#eulogy of starlight

[kurizeria]

— - "Did I deserve to?"

[knuffi516]

After she fell from the sky, she was born...

After she fell from the sky, she died.

[kefiteria]

I loved loved your “if I kneel” story about sebek, I would love to see your take on Lilia if you ever feel like writing for him ☺️💞💚🙏

pairing : Lilia Vanrouge x Reader

summary: You made a bet with Lilia Vanrouge: if he lost, he’d stop flirting. If you lost? You’d have to flirt back. Well. Guess who’s now spiraling in slow-motion while attempting seductive eye contact and forgetting how sentences work. He’s smug, you’re doomed, and this is what you get for challenging a centuries-old fae at his own game.

a/n: Lilia is easily in my top 3 favorites 😩🙏🏻 so this piece is really me indulging in his flavor of charm for once — softer, smugger, dangerously sweet. A little different from my usual existential dread writings🌀 If you enjoyed the fluster, the tension, the barely-contained chaos~ let me know! 🍀 Thank you so much for requesting and enjoying my writing💖

��Go ahead. Say that I’m crazy. Because isn’t that what you’ve made me? And you—” Lilia’s voice curved like smoke through the hollow between your ribs.

“You’re crazy too.” His smile, wide and unrepentant, was sharper than anything Raskolnikov would dare to confess.

Before you could recoil, he had already pushed you — gently, politely, irreversibly — down onto the ancient stone bench lining the corridor.

A hallway. Open. Daylight humming like static against the stained-glass. A place where moments like this should unravel into nothing.

But they never do, with him.

You tried to make your voice a wall, a line of marble between heart and hazard.

“I don’t think this falls under the terms of our agreement, Vice Housewarden Lilia.”

The formality was a mask, suffocating, and flimsy. You clung to it like a prayer, or a blade — a distance you could press between your chest and his centuries.

Lilia only tilted his head, almost sympathetically, eyes glinting like a cathedral set on fire.

“You keep lobbing distance at me, dear.” he said, voice low, intimate in its tiredness.

“You've been talking all the nonsense, and maybe neither one of us should talk anymore?”

There was no mockery in it—not precisely. Merely the soft, baroque ache of a man who had learned to dress his loneliness in lace and laughter; who remembered centuries too vividly and was, in turn, remembered too dimly.

When he leaned closer, the fabric of his coat made a noise like leaves whispering secrets to the wind—secrets only the old and the unloved would understand.

“Go on. Say it again. That I’m crazy.”

The words curled around your spine like an incantation. A dare. A descent.

“Vice Housewarden Lilia.” you breathed, too soft to scold, too loud to pretend.

“If you keep behaving like this, people will talk. This is a hallway. A public one—”

You didn’t finish. The words slipped, blurred at the edges like ink in water, and your tongue—once yours—sat heavy, useless in your mouth. Everything felt slow, steeped in something golden and wrong.

The only thing louder than your heartbeat was the hush of his breathing—or rather, the lack of it. He didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. In that stillness, you felt yourself unraveling softly, like silk torn under candlelight.

“Ah~” he murmured, almost tenderly, “there it is. Your voice when you’re lying to yourself.”

As you blinked, he went closer again — not in distance, but in density. Like gravity. Like regret.

“Where is your end of the deal, starlight? You lost.” he said, with the kindness of a man reciting a eulogy.

“I thought mortals glorified their oaths. Or… is it because I’m no knight, and you think my promises are made to be broken?”

His lips hovered near the shell of your ear—not quite a kiss, not quite mercy. Just the phantom hush of skin remembering what it has never been given. You felt it anyway. Felt it like a sin prayed too sweetly: his breath tracing a line down your neck like a ghost leaving fingerprints you’d deny in daylight.

Because you’d promised because you had looked him in the eye and wrapped your pride in oaths too fragile to keep—

You let the lie fall.

Not in anger. Not in surrender.

But like the first snow on a grave. Soft. Inevitable.

“Fine.” you said in surrender paired with a voice crystalline, trembling, absurd.

“Would you rather I call you my liege… or my sin?”

Lilia stilled, the motion caught somewhere between a sigh and a shudder.

The smile that lingered was no longer a jest but a fragile relic, folding inward like a moth’s wing pressed beneath a glass—the delicate architecture of centuries collapsing in slow, deliberate surrender.

His eyes widened, not with surprise, but with the slow, mournful clarity of a man submerged in thick honeyed fog, as if he had been waiting through countless seasons—through winter’s cruelty and summer’s forgetfulness—for a single, trembling syllable to fall exactly like that.

Between the shallow tides of breath and silence, the air thickened, saturated with the weight of unspoken eons, a fragile tension spun from threads of smoke and old, unspent desire, pressing against your skin like a secret too tender to bear.

“Mmm…” he exhaled slowly, voice dusted in awe.

“Why not both?”

He stepped back—just far enough to keep you breathing, just close enough to make your chest ache like a wound left open.

“Careful now.” he said, his voice suddenly bare and steady, like a secret carved into stone.

“Flirt with me like that again, and I might start hoping you meant it.”

Then he turned—slick as midnight, a slow, satisfied smile curling at the corners of his lips as he walked away.

Under his breath, just loud enough for the shadows to catch it, he murmured:

“You keep throwing stones, sweetheart — like you’re trying to chase me off. But I don’t mind. I’ve got all the time in the world to throw them back."

"If this is a game, then play it. But don’t blame me when you start to like losing.”

His gloved hands adjusted, deliberate and calm, like the calm before a storm you’re desperate to dive into—and desperate to escape.

Left standing there, your heartbeat pounding in wild rebellion, the echo of a bet you never truly lost twisting tighter around your ribs.

And damn if it doesn’t feel like the first page of a story neither of you are ready to end.

[mapsthewanderer]

Plated I

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 7500 words. Slowburn bonanza, 18+ series. Non MC! AU building and Raf’s and Zayne’s time to shine…. Aaaand Sylus’s delicious power play as your hot boss. Let’s get to know them! This chapter contains: fluff, stress, flirting, cheek kissing, sexual tension and banter. I loved writing this. Buckle up and (hopefully) enjoy this slow burn.

Chapters: Pilot, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven

Tags: @gavin3469

Critic vs artist | Chapter one

The air is wet with last night’s rain—still clinging to the sidewalks like spilled thoughts.

Raf walks beside you, steps uneven on purpose—like he’s turning the sidewalk into a runway only he can see. His hair is damp at the edges, violet curls falling into soft, intentional chaos across his brow. The plum of his bangs catches the morning sunlight like ink in motion.

His jacket—a deep charcoal wrap, belted high with asymmetrical cuts and layered fabric—flutters slightly as he moves, half-open despite the chill. The collar’s sharp, exaggerated, and undeniably Raf. His boots are sleek. High-shine. Expensive. One hand is gloved in soft leather. The other? Bare, save for a ring that glints like starlight—delicate but bold.

It’s not mismatched. It’s curated.

“If I die today,” he says, “make sure my eulogy includes the phrase ‘death by undercooked critic.’ And that someone throws rose petals onto the stove.”

You glance over. “Rose petals on the stove?”

He grins. “It’s poetic, Flame. Extremely me.”

You give him a look. He grins wider, eyes catching the early light like stained glass.

“Too soon?”

You nudge his shoulder. “Too early.”

He makes a noise like he’s been personally wounded. “God. I forgot you’re one of those. The focused ones. Calm-before-the-storm types. Do you ever just spiral?”

You deadpan. “I spiral efficiently.”

“Terrifying,” he whispers, full of admiration.

The city around you is half-awake. Sidewalks slick, gutters glinting. The restaurant glows faintly ahead, dark windows waiting.

You both fall into silence for a moment, walking in step.

Then softly, you say, “Hey. Heads up—things might be weird today.”

Raf tilts his head.

“Caleb and Zayne,” you explain. “They had a moment. Yesterday. Tense. Quiet. But… loud underneath.”

You pause. “It shook something.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then nods. “Sooo the air’s going to taste like resentment and repressed masculinity. Got it.”

“Exactly.”

Raf exhales through his nose, flicking his curls out of his eyes like he’s shedding a mood.

“Good to know. I’ll keep it light. For morale.”

You and Raf step through the back entrance together, the door creaking shut behind you. The kitchen looms ahead—cold steel and quiet shadows—but you both veer left, ducking into the locker room.

It’s dim and still inside. Just the low hum of the old overhead light and the faint scent of starch and citrus cleaner clinging to the air. Your lockers sit side by side, scuffed and dented, familiar.

