time in a cabin was the perfect environment for Zayne to take advantage of.

You were careful not to disturb him as you settled your head back where it was most comfortable. The warmth you shared between your bodies had only grown, stealing away any drive you had left to stay awake. The fireplace became a blur as your eyelids drooped.

Against your ear though, you were still awake enough to notice the slight wheeze in his breathing. And from his nose, the tiniest whistle when he exhaled. Both were not typical for him, in all the times you had rested together.

Mentally, you winced, remembering the pity taken on your poor choice of winter wear once the blizzard hit. Zayne assured you he still had enough layers on, and initially you believed him. 

Now though, you realized he would've told you that anyways. Of course he would've; he was prone to worrying more about you than himself. 

You wondered if this wasn't normal tired for him, but sick tired. Had he been hiding it from you? Or was it too early for him to even realize?

You were only barely awake yourself anymore, unable to think clearly. “Zayne?” you murmured, quiet, still hesitant to wake him. You heard nothing back, and then you heard nothing at all, as sleep stole you away too. 

—

You woke up suddenly, somewhere soft, warm. Pillow under your head, and layers of blankets draped over you. Sluggishly, you picked up your head. The grey light of morning seeped through the windows, pale and too early to be awake. You squinted to make out flecks of snow billowing past the window, just as energetically as the day previous. 

This wasn't where you had fallen asleep. So how did you…? 

Oh, right.

Somewhere in the night, you vaguely remembered being lifted and held to Zayne’s chest before he settled you somewhere else- it was in this bed, you now knew. You stretched and whined beneath the blankets before rolling over. Next to you, the comforter was pulled back and the fitted sheet wrinkled, implying Zayne had slept there next to you. The bed suddenly felt cold.

As you sat up, you frowned. Something had woken you, but what? It was quiet in the cabin. “Zayne…?” you called out groggily.

“heh’tSCHh-!”

Oh.

“hegH’SCHUhh-!”

Sneezing. Zayne sneezing, to be exact. Muffled and echoey beyond the half wall immediately behind you, you concluded he was too far away to have heard you, in another room of the cabin. 

You heard him sneeze again, after a longer delay. You internally winced as you had the night before. For all the time you'd known Zayne, you'd never heard such frequent disruptions, except for when an outside factor- such as illness- was actively aggravating him.

The urge to investigate dragged you out of bed. Your ears pointed you towards the bathroom across the way. As you got closer though, you stopped. The sound of rushing water could be heard, loud and clear with the door of the bathroom wide open. Your approach to the door was a little more hesitant- was he showering this early in the morning?

Beyond the steam cloaking the room, you found Zayne not in the shower, but hovering just to the side of the sink. His hair was slightly disheveled from its usual neatness, and damp, implying he'd been standing in there for some time. Even from where you stood in the doorway, his body language read of discomfort.

Though you stepped lightly, your bare feet weren't quiet enough to avoid alerting him. Zayne turned to look your way. His posture instantly straightened, but it didn't hold, wavering in tune with his breath. 

“Y-Y/N, hih…! hH’gnx’SCHhh-!” He notably pressed into his wrist, cutting the volume. That wrist flipped, and his fingers clamped over his nose, pinching tightly over the bridge in a fashion you'd seen before, when he was either annoyed or- “heh-NGTt-uh!” -suppressing a sneeze. 

“Bless you… thanks for the wake up call.” You couldn't help yourself from teasing him.

“Did I wake you?” He paused to sniffle, thick, unproductive. “I tried to be quiet getting out of bed, but I suppose that didn't last…” Zayne’s voice cracked and he coughed, hoarse. 

Concerned, you stepped into the bathroom, closing the space between you. “What's with the shower?” you said. 

“Clearing out my sinuses. You can turn it off.” The steam in the room was pleasantly warm, but the humidity was a little much, you thought. You shut the water off.

“Did it help?” you asked. 

“Well, it made me sneeze through the worst of it.” With the water off, you can hear congestion in his voice more clearly, and you shuddered to think this was an improvement from when he'd first awoke. His illness had set in, and it had done so quicker than you thought possible. Zayne took one step back from the counter, touching one temple and wincing. You saw him sway.

Your brow furrowed. One of your hands drew up to his forehead before Zayne had the chance to stop you. Your fingers brushed his bangs aside with a gentle sweep, and the pads of your fingers ghosted heat, searing his skin deeper than any steam could create on the surface. 

“You have a fever…” Zayne swatted you away, but you grabbed at his wrist in rebellion. Instantly, you gasped and froze in place. Under your palm and fingers was an icy cold, etched across his skin and leaving purple welts in his wake- it could only have originated from his abilities. “Your Evol, why…?”

In one quick move, Zayne shook his head at you, tugged his freezing wrist from your grasp, and twisted away with a wrenching sneeze. 

“hegH’NSCHhih-! Hh…” The exhale carried exhaustion. You allowed him the space to recover but refused him another inch beyond that. As you examined him closer, you realized that white, crackling frost glazed not just his wrist, but his neck too. 

“Are you…okay? Why is your Evol doing that?” you asked.

But Zayne couldn’t seem to catch a break. “I'm f-fine…hih…!” His denial was drowned out in a shuddering hitch of breath. He managed to retrieve a bunched up wash cloth from the counter, just in time to jam it under his nose before he-

“hih’MPFSChh-!”

Punctual.

“Bless you,” you said, wincing. “Uh, you were saying? About being fine?”

He was even slower to recover, as though the very last of his energy had seeped out through his sinuses, dampening the already soiled cloth in his hand. “I'm not denying that. Obviously I'm not well.” Zayne slid past you to leave the bathroom, and you followed nervously behind him to where he dropped down on the couch. He barely seemed to be present, tilting his head back, eyes closed. The dark shadows under his eyes told you he hadn’t slept much. “I just meant… the ice. I'm fine, this always happens when I'm unwell.” 

From where you sat next to him, you took the chance to touch his forehead again, and Zayne didn't protest this time. It was worse than you initially thought. “You're really hot, Zayne…”

One eye opened. “Flirting with me while I'm sick?”

“Hey, you know what I mean…” You smiled and felt at ease- at least he wasn't so ill that mirth failed him. 

It couldn't cure all your worries, though. Your touch trailed down his cheek, to his jawline, and then his neck. It was there that the temperature under your fingers went shockingly cold, as though he'd just been outside in the winter elements without a scarf. Zayne’s brow knitted at your touch, and he shivered. 

“You're freezing,” you commented. It wasn't a question, but Zayne nodded anyway. “Let me warm you up, then.” This too, wasn't a question of permission, but rather a warning that you would try regardless.

Again though, Zayne nodded. Even a doctor as work-driven as he was knew when it was time for someone else to do the caring.

You looked first to the fireplace across from the couch, in front of the chair where you had both dozed off last night. The flames weren't flames but small, smoldering ashes- certainly of no substance to subdue a fever and keep the chill of winter out. 

You tossed another couple logs on and allowed a moment for the fire to catch.

Then, back on the couch, you adjusted your knees under you. “Here, let me squeeze in.” You sidled close to Zayne’s spot on the sectional. He hesitantly straightened his legs, allowing you space between him and the back cushion of the couch.

“It'll get nice and warm here soon,” you assured. Zayne hummed, glassy, hazel eyes fixed to the ceiling above. Your attention drew back to his Evol, still vicious and frosty at his wrists and throat. The warmth of the fire couldn't sedate this- this cold came from within, and the longer you lingered on it, the more uncomfortable it looked. You feared self-inflicted frostbite was in his near future.

“Do you think you might be overdoing it? Your Evol, I mean.”

“It's…” Zayne paused, shivering violently as though simply acknowledging the sensation made it worse. You swore you saw vapor as he exhaled, as if the air of winter itself were contained around his head in a bubble. “It's against my will, mostly…”

His discomfort was nearly palpable to you as you realized this was completely out of his control. This was the same cold extreme enough for Zayne to use in combat, after all, and now it was acting of its own accord, attacking him. 

“Think of it as a flight or fight response,” Zayne went on. “My temperature is up, therefore my body is responding by trying to cool down.”

“It's just too much, isn't it?” you said, finishing his thought for him. Zayne nodded, casting his gaze towards you. He'd never looked so openly vulnerable underneath you, except in distant memories, and you felt your heart soften despite the circumstances. 

You laid your weight heavier into him, shuffling so that one leg intertwined between his own. He caught your eye when he moved his hands out of your way. 

Maybe… if you resonated with him…?

You reached for one hand. “Here, let me just…”

Zayne shrunk away though, tucking his arms to his sides. “No, you shouldn't…touch me when I'm like this. Not on my skin.” Worry, genuine worry flickered in his eyes, and you felt that soft glow in your chest trip and falter.

“Zayne…” Your hands remained hovered at his wrist. Begging him with your eyes. He tensed, but he didn't stop you from closing your touch over his wrist. His skin was frigid, burning against your warmer palms, but only that. “You won't hurt me. I promise.”

You seemed to get through to him, and Zayne found it in himself to relax, finally. Your squeeze over his wrist was firm, but gentle, wringing your grip back and forth. You slowed your breathing and sought his Evol’s frequency, and it met you with a chaotic and unusual rhythm. A warm light glowed from your palms. In a matter of seconds, his skin took the warmth of yours.

“Better?” You asked. 

Zayne nodded, brow raised just slightly as though he didn't expect this outcome. You weren't sure you had expected it to work either. Discomfort crept back into his features, and he breathed through clenched teeth- you healed his other wrist with more urgency.

Briefly, you chewed the inside of your cheek. You couldn't deny that you found it all alarming, try as Zayne might to act casual about the whole thing. The nature of Evol was different person to person, but was it really okay for it to attack its user? Even under circumstances of illness? What if there was more to this?

…No, no. You had to shake this out of your head, stick to the task at hand. Interrogating him in the midst of being miserable wasn't good for either of you.

You forced the frown out of your expression, before Zayne could read it and interrogate you instead. “Your hands look better,” you said. “Is it just your shoulders now?”

“Yes. I think.”

“Get comfortable, then.” Both having lost their icy touch, he tucked his hands under you, and you properly draped yourself over him like a weighted blanket. Zayne tilted his head up to accept your arms wrapping over the back of his freezing neck.

You suppressed a shiver of your own as you nuzzled your cheek into the crook of one shoulder, the cold seeping into you through his shirt. Then, you remained still, focusing to match the frequency of his powers again, further resonating. Any remaining anxiety drained out of you. Maybe you couldn't cure his cold completely, but a small win was still a win in the war against misery.

Zayne sighed above you in relief. ”hh…hih…!” And then in urgency. He fidgeted under you, prompting you to lift your head.

You were greeted with the sight of a man most definitely about to sneeze.

And it had you a little mesmerized, to say the least- the stoic type, you rarely ever witnessed his face so obviously contorted. Somehow, Zayne always maintained a calm and collected demeanor, even when he was feeling anything but. This expression he currently wore though, was scrunched up, needy. His brow pinched together, eyelids taught. And the pink rims of his nostrils ticklishly flared, lip curled back into a snarl.

“Y-Y/N, my…hands…!” His breathy voice barely hung above a whisper.

You didn't get the memo- at least not fast enough. His hands remained trapped under you, and with nowhere else to hide, Zayne twisted toward the couch cushion, squelching the sneeze into submission by willpower alone.

