badboydevotee

[badboydevotee]

No One Bows First

Summary: Two people who never yield meet in a place where silence bites harder than words. Neither of them learns how to fall—only how to push, pull, and burn in the spaces between. What begins as smoke and defiance slowly gives way to something quieter, heavier. Something neither of them dares name. ⌯⌲ some implications or suggestive on that one line, mild spicy? (read between the lines)

Chapter One: Two Sides of the Same Flame

You had just reached the top floor of Frostheim when you heard it.

Click.

The sound of a lighter flicking to life. A pause. Inhale, exhale.

You didn’t need to see him to know it was Jin. It was always Jin.

The chill of the corridor was biting, but you walked slowly, deliberately. Let him hear your footsteps. Let him know you were coming, but not whether you’d scold, provoke, or ignore him.

You reached the open door to his balcony and leaned against the frame without a word. He stood outside, pale smoke curled around his silver hair, which looked even more unreal in the evening blue. His robe hung loose around his shoulders, exposing the fine lines of muscle, the quiet arrogance in his stance.

He didn’t turn. He never did, not unless he had something to prove.

"You have plans tonight?" Jin asked, lighting the cigarette with practiced nonchalance. "Take a second and really think about whether your plans are more important than me before you open that mouth again."

The nerve.

You stepped forward until you were shoulder to shoulder with him, gaze fixed on the same horizon. “I was going to cancel them anyway. You talk big for someone who texts me ‘don’t come’ and then leaves the door unlocked.”

The edge of his lip curled. “Didn’t think you’d catch that.”

“You don’t get to play hard-to-get when I’m already two steps ahead of you.”

He looked at you now—fully. His icy blue eyes didn’t waver. Yours didn’t either.

And there it was again—that charged silence. A battlefield with no swords drawn, only the quiet, electric sense that neither of you would ever bow first.

“You hate when I smoke,” he said. Not quite a question. Almost a challenge.

“And you love pushing buttons,” you replied, reaching out—not to stop him, but to take the cigarette straight from his mouth.

He blinked.

You grabbed it without breaking eye contact, then stubbed it out on the balcony wall. “But if you're going to keep wasting these just to piss me off, you may as well hand them over.”

Jin stared at you for a beat too long. You knew that look. It wasn’t annoyance. It was curiosity—something rare and dangerous in someone like him.

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or throw you over the railing,” he muttered.

You smirked. “You’d miss me.”

Another silence. But this one didn’t buzz with defiance. It simmered.

“…You’re impossible,” he murmured, barely audible.

“So stop inviting me back.”

“I don’t invite you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Then next time, try locking your door. I might not be so easy to tame.”

He laughed. Low, bitter, intrigued.

“You think I’m trying to tame you?” he muttered, stepping closer until there were barely inches between you. “You’re the only person here who talks to me like this. You think I’d let anyone else look at me like that?”

You tilted your chin up, unwavering. “Then don’t waste it. If I’m going to stay, don’t insult me with smokescreens and moody silences.”

He stared.

“Fine.”

And just like that, he stepped around you and walked back into his room. No order. No request.

But the moment before he turned away, his hand brushed against yours—subtle, deliberate. He knew what he was doing.

And so did you.

· · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

Chapter Two: Your Move

You returned the next night.

Not because he asked. Not because you were feeling soft. No, this was a game now—and you weren’t the type to back down after one clever line and a door left ajar.

This time, the door was locked.

You smiled.

He was trying to win.

Your lockpick kit clicked once—twice—and then you were in.

The room was colder tonight, lit only by the blue spill of moonlight across his windows and the soft gleam of candlelight on the desk. Jin didn’t look up from the chair where he sat, one knee lazily hooked over the other, a chessboard open in front of him. His robe hung slightly open again—always half dressed like he didn’t need protection from anything, least of all you.

“Took you long enough,” he drawled.

You shut the door behind you. “Was hoping you’d unlock it yourself and admit you wanted me here.”

He moved a piece on the board—bishop to C4. His eyes never left yours.

“I’m not the one sneaking into someone else’s room like a stray cat in heat.”

You didn’t flinch. “Please. If I’m the cat, you’re the one leaving out the milk.”

You crossed the room and sat down across from him without asking. His pieces were black. Yours were white.

Fitting.

The first few moves were silent, your hands brushing the carved stone with focus. Jin played like he fought—cold, calculating, a step ahead. But you played like you lived—sharp, intuitive, and just unpredictable enough to throw off rhythm.

By the tenth move, he sat straighter.

By the fifteenth, he leaned forward.

“You’re going to lose,” he murmured.

You tilted your head. “No. You’re just not used to being cornered.”

He smiled—but it wasn’t the smug kind. It was something darker. Icy. Lethal.

“Careful,” he said. “I bite when I’m cornered.”

“Good,” you whispered. “I don’t want something tame.”

Your knight took his queen.

He froze for a second too long.

Silence stretched thin between you. The room wasn’t cold anymore.

And then he stood. Not in defeat. Not in retreat. But with the kind of motion that made your skin prickle. He circled the table like a predator, slow and deliberate, until he was behind your chair.

He leaned in, breath ghosting your ear. “Say you’ll leave.”

You didn’t.

His voice dropped to a whisper, cruel and intoxicating. “Say it.”

You turned just enough to meet his gaze—silver, firelit, hungry.

“Make me.”

His hand brushed your jaw. Not rough. Not soft. Just enough to remind you, he didn’t need to ask. He chose to.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Jin said.

“And you started it.”

There was a pause. A heartbeat.

Then he leaned down, close enough for his breath to warm your lips—but he didn’t close the distance. His nose brushed yours. His hand lingered on your throat, thumb resting where your pulse thudded like a dare.

And then—he pulled back.

"You'll come back tomorrow," he said, already walking away.

You stayed frozen, heart pounding. He didn’t look back.

“…And when you do,” Jin added, shrugging off his robe without another glance, “wear something that’ll make it harder for me to be a gentleman.”

The door clicked softly behind you when you left.

Checkmate? Not yet.

But you’d be damned if you weren’t close.

· · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

Chapter Three: Burn Marks

It was a week before you returned.

Not out of reluctance. No, you were busy—occupied with training, obligations, and the vague, dangerous satisfaction of knowing he noticed your absence. Because when Jin Kamurai wanted something, he didn’t ask. He commanded. And silence was the only weapon you had left he couldn't control.

You didn’t message. You didn’t visit.

And that drove him insane.

You saw it in the way he lingered too long in the hallways outside your class, always pretending he wasn’t looking. How he stubbed his cigarette out faster than usual when you walked by. How his stare turned razor-sharp the moment someone else stood too close to you.

Especially him.

The new guy—some overeager Frostheim third-year who clearly didn’t understand the Kamurai rule: If it’s too cold, stay the hell away.

Too bad for him. You didn’t need protection.

You had already started walking toward the south wing when you heard a voice behind you—casual, controlled.

“You’re not seriously entertaining that idiot, are you?”

You turned.

Jin stood at the top of the stairs, leaning against the rail, arms crossed. 

You didn’t stop walking.

“Entertaining? You think I don’t know when someone’s just trying to piss you off?”

He followed you.

“Didn’t look like that from where I stood. It looked like you were laughing.”

“I laugh sometimes. You should try it.”

He caught your wrist before you turned the corner. Not hard, just enough.

“That’s not funny.”

You looked down at his hand, then back at his face. “Neither is jealousy, Kamurai.”

His jaw tightened. “You think I care who you flirt with?”

“No,” you said, stepping in closer, “but you care when it’s not you.”

His breath caught—just for a second.

Then, as if to deflect the shift, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it in one fluid, practiced motion. The flame flickered between you, casting sharp shadows across his cheekbones.

You narrowed your eyes. “Still using that as a shield, huh?”

He smirked, exhaling smoke in your direction. “Still pretending like you hate it?”

You plucked the cigarette from his lips—again—and this time, you held it between your own. Not to smoke.

Just to watch his expression falter.

For a split second, Jin looked like someone whose defenses cracked—and then rebuilt themselves instantly.

“I don’t play with fire unless I intend to burn,” you said quietly.

He stepped closer. “Then burn me.”

The tension between you snapped taut. His hand was at your waist now, your back pressing lightly into the wall of the hallway. His breath brushed your cheek. Your fingers curled into the lapel of his suit, but neither of you leaned in.

Because whoever kissed first would lose.

He was close enough to count your lashes. To see the smirk ghosting your lips.

Then—footsteps.

A student turning the corner, eyes wide before quickly retreating.

Jin didn’t move.

You let the cigarette drop to the floor and crush it beneath your heel.

“I’m not your possession, Jin.”

“You sure act like mine.”

“And you sure act like you want to be ruined.”

Silence. A heartbeat.

Then you pushed him off gently, straightening your collar, fixing his for good measure.

“Let me know when you’re ready to stop pretending this isn’t mutual.”

You left without looking back. But he stood there long after you were gone.

· · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

Chapter Four: Touch Hunger

The balcony was colder than usual.

Frost clung to the railing like breath held too long, and the air tasted clean—free of smoke. You noticed that first.

Then him.

Jin Kamurai sat with one leg stretched out, the other bent beneath him. The same robe. The same glint of silver at his throat. But no cigarette between his fingers.

Instead, he was sipping tea. Silently. Staring out over the moonlit courtyard like it hadn’t meant anything that you’d skipped five nights in a row.

“You’re early,” he said without turning.

“You’re predictable,” you replied, pulling the door shut behind you.

His only response was a slight tilt of the head. The chair beside him—draped in a navy blanket—was too obvious to be coincidence. Too soft to be an accident.

You sat anyway.

Minutes passed.

Wind rustled through the railing. Stars blinked. And neither of you spoke.

Until,

“I haven’t smoked all week,” Jin muttered.

You turned. “What, you want praise for that?”

He glanced at you, something unreadable in his expression. “No. I want to know if it’s enough to make you stop looking at me like I’m some lost cause.”

You snorted. “You think that’s why I look at you?”

Silence again.

But this time, it vibrated.

When he spoke again, his voice was low. Tired. A little hoarse.

“I think… you look at me like you’re trying not to want me.”

Your hand clenched around your mug.

“And I think,” you said, tone razor-sharp, “you want me to lose that battle before you do.”

His eyes flicked to yours, pale and furious and something else.

Need.

Then he leaned in.