Raf peels off his coat slowly, flicking damp curls out of his eyes with one elegant shake of his head. He hangs his coat with care, draping it over the hook like it deserves mood lighting.

You follow, tugging your jacket off and unlocking your locker with fingers still a little cold from outside.

For a moment, there’s only the quiet rustle of fabric—aprons being tied, sleeves being rolled, the low click of latches and belt snaps.

Then Raf speaks, his voice softer than before.

“Do you think he’ll hate me?”

You glance over.

He’s staring at the inside of his locker like it might hold the answer. Like the old recipe cards and mirror decals taped there have started whispering judgments.

You blink. “Who?”

He gestures vaguely toward nothing. Toward everything: “The critic. The entity. The sentient fork who’s coming to reduce me to a single flavor note.”

You pause, slipping your arms through your chef coat sleeves.

“They don’t know you.”

He looks at you then—eyes sharper, lower. His voice drops into something honest.

“Then let’s make sure they remember me.”

You smile.

You’re both halfway dressed now—necks exposed, apron loose. You reach for your hair tie just as Raf steps a little closer, shoulder brushing yours.

He bumps you lightly. Then stops.

Turns halfway, taps his own cheek with one finger.

“This is where you wish me luck, traditionally. Culinary custom. Very sacred stuff.”

You raise a brow. “I’ll kiss your cheek if this turns out decent.”

He gasps. “Blackmail? In this economy?”

You shake your head, reaching into your locker again. But you’re not quick enough.

Raf leans in and steals the kiss anyway—a soft smack against your cheek, close and quick and warm. He lingers just long enough that you feel the smile in it.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t step away completely.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes catching yours—blue and flickering pink in the light, like heat caught in a gemstone.

He sees the blush blooming on your face. Sees everything.

“Oh no,” he murmurs dramatically. “I forgot how adorable you are in the morning. Now how am I supposed to focus?”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Raf.”

“I know, I know,” he says, waving one elegant hand. “Discipline. Art. Professionalism. I am a temple of restraint.” A beat. “But temples still burn, you know.”

He pauses then—eyes narrowing, lips curling.

“Watch out, little flame.” His voice drops an octave. “You’ll set the kitchen on fire before we even clock in.”

He winks. Once. And walks out like he owns the day, chef coat flaring behind him like a final act.

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still warm. And when you step out after him, into the glow of steel and citrus—

the fire waits

——————————————————————————

You round the prep counter with Raf trailing behind you like a ghost in glitter, still drying his hands on a kitchen towel he brought from home “because the restaurant ones are too emotionally rough.”

The kitchen’s not empty.

Zayne is already at his station—of course he is. Sleeves rolled. Forearms scarred and steady. His coat is folded with perfect corners beneath the counter, like it needs to be reminded that it doesn’t run the place today.

He’s working in near-silence, slicing spring onions into paper-thin curls. They pile like green silk on the cutting board, each slice identical. His movements are precise enough to be boring—if they weren’t terrifying.

He doesn’t look up.

“Morning,” you offer softly.

No answer at first.

Then, after three more exacting cuts:

“Morning.”

Not cold. Not quite warm. Just… there.

Raf squints over your shoulder. “Ugh. The ghost of conflict past.”

You shoot him a glance. “Don’t.”

He shrugs, not apologizing. “Just observing. The air’s ten degrees colder over here.”

Zayne says nothing, but the corner of his jaw flexes.

You move to your own station. Raf hovers.

“So,” he says, “what’s the vibe? Broken trust? Unspoken resentment? Tense ex-lovers with knives?” Raf pauses. “Actually, I’d watch that show.”

You lean closer. “He’s still not talking. Not really.”

Raf glances toward Zayne. “Right. Post-snap lockdown. How subtle.”

Zayne finally glances up. One slow look at Raf. One at you. No change in expression.

“I can hear you.”

Raf smiles. “Oh good. We were worried.”

You bite back a laugh. Zayne resumes slicing like your voices are ambient noise—like music he doesn’t like, but can’t be bothered to turn off.

Then—

The door opens again.

No bootstep this time.

Just a soft shuffle, like someone walked in without quite deciding to stay.

Xavier appears at the edge of the kitchen, arms full of folded towels and a paper bag clutched in one hand like a peace offering.

His blond bangs are messy from the hood he hasn’t removed yet. His jacket is only half-zipped. His expression is, as usual, unreadable—but peaceful. Like he wandered in from a dream and hasn’t realized he’s supposed to be stressed yet.

He sets the towels down carefully on the counter near you.

“Lavender. From the shelf above the oven,” he says, as if that explains everything.

You blink. “…Thanks?”

He nods once. Then adds, “You forgot it last time. I remembered.”

Raf presses a hand to his heart. “How is he the softest and the most haunting?”

Xavier glances at him. “Because I nap.”

“Deeply unfair,” Raf mutters.

Xavier drifts toward his usual spot near the pantry—not quite a station, not quite out of the way. Just his. He starts unpacking the bag with the kind of slow, reverent movements people usually save for altars.

Then—

The door opens a final time. Boots. Solid. Familiar.

Caleb steps into the kitchen with two heavy bags balanced in his arms, his coat still unbuttoned, hair damp from the outside air. He sets the bags on the prep table with a dull thunk and breathes in the room like he’s taking stock of a battlefield.

He doesn’t say good morning.

His gaze sweeps the kitchen—Zayne still slicing like the cutting board owes him a debt, Raf stretching like a dancer, Xavier calmly arranging bundles of herbs like they’re poetry.

His eyes find you last.

And stay there.

Just a second longer than they should.

Then he turns, moves to the board, rolls up his sleeves in one clean motion.

“Brigade.”

His voice cuts through the soft clatter of prep like it was built to. Not loud. Just final.

“Team’s all here—more or less. Make yourselves useful.”

He doesn’t wait for replies. Instead, Caleb sets a folded sheet of paper on the board—creases sharp, corners squared. Notes. Preferences. A map of the critic’s palate, etched in black ink and personal experience.

“No foam. No tricks. No ‘modernist interpretations.’” He glances—just briefly—at Raf.

Raf throws up his hands in mock offense. “I wasn’t going to start with fire, Maestro. I was going to end with it.”

Caleb ignores him.

“No fennel. No licorice. No licorice disguised as fennel. He’ll taste it.”

He moves a pen across the prep sheet like he’s marking a warfront.

“He cares about structure. Doesn’t want a journey. Wants a statement.”

Zayne, across the room, doesn’t say a word—but he’s watching. Knife paused.

Caleb glances at Xavier’s corner—still calm, still minimal, towels folded and untouched herbs set aside with gentle care.

No prep laid out.

But still, Caleb says nothing. Just: “I want calm stations. I want rhythm. This isn’t about invention. This is about control.”

His hand hovers over the last line on the page—something written smaller.

You lean in, and Caleb murmurs it without looking at you: “He remembers everything. Every plate. Every chef. And he writes like he’s sharpening a knife.”

You swallow. You already knew that. But hearing it from Caleb—voice low, composed—it lands heavier.

He finally looks at you again. Direct. Steady.

“This will be clean,” he says. “No emotion on the line.”

And then—like it’s already decided—

“Service starts when I say it does.”

Zayne doesn’t turn. Caleb doesn’t acknowledge him either.

The silence is short—but sharp.

Raf claps his hands once. Loud. Unnecessary.

“Okay, people. We’re marinating in tension. Can we please toss some oil on this emotional salad and move forward?”

Xavier, without looking up: “You don’t marinate salad.”

“It’s metaphorical, White Rabbit”

“It’s inaccurate.”

You step in, breath steadying as you move to the center. “Let’s just… start. Please?”

There’s a beat of stillness.

Then—a sharp clap. Measured. Final.

Caleb doesn’t even look up from the prep list.

“As I said,” he drawls, voice smooth as steel. “I start the service.”

He flips a page, scans, then adds—still calm, still deadly precise: “And before we start, I expect the tightest, cleanest prep this kitchen’s ever seen.” A pause. His eyes flick up, catching yours with a hint of something almost teasing. “No excuses. No shortcuts. If you’re not proud of it, it doesn’t go on the line.”

Then he moves.

And the kitchen follows.

Stations are claimed. Spoons clink. Steel kisses wood.

The line wakes up—

And so does the fire.

And then—

From the hallway, a new voice:

“Smells expensive.”

All of you freeze.

Dressed like he has dinner reservations in three places at once. Charcoal coat. Silk scarf. Not a hair out of place: Sylus.

“Morning,” he offers, casually. “Anyone dead yet?”

“Not yet,” Caleb murmurs. “We’re warming up.”

Sylus glances around. Takes in the silence.