Willpower didn't carry him very far, however. “hH’NXTt’shih-!” The burst of moisture that broke through was audible. Zayne’s chest swelled under you to gear up for a second one, and you braced a little tighter around his neck- “hegH’SCHUhh-!” The force his sneezes wrought nearly folded him at the waist, even with your full weight on top of him.

Zayne stilled after that. You were more timid as you looked back up to him. “Bless you. You shouldn't fight it like that…” you said softly.

“You shouldn't keep my hands trapped, then,” Zayne shot back.

You shrugged, although you did shift your hips up to free one of his arms. Zayne took to knuckling under his nose, before carefully dabbing at any excess dampness with the edge of his sleeve. 

“Really though, don't worry about politeness,” you went on. Your expression turned downcast. “You're sick because of me, after all.”

Several seconds passed as Zayne processed your words. Then, he gave you a look, the one he always had when you said something silly.  “You know people don't get sick just from being out in the cold, right?” 

“Says who?”

“Y/N, I'm a doctor. Your doctor,” Zayne deadpanned. 

You couldn't hide your grin. “Okay, but consider this: I saw it happen in a movie. A lot of movies, actually.”

Zayne shook his head. A yawn crept into his voice, and his eyes closed. “Right. Next time I need continuing education credits, I'll just watch some movies instead.”

“You better invite me over for a movie date night then!”

“But of course.” You held him a little tighter. The corner of Zayne’s mouth tugged into a smile. “Y/N… you really never grew up,” he said. 

“Oh?” You tilted your head at him. 

“You're just as unserious as you were when we were young,” Zayne went on. “More than when we were young, actually.”

To that, you stuck your tongue out. “Coming from the most serious guy I know? You should try it sometime.” 

Zayne opened his eyes, and there was That Look again, the Y/N-Said-Something-Ridiculous Look. For a moment, it even seemed like the feverish haze had left his eyes. But it only lasted a second, and the sorry state of him continued to be evident.

Your eyes shifted down to his throat. The skin looked healthy now, as though it had never been coated in a deadly ice. “So is this whole, uh, Evol thing gone now?” you asked awkwardly.

“For now. I imagine it’ll stay away now, so long as you're here.” 

A complicated knot of feelings sat in your chest, out of nowhere. For all the times Zayne had gone out of his way to protect you, save you, cure you, rarely could you return the favor. And it was a regular experience- you were good at getting yourself into trouble, after all.

But now, here you were, in a position where he needed you. 

“Good,” was all you could muster in response. 

Your hands snaked out from behind his head where they found his face. Cupping his cheeks, your fingers brushed over all the contours you now knew deeply, intimately. You let your eyes drift thoughtfully over his lips, threatening your resolve. 

Clearly you had grown up in some way- the idea of kissing Zayne would've been strange and wrong in your youth, but now you found yourself fighting with your better judgment not to. You could already hear him quietly scold you for kissing him while he was sick.

Only then did you realize Zayne was looking at you. You found yourself instantly shy under his scrutiny- for all the times you had kissed him, gone on dates, fully gave yourself to him, he still managed to make you nervous. 

Just as the tension of your eye contact threatened to become too heavy, Zayne sighed and melted a little deeper into the couch. You shook yourself back into a caretaker mindset. 

“Are you warm enough?” Zayne hummed his confirmation. “Okay… can I get you anything? Fever reducers, maybe?”

You sat up, preparing to get up from the couch, but Zayne’s hands held your waist firmly. “I already took some. Why don't you just rest here with me?” His words caught and he coughed into his shoulder.  

Zayne’s voice was growing ragged, even for how softly he spoke. You made a mental note to raid the cabinets for tea later, whenever he was ready to accept it. 

For now though, resting with him would be an easy task. The light filtering through the snow plastered windows was still too dim and early for your liking. And with the most concerning of Zayne’s symptoms relieved, you were content to relax a little. Your breathing synced with the slowed pace of his, calm.

For all the symptoms that had been relieved though, there was always another waiting to rear its head and break the moment.

Zayne suddenly stirred under you. He stiffly exhaled. “Actually, Y/N…” Zayne sniffled, and then sniffled again, sharply squeaking within his swollen sinuses. “Maybe…you should, hih…!”  You sat up in time to see the twinge in his expression take hold, uncertain, a will-he or won't-he battle. The fluttering of his eyes and twitch of his nares tells you he definitely will, though Zayne seemed intent on holding back. The rest of his words tumbled out in a rush, “...should get me some tih-! tissues, hH-!”

His arm tensed over your back, and he swung up with the intent to cover above you. You moved quicker though, tucking his face against your shoulder. Another gasp shook him beneath you, fluttering against your skin. You only held him tighter.

“heH’MFSCHHeh-!” Throaty and violent, the sound was squashed into your shirt. It was a warm and damp rush in the fabric, and Zayne jostled you as his nose betrayed him a second time. “hH-! ‘ESCHh’uh-!”

Several peaceful seconds came and went. You propped yourself up and met his gaze sheepishly, exposing the damp spot that now soiled your shirt. Zayne’s face was hard to read, but his ears were noticeably pink. “You know, when people ask for tissues, they don’t usually mean someone else’s shirt,” he mumbled.

“I- wasn’t thinking, I guess…” you said. One hand lazily traced along the curved top of his ear. “You don't need to be so embarrassed.”

“I have a fever, remember?” Zayne retorted, so casually that you almost couldn’t detect it as an excuse- almost. He sniffled again, wet and productive. “Listen, I could still really use those tissues… unless you’re expecting me to use your shirt for that too.” His eyes shifted away from you.

The heat on his face seemed to possess your own cheeks, as it occurred to you just how compromised he was under you. Completely at your will, or at least as completely as he would allow, and so far it seemed to be a lot. Your mind threatened to drift to places far from innocent. 

“No, not unless you- asked to, I mean…! N-not at all.” Your words tripped over themselves as your tongue knotted itself with your inner desires. You shimmied back to the other end of the couch, part in preparation to get up, but mostly to hide yourself from Zayne’s intelligent gaze. He could always read right through you.

You managed to pull yourself together while fetching a tissue box from the bathroom. And a glass of water- you were sure he needed it.

You stopped in your tracks exiting the bathroom. Zayne still laid on the couch, eyes closed, somehow serene despite  being in the throes of a bad cold. 

Cute.

He stirred once you approached close enough to be heard. “Here,” you said, passing the box of tissues to him.

“A whole box? How generous,” he playfully remarked. Zayne plucked a tissue from the box, and then another. You looked down at the glass of water still in your hands, for whatever shred of privacy it would offer him as he loudly blew his nose. Soiled, he tossed the tissues into the wastebasket nearby. At this rate, and with the way that had sounded, you had a feeling that the bin would be full of them by the end of the day.

“Thanks,” Zayne said in a thick voice as he took the water from you next. He made quick work of it, and you mentally patted yourself on the back for thinking of his needs before he had even voiced them. 

You checked that the fireplace was still lively, and then you turned back to Zayne where you stood before him.

“Can I get you something else?”

Zayne looked at you with warm eyes. “I don't know… I’d just really like my blanket back.” You frowned, only to falter when Zayne winked at you. Duh.

You needed no other prompting to crawl back into your original position, settling yourself over Zayne like a large lap cat, or a blanket, as he had put it. A new sense of ease washed over the two of you. 

You turned your head where it was more comfortable on its side. Snow still billowed past outside, and you found yourself reflecting again on why you were both here. Although there would be much to do later today, or more likely tomorrow, when the snow had slowed, you could both have this moment. You didn't get to lay and nap together at home nearly as often as either of you liked, but right now, you were free to indulge in it. 

You had each other's comfort. And you had each other's warmth.

“Ya know, maybe what you said yesterday was right,” you suddenly spoke.

“Hm?” Zayne opened one eye, brow raised.

“About the treasure being something warm within winter, or however you put it.” Your limbs twitched, and you curled a little tighter into Zayne. “Maybe it's cheesy, but I feel like we have our own little treasure here, ya know?”

Zayne exhaled a laugh, but it was genuine. “Perhaps you're right.” He closed his eyes, and through a yawn, “We had to find our own little treasure before we could find one for the whole village.”

“Exactly.” You smiled, closing your own eyes. Your ears zoned in on the cracking and popping of the fireplace, coupled with Zayne’s soft breathing. 

Flashbacks of the cozy night prior crept into your mind. “Can you tell me the rest of that story from last night?” Your words were slurred by almost-sleep. Zayne only responded with a soft snore. 

Ah well, you thought. Another day, then; this treasure was treasure enough. 

[bidokja]

i know this has been said a bajillion times already but. the white coat being representative of a page of paper... i have never felt more ill. in my life.

[ackmate]

Recommended Songs | Tick Tack - ILLIT & Snooze - SZA

There was a time in your life when you were truly alive. When waking up was exciting, and each day passed a little too quickly. A time when going to bed at 8 p.m. felt like a waste. What would happen to all those hours you could’ve spent reading under the covers or doodling your school crush?

While your parents slept deeply and desperately, little you was filled with joy. Because you believed—honestly—that you’d get to live like this forever.

You pushed through the glass door of your office floor with your second cup of coffee that morning. It was cheap, it was nasty, and it came from a suspicious vendor on the corner of the street.

Usually by the time you stepped off the train, you’d regained enough of your soul to face the day head-on—trembling knees from low blood pressure, but upright nonetheless. In this life, you weren’t born an heiress. You had to rawdog it like the rest of the rats.

You never even liked coffee. But damn if it wasn’t the closest thing to crack you’d ever tried. One sip and your brain lit up into a tunnel vission of KPIs and deadlines. Even when it made your hands shake from too many espresso shots.

Today, you needed it. You were still recovering from a cold you’d tried stuffing back into your body all weekend, dragging yourself off the train like Hades had his grip around your ankles. Not even your Manifesting Punching People playlist could claw his fingers off.

You sat at your desk. Nothing like a bit of caffeine and microplastic to fast-track your death. Preferably today, because another day under your manager—Demon Lord Tsukishima Kei—was draining the last of your life force.

You jabbed at the monitor button like you wanted to kill it. The Apple chime chimed back at you, soft and depressing, as more coworkers filed in one by one. A few gulps in, and you slipped into the usual rhythm. Dull. Mechanical. You were sorting through archival paper files—a job so soulless, it was singlehandedly making you lose all faith in humanity’s preservation of history.

Let people remember what they want. Let chaos win.

At least your manager hadn’t shown up yet. He often had meetings outside with curators—usually at cafés and upscale restaurants. Of course. Fucking asshole. Your hand slowed as your finger trailed the edge of a familiar folder—Yayoi Kusama’s exhibit. You weren’t sure if it should be archived yet, so you opened Slack.

Tsukishima Kei | Online

Liar.

You typed your question anyway.

Your first year working with Tsukishima had taught you one thing: he hated assumptions. He’d chewed you out once just for guessing on a document detail instead of asking him directly. That night right after you dropped your bag on the floor of your bedroom and slumped onto your bed you screamed into your pillow afterward. Literally. Because how was anyone supposed to approach a man who looked, moved, and talked like the Devil?

You’d crushed multiple beer cans cussing him out to your few trusted coworkers—each one harboring their own personal grudge against him.

This morning he was manageable.

Even when his attitude dripped through the screen and you felt like punching the screen. Maybe, more than coffee you needed a boxing class. That way when the day comes, you could land a solid one on him. Crack his perfect glasses into two and throw your resignation letter in his face.