You didn’t stop him. Didn’t flinch. When his knee brushed yours, you held his gaze. When his hand slipped over the back of your chair, you leaned into it—only slightly, only just enough to break the line between threat and invitation.

His lips hovered just above yours.

“So do it,” he whispered.

Your breath caught.

“Do what?”

“Lose.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you grabbed his collar and pulled him in—fast, fierce, close.

The kiss hovered at the edge, electricity snapping in the inch of air between your mouths. His breath mingled with yours, warm and shallow. Your thumb grazed his jaw.

And then—

You stopped.

He blinked.

You let go.

“…Too easy,” you muttered.

Jin’s stare hardened. “Coward.”

“No,” you said, standing, “just not interested in giving you the satisfaction of being my first mistake tonight.”

He stood too, quick and sharp, hands clenched at his sides.

“You think I’m a mistake?”

“I think you want me to treat you like one.”

The air between you cracked like ice underfoot.

He stepped forward. So did you. Neither of you moved to close the gap this time.

“You’ll kiss me eventually,” Jin said, voice low. “And when you do, you’ll regret not doing it sooner.”

You smiled, cold and slow.

“Then wait.”

You left, again, but your heart thudded like war drums in your chest.

Behind you, Jin muttered something into the wind. You didn’t catch it.

But if you had stayed—if you had listened closely—you might have heard:

“Already am.”

· · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

Chapter Five: Firestarter

He hated missions.

Not because they were hard. Not because of the risk.

He hated the noise. The inefficiency. The people.

But mostly, he hated when you were involved.

Because you didn’t follow orders.

You didn’t fall in line.

And you didn’t listen to him.

“Do not go around back,” he snapped over the earpiece. “That alley isn’t secure. You go in from the front or not at all.”

Silence.

Then, “Too late.”

He nearly crushed the comm in his hand.

By the time he made it around the corner, the firefight was over. Bodies down. Your blade is humming low from overuse. Breath quick. Blood painting the edge of your sleeve.

And yet, you had the gall to look at him like he was the problem.

“I told you to wait for me,” he said.

You wiped the blood from your cheek. “And I told you I don’t take orders.”

Jin’s fists clenched. “You could’ve gotten yourself killed.”

“And what?” you bit back. “You’d cry about it over one of your cigarettes?”

His vision narrowed. His jaw locked.

You always knew exactly where to cut.

“I quit because of you.”

Your eyes flinched—just a flicker. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve kept lighting them.”

That was it.

That was it.

He stormed forward, grabbed your wrist, and slammed you into the alley wall—not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to feel something crack in the air between you.

Your eyes met his, wild and daring.

“You done posturing?” you hissed.

His breath was ragged. He didn’t even realize how close he was until your chest rose against his. His hand curled tighter around your wrist, the other bracing the wall beside your head.

“You think I don’t care?” he growled.

“You don’t.”

“You think I’d let anyone else get away with talking to me like this?”

“Then stop me.”

You were testing him.

You always were.

And for once—he didn’t care if he failed.

He crashed into you like the first breath after drowning—mouth hungry, hand gripping the back of your neck like he needed to feel you to believe you were real. Your teeth grazed his lip. His ring caught in your sleeve. There was nothing sweet about it.

It was a fight.

Every kiss was a clash. Every gasp, a declaration of war.

You shoved him back against the wall.

He pulled you closer.

And when you finally broke apart, both of you breathless, pupils blown, trembling with tension—

“You done pretending?” he asked.

You didn’t answer. You only stared.

But he didn’t need the words.

He saw it in your eyes.

So he let go.

Not to retreat.

Just to wait.

Because next time, you would be the one who couldn’t stop.

And that time?

He wouldn’t pull away.

· · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · · Notes: ⌯⌲ Am I that hungry? No no no, it's this voiceline's fault.

⌯⌲ sorry, it's Jin again. Maybe I should stop writing Jin lmao ⌯⌲ also made reader as dominant same as him, change of pace :3

⌯⌲ Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

My Dear Reverie

Summary: In the ruins of a place once sacred, he plays a song no one else remembers. When the melody stirs the air, something long lost returns to him—soft, smiling, and impossibly warm. A dance begins. But not all dreams are meant to last. And some goodbyes come wrapped in silence.

(listen to this song while you read!)

· · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

The cathedral was no longer what it once was. Its stained-glass windows had long shattered into colored dust, and vines curled up cracked marble columns like the ghosts of hands reaching for a forgotten sky. But one thing remained pristine—untouched by time, decay, or ruin.

The piano.

White as snow and impossibly whole, it sat beside the altar like a relic blessed by gods, or perhaps cursed by them. Its ivory keys still glistened beneath shafts of dying sunlight that filtered through the skeletal remains of the roof.

Jin sat before it.

He looked out of place in the ruin, but perhaps that was the point. He was ruined now. Cold and beautiful, distant and silent—like a statue carved from frost. The silver-blue strands of his hair shimmered faintly in the cathedral light. His fingers hovered above the keys before finally pressing down with purpose.

A soft melody began to bloom.

Jin doesn’t remember when he stopped expecting you to return.

Maybe it was the day they buried the last hope beside your name. Or maybe it was every night since then, when he woke from dreams of you, reaching out into nothing but the emptiness of his room, the cold air as familiar as the loneliness that crept into his bones.

But here… here in this broken sanctuary, his heart dared to remember.

The melody he plays feels older than time, like it had waited for this moment—like it had waited for you. 

And then…

You appear.

As if the light had shaped you from memory, you descend from the beams of sunlight with that same smile he had once called his home. You're dressed in soft light, lace and dreamlike shimmer. Ethereal. Untouchable. Yet when you walk toward him, everything else—grief, silence, reality—it all falls away.

He doesn’t speak.

Instead, he offers his hand.

There is no hesitation in your touch, and when your fingers slide into his, his breath catches—shaky, barely holding together.

He rises from the piano bench, and the music does not stop. It plays on without him, as if the cathedral itself remembers the steps you both once danced.

The two of you walk to the altar, once a stage for vows and blessings. Now it is yours again, the same as that night when midnight cloaked your laughter, and you waltzed under the moonlight to a song he composed just for you. He pulls you in close and your shadows spun like lovers under candlelight.

Jin draws you close. His touch trembles slightly.

"You're real," he whispers, as if saying it aloud might make you vanish.

You only smile in reply.

The dance begins—slow, sacred, sorrowful. He holds you as if you're made of the last pieces of his soul.

And maybe you are.

· · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

His fingers curl tighter around your waist, and your head rests against his chest. He sways with you in rhythm to the ache inside his chest. The smell of your perfume—imagined or remembered—fills his senses, drowning him in waves of nostalgia.

“You always said I danced like a stiff board,” he murmurs, a sad smirk tugging at his lips.

A chuckle escapes you.

You reach up and tuck a silver strand behind his ear, brushing your fingertips over the cold curve of his cheek. The affection in your gaze softens him more than he wants to admit. His guard crumbles beneath the weight of your kindness—one he never felt worthy of.

“Why…?” His voice finally breaks. “Why did you leave?”

Silence answers him.

But it wasn’t you who chose to go. Fate—merciless and cruel—had torn you from him. Just like his mother. Just like every piece of warmth he'd ever dared to hold.

He holds you tighter than before, as if his arms are the only thing keeping you from floating away. His fingers shake where they rest on your back. His heart, for once, is unbearably loud in his chest.

He presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

Your hand cups his face, halting the spiral.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Jin," you whisper.

His lips part, trembling. “I…”

The waltz slows. So do your steps. He tries not to notice how you’re beginning to shimmer, how your warmth is turning thin and weightless. Like stardust unraveling into air, you begin to disappear—glimmering fragments scattering in the light. He clutches you tighter, as if he could defy the natural order by will alone. But your form slips through his fingers like a dream slipping into morning.

And still, you smile.

He speaks again, voice thick with sorrow.

“I would’ve saved you,” he says. “If I could’ve—if time gave me one more second—I’d throw away everything. Just to keep you alive.”

Your fingers brush along his jawline.

He leans into your touch like a man starved.

Your form flickers, then vanishes into the light.

The final note echoes across the ruined cathedral.

The keys fall silent.

Jin remains standing on the altar alone, breathless, hollow. His hand lingers midair where yours once rested. His eyes burn with unspoken grief, the kind that no tears dare fall from.

The air is still.

No one claps. No one remains.

Just the ghost of a dance and the man who lost everything he ever dared to love.

He doesn't leave. Not yet.

He sits again at the piano, resting his fingers on the keys.

He’ll play the song again.

And again.

Until the gods take pity.

Until time is kind.

Until the reverie brings you back.

⌯⌲ your monthly dose of Jin angst <3

⌯⌲ I'm sorry I'm not over that song, it's so pretty

⌯⌲ Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

Evergreen

Summary: It’s Haku’s birthday. Something few acknowledge and even fewer understand. But you remembered. Beneath the wisteria tree, you give him a small, handcrafted gift: a pair of charm earrings made from red and purple silk, threaded with meaning and hope. In that twilight space between incense smoke and fireflies, you speak truths he’s tried to ignore and in return, he gives you a moment you’ll never forget. A gift returned. A bond sealed. A thread tied.

It was already twilight by the time you found him.

The fireflies had begun their nightly dance around the wisteria tree behind Hotarubi—a towering, ancient thing draped in cascading lavender blooms that shimmered in the fading light. Despite the still air, its blossoms swayed gently, as if stirred by something unseen.

He is leaning back lazily against the bark with incense smoke curling around his fingers like a familiar friend.

Haku Kusanagi. Impossible to predict. Even more impossible to forget.

He didn’t look up when you approached. He didn’t have to.

“You’re here,” he said, his voice low and velvety. “Took you long enough. Were you debating whether I’m worth the effort?”

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help smiling. “You noticed?”

“I always notice you.”

Your breath caught, just for a second. But you recovered, stepping closer and kneeling beside him on the cool mossy ground.

“I brought you something,” you said, pulling a small box from your bag. “Happy birthday, Haku.”

He finally turned to look at you. His sharp eyes—green with flecks of something old and glowing—narrowed slightly, unreadable.

“No one usually remembers,” he said after a pause. “Or they pretend not to. It makes the day pass quicker.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t want to pretend.”

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the low rustle of leaves above and the faint chime of spirit bells in the distance.

Then he reached out, brushing your fingers lightly as he took the gift. The touch was featherlight but lingered long enough to make your heart trip.