“Ah,” he says, voice full of velvet and teeth. “The critic tension. Charming. And what’s this?” He points vaguely between Caleb and Zayne. “Frostbite?”

No one answers.

Sylus grins.

“Excellent.”

He strolls to the coffee station and starts inspecting beans like he’s about to invest in them. His fingers drift over the tins with exaggerated precision, turning each label like he’s judging a vintage.

Then—

“Chef Caleb,” he says casually, not looking up, “tell me the groceries weren’t tragic this time. I’d like to pair our slow collapse with a wine that doesn’t taste like disappointment.”

Caleb doesn’t take the bait. Just answers, flat as steel: “Sea urchin from Hokkaido. Stone fruit from Provence. Veal, marble-grade, cut to spec.” A pause. “Sour cherries air-freighted from Kyoto.”

“Mm,” Sylus hums, as if this means something to him. It does. He plucks a bottle from beneath the bar and sets it aside—deep burgundy glass, gold foil glinting faintly.

He leans against the counter, arms crossed now, gaze drifting across the crew. His expression softens—just enough.

“Well, you’ve got your knives. Your fire. Your egos. And my blessing.” A pause. His eyes land on you.

“Don’t ruin it, chefs.”

But there’s trust in the bite.

He lifts the bottle slightly, a toast without the glass.

And turns back to the espresso grinder like none of it mattered in the first place.

You turn back to your station. The mood is sharpened. Not ruined—just pulled tighter.

Everything is clean. Everything is ready.

And you can feel it in your bones.

——————————————————————————

The sound is quiet.

Not a bang. Not a rush. Just the soft click of the front door opening—far too early.

You hear it before you see it. Before the burners are even fully lit. Before the air is properly warm. Caleb doesn’t flinch. Just lifts his head slowly, hands steady on a citrus cure, and looks toward the door.

You and Raf freeze mid-motion at your stations. Zayne pauses with a spoon just above a tasting dish.

The kitchen breathes in.

Two figures step inside.

The first is exactly what you expected: pressed collar, coat folded neatly over one arm, small notepad in hand. The critic. As sharp and as unreadable as the stories say.

But behind him—

A second. Younger. Tall. Black coat, hands in pockets, eyes already scanning the room like he’s cataloguing everything. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

You can feel it shift then.

This is no casual meal.

This is a test.

The sound of a blade gently tapping down on wood punctuates the pause. Zayne sets his spoon down. Raf quietly reaches for his tasting spoon but doesn’t move to use it.

Caleb speaks first.

“Chefs—eyes up.”

Not loud. But the air tightens.

He walks slowly toward the pass, glancing once at the unexpected second guest. No comment. Just adjusts.

“New seating. Same service. We keep the plan.”

The hush breaks in tiny cracks. Zayne nods without a word, fingers already resuming motion. Xavier turns, smooth as a whisper, and reaches for folded linens like nothing’s happened. Raf, beside you, exhales through his nose like a performer before curtain.

“Fantastic,” he murmurs. “Not one, but two mouths to impress. Double the trauma. Double the applause.” He glances at you. “We live or die by sugar today, little flame. Let’s make it fatal.”

The guests sit. Not a word exchanged. The critic sets down his pen. The protégé crosses one leg over the other, still watching the kitchen like it might blink first.

Sylus is already at the table, poised with the bottle in hand, pouring the aperitif with practiced grace. The light catches on the rim of crystal as he leans in—shoulders relaxed, smile unreadable.

“From the northern slopes of the Montagne de Reims,” Sylus says, his voice smooth as the pour itself. “Chalk at the roots. Mist in the mornings. Pinot Noir grown in tension—power wrapped in elegance.” He tilts the bottle with perfect control, adding lightly:“It’s the kind of champagne that remembers the weight of the soil it came from—and chooses to rise anyway.”

He doesn’t overstay. Doesn’t sell. Just lets the silence sip it in.

Then he straightens, nods once, and disappears with the same ease he arrived—leaving the glass full, the table waiting, and the kitchen watching.

And just like that—

Caleb lifts his head, eyes scanning the line.

“Fire it.”

The word lands sharp and steady. Not loud. Not rushed. Just final.

Service begins

Plates begin to move. The pass pulses under Caleb’s rhythm—measured, exact. He’s not calling like a drill sergeant. He’s conducting.

Every sound has weight. Every motion has intent.

But the balance is delicate.

You can feel the heat beneath the surface—not just from the burners.

Eyes are watching. Notes are being taken.

And the kitchen knows it. Zayne’s fish lands a second too early. Just one. Caleb doesn’t raise his voice—doesn’t even look. Just:

“Again.” Short. Clipped. Trusting Zayne will fix it without needing more. Xavier misses the tarragon. You catch it first—your hand already reaching for the small bundle. He takes it from you with a calm nod. No flinch. Just adjustment.

And you— you almost let your glaze over-reduce. A second too long. The edges go from shine to danger. Then—

Caleb is there.

Behind you. Close. But not crowding.

His hand moves over yours—lightly, not stopping, just correcting. Two fingers to the flame. A slight shift. The heat eases.

He doesn’t scold.

He doesn’t even pause.

His voice is low, steady, just above the simmering pans: “Breathe.”

You do.

He stays there for a beat longer.

Then—softer: “You’ve got it.”

You nod. The motion feels smaller than your breath. But he sees it.

And then he’s gone—already moving down the line, already guiding the next plate with a tilt of his chin and a barely audible correction.

Your hands—steady now—move with purpose.

The critic’s still watching.

But right now, you’re not cooking for him.

You’re cooking because Caleb told you you could.

You finish the plate. Wipe the edge clean. Adjust a single leaf of micro basil that’s refusing to sit just right.

Almost. You know it’s almost.

You hesitate, but call it anyway.

“Hands.”

And the second the word leaves your mouth,

you know—

this isn’t perfection.

But it’s yours.

And it’s already gone.

The plate disappears down the line.

You exhale.

But only halfway.

Because across from you, Raf is silent.

And that’s how you know—he’s locked in.

Head bowed. Shoulders relaxed but utterly still. The chaos is gone. Only control remains.

His bangs—always unruly—are clipped back with something that looks like it came from a Paris runway and a craft store at the same time. His eyes narrow, squinting so hard the pink fades to almost nothing, lost beneath the glassy sheen of focus.

He’s crafting the final course. The pièce de résistance. The thing that might make—or break—the entire impression.

His station is unusually neat. Garnishes arranged by color. Sauces lined in perfect spirals on tasting spoons. His coat is unbuttoned at the collar, but that’s the only concession to chaos.

He’s torching citrus slices with exacting grace, layering them on a bitter caramel base that smells like late summer and secrets.

Then—Caleb steps in beside him.

No words at first. Just a quiet pause as he picks up a spoon from the edge of Raf’s tray. Tastes. Waits.

A beat. Then a slight nod.

Approval.

Raf freezes for a fraction of a second—enough for you to notice.

Then he grins—low and crooked. “Maestro,” he says softly, almost like it’s a blessing. It’s playful. But there’s real warmth in it.

Caleb doesn’t reply. Just moves on.

But Raf lingers in that moment a little longer than he should, watching him go. Then exhales, flicks a speck of zest from his cuff, and returns to the dish like something just clicked into place.

Like maybe—maybe—he really is about to save the night

You step up beside him.

“What are you making?”

He doesn’t look at you. Just says:

“A memory.”

You blink. “Whose?”

He finally looks up. And winks.

“Hopefully theirs.”

——————————————————————————

The final dish lands on the pass.

It’s not extravagant. It’s not loud.

It’s precise. Deep. Beautiful.

You recognize the scent of browned butter and smoked sugar. There’s a curl of citrus skin twisted like a ribbon at the center. A single candied petal pressed gently to the rim.

Caleb lifts the plate. Looks at it a beat longer than usual. He says nothing.

Then: “Send it.”

And it goes.

You all watch from the line.

The critic tastes first. Pauses.

Then the protégé.

No words.

But they eat it all. Slowly. Thoughtfully.

The critic sets his fork down. Folds his napkin.

He stands.

The protégé lingers a second longer. He doesn’t rise until the chair squeaks beneath him. Then he turns—slowly—just enough to glance back toward the kitchen.

His eyes scan the line.

They meet yours.

Cool. Measured. Calculating.

Then shift to Raf.

The two of them hold that stare a moment longer than necessary.

Still no smile.

But a slow, thoughtful nod.

And then—they’re gone.

The door closes behind them. Not loud. But the sound echoes in the space like someone just set down a judgment too heavy for the air.

The kitchen is still.

Utensils down. Hands still. Breaths held.