After lunch, you finally escaped to the archival room. You liked the smell. You liked how cool it was. Calm, dim, quiet. Too eager, you carried two boxes of files up the stairs, fueled by rage and spite. You didn’t expect to see him today. Sometimes, he just didn’t show up.

You finished filing before curling up in a dark corner of the room. The one spot you knew the AC hit just right.

And then—bliss.

You let yourself drift. Limbs loose, breath slow. Your head tilted back against the wall, hair shifting gently from the cool air blowing above.

Nothingness.

Until a spreading chill touched your cheek. Slow. Steady. Cold.

You stirred.

A water bottle was being pressed to your face.

You followed the hand holding it—and flinched.

Tsukishima Kei. Towering over you with a subtle sneer. One hand braced on his knee, watching you like some pitiful stray. He pulled the bottle back with a sigh and straightened.

“Is this what you do when I’m gone?”

You scrambled upright, tugging your long skirt into place. “I… I was just really tired…”

“Then use the staff room.” His face was firm. “That’s what it’s for.”

You didn’t respond. Just moved toward the boxes, avoiding his eyes.

“No way,” you muttered. “It’s too crowded in there.”

He scoffed. Then bent over, grabbed the boxes before you could, and started walking ahead. “So what—now you want your own bedroom?” He turned at the door, holding it open.

You inhaled, smoothed your hair, and walked past him.

Why, every time he saw you, did he seem to think: Let me make this girl miserable.

The walk back was silent. You didn’t want to know more about him. If you started understanding him, you might feel sorry for him. Or worse—empathize.

“Still sick?” he asked suddenly.

You blinked. You hadn’t told him. It had been manageable, mostly gone by Sunday.

“Laura told me,” he added.

Ah. Laura. His assistant and emotional translator. Saint Laura, whose mental fortitude had kept her in his orbit for three years. There’d been rumors they were dating—understandable. She was beautiful. Smart. The whole influencer thing on the side. When you’d asked her why she stuck around, she dropped the bomb.

She was married.

To Kei’s older brother.

Your jaw hit the floor.

She’d laughed, explaining that Kei was actually a big softie at home- four assistants had quit before her. But she? She kept him in check.

She claimed it was her husband’s influence. You disagreed. Laura was just built different. You would’ve loved working under someone like her. She was direct, compassionate, grounded.

“But you’ve got him under control, too,” she once told you, tilting her head.

“Huh??” you’d replied, feeling that Laura was talking about another person entirely.

Back in the present, you were remembering that conversation for some reason. You still didn’t get it. If it were true, wouldn’t he let you nap until 4:40 p.m and then clock out early. Without consequence?

“What if I do want a bedroom?” you asked, lifting your chin as you neared the office door.

He paused, hand on the handle. “Are you serious?”

You nodded. Your face determined.

To your absolute horror, Tsukishima chuckled—an actual, audible laugh. “If you want to keep sleeping that badly, just take the couch in my office.” He opened the door and tossed the empty boxes to the side like it was no big deal.

You stared at his back.

“I’m heading out again,” he added, walking toward the pantry. He pointed lazily at the door to his private office. “Knock yourself out.”

In the end… you didn’t literally sleep in his private office. Obviously. What the hell.

Sometimes, he said things that made you want to open your resignation draft and add a few new bullet points.

Like that time everyone had to stay late prepping for the Tibetan exhibition. At 1 a.m., the museum was still full of movement—everyone scrambling to make things perfect for the next day.

You dragged yourself to your desk, desperate to rest your head.

When you woke, groggy and stiff, there was a jacket draped over your shoulders. The office was quiet. Only one light was on.

Your manager stood by the pantry, stirring his tenth cup of coffee.

He looked over when he saw you walk up.

“You can go home.” He pulled out his phone. Opened Uber. Held it out to you. “Charge it to the company.”

You stared.

Did he expect you to let him know your address?

Uh. No??

You shook your head, grabbed your bag, and left quickly before he changed his mind.

You shook the memory away, unclenching your shoulders. Whenever Kei was away, the office resumed their chatters and deadlines and expectations reasonable.

You stopped by a coworker’s desk to do your rounds as a certified Personality Hire™. That role alone was why you hadn’t submitted your resignation yet. The general workload was doable. Grind came only during big events, and when it did, everyone suffered equally.

You popped a piece of chocolate in your mouth, ready to chat—

But your coworker was actually working.

Like, genuinely working. They couldn't even look at you for longer than 5 seconds, with fingers hammering away at a proposal that had been revised to hell and back.

All because of one person.

Kei.

Your coworker finally turned toward you. Smiling through exhaustion “Look, Y/N,” he said, voice teasing, eyes dead. “Not all of us are Kei’s favorite.”

“E-Eh?”

He grinned wider. “Why do you hate him so much anyway? He clearly likes you.”

“What?”

“If I were you, I’d jump that dick and seal the deal.”

“WHAT??”

🤍🤍🤍

A couple of months had passed since that bizarre revelation.

You hadn’t been able to look at your manager the same way ever since. Your texts to him grew more formal and distant. And he seemed to pick up on it. Where there had once been sarcastic banter and playful digs, he was now all business—polite even and almost painfully neutral.

So when you received an offer as an Exhibition Designer—something you’d been studying on the side because the administrative work had been quietly killing you—it was the obvious choice. You wanted your work to be seen, experienced. And this was your way out.

You emailed him requesting a one-on-one. He agreed. Efficient. Clinical.

Every day that passed inched closer to that meeting, and every moment he was there without saying anything clawed deeper into your nerves.

One morning just before The Day, you found yourself trapped in the elevator with him. He entered first, standing toward the back while you stepped in front of him. Unspoken tension filled in at a sickening pace.

Just before the doors could seal shut, a hand shot between them.

They stuttered back open.

A guy from another division stepped in, followed by what felt like his entire office. A small crowd funneled into the elevator in a flurry of chatter and catch-ups.

You blinked rapidly, pressed into the corner, trying not to get stepped on. But there was no room to move. A second later, you felt it—his chest brushing against your back.

You closed your eyes. Jaw clenched. Lips pursed.

“Did you hear about Makoto?” one of them said in barely a whisper. You couldn’t even tell who it was—faces blended into necks and blazers in front of you.

“They finally started dating!”

“Eeeh!” The group erupted in giddy excitement like high schoolers.

“I called it. She made it so obvious—haha! It was adorable, though.”

Someone sighed dreamily. “I want an office romance too…”

Your grip on your bag tightened. White-knuckled.

“I know, right? They're so cute it’s disgusting.”

They exited one floor before yours. As soon as the space cleared, you scrambled away from Tsukishima, practically slamming yourself against the elevator buttons to distance yourself. You held your breath, refusing to even glance in his direction. You swore you could feel his gaze anyway.

The elevator dinged again.

He walked past you first, calm and unbothered.

You exhaled like you'd been underwater. How were you supposed to face him tomorrow? Tomorrow, when you were supposed to have that meeting.

When you passed through the glass office doors, you caught a glimpse of him settling into his desk. The blinds were only half-closed. You gasped—startled—your coworker had slapped your lower back.

“Did you guys fight?” he asked, slinging an arm over your shoulder and dragging you to your desk. “Spill.”

“Who? What? HAHA! What?”

He rolled his eyes, pulling your chair out from under the desk and plopping into it himself. His formal attire made him look like a boring straight man, despite the glittering sass in his eyes. Dark circles shadowed under them as he typed random characters on your keyboard, jerking your monitor awake.

“It’s obvious,” he said, spinning lazily in your chair as you pulled another one over for yourself. “And it’s hurting us.”

“Us? Who is ‘us’?!”

“Oh please, bitch,” he deadpanned. “We all know.”

“You’re insane. There’s nothing—”

“Quin.” The voice came from your manager’s office door. Tsukishima stood there, gaze laser-focused on your coworker. “If you’re not busy, I need you in the meeting now.”

Quin turned to you slowly, his look screaming, I told you so, before standing up and dragging himself to his desk to retrieve his laptop and notes.

Kei held the door open. And then, he turned to you.

“Y/N?”

You jumped to your feet, still wearing your bag.

“O-Okay.”

The meeting felt especially heavy that morning. You sat directly across from Tsukishima at the long center table. Quin was presenting his updated proposal—the one he’d been working on for weeks. The one that was finally approved.

When Quin returned to his seat beside you, you reached out and gave his arm a firm squeeze. He grinned. Kei had watched. His eyes narrowed for a fraction of a second before he looked back at the screen and took over the presentation.

Once the meeting ended, people slowly filtered out. Kei’s voice stopped them briefly.

“I won’t be able to attend tomorrow’s one-on-one,” he said casually. “A curator rescheduled last minute.” He then directed his eyes toward you, signaling that he meant to talk to only you. “So stay here Y/N.”

Your heart sank. So did your stomach. You’d needed today to prepare. Rehearse what to say. How to say it. Quin was the last to leave. He gave you a gentle pat on the back before slipping out and shutting the door behind him.

Kei removed his glasses, pulled a cloth from its case, and began cleaning the lenses slowly, methodically.

“So?” he asked, not even glancing up. “What did you want to talk about?”

Your throat tightened.

“Uh… uh…”

He slid his glasses back on. His eyes found you easily as he readjusted his sight. You were still wearing your bag. He noticed. It irritated him.

“Um… I…”

He raised a brow. “Wanna resign?” he asked dryly, clearly trying to lighten the tension. “Why are you so nervous?”

He walked over and switched off the projector, maybe the idle animation was distracting you. He'd learned that you had a maximum of 1 minute attention span, he had started using that to gauge information design for shorter exhibitions.

It felt like, deep down, he did already know.

You had changed these past few months. You were sharper. Bolder. You pushed back now. Less apologetic. Like you had nothing to lose.

Still, when you looked up at him and softly said “…Yes.”—his chest tightened. The sinking came quick and quiet. Like a floor giving way beneath him.

Disappointment?

Maybe.

You’d been one of the few employees who could keep up with him—fiery enough to challenge him, smart enough to get things done. Were you finally tired of him? Did he say something that was out of line?

“Oh,” he said. Calmly. He returned to his chair, sitting heavily. Watching you stare at the snake plant in the corner instead of meeting his eyes.

“I got an offer,” you said, slowly breaking into a relaxed smile. “From The National Art Center.”

His mouth went dry. “Tokyo?”

You nodded. Watching your eyes filled with sparks left him with a pang. You were leaving, leaving. He had thought that he had time, even after Laura reminded him that life moved fast in unexpected ways.

“Yeah! As a junior Exhibition Designer.” You sat up straighter, more sure of yourself now. “I’d like to formally submit my resignation tomorrow.” You scratched at your elbow, shy and beaming.

“Exhibition… designer?” he repeated blankly.

You nodded again, proud.

“You were into design…?” He spoke slowly, as if he was saying this to himself. In wonder that he had missed that about you.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. I started learning from Quin. I don’t know, I just… I really fell in love with it.”

“…Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you… what?”

“That you were interested. Quin could’ve used help. We’ve been expanding quickly. You could’ve—” he caught himself. Stopped before the sentence collapsed into something else. He caught himself before his legs gave in and he dropped to his knees begging.

“Quin referred me,” you said with a small laugh.