He opened it slowly. Nestled inside were a pair of handcrafted earrings—thin, delicately shaped threads of crimson and violet silk, each bound to a small silver ring and threaded with tiny onyx and amethyst beads.

They weren’t identical—but they were unmistakably a pair.

Haku held them between his fingers, tilting his head as the light caught the threadwork. His expression, usually unreadable, softened.

“…Red and purple,” he murmured. “Aren’t you bold.”

You smiled nervously. “I remembered what you said before. Red thread for fate… and purple for protection. Amethyst wards off bad spirits, right?”

He was quiet. His thumb brushed over one of the earrings, slow and almost reverent.

“They say the red thread of fate ties people who are destined to meet. It frays, tangles… but never breaks,” you said quietly. “And purple’s for nobility, too. For the heart. I guess… I just wanted you to wear something that felt like a charm. A wish.”

A breeze passed through, fluttering the wisteria blossoms above.

Haku looked at you—not teasing, not lazy, but still. Present.

“…You gave me a pair.”

“I thought maybe… you’d wear one. And I’d keep the other.”

His eyes flashed with something unreadable—but it burned, just for a second, like something fragile being stirred awake.

“I see,” he whispered. “Then I’ll wear it on my left. Closer to the heart.”

He let the gift rest in his palm, then gently closed his fingers around it.

“Most people avoid the past. You look it in the eye.”

He tilted his head, golden eyes meeting yours. “That’s dangerous, you know.”

“Only if the past still controls you,” you said quietly.

He laughed—soft, breathy, almost startled. “You’re not like the others.”

A breeze swept between you then, carrying a strange warmth despite the hour. Above, the long wisteria petals swayed like silken ghosts, as if listening in.

“You always talk like someone who’s trying to understand me,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, half-lidded gaze locked on yours. “Why?”

You hesitated, heart thudding. But it was his birthday. If not now—then when?

“Because you pretend to be lazy and indifferent, but you’re always the first to notice when someone’s hurting. Because you look like you’re floating through life, but you're carrying far more than anyone knows. Because…”

Your voice softened, almost breaking.

“Because I think you’re lonely, and you don’t want to admit it.”

For a moment, he didn’t move. The silence was so deep it nearly hummed. Then—Haku reached out, more boldly this time, his palm cupping your cheek like he’d done it a thousand times in another life. His thumb brushed just beneath your eye.

“You really shouldn’t say things like that,” he whispered, voice unusually unsteady. “You’ll make me fall for you.”

The words struck like a bell across water—clear, trembling, impossible to take back.

You didn’t look away. “Maybe I want you to.”

His gaze lingered—watchful, searching. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, in your fingertips, everywhere.

Then his hand slowly fell, dragging a whisper of warmth across your skin. He looked away with a soft, resigned exhale, like the moment itself had left him defenseless.

“…I’ll remember this,” he murmured. “Tonight. You. This gift. Even if everything else fades, I’ll remember this.”

The incense by his side burned low, its ember faint, glowing like a dying star.

You thought that would be the end of it.

But then Haku reached back into the gift box you’d given him—the earrings still resting inside, silk threads trailing like twin fates.

He held one out to you.

“The right one,” he said casually, but his voice had a lilt to it. “It’ll suit you.”

You blinked. “Me?”

He rolled his eyes fondly. “Didn’t you say it yourself? A pair. One for you, one for me. That’s what makes it a charm.”

You hesitated, then leaned forward.

Haku moved slowly—not like he was stalling, but like this was some private ritual, older than both of you. His fingers brushed your ear as he hooked the crimson-and-violet earring into place, careful, gentle.

“There,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “Left thread for me. Right thread for you. That way, even if we walk opposite paths…”

His eyes met yours.

“…we’ll still be tied together.”

Your breath caught.

The petals of the wisteria tree rustled overhead, the incense thread burned its final curl into the night, and for one fragile moment, you wondered if you’d ever felt more seen.

Notes: ⌯⌲ Happy birthday to Haku and everyone who has the same or close birthday as his! ⌯⌲ Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

Oneiric Trap

Summary: A letter lost to time. A dream that feels too vivid to be fantasy. At Obscuary Dorm, you begin to remember a life that was never supposed to return—of a love that once ended in tragedy, of a vampire named Edward who once held you as you died in his arms. Now, as past lives bleed into the present, you must decide: is this a second chance, or just another loop in a fate that refuses to let go? Even if the pain remains, even if the ending once broke you both—perhaps, this time, you can begin again.

(Navigation: Normal text- present. Italicized- past)

The letter remains folded in pristine condition despite the decades it has endured, ink untouched by time, lying neatly atop his open journal like a cursed charm. It is written in a script as elegant as the man himself—crisp, winding, immortal. Only the moonlight has read it in full. Only the dead know what it meant.

You never saw it. But maybe… you once wrote a reply. Long ago. In a life you don’t remember. · · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

The sea breeze rolls in, salt and warmth brushing against your cheek as you step out of the beachside cottage. Rui had begged you to come along for the summer mission. Lyca had grumbled. But Edward?

He had said nothing—just gave you that half-lidded, unreadable stare before slipping back into the shadows of the manor.

Now, there he is, sitting under a lone palm tree as if the heat bothers him no more than a memory would. His white coat reflects the sunlight, fangs barely hidden as he sips something crimson from a glass bottle tied with an ornate ribbon.

“You look like a ghost that forgot how to haunt,” you say, walking toward him with a teasing smirk.

He laughs softly. “And you look like someone who shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, voice lower, “I can’t help but feel… you’ve always been.” · · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

He tells you one night—lazily reclining on the rooftop, staring at the stars he pretends to find dull—that you remind him of a woman he used to know.

“Is that your way of saying I’m not special?” you joke, heart skipping a beat.

“No,” he says simply. “It’s my way of saying you might be the only person I’ve ever loved.”

Silence. Then he smiles, slow and broken.

“She didn’t want forever. Not from me. Said she wouldn’t become a monster, not even for love.”

“And… you let her go?”

“I didn’t get the chance.” His red eyes flash. “Humans are fragile. Kindness is not always rewarded. She died before I could curse her or beg her. And I—” He stops, looking down at his hand, clenched.

You almost reach for it. Almost. · · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

You dream of a staircase.

Stone, wet with blood. A woman in white stands at the top, looking down at Edward with shaking hands. He looks younger. Angrier. Desperate.

“Why won’t you let me save you?” he asks.

“Because it’s not saving if I have to lose who I am,” the woman says.

You wake up gasping, tears on your face. You remember nothing clearly—but that voice. That pain. It feels too much like your own. · · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

On a quiet afternoon, you wander into his study.

The desk is cluttered with old books, maps, and a half-filled glass bottle, but one thing stands out: a folded letter, untouched and lying neatly atop his open journal, as if waiting.

You hesitate—then curiosity overcomes you.

Your fingers gently pry the paper open.

“The day that I met you, the world had just spit me out On my way to the bottom, sure I'd never be found Then you saw me for me, made me believe in myself On the day that I met you, it all turned around”

Your heart stutters.

The words are soaked in longing and honesty—nothing like Edward’s usual cynicism. The letter continues, and though the ink is aged, the pain feels fresh. Real. Raw.

You can't explain why your chest tightens as you read on. Why do your eyes sting? Why does your hand tremble?

You don’t remember much, but little by little, as you sleep and dream each night, the memories buried in your soul begin to stir. The faces in your dreams are no longer strangers. The staircase, the moonlight, the aching goodbye—they begin to connect like fragments in a broken mirror finally realigning.

And at the center of them all is him. · · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

The storm comes.

A real one—and something darker. An anomaly in the woods, a creature that should not exist. You face it, like you’ve done in a hundred unspoken dreams. Hoping it could stop the chaos it had done once you step up. Edward shields you with his body, his eyes glowing with fury, his power unmatched.

But when it ends, you’re bleeding. Something inside you burns. The wound is deep. Laced with venom.

He carries you through the downpour, whispering to you, trying to keep your eyelids from slipping shut. The others are gone. It's just you and him. Just as it always is when it matters most.

Inside the manor, he lays you down gently, like you're made of fragile glass. His pale hands are soaked with blood—your blood. His lips tremble.

Then you hear it.

A crack in his voice. The first and only time.

"Let me turn you," he says, kneeling beside you, fingers brushing your cheek. "Please—just this once, let me be selfish."

You can barely breathe. Your chest rises in shallow gasps, your skin cold despite the fire in his eyes.

"I can save you," he pleads, fangs visible, trembling with restraint. "You and I—we could have forever. You could be like me."

But even as he says it, he hesitates. His hands hover just above your skin, never quite touching your neck. Because you both know what it would mean.

To live, but not live.To remember, but slowly lose pieces of yourself.To love, but never quite the same.

You reach up with trembling fingers and gently hold his face in your palm. He leans into it, desperate, breaking.

"I’m sorry," you whisper, voice cracking and fading. “I still want to remain human… I don’t want to lose who I am.”

His breath shudders. You see the tears fall freely now. Gimmering in the dim candlelight.

"You’re everything I ever waited for,” he whispers, voice hoarse, “and I’m losing you.”

“I know,” you say, your eyes never leaving his. “But thank you, I love you, Ed—.”

“I love you too,” he says, so softly it breaks him.

And then you smile—weak, warm, human.

And he holds your hand, tighter and tighter, like he can anchor you to this world.

Both of you cry—for the life you can’t share, for the promise that time and fate ripped apart.

And when the tears dry and silence falls—

He knows.

Your heartbeat is gone. · · · · ──────────── ·✶· ──────────── · · · ·

You wake with a jolt.

Air rushes into your lungs as though you've been drowning for hours. Sweat clings to your skin. Your heart races, pounding like thunder beneath your ribs. The room is dark—quiet, but not empty. Your breaths come in shallow gasps as your hand flies to your chest. You’re alive.

But the dream lingers like smoke after fire.

No… not just a dream.

A memory.

You remember it all now. The beach. The blood. The final words. His face when you faded. His hand refusing to let yours go.

You cover your mouth with trembling fingers.

Then—a knock.

Gentle. Hesitant.

"…Are you awake?" Edward’s voice filters in through the old door of the Obscuary dorm’s guest room, low and cautious.

You sit up shakily. “Yes.”

The door creaks open, and there he is—Edward Hart, pale in the moonlight, concern etched into every line of his otherwise calm face. His crimson eyes search you the moment he steps inside, locking on your breathless expression.