Even the burners hiss softer.

Then—

“Puh-lease.” Raf exhales—loud, dramatic, like he’s been holding his breath for three courses too long.

He steps back from the counter, stretching his arms overhead with a noise halfway between agony and art.

“If they didn’t love that, I’m moving to France and becoming a performance artist who cooks exclusively with grief and seaweed.”

He drops his arms. One gloved hand presses to his chest, the other fanning himself.

“Opening night will be called Salted Despair.”

You can’t help it—you laugh. A real one. Small, but sharp with relief.

Caleb doesn’t. But he looks at Raf. Really looks at him. One long glance—unblinking, unreadable, then softened. He gives a single, subtle nod.

Respect.

Raf catches it. His back straightens—not in pride, but recognition. And then he turns to you.

His voice isn’t loud this time. It’s steady. Close.

“Tell me you saw that.”

You nod. “I saw it.”

His lashes flick down once, slow. The faintest exhale escapes his lips. His voice drops, velvet-threaded.

“I was really trying.”

You reach for his hand. Just a light brush of your fingers over his—like grounding a live wire. Just enough.

“It showed.”

His eyes search yours for a moment.

Then he smiles.

Not wide. Not cheeky. Just… full.

He exhales once more, quieter this time.

“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. And he starts wiping down his station like nothing happened—like he didn’t just save the soul of the night.

But you saw it. And he knows you did.

——————————————————————————

Raf’s wiping down his station, humming a low, off-key version of something orchestral and absolutely made up. The rest of the kitchen is beginning to move again—small clinks, closing drawers, the soft snap of towels flung over shoulders.

You glance toward Zayne.

He’s at his station. Cleaning with the kind of focus that looks peaceful to anyone who doesn’t know better.

But you’ve seen it before—the way he gets when there’s too much in his head. When the silence becomes a shield.

He finishes polishing the blade of his chef’s knife. Places it gently in the leather roll. Buckles it tight.

He doesn’t look up.

You cross the room slowly.

“Walking out?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer with words.

Just slings his bag over one shoulder and gives you the smallest tilt of his head—yes.

But when he turns toward the door, he hesitates.

And you go with him.

——————————————————————————

The alley behind the restaurant is quiet. The pavement slick with old rain, the city lights painting it gold.

You walk in silence. The only sound is the rhythm of your shoes against cracked cement, and the low thrum of traffic somewhere far away.

Zayne keeps his hands in his pockets. His shoulders aren’t tight—but they’re held. Like he hasn’t decided yet whether to let the day go.

After a block, he speaks.

Barely above the hum of the night.

“It was good.”

You nod beside him.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Not perfect.”

You glance sideways. “Does it need to be?”

Zayne exhales through his nose. Not a sigh—just a controlled release of thought.

“Maybe not.”

He walks a little further before speaking again. This time, there’s something quieter in his voice.

“Culinary school used to feel like this. Late nights. Long walks. Me, you. Caleb.” A pause. “We’d finish service and grab snacks we couldn’t afford. Steam buns. Cheap noodles. Whatever was hot and fast.”

“You always ordered too much.”

A beat.

“But only because you were saving yourself for dessert.”

“So you two could eat it without guilt,” he says flatly, but his mouth tugs slightly at the edge. “It was routine. Caleb and I—we didn’t talk much then either. Not about anything real. Just… walked. Same way we do tonight.”

He glances at you, hazel green eyes catching the light. “It helped back then. It still helps.”

Your chest aches in that quiet, familiar way—the kind that comes from being remembered right.

He walks a little further before speaking again. His voice stays even, but there’s a softness to it—something closer than nostalgia.

“I was never much of a talker.”

A pause.

“But I liked listening. To you and Caleb.”

You glance over. He doesn’t stop walking, just keeps his eyes forward—hands still in his pockets like he’s measuring time.

“You’d argue about everything. Techniques, temperature, plating styles…”

Another pause, dry at the edges.

“You once debated resting meat versus flash-searing for twenty minutes in a heatwave.”

You huff a quiet laugh. That sounds right.

Zayne finally looks over, eyes glinting just a little under the streetlight.

“I kept score, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

“The debates. I kept a tally.” He lifts his brows, faintly amused. “You’re still ahead. Seventy-eight to seventy-three.”

You stare at him.

He shrugs, like it’s no big deal.

“You were always better at saucework. Caleb was obsessed with proteins. You balanced better.”

It hits you gently—but deep. That he remembers. That he watched. That he kept track.

You bump his arm with yours. “I’m going to need that scoreboard in writing.”

Zayne’s mouth twitches—almost a smile.

“Of course. It’s laminated.”

Your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You glance down.

RAFAYEL: where’s my kiss. blackmail worked. obviously.

You bite back a laugh and type quickly.

YOU: you’ll have to wait for the review.

Three dots appear.

RAFAYEL: liar. wounded. betrayed. art ruined. jk i love you.

Your chest warms.

You’re still smiling when you tuck your phone away.

Zayne notices.

He doesn’t say anything right away—but then: “Was that who I think it was?”

You pause. “Raf?”

He makes a soft sound—not quite agreement.

You glance at him. “Who did you think it was?”

Zayne hesitates. Just for a second. A flicker of something crossing his face. Then he shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter.”

You walk a few steps further.

Then you stop.

And without a word—you hug him.

His body stiffens at first, caught off-guard. But he doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t make a sound.

You feel the slow breath leave his chest. The quiet drop of his shoulders.

When you pull back, his voice is barely audible:

“Thanks, Ace.”

You nod.

“Always.”

And the two of you keep walking—together.

Quiet. Steady. Closer than silence.

——————————————————————————

Back at the restaurant, the lights are off—except for one.

A low amber glow from the wine bar, where Sylus leans against the counter, glass in hand, suit still sharp. The room is quiet now. Still.

He watches the door where the two of you disappeared, then raises his glass—not to the critic. Not to the service.

“Stars are slow things,” he says into the stillness.

He takes a sip.

And the restaurant sleeps.

——————————————————————————

The kitchen is quieter the next day. Not dead—just dulled, like someone turned the volume down on the world but left the tension humming underneath.

Knives move. Water boils. Bread rises. The rhythm is there, but it doesn’t carry. Everything feels a touch slower, like the whole place is caught in a long inhale, waiting for the exhale that never quite comes.

No sparks. No fire behind the eyes of the brigade. Everyone shows up, but no one’s pushing.

Even Raf is subdued. He hums something strange and half-finished under his breath as he slices strawberries with more precision than flair, like they’ve said something deeply personal and he’s holding a grudge.

You move through your prep slower than usual. Not because you’re tired—but because it all feels slightly off-beat. Like the air’s too thick. Like the tension is curled somewhere in the corners, just out of sight.

You’re waiting.

All of you are.

So you fill the space with motion. The small, mindless tasks that give your hands something to do while your head keeps listening for a bell that doesn’t ring.

You restock dry goods. Wipe the same countertop twice. Rearrange spice tins that didn’t need arranging.

And that’s when you notice him—Zayne, appearing beside you as silently as he works. No announcement. No shift in the air. Just there, all at once, like he always had been.

Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable.

Watching the shelves like they owe him answers.

He doesn’t say your name. Just gestures toward the shelf like he’s helping, even though he wasn’t assigned to this part of the kitchen today.

You fall into rhythm.

Silence, at first.

Then—

“You ever feel like your best is too clean?” The words are so soft you almost miss them.

“Like it doesn’t taste like anyone at all?”

You turn to look at him, but he’s focused on lining up spice tins. Cinnamon. Cardamom. Sea salt.

His sleeves are rolled. His forearms bare—scarred and steady. The knuckles of his right hand are faintly red, like he gripped something too tightly for too long.

You don’t speak. Just let him go on.

He exhales, slow and precise.

“I don’t care what the critic thinks,” he says. Then adds, “or I shouldn’t.”

He adjusts a container that didn’t need adjusting. It’s already perfectly aligned. His dark hair falls slightly over his eyes, and he doesn’t push it back.

“It’s not about ego,” he murmurs. “I just—need to know that I didn’t waste it.”

He finally glances at you. Just for a second. His hazel green eyes are clearer than you’ve ever seen them. Not cold. Not sharp. Just… bare.

“Sylus once told me I cook like I think. Not like I feel.” A small huff of breath escapes him—almost a laugh. “Said if I ever figured out how to do both, I’d be dangerous.”

You lean your shoulder lightly against the shelf beside him. Still no words.

Zayne stares ahead, not blinking. “Sometimes I think I’ve tried too hard not to believe him.”

He goes still. The jars in front of him are perfectly placed. No more tasks left.