“I see.” He swallowed. Hard. Everything he wanted to say tucked away beneath that sentence. After a long silence that was starting to wear down at the confidence you had slowly regained through the awkward moment, he finally stood, walked over and extended his hand.

“Congratulations, Y/N.” His lips curled up into a small smile. It wasn’t bitter, it wasn’t angry. But you could’ve sworn his eyes looked unsettled.

You looked down at his hand for a moment before rising on your feet and taking it. Moving to press your other palm over his—firm, sincere, warm. He had been a Devil manager but he had also given you a chance when you knew nothing. He’d answered your dumb questions with patience—at least at first. Then with sarcasm. Then, with irritation. But he answered.

He answered them all.

You let go. And, before you could overthink it, stepped forward and wrapped him in a casual hug.

His throat locked up.

“You still have a month here,” he murmured, almost losing his voice.

“Thank you, Kei.” You smiled, warm and real.

You stepped back, stretched your arms above your head, laughing lightly. “Aah… that felt good!” Gathering your notebooks and pens, you turned to him with one last smile. Then you walked out of his office.

And for the second time in his life,

Tsukishima Kei felt his heart crumble.

🤍🤍🤍

Quin settled in beside you at your desk during lunch, the rustling of onigiri wrappers and a yogurt bottle crackling across your scattered files. “I didn’t know you had it in you,” he said, biting into one triangle.

“What now.” You shot him a glare.

“That was brutal, Y/N.”

“I’m telling you—we’re not like that.”

He cackled, “You didn’t see his face when you walked out.”

You pouted. “There’s no way.” Quin had to be screwing with you. The man was a pathological liar and often crafted elaborate fake scenarios for fun. Honestly, you weren’t even sure his name was Quin.

“You should at least give him a chance,” he said. “I nearly teared up just thinking about it.”

“Why are you crying for him?”

He stared at you like you were the densest creature to ever crawl through human evolution. The kind of denial that was so deeply cemented it sealed off any possibility, any what ifs—the type of existence determined to live without drama, or pain.

“He’s been pining over you. It’s like watching a Pride & Prejudice role-play, except nothing is progressing.”

“No he hasn’t.”

“He so has.”

“If he wanted to, he would.”

“If you don’t get off TikTok right now—” He flicked dew from his cold yogurt bottle directly into your head as if it was going to purify any brain-rot.

“Quin—”

He sighed, leaning back dramatically. “He literally has the emotional intelligence of a junior high-school boy.”

“Then I’m not dating a boy!”

He slammed a palm down on your desk in dramatic disbelief. “Why are you fighting me on this?! Fine. I’ll pay for your Shinkansen ticket if you just ask him.”

You blinked. “...Ask him what?”

“If he likes you. Just ask. And I swear, he’ll confess.” He tapped the desk with complete confidence. “One shinkansen ticket,” he declared.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Nozomi?” you asked, slowly.

“All yours.”

The truth was: it was impossible to find the right moment. He was always just out of reach. Always with someone else. Always in motion. You nearly gave up. Shinkansen tickets weren’t that expensive. But to have it free was definitely tempting.

There were only two weeks left until your last day—and with the academic summer break just around the corner, the museum had launched a dozen mini exhibitions at once. Everyone was going full throttle, but not quite to the point of working overnight.

Still, it meant you had to be in at 6 a.m. every day for the past week.

You hated the morning train crowd. So you’d started leaving even earlier, skipping the madness altogether. When you arrived, the museum was still half-asleep. Some technicians waved groggily from their corners.

The office floor beyond the glass door was still cloaked in darkness. You didn’t bother flipping on the lights—you had too much to hold in your hands, and the sun was already pouring in through the curtains, soft blue and pale.

You dropped everything with a tired exhale. Sweat trickled down your neck. Dragging the curtain string, you filled the room with light.

Summer was bleeding in, white and cloudless, even this early.

And then, the thought came.

Watching the distant street below fill slowly with workers and students, the world steadily waking up—

Was it really true?

What Quin had said?

Kei? and... You?

You stared through the window. And without warning, without meaning to, the words tumbled out of your mouth.

“Do you like me, Kei?”

The room echoed it back to you.

You heard a sharp thud behind you.

You turned.

And he was there.

Your manager—Tsukishima Kei.

Frozen halfway into the room, halfway to his office.

His phone lay on the floor, still buzzing with notifications, completely forgotten.

A surge of nerves shot from your feet up to the tips of your hair. Your shoulders hunched as if trying to vanish into yourself. Your mouth opened to speak, to apologize, to lie maybe—but before you could, he beat you to it.

“I do.”

So Quin was right. So absurdly. So heart-pounding.

Kei bent down to pick up his phone, his movements stiff, disoriented. He looked like a man who had just taken a bullet and wasn’t sure where it hit. He stood upright, not knowing if he should keep walking toward his office. Or toward you.

For fuck’s sake. He was twenty-nine. This shouldn’t be so difficult.

“…Do you want to grab breakfast,” he finally managed, the mix of fear and nerves making him almost explode in his head he could barely hear himself. “with me?”

His voice had come out quieter than the usual Kei who lead meetings with the firm confidence of a black panther and the sharpness of a hawk. He took a step toward you. His grip on his phone tightened—to hide the trembling.

Somewhere inside your electrified brain, your head nodded. Your legs moved too. You walked toward him, careful, cautious. As if any sudden motion would make the entire office collapse in on the both of you.

Burying you beneath the rubble.

Dragging you down together—maybe into hell.

And maybe, you were okay with that.

[toudan]

ONE LOVE, ONE LIFETIME – YONE X READER

“Well, if you decide to come back here one day,” you said, reaching for his hand. Your skin felt warm against his own. “Just know that I’ll be here waiting for you.” Or, the one where Yone fell first.

CONTENT.⠀female reader; romance, light angst and hurt/comfort, family issues, elitism in the family (yeah), Asshole Father bc I have problems, family member death, very heavily implied that MC was an accident baby, talks about death and the afterlife on yone's end, brief talks of arranged marriage, allusions to misogyny. + Spirit Blossom AU with some changes to fit the narrative. ~11k words

NOTES.⠀I wanted to finish this before I start properly using the break so woe ~20 pages be upon ye. I've had this in my drafts for ages and it took longer than I would've liked but! we made it! this is a gift for my beloved @kakujis, a dear friend and my Shimada Liker in Arms. <3 I hope you enjoy!!

divider by cafekitsune | cross-posted on ao3

Pride and honour stood above all else.

Such a lesson was established in your clan from the moment of its founding, forging ahead generations of noble swordsmen who have never strayed from their paths. Every child born into the family is bound to duty, raised and trained by the elite until they are seen as ready for the battles ahead of them. Pride flowed in your veins and you were taught to believe that what you bleed is your negligence. Honour is engraved in your bones, down to the marrow—strong as the seas, and immovable as the mountains.

Every child of your family knows this by heart, including you, the broken one. The odd one out. The blemish on what would otherwise be a pristine reputation.

Born without the same mana or prowess that all of your brothers possessed, you were deemed a flawed child undeserving of the honour of your family name. Fate restricted you from following the path you wished to take as soon as they decided on where your life began. How was it fair at all to put such a heavy burden on a child’s shoulders? On someone who hadn’t opened their eyes for the first time yet?

You craved to learn the ways of a warrior, to be someone the younger generation could trust and look up to. Instead, you were scorned in your own home by a family that was hellbent on upholding tradition and their position among the elite. All because you were born differently. Anything said about you was always done in contempt, especially from your own flesh and blood—your father, your brothers, and your sisters.

‘You are not my child.’ It was your father’s way of saying he didn’t want himself or his beloved sons associated with you, his flesh and blood. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. So long as he and the oh-so-esteemed council were alive, you would never be seen as a part of the family. So long as he continued to breathe, he would look down on you as much as he could. And yet, even though he so explicitly despised you, you still did everything you could so you could be worth his time.

A fruitless endeavour. He held your weakness over your head, his glare a constant reminder of how he’d always see you as a failure. You would never be enough. You wanted to leave, but where would you go? Without your family name, you had nothing. With your name, all you were was a bastard. You were bound to a home that didn’t welcome you.

‘You are not my child.’ You didn’t want to be.

You wished you had the chance to meet your mother. She abandoned you on the doorstep, they would say whenever you asked about her, your father saved you. It wasn’t until years later that you learned the truth. She never abandoned you—she was threatened, forbidden from stepping foot inside the mansion again. You used to wish she had fought more and taken you with her, but the more you grew, the more you understood. Whatever fury you harboured towards her dwindled like a flame dying on its own.

She didn’t have a choice. You knew firsthand what that felt like. Everything the elders said was law; within these walls, there was no going against them. They saw her as disposable, a lowly commoner who just happened to earn the affection of a nobleman for a night. And dispose of her they did. As the midwife took you away, your mother was sent off to another city in a carriage that never returned. No one spoke of her again. Whether it was by command or a collective agreement, you weren’t sure.

There were times when her name would come up in hushed whispers. Some of them were from your father. You remember being six years old and listening to your father’s drunk mumbling. With a hand on your head, he told you that you looked just like your mother. It was the gentlest he’d ever been with you. But when the inebriation left his system the next morning, your loving father was gone, and the patriarch was back.

His soft tone became harsh once again. His eyes burned with hatred. It was as if everything was just a dream. It might as well have been. You chalked it up to him having a bad day, just like yesterday and the day before that. Surely he’d be kind to you again if he drank.

He wasn’t.

And as if taking your mother away wasn’t already enough of a mockery, you were constantly reminded that this was not your home. That you were here because you belonged to the clan. You’ve always been. You were already their property from the moment you inhaled your first breath.

Your life was theirs, but even that wasn’t enough.

(You don’t think you’ll ever be.)

A child in a loveless family. Your father thought it wasn’t worth trying to train you, having decided that you were beyond help. Your brothers didn’t see you as someone they had to protect. Your sisters didn’t want to be seen with you. All you had were your grandparents.

With them, you were treated as family. It didn’t matter to them that you didn’t have what your siblings did. They loved you.

You spent mornings in the apothecary room with your grandmother, learning all about herbs and medicine from all around the world. In the afternoon, you’d spend time training with your grandfather in the dojo and listening to his stories of ages past. Then, every evening, you’d spend time with both of them at the temple that they cared for. All of your best memories were made there. When your grandparents inevitably passed, you didn’t hesitate to pick up from where they left off.

Your volunteering to maintain its upkeep seemed to satisfy the elders enough. At least you’ll be useful in something, your father said without batting an eye. You liked to think you’d become numb to all the jabs thrown your way, but you were wrong.

The temple was your getaway, somewhere you could hide from the world and feel more at home than you did in the estate. The smell of flowers and herbs inside the temple, alongside the sight of the sunrise or sunset, never failed to lull you into a state of tranquillity. The voices you’d hear from around you weren’t those of disappointment, but those of birds chirping in a joyous tune. It was the only place you’ll ever feel at peace in. Seeing the names of your grandparents engraved on the stone slabs broke your heart whenever you walked by. You might not grieve any more, but you were still alone.

Ionian faith and tradition flowed in your veins. You were taught about grace by your grandmother and what it meant to be dignified, worthy of respect even without noteworthy achievements. Your grandfather taught you strength and combat so you could protect yourself and others from monsters, both human and unknown. You wouldn’t have gotten the chance to learn the blade elsewhere. He was more than enthusiastic to pass on his knowledge to you. He’d grown weak with age, he said, but you’ve always thought he was the greatest swordsman you know. Aside from the temple, the dojo was where you felt the happiest, but as always, good things never lasted long for you.