“I heard you screaming,” he says quietly, approaching. “I came as soon as I could.”

You don’t have to tell him to come closer. He does. He sits on the edge of your bed like he's done this before—like he's always done this before.

“I… I saw it again,” you whisper, voice hoarse. “No, not just saw—I remembered it this time. All of it.”

He stays still, lips parted slightly.

You clutch the blanket over your lap, trying to keep your voice steady. “The dreams I’ve been having… every time I sleep in this dorm, they get clearer. They always started as fragments. But tonight… it was different. I saw you holding me. I saw my own death. I told you I wanted to stay human. I told you—”

You stop yourself, a wave of guilt hitting you as the words stick in your throat.

“I’m sorry…” you finally say, your voice breaking. “I don’t even know why I said that. I just… I remember the pain. Your pain. And mine. And the way it ended.”

Edward exhales, slowly. His lashes lower, then lift again.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” he says gently, reaching out and placing his hand over yours. It’s warm—warmer than you expect from someone like him.

“I’m just glad you're here now.”

You look at him, your eyes still damp. “But do you really believe… this is real? That I’m really the same person?”

He lets out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. “Even if you weren’t… I’d still fall for you again.”

The words make your chest ache. But this time, it’s no longer pain—just a quiet, tentative peace.

You squeeze his hand.

“Then… maybe we can start again,” you say softly. “This time, with no regrets.”

His lips twitch into a faint smile—the same tired smile, but now lighter. Like something heavy inside him is finally beginning to lift.

“Then let’s try,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Even if the past still lingers, we can still choose something else now.”

And so, under the hush of night sky, as dreams bleed into memory, and memory into hope—

You begin again.

Notes: ⌯⌲ Inspiration taken from Edward's Affinity lvl 25 ⌯⌲ Song Inspo: Fall Into Me by Forest Blakk ⌯⌲ Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

Sworn Oath

Summary: Haunted by the loss of his twin, Luca Errant arrives at Darkwick Academy with a single mission—find the demon responsible. Amid his quiet grief and unwavering pursuit, he finds unexpected solace in you. As his trust in you deepens and love quietly blossoms, Luca’s path leads him to a quiet cathedral where he kneels—not to propose, but to promise—offering not just his hand, but a future shaped by loyalty, healing, and hope, choosing you as his guiding light in a world full of uncertainty.

The cathedral was silent—save for the faint rustle of petals that drifted from unseen heights of forgotten prayers. Through the stained-glass windows, light spilled in delicate hues of sapphire and gold, casting soft halos upon the polished floor. It was as if the heavens themselves held their breath for what was to unfold.

You stood at the center of the aisle, your gown trailing behind like a river of stardust. The fabric shimmered with each step, your breath caught somewhere between wonder and disbelief. Before you, at the altar's end, stood Luca.

But he wasn’t just standing—he was kneeling.

In a pristine white suit threaded with gold filigree, a hand placed gently on his chest and the other extended to you, Luca looked nothing like the boy who had once shyly offered you blue-ribboned roses beneath the summer trees. And yet, he was entirely that same boy, just as he was the man who had seen darkness, who had fought to keep his soul kind in a cruel world.

“Take my hand,” he said, his voice soft, reverent. “Not just for this moment. For everything after.”

Your lips parted, but no words emerged. The weight of what surrounded you pressed close: not the grand arches of the cathedral, nor the sacred hush of the air—but the gravity of him.

Lucas Errant, the boy with knight’s eyes and a ghost in his heart.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You remembered the first time you saw him—really saw him.

He had been standing in the courtyard of Darkwick Academy, sunlight tangled in his ombré hair, a book on demonology clutched in one hand and a soft smile on his lips as he greeted you, his accent laced with polished British rhythm. “I’m Luca. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

His purple eyes held sincerity even then, but they also shimmered with something unsaid. That night, you'd learned why.

“I’m searching for someone,” he confessed beneath the moonlight of the library steps. “My twin. He was taken—by a demon. I’ll do whatever it takes to find him.”

You had seen it then: that cold fire in his heart, blazing behind the warmth he showed others. It wasn’t vengeance. It was love. Love that never gave up. Love that refused to forget.

Over time, Luca’s warmth became a comfort to you too. He carried your books, remembered your favorite tea, and always walked you to the edge of your dorm even when he had missions waiting. He never said what it meant. He didn’t need to.

And slowly, you began to fall. Not because of his looks—though they were breathtaking. Not because of his charm—though it was effortless. But because he made you feel like you mattered, like you were someone worthy of protecting even when he was the one with the broken past.

You watched him battle monsters with unshakable resolve, watched him cry in secret when he thought no one would see. And each time, you were drawn in deeper.

Until the day you found him wounded—his left arm bleeding, his voice trembling.

“It was close,” he had laughed weakly. “But I kept my promise. I said I’d come back to you, didn’t I?”

And now, here he was. In a cathedral. In white. Kneeling before you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he said, looking up at you now, eyes unwavering. “But I’ve known for a while now… if I’m to live in a world this chaotic, I want it to be with you and protect you, like a knight.”

A tremble ran through your hand as you reached for his. His gloved fingers curled around yours gently, reverently, as if afraid to break the spell.

“I used to think my only goal was to kill the demon and find my brother,” Luca whispered. “But somewhere along the way… I realized I found home, a refuge. And I found it. In you.”

Your heart thudded wildly.

The vow in his eyes said more than words ever could.

No matter how far. No matter how lost. You were each other’s North Star.

As he stood—hand in yours—petals floated around you, dancing in a current of sacred wind.

And though no priest stood to speak, no guests filled the pews, something divine wrapped around you both like a quiet blessing.

You didn’t need witnesses.

Because this was more than ceremony.

This was a sworn oath.

Notes: ➤ Song inspo: North Star by Hoang ➤ Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

Reluctant Words

Summary: The usually grumpy and evasive Ren who always kept his distance, surprises you with an invitation to the beach at night. Beneath glowing lanterns and the lull of the waves, his guarded walls begin to fall. With trembling honesty, he confesses that being with you feels safe — cozy — the one person who makes his chaotic world quiet. In the hush of the sea breeze and moonlight, emotions are laid bare, and what begins as an awkward outing unfolds into a quiet, unforgettable confession of love.

You had known Ren long enough to understand his patterns: evasive stares, dry sarcasm, and that ever-present phone he cradled like a lifeline. So when he suddenly asked, “Wanna go to the beach tonight?” — you nearly dropped your cup of tea.

“The beach?” you echoed. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not dying or anything,” he muttered, face turning ever so slightly pink. “I just… wanna go. With you. Wear a white dress.”

You blinked. This was new. Suspiciously sweet. Unlike the Ren who grumbled about everything from the school cafeteria menu to the weight of the air. But he was awkwardly sincere, and somehow, that awkwardness made it all the more real.

So you said yes.

Night fell like velvet, spreading its deep blues and soft winds across the coastline. The sky was glowing — indigo fading to black, freckled with stars. The waves hummed gently, like a lullaby whispered through the wind.

You adjusted your casual white dress, the soft fabric dancing around your legs. You hadn't dressed up for him — at least that’s what you told yourself — but the breeze was cool, and this gown felt just right. Elegant, light, and unintentional.

As you neared the beachside venue, your breath caught.

There he was.

Ren stood beneath an archway of sea-blue balloons and warm lanterns, soft golden light brushing against his hair. His formal outfit was so unlike him, but he wore it well — a sharp, olive-toned vest under a white suit coat, his tie a subtle quadrilateral pattern. He looked nervous. Unsteady. Beautiful.

He saw you, and his eyes widened just a fraction. “You…”

“Hm?”

He stretched out his hand toward you. “Come here already. You're gonna trip in that dress.”

You walked over, linking your arm with his. He was warm — stiff at first, then slowly relaxed with your touch.

“You look pretty,” he mumbled.

You raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Ren turned his face away. “Don’t play dumb. You heard me.”

“Whaaat?” You leaned in, teasing. “Didn’t quite catch that~”

He stopped walking for a second, then turned to you fully — cheeks blooming red. “I said, you look pretty, okay?! Stop making me say it again.”

You laughed, heart thudding at the honesty in his eyes. He was blushing hard now, and you were too — both of you facing opposite directions, hands still linked, hiding your red faces behind the night air.

“Jeez…” he muttered. “You’re such a pain.”

You smiled. “You like that though.”

“…Shut up.”

The two of you strolled under the lantern-lit archway. Everything about the beach felt enchanted tonight. Gentle waves glittered under the moonlight, and the sea wind carried a calming saltiness that lulled your senses.

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured. “I could watch this beach forever.”

Ren nodded. “...Yeah. I didn’t think I’d like this. But it’s… not bad.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I just thought it’d be annoying, or boring, or loud…” He glanced at you from the side. “But it’s not. Not with you.”

You didn’t answer right away. You simply smiled, letting the silence speak. And he didn’t pull away.

By the time you reached the end of the walkway, the lights softened behind you, and the shore opened wide — a clear, moonlit space where it felt like the entire world could pause for a moment.

Then, Ren turned to face you. His expression — a mess of panic and bravery — made your stomach twist.

“I… I’ve been thinking,” he blurted out. “I mean, not that I do it often — thinking about stuff like this — but when I do, it’s… always about you.”

You blinked.

“I’m not good at this.” He rubbed his neck. “But every time I look at you, it’s like… my head shuts up. You make the noise stop.”

You didn’t respond right away. Your brain was still processing. Did he just… confess?

“Wait—”

“I like you,” he said. “A lot. And I get it if you don’t feel the same, or if I’m just—”

You cut him off by grabbing his hand. “Ren.”

He looked startled.

The wind danced around you, lifting strands of your hair as the waves whispered encouragement.

You pulled back just a little, breath mingling with his in the salt-kissed air.

Ren's eyes met yours, hesitant but intense. His fingers curled slightly at your waist, like he wasn’t sure whether to let go or hold on tighter.

“You know,” he started, voice unusually quiet, “you are… really cozy.”

You blinked. “Cozy?”

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, cheeks visibly pink now. “Yeah. Like… you feel safe. Warm. Like I can actually breathe when I’m around you.”

You tilted your head, smiling. “That’s a strange way to describe someone.”

“I don’t care,” he muttered. “It’s true. You’re cozy.”