You shift a little closer—not invasive, just enough that he feels you there. And gently, without needing a cue, you reach out. Just placing a hand over his forearm.

Warm. Anchoring. Wordless.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t look at you. But his hand—so still a moment ago—twitches slightly under yours. Like the pressure of your presence is something he doesn’t know how to carry.

But maybe wants to.

When you let go, he finally speaks again.

“Thanks… again, Ace.” His voice is lower now. But clearer. Measured like always—but with something human tucked into the quiet.

You don’t say anything in return. You just nod.

And return to your station.

Behind you, Zayne keeps working. But his shoulders aren’t quite so tight anymore. And for the first time all day—you hear his knife hit the board with rhythm.

——————————————————————————

The fluorescent lights overhead buzz softly. One of them flickers, slow and uneven. The room smells like soap, starch, and the last hours of a long day.

The clatter of post-service fades beyond the wall.

You’re still tying the last loop of your apron when Xavier passes behind you, already changed, coat folded over one arm. He pauses at his locker just long enough to reach into a cooler bag you hadn’t seen him carry in.

He pulls out a small see through plastic container. Without fanfare, he sets it beside your things.

Leftovers. Duck, pickled pear, one perfect mint leaf on top.

He adjusts the knot in his scarf like nothing happened. Then, softly—

“You didn’t eat.”

You glance up.

He’s already by the door, nodding once—silent, certain. Then he slips out, leaving nothing behind but the scent of herbs and the soft click of the closing door.

You’re just turning back to your locker when the air shifts again—Raf enters like a stage cue, perfectly timed, flicking his curls out of his eyes and shrugging out of his chef’s coat like it personally offended him.

His designer coat is draped over his arm, all sharp angles and buttery folds, the inside lined with something silk and scandalous.

He throws it over the bench with flair, catching your eye.

Then taps his cheek.

Once. Twice.

Raises a brow.

“In case you forgot,” he drawls, “you owe me a kiss. The sugar-saved-your-life type. The blackmail-was-legitimate type.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Justice is slow.”

He sighs dramatically.

“So are broken hearts.”

A beat.

He leans in—fast—and steals a kiss to your cheek, grinning as he pulls back. “But I’m still collecting the real one later.”

With a wink and a flourish, he’s gone. You can still smell his cologne in the locker air.

You turn back to your locker, rummaging through your things—gloves, scarf, whatever gets you home warm enough. Your fingers brush against the small container Xavier left, still cool to the touch.

You reach for the container, fingertips just brushing the waxed lid.

Then—

The door swings open. Boots on tile. Two sets. Familiar weight in both.

You glance up.

Zayne and Caleb. Together.

Zayne’s already shrugging out of his coat, hair still damp, eyes sharp and cool as ever. Caleb’s jacket is slung over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up past his forearms, arms dusted with flour and smudged with the faint ghost of oil. His shirt clings slightly at the collar—the aftermath of control.

They both spot you at the same time.

Two smiles.

Zayne’s is faint. Barely there. A respectful tilt of the lips, the kind of smile he saves only for you.

Caleb’s is fuller. Quieter than usual. The corners of his mouth twitching up like he’s relieved to see you still here.

“Look who’s still standing,” Caleb says, tossing his coat onto the bench.

“She’s always the last one standing,” Zayne replies, deadpan.

Their eyes meet—a flicker of understanding, not tension.

Something between them has shifted. Smoothed. Repaired not by words, but by the shared rhythm of service.

Caleb bumps Zayne’s shoulder as he passes. “Still packing like you’re fleeing a war zone, huh?”

Zayne adjusts the strap on his duffel with surgical precision. “That’s rich coming from the guy who keeps an emergency set of knives in his car.”

“I like being prepared,” Caleb murmurs, grabbing a clean rag from his locker.

“You like control,” Zayne says, already moving toward the door.

“And you like pretending you don’t.” Caleb chuckles, soft and low. Zayne almost smiles.

They pass by you again. Caleb slows. His hand rises—

And he ruffles your hair. Just once. Just enough to shift the air around you.

“Get home safe, chef.”

Then he’s gone. Zayne follows without a glance back, their footsteps syncing on instinct.

No farewell. Just quiet.

You blink, hands still hovering over your things.

Something’s changed.

You don’t know what. You weren’t meant to.

But it settles in your chest like heat held close, a soft flicker of something mended—or mending.

And without quite meaning to, you smile. Just a little.

It lingers. Stays with you.

Then—

From the doorway, low and velvet-smooth, wrapped in dry amusement:

“Well now… would you look at that.”

You turn.

Sylus is leaning lazily against the frame, one hand in the pocket of his tailored coat, the other cradling a half-full glass of wine. The light behind him halos the edges of his silhouette, casting him in gold and shadow.

You didn’t hear him enter.

He’s been there.

Watching.

His eyes flick toward the closed door where Caleb and Zayne just left. He smiles—slow and feline.

“You know, I never quite believed in miracles.” A sip of wine. A pause. “But seeing those two walk out without blood on the walls?” Another sip. “Either the stars are shifting…”

His gaze settles on you.

“…or someone knows how to nudge the right pieces.”

You raise a brow. “You?”

He doesn’t answer. Just tilts his glass in your direction, like a toast to a shared secret neither of you will speak aloud. “I prefer to think of myself as… an observer with influence.”

He steps fully into the room now, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft click. His shoes don’t make a sound on the tile.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” he murmurs, circling the edge of the bench. “How fire and ice can share a locker room, when the temperature’s just right.”

You exhale, unsure whether to be impressed or suspicious.

He sits beside you—never too close, just enough to feel his presence.

“They needed the tension broken. And you?”A pause. “You needed to see what happens when people bend before they break.”

Then, softly: “You’re good for them, you know.”

You don’t answer.

But your chest feels just a little heavier. And warmer.

Sylus swirls his glass once, watching the light fracture through it. “Come.” He rises, smooth and unhurried. “We’ve earned something expensive tonight.”

And just like that—he offers his hand. Palm open. Eyes unreadable.

——————————————————————————

The lock clicks behind you with that familiar soft weight.

The restaurant is dim, most of the lights off now—except the low amber glow behind the wine bar. It stretches warm across the counters and gleams along the clean steel like a secret you’ve earned the right to hear.

Sylus moves ahead of you without looking back. He knows you’ll follow. His coat whispers as he shrugs it off—deliberate, graceful, like everything he does.

He gestures for you to sit at the bar.

He selects a bottle already waiting—dark, elegant, and expensive in the way you feel in your bones more than you read on a label.

He pours two glasses. Quietly.

Then hands you one.

Sylus doesn’t speak right away. He just starts swirling the wine—wrist steady, eyes lowered—watching the movement like the glass is telling him something only he can hear.

The wine is deep. Smooth. A dark garnet that clings to the crystal like silk before it lets go.

“It’s got legs,” he murmurs, voice low and rasping like it’s meant to be heard in candlelight. “Slow-dripping. That’s how you know it’s got weight. Alcohol content. Structure.”

His gaze stays on the wine, but his voice drips like the vintage itself—rich, unhurried, expensive.

“You see that cling?” He tips the glass slightly, watching the streaks of red crawl down the side. “That’s glycerol. Comes from late harvest grapes. Colder nights. Longer fermentation.” A pause. “This one’s oak-aged. Five years. Just enough to take the edge off without softening the finish.”

He finally glances at you.

Noticing your stare.

Noticing everything.

Red eyes lock onto yours—slow, unblinking. Almost undressing you in the most cruelly elegant way possible. Not lecherous. Just… knowing. Like he already sees the part of you you haven’t shown yet—and he’s waiting for you to catch up.

A slow, indulgent smile curls at the edge of his mouth

“Careful, chef.” His voice drops. “If I go on much longer, you’ll fall asleep.”

You raise a brow, but say nothing.

He leans in slightly across the bar, wineglass still poised between his fingers.

“Should I have sung you a lullaby instead?”

You say nothing. Just lift your glass to your lips and take a slow, measured sip—eyes on his over the rim. That is your answer.

His smile deepens, slow and sharp.

“Ah,” he murmurs, voice dropping just a little lower, silk pressed against something darker. “So you do like it when I take my time.”

The words hum under your skin like a promise.

Or a warning.

Sylus leans on the bar again, the soft backlight sketching gold across the sharp line of his jaw, the open collar of his shirt catching just enough of the glow. He watches you—not intently, but like he’s measuring something you haven’t said yet.

The silence stretches. Warm. Expectant.

Then finally, with a quiet shift of weight and a tilt of his head, he speaks: “You’ve come far, chef.” A pause, lazy with purpose. “But you’re still standing on the edge.”