In your world, secrets were nearly impossible to have. Spies and traitors lurked in the walls, engraving every decision you made and every word you spoke into their memory. It didn’t take long for your father to find out about the lessons his father had been giving you. In fury, he forbade you from entering the dojo or holding a weapon again and told you that you didn’t deserve to carry on his father’s legacy. Forced to leave behind your passion and descend into monotony, the art of the blade eventually left your mind. Had you just fought back—

No. Not everything was under your control. As long as you were in your father’s home, he would continue to treat you however he liked. The cruel words will keep being said, behind your back and to your face, but you won’t give them the satisfaction. You swore not to let anyone see you at your weakest again. You hated the name that you bear, but you would honour it the way you were taught to. The world might be against you, but there is always a light at the end of the tunnel. Staying hopeful in a place like Ionia was all you could do.

Dawn always comes after dusk. The sun always rises for a new day. You didn’t see why it should be any different for you.

—

Your days got busier as the Spirit Blossom festival approached.

More and more people came to honour their loved ones every day, praying and making offerings to their ancestors for protection. You weren’t sure if you ever attended the festival yourself. You knew of the legends and stories behind it, of its reasons and purposes, but you had only been a bystander. You couldn’t see spirits even if you wanted to anyway, you thought bitterly, so there wasn’t a way for you to see your grandparents again.

‘In the Spirit Blossom festival, the dead reunite with their loved ones until the afterlife calls for them again.’

Whether or not it was possible to see said spirits, it was still hard to ignore the longing in your heart. The cycle of life and death was not unknown (you were more familiar with it than you’d like) but you didn’t think anyone could ever get used to it. You loved deeply, and when the ones you love are taken away from you, you’re left alone with yourself. You weren’t a stranger to partaking in as many tasks as possible to stop needlessly thinking, either. You spent your entire morning doing chores and running errands for this reason. You needed to keep yourself busy so you could drift away just for a little while.

With all of your tasks completed, you had nothing left to do. Leaves were swept into neat piles that the farmers always came to pick up later per routine. It took longer than you would’ve liked, though you supposed it was bound to happen when the workload wasn’t meant for one person, but two. The other shrine maiden had an ‘urgent matter to attend to,’ as her messenger informed you and left. You knew right away she paid him to cover for her. You’d like to think you mellowed out with age, having lived for almost three decades, but you were wrong. You were just as easy to irk as you were as a child.

‘It’s not a good thing to harbour negativity in a sacred place,’ your grandmother’s voice rang in your head, ‘it brings bad luck.’ But there you stood, the most irate you’ve ever been as you wished a terrible week upon the both of them.

Thanks to the tedious work done in all your lonesome, the tile flooring within the temple was spotless. The altar was dusted and reorganised, ready to accept the next batch of offerings. The place smelled more like soap than the usual floral incense you were used to. On any other day, you’d return to your quarters after such a productive time, maybe read a book before you go to sleep, but nature had other plans in store.

The wind howled and rain started to pitter-patter against the rooftop while the sun began its descent. Silhouettes of nature and man-made structures were the only company you had as you made your way back into the prayer room. Away from the rain, you idly watched the world go by from inside. You remembered your grandfather telling you about his battles in a storm and how tumultuous it had been. The retellings of his past exploits were your favourite stories to listen to in your childhood. He travelled through the lands and protected those he held dear with honour. He lived a life of pride and accomplishments that you wanted to have in yours. You still did.

A singular incense stick burnt in the centre of the bowl of ash and sand, its smoke disappearing into the air as it did so. The air grew colder as the sun set, painting the sky in warm hues and your skin in gooseflesh. The storm outside threatened to extinguish the flames within the lantern posts outside. Your uniform robe and long skirt, despite its many layers and the fabric, didn’t aid much in shielding you from the cold. A shiver ran down your spine from the sudden drop in temperature.

If you were asked what you disliked about this time of the year, you would say the weather’s unpredictability as the veil was lifted. The day started pleasantly; the sun was bright and the spring breeze was refreshing. There was no way you could’ve known that there would be a storm approaching.

The doors slammed shut with a loud bang, making you jump in fright and instinctively reach for a sword you no longer owned. You frowned. Years had passed since you last held a weapon, and you weren’t sure if your body had any memory of it at all. If danger were to actually happen, your only means of defence would be the old wooden broom in the corner, which you doubted made for a good weapon. Still, you found yourself keeping it close, your fingers curling tightly around the handle. It was better to be safe than sorry. You were fortunate enough to live in a densely populated area that was well protected, but as typical of an Ionian village, worse things awaited after sunset.

You were a cautious person for as long as you could remember. As optimistic as you tried to be, you weren’t exactly so convinced that there was such a thing as a safe haven. So long as peace exists, so will chaos, and with chaos comes things that are out of your control. You were taught to let things progress the way fate and nature intended them to, to let go of your anxieties because you always worried over ‘nothing.’

But that was easier said than done. You worried for a reason. Everything happens for a reason. Fate weaves the threads of life the way it wants to. The strong are led to lives of fame and power, and the blessed are led to lives of love and fortune. But you weren’t strong or blessed, you were cursed. If the Creator put you on earth for a reason, what is it? What path does fate want you to take, and what did you do in your past life to be put in such a suffocating position?

The anxiety at the pit of your stomach grew stronger the longer you observed the forest and the shadows in between. In the daylight, the temple was comforting and tranquil, picturesque, but it hadn’t occurred to you until then how daunting it was in the dark. It was a quiet night, eerily so, and the floorboards creaked beneath your feet as you padded into the prayer area. Tentatively, you placed the broom down and knelt before the statues of the gods you worshipped. The incense burnt itself down to the base, gradually putting out the flame on its own.

‘If you are afraid, pray. The gods will protect you.’

You weren’t a child anymore. Monsters only existed in stories—there was nothing to be afraid of. But the feeling persisted and it became worse as the door swung open and slammed against the wall. You heard something breathing.

It wasn’t the wind.

A low growl rumbled from the chest of whatever was stalking towards you. An animal of some sort. A predator. Your mind screamed at you to just run, but you were terrified, you couldn’t move and your body just wouldn't listen—

It drew closer.

You were going to die, ripped apart by a monster, and it was going to hurt more than anything ever had. Squeezing your eyes shut, you muttered a prayer under your breath in hopes that it would help. Maybe it was a spirit that couldn’t pass on. If you prayed for it, you could alleviate its pain and then be left alone. You were frantic, the words coming out incoherent as you got tongue-tied and struggled to remember the rest of them. When you felt it breathing down the back of your neck, your voice died in a choked whine. It watched you with hunger and it raised its claws with murderous intent, ready to slash.

It never did.

Instead, you heard the gargling of blood, followed by a clatter on the floor. Your body finally listened and you turned around to see what you could only describe as a demon. The glow in its mask’s eyes dimmed as it died with a sword speared through its chest, inches away from your face. In terror, you watched it bleed as the crimson splattered on your skin. It crumbled into dust as if it was never there. Just like that, it was dead and gone.

The mask dropped where your saviour stood. Wordlessly, he picked it up and attached it to a grotesque belt adorned with similar faces. All you could do was watch as everything slowly sank in. The downpour became louder, heavier. Your ears rang and your body felt numb. The only sound you heard was your ragged breathing as you tried to calm down and think. This must be a nightmare. It had to be. It had to be a hallucination from your paranoia and lack of sleep.

You closed your eyes and opened them again. The man was still standing in front of you.

You weren’t dreaming.

It was all real, from the blood splattered on the ground to the man in front of you. Half of his face was covered by a red mask, more menacing than what the monster had worn. Bandages were loosely wrapped around his torso and his arms, revealing some of his pale skin and scars from what could only be combat.

You weren’t dreaming.

A monster you had never seen tried to kill you and you were lucky enough that this man came to save your life. It felt as though your mind stopped entirely. You didn’t know where to start. Were you supposed to ask about the monster or ask about him?

You decided on the latter. “How did you know it was here?”

A beat of silence passed, and then he spoke.

“It is my curse to bear.”

That didn’t really answer your question. You attempted to ask again, but one glance at his face made you realise that he didn’t care about answering them. It was essentially impossible to tell what he was thinking and you’d rather not agitate someone as intimidating as him.

“Thank you,” you opted to say instead.

Your gaze landed on the swords in his hands. Blood was still dripping off of the red blade that seemed to be glowing. If his mask was menacing, his blades were worse—you had never seen anything quite like them.

He didn’t respond. All he gave you was a nearly imperceptible nod, a sign of acknowledgement. Seemingly satisfied with his kill, he made the move to leave, and your thoughts ran rampant. You wanted answers, an explanation, anything to make sense out of what happened.

You should let him go. You should run home before you encounter another one of those things again when you’re not as lucky, but you didn’t.

“Wait!” you called out, louder than you intended. “Teach me how to fight.”

He stopped in his tracks, then slightly looked back at you. The action had you fidgeting nervously. There was a gut feeling that he was going to say—

“No.”

You needed him to teach you. He was strong. He knew what those things were and how to kill them. He could help you. If that thing could come in here so easily, undeterred by the protective runes and wards placed around the temple, another could do it again. You couldn’t afford to let this place get destroyed because of your inability to defend it. You needed to protect your grandparents’ memory, a small sliver of their legacy that you were allowed to touch. You had to.

The chance was falling out of your hands right in front of you. Your confidence wavered, but you tried again. “I… I’ll pay you. Just name your price.”

“Money has no value to me.”

“Please?” Your voice was quieter, more hesitant. “This place, it’s… It’s all I have left. I need to protect it.”

“I can’t,” he said. “I have a duty I must fulfil.”

“Please—wait!”

This time, he didn’t spare you another glance as he walked off into the night, leaving you afraid and alone with the monster’s blood still on your skin.

—

No matter how many years passed, Yone’s hands would always be stained in blood.

The village was different from what he remembered. He knew of it when it was in flames and scattered with bodies of the brave. With what little time it had after the war, the village has been rebuilt from the disaster that the Noxians left behind. It was stronger, safer, liberated from their clutches. More swordsmen and warriors were patrolling the area, all bearing the crest of the clan that owned the village itself.

That didn’t. The clan of where men were raised to be elite warriors and women were raised to be the most adept of mages, known for their noble blood and valiance. Their estate was fortified and bigger than it used to be, looming over the smaller houses that unsurprisingly didn’t get as much protection. What seemed to be the most protected, though, was the temple. It was known to be a sanctuary to the villagers and the most important value to them was faith. Seeing said sanctuary well-protected wasn’t a shock. It was always that way.

As a child, he used to visit the temple on particularly rough days. Sometimes, his brother would come along, and they’d go find the master swordsman who took care of it with his wife, the shrine maiden. His brother in particular enjoyed hearing all about the swordsman’s stories, inspired by his strength and bravery that remained well into his older years. His wife was stern but motherly to all, more doting towards children than adults.

They weren’t like the rest of the clan who looked down on the weak; they loved. They loved their home, they loved their fellow men, and they loved the world. The people loved them, too. He loved them, just like they loved this sanctuary they built.