You tried not to laugh, but your chest ached in the best way. “Ren…”

“I mean it,” he continued, eyes darting between yours and the sea behind you. “I don’t know what it is, but when you touch me—when you look at me like that—it’s like your hand’s always been there.”

Your heart caught in your throat.

“I tried to ignore it,” he admitted, voice growing shakier. “Tried to act like it didn’t mean anything. I told myself it was just a phase or whatever. But every time you talk to me, every time you look at me… it’s like the world slows down.”

The wind gently tousled his hair. The waves murmured beneath your feet.

Ren looked at you again — really looked — and this time, he didn’t shy away.

“I’m into you,” he said. “I’ve been into you for a while now. And I know I suck at this—confessing stuff—but it’s you. It’s always been you.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. Your brain was trying to catch up with your heart, which was already sprinting ahead.

Ren took a breath and added, quieter, “I don’t ever wanna see you cry. I don’t wanna have to say goodbye. I don’t wanna lose you.”

He laughed nervously, eyes still so painfully honest. “But if I had to choose between pretending nothing’s going on or risking it all by telling you this… I’d still tell you-”

Your fingers tightened around his.

You didn’t let him finish.

You leaned in and kissed him, stealing the rest of his sentence with your lips. He responded almost instantly — hesitant at first, then tender, and finally with the kind of certainty that made your entire chest bloom.

When you pulled away, your noses still brushed.

“I do,” you whispered. “I feel the same. I’ve just been waiting.”

His hand brushed your cheek, reverent, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

And the night wrapped around the two of you, soft and endless. The lanterns flickered behind you, the sea shimmered beneath you, and the stars above blinked slowly — like they, too, were in awe of what had just bloomed.

So damn cozy.

Notes:

⌯⌲ Inspirational song: Cozy by Jeremy Zucker

⌯⌲ I love this card so much, and this Bachelor series has found a winner, and it’s Ren.

⌯⌲ Ao3 vers. ⌯⌲ Also, hello I guess I'm back it has been a while, hope everyone's doing well.

[badboydevotee]

In A Temporary World

Summary: In a quiet lab where time has stopped, Rei Amayado spends every night beside his comatose wife, Nayuta—speaking to her, grieving her, and clinging to memories. Haunted by guilt and love, he lives in limbo, until a single tear threatens to shatter the silence of his temporary world.

The sterile hum of the machines was constant—too constant, as if they had replaced the beating of a heart that refused to stir. Rei stood at the edge of the room, half-drunk, half-lost. His coat hung unevenly on his shoulders, one side slipping off like it, too, had given up. A half-empty bottle of whisky dangled from his fingers, its label worn, just like him.

There she was.

Nayuta.

Encased in the quiet glow of life-support monitors. Pale. Still. Beautiful even now. Time hadn’t touched her face the way it had carved lines into his. She looked exactly as she did the day she collapsed—eyes fluttering shut like the end of a story, not the beginning of years of silence.

He stumbled forward and dropped into the worn-out armchair beside her bed. It creaked. It always creaked. He had meant to fix it, but like everything else outside of this room… he never did.

“Guess what, Nayuta?” he slurred, voice cracked with a laugh too sharp for joy. “Saburo figured out who I am. Jiro too. Ichiro… he always knew, didn’t he? Smart brat. Too much like you.”

His gaze dropped to her still hand. “They hate me,” he whispered. “Or they pretend not to. I can’t tell anymore.”

Silence.

“I let them go because I thought it would make things easier,” he continued, voice rising, breaking. “I thought if I stayed away… if I gave them space... they would be happy. He reached out and took her hand—cold but warm enough to shatter him.

“You said we could change the world. You and me.” He pressed her knuckles to his forehead. “But I couldn’t even change our fate. Couldn’t save you. Couldn’t save them. Just hid behind wires and microphones and lies.”

The monitors beeped softly in response. It felt cruel. Like they were mocking him for hoping she'd answer.

“I should’ve gone with you that day,” he muttered. “Should’ve held your hand when everything fell apart. Should’ve stopped working. Should’ve said ‘I love you’ more.”

His fingers tightened.

“I still love you.”

The words dropped like ash.

He leaned back, eyes glassy, head heavy with guilt and scotch. “Do you hear me in there?” he asked, voice barely a whisper now. “Do you dream of me? Of the boys? Of that ramen place you liked by the station?”

The lab lights buzzed overhead. Always too bright. Always too clean. He hated it.

He rested his forehead against her arm.

“I come here every night. Did you know that?” His voice cracked. “Every damn night. For four years. I wait for you to twitch. To breathe differently. To blink. To wake up. I wait like a fool. Like a husband. Like a man who’s already buried everything that matters.”

His tears finally fell—hot, slow, angry.

“I don’t want to do this without you anymore.”

Silence.

No miracle reply. No awakening.

Just the man, the ghost of the woman he loved, and the beep of machines that had no soul.

He closed his eyes and let the drink slip from his hand, glass shattering at his feet.

Still, he didn’t move. He just clung to her hand—like it was the only thing tethering him to what little he had left.

The light outside faded into a dull navy blur. The reinforced glass barely let in the moon, but even that sliver seemed too kind. In here, time didn’t pass. It paused. A captured breath. A moment stretched unnaturally long.

Rei sat where he always did—slouched forward, elbows on knees, face in his hands.

It had been another day of nothing. No change in the monitor's rhythm. No shift in her fingers. No miracle. Just the sound of her breathing filtered through machines, synthetic and haunting.

He lifted his head slowly and looked at her.

He pulled away sharply, guilt curling through him like rot.

“I was selfish,” he spat. “I thought I could still fix something. I thought—if I had more time, if I poured enough money into machines, whispered the right words into the right ears—maybe... maybe you'd come back to me.”

He leaned back, sinking deeper into the chair as if it might swallow him whole.

“I keep thinking about that day,” he said after a long silence. “You were supposed to meet me after work. I was late. Always late.” A humorless smirk twisted on his face. “You hated that. You said being on time was the least a man could do if he claimed to care.”

He closed his eyes.

“You were already on the ground when I found you.”

The words tasted like rust.

“I started this for you, you know,” he whispered. “All of it. The Hypnosis Mic. It wasn’t about war or peace or revolution. It was about finding a way to protect your voice. The voice that got through to me. That made me feel human.”

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, black recorder—ancient, battered, still warm from always being near.

He pressed play.

A voice crackled out. Her voice.

«Rei, are you seriously recording me again? You’re going to make me sound like a drunk ghost.»

She laughed in the recording. A light, fluttery laugh. He hadn't heard it in years.

«I love you. You’re a headache, but I love you.»

The tape was cut off. Just like that.

His breath caught in his throat.

“I listen to it when I can’t breathe,” he admitted. “Which is… most days.”

He stared at her still face.

“I kept thinking you’d wake up angry. That you’d scream at me for being stupid. That you’d get up, throw this damn coat out the window, and make me take a bath.”

Silence.

“But you don’t even flinch anymore.”

He stood up, slowly. It hurt more than usual. His bones always hurt in July. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was guilt calcified into cartilage.

He took off his coat and draped it over her gently.

“I miss the way you used to hum while cleaning,” he said, smoothing the fur collar under her chin. “Even though you were off-key. Even though I complained.”

He sat on the edge of the bed now, closer than he’d allowed himself in weeks.

“I don’t know who I am without you.”

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“You made me feel like a man. Not a machine. Not a traitor. Just… a husband. A father. A man.”

The words lingered like incense, too faint to fill the room.

“I keep telling myself I’ll let you go. That tonight will be the last night. That I’ll unplug everything and let your soul find its way out of this sterile hell.”

He didn’t move.

He couldn’t.

He bent forward slowly, forehead pressed to her shoulder.

“But I’m weak.”

He stayed like that, breathing with her. Or rather, breathing with the sound of her breathing.

“You always said I was afraid of silence,” he murmured. “I thought you meant noise. But I think… you meant this.”

The room pulsed with machinery. Life, and not life.

“You’re still my world, Nayuta. Even if it’s only a borrowed one. Even if it’s temporary.”

And in that moment—between one heartbeat and the next—something changed.

Nothing dramatic. No alarms. No beeping. No gasp of breath.

Just a single tear sliding down Nayuta’s cheek.

Rei froze.

His hand reached up to brush it away, not daring to believe.

But there it was. Warm. Wet. Real.

He stared, eyes wide, mouth slack.

“Nayuta…?”

The machines beeped as they always did. No irregularities. No clinical proof.

But to Rei, the world had cracked open again.

And for the first time in four long years, he didn't feel alone.

Notes: > Title implies Rei lives in limbo, pretending it's not over. > This is the song that inspired this fic > A continuation of that first Rei fic I made here. See notes for explanation as well! It has also been a while not making any fic! Alot happened but I'm back now! Sorry it's not tkdb but I'll get back to it, I miss writing especially angst <3

Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

Who are your faves in Tokyo Debunker?

Jin, Taiga, Ren, Sho, Jiro~

[badboydevotee]

Love In Legato

Summary: As the season burns brighter, you find yourself pulled into a quiet unraveling—Jin’s walls cracking like glass under summer’s touch, a melody he’s never dared play written just for you. A letter sealed with music and silence may be all he has left to give.

The ocean breeze slips in through cracked windows, dancing through chiffon curtains and touching the ivory keys of a grand piano sitting untouched in his room—until today.

It had started with a letter.

A single envelope slipped beneath your door. You had thought it might be from a teacher—maybe Tohma, considering his habit of leaving you unexpected tasks. But the handwriting was too refined. The paper was too expensive. When you broke the wax seal, the scent of fresh-cut cedar and sea salt hit you like a memory.

“Come to the music room. 5 PM. Don’t be late. —J.K.”

No signature. Just initials, though there was no mistaking who it was from.

You groaned out loud. “Not this again…”

Jin Kamurai had been a pain in your side ever since your first mission together—a disaster that ended with you soaked to the bone and him scoffing while effortlessly saving the day. He was everything you didn’t like: cocky, aloof, way too confident for his own good. And he called you “servant.” You made it a point to walk away every time.

But despite all of that, your heart never listened.

The moment you entered the music room, you regretted it.

Jin sat at the grand piano, head tilted slightly toward the light as he pressed the keys—soft, aching notes that wrapped around you like a second skin. His white suit shimmered faintly in the fading sun, and his silver-blue hair ruffled slightly with the breeze. His eyes—icy blue, unreadable—lifted to meet yours.

"You’re late."

You scowled. “Only by thirty seconds.”