You raise a brow, half-smiling. “Of what?”

He doesn’t answer. Not directly.

“The line is made of more than sharp knives and full plates,” Sylus says, voice low and smooth. “It’s made of the people who hold it.”

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just tilts his glass, watching the wine catch the light. Then his gaze drifts, slowly, to the kitchen—now quiet and dark, but still pulsing with everything left unsaid.

“You know them,” he murmurs.

“But not well enough.”

You blink.

“You mean—”

He makes a slow, fluid gesture—elegant and maddeningly vague.

“One of them hides behind rules. One behind silence. One behind sparkle. And one—”

His red eyes flick to the hallway where Caleb disappeared minutes ago.

“—refuses to stop burning.”

You feel it land before he even finishes the thought.

Sylus turns fully back to you now, and the low light brushes silver across his hair, framing the sharp edge of his jaw. His posture is relaxed, but the weight in his stare holds you still.

“Caleb is fire in a pressure cooker,” he says. “He doesn’t burn out. He burns in.”

You glance down into your wine—deep, red, impossible to read.

“Every mistake in that kitchen?” His voice lowers. “He thinks it’s his. Every dish. Every delay. Every stare from that critic—it’s all his to carry.”

Your grip on the glass tightens. “That’s not fair.” It comes out without your permission. Quiet. Raw.

“No.” Sylus doesn’t flinch. “But it’s true.”

He leans forward slightly, and the gold glow of the bar slides across his chest. His presence is calm, but looming—like a storm that hasn’t chosen its direction yet.

“They follow him,” he says, slower now. “Because he holds everything together.”

A breath.

“But one day—he won’t.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

Your pulse is already beating harder in your throat.

And Sylus sees it.

His voice softens. But it doesn’t lose its edge. “When that day comes, someone will have to keep the fire alive.”

A pause.

“I think that someone is you.”

The words hang there—not a compliment. A burden. A truth.

You sit with it. And he lets you.

Then—

“So find out,” he murmurs.

Then, a beat later—his voice a shade lower, the rasp deliberate: “Peel them back. Learn what they bleed, what they break for. And when the moment comes—don’t hesitate. Take what’s yours.”

A flicker of a smile, cruel and quiet.

“It’s not a request, chef.”

“To knowing them?” you ask, tilting your glass.

Sylus smiles—just barely.

“To seeing what they won’t show,” he says, raising his glass.

But before yours can meet it, you pause.

Your eyes flick to his—playful, pointed. You lean in slightly, elbow on the bar, chin tilted just enough to be dangerous.

“And what about you, boss?” Your voice is softer now. Closer. “What don’t you show?”

Something in him stills, and the moment stretches—quiet and golden, like a breath held too long.

Then, there’s a shift.

Not in his voice. Not in the measured ease of his posture.

In his face.

It’s subtle, almost imperceptible—a flicker of something old and weighty, a shadow beneath the polished surface. A sadness lacquered in charm. Something that’s learned how to live just fine with the cracks.

It’s there and gone in a breath, hidden beneath the curve of his mouth, the practiced slope of a near-smirk. But you catch it. Just barely. A twitch at the corner of his expression, too honest for him to mean to show.

He lifts his glass, just a fraction, and the light fractures through it—red and amber, like fire caught in crystal.

“That,” he says, voice smooth as velvet dragged through ink, “would ruin the fun, darling.”

He taps his glass to yours—just a soft clink—and drinks first.

And when he drinks, it’s not a toast.

It’s a deflection.

A beat later, you follow.

———————————-———————————-———

Your keys hit the counter. Jacket falls to the back of a chair. The silence of your apartment wraps around you like steam—warm, empty, unbothered.

You shower.

Water hits your shoulders in even beats, but it doesn’t drown out the sound in your head.

Not footsteps. Not fire.

His voice.

When that day comes, someone will have to keep the fire alive.

I think that someone is you.

You turn the water hotter.

It doesn’t help.

Later, in bed, the linen gathers loosely around your legs. You lie still. Eyes open. Ceiling glowing with citylight.

I brought you here to lead.

You close your eyes.

The words chase you into sleep anyway.

I think that someone is you.

I think that someone is you.

I think—

Knock knock knock.

You jolt upright.

There’s weight behind it. Familiar. Steady.

Another knock.

Then Caleb’s voice, muffled but unmistakably him:

“Chef. Open up.” A pause. “It’s important.”

You swing your legs over the side of the bed, linen tangled around your calves, heart still catching up to the moment. A glimpse out the window shows the light just breaking.

He’s been out running.

Hair damp. Hoodie clinging to his chest.

Your phone lights up beside you—three missed calls from Caleb.

Another knock.

“Chef. Either you’re dead or drunk. Open up.”

——————————————————————————

Chapter two

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: I’m taking my time with this AU because I want each character to shine in their own chaotic, delightful way. Posting the next chapter soon, just need to proofread. Y’all reading this? You’re the real deal. Peak humanity. I appreciate you so much it’s almost suspicious. Like—why are you so nice? Never in my life did I think I’d use my completely useless knowledge about chalky soil and harsh climates affecting grape growth… in a fanfic. And yet—here we are. Peak useless knowledge meets peak unhinged thirst. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[sakkiichi]

AUGUST.

Glimpses of the departed month go by as you reminisce by the sea.

ft. Kaedehara Kazuha x gn! reader.

cw/genre: fluff, romance.

I honestly don’t know how to feel about this piece… definitely not my best work, but I wrote it, so I’m posting it. I hope someone still likes it.

if you enjoy this, reblogs and comments help more than likes !

Blue.

Said alone, the word might have had a tendency for melancholy, cold, turbulence.

However, if anyone were to ask you right now, you’d deny every negative connotation the color might have ever been related to.

Because to you, blue was dusks by the sea; moments right after the last coppery rays had hidden behind the expanse of an ocean you could only wish to unveil all secrets of.

And perhaps, you liked this moment of day because the infinity of blue before you mirrored the feelings in your heart at ease.

Feelings of unbridled affection, boundless love.

For him.

Fair hair falls over his shoulders, like silk weaved out of stars, its tips illusory rose with the fading daylight. His eyes are closed against the marine breeze, flecks of moondust clinging to his lids, casting enchanting shadows over his cheeks. His shirt has been discarded, droplets sliding down his bare torso, as if he had bathed in a pool of starlight. A black leather cord rests against his tempting collarbones, a vibrant scarlet maple leaf charm dangling tantalizingly over his chest.

A dreamy sigh escapes your lips, mingling with the sounds of foamy waves lapping at the white sand.

Kazuha.

He was always nothing short of ethereal, but something about him in the dimming light of a late summer’s nightfall, felt inherently magical.

“I’m going to miss this, Kazuha.” You finally say, resting your chin on your boyfriend’s shoulder.

He gently leaves a kiss to your forehead, his hand finding yours over the towel you’re sitting on. Scars jut like jagged rocks against which waves break, in the same way lightning snuffed out a life dear to him all that time ago.

And yet, the smile on his lips is almost palpable when he says:

“We’ll be able to come back, my dove.” His thumb runs soothing circles over the back of your hand. “Before we realize, summer will greet us again.”

You chuckle. Kazuha had such a poetic way of approaching things; even when the sun went pitch black, he would forever remain a beacon of hope to you.

“I know, I know…” You clarify. “It’s just… I wish I had more free time to spend with you like this during the year…”

As much as autumn brought found memories and your beloved’s birthday, September always had a tendency to leave you yearning for the long days of summer.

Echoes of August replayed behind your eyelids every time you closed them, reminiscent of stolen instances held in the brief minutes in which the sky was dyed in shades of neither day or night.

Those eyes that held the suns of a million dawns focus on you. Starlight from constellations that will sleep soon seem to frame them, those long lashes fluttering in tune with your heart.

“I know, my angel…” Your lover utters, as he delicately tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’d like to stay with you like this, for all eternity…” His stare of gentle embers takes you in.

His muse, his perfect love, his forever.

The samurai’s free hand reaches to cup your cheek, his touch, a dove’s first flight in its tenderness.

Beneath the darkening skies, you were the brightest star. Every lash, every pore and freckle, the everglow that fueled his verses.

“But we’ll always have the weekends,” He reassures, those fingers that penned the most romantic eulogies tracing your jawline, the column of your neck, your exposed collarbones.

Dilated pupils stare at his lips, images of kisses coated in ice cream and cocktails flashing through your dazed mind.

“And every summer after that.” The poet adds, noses mere millimeters away now, separated only by salt air and dying sunlight’s rust.

“Every summer.” You repeat.