Yone stepped into the courtyard. Though it was past sunset, he could see that the place was much greener. More flowers had grown since then and the spring was well-maintained. He thought that the temple remained the most welcoming place he ever found himself in. It was clear that whoever was taking care of this place did it with the same love that the elderly couple had. He spotted their names on the stone slabs written in gold. There wasn’t just one bouquet on their grave, but several. Well-loved even after death as they deserved.

As he approached the main building, he sensed it—danger lurking within, undoubtedly the work of a monster he was all too familiar with. The wooden doors were broken and splintered. Cautiously, he stepped inside. True to his suspicion, at the end of the hall was an azakana hunched over someone, its grotesque mass a stark contrast to the pristine state of the walls as it growled and breathed heavily. His swords glinted in the light of the moon as he drew them.

Yone’s kills were clean and precise. He didn’t need to destroy his surroundings to prove his strength, nor did he think that he was destructive to that extent. As disciplined in life, as disciplined in death, and even more so in between. His physiology was wholly different from what it had been when he was alive. His being alone defied life itself.

He felt weightless, numb yet still in full control of his body as he moved into the prayer room, his footsteps not making a single sound. He heard what sounded like crazed muttering from where the azakana stood, something akin to pleading or perhaps a prayer. The azakana raised its hand. Its talons grew longer and sharper, prepared to strike whoever it was hiding. Before it could, Yone pierced his blade through its heart, silently watching as it disintegrated back into nothing but ashes and dust on the ground.

“How did you know it was here?” you asked, still struggling to catch your breath.

He was silent for a while as he picked up the mask it left behind and pinned it to his belt as proof of yet another successful hunt. You were staring up at him with teary eyes, still shaken from being so close to death’s grasp. He didn’t want to alarm you—he knew he looked ghastly—but you were obviously different from what he was. You were alive, vulnerable, and from the way you quivered like a leaf, you had never encountered one of those things before.

“It is my curse to bear,” he replied smoothly. A practised response, one that he hoped would be all you asked for. Yone knew it didn’t answer your question. As if you had more questions—you most likely did; he didn’t blame you for that—you parted your lips to speak, but no words came out.

Slightly defeated, you exhaled and gave him a small smile. “Thank you.”

Yone glanced at you. Your face felt familiar to him like you were an old friend he hadn’t seen in years. You must be related to the previous caretakers somehow. The resemblance you had with them was striking. The way you spoke was timid, unlike the boisterous master swordsman or the confident shrine maiden. It didn’t bother him. If he was like you, defenceless in your position, he would’ve acted the same way. You seemed to be calming down with each breath you took, making him relax just the slightest. You weren’t harmed.

Aside from the azakana’s blood, tonight, his hands were clean, and he wouldn’t need to repent.

He decided to leave. There was no reason why he should stay for any longer. The sooner he could find the other stray malevolent spirits, the safer his childhood home would be. Things like him didn’t have the privilege of resting. He didn’t need it. Before he made it past the door, you called out for him, forcing him to stop in his tracks.

“Teach me how to fight.”

He didn’t hesitate. “No.”

“I… I’ll pay you. Just name your price.”

You looked less and less confident with each passing second. Dealing with stubborn people wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for him. He grew up with Yasuo—he was more than used to it. He pursed his lips.

“Money has no value to me.”

“Please.” Yone should’ve been out for the next hunt by now, but there was something in your voice that kept him staying where he was. “This place, it’s… It’s all I have left. I need to protect it.”

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help you. He wanted to protect what he could too. It just… wasn’t for him. He thought you’d be better off learning from a master. Surely you could go to the dojo that your clan owned?

“I can’t,” he replied, realising that he had left you hanging. “I have a duty I must fulfil.”

He didn’t look back this time. The cold air of the night greeted him as he stepped out and put his swords back in their sheaths. The rain washed away the blood and its remnants on the stones beneath his feet. The skies seemed to be clearer than they were earlier. The moon and stars glowed brightly in the darkness, illuminating the paths before him. There was a nagging feeling in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. Something was off—were there more azakana hiding in the area? He decided he’d patrol the forest one more time before moving on elsewhere.

He left without a trace, just like a ghost like him always did.

—

You started to carry a dagger with you wherever you went.

It wasn’t a naginata or ootachi like you were trained to use, but it made you feel safer to have something you can defend yourself with. Thankfully, the temple wasn’t damaged too badly, though it would still take some time to repair. One of the older mages dropped by and offered to cast a protective seal, which you gladly accepted.

“Miss?” you asked, fidgeting nervously as she finished up her work.

She hummed. “Yes, dear?”

“Is the… The veil, is it already open?”

“It should be by now.” She contemplated for a bit. “I will say, it wasn’t this disastrous last year… I assume it’s because the magical energy is stronger this time around. Don’t worry, dear—nature will have adapted to it by now.”

“I see. Thank you,” you chirped. “I’m more worried about the temple getting attacked or broken than anything… I can’t see spirits the same way you can. I won’t be able to protect myself.”

“The seal will keep out malevolent entities.” She placed a comforting hand on your shoulder. Then she lowered her voice as if she was worried someone would hear her. “Was this really done by the storm? I could feel something strange in the air when I came here.”

You hesitantly shook your head. “There was a monster. It broke in and some—something else killed it.”

“What did it look like?”

“I was too scared to look,” you said apologetically, “but it was wearing a mask.”

“A mask?”

“It looked like a demon. The same ones in stories I used to read as a child.”

The mage frowned. “We’ll need a stronger seal than the one I put here, then.”

“Do you know what they are?”

“They’re called azakana. They are demons,” she explained. “You’re really lucky to have made it out alive. Those creatures are ruthless. They’ll stop at nothing.”

Azakana. You didn’t think you heard of them. You weren’t allowed in the magic library. Your grandparents didn’t like going into detail about the unknown, said it was just hearsay. You never got to explore the world the same way they did. All you knew in your entire life was the estate. You contemplated sneaking into the library to learn about everything that was kept from you, but there were bigger matters at hand.

“How do I stop them?”

“You kill them before they kill you,” she answered wryly. “I’ll do all I can to help keep the temple safe, but I can’t guarantee your protection.”

You had a busy afternoon ahead of you—more errands to run, more favours to do—so you couldn’t stay for long. With a polite goodbye, you went your own way, her words echoing in your mind all the while. You’d have to retrace your steps and learn to fight by yourself. The thought of how ridiculous you’d look training alone made you grimace. But she was right; it was kill or be killed. You wouldn’t always be as fortunate as you were a few days prior.

You idly swung the empty basket in your hand as you walked through the estate. The gardens look much better now. The hedges were trimmed, wilted flowers were removed, and the pond was clear. You couldn’t believe a storm just happened. The weather seemed to have settled for good, too. It was a warm and sunny day, the perfect weather for you to collect herbs and flowers for the village apothecary. She had become more frail with age, and considering her station isn’t too far from the temple, you offered to do the job for her. In your pocket was a written list of what she needed. It was nothing too difficult to find.

You were about to leave until you heard your name coming from someone in the meeting room. The doors were closed, but the walls were thin enough for you to be able to hear through them.

“—a leftover person,” a voice said—you recognised it as your uncle’s. “Past the age of marriage, but it could still be an option.”

Your heart dropped. You hid behind a wall, your fists clenched tightly around the handle of the basket as you tried to calm down and stay quiet lest you get caught eavesdropping.

Another voice chimed in. “—offspring would be cursed as well. Are you sure you don’t want to set up an arranged marriage? It’s been years—”

“Being constantly reminded of a mistake I made nearly thirty years ago is quite irritating, councillor,” came the unmistakable haughty voice of your father. “I said no. I refuse to tarnish our family name.”

You should be used to this. The cruel words, the hatred, the anger, but you can’t, no matter how much you’ve tried. It’s not as if you’re unaware of your power or lack thereof. It’s been said to you time and time again: you were weak, you were nothing.

“—what about training? It could help with getting started,” a feminine voice added. You weren’t surprised that she was the only one who was less harsh with her words talking about you so far. She of all people would know how you felt.

“Out of the question,” your father replied snidely. “Our mages and swordsmen are all pure-blooded. The bastard doesn’t deserve the honour of being one of them.”

Their words slipped through your ears. You were no longer listening; instead, you bit down on your lip and tried to hold back tears. How could someone hate their flesh and blood so much? How could he take everything away from you so easily? Not caring that they would hear you, you stormed out the gates while harshly wiping away your tears with your hands. Knowing them, they probably wanted you to.

You ran and pushed past strangers, unbothered by the concerned and irritated looks you were given. You ran until you found yourself deep in the forest, far enough so you could be left alone. Everything you tried to hold back then burst. You wailed, nails digging into your skin and your body wracked with sobs. The sound of water flowing down the stream slowly but surely calmed you down. The sobs eventually became quiet sniffles until they stopped entirely. Your tears dried on their own and you could finally breathe again.

Looking up from your hands, your gaze drifted to a fawn across the river. It lovingly nudged its mother with its head, stumbled a bit as it tried to keep up with her pace. The sight warmed your heart. It was always nice to see beings, human or animal, be gentle to one another. You hoped to be in that position someday.

A twig snapped behind you. Alarmed, you reflexively grabbed your dagger and whipped around, but the threat you were going to say died on your tongue when you saw who it was. The masked man—the one who saved you from the azakana—stood before you, huffing at you as if he found something funny.

“I’m not here to hurt you.”

You glowered at him with furrowed brows before hesitantly relaxing, putting the dagger back in its sheath. “What are you doing here?”

“The dojo.”

“What?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you not ask me to teach you how to fight?”

“I did, but…”

You bit the inside of your cheek. It was kind of him to seek you out again to tell you this, but you weren’t sure how you felt. Part of you wanted to say yes, to learn to protect yourself and others. The bigger part of you already felt defeated. You could only be tough for so long before you started to break.

“Thank you for reconsidering,” you said. You meant it. “But I’m not allowed there.”

“Not allowed?”

“My father is quite a stickler for the rules.” You chuckled humorlessly. “Only his sons are allowed in that dojo. The ones with noble blood, not the bastards. Take a guess where I fall between those two.”

He mulled over your words for a bit. Then he said, “Tell me your preferred weapon.”

You blinked dumbly. “Huh?”

“Your stance. It doesn’t belong to someone who uses a dagger.”

You supposed it made sense for someone like him to know something that even you didn’t notice. Awkward as he might be, it was evident that he was passionate about what he knew. A man of honour and discipline, a dual wielder with effortless lethality. You wondered how someone like him wasn’t revered and well-known the same way that the bladesman from Wuju and the blade dancer of Navori were. You broke the silence with a noise of disbelief. How strange, indeed.

“My grandfather thought I was best suited for a naginata, so that’s what he trained me in as a child,” you told him. “I don’t think I remember anything, though. It’s been a very long time.”

“You do,” he cut in. “No one forgets the art of the blade. Your mind may not remember, but your body does.”

“That’s very kind of you to say… Thank you,” you responded, smiling softly at him, “but what made you change your mind? I thought you had your… duty.”

“I do, but helping you can also be one of them,” he replied bluntly. “You have something you want to protect. As did I.”

You tried not to think too much about why he said it like that. It was not your place to pry, but you had always been a curious one. He must have lost something or someone along the way. For someone so stoic, he didn’t hide the regret in his tone well.

You glanced at him, deciding to end your train of thought before you slipped up and said something you regretted. “Are you sure you want nothing in return?”

“I only ask for your name.”