"Thirty seconds longer than I had patience for.”

“Then why invite me?”

He stood, the piano's soft melody cutting off mid-chord. "Because," he said, voice low, “I’ve written something. For you. And since you’re not going to come willingly unless it sounds like a command, I had to make it one."

You blinked. "You wrote a piece?"

He stepped closer, closing the space between you. You noticed the gold chain around his neck glinting faintly as he handed you a folded sheet of music.

"No. A letter. But I don’t write letters the normal way."

You unfolded the sheet. No words. Just notes. A haunting melody in G minor, swelling and falling like ocean tides.

"You expect me to read music like a love letter?"

His expression didn’t waver. “Play it.”

When you sat at the piano and played the first few notes, a hush fell between you. The melody was tender—vulnerable in a way Jin never allowed himself to be. And as you played, you realized: this was his heart. Every harsh word, every arrogant smirk, every time he pushed you away—it was all here, transposed into the language of music.

By the time you reached the last chord, your hands trembled.

"You said you didn’t care," you whispered. "But this—"

"I never said that," he cut in. His voice had dropped, quieter now. "You just assumed I didn’t. Because I don’t say things with words like you want."

He knelt beside you, hand brushing yours on the keys.

"I’m not good at this," he murmured. "At… people. At feelings. But I’m trying. For you."

The next few weeks passed like a dream.

You never officially became "a thing," but it became obvious to everyone in Frostheim. Jin would “accidentally” show up in the hallway just as you were walking by. He’d “forget” to mention that the cafeteria had your favorite dessert until the last minute, then drag you there without waiting for a thank-you. His favorite insult now came with a smirk: “Stupid servant. Can’t function without me.”

You rolled your eyes every time. But you never walked away.

One afternoon, you found yourself on the beach outside—sand warm underfoot, the sky painted with lavender and pink hues. Jin was already there, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled from the breeze. In his hand: a bottle, sealed with ribbon and a wax stamp.

"A gift," he said, tossing it lightly to you.

You caught it, eyebrow raised. “What is this? A message in a bottle?”

"Open it."

Inside was another letter—this time in words.

You’re loud. You’re annoying. You’re too stubborn for your own good. And I don’t know when I started liking all of that. Stay with me. Even if I’m difficult. Especially if I’m difficult. I don’t care what you call me—just don’t walk away again. Yours, even if I won’t say it out loud. —Jin

Your chest ached.

He was standing there, waiting, not saying anything. You stepped closer, slipping the bottle into your bag.

"You still owe me a better nickname."

He blinked. “What?”

“If you ever call me ‘servant’ again, I’ll push you into the sea.”

A pause. Then—he laughed. Not a smirk, not a scoff, but a real laugh. His voice, deep and rich, rang out like the piano's final note.

“Fine. Then I’ll call you…”

He leaned closer, breath warm on your cheek.

“Mine.”

That night, back in Frostheim, you returned to the music room. Jin was already there, waiting with a second page of music.

He looked up, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "You coming in or what?"

You sat beside him at the piano. Together, you played. The room filled with your music—his rough, perfect chords and your gentle accompaniment blending together.

And when the stars lit the icy sky above, Jin reached over, hand resting on top of yours.

"You make summer feel… less unbearable."

You smiled softly. “You make it feel like a breeze I never want to lose.”

Title Legato - "smooth and connected." When notes are played legato, they flow into each other without breaks—gentle, emotional, and continuous. The title suggests a love that may not be loud or sudden, but instead flows quietly and deeply—like the subtle, growing affection between Jin and the reader. It reflects Jin’s tsundere nature: he doesn’t speak his feelings outright, but his emotions come through in soft, connected gestures—like music played legato. Jin expresses his feelings not in words, but through music. The "legato" represents how love forms gradually through shared moments, even if neither of them says it aloud.

Inspo song

Mad by Martin Garrix and Lauv this song's stuck in my head, I had to put it somewhere.

Ao3 vers. I keep saying love in gelato..

[badboydevotee]

Midnight Opal

Summary: "Hey, servant. Did you get the package from Tohma yet? ...No? Tch... What the hell is he doing..." - Jin's birthday greeting (2025).

The Frostheim dormitory was cloaked in its usual silence, the kind that pressed in around you like snow falling in slow motion—cold, weightless, beautiful. You had spent most of the day being greeted by your classmates, receiving messages and small gifts, and trying to forget one crucial, bothersome thing: Jin Kamurai hadn’t said a word about your birthday.

…Well, not directly.

You were halfway up the marble staircase that led to your room when a familiar, clipped voice echoed behind you.

“Hey, servant.”

You froze in place.

Of course.

Turning on your heel, you raised an eyebrow at Jin, who stood on the landing above you, leaning on the rail as though he had been waiting.

“You know I hate it when you call me that,” you sighed, crossing your arms.

He smirked faintly, but his voice carried no heat. “Did you get the package from Tohma yet?”

You blinked. “Tohma? No, I haven’t seen him all day.”

His jaw tightened ever so slightly. “Tch… What the hell is he doing…?”

You watched him carefully. Despite his usual aloofness, there was a slight edge of restlessness in his posture—his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders tight, eyes flicking away from yours a bit too fast. You were beginning to recognize the signs. When Jin wasn’t being an arrogant ass, he was painfully awkward. Which, frankly, was even more entertaining.

“Did you send him to give me something?” you asked innocently.

He scoffed, turning away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

A beat passed.

“…So yes,” you grinned.

“No.”

“Liar.”

“You’re imagining things.”

You let out a soft laugh, walking up the stairs to catch up with him. “You know, for someone who insists I’m ‘just a servant,’ you sure spend a lot of time thinking about me.”

That got him. He turned, narrowed eyes flashing as if you’d just dared him to duel.

“Don’t make me regret acknowledging you.”

“You already did,” you teased. “Acknowledged me, I mean.”

Jin opened his mouth to fire back—but the words didn’t come. Instead, he exhaled sharply, pulling something from his coat pocket. A small, velvet box. The kind that practically screamed “expensive.” He shoved it into your hands with the grace of someone disarming a bomb.

You blinked down at it. “…You got me something?”

“Technically,” he muttered. “Tohma was supposed to give it to you.”

You opened the box.

Inside was a necklace—delicate, silver, with a single glimmering opal at the center. Iridescent, flickering with blue and lavender under the lights. You gasped.

“This is beautiful…”

“…It matched your eyes,” he said under his breath.

You looked up at him, startled.

He cleared his throat. “I mean. It looked decent. That’s all.”

“You picked this out yourself?”

Jin turned away, walking toward the window with a low grunt. “Whatever.”

You grinned at his retreating figure. “You’re cute when you’re like this.”

“What did you say?” His voice was sharper now, almost smug.

Your stomach dropped. Shit.

“I said you’re cute when you—wait—I didn’t mean—!”

He turned, a predator’s grin forming as he strode toward you.

“Oh? Say it again.”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

He was close now—closer than he ever got unless you were arguing. His blue eyes bore into yours, smug and daring.

“I’m pretty sure you said I was cute.”

Your face was on fire.

“You’re imagining things!” you squeaked, backing up a step.

Jin leaned in slightly, smirk still in place. “You’re stuttering.”

“I’m NOT—!”

“You are.”

He chuckled. Laughed. A rare sound, low and amused, and it made your stomach flip.

“…You’re so annoying,” you muttered, though the smile betrayed you.

“Yet you’re still standing here.”

“Because I want my birthday gift.”

“That was your gift.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He gave you a look. “Tch. You’re greedy.”

“I’m joking. Really, Jin… thank you.” You looked down at the necklace again. “It’s perfect.”

His smirk faded a bit, replaced by something softer, more difficult to read. He glanced at his watch.

“Come with me.”

“Where—”

“Just follow me, idiot. And bring a jacket.”

You had no idea where he was taking you, only that it involved walking past several off-limits staircases, an elevator only used by Jin, and a set of security locks you didn’t even know existed.

At the top of the building, Jin pulled open a heavy door and stepped aside. Cold air rushed in, but you weren’t focused on that.

You were focused on what lay beyond.

A rooftop garden.

Illuminated by hanging lanterns and tiny, floating glass orbs that glowed like fireflies. There was a table set near the center, covered in a crisp white cloth, topped with candles and a decadent dessert spread. A soft jazz melody drifted from hidden speakers, and a heater hummed nearby, keeping the air comfortably warm in your little private pocket of the sky.

Your breath caught in your throat.

“…You did all this?”

Jin stepped beside you, his hands buried in his coat. “I had people.”

“But… you planned it?”

He glanced down, not answering. Which was enough.

“Why?”

He sighed. “Because I don’t do things halfway. Not even birthdays.”

You turned to him slowly. His eyes were on the city skyline, the soft gold light casting elegant shadows on his face. There was a vulnerability to him right now, rare and unguarded.

“You really didn’t have to go this far,” you said softly. “I would’ve been happy just getting ramen with you.”

He clicked his tongue. “Don’t say shit like that. You deserve better than ramen.”

You blinked at him. “I… I do?”

“You’re annoying,” he muttered. “But you’re not just some nobody. You’re mine.”

Your heart stopped.

“…I’m what?”

He didn’t repeat it.

Instead, he pulled out a chair for you, still avoiding your gaze. You sat down in stunned silence, watching as he settled across from you with the air of someone who had just revealed a war secret and regretted it.

The evening passed like a dream. The cake was too rich. The lights too soft. Jin’s awkward attempts at small talk slowly gave way to genuine conversation. He asked about your childhood, your favorite memories, your future dreams. He listened.

He rarely did that for anyone else.

And then…

“…Hey.”

You looked up from your half-finished dessert.

“Hmm?”

He was leaning back in his chair, the stars mirrored in his silver hair.

“I know I’m not easy to be around. And I’m… not good at this kind of thing. People. Feelings. Birthdays. But…”

His voice softened.

“…I don’t hate being around you.”

You blinked. Your throat tightened.

“That’s… the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” you whispered, laughing through the emotion.

“Don’t get used to it.”

You nodded, lips trembling with the effort not to cry.

“I won’t.”

But you both knew you would.

Later that night, as he walked you back to your dorm, you paused outside your door. The silence stretched between you, warm and brittle.

“…Thank you, Jin.”

He stared at you, unreadable.

Then, without a word, he stepped forward—and gently, gently—tucked your hair behind your ear. His fingers brushed your cheek. He leaned down, lips ghosting the top of your head.