Then, the magnetic force of both your desire-ridden lips reigns over, his kiss, an intoxicating collision.

Your hands lock behind Kazuha’s neck, pulling him closer. The droplets of sea water on him feel cool, flecks of stardust tattooing your skin in every place your bodies touch.

The wandering samurai’s lips are an expanding sunrise, and you, the tsunami that desperately reaches for his light-tinted heavens.

One of his hands sets on the soft sand, keeping him upright, while his scarred one tenderly cups your cheek. Your lean against him is soothing, healing, clear August skies, birdsong written in between retreating clouds.

Behind the undulating horizon, gold dyes silver.

Constellations begin to waltz far above, the lovers by the sea, their directing lyrics.

It’s a symphony about a season that will never die, its score inscribed in indelible blue ink in the heat of yours and Kazuha’s fervent kisses.

[mrsdesade]

1 character x 10 songs x 10 headcanons

Loki (MCU)

Songs that I think they might be perfect for our fav God of Mischief because today is Tom's birthday! 🌿 I also leave the LOKI PLAYLIST I've created for him!

The End of the World - Celldweller

If I do, will I be exiled?

I can't base my actions on whether I'm loved or reviled.

Hard to pretend that I'm ok when my heart is breaking. […]

Sold on a dream of a future serene,

Then why does this feel like the end of the world?

Hopes in a dream are not what they seem,

And now it feels like the end of the world.

hc: The whole song has his vibes, the melody, the aesthetic, the words, the tone with which they are pronounced. Heartbreaking and full of hope. I can clearly hear the "The sun will shine on us again, I promise." quotes from it.

—————————

2. Fill the Void - Lily-Rose Depp & The Weeknd

Be my voice and I choose you to fill the void. […]

I choose you to fill my void.

I choose you to tell me, you to tell me,

I choose you to fill my void.

I speak my voice and I choose you to fill the void,

Tell me why, tell me why do I feel so free when I'm dead?

hc: Being chosen by him is already an immense honor and privilege, even more so If he considers you the missing piece to fill the eternal void in his chest. This duet is so strangely romantic.

—————————

3. The Apparition - Sleep Token

Why are you never real? Whenever you appear,

You leave me with that grace, I am trembling with fear.

But I know that you will disappear […]

Well, I believe that somewhere in the past,

Something was between you and I my dear,

And it remains with me to this day.

hc: Something has separated you two, and your memories have been erased (TVA vibes) but the feeling you have is so deep that crosses space and time, and although there is only dust remaining, you are always pulled in each other's direction.

—————————

4. GODDESS - Written by Wolves

You're like a goddess in disguise, I'm drowning slowly in your eyes

It's like you kill me by design, you're all I desire. […]

I'll do anything for you, my temptress, even if I'm innocent.

Kill to watch you undress,

Feel your body close pressed up, against mine

Heart beats, in time.

Feel your chest rise, you're all I desire.

hc: This song is pure devotion, he would do anything for you, you are his light, you're the only force that moves his actions and feelings.

—————————

5. Interlinked - Lonely Lies & GOLDKID$

hc: There are no lyrics, just music, but the romantic synth and the electronic base give this melody the right vibes to be the soundtrack to a film/series about Loki and his love interest. (hope to be me honestly)

—————————

6. Funeral Derangements - Ice Nine Kills

I'll see you on the other side.

But I'd kill to bring you back tonight,

Don't give up, don't let go,

I'll make this right. […]

They say that time heals all, but I won't heed the call.

Buried in misery.

Spare me the eulogy.

hc: Aggressive and desperate, in this version of the story, he lost you because of Thanos and he will do anything to bring you back to life, even challenging primordial forces such as Death itself.

—————————

7. Starlight - STARSET

Stardust, in you and in me.

Fuse us, into unity.

We're coupled, born from the universe.

The void is calling, don't fear.

It's ok, I promise. […]

Whenever stars go down and galaxies ignite.

I'll think of you each time they wash me in their light.

And I'll fall in love with you again, I will find you. […]

Don't leave me lost here forever,

I need your starlight and pull me through,

Bring me back to you.

hc: You are the one who loved the God of Stories, and this song is his dedication to you, his eternal love is engraved in these words.

—————————

8. Broken - Falling in Reverse

We are the broken, hoping for a change of heart.

We are the chosen, praying for a shooting star.

And even if the sky comes crashing down,

Even if the world was ending now,

We are the broken, but don't cry for me.

hc: Ouch, bad ending for you, there is nothing left to save, the Apocalypse will erase everything, and you two are embraced seeing the Sun fall on the Earth. He will hold you close until the last moment, until the true end.

—————————

9. VILLAIN - Neoni

Won't make amends, 'cause you did this, yeah

I'm the monster you invented. […]

All the king's horses and all the king's men.

Couldn't undo all the damage I did.

You call me mad but I make perfect sense.

If I can't be your hero, I'll be your villain.

hc: There's not much to say, If your romance happened during 2012, you would have a cruel God loving you, Avengers Loki has definitely his reasons and his charm.

—————————

10. KNIVES - Neoni

No heroes, no villains.

No sympathy, just venom. […]

No heroes, no villains.

Just do it for the thrill and,

Sharpen up your knives.

If you wanna make it through the night.

You better remember that you,

Can never trust nobody.

hc: Let's end with a bit of spice, I couldn't not mention this song, I would definitely associate knife kink to him. Can't change my mind.

That's all for now! Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to suggest more characters, when I'm done with my comfort characters I'll be delighted to please you with music about yours 🤍

[aalinaaaaaa]

🌳 and/or 🐙 for the snippet game!

Hey there, thanks for the ask! <3

I'm going to do the pleasure of giving a snippet for each (I have more snippets for the smartass ones than nature lolololol)

🌳 — a snippet featuring nature of any kind

— from Between Sisters, An Eulogy Bloodied

"I'm going to find the swans."

A town in dawn's light. Arising from slumber, the first step not in wake.

Clothes unearthed, curtains unfurled, the birds' hymns an early choir. Singing, chirping, the opening pleasantries.

Reeds rustled without their residents, the canal the sky's mirror. The brook babbled with no one to carry, only the morning's silence.

So marked the first morning Celine Emar reposed in peace. No white feathers marred her earthen place of rest, nor did the grace of birds with slender white necks darken the place she bled.

A welcome respect for her, and a blessing for the townspeople. A moment to breathe, reset, and move forward. In the light the people found the future in their eyes, a painting of what's to come.

A song of their life without the swans.

Celine's last song played not in the brook and the bramble, but in the strings of the heart. Warm, raw, pulsating, reaching a crescendo with the rush and clamour of blood. Beating.

🐙 — where the character is being a brat/smartass

— from A Deal Between Dealbreakers (I could paste the entire piece honestly, it's just Eshani and Namon being smartasses 🤣🤣🤣)

"What drives you in life, Namon?" She gazes up at the stars, fingers laid bare on the railing. "What's your purpose?"

He bristles a few fingers near hers, a breeze of callouses over smooth, jasmine-blessed skin. "Well, there is one thing."

Eshani tilted her gaze in tandem with two of his fingers, propping her chin. She scoffed in laughter. "Of course, I should have known. What else are you but predictable?"

"Would you not pleasure me? Just this once?" His spruce-brown eyes sparkled with starlight, canines poking from his smile.

"Just this once?" She returned a smile of her own, his idle touch making her twitchy.

May Cerigo forgive her for this. "One kiss? One kiss alone?"

She pulled him by the shoulders and brought her face close, her whispers caressing the golden skin near his ear. "You have a deal."

"No fair, I deserve more." He cupped a hand over her left cheek, pulling her mouth into his.

Words melted from her tongue, sucked into each other's mouths. Her hands sought purchase around his neck and the back of his head, her slender fingers threading through dark, trimmed hair.

If any of them let go, the deal would be sealed. A moment's embrace brought her into a memory.

His lips perfectly fit into hers, his hands an electric touch over her skin.

She pressed in further, heat rising, melting into his embrace.

If she wished, the world would just be the two of them, in eternal fire, in this touch. Pulling each other's lives into one, her lips crawling up his cheeks.

"That's two kisses." She taunted, Namon planting his touch on her neck.

"You haven't let go yet." Another mark, a hue different to the one plaguing both their backs.

She returned the favour, her tone sultry in his ear. "Dealbreaker."

One cheeky peck on the lips for good measure, and they found each other staring into their eyes, flared with sparks of magic.

"I hope we can renegotiate."

Eshani gave him a smirk, hiding a laugh lingering behind the thrillrush. "You wish."