Heat rushed to your face. It was an incredibly mundane thing to ask for, normal for people who were getting to know each other to do. His forwardness caught you off guard, made you lose your balance for a moment. You cleared your throat and gave him your name, which he repeated quietly to himself.

He nodded at you. “My name is Yone.”

Yone grabbed a bamboo stick (where did he even get that from?) and tossed it your way, visibly pleased when you managed to catch it with ease.

“Well, then, let us begin.”

—

You developed a new routine since you started training with Yone.

In the morning, you took care of the temple, which you said was ‘good as new.’ In the afternoon, you helped the apothecary with preparing medicine. In the evening, when everyone went home, you trained by the riverside with Yone. Then, at night, he walked you home per your request.

For someone who was adamant that they forgot everything, you got familiar with the blades quite easily. You were a quick learner, he noticed. He didn’t understand why you thought so lowly of yourself. He didn’t understand how your family could hate someone like you. From first glance, he knew that you were kind. Stubborn, but a great listener. Thoughtful, quick-witted, and gentle even with those who didn’t treat you the same way.

It had taken a while, but you started to be more confident in yourself as well. You hesitated less. He could see you rising up the ranks in the dojo quickly; you just needed encouragement and practice. It didn’t make sense to him why your father was dead set on restricting you from everything.

No matter, Yone thought. His heart swelled with pride every time he saw you. You didn’t even seem to realise that you were nothing like your family said you were. As much as he wanted you to know that, he wasn’t good with words. On top of his unfamiliarity with comfort or praise, he also didn’t know where his relationship with you stood. You weren’t friends, you weren’t strangers, but you weren’t distant like acquaintances would be. Regardless, he didn’t want to overstep. All he could do was hope that you’d understand him.

Steel clashed against each other as you parried his attacks. Something was different, like you weren’t completely there. He was proven right when he managed to pin you down to the floor, the edge of his sword hovering only a breath away from your neck.

“You faltered,” he said more as a statement than a question. “You can not hesitate in a fight.”

You averted your gaze from his intense stare. Were you afraid of him?

“I’m sorry.”

“We should stop for today.” He smoothly rose to his feet and offered you a hand, helping you up. “Is something wrong? You seem distracted.”

“The festival is tomorrow,” you murmured. “But I’ll be alright.”

“You don’t wish to participate in it,” he finished for you.

You gave him a strained smile. “I can’t. I just… can’t.”

Abruptly, you pulled your hand away from his and squeaked out an apology. He hadn’t noticed they were still joined together, but there was a strange feeling pulling at his chest when you let go. Still, he didn’t say anything, choosing to let the conversation end there. He knew what it was like to lose someone. Rebirth might have changed him, melded him into stone, but some things could break through and get to him.

(He hadn’t known it then, but you were one of them.)

“I’ll… see you tomorrow, then,” you said hesitantly. “I should go back.”

He nodded. “I understand. Get home safe.”

You looked as though you wanted to say something else, lips parted and eyes curious, but you didn’t. Instead, you smiled at him—softer this time, less strained—and left without a word. As you faded into the distance, Yone sighed quietly and sat down on the grass, his swords laid next to him. He didn’t want to take you away from your other responsibilities; he knew fully well that you were quite dutiful as he was. He’d gotten so used to spending evenings with you, training and listening to you talk about whatever was on your mind that your absence felt off.

Though you were sure that you weren’t going to join in the festivities tomorrow, you most likely had to help out somehow. From what you told him about your family, he doubted that they’d leave you alone as well, taking the chance of reuniting with loved ones to look down on you. His lips tugged into a frown. Feelings weren’t exactly his strong suit since his new life began, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t understand how you would feel.

The breeze caressed his skin, taking him in its cold embrace. The drop in temperature didn’t bother him. It never had, really. He was more than used to how inconsistent the Ionian climate could get. So what was this weariness and uneasiness clouding his mind? Lingering somewhere between life and death, feelings were the least of his concerns, but he didn’t like what it was doing to him as he thought about you.

He stared at the moon’s reflection in the river. It did the same thing not long ago when you sat together and talked to him about your fondest memories. It was the first time you were so open with him. He listened to your stories, your laughter and the bittersweet tinge in your voice.

He saw a spirit walking hand-in-hand with another person somewhere not too far from where he was. A festival meant for reuniting with their loved ones, the only chance spirits and humans got to see each other again. He didn’t have anyone to visit—even if he did, he doubted he could bring himself to face someone he had failed years ago.

His thoughts wandered back to you and what you told him about your grandparents. It was a relief to find out that they never changed even after the war, having stayed the same loving people until their end. A thought popped into his head. If he could just find them—no, he could.

He knew their names. He knew them.

He wasn’t a magic user, but he was confident in his ability to search. Reinvigorated, he grabbed his swords and got up. Pondering under the stars would have to wait, he had a mission to do.

The only advantage to being something he was, Yone thought, was that fatigue was never an issue. He traversed through the plains, made his way up the hill, taking every twist and turn he could think of. Not wanting to risk being seen by civilians—he wasn’t exactly unaware of how… appalling he looked—he stayed in the shadows, hiding in the darkness. After what seemed like a few hours, he finally spotted the silhouettes of your grandparents, distant but familiar.

“Yone? Is that you?” your grandfather said in disbelief, his tone still full of the same joy it had whenever he spoke to Yone and his brother. His eyes crinkled as he beamed at the younger man. “I haven’t seen you in… in years! You’ve changed!”

Your grandmother was less boisterous, though it was clear she felt happy to see him as well. Upon taking a proper look at him, her face fell, and she approached him with a concerned expression.

“It’s far too early for you to be like this,” she sighed. Yone wanted to argue that he wasn’t exactly young anymore, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so. “What happened?”

“It… is a long story,” Yone replied, his voice lacking the same strength and volume it had earlier in the day. Grief was such a fickle thing. He’d feel nothing one moment and everything in the next. He didn’t mourn himself, never had nor did he ever think it was necessary, but he did regret. Regretted being unable to protect his family, regretted being unable to protect your family. The curse laid upon him gave him the chance to atone, and even then, it never eased the chains wrapped around his soul.

He shook his head, pushing the thoughts aside. “I have a favour to ask of you.”

—

Yone was acting suspiciously.

To start, when you arrived at the clearing of the forest you usually trained with him, he wasn’t there. You didn’t know how long you waited until he arrived, offhandedly apologising for his tardiness. The sky had already faded into dark shades of blue, the sun nowhere to be seen and replaced with the moon peeking over the horizon. It might have been immature of you to scold him while being as huffy as a petulant child, but he didn’t seem to mind.

The day didn’t start out well for you, to say the least. The only things spoken around town were how excited people were to see their late relatives again and how much they looked forward to spending time with them for the next three days. It wasn’t like you wanted to feel bitter about it all. You were glad on their behalf, but the feeling of being the odd one wasn’t something you could control that easily. You wanted to be able to experience the same magic and happiness the others did.

As if that wasn’t enough, a councillor—likely the same one you overheard that time—left you a letter summoning you to a meeting the same night. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve kept that in mind and made sure you arrived in time. But you knew what it was going to be about. You were already in a loveless family. A loveless marriage wouldn’t make your life better and the only one benefiting from it was your father. You didn’t exactly like being spiteful (it’s a sin, a monk would say) but there was nothing wrong with it if they deserved it, was there? You ripped the paper to shreds, threw it out somewhere you couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter as long as you got rid of it.

There were a lot of things to be angry about, like how irritating it was to still be under your father’s control as an adult, or how they all never broke their habit of speaking as though you weren’t there. It didn’t mean you liked being angry. You weren’t built for such aggression.

You shook your head. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about this.

“You’re late.” You didn’t mean to say it as whiny as you did. Overly aware of how you sounded, you looked away from Yone and crossed your arms over your chest, ignoring whatever reaction he had to it. “I’ve been here for hours.”

“I’m sorry. I… had something to attend to,” he said. “I have something to show you. Follow me.”

Without realising it, you pouted. “And you have the nerve to boss me around…”

Yone’s silence made you begrudgingly glance at him again. He looked anxious, which was a surprise—you always saw him so calm and collected. It was… concerning. You sighed. He didn’t seem like he meant to leave you waiting for so long. Heaving out a quiet sigh, at last, you relented.

“Fine. Lead the way.”

The walk was quiet. You had a bunch of questions in your mind, both from curiosity and a bit of pettiness you had left. He deftly navigated through the woods, turning back once in a while to see if you were still following him. It was dark, almost as dark as it had been when you met him in that storm for the first time, but you weren’t as afraid anymore, either. You couldn’t describe it. Something about him felt safe. It could be that it was because he saved you from death and helped you become stronger. You didn’t think that was it, though.

You caught up to him, now walking beside him rather than behind. “Where are we going?”

He didn’t answer. You huffed. Fine.

But you couldn’t stay annoyed for long. You found your gaze drifting over to him; the curves of his mask, the clenching of his jaw. How was it possible for someone who scared you so much when you first met to also be someone who you’d trust with your life? You knew nothing about him. He was a strange person, impeccable swordsmanship aside. He never spoke about his family or his home. He was familiar with the village like he lived here before, but you’d never seen him. Just who was he?

Yone led you to a cliffside. The trek—how wasn’t he tired?—felt worth it in the end when you saw the night sky. The crescent moon smiled at you from her place among the scattered stars, sparkling and glowing brightly on what would normally be pitch black. A hand was placed on the small of your back, taking you by surprise and making your breath hitch before you relaxed. It was just him.

“I brought you a gift,” he said plainly. You narrowed your eyes at him. He didn’t look like he was one for gifts, but who were you to decline? It must be a reward or something, or an apology because you were left for hours—

Someone called your name. A familiar voice, one you hadn’t heard in years. You must be imagining it. They were dead, there was no way it could be. Were you so tired that you were imagining things?

“They’ve been waiting for you.” Yone gently pushed you forward. “Go.”

Sceptical as you were, once again, you relented.

The figures were clearer the closer you approached. You recognised the clothes, the voices—was this a prank? Would someone like Yone play such a cruel joke?

“You’ve grown so much,” came the voice of your grandmother, laced with a tenderness you’d recognise from anywhere.

“How…” you trailed off. Your grandparents stood in front of you, happiness radiating off of them in waves as they walked your way. You didn’t know what to think, what to feel. Weren’t they supposed to be dead? Were you hallucinating? “I don’t understand…”

“It’s us, kiddo.” Your grandfather placed a hand on your head, ruffling your hair affectionately. It was cold, but it felt real, too real. “We came to see you.”

You fell apart. Tears sprung to your eyes as you fell into their arms, broken sentences and wailing leaving you at its will. It was real. You didn’t understand it. You weren’t supposed to be able to see them, to see spirits—you didn’t have that gift, your father always made sure you knew that. So how was this possible? How could you see them, touch them, feel them?

“We tried to come find you every year,” your grandmother spoke, her voice as soft as a whisper. “But we—we couldn’t come in. The estate, it’s… locked away from us.”

“You left me,” you snivelled, “you left me here—you…”

You didn’t know what you were saying anymore. Giving up on trying to voice your thoughts, you kept crying until you grew weary, the devastated weeping gradually dissolving into shaky breaths. You felt her hand on the top of your head, lovingly smoothing down your hair as she hummed the tune she always sang to you when you were young. Your grandfather leaned down to press a kiss to your temple, chuckling under his breath—they were as overjoyed as you were.

“We can’t stay for long,” he murmured. “But we really wanted to see you. That young man helped us. Quite the man you’ve found, hm?”

“He’s just a friend,” you grumbled. As cross as you were with him earlier, you were thankful that he’d done this for you. There were many unanswered questions you had lingering in the back of your mind, but those weren’t that important anymore, you thought. Finally pulling away, you smiled for the first time that night. “I missed you.”

“We missed you too, sweetheart.” Your grandmother returned the gesture, brushing your stray tears away with her thumbs. “Why don’t you come sit with us, tell us what you’ve been up to?”

As you followed them, you turned to look back at Yone, mouthing ‘thank you’ with another smile. He nodded. You learned to pick up on his cues in the past month you spent with him, so you knew what he meant. You’re welcome. He wasn’t the best with words, preferring to let his actions speak for themselves. You wondered if he knew how important this was, how you’d always remember his kindness.

Lost in conversation with your loved ones, you missed how Yone’s stern expression melted into fondness as he watched the scene, the corners of his lips curling up just the slightest. It was the happiest he’d ever seen you.

(And it was the moment he knew—he’d do whatever it took to protect your smile.)

—

Existing somewhere in a plane between life and death, Yone spent his days on autopilot with only one goal in mind. Cursed for as long as his afterlife would last by the azakana, he’d continue to hunt them down one by one until there was nothing left. He saw his ‘life’ differently, ‘felt’ differently.

Bound to the world of the living, denied the peace of death, as he used to say. Time was no longer so important to him now that he became what he was. It passed as it willed, and he would only follow until it was over—assuming it would ever be. Yone didn’t care—or rather, he just tried not to think—about the state of life, the meaning of his existence. If he was bound to duty, at least he’d try to accomplish this one, unlike what he failed in his youth.

He should have left Ionia when he killed the last azakana in that temple. But more and more showed up every day, dangerously close to where you lived, and he knew that they would come find you again eventually. Deciding to take your request wasn’t an impulsive decision. He found your determination admirable even with the chains that held you back. It reminded him of who he had been. Who he craved to be once again. He tried to keep himself distant, staying within the boundary of just a kind stranger, but before he knew it, he found himself feeling tethered to you.

You weren’t just someone he saved. You were someone he had grown increasingly fond of. Yone knew you were kind, that you had a lot of love to give even to those who didn’t deserve it. He believed in his ability to predict what would happen, to adapt to sudden changes, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the whirlwind that was you.

For the first time in years, he felt alive, and it was all because of you. Your smile, your voice, the way you’d playfully talked back to him, the way you were always concerned for him. That much still held true as he sat beside you on a hill, his gaze focused on you over the sunrise you meant to show him.

He didn’t expect you to invite him to something that could be seen as so intimate. He didn’t expect himself to agree without a second thought either. He prided himself on being someone who always thought before he did anything, but something about you had him caving into his whims more frequently. He’d find that irritating if he was the same young man he used to be, but he didn’t. If he was bold enough, maybe he’d go as far as to admit that he liked how you made him feel.

It seemed his gift for you had changed you overnight. You weren’t mad at him anymore; if anything, you seemed to be more gentle with him. Like you saw him differently. He didn’t want to assume you did—that would be unfair to you.

This was what made it difficult for him to leave.

He couldn’t stay here for long. Fate would guide him to other places, more obscure and dangerous, and as much as he felt like he overstayed his welcome with you, he didn’t want to go. He didn’t know if he’d get the chance to see you again, to talk to you again. Getting attached to what could be temporary wasn’t a smart idea—he knew that. But for once, he wanted to let himself live again.

Seeing your face fall when he told you about his imminent departure was, perhaps, the worst he ever felt. He lived through countless battles; the scars on his hands proved that. He didn’t lose his senses even with his state of being a ‘ghost’ of sorts. He still felt the sting of a cut, the aches in his muscles after exerting himself. Emotions, on the other hand, were more complicated. Growing up with his brother, he had to be stern, calm and confident. He had to be assertive. He had to be strong.

With you, he could let all of that go. He wouldn’t lose his habits, he didn’t want to, but with you, he could let his guard down.

“Yone?” you broke the silence. He blinked, suddenly overly aware that he had been staring at you like a fool in love. Maybe he was. “Are you alright?”

“I am. I’m sorry for worrying you,” he responded. “I was only… thinking of the future.”

“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

You went silent. He frowned, wondering if he should’ve kept it a secret after all. He didn’t want to hurt you. He never did.

“Well, if you decide to come back here one day,” you said, reaching for his hand. Your skin felt warm against his own. “Just know that I’ll be here waiting for you.”

Yone felt like time and the world stopped for him.

“I know I’m a lot to handle.” He didn’t think you were. Still, he didn’t interrupt, letting you speak your mind. “And I know this is just some favour, but you know… I’ve grown pretty fond of you. I’d be sad if you left without telling me.”

Your tone was lighthearted, playing off your words as if they were only a joke in case he didn’t feel the same. He felt warm—the warmest he’d ever been—and he was never one to be timid, but you always managed to bring that out of him with ease.

Yone said your name. You hummed, urging him to continue.

“You should be proud of yourself,” he said. The words felt unfamiliar to him, foreign, but he needed you to know. “Like I am of you.”

You smiled. He wanted to engrave this sight into his memory, make it something he would never forget. You teasingly nudged him with your elbow, giggles leaving your throat as you replied without missing a beat, “So you’ve grown fond of me too, huh?”

This was the most casual you had ever been with him. It was a nice change, he thought, one that he really liked. In a matter of a few weeks, you’d gone from a meek, terrified person into someone confident and much happier than you were when he first met you.

“I have, indeed,” he replied. Perhaps more than I should.

With another chuckle, you fell back into a silence that was tranquil this time, more comfortable. He wondered if it was obvious that he was staring at you—he was trying not to be, but he was always told his gaze was intense. It didn’t seem to be an issue with you. Sighing in contentment, he let his eyes wander back to the sunrise before him. The last day of the Spirit Blossom was fast approaching, which meant that you’d once again find yourself in a busy schedule. But he didn’t have to think about that, so he stopped. Instead, he let himself indulge in this rare moment with you, thinking of nothing but how much things have changed. How much he has changed.

You never let go of his hand. Neither did he.

—

“Will you be going back too? To the spirit world?”

He did say he would be leaving, after all. You weren’t really sure what you’d do if he left. His presence had become something you were accustomed to. Since the moment he found you again in the forest, your routine seemed to have more and more of him. It would feel odd, having something you were so used to just disappear so suddenly. You knew you’d get over it, but you didn’t want to.

“I’ll be staying in the human world,” he said, “only elsewhere.”

A selfish part of you wanted him to stay. You liked having him around. With him, you could forget all about the people who shunned you. Your initial lack of strength or inability to use magic never bothered him; he saw you for who you were, treated you like any person should be treated. You weren’t lying when you told him that you’ve grown fond of him—you truly did.

No, you didn’t want him to leave. But he had to.

“I see,” you whispered. “I guess this is goodbye, then.”

The longer he took to reply, the more anxious you became. The familiar stinging of your nose and the watering of your eyes had you trying to hide your face from him. You promised yourself you wouldn’t cry. A quiet whimper was all you let slip before you held back the onslaught of tears. You didn’t want him to think you were strange. Someone who got more attached to him than they should’ve. Someone lonely, desperate for company.

“Would you like to join me?”

Even with his mask on, you could still feel Yone’s gaze on you.

“What?” you echoed dumbly. You must’ve misheard him. You could’ve sworn you just saw his lips twitch like he was amused by something. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve said before that the only thing stopping you from leaving was your fear,” he continued. “You’ve become stronger. You fight well, by yourself and by my side. We might also be able to find your mother if we travel together. And, I…”

He trailed off, seemingly to collect his thoughts before he added, quieter, “I enjoy being with you.”

Flustered, you couldn’t say a word. It took a while before you could properly process what he said.

“You mean…”

“Yes. I’d like you to come with me.” He cleared his throat, hesitating as if he was nervous. “You can decline if you’d—”

Yone was cut off by you tackling him into a hug, nearly sending him falling backwards had he been unable to keep his balance. You buried your face in his neck, smiling against his skin before you pulled away to properly look at him. Seeing how close you were made your eyes widened, and you were about to pull away before he leaned down to kiss you softly, which you melted into with ease.

Hesitantly, he pulled away. You could’ve sworn he was blushing. “I assume that’s a yes…?”

“You already know what I meant, Yone.” You grinned, unable to resist the urge to tease him. “You just want me to say it.”

“Well, it… would confirm my thoughts.”

“Of course, it’s a yes!”

“I must warn you it won’t be easy,” he hesitated, giving you another chance to say no. Like he couldn’t believe that you wanted to join him. “So if you don’t want to come, you don’t have to… Why are you laughing?”

“I mean it, you old fool,” you teased.

“Old fool—”

“I would love to come with you.” You curled into his side, laying your head on his shoulder as you watched the river flow in front of you. “I’m not scared anymore. I have you.”

Yone pulled you closer, leaving a ghost of a kiss on the crown of your head. “And I have you.”

It felt like something straight out of a fairytale. You were going to leave this wicked place with someone you fell in love with. You couldn’t believe it was happening, but it was, and your heart raced, not out of fear but out of excitement.

You couldn’t wait for the adventures you’d have together.

[wasteful-sam]

Melancholy for what could've been

!!! Turn on the song under the cut first, trust me.

Another sleepless night. Years had passed, yet the Master of Ramazith's Tower still dreamt of the Shadow-Cursed Lands - the darkest, most desperate days of his life. And yet, they were eclipsed entirely by one person. The one who returned his family back to him but has unknowingly stolen Rolan's heart in return.

If only he had told Tav then. If only he had found the courage to confess. Perhaps he would never have to wake up in the middle of the night, suffocated by regrets.

But it was too late.

‎‎‎‎‎‎// ♪

I hope you're getting everything you needed // Found the puzzle piece and feel completed

Just wanted you to know every reason // Hope you really know that I mean that

I couldn't see // The forest from the trees

Only time we speak // Is in my dreams

I heard that you're happy without me // And I hope it's true

It kills me a little, that's okay // 'Cause I'd die for you

You know I'd still die for you

[moongazeonastarfillednight]

Reference list for audiobooks from Librivox for people who, like me, can benefit from audiobooks when their brains don't allow them to read.

I haven't yet listened to all so I can't attest to the quality of the recordings but I think that the simple fact that people have done those recordings and that they made them available for all is amazing!

Worst Journey in the World - By Apsley Cherry Garrard Part 1 Part 2

Scott's Last Expedition part 1 part 2

The Northwest Passage - Gjoa Expedition Part 1 Part 2

The South Pole - By Roald Amundsen

South - By Ernest Shackleton

True Tales of Arctic Heroism in the New World - By Adolphus Greely (not an account of his own expedition)

Shores of the Polar Sea: A Narrative of the Arctic Expedition of 1875-6 - By Edward Lawton Moss (HMS Alert Expedition)

A Negro Explorer at the North Pole - By Matthew Henson (Disclaimer: I recognize that the original title uses dated language, which may be considered offsensive. Ultimately, my concern is to share the lived experience of Matthew Henson the way he wrote it himself.)

Farthest North - By Fridjtof Nansen Part 1 Part 2