“…Happy birthday, dear”

Your heart caught. You stared at him.

“Dear…?”

“I’m allowed to have my own nickname for you, aren’t I?”

You nodded wordlessly, stunned.

“Now go,” he muttered, stepping back. “Before I change my mind and steal your cake.”

You laughed, warm tears in your eyes.

“Good night, Jin.”

He gave you one last look—the kind that said too much, the kind he’d never dare to put into words—and turned, disappearing down the hall.

But you knew.

And just maybe—so did he.

Notes:

> I ran out of ideas of what Jin could ever call reader if there is such a thing for him on endearments, and I kind of don't want to dwell on common ones.

> Also this is a birthday gift for myself but of course I'm still sharing <3

Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

Foxglove

Summary: "Yep, it's my birthday today! You want to give me a present? Okay, then tell me who you like!" - Towa’s birthday voiceline.

The air hummed with a peculiar charge, like the world itself was holding its breath. 

And it was. Because today was Towa’s birthday. 

You stirred under your covers, the soft chime of wind brushing against your window coaxing you awake. You had barely opened your eyes before the familiar scent of crushed flower petals filled your nose. Your heart skipped. He’d already been here. That scent — a wild, untamed mix of dandelions and wild mint — could only belong to him. 

Towa.

You padded through the dorm’s corridors, clutching something in your hand — a small, hand-bound book of pressed flowers. You had made it yourself over several months. Every page held a memory, a moment shared with him. You had hesitated over what to gift him, knowing he wasn’t interested in things. Towa treasured moments. Oddities. Beauty in its rawest form. 

But the real question was: Would he treasure something from you? 

As you neared the greenhouse — Towa’s favorite haunt — the door was already ajar. Of course it was. He never locked it. Why cage something meant to bloom? 

Inside, it was chaos and harmony at once. Vines curled toward the light lazily. Bubbles drifted lazily in the warm, humid air. And there he was. 

Towa. 

He sat cross-legged in a patch of dappled light, sipping from a bowl-shaped flower like a fox at a forest stream. His white-lavender hair caught the sun, almost translucent, and his peach-colored eyes shimmered — horizontal pupils gleaming. A dandelion stalk hung from his lips. When he saw you, he grinned. 

“Dandelion.” The nickname slipped off his tongue with a softness that made your knees weak. 

“Happy birthday,” you said, stepping forward, heart pounding. 

He tilted his head. “You remembered. I’m flattered. But you always remember the important things, don’t you?” 

You nodded, trying to find your words. Before you could speak again, he stood fluidly, like a breeze made flesh, and walked toward you. 

“Want to give me a present?” His eyes sparkled. “Okay, then—” He leaned in until your noses nearly touched. “Tell me who you like.” 

You blinked. Your cheeks warmed. He had a way of asking things that sounded like riddles and dares at once. 

“Towa—” 

“No cheating.” His tone dropped ever so slightly, the shadows in the room responding like loyal hounds. The clouds outside covered the sun for a moment. His smile thinned, his pupils narrowing. “Truth only. Even if it hurts.” 

You inhaled shakily. “You. It’s you. I like you, Towa.” 

There was a heartbeat of silence. The flower in his mouth dropped to the floor. The sky brightened again. 

Then — he beamed. 

“Finally.” 

He twirled around, arms wide, flowers blooming in his wake. 

You stepped forward, handing him the gift. He took it slowly, reverently. 

“A book?” he asked. “It smells like sunlight.” 

He flipped through it, fingers trailing over the pressed petals. When he reached the last page, he found a single dandelion tied with golden thread — the same flower he always saw you with when you first met. 

Later, he led you deep into the woods beyond the dorm, to a hidden glade filled with bioluminescent flowers. You had never seen this place before. 

He sat down and pulled you beside him. 

“This is where I come when I don’t want to smile,” he said softly, voice lower, real. “But today… I want to smile.” 

You leaned against him. His warmth was real. His presence was no longer strange — it was comforting, electric, familiar. As if he were a part of the earth itself. 

“I used to think I was meant to be alone,” he admitted. “Like a wild anomaly too strange to keep close.” 

“You’re not strange to me.” 

He looked at you then — fully, deeply. “Dandelion,” he murmured, “you are the only one who bloomed in winter. The only one I waited for.”

He didn’t kiss you. Not then. Towa believed in moments. And this one wasn’t about hunger or claiming. It was about belonging. 

He lay back in the grass, head on your lap, hands full of glowing petals. 

“I’ve decided,” he said sleepily. “You’re my favorite birthday gift. Ever.” 

And just before he drifted to sleep, he whispered,

“Next year, ask me who I love. I’ll tell you.”

Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

When did you start writing?

I started back in my teens, you know when physical light novels were a trend? I got inspired after reading a few of them. I also didn't know they have Wattpad + I prefer physical copies than online. I have short attention span ><

I also made a few blogs in Tumblr before. One of which is A3 Yume blog

But I discontinued it 😅

[badboydevotee]

would you still write hypmic content sometimes in the future? i'm guessing you probably like samatoki a lot (he has TONS of angst potential) soo would you write more about him or the other characters? thaank youuuu(⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)💐💐💐

HIIIIIIIIIIII I LOVE YOUR WORKS<333 AND I REALLY REALLY LOVE THE RECENT ONE ABOUT MC. my girl rlly deserves to liveÓ⁠╭⁠╮⁠Ò

OF COURSE! I love him so much!! I miss writing other fandoms too! If I get a free time writing, I'll try again and other hypmic characters too. 🩵 😫 I guess my faves are showing, I'm trying not to make it obvious but I think I'm making it so obvious. 😂 Samatoki is easiest for me to do because I like him and YOU'RE SO RIGHT he has A LOT of angst potential and I so love angst. 🤤

Thank you so much for the support 🥹 Leaving a comment and reading everyone's comments motivates me more to do fanfics 🥹 If I ever don't reply, just know I read it and I just don't know what to reply next ><;; but thank you from the bottom of my heart 🩵

[badboydevotee]

Ask me a question is now open! I'll try to answer as soon as possible during my free time! Any questions are entertained, just not so personal stuffs~

Questions will be open for a week only! I'll close it once it's past a week~ So feel free to ask

☕👀

[badboydevotee]

Is This The End?

Summary: You walk the line between what must be forgotten and what your heart refuses to let go. As time slips away, choices must be made — even if they come at the cost of everything you have come to cherish.

The sunset bled like a quiet wound across the horizon.

You stood by the tall window of the old building, your silhouette swallowed by the glow that pressed in through the glass. The streaks of purple, light blue hues and amber looked like brush strokes painted by a world that had never known sorrow.

Your fingers tightened against the fabric of your coat. The building was quiet. No missions today. No blood. No cries. Just silence.

A silence you didn’t trust.

“Is this the end?”

The question returned again—like the bloom on your nape, slow, invasive, inevitable.

The Kyklos curse had grown, the purple flower now blooming at your nape. They said time was running out.

Edward’s mist couldn’t hold you—not completely. You had wondered then, what if I give in? What if the pain, the slow decay of your humanity, the constant dread of becoming something monstrous… What if all of it stopped?

And yet… you didn’t.

Because of Kaito, who once told you that you helped him survive a mission he never thought of making out of. Because of Jin, whose icy sarcasm gave way to a rare smile when you took care of him when he was sick. Because of the girl you’d saved from the Barometz—her hand trembling in yours, her eyes whispering thank you through tears.

Because of the ghouls who once said they didn’t need you, and then nearly tore the school apart when you disappeared.

Because… even if you couldn’t fight the monsters with weapons and blood, you’d fought the ones in the silence.

“You’re not useless,” Jiro had once said.

You remembered that moment clearly. His voice was hoarse, broken from the pain, his body barely held together in the bed. You got angry at the Mortkranken students for not helping you and Yuri to transport a capsule to help Jiro. You’d screamed at them. Begged. Lost your temper.

You hated losing your temper. But you hated watching people die more.

That was the paradox of you. Shy. Insecure. Weak, you said. But when it mattered, when lives were bleeding out before you—you moved. You didn’t think. You didn’t hesitate.

Even now, standing there alone, you wanted to scream.

Because you were so close to finding a cure.

So many leads, all gone.

The candle Taiga offered—an eternity in a world where nothing hurt. The bite Edward offered—an unlife where your flower would wither away but so would your soul. And the help of the Sage’s Ring, and its soft, strange warmth when it resonated with another’s stigma.

“What if… what if being cured means forgetting?” “Would I lose… them?”

The memory of Sho’s laugh. Haku’s grin as he healed your skinned knees after you slipped on frost. Luca teaching you how to hold a dagger even though you’d never use it. Yuri making you tea and acting like he didn’t care.

These weren’t just memories.

They were pieces of you.

And yet, you knew. Darkwick was a place for the cursed. The ghouls. If your curse was lifted, you'd no longer belong here. You’d be sent back—to your old world. Your old life. You’d forget all of this.

Forget them.

The sky darkened further, the clouds swallowing the last light.

You placed a hand against the glass, cold meeting cold. Your breath fogged faintly on the windowpane. Somewhere below, voices laughed—a few students chasing shadows across the courtyard, pretending for a moment that the world wasn’t ending around them.

You envied them.

No. That wasn’t quite right.

You loved them.

And if it meant fading from their world so they could keep living in it... would that be enough?

You pulled out the letter from your coat pocket—the one you hadn’t dared to open.

It was sealed in wax, bearing the sigil of the Headmaster.

You’d been told that once your choice was made—whether to try the final test, to risk the change, or to accept a fabricated peace—the letter would guide the way.

One path would purge your curse. One path would turn you into something else. One path would trap you here forever.

You traced the seal with trembling fingers. Your eyes, still hidden beneath your bangs, stung.

And yet… you smiled.

Because no matter what you chose—no matter what the letter said, or how many days you had left—you weren’t that frightened person anymore.

You were still scared. Still unsure. Still wondering if you mattered.

But you fought. You loved. You saved people.

And you were going to keep doing that, to your very last breath.

Even if you had to forget them…

“I hope they don’t forget me.”

You slipped the letter back into your coat.

Tomorrow, you’d decide.

You stand here just a little longer… watching the sky burn softly, like it knew how many stories had been written beneath its fading light.

Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

Blurred Vision

Summary: Exhaustion catches up to Jiro who’s forgotten how to rest—until a steady presence beside them becomes the only thing that keeps the world from falling apart. Something unspoken finally settles into place.