—

Ask game taglist (ask/comment/reblog to be added or subtracted): @darkluminosity

[sickuhhh]

@thedevilsbckbone liked for a starter!!

ONE WOMAN FOUND DEAD IN STRING OF COUGAR ATTACKS

The front page headline of the Deadwood Peak Bulletin read simply enough, but Eli knew better—knew in his bones—that there was so much more underneath the surface.

It had been a couple of months since he and Yvette ventured into those mines. The mines where they saw that thing. Eli took a seat at one of the farther-back pews, the pastor up front thanking everyone for attending Paloma's funeral after the harrowing news. It was a closed casket, of course. They never included these details in the paper on purpose, but he'd heard a word from the sheriff's office that the reason they knew it was Paloma for sure was because her nametag, ripped from the Starlight Diner uniform she was wearing the night she got killed, was the only thing that they could identify on the spot. Every other mauled bit of her—what they could gather from the remains—needed to be shipped off to autopsy and her identity was confirmed by her teeth.

Paloma was a nice woman, late 40s, a single mother of two. Her oldest son, Hayden, took the stand to deliver his eulogy. Eli wasn't aware of how tight his fist was until he felt a sudden headache rush to his head. He knew the truth: Cougars weren't to blame for all of the deaths happening in town. Paloma was the fifth one in such a short time, incredibly uncommon for the area. A few locals were fleeing town, some were staying put, armed. The once quiet town was on alert, on the defensive.

Since he and Yvette went into that mountain, they'd awoken something.

After the service, during refreshments, Eli spotted her across the room. He exchanged what he thought was a knowing look between them. He didn't want to go back into the mines, but what was happening seemed personal. Like the monster was going to keep doing this until someone tried to stop it. He closed the distance between them, leading Yvette into a quieter corner of the grieving room.

"Hey. You alright?"

[a-echo-of-gotham]

Oh little echo, little echo,

Why do you scream?

Oh little echo, little echo,

Who hath clipped your wings?

Oh little echo, little echo,

What final eulogy shall you sing?

You who hoped to help,

yet inevitably got caught,

We watch, we hear, we speak

As your old form inevitably rots…

Shall we stray a helping hand?

Or instead…

see if what’s left of you still stands?

-✨

Oh one of poems

I scream for Family

Mimicry of them cut the pretty things

I will sing no eulogy... For I know that there are better things to for my voice to ring

....

Ok at this point. What you got uh- hm a name for you. Starlight.

What's your deal?

[buglyknight]

850) i was never an artist

there is an exhausted softness

lungs deflated and shoulders worn thin

collar bones reach outward in longing

a touch that evaporates like rubbing alcohol

i kissed your body with ferocity

i kissed it as if it wasn't a eulogy

to what you wouldn't let - be

i read a book for a moment

i stare at the empty air

i wait for the date to change

the eve of the fair

i wish i wore permanent lipstick

i wish you could never forget

never unsee the vastness every touch of my lips

parted from me

i love you i thought

i love every piece and corner

keep the light off, ill sprint into the closet

ill dance with your skeletons

return to you unscathed

wide eyes of starlight

i died the moment you spoke my name

i woke from my grave speaking yours

you called me a sculpture

but my marble cracked at your touch

you were a perfect film

a beautiful movie moment

you told me i should be an actor

but you never wanted me in your casting

i wasn't made to be the main lead

i was a filler piece between acts

an exposition dump like poor writing

i am trying to sculpt rubbing alcohol from the clouds

to make the rain clean again

i am trying to tattoo my lips into your skin

as if i could paint my heartbeat within your veins

i am trying to draw your breath into my lungs

i am trying to write love into every chapter

to spill ink from my ears as they slosh with water

i am trying to shape an obelisk from a wolf's corpse

but my hands are too large to get the fine details right

i am trying to carve open my heart

but i was never an artist

and you only arrived to depart

[kurizeria]

Eulogy of Starlight chapter 3, "Blooming Bonds", is out now!

Featuring some familiar faces in this double length chapter!

➤ Read on [Tumblr] or [AO3]

[knuffi516]

My moon...

[sevyn-stars]

S - seven (Taylor Swift)

E - Eulogy (Frank Turner)

V - Vigilante Shit (Taylor Swift)

Y - You Belong With Me (Taylor Swift)

N - National Anthem (Lana Del Ray)

S - Soldier, Poet, King (The Oh Hellos)

T - Till Forever Falls Apart (FINNEAS, Ashe)

A - All The Young Punks (The Clash)

R - rises the moon (Liana Flores)

S - Strawberry Mentos (Leanna Firestone)

@starlight-gif @james-wilsons-mommymilkers @courtneymurder

spell out your name or url with songs !!

P - Prom Queen (Beach Bunny)

I - I’ll Make Cereal (Cavetown)

G - girls (girl in red)

E - Empty Bed (Cavetown)

O - Oh Ana (Mother Mother)

N - No Surprised (Radiohead)

tagging: @angerycat @ast3ria-blue @swiftieannah @melancholy-melomaniac @melancholypessimism @whyybesocial @i-have-no-idea-111 @the-literary-anything-blog @underappreciatedtomato @livelaughlovebillzo @charlie-is-missing @chronic-stressed @v4nillaskies @nonsensical-space-ghost @alm0std34d and any other mutuals or people who want to join in !!

[acupoffelicity]

new pngtuber model!! :D im so in love with how she turned out :)

[seiya-starsniper]

Music Tag Game

Tagged by the wonderful @bazzybelle, omg this looks like so much fun!!!

Rules: Put your playlist on shuffle. For each of the 10 interview questions, select a lyric from the random song that comes up. (Skip if there aren’t any lyrics and make sure to drop the name of the song in your interview answer!) <3

...and the first song was one of the openings to Bleach LOL. Since I am not fluent in Japanese, we're gonna skip that one...

First off, how would you describe yourself in one sentence? "It's such a rollercoaster // some killer queen you are." - Rollercoaster - Bleachers

What kind of [Aquarius] are you? "You're the only one who knows how to operate // My heavy machinery" - Don't Let The Light Go Out - Panic! At the Disco

You’re visiting your favourite spot. What are you thinking about? "But I believe the world is burning to the ground // Oh well, I guess we're gonna find out // Let's see how far we've come" - How Far We've Come - Matchbox Twenty

If your life was a movie, what do you think the first review would say about it? "It's me // Hi! // I'm the problem it's me." - Anti-Hero - Taylor Swift (why is this so perfect omfg)

Say you get a book deal. What are you titling the memoir? "Coldest with the kiss, so he calls me ice cream" - Ice Cream - BLACKPINK & Selena Gomez

What would you say about your best friends? "Shake, shake, shake, shake, a-shake it!" - Shake It - Metro Station (this is also perfect for reasons only my best friends understand)

Think back to when you had everything all figured out in highschool. What was your life motto as a teenager? "There's a story at the bottom of this bottle // And I'm the pen" - Dear Maria, Count Me In - All Time Low

Describe your aesthetic now "My Life // You electrify my life // Let's conspire to ignite // All the souls that would die just to feel alive" - Starlight - Muse

What’s a lyric that they’ll quote in your eulogy? "I don't want to forget how your voice sounds // These words are all I have so I write them" - Dance, Dance - Fall Out Boy

And for our final question, say you believe in soulmates. What do you think their first impression of meeting you would be?

"Cheers to us and what we had // Let's keep dancing on the broken glass" - Broken Glass - Kygo (good lord that's depressing lmao)

------------

Tagging @lyriclorelei @gil212 @eobardthawneallen @melodiousramblings @keynoi @aquilathefighter @honeyteacakes @tj-dragonblade

[blossom-tape]

2222 ☁️

somebody once told me that i might be caught in a frenzy of fantasy and reality. sometimes out of recollection, mostly out of gullibility. nobody notices me in the verge of a stampeding crowd and i always suffocate. it’s interesting how you know precisely how and when to grab me out of the hollow of solitude just before i reach the highest level of despair. when i scrounge for the certainty hopelessly, as i am controlled by nothing other than untruths, you placed me at the front of the grim reality, no matter how cruel it is, to reveal the true colours of someone i once loved.

millions and millions of unsaid words, but you understand what i mean. but do you think four lines of writings as well as a song about longing would have been enough to sketch the inscriptions of my unwritten feelings? one thousand one hundred eleven clouds i’ve seen by myself, and another thousand one hundred eleven more to see with you. i’m looking forward to those days. and you said that the deity chose to write you back in response to my starlight eulogy, but i think they wrote an uncanny number from heaven’s helpline.

because it’s been two years, and i haven’t been able to see you. but despite that, i am still here waiting for you.