cheshamstreetbreakdowns

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

“They can’t wait to meet me.”

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Loophole

A sudden hic popped from Celestiel’s throat.

A single glowing butterfly flitted from her parted lips—soft, translucent, and tinged with pale blue light. It danced lazily through the air before dissolving with a shimmer.

Chukasa blinked. Then, as another hiccup slipped free and another butterfly emerged, he let out a low laugh.

“Well, they definitely have some power,” he chuckled, stepping closer with mischief glinting in his violet eyes. “Angel or demon… still undecided. But dramatic flair? Undeniably from me.”

Celestiel groaned and covered her face with her sleeve just as another hiccup forced a lone butterfly to tumble into the air like a flicker of moonlight.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered.

“I think it’s adorable.” Chukasa crouched down in front of her, both hands coming gently to rest against the soft curve of her belly. “You two in there,” he said in a stage whisper, “are causing all sorts of trouble already.”

Celestiel opened her mouth to protest—and then gasped softly.

A wave of warmth swelled through her, curling in her stomach like a rolling tide of magic. It wasn’t painful, but it was intense—like all the energy in her body rushed toward his touch. Her knees wobbled slightly. Her breath caught.

From her lips came another hiccup—but this time, no butterfly. Instead, little glowing hearts spiralled into the air in soft hues of blue and violet, glittering like stardust.

Celestiel blushed furiously. “Oh—gods.”

She turned half away, hiding her face. “Stop looking.”

“I think it’s sweet,” he said, rising smoothly to his feet and wrapping one arm around her waist. “They can’t wait to meet me.”

He leaned in and stole a quick kiss off her lips before she could stop him, then added, with a quiet grin, “And I can’t wait to meet them either.”

The butterflies, hearts, and soft glow slowly faded, but a tension lingered in the space between them now—charged with unspoken understanding.

Celestiel rested her hands over his. “But if this is already happening…”

“Yeah.” Chukasa’s voice sobered. “If the Council saw any of that—hiccups or hearts—they’d lose their minds.”

“They still don’t know if they’ll carry demon blood,” she murmured. “Hope was born without any, but the Council… they don’t want to risk a half-blood. If powers are already forming this early…”

“They’ll call it unnatural. Dangerous. A threat.”

Celestiel nodded, her expression tightening. “Even if it’s just this—small, gentle things. They’ll still twist it.”

Chukasa held her close for a moment, his eyes distant.

Then he kissed the top of her head and murmured, “Let’s talk to Raphael.”

She looked up. “You think he’ll have an idea?”

“If anyone does, it’s him.”

Celestiel nodded once more. “Okay. Before the Council senses anything. Before we lose the chance.”

They stood together in the still quiet of their home, the last of the magic fading softly into the night.

~

The chamber was quiet—lit only by the soft shimmer of celestial wards humming along the stone walls. Celestiel sat with her hands resting over her tiny belly, though she was already months along. No glow, no swell, no radiant signs of life—only the absence. And that, perhaps, was what kept them safe.

Across from her, Chukasa stood with arms folded, the tension in his shoulders betrayed only by the way his jaw clenched and unclenched. He hadn’t spoken since Raphael entered the room.

Raphael, bathed in green and violet sigils of his healing mantle, traced a glowing pattern in the air. He finished the final line of the ward, then let it fade. The silence lingered until he finally spoke.

“There’s no sign of flare,” he said gently. “Their energy hasn’t breached the veil.”

Celestiel exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening on the fabric of her robes. “Then we still have time.”

Raphael nodded, though his face was grim. “Not much. The Council is suspicious. You’ve carried far longer than expected without complications… and they’re beginning to ask why.”

Chukasa’s eyes flicked up. “Because there are none.”

“But if there are—” Raphael turned to him, voice quiet but urgent— “If even a thread of your demon heritage manifests, her body won’t withstand it. Archangels aren’t made to carry corrupted life. Even sealed in love… the cost could be her own soul turning on the twins. Immuno-spiritual collapse. It wouldn’t be death. It would be… erasure.”

Celestiel closed her eyes, breathing deeply as if to steady the air inside her lungs.

“She’s not corrupted,” Chukasa growled. “Neither were they.”

“Hope was not,” Raphael said softly. “But this is not Hope. We don’t know what these twins will be. And the Council won’t wait to find out.”

Celestiel looked up. Her voice was steady. “They still scan every sunrise?”

Raphael nodded. “Divine sweeps. If they detect even latent demonic resonance—unsealed, untethered—it’ll be declared a cosmic threat. And you know what that means.”

Silence. It hung like frost between them.

“Restoring the balance,” Chukasa said coldly.

Raphael didn’t deny it.

Then, his voice softened. “But… there’s another way. A loophole. I can perform a binding rite. It will suppress all angelic and demonic energy completely. Their signatures will vanish—even from divine sight.”

He knelt in front of Celestiel now, his voice low but sure.

“No one will know they exist. Their energy won’t ripple the threads. They’ll be ghosts in your womb. That’s the only way you’ll carry them to term.”

Chukasa stepped forward, his voice dark with worry. “And what do they lose in return?”

Raphael looked between them. “Everything… for now.”

He didn’t sugarcoat it.

“They won’t develop like normal angelic children. Their wings, their grace, their light—it will all stay dormant. Sealed. But they’ll live. And you’ll have time. Maybe that’s enough.”

“And later?” Celestiel whispered. “When they’re born?”

Raphael met her gaze.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “The seal was never meant to be permanent.”

Celestiel pressed her hand to her belly. For a long moment, no one spoke. Then, quietly, she said, “I would rather give them the chance to choose than have them erased before they’ve breathed.”

She turned to Chukasa, her voice barely audible.

“Even if it means they grow up slower. Even if it means I never see them fly.”

Chukasa’s hand covered hers. His thumb brushed her knuckles.

Chukasa stood at her side, silent until now. “Seal everything,” he said. “They’ll have time to be extraordinary later. Right now, we just need them safe.”

Raphael stood.

“Then we begin tonight. Before another sunrise passes.”

He reached for his staff, inscribing the sacred circle that would erase the very presence of the children from Heaven’s sight.

“If they can’t sense what they fear,” he said as the glyphs glowed around them, “they can’t act on it.”

“You’ll have time,” he said. “Nothing more. But that may be everything.”

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Together

Celestiel sat at the edge of the couch, arms folded, a pout playing at the corners of her mouth. The firelight flickered over her face, but the annoyance in her voice was clear.

“Raphael is such a nosy know-it-all.”

Chukasa looked up from the tea he was lazily nursing across the room, a slow grin tugging at his lips. “Yeah, that sounds like him.”

He leaned forward, setting the cup aside, and tilted his head with mild curiosity. “Why? What’s gotten under your skin?”

Celestiel hesitated—too long. Her fingers fidgeted in her lap, and she exhaled slowly as if that might settle the way her heart was suddenly racing. “Nothing. He’s just… he’s reading into things again.”

Chukasa narrowed his eyes slightly, the way a predator would when the scent of something interesting drifted close. “Celestiel.”

She sighed. “Fine.”

Turning to face him, her lashes flickered up briefly before darting away again. “He… he said he thinks the babies want us to be together.”

Chukasa blinked once—and then let out a low, amused chuckle.

“Sounds like my kids.”

“What?”

“Is that all?” he asked, stretching lazily and standing to cross the space between them. “Why’s that under your skin?”

Celestiel turned her face to the side, a soft tsk under her breath. “Because…”

He raised an eyebrow, arms now loosely crossed as he waited.

“…Just…” she muttered under her breath, “they make it impossible to resist you.”

It was quiet—barely a whisper. She thought he wouldn’t catch it.

But his ears perked.

And oh, he heard.

In an instant, he closed the distance between them, his fingers sliding under her chin as he tilted her face toward his, and kissed her—slow and sure.

When he pulled back, his grin was positively wicked. “Come on,” he murmured, “if you think I’m not using this to my advantage… you really have forgotten me.”

Chukasa watched her carefully, the way her breath caught, the way her lashes fluttered when his fingers grazed the back of her neck. It wasn’t subtle. Not anymore.

His eyes darkened—not with uncertainty, but with clarity. Certainty. This wasn’t a maybe. This wasn’t a game. She wanted him—achingly, helplessly. He didn’t smirk this time. He didn’t tease. Instead, his hand swept down to the curve of her waist, slow and deliberate, pulling her closer until her body brushed against his.

Her breath hitched again. Her hand instinctively rested against his chest—she could feel the steady thrum of his heart, too calm for what he was doing to her.

And she shuddered.

It was involuntary. A barely-there tremble that passed through her shoulders like a whispered confession. She stiffened, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

But he always noticed.

Chukasa paused, head tilting slightly. His fingers lingered just beneath her hairline, as if testing the waters—and then he did it again. Slower. Softer.

She inhaled sharply.

“…That,” he said, voice lowered to something darker, “is new.”

“Shut up,” she muttered, flustered.

But her voice betrayed her—too breathy. Too fragile. She tried to look away, but he caught her chin gently between his fingers again, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“You’re trembling,” he whispered against her mouth.

“I hate you,” she whispered back.

He chuckled softly, voice almost a growl now. “No you don’t.”

And when he kissed her again—this time with intent—it wasn’t teasing anymore. It was hungry. Possessive. She melted into it, and for a breathless moment, the world narrowed to the weight of his hands, the heat of his chest, the pull of his lips against hers.

This was chaos. And it was perfect.

~

It hadn’t been a decision.

There was no dramatic kiss in the rain, no sweeping confession or sudden surrender. No moment where one of them gasped, “I love you,” like in the stories.

It just gradually happened.

One day, they were co-parenting.

The next, he was brushing her hair behind her ear without asking, and she was letting him.

At first, it was moments. Flickers. A hand resting on her back. A shoulder leaned against his. A kiss on the cheek that didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

Then came the mornings where she’d find herself making tea, knowing how he liked it. The nights he’d fall asleep on the couch and she’d cover him with a blanket, muttering that it was only because he looked cold.

But it kept happening.

The back-and-forth. The flirty remarks. The way his fingers always found her waist. The way she started wearing her softer robes at home. The way he stopped knocking when entering her quarters.

~

She was speaking too fast—heated, breathless from frustration about something he’d done.