Dust hung lazily in the shafts of morning light, and all was still—save for the faint rustle of paper and the sound of strained breathing. You sat beside him, perched on the edge of the bed with your knees pulled up to your chest, watching him with quiet worry.

“Do you ever stop?” you murmured, breaking the silence.

Jiro didn’t look up. His crimson eyes scanned the page slowly, his face blank, the usual surgical calm etched into every motion. His messy hair fell slightly into his eyes, unkempt but strangely endearing. His face, usually a blank canvas, looked older this morning—drawn, pale, and worn.

“I stop when the work is done,” he replied simply, his voice low, monotone.

“That’s not how bodies work, Jiro,” you said gently, “You’re not a machine. You need rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Jiro,” you said softly, brushing his bangs aside, “you’ve been staring at the same page for ten minutes.”

But that was a lie. You could see it—the sluggish movement of his pen, the subtle tremble in his long fingers, the way his vision seemed to swim right past the lines he was trying to read. His body was crying out for rest, even if his mind refused to surrender.

You reached forward, placing your hand lightly on his. He flinched—not in fear, but like he wasn’t expecting warmth. He never really did. Not even now.

Jiro blinked.

The letters on the page suddenly swirled together into an illegible mess. He blinked again, once, twice. His head tilted slightly, and then, like a puppet with its strings cut, he swayed.

“Jiro?”

You caught him just before he fully slumped to the side, the papers scattering from his lap to the floor like fallen leaves.

“Jiro!”

His glasses slipped down his nose, his body strangely light in your arms. He blinked up at you, eyes hazy, red irises dull.

“…Can’t… see.”

Panic bloomed in your chest like wildfire. “Jiro—what’s wrong? What do you feel?”

He didn’t answer.

You pushed his glasses off completely and cupped his face. His skin was cool, clammy. There was something wrong—more than just exhaustion, more than lack of sleep. Your hands shook as you reached for the emergency med kit on the bedside.

But Jiro’s hand caught your wrist.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, dammit!” you snapped, tears rising unbidden to your eyes. “Don’t you dare say that when you look like you’re about to pass out or worse!”

“…It’s not painful. Just… the blur again.”

You didn’t know what terrified you more—that he was so used to pain that blurry vision didn’t faze him anymore, or that he could collapse like this and still try to pretend it was normal.

You lowered yourself to eye-level with him, brushing his messy bangs away from his forehead. “When was the last time you took Yuri’s medication?”

“…This early morning.”

“Liar.”

You moved on instinct, flipping open the latch, your fingers practiced from too many mornings like this. You found the bottle labeled Stabilizer: Kirisaki, J.—a name that always felt too clinical for the man you held now, vulnerable in your arms.

You grabbed the half-empty glass of water from the nightstand and pressed the pill to his lips. He sat up just enough to swallow it, your hand steady on his back. When he finished, he slumped forward again, exhaling softly, his forehead brushing your collarbone.

He didn’t answer. But the way he leaned into you—head bowed, breath warming your neck—said more than any words could. You held him like that for a while, fingers curling into the soft strands of his hair, grounding him.

“You always pretend nothing bothers you,” you murmured, “but you scare the hell out of me when you push past your limits.”

There was a long pause. Then, unexpectedly, Jiro let out a soft, breathy chuckle. “You caught me.”

Your eyes narrowed. “This isn’t funny.”

But he was still chuckling, that low, rasping sound he sometimes made when you got spooked by the cadavers during lab duty. He only laughed when you were the one panicking—never out of cruelty, but because, in some twisted way, your emotions made him feel something he wasn’t sure how to process.

In that moment, his laughter wasn’t to mock, but to reassure.

Still, it broke something inside you.

“You idiot,” you whispered, cradling his head to your chest. “What are you trying to prove? That you can work yourself to death and still hold a scalpel steady?”

“…Not trying to prove anything,” he murmured into your shoulder, his voice muffled. His fingers curled weakly into the fabric of your sleeve.

“…When you’re here, it stops. The pain.”

Your breath caught. You could feel his heart beating against your chest—slow, tired, but still there. You pulled back just enough to look at him. His expression was blank, but his eyes were searching now—slowly focusing, slowly returning to you.

He trailed off, his hand sliding up to rest against your chest—his fingers curling lightly into your shirt, as if to make sure you were still real.

“You ground me,” he said, voice barely audible.

You didn’t reply with words. Instead, you leaned down and pressed a kiss beside the small mole near his lips. His face barely moved—but the tension in his shoulders eased, just slightly. A breath. A release.

And then, something rare.

Jiro smiled.

Barely there—but real. A flicker of something warm beneath the cold exterior. You reached up and touched his face gently, fingers brushing the curve of his cheek.

“I’m not your medicine,” you said softly.

“You are,” he replied, matter-of-fact. “Yuri says my condition stabilizes when I’m with you. Endorphin release. Regulated pulse. Maybe emotional dependency. Doesn’t matter. It works.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him he couldn’t rely on you like that, but the truth was—you were just as helplessly drawn to him.

Maybe it was the way he always carried himself like he had nothing left to lose, or the strange peace you found in his silence. Maybe it was the way he’d always stand just slightly behind you in crowded hallways, as if watching your back. Or the way his fingers trembled when he thought you weren’t looking.

You brushed your lips against his forehead, then slowly pulled away to look at him. “Lie down. I’m staying with you tonight.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered.

“…Good,” he said. “Because I don’t think I would last without you.”

A pause. Then, finally, he obeyed, letting you guide him to lie down, head resting on the pillow, your hand still in his.

You tucked the sheets around him like you’d seen Yuri do once, back when Jiro passed out in the lab from blood loss. Back when the rumors started calling him “Frankenstein.” But under the scars and hollow gazes, he was just… Jiro.

Your Jiro.

As the minutes passed, you felt his grip loosen, breath deepen. Sleep finally, mercifully, overtaking him.

You lay beside him, fingers still tangled in his, heart still aching.

And as you watched the sunlight shift across the sheets, you whispered quietly:

“I’ll be here. Even when you’re not.”

And for once, the pain was silent.

Ao3 vers.

[badboydevotee]

Birthday Prayer

Summary: “I suppose today is my birthday. Thank you. If you don’t mind, will you join me in praying for my twin brother’s safety?” Luca’s birthday voiceline.

The dormitory hall was quiet, save for the soft murmur of voices and occasional bursts of laughter echoing from rooms further down. You stood in the middle of Luca’s room, eyes trailing over the delicate preparations you and a few others had spent the better part of the day arranging: streamers in subtle shades of violet and gold, candles flickering atop a small cake, and a string of lights casting a soft, enchanted glow over the room.

But there was no Luca.

Not yet.

It had been over half an hour past the time he said he’d return. His phone hadn’t buzzed with any messages, and a creeping sense of worry edged into your stomach. Luca wasn’t the type to be careless—not without good reason.

The door creaked open behind you. Kaito leaned against the frame, his usually casual expression more solemn.

“Hey,” he said, voice lowered. “You’re looking for Luca, right?”

You nodded.

“He… went to the chapel. Said he wanted some time alone.” Kaito hesitated, then added gently, “Today’s his birthday, but it’s also the day his twin disappeared.”

You didn’t wait for him to finish. Grabbing your coat, you muttered a soft thanks and made your way through the chilled evening air toward the ancient stone chapel at the edge of Darkwick’s grounds.

The chapel was quiet, empty save for the faint flicker of candlelight and the distant sound of wind brushing against the stained-glass windows. You stepped inside cautiously, the door creaking behind you as you scanned the pews.

There he was—Lucas Errant—kneeling at the altar. His hair glowed faintly in the candlelight, a soft transition from earthy brown to a violet that echoed in his eyes. His back was straight, hands folded, head bowed.

You stood behind him for a moment, unsure if you should interrupt, until he spoke.

“I suppose today is my birthday,” Luca said quietly, not turning around. His voice was calm but strained. “If you don’t mind… will you join me in praying for my twin brother’s safety?”

Your heart clenched.

You stepped forward and knelt beside him.

Together, in silence, you closed your eyes. You didn’t know the words he said in his heart, but you felt the grief and the strength woven into them. And you whispered your own—asking for protection, for reunion, for light to guide someone lost back to the brother who still waited.

After several long minutes, Luca breathed out slowly. “He always loved candles,” he murmured. “Even as kids. Said they reminded him of stars that had come down to earth to keep people company.”

You turned to look at him. He was still facing forward, but his eyes were distant, glassy.

“He’d always light one for me. Said it would ward off the monsters.” Luca’s voice dropped. “Now I light them for him… hoping they’ll show him the way home.”

There was a pause.

“I’m sorry for disappearing,” he said, finally looking at you. His purple eyes were tired, but grateful. “I know you probably planned something. I didn’t mean to ignore it. I just… I couldn’t ignore this.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” you said softly. “Not to me. I just didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

Luca offered a small, genuine smile—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, but tried. “You’re kind. Kinder than I deserve.”

You reached over and gently took his hand. His fingers were cold, but they wrapped around yours with careful, trusting warmth.

“I don’t know where he is,” he said, voice shaking. “I don’t even know if he’s alive. But I can’t stop searching. I won’t. Every day I stay here, I study harder, I hunt deeper—because there’s a demon out there that took my other half. And I will bring him back.”

His conviction burned like a fire under frost. You saw it then—the fury beneath the gentleman's calm, the pain beneath the chivalry. The cold fire that ignited whenever demons were mentioned.

“I believe in you,” you said. “And I believe in him, too. I believe he’s still out there, waiting for you.”

Luca exhaled shakily. “Thank you,” he whispered. “That means more than you know.”

You sat together in the quiet, your hands still joined as the candlelight flickered like stars between you.

After a while, you stood, helping him to his feet.

“Come on,” you said gently. “There’s a small party waiting for you. Nothing fancy. Just… people who care.”

Luca hesitated. “I’m not sure I’m in the right mood.”

“I know,” you said. “But I think your brother would want you to celebrate, even just a little. Not because you’re forgetting him, but because you’re remembering him with every step.”

His eyes watered, and for a moment, he said nothing.

Then he nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

But before you could walk away, he turned back to the altar, took another candle, and lit it.

“For you, my twin brother,” he murmured. “I’ll find you. I swear it.”

And through it all, you would walk beside him—offering light when his burned low, and hope when his faltered.

Because he wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

Ao3 vers.