“You’re impossible,” she snapped. “You never listen—”

He kissed her.

Right in the middle of the hallway, hand firm on her jaw, lips confident and unyielding.

The words crumbled instantly.

When he pulled back, she stared at him—speechless, dazed, furious that she wasn’t furious.

“Chukasa…”

“You’re really cute when you’re mad,” he said, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone.

And she—

She just stood there.

Frozen.

Wanting him to do it again.

~

The school courtyard shimmered faintly under the morning sun, golden light catching on marble archways and the slow swish of uniforms as students filed inside. Chukasa stood at the gate, one hand resting lazily on his hip as Hope darted up the steps, waving over her shoulder before disappearing through the double doors.

Celestiel stood beside him, arms crossed, her gaze following their daughter in thoughtful silence.

Chukasa didn’t say anything at first. He just watched her.

Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in. His hand lifted, gentle fingers brushing a lock of her platinum hair behind her ear, tucking it neatly away.

She flinched—but only slightly. No shudder this time. No stiff posture. Just a faint intake of breath.

His smile was quiet and warm. “See you tonight.”

She rolled her eyes, but her voice was softer than usual. “You’re supposed to be gone already.”

“I know,” he said, turning, walking backward for a few steps. “But you make it hard.”

She didn’t answer. But her fingers brushed the spot he touched, lingering longer than she meant to.

~

The next time, it was raining.

The faint patter against the glass of the foyer echoed in the silence between them. Hope had already rushed ahead into the school, swinging her bag, laughing with one of her classmates.

Celestiel turned to say something—something formal, something simple—but before she could, Chukasa stepped closer.

No words. Just a kiss.

Quick. Confident. Familiar.

His lips met hers like it was routine, and though her body jolted slightly, she didn’t pull away.

She didn’t even scold him.

When he drew back, she stood still, her expression unreadable—but her eyes lingered on his face longer than she used to allow.

“You’re really not going to stop, are you?” she asked quietly.

He smirked, adjusting the collar of his coat. “Not when I keep getting away with it.”

And with that, he turned and vanished into the rain, his silhouette fading like steam.

Celestiel stayed there for a moment too long, lips still tingling from the kiss she hadn’t tried to resist.

~

Celestiel stood by the window in the grand library, tracing her finger down an ancient map. The sunlight cast silver through her hair, catching the edges of her wings.

Chukasa walked up behind her and wrapped both arms around her waist. His nose dipped into the crook of her neck, nuzzling gently.

She exhaled a breath she didn’t realise she was holding and tilted her head just enough for him to press his lips softly beneath her ear.

Hope rounded the corner with a stack of books—and stopped dead.

She didn’t say a word.

She turned slowly, walked back out, and added nothing to her sketchbook that day.

~

Hope was halfway out the door, cloak swinging as she hurried off with her friends, calling over her shoulder.

Celestiel was distracted—flipping through a list of training rosters by the door. She didn’t even notice Chukasa until his hand was already on her hip.

He leaned in, pressed a kiss to the side of her neck. Brief. Soft. Sure.

She blinked—but didn’t move.

Just tilted her head slightly to the side, giving him better access. A small, wordless invitation.

Hope, watching from the edge of the courtyard, slowed.

Then turned and walked faster, not looking back.

She didn’t know if she liked it.

But it made her feel something. Something heavy and fluttery all at once.

~

After a long day, Celestiel waited at the steps while Hope packed up.

Chukasa arrived behind her and, without a word, slid his hand to her waist and kissed her temple.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she’d always say.

But the way her eyes softened when she looked at him said something else.

Hope would trail behind them in silence, staring down at her boots.

They weren’t hiding it.

They just weren’t naming it.

~

Celestiel was walking past him in the hallway—book in hand, intent on getting to her quarters.

Chukasa caught her by the waist with one arm and pulled her flush against his side, spinning her halfway toward him. “Where do you think you’re sneaking off to?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she murmured—but she didn’t try to wriggle free.

He leaned down and kissed the side of her neck, lips grazing her skin in a way that left her breath uneven.

Hope came around the corner mid-step—and froze.

Celestiel looked over her shoulder, met her daughter’s wide eyes, and for the first time, didn’t move away from the embrace.

She just nodded toward the hallway. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

Hope blinked. Then turned and walked off in silence.

~

Hope was in mid-sentence, talking about a fire spell she’d finally perfected.

Celestiel smiled. Chukasa laughed.

Then—just like that—he turned, held her waist, and kissed her.

In front of their daughter.

No warning. No hesitation.

It was quick. But it was not friendly.

It was a kiss that said you’re mine—and that she didn’t mind being his.

Celestiel blinked, cheeks slightly warm, but she didn’t scold him. Didn’t look embarrassed.

She just cleared her throat and said softly, “Go on, Hope.”

Hope stared at them both for a long moment.

Then turned and walked ahead, her mind spinning.

~

The school gate had become a strange little ritual.

Chukasa would walk Hope in, crack a joke about celestial exams, ruffle her hair, and then—on the way back to Celestiel—lean in without hesitation.

A kiss on the lips.

Brief. Soft. Familiar.

“See you tonight,” he’d murmur.

Celestiel never pulled away. Never scolded. Sometimes she even brushed her hand over his cheek as he walked past, as if returning the gesture in her own quiet way.

Hope had stopped reacting.

But she noticed every time.

~

It was happening more and more now—quiet touches, affectionate glances, soft smiles passed between them like they belonged. Sometimes, there were kisses too. Not hesitant ones, not playful pecks, but real kisses—slow, familiar, certain. The kind that made it feel undeniable: they were together.

And yet, they weren’t.

Chukasa and Celestiel still didn’t live together. They didn’t stay the night. They shared care of her, came and went like two halves orbiting the same center but never settling side by side.

Hope had thought they were finding their way back to each other. But somehow, even in all that closeness, they still remained apart.

And then...

Hope had forgotten her satchel.

It was tea break at the academy—just long enough for her to sprint home, grab it, and get back before anyone noticed.

The place was quiet when she entered. No voices. Just the low creak of ice settling in the rafters and the faint hiss of the hearth fire burning low.

Perfect. Nobody was home.

She was halfway down the hall when she heard it.

A murmur. Familiar. Deep.

Chukasa.

Her stomach dropped.

She winced—she’d be in so much trouble if he thought she was skipping school. So she stepped toward the sitting room and called softly, “Sorry! I just forgot my satchel—I’m not wagging, I got permission—”

She stepped into the doorway.

And froze.

Celestiel was pressed against the wall just beside the hearth, her robes loosened at the shoulder, one hand gripping the edge of a side table, the other tangled in the front of Chukasa’s coat.

Chukasa had her pinned.

His mouth was on hers. Deep. Devouring.

One hand cupped her jaw, fingers splayed possessively along her cheek, while the other held the back of her thigh, pulling her against him like he needed to feel every inch of her.

Hope’s heart slammed into her ribs.

They hadn’t noticed her.

She took a step back. Then another. Then turned and bolted out the front door, her satchel forgotten entirely.

The cold air hit her like a wall—but it wasn’t enough to clear what she’d just seen.

They weren’t joking anymore.

They weren’t dancing around it.

They were together. Really. Truly. In the kind of way that changed everything.

And now she knew.

And she couldn’t un-know.

~

Celestiel didn’t know the exact moment it shifted.

She only knew that when Hope asked, with wide eyes and a trembling voice—“Are you two… together?”—

She had glanced toward the open doorway, where Chukasa stood with his arms folded, his usual smirk softening as their eyes met.

And instead of denying it, she’d simply said:

“…I guess we are.”

And that was it.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Second Best

Nuru had been buzzing after the fight.

That kind of buzz that sank into the bones and made his skin feel too tight. The way the wind stung sweeter, the air tasted sharper, and everything inside him craved. It had been too long since he’d let loose, since he’d felt alive — really alive.

He’d wanted to celebrate. But when he’d slipped off into the night — leaving Raki to passed out and sleep off his exhaustion — he’d expected to find someone waiting for him.

But she wasn’t.

Night after night, he hunted the alleys, the rooftops, the crowded bars and quiet corners. No matter where he turned, no matter how far his shadows reached, he found nothing.

No sign of her.

Where was she?

The rush dulled. The high sank to a low thrum of irritation.

He’d only been gone a little while. She couldn’t have just… given up on him. Not like that. He started returning early, melting back into the manor’s shadows with a frustrated huff. Missing her. His girl. His wife.

And always, that creeping thought: Maybe it’s Katsuka. Maybe that was why she hadn’t come back. Maybe she was waiting on him.

That thought soured his stomach more than anything.

Why was it always Katsuka? Why did she always look at his uncle with those soft eyes and that stupid, fluttering smile?

It made his fur bristle. Made him twitch with agitation.

Where the fuck was she?

The longer she stayed gone, the more the tension spiraled — until it began to seep into Raki. It began in his chest, a quiet ache, but soon bled into his bones, his breath, his blood. The frustration was constant now, like a second heartbeat thrumming beneath his skin.

Sometimes he woke up gasping, his body burning — not from fever or battle wounds, but need. A heat that coiled low in his gut, electric and infuriating, with no release. Not when Marina, round with twins and flushed with exhaustion, couldn’t bear his touch. Some nights she would physically push him away from a simple kiss. Other times she simply turned away, too tired.

It left him aching, raw with want. A fire with nowhere to go.

“What the fuck is going on?” Raki hissed through clenched teeth, glaring into the corner of the steamed-up bathroom, where the shadows curled thick and oily. His reaper eyes gleamed like twin moons in the fog, cutting through the veil with a sharp, cold light.

The shower blasted cold — he dunked his head beneath it again — but even the icy needles pelting his skin couldn’t soothe the burn in his blood.

“Dude, come on,” he growled, raking a hand through his soaked curls. “I’m already horny as hell without whatever bullshit drama you’ve got thinking about Kai.”

Sorry boss… You need better game… Want me to go in to bat for you?… I’ve had way more practice…

Nuru’s voice slithered from the walls, velvet and smug.

“Oh fuck right off.” Raki slapped his hand through the shadow, dispersing it with a hiss. “Stay away from my wife, uncle!”

Hey, at least you got good taste… Big blue ain’t so bad to look at…

“Don’t you fucking dare!”

The tiles cracked beneath his fist, shards pinging across the floor as the shadows retreated, laughing. Nuru cackled, retreating just out of reach, his smoky form reappearing casually by the doorway.

Whoa! Easy now, little prince… No need to get pissy… It was a complement…

Raki’s eyes blazed. He stalked forward, bare feet slapping against wet tile, muscles coiled tight. But Nuru vanished again like mist before a storm, his chuckle echoing long after he disappeared.

He didn’t even notice Marina at first.

The scent of her — salt and vanilla — hit him before her gaze did. She stood at the threshold, eyes wide, lips parted slightly as if caught mid-breath. Her gaze swept over him: water dripping down his naked form, fists clenched, eyes wild and glowing with leftover fury. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, a flicker of heat kindling in her gaze.

She crossed the distance between them, her hands rising to grip his shoulders, then his jaw. Her fingers were firm, trembling slightly. The kiss came fast and hot — hungry, desperate, like she was trying to drink something out of him.

He barely had time to think.

You’re fucking welcome…

Nuru’s voice was smug as ever.

~

After that, Nuru tried to do better.

He did feel bad for the kid. For the tight knots of frustration twisted beneath his skin. For the lonely nights. But it wasn’t just empathy. Nuru missed her too — her scent, her laugh, the sharp bite of her teasing words, the way her fingers hooked in his collar when she wanted him close.

He missed Kai in a way that made his shadows hum and ache. So when another week passed and his uncle finally emerged from his cave, Nuru knew he couldn’t keep waiting.

He had to find her.

~

That night, the city pulsed.

Warmth hung in the air like a lover’s breath — heavy and close — turning the streets into veins of noise and light. Neon flickered off wet pavement. Motorbikes roared. Laughter spilled from doorways like perfume.

But something was different tonight.

He smelled her before he saw her — peppermint and smoked sugar with something wild beneath it all. The scent hit him like lightning. That unmistakable blue hair, wild untamed curls catching streetlight, and she — well, he — sat at the bar alone, nursing a drink like it owed him answers.

Those blood red eyes snapped up as he slid into the chair beside him, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Sorry baby,” he drawled, reaching to flick at his short hair with a finger. “Uncle can’t come out to play. You’ll have to settle for second best.”

Her transformation was instant.

Frost shimmered off her skin, crawling up her arms as she turned. Blue curls fell like a curtain, red eyes flashing as a smirk tugged at her mouth. She was flame wrapped in ice, and his breath caught.

“Second best?” she echoed, arching a brow as her eyes roamed over him like claws. “Didn’t take you for a sore loser.”

He wanted to snap back, something cocky and flippant, but then her fingers skimmed his arm — featherlight — and the air shifted. She leaned in close enough that her breath danced across his throat.

It was electric. All-consuming.

“Fuck I missed you,” he whispered, voice rawer than he meant.

And then he was pulling her close, hands gripping her waist like a drowning man catching a lifeline, and their mouths collided — hot and bruising, greedy and aching.

It wasn’t just lust. It was hunger. It was home.

~

Kai kissed like she had something to prove.

Teeth, tongue, heat — all wrapped in a velvet challenge. Nuru didn’t fight it. He sank into it, all swagger and shadow, like he’d just stepped into a dream he hadn’t realised he was starving for. Her fingers curled into his shirt like she might tear it, and he let her. Gods, he wanted her to.

When they finally pulled apart for breath, her lips were kiss-swollen and turned up into a smirk. His grin widened as he brushed a thumb across her cheek.

“Missed me that much, ne?” he teased, eyes burning into hers.

“Still think you’re second best?” she asked, voice low in his ear, breath teasing.

He shivered.

For a moment, they just breathed — her head resting on his shoulder, his nose buried in her hair, taking in everything he had missed. The way her weight on him felt like something grounding, something real.

“I hate how good you feel,” Kai whispered.

He gave a low laugh. “That’s because you’re stubborn.”

Her hands smoothed over his chest, resting there. “And you’re a bastard.”

“Only for you.”

Her fingers found his jaw, tilting his head down until there was no space between them once more. He felt the world around them shift as she pulled him back with her — back into a room that he had graced many times before in secrecy and hushed whispers.

Kai’s back hit the wall with a thud, and Nuru was already on her before she could move.

He kissed her like he was starving.

She kissed him back like she was furious that he’d made her wait.

Hands roamed with purpose — her fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt, nails dragging over the ridges of muscle as he shrugged the fabric over his head. He caught her wrist and turned her, pressing her back to his chest, his mouth grazing the shell of her ear.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven’t you?” he whispered, voice like silk over blade. “Go on, say it.”

Kai’s breath hitched as his fingers splayed low across her stomach, dragging up, slow, deliberate.

“No,” her eyes flashed in defiance, voice hoarse.

“That's ok.” He kissed down her neck, nipping where her shoulder met her throat. “I'll make you say it by the end of the night.”

She twisted in his arms, fingers tangling in his hair as she yanked his mouth back to hers with a growl. Their teeth clicked — too hungry, too wild — and his hands swept under her thighs as he lifted her with ease, her legs locking around his waist.

He carried her to the bed like she weighed nothing, practically tearing the dress from her body with a frustrated growl as he threw her down. He watched as those blue curls fell free across her chest. She was divine. Furious and flushed and radiant.

“My queen...” he murmured, reverent now.

Her smirk returned, even as her pupils blew wide with lust. “Come worship me.”

He did.

He kissed her like she was a temple and he was starved for divinity — lips trailing down her collarbone, fingers teasing her skin, the cry she made blooming heat through his entire body. She arched into him, thighs tightening around his body, pulling him in.

He moved with purpose. No frantic pace — just a steady rhythm that built and burned, one that made her moan his name in ways that felt like home and ruin all at once. Her nails scored down his back. His fangs scraped her throat.

“Say it.” he growled. “Say you missed me.”

“Fuck you.”

“Already am.”

She choked on a laugh — but then he angled just right, and her body buckled. Her back arched, and he caught her mouth in another kiss, her cry swallowed into his throat. He came undone with her, her name on his lips in a broken whisper.

He grinned as she pulled him back closer when he tried to move away, legs locking back around him now.

"Oh, you're not done yet." She said with a wicked smile, hands trailing up the ridges of his chest. "I'm not satisfied yet."

"I live to serve, my queen." he breathed, voice thick as he leaned back down to claim her lips.

There would be no time for talking anymore, just their bodies against one another.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

“Only when I’m admiring you.”

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

I Love You So

The Happy Fox Café was overrun with charm.

From the clinking of teacups to the warm scent of sugar and roasted chestnut, everything about it screamed soft. Sweet. Comfortable. It was festive, with promotional sakura treats and drinks drawn up on the menu boards out the front.

He sat across from him now, swishing his wine like it had personally wronged him, eyes downcast, lips pressed in that quiet, familiar line of disdain.

Kai couldn’t look away.

Gods, he’s beautiful.

He didn’t mean to think it, but the thought came easily now—unfurling in his chest like breath after diving too long underwater. He’d seen Katsuka cloaked in shadow, cold and sharp like a blade unsheathed. But this—this was the version that wrecked him.

Lit by golden café lights, framed in soft amber and steam. His freckles catching just enough glow to make them look hand-painted. Lips that moved rarely but perfectly. His hands—those elegant, steady hands—curled loosely around the stem of his glass, unaware of how much Kai’s thoughts circled them.

Katsuka sipped his wine.

He always chose red—dry, full-bodied, something with quiet elegance and far too many tannins. The kind of drink you had to earn. It matched him, really.

His fingers curled around the glass with effortless grace, lips brushing the rim like they didn’t know they were being watched. Occasionally, he scowled—at the wine, at the warmth of the room, at a passing waiter—and each expression pulled another quiet laugh out of Kai.

Katsuka looked up then, finally sensing the weight of his gaze. His brows lifted a fraction.

“…What?”

Kai didn’t say a word. Just kept smiling, eyes lingering on him a moment longer than polite.

“You’re very scowly tonight,” he murmured.

Katsuka took another sip of wine. “It’s a reflex.”

Kai laughed softly and leaned in on one arm, eyes still fixed like he hadn’t just been caught staring. Again.

“You’re staring again,” Katsuka muttered without looking up.

Kai’s grin was instant. “How could I not?”

“Your glass is empty,” Katsuka replied flatly. “Maybe drink something before you start panting.”

Kai’s eyes sparkled. “Is that concern I hear?”

“It’s exhaustion.”

Kai couldn’t help but smile.

Katsuka was watching him again.

He always pretended he wasn’t, but Kai knew better. He could feel the weight of those pale blue eyes like frost on bare skin—cool, careful, unrelenting. Katsuka never missed anything. Every twitch of a muscle, every shift in breath—he catalogued it all with quiet precision. And Kai? He made damn sure to give him something to watch.

Tonight, his shirt was missing a button too many. Deliberately.

He watched the rise and fall of Katsuka’s chest, the sharp cut of his cheekbone in the golden café light, the way his fingers tapped once against the stem of the wine glass—measured, elegant, unconscious.

Everything he did was like that. Controlled. Precise. But Kai could see the tension beneath it, the way Katsuka’s gaze lingered too long on the opening of his shirt before flicking back up with a little too much edge.

“You’re flushed,” Kai murmured.

“It’s the wine,” Katsuka replied, voice clipped.

“Mm. Must be strong,” Kai said with a lilt. “Your ears are red.”

Katsuka didn’t respond, but he did set his glass down a little too carefully.

Got you, Kai thought, warmth blooming in his chest.

Every time Katsuka looked at him like that—like he was something indecent, something intolerable—Kai felt it in his ribs. The ache. The heat. The impossible longing that never left.

Because even when Katsuka scowled, even when he rolled his eyes or muttered some venom-laced insult, he never truly left. Never pulled away. Never told Kai to stop.

Katsuka set down his glass and exhaled. “Are you ever going to order another drink or just keep undressing me with your eyes?”

Kai beamed. “Can’t I do both?”

Katsuka stared, unimpressed. But he didn’t look away.

Kai lifted his menu and said, “Maybe I’ll try the rose sake. Something pretty. Like my kitty.”

Katsuka’s expression hadn’t changed, but Kai had caught the way his wineglass paused just an inch longer at his lips.

That was the game.

He pushed. Katsuka resisted. Kai pushed harder.

He couldn’t help himself.

He loved him—shamelessly, fiercely, with the kind of devotion that made most people uncomfortable. Not that he said it. Not out loud. But it leaked from every glance, every laugh, every time he leaned too close just to see Katsuka narrow his eyes and pretend not to lean in too.

“You still owe me a dress up” Kai said playfully as he fluttered his lashes in mock innocence, “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Ugh. Are you ever quiet?”

“Only when I’m admiring you,” Kai said, and meant it.

Katsuka’s gaze narrowed again, a little longer this time. It wasn’t quite irritation. Not entirely. His thumb ran along the rim of his glass.

Kai’s heart lurched like a lovesick idiot. 

“I said you’d have to give me a reason. Besides,” he said as he gestured to Kai’s clothes, “this is dressing down. You’re hardly wearing anything.”

Kai let out a breathless laugh, stunned, a little undone. “You wound me, Kitty.”

Maybe he saw the way Kai’s whole world tilted whenever he laughed. 

Katsuka avoided looking at him. “I was hoping to.”

“Aww, I think you need another drink. Let’s get you into Happy Kitty phase. Not be mean to Kai phase,” Kai pouted and topped up Katsuka’s glass to the brim.

Kai leaned back in his chair, lips curling into a helpless, utterly smitten smile. And he couldn’t stop the thoughts spilling into his mind when he saw the look on Katsuka’s face.

Say: I love you.

Say: You don’t need to drink to want me.

Say you already do.

Kai took a slow sip of his own drink—something sweeter, lighter, something he hadn’t even tasted yet—and let the moment stretch.

He could sit like this forever.

Watching him.

Loving him quietly.

And pretending it was nothing.

~

They stepped out of the Happy Fox Café into the cool hush of the night, the kind of calm that settled low and warm beneath the skin. The streets glowed with lantern light, casting soft shadows against the cobblestones, the buzz of the world mellowed to a murmur.

Kai was already close. He always was.

His shoulder brushed Katsuka’s as they walked, his fingers occasionally ghosting over Katsuka’s sleeve or pressing lightly to the small of his back whenever they turned a corner. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t even conscious anymore. It was just Kai—being Kai.

He was always touching him.

A hand at his wrist to guide him across a step. A knuckle brushing against the back of his hand. The way his arm always seemed to find Katsuka’s whenever the world felt too wide.

And Katsuka… let him.

He always had.

He didn’t scowl at the contact anymore. Didn’t move away or roll his eyes. If anything, Kai had learned to read the quiet shift in his breath whenever he came close—the subtle way Katsuka leaned in, not obviously, not even intentionally, but enough.

Enough to make Kai’s heart ache with something both fierce and helpless.

They turned down a quieter street, and Kai’s hand slipped from his pocket and casually found Katsuka’s arm, fingers curling lightly just above the elbow as they walked. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

He just needed to touch him.

To tether himself to something real.

Katsuka’s coat was warm beneath his fingers. The fabric soft. His posture relaxed.

Kai glanced at him out of the corner of his eye—saw the way his gaze lingered on the pavement ahead, calm but alert, the way it always was. He looked steady. Collected. Completely unaffected.

But Kai knew better.

He’d seen the subtle tells. The way Katsuka’s lips parted slightly when he was comfortable. The way his shoulders sat lower. How he didn’t flinch or stiffen anymore when Kai pressed a little closer.

He liked it.

He wanted this.

Kai couldn’t fathom how much he loved him in that moment.

Not in grand, sweeping ways. But in the quiet. In the way their steps matched. In how Katsuka allowed his presence without protest. In how he hadn’t let a single complaint pass his lips in the last ten minutes of silence.

Kai ran his thumb slowly across the crook of Katsuka’s elbow, just once.

They walked like that for a long time—together, close, quiet.

And the rest of the world blurred.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

“I love uncle best!”

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

My Turia…

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

My Turia

The twins had always been trouble. Not the kind that burned cities or started wars — not yet anyway — but the kind that courtiers whispered about behind fans, the kind that made tutors sigh and guards groan and handmaidens giggle. And when they were together, which was often, it was like the universe itself bent slightly sideways just to accommodate their chaos.

They’d mastered the art of slipping out of the estate unnoticed by the time they were fifteen. By sixteen, they knew every tavern, rooftop, and abandoned hallway worth kissing in within a ten-mile radius. And by eighteen, Katsuka had fallen completely, hopelessly in love with a dark-skinned reaper with eyes like smelted steel.

That was when everything changed.

Mitsuki didn’t get it at first. Anubis Naeem had walked into the royal gardens with that curt, angelic dignity, all angles and quiet poise, and Katsuka had stared like he’d been struck by lightning. Mitsuki had honestly thought she was a guy at first — mocked him ruthlessly for it too.

“Didn’t know you swung that way, Kit Kat,” he’d whispered once, elbowing him in the ribs as they passed her in the hall. “Should I call you Princess next time you blush?”

Katsuka hadn’t even risen to the bait. Just kept looking at her like she’d hung the stars.

And that’s when Mitsuki had felt it — that nervous flutter in his own gut, not his. It was always easy to tell when Katsuka’s emotions bled over into him. It made his own stomach turn to butterflies. When they stood side by side and Anubis passed, Katsuka would straighten a little, fix his sleeves, square his jaw like a soldier preparing for war.

Mitsuki would nudge his shoulder, quiet and gentle. He never said anything cruel after that. Not once.

Because it made him happy to see his brother smile.

It was all harmless — sweet, even. A court crush. A poetic kind of unrequited devotion that would fade with time.

Except it didn’t.

And then one day, it stopped being a joke.

Katsuka slammed into Mitsuki’s room like a storm breaking the windows. His breath came in shallow bursts, teeth grit, hand curled against his chest like something physically ached. Mitsuki sat up lazily from where he’d been sprawled, half-dressed, polishing a set of silver.

“Wha—?”

“I’m to be married.”

He blurted it out like it tasted poisonous. There was a red welt on his cheek, fresh and raw, and his ears were laid flat into his platinum hair. His tails lashed like serpents, stirring the incense smoke curling from the burner near the window.

“Some marchioness from Mirador. Mother’s arranged it.”

Mitsuki blinked once, then smirked. “Is she hot?”

Katsuka shot him a glare so sharp it could’ve drawn blood.

“How the fuck would I know? Mother only told me this morning. Barely even looked at the letter. She just— said it was happening. Like I'm some horse being sold off to market.”

Mitsuki whistled low, tossing the fork back into the box with a clatter and lounging back on his elbows. “Well, Kit Kat, she could’ve done worse. Could’ve given you to one of those spidery old noble ladies who collect husbands like pets—”

“Easy for you to say,” Katsuka snapped, rounding on him. “She doesn’t give a shit about you!”

The words cut, a whip crack in the quiet. For a moment, neither of them breathed.

Katsuka’s eyes went wide, the realisation hitting him like a punch to the ribs. His ears tucked into his hair, shoulders folding in.

“Suki, I didn’t—”

Mitsuki was already moving. He tackled him into a crushing hug, wrestling him down onto the bed despite his struggling. Katsuka thrashed weakly, but then went limp, burying his face in Mitsuki’s shoulder with a growl of frustration.

“It’s fine,” Mitsuki muttered, thumping him playfully on the back. “She fucking hates both of us. Just in different ways.”

He let the silence fall, just breathing with him until the tension started to drain out of Katsuka’s limbs. When it did, Mitsuki shifted, sitting cross-legged beside him. They pressed their foreheads together the way they always did after a fight — calm, grounding. Twin to twin.

“Is this about her?” Mitsuki asked quietly.

Katsuka didn’t answer, just curled into himself more. That was all the answer he needed.

“She’s not going anywhere, you know,” Mitsuki said gently. “A marriage on paper doesn’t erase feelings. Doesn’t erase you. Nothing has to change.”

Katsuka shook his head, voice barely a whisper. “It changes everything, Suki. And you know it.”

Mitsuki sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

Katsuka looked at him then, his eyes glossy and wrecked, like a boy standing in the ruins of something sacred.

“How am I supposed to face her?”

His voice broke on the question, and Mitsuki felt his own chest tighten in response.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from his brother’s face. “I’ll be there to help. I’m always there for you.”

Katsuka nodded faintly, and Mitsuki pulled him in again, holding him against his chest the way he used to when they were little, afraid and hurting. He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t need to.

Because that was what it meant to be the older twin.

To carry what the other couldn’t.

And to never, ever let go.

~

The wedding had been perfect.

Of course it had been. Their mother would have accepted nothing less. The marble hall had gleamed with gilded light; every flower had bloomed on cue, and the choir had sung like gods themselves were in attendance. Katsuka stood beside his new bride, all poise and elegance, his expression unreadable—so polished it could have been carved from stone.

She was beautiful. Even Mitsuki could admit that. Petite and refined, with amber-gold skin and hair like spun night. Her eyes were deep violet, lined with kohl and framed with lashes too thick to be natural. She looked like a dream conjured for political theatre. Perfectly designed. Perfectly forgettable.

Because she wasn’t her.

And it didn’t matter how dazzling she looked, how flawlessly she bowed or smiled or played her part. Mitsuki could feel his brother’s grief like it was his own. Heavy. Sinking. Buried under layers of duty and expectation. Sometimes he hated that twin bond. Feeling everything Katsuka felt like it was running through his own blood.

But Katsuka didn’t flinch. He played his role. He smiled where he was meant to. He kissed his bride’s hand before the crowd. It made Mitsuki want to scream.

He noticed the reapers before anyone else did. They were quiet, graceful shadows against the crowd—sleek and dark in their robes. He scanned them automatically, looking for one in particular. He almost didn’t see her at first, half-hidden in the rows of potted lilies that lined the edges of the ballroom like silent sentinels.

Anubis.

She peeled away from the gathering like smoke, silent and sure, the way reapers always moved when they wanted not to be followed.

But Mitsuki followed anyway.

He found her in one of the side courtyards, sitting beneath an iron-bloomed wisteria vine. The moonlight hit her skin like pearl, softening her sharp features. Her shoulders were hunched, one hand pressed over her mouth, the other curled around her waist. She was crying, but trying not to.

When she heard his footsteps, she startled—eyes wide, glinting silver in the dark—but relaxed the moment she saw him.

“It’s just me,” he said gently, holding up his hands. He offered her a crooked smile, the one he always used to smooth over rough edges.

She didn’t speak, just looked away, swiping her cheeks roughly with the back of her hand.

He sat beside her in the garden, the warm scent of night flowers all around them, and held out a neatly folded handkerchief. She hesitated—then took it.

“I’m sorry, Mitsuki,” she murmured after a moment, her voice raw. “I should’ve expected this. He’s the heir. A duke’s son. And I’m…” Her breath hitched. “And here I am, crying like some pathetic, lovesick teenager.”

“Don’t apologise,” he said, ears twitching at the sounds of music drifting faintly from the hall. “He didn’t want this either.”

She let out a bitter laugh, low and shaky. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“No. But as they say, the heart wants what it wants.”

She gripped the kerchief a little tighter.

“Sometimes,” she said after a pause, “the heart wants what it will never have.”

Her voice was steady now, but her fingers trembled. Mitsuki watched her carefully, something tightening in his chest. Even when she was breaking, she held herself like a queen — composed, poised, dignified. There was such strength in her sorrow that he almost forgot she was hurting at all.

She offered the kerchief back to him. He shook his head.

“Keep it,” he said softly.

She exhaled and smoothed her dress with one elegant motion, drawing her spine straight again. The tears had stopped, though her eyes were still red. She patted her cheeks to cool them and stood, graceful as ever. When she turned back to him, her smile was soft and genuine — tired, but real.

“Come,” she said, offering her hand. “Will you dance with me?”

He blinked at her. “You want to go back in there?”

“I won’t let her be the only one on his arm tonight.”

There was something in the way she said it — calm, defiant, self-contained. Even now, in the worst of it, she carried herself like someone who could still win the war, even if she lost every battle.

Mitsuki took her hand.

And as he led her back toward the golden glow of the ballroom, he realised something he’d always known deep down:

She was the perfect woman for his brother.

~

A year could change everything.

After a lifetime of gallivanting across the kingdom, breaking hearts and charming his way into every bed worth warming, Mitsuki had finally been caught — and by a vixen who was more wildfire than woman.

Her eyes were hazel, bright as burning gold when the sun hit them. Her hair was a mane of deep red, thick and wild like she’d stolen fire from the gods and dared them to take it back. She laughed like she knew the secrets of the world, and smiled like she was choosing not to ruin you with them. Hourglass figure, sharp tongue, wicked sense of humor — everything about her had been designed, it seemed, to ruin men like him.

And ruin him she had.

He loved her more than he thought he ever could love anything. It scared him a little, which meant it was real.

It was Katsuka who’d known first — of course he had. Their souls were too tightly wound to keep something like that hidden. He hadn’t even said anything at first. Just gave him that look when they were alone. That knowing look, like he could feel the butterflies crawling under Mitsuki’s ribs.

When Mitsuki had finally admitted it aloud — getting married, the words still foreign in his mouth — Katsuka had swept him into a hug, laughing with such pure joy it made Mitsuki's throat tighten.

“She’s finally making an honest man out of you?” he’d teased, the sparkle of mischief in his ice-blue eyes back for the first time in what felt like years. “Poor form, Suki. What happened to your game?”

“Sometimes you play until you win,” Mitsuki shrugged, smirking. “Looks like I finally got the prize.”

But they both knew what was really behind it. Excitement. Giddiness. That rare, golden kind of hope that didn’t come often. Katsuka felt it too, bleeding across their bond like sunlight seeping into cold stone.

“You're full of shit,” Katsuka snorted, ruffling his hair.

“Learned from the best.”

They spent the night in Mitsuki’s den — feet on tables, drinks in hand, shadows twisting lazily across the ceiling, the kind of laughter that shook off age. Katsuka had looked lighter there. Easier. Like the heaviness he always wore had slipped loose for a while.

But it couldn’t last.

It never did.

“So,” Mitsuki said casually, elbowing him as they shared a second bottle. “When are we getting the announcement about kits? It’s been what— almost a year now?”

The effect was immediate.

He felt the connection slam shut, like a door barred from the inside. Katsuka’s smile froze mid-curl, his jaw locking as he turned away, shadows retreating to the corners of the room like dogs sensing thunder.

“What?” Mitsuki blinked, confused. “What did I say?”

“It’s nothing.” Katsuka’s voice was clipped, cold steel where there’d been warmth. He stared out the window now, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You should focus on your wedding. When’s the date? I’ll have to invent some ridiculous excuse to get away, but I wouldn’t miss it.”

“You fucking better not,” Mitsuki said, trying to recover the thread. He lifted his bottle again, slower this time. “You’re the only one I actually want there.”

Katsuka’s laugh was a little too loud, a little too forced. “Don’t get sappy on me now. Wouldn’t want the missus to find out you have feelings.”

“Heaven forbid.” Mitsuki snorted, leaning back in his chair, but the sharpness of the moment lingered like the echo of a snapped bone.

He didn’t push it. He wanted to. The urge bit at his tongue like wildfire, to pry open whatever crack had shown in Katsuka’s armor. But he didn’t. Not tonight.

Katsuka had his battles. He always had. And sometimes Mitsuki couldn’t follow him into them, no matter how badly he wanted to. Some doors stayed locked for a reason.

So he let it pass.

But even as they laughed again, shoulder to shoulder, he could feel it — a weight pressed under the floorboards of their bond. Waiting.

And somewhere in the silence between his brother’s words, Mitsuki promised himself he’d ask again.

Later. When Katsuka was ready.

He always pushed.

~

It had finally happened.

Their parents were dead — one by Mitsuki’s own hand — and the weight of a thousand years of legacy now rested on two pairs of shoulders instead of four.

Katsuka was Duke. Mitsuki, officially recognised as Head of the Clan. It should have created distance between them. Instead, it drew them closer. Without the oppressive shadow of their parents looming over them, they could finally see each other again.

And Mitsuki saw more than he wished he did.

He finally understood what had happened in his den that night — the silence Katsuka had buried himself in afterward. Back then, Mitsuki had let it go. But now, it was time.

He waited until they were alone — Katsuka’s office, quiet and dimly lit with amber light spilling in through tall windows. Paperwork cluttered the desk, and Katsuka hunched over it like it might swallow him whole. His quill scratched furiously against a report.

Mitsuki didn’t knock. He never did. Instead, he strolled in and plopped himself onto the desk, swiping the quill from Katsuka’s hand before he could protest.

“Suki, now isn’t—”

“She’s pregnant.”

He said it with a grin, all teeth and pride. And he felt it — the immediate wall Katsuka slammed between them, same as before — but this time there was something layered underneath. Warmth. Shock. Joy, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

Katsuka blinked up at him. Then his face split into a smile so wide it made Mitsuki’s heart ache.

“You’re serious?” he breathed. His voice cracked just slightly. “Oh Suki... congratulations! Come here, you big idiot!”

He was pulled into a hug, Katsuka’s arms crushing and wild. He laughed against his shoulder, letting him soak it in. For a moment, they were just brothers again, clinging to something good.

But Mitsuki had waited long enough.

“So what about you?” he asked gently, still holding onto that levity. “You knew I was gonna ask, Kit Kat. It’s been what— three years now?”

He saw it immediately. The twitch of the ears. The flattening of Katsuka’s expression. His smile vanished like breath in frost.

“Oh, fuck right off,” Katsuka muttered, batting his hand away when Mitsuki reached to ruffle his hair. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You do realise you actually have to fuck her to make babies, right?” Mitsuki snorted, sliding off the desk with a grin. But then he caught the look in his brother’s eyes — dark, glassy, brittle — and he froze. “You can’t still be pining over Anubis, right?”

“Once again, congratulations, Mitsuki.” Katsuka sneered, snatching his quill back and gesturing sharply at the door. “I think we’re done here.”

“Oh, is that what you tell your wife?”

And that did it.

Katsuka moved through the shadows as he lashed out—fingers curling in Mitsuki’s collar, dragging him forward with a hiss like a wounded animal.

“Shut the fuck up, Suki!” he snapped, eyes burning. “Shut your stupid face before I make you.”

“You can certainly try.” Mitsuki’s voice dropped into a low, dangerous growl, but even as he squared his shoulders, he couldn't feel it — why Katsuka was really lashing out.

“What the fuck is going on with you?” Mitsuki barked. “Why won’t you talk to me?!”

“Because I don’t fucking know how! Gods, Suki, I don’t want to do this—”

“Talk to me,” he said, grabbing Katsuka’s wrist and forcing him to look at him. “Since when do we keep secrets? Since when do you hide things from me?”

And then, finally, the gate opened.

He felt it rush through — shame so thick it caught in his throat, frustration burning in his brother’s gut, grief, hopelessness, helpless longing. He staggered under it. Katsuka’s eyes were wild, wide and scared, like a cornered animal caught in his own skin.

“You think I don’t have sex with my own wife?” Katsuka barked a bitter laugh. “You think I don’t want kits of my own? What the fuck do you think I’ve been doing for the past three years?!”

Mitsuki opened his mouth, but Katsuka jabbed a finger at him. A warning. No more jokes.

“Suki...” His voice cracked. “I don’t think I can have kids.”

There it was.

The silence that followed felt like deafening.

“It doesn’t happen immediately for some people,” Mitsuki said quickly, stumbling over the words. “Sometimes... it just takes time.”

But Katsuka was already unraveling.

He turned away, fists clenched at his sides. His tail lashed once, then dropped limp. He looked so small suddenly — this proud, perfect heir their parents had tried to shape. All mask and polish.

And underneath, just a man breaking.

Mitsuki caught him before he could fall, wrapping his arms around him and pulling him in close, their foreheads pressed together like they always had as children.

“I told you to leave it...” Katsuka whispered, voice shaking. “Why do you always have to push?”

“Fuck, I know. I’m sorry.” Mitsuki’s voice cracked too. He could barely breathe through the flood of emotion pouring through their bond. “I’m sorry, Kit Kat.”

“It’s not fucking fair,” Katsuka choked, pressing his face into Mitsuki’s shoulder like he could hide from the world there.

“I know,” Mitsuki said softly, holding him tighter. “I know.”

~

The months had blown by like ash on the wind.

Mitsuki’s den had been rearranged so many times he barely recognised it anymore — walls painted and repainted, clutter traded for baby supplies, soft blankets tucked where swords once hung. Life had shifted. Quietly. Completely.

Katsuka had forgiven him for pushing, as he always did — with a crushing hug, followed by a slap to the ear that left it ringing for the better part of a day. It was how they were. Fire and smoke. Bite and balm. But they were whole again. And that was all that ever mattered.

There was nothing in this world that could tear the twins apart. Twin souls. Two halves of one whole.

It felt like an ordinary afternoon — until it didn’t.

A jolt hit Mitsuki like a shock through his spine, making every hair on his body stand on end. He stood up so fast he nearly knocked over the chair. His heartbeat was in his throat.

Katsuka, lounging nearby with a cup of tea, didn’t even blink.

“Go, you moron,” he said with a small, knowing smile.

And Mitsuki was gone in a flash of black smoke and violet fire.

-

He wasn’t sure what excuse Katsuka had fabricated to get there — probably some outrageous lie wrapped in just enough truth — but he was there. Right behind him. A hand on his shoulder where Mitsuki paced in front of the hospital room like a storm in waiting.

“You’re not going inside?” Katsuka asked, amusement curling in his voice.

“Should I?” Mitsuki turned to him, eyes wild, heart thundering, searching his brother’s face like it held the answers to the entire universe.

“She’s your wife,” Katsuka deadpanned. “Stop being an idiot.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Fucking GO.” And with a grunt, Katsuka shoved him straight through the door.

The roles had reversed. Somehow, he was the nervous one, while Katsuka was calm, cool, collected. The grounded one. The anchor.

But all that melted the instant he saw her.

His wife lay in bed, hair tousled, cheeks flushed with effort and pain and joy. Her hand reached for him instinctively, catching his in a vice grip as she gave Katsuka a grateful glance.

“Oh, my stars, thank you,” she huffed, squeezing Mitsuki’s hand tighter. “You. Stay here. Face the consequences of your actions, Mister.”

Katsuka laughed as he slipped out with a parting pat on Mitsuki’s shoulder, vanishing through the shadows once more. But even gone, he lingered. Always would.

-

The miracle happened right before his eyes.

Mitsuki held her hand through the groans, the pain, the screaming. He whispered, soothed, encouraged, clutched her close when it was over. He’d thought he was prepared, but nothing could have braced him for the feeling that stole his breath when he saw them.

New life.

Tiny kits, squirming and yipping and bundled like divine things in soft cloth.

“Congratulations, Miru,” the midwife beamed, gently placing them in the crib. “Firstborn’s a girl. Two girls, three boys.”

His heart cracked open. He pressed a kiss to his wife's damp forehead, arms shaking.

And then he saw her.

One of the babies in the crib squirmed with a soft cry, and the world stopped turning for a moment. Mitsuki’s breath caught in his throat.

“Congratulations...” came Katsuka’s voice, low and quiet through the shadows. He hadn’t entered the room — hadn’t dared to interrupt. But he was there with him when it mattered.

-

Later, once his wife slept and the kits were still and warm in their crib, Mitsuki stepped out into the hallway.

“Katsuka?” he whispered.

There was no sound. No light. But his brother appeared like a shadow melting into form, wrapping an arm around his shoulder.

He was about to say something stupid. A joke. A tease.

But the words died as the emotion built. Instead, Mitsuki turned, and ever so carefully, he reached into the crib and picked her up, pushing the sleeping kit into his arms.

A tiny kit. Jet black fur. Not a single star to her fur. Her ears flicked as she yawned and nestled against his chest.

Katsuka froze when he saw her. His eyes widened. A sharp breath escaped him.

“They may be my kits,” Mitsuki said, voice cracking, “but she is definitely your Turia.”

Katsuka looked down at the kit — the black fur, the tiny tremble of breath, at the freckles dusting her nose — and something broke. His hands curled instinctively around her, holding her like she was the most fragile, precious thing he’d ever touched.

Tears welled in his eyes.

“Even if you have none of your own,” Mitsuki murmured, voice thick, “when you see Turia born again... you know what it means.”

They sank to the floor together, shoulder to shoulder, the tiny kit nestled between them. Katsuka pulled him close, and Mitsuki let him. No jokes now. No masks.

Only two brothers, bound by blood, holding a piece of something sacred.

And in that moment, no more words were needed.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

All Figured Out

The courtyard had emptied, leaving only the faint hum of distant choral wards and the hush of soft wind brushing through the trees. The golden haze of the setting sun made everything look softer, quieter — like a world caught between breaths.

Chukasa lingered near one of the marble pillars, watching the space where Hope had disappeared. His hands were shoved into his coat pockets, shoulders drawn in slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to stay or leave.

Celestiel stood just a few paces away, her arms crossed in front of her, scrolls tucked under one elbow. She looked calm — but her eyes weren’t. Not entirely.

“She took it well,” Chukasa murmured.

Celestiel nodded, then looked at him. “She’s… remarkable.”

“You say that like it surprises you.”

“It doesn’t.” Her lips twitched — the beginnings of a smile. “Not with you as her father.”

That made him glance at her. And for a heartbeat, something stirred between them — a pull neither of them moved into, but neither of them backed away from either.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said quietly. “About where this leaves us.”

The tension shifted. Not heavy — but charged.

Celestiel tilted her head slightly, the question hanging in the air like a blade not yet dropped.

“We haven’t talked about that,” she said.

“No.” He gave a small chuckle, soft but not quite amused. “We’ve been so focused on Hope… and now the twins…”

Her brows lifted gently. “You’re calling them that already?”

“Feels right.” He looked away, then back. “Feels like they’re already here.”

Celestiel’s silence made it clear she wasn’t sure how to answer. But Chukasa didn’t let it sit for long.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he continued, voice low. “Us. What this means. I’m not pretending I have it all figured out, but… I want to be there. More than that, I want to be with you.”

Her eyes softened — not with affection, but with caution.

“Chukasa…”

“I know,” he cut in gently. “I know you’re not there. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope.”

Celestiel let out a breath like it cost something. “It’s not that I don’t care about you. I do. But being with you means… stepping away from everything I’ve built. Everything I’ve been told to be.”

“I get it,” he said. And he meant it. “I’m not asking for rebellion. Just… honesty.”

She looked down for a moment, then back at him. “I don’t know what I want yet.”

Chukasa nodded, and the smile he gave her was sad, but warm. “Then I’ll wait. No pressure. No ultimatums. Just… me, still showing up.”

That made her blink — just once. “You’re more patient than I expected.”

He laughed, low in his chest. “I’m not. I’m just stubborn in better ways now.”

She smiled — a real one, fleeting but full.

As he turned to leave, she hesitated. “Chukasa.”

He looked back.

She opened her mouth, hesitated, then asked, “You think it’s that simple?”

“No.” His smile was gentle but steady. “I don’t think anything about you is simple, Celz.”

Her breath caught just faintly at the way he said her name. His voice always did that — not commanding, not coaxing. Just warm. Like he meant it.

Her eyes dropped to his chest. Just for a second.

Then back up again, and she suddenly looked like she didn’t trust herself.

She looked at him, really looked — and for one small, fleeting moment, she wanted to close the space between them and forget everything else.

But she didn’t.

“Goodnight, Chukasa,” she said softly, her voice wrapped in restraint.

He smiled. “Night, Celz.”

As he walked away, she didn’t move.

She just stood there, fingers clenched, chest rising slow and tight — the warmth of him still lingering like a ghost just a breath away.

~

The soft glow of celestial wards hummed faintly through the stained-glass windows of Celestiel’s chambers, casting golden light over the polished stone floor and parchment-strewn desk. Scrolls, divine sigil charts, and delicate mana readings cluttered the surface in a chaos only she could decipher. Chukasa stood nearby, arms folded, gaze flicking from diagram to diagram — none of which made a lick of sense to him.

“You’re telling me…” he began slowly, still trying to wrap his head around it, “that Hope is inheriting Michael’s mantle?”

Celestiel nodded, adjusting the glow on one of the hovering scrolls. “The energy signatures match. Raphael confirmed it. It’s not just symbolic — the mantle is beginning to manifest through her. I think it’s choosing her.”

Chukasa let out a long breath and leaned back against the edge of a bookshelf. “She’s barely a teenager.”

“She won’t bear its full weight for some time,” Celestiel said, brushing her hair back. “But the seed is there. And that… that changes everything.”

He rubbed his jaw, looking off toward the window. “Michael knows?”

She hesitated.

That earned a wry, tired exhale from Chukasa. “Of course he does.”

He pushed off the shelf and stepped toward her desk, glancing at the spread of divine glyphs. As he passed behind her, his hand brushed lightly over her shoulder — barely a touch, but her breath hitched.

She didn’t show it. Not fully. Just a subtle stillness. Just a moment’s silence too long before she kept talking.

But then he did it again — a simple gesture, reaching past her to shift one of the scrolls, fingers ghosting along her arm.

That one, she couldn’t ignore.

Something surged through her — a warmth, a spark, a memory of everything they swore they wouldn’t revisit. Her restraint, so carefully held since the pregnancy revelation, snapped taut.

“Chukasa,” she said softly, not turning.

He looked up. “Yeah?”

She turned then. Slowly. Her hand rested over his, still hovering near the scroll.

And without warning, she pulled him in.

Their lips met fast, the kind of kiss pulled not from hesitation but from instinct — weeks of tension unraveling in an instant. Chukasa froze just briefly, not from doubt but surprise, before his hand slid around her waist, grounding her as she leaned into him.

Celestiel stepped back without breaking the kiss and hopped onto the edge of her desk, tugging him closer with both hands. Scrolls rustled beneath her, tumbling to the floor.

“Celz… the door—” Chukasa murmured breathlessly, voice rough with restraint.

But she didn’t hear him.

Or she did, and didn’t care.

Her fingers curled into his shirt and she pulled him in again, harder this time, silencing whatever hesitation was left between them.

~

Chukasa didn’t pretend to understand her.

Not in the way a lover should. Not even in the way a co-parent might. Celestiel had always moved like a hymn — graceful, composed, always one note ahead of him, impossible to read unless you were fluent in angels.

And he wasn’t.

He could face down an archon’s blade, navigate the frost-ridden courts of demons, and command silence from a room with just a glance — but he couldn’t figure her out.

They’d slept together that afternoon in her chambers. Not planned. Not discussed. Just tension snapping and want spilling over parchment and robes.

And then… nothing.

That evening, at St. Lucifer’s gate, she had stood in her cream tunic, smile polite, tone serene. The same woman she always was. She didn’t look at him differently. Didn’t linger. Didn’t pull away either. Just… normal.

As if she hadn’t climbed onto her desk and kissed him like she was afraid not to.

It messed with him.

Now, days later, Chukasa sat in the quiet of the courtyard, one leg draped over the other, watching the morning light pool in the cracks of the stone. Hope had gone inside. The gates were sealed. And Celestiel had passed him not ten minutes ago.

She’d brushed his shoulder in passing. A small thing. Barely a touch.

But her fingers had lingered. Just for a beat.

And her eyes — those glacial, glowing eyes — had flickered. Not with surprise. Not with coldness. With something else.

Want.

Need.

Or maybe he was imagining it.

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, pinching the bridge lightly. What the hell are we doing?

She didn’t pull him aside. Didn’t talk to him alone. Didn’t touch him in front of others.

But sometimes, her gaze drifted toward him across a hall too long to cross. Sometimes she hesitated when saying goodbye. Sometimes she stared a little too long when she thought he wasn’t looking — then turned away quickly, as if she’d caught herself.

You kissed me like it meant something, he thought, jaw tightening. But maybe it didn’t.

He didn’t know if she was protecting herself. Or Hope. Or him.

But it left him in the middle of a dance with no music, unsure when to step forward or back. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for her to say something first.

And until she did… he’d stay right here.

Stuck in the silence between yes and no, with nothing but memory to keep him warm.

~

Celestiel stood by the window, her silhouette framed in golden latticework, light spilling across the ivory floor of her chambers. Her fingers were clasped behind her back, shoulders drawn in a way that betrayed her conflict even before she spoke.

Chukasa leaned against the far wall, arms folded, his usual cold demeanor dulled into something gentler — hesitant even. He wasn’t used to feeling uncertain. Not like this.

Not with her.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said finally, his voice low, rough around the edges.

“I haven’t,” she replied too quickly. “I’ve just… been busy. My father’s been asking questions.”

“You didn’t look busy the other night when you pulled me onto your desk,” he said, not accusing, not smug — just… honest.

She turned, slowly. Her face betrayed nothing. But her eyes…

Her eyes held guilt. And want. And fear.

“That was a mistake,” she whispered.

His jaw tensed. “Was it?”

Celestiel looked down, fingers tightening. “Chukasa…”

“I’m not going to force anything,” he said before she could continue. “You know that.”

“I do.” She swallowed hard. “That’s what makes this harder.”

He stepped toward her, slow and careful like approaching a frightened animal.

“I know what you’re afraid of,” he said. “You think this — us — compromises everything. Your role. Your image. Michael’s expectations. The Council.”

“It does,” she said, voice cracking slightly. “It already has.”

“And yet,” he murmured, “you kissed me like it didn’t matter.”

She looked up sharply. The words hung between them, electric and heavy.

“I want to be with you,” he continued, softer now. “Not just because of Hope. Not just because you’re carrying—” he stopped himself, glancing to her abdomen. “I want you. And I don’t know what the hell we are, but I know I’m not the only one feeling it.”

Celestiel’s breath trembled, but she didn’t move away when he reached out and gently took her hand.

Her fingers curled into his.

“I can’t,” she whispered, eyes shimmering now. “Not when everything I’ve been raised to uphold says I shouldn’t.”

He nodded, eyes cast down, thumb stroking the edge of her knuckle.

“Then just tell me straight,” he said. “Do you want me?”

Silence. A long one.

And then, in the smallest voice: “Yes.”

He closed his eyes, just for a second. The relief hit like cold water on a burn.

“But it’s not a good idea,” she added, voice cracking. “For now… we shouldn’t.”

He nodded again, letting go of her hand — slowly. Not angrily. Just… letting it fall with dignity.

~

The weeks that followed were agony for Chukasa.

He felt like a teenager again—restless, off-balance, strung along by someone who could unravel him with just a glance. And in a way, he was. Celestiel’s presence had always made his chest tighten, but now, it was worse—because he knew what it felt like to hold her, kiss her, hear her say she wanted him.

And then watch her pull away again.

She wasn’t cruel. Not exactly. But her hot-and-cold behavior left him exhausted. One morning she’d touch his arm when no one was watching, linger a little too long when brushing past him at the gates. The next, she barely met his eyes. Her voice clipped, her posture stiff, like nothing had ever happened between them. Like he had imagined it all.

But what complicated things wasn’t just the silence. Or the way she avoided his eyes some days and couldn’t seem to let go of his hand on others.

What complicated things was Hope.

Their daughter.

Proof that no matter how tangled their past had been, they had already built something sacred together. And now—Celestiel was carrying their growing twins.

Chukasa didn’t say it out loud, but it haunted every pause between them. Every casual nod at drop-off. Every time her gaze lingered too long on him, only to flick away like it had touched something dangerous.

He knew she was trying to reconcile it in her mind. The Archangel’s daughter. The soldier-demon she couldn’t quite stay away from. The daughter they’d already raised. The children now forming inside her—children who would never be invisible, no matter how hard she might try to keep the lines between love and duty clean.

He didn’t push. He never would.

How could he ask her to choose him when he knew the weight of her legacy?

But damn, it burned.

There were nights he sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands—wondering if it was punishment for wanting something forbidden. If he’d been foolish to think she might actually choose him. A half-demon, a mistake carved in shadow.

Still… he wasn’t ready to give up.

Every time she looked at him across the courtyard and hesitated just a breath too long, he felt it. The pull. The ache. The war between duty and desire etched across her features.

And in that, there was hope.

A painful, stubborn, foolish kind of hope—but hope nonetheless.

So he stayed quiet. Waited. Endured her distance, her silence, the way she buried herself in duties and robes and scrolls. Because for all the times she turned away, there were just as many when she looked at him like she didn’t want to.

And he would wait—because he wanted her.

Not just as the mother of his children. Not as a passing chapter.

He wanted her, fully and completely.

Even if it meant waiting in agony for her to want him back.

~

It was late. The apartment was quiet except for the faint tick of the wall clock and the low simmer of the kettle. Chukasa stood at the counter, one hand braced on the edge, staring blankly at a closed file like it had wronged him personally.

Hope wandered in wearing mismatched socks and an oversized sweatshirt. She paused in the doorway, eyeing him like she was witnessing a rare emotional eclipse.

“You know,” she said, arms crossed, “you’ve got major emo teen energy going on lately.”

Chukasa didn’t look up. “Emo?”

She walked in, leaning against the fridge. “Yeah. The sighing. The brooding. The long dramatic silences. I half expect you to start journaling in the dark or writing poetry on the balcony.”

He exhaled slowly, finally meeting her eyes. “I’m not brooding.”

Hope squinted. “You literally just stared at a closed folder for like twenty minutes.”

“I was thinking.”

Hope rolled her eyes dramatically. “Please. It was sulking. I’ve seen you and Mom. You’re both acting like total teenagers. It’s so lame.”

Chukasa didn’t answer. He reached for the kettle instead, pouring water into a cup a little more aggressively than necessary.

Hope leaned against the fridge, arms still crossed, expression unimpressed. “You two keep avoiding eye contact at drop-off like you kissed behind the school and didn’t tell anyone.” She pulled a face. “Which—ew, if that did happen, I do not want to know.”

He froze halfway to taking a sip.

“I’m serious,” she went on, “You’re both adults. Like, old. Can you please stop acting like you’re starring in some awkward celestial romance drama and just talk like normal people?”

Chukasa finally looked at her. “We do talk.”

“You do not.” She pointed a spoon at him. “You orbit each other like moons having a nervous breakdown. And if you are getting back together—which, again, gross, no offense—I need a little more clarity and a little less soap opera.”

Chukasa rubbed the back of his neck, a small smile threatening his lips. “Didn’t realize you were the expert on adult relationships.”

“I’m not,” Hope said, tossing her hair. “But I am the only one in this house acting my age. So figure it out, both of you. Preferably without traumatizing me in the process.”

Chukasa gave a tired sigh. “You done?”

Hope gave him a look. “Are you?”

He didn’t answer that either. Just poured his tea and leaned back against the counter with a slight grimace.

Hope shook her head and turned to leave. “If you start wearing all black and quoting song lyrics, I’m calling Grandpa.”

Chukasa stared after her, mug in hand, then smirked faintly despite himself.

“…Emo teenager, huh?” he muttered. “Rude.”

But he didn’t deny it.

~

The moonlight pooled over the polished floors of St. Lucifer’s atrium, casting long shadows through the colored glass. The school was silent, the air still with that distinct after-hours hush that made every step echo.

She let out an audible sigh, eyes closing briefly. “Not this again, Chukasa.”

“Yes. This again,” he snapped, stepping forward. “Because you keep pretending nothing is happening when it is. You know it. I know it. Hope knows it. The walls probably know it.”

She finally turned, eyes narrowing in warning. “We’ve talked about this. My duties—”

“Your duties?” He barked a hollow laugh. “You mean the same duties you forget every time you look at me like you want to tear my shirt off?”

Her cheeks flushed instantly, but she didn’t deny it. She opened her mouth to speak, but he stepped closer—close enough that his voice dropped low, almost trembling with how much he was holding back.

“You already know I want you,” he said. “Truly. Wholly. I’m not ashamed of it. But this… this hot-and-cold thing you keep doing? It’s driving me insane.”

She swallowed hard, but her breath caught when she felt his fingers brush her shoulder. That same electric jolt flared—violent, magnetic, impossible to ignore. It had been happening for weeks, every touch igniting something she didn’t dare name.

“Don’t,” she warned, but her voice came out too breathless to be convincing.

He didn’t press. Just looked at her.

“I’m right here, Celz,” he said, gentler now. “But you need to stop lying to yourself. You don’t want me to walk away.”

She breezed past him, trying to maintain the same controlled pace she always did when she wanted to avoid a confrontation.

He followed. Past the pillars.

She stepped through the archway into the moonlit gardens, the flowers brushing her robe as she passed.

The hills glowed with beds of daisies and pale blossoms, quiet under the stars.

He glanced around at the gentle slope, the beds of moonlit flowers. A soft laugh escaped him. “Remember this place?” he asked, quieter. “The first time we were together… here.”

Her head turned slightly.

“Don’t try to do that,” she said sharply, but it wasn’t anger in her voice—it was fear.

“I’m not,” he said simply. “I just—”

She moved to walk again, but he caught her wrist gently.

“Celz,” he said, voice rough now, eyes locked on hers, “don’t walk away from this discussion. Not this time.”

She froze.

The wind rustled the petals around them, soft and innocent, like the world didn’t know what stood between them.

His grip tightened ever so slightly, and the current was instant. Her skin prickled. Her breath stuttered. He saw it. Felt it. The tension that crackled between them wasn’t just romantic—it was elemental.

“Celz…” he breathed, stepping even closer.

That was all it took.

Celestiel spun around, her lips crashing into his with reckless force, her hands already tangling in his shirt. There was no hesitation this time, no pause to weigh the consequences. She kissed him like she needed air and he was the only thing that could fill her lungs.

He stumbled slightly, and she pushed him back—back into the tall grass, the daisies brushing their legs as the world narrowed to breath and skin and want.

“Here?” Chukasa murmured, breathless.

“Here,” she answered, pulling him down with her into the flowers, where the moonlight kissed their bodies and the same hill remembered their past.

She needed him. She wanted him.

Completely. Unapologetically. Repeatedly.

He was helpless. Brought to his knees in a field of wildflowers under a woman who looked like a saint and ruined him like a sinner.

“Celz,” he choked out, a wreck of a man now. “What… what are you doing to me?”

The stars blurred.

He barely recognized his own voice when it broke free again, lower this time, almost reverent. “You present one hell of an argument.”

By the time she finally rose, his face was flushed and his eyes unfocused. He was dazed, like he didn’t know whether to catch his breath or beg her never to stop.

She leaned down, kissed him softly.

And in that quiet, dizzy afterglow, he didn’t ask what they were. He didn’t dare.

Chukasa laid there for a moment longer, the crushed petals around him clung to his skin like confetti from a celebration he didn’t quite understand.

She was pulling away now—shoulders tense, steps uncertain. He could see it—the guilt warring with whatever want still lingered in her.

“Celestiel,” he whispered hoarsely, trying to sit up.

Her heart lurched. She couldn’t bear it—not that voice, not right now.

“We…” she whispered, not meeting his eyes. Her fingers curled against her palm. “We shouldn’t keep doing this.”

Chukasa, still catching his breath, blinked at her—eyes wide, chest heaving with the remnants of pleasure and confusion. He pushed himself up slightly on his elbows, lips parting in surprise.

“You mean you shouldn’t,” he said, voice low, a hint of amusement glinting in his tone despite the ache in his chest.

She hesitated.

He gave a short, breathless laugh. “I wish you would keep doing this.”

Celestiel froze.

Her breath hitched, and her gaze flicked down to him again—his tousled icy-blue hair, his flushed chest rising and falling, the honesty on his face like an open wound.

She swallowed hard. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” he said, quieter this time. “It’s the truth.”

Chukasa slowly reached up, his touch feather-light as his fingers closed around her wrists.

“Come on, Celz,” he said gently, coaxingly, his voice nothing but warmth and pleading.

Her breath caught.

He didn’t pull hard — just enough for her body to remember how it felt against his. And she let herself be drawn in, inch by inch, until her knees brushed against his hips again, until her weight sank onto him with a defeated, heated sigh.

“Damn it…” she breathed, her forehead resting against his.

The only thing he could do was laugh—hoarse and breathless—before pulling her in to kiss her like she was the only air left in the world.

The daisies around them swayed in the breeze, their petals catching the moonlight like the night they’d first fallen apart in this very place.

~

Celestiel stood by the reflecting pool near the upper terrace of the academy gardens, scrolls forgotten in her arms. The golden light of the late afternoon caught in her hair, weaving halos through pale strands as she stared off toward the horizon—unmoving, unreadable, except for the faint pink in her cheeks.

“Dreaming again?” came Raphael’s voice, dry with amusement.

She didn’t startle this time—she only sighed and turned, blinking as if waking from somewhere far away.

“What makes you say that?” she asked, hugging the scrolls a little tighter.

He leaned against a nearby column with his usual lazy smirk. “Because your eyes glaze over like you’re picturing something indecent. And if I had to guess? Involving a certain brooding half-demon with an insane amount of stamina.”

Celestiel flushed, scandalized. “Raphael!”

“I mean, seriously,” he chuckled. “All night? I’m impressed. The Academy walls are thick, but girl—your aura was echoing off the windows this morning.”

She smacked him lightly with the scrolls. “How do you even know these things?”

He dodged the hit with a grin. “I’m an archangel, not blind. And you’re glowing. Honestly, if anyone needs a blessing for recovery, it’s him.”

“Raphael,” she growled, spinning on her heel to face him.

“I’m just saying,” he laughed. “You’re obviously not ‘just co-parenting.’ You’re radiating. Like a woman who’s been properly worshipped for eight hours straight.”

Celestiel let out a sharp cough, half choking on her breath. “Excuse me?”

Raphael turned to look at her, grinning. But then he paused.

Her raised eyebrow. The way her lips parted in protest—but didn’t actually form any words. The sudden flush blooming across her cheeks.

His grin widened, eyes lighting with slow realization. “Oh.”

Celestiel narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”

“Ohhhh,” he said louder, practically bouncing on his heels. “You were the one doing the worshipping! Well… after thirteen years, I guess you’re finally even.”

She groaned and smacked his arm with the scroll she was holding. “This is why no one tells you anything!”

“This is why I don’t need anyone to!” he shot back, laughing as he dodged another playful swat. “I just look at your face and bam—truth revealed.”

“Raphael.”

“I’m just saying. If he wasn’t ruined before, he definitely is now.”

“Raphael!”

He only laughed devilishly.

Celestiel’s jaw clenched. “…It’s complicated. We’re not—together. We have Hope. We’re trying to keep things balanced for her.”

“Oh yes,” Raphael said, theatrically serious. “Because nothing says stability like sneaking around and pretending you’re not hopelessly into each other.”

She tried to stay firm, but her gaze flicked downward, thoughtful. Last night was still on her skin. Chukasa’s hands, his lips, the way he said her name like it was prayer and surrender all at once.

Raphael’s tone softened. “Cel, come on. The way you look when you say his name? Like you’re halfway through a fantasy novel you wrote yourself.”

She looked away quickly, but not fast enough.

“You’re doing it now,” he teased.

“I am not,” she muttered.

“Sure. And I didn’t hear the soundproofing wards reset this morning,” he said with a smirk, backing up in case she swung again.

Celestiel covered her face with her hand, groaning softly. “This is a disaster.”

He raised a brow, amused but sincere now. “Or it’s not. Maybe it’s just something real.”

Celestiel exhaled slowly, like she’d been holding her breath far too long. “I don’t know what it is. Every time he touches me—even if it’s just brushing past—it’s like my skin catches fire. And if he so much as looks at me, I—” she broke off, flustered. “It’s like I can’t control my own damn body.”

Raphael let out a bark of laughter and barely ducked in time as she took a swipe at his head with a scroll.

“It’s not funny!” she cried, indignant.

“Oh, it’s a little funny,” he teased, raising both hands in surrender.

“Why can’t I resist that damn bastard?” she muttered, pacing in frustration.

Raphael feigned a scandalized gasp. “Language, Celestiel. The heavens tremble.”

But her sharp grunt cut through his grin. Her hands flew to her stomach as her body tensed.

“Hey—are you okay?” he asked instantly, all teasing gone. His eyes flickered with violet light, ready to heal.

Celestiel blinked, then smiled and shook her head. “Just the babies kicking,” she said with a breathless laugh.

Raphael raised an eyebrow. “Uh huh.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What.”

He shrugged, stepping back just slightly—anticipating another swat. “It’s just… the babies don’t like you talking about Daddy like that.”

“Oh, please—”

“No really,” he said, grinning as he folded his arms. “I think they’re why you can’t resist him. They want you together.”

Celestiel stared at him, momentarily thrown. Then her hand instinctively drifted back to her belly, rubbing small circles.

Maybe Chukasa was right. Maybe their children really did have it all figured out.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Perish The Thought

“Are you pregnant?”

The words had caught her completely off guard.

Pregnancy had been the last thing on her mind in that moment — and she’d snapped out a defensive answer in retaliation, which only seemed to make the gleam in Katsuka’s eyes brighten with quiet hope.

The house was quiet by the time they got in, save for the distant murmur of a lullaby being sung somewhere down the hall. One of the nursemaids, maybe. A soft wind blew through the open windows, carrying in the scent of flowers and ashwood from the garden firepit.

Katsuka sighed as he peeled off his suspenders, fingers working at the buttons of his shirt. He wandered barefoot across the floor, his movements loose and slow. Behind him, Anubis took her usual seat at the vanity, pulling the pins from her hair one by one.

“That was exhausting,” she said, not quite complaining — just truth, settling into the space between them. Her silver eyes met his for a moment in the mirror, tired but still sharp.

“Do you want to ask again?”

He leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. "Are you?"

“No,” she said, soft but firm. “I’m not pregnant.”

He crossed the room slowly and stood behind her, his eyes on her reflection. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

There was a pause. She hated the flicker of disappointment that passed through his face — that familiar quiet ache, the soft sigh he tried to bury. He accepted the answer like he had so many times before, with grace that somehow still felt like heartbreak.

Then, more gently, she added, “I’m just tired, Katsuka. Not the kind you sleep off, either."

“I know darling,” he murmured, resting his hands on her shoulders.

His thumbs began to knead at the tension in her muscles, drawing a low groan from her as she sagged into him. Her head tilted back slightly to rest against his stomach, and his lips ghosted the top of her head.

“You’ve been carrying too much,” he said gently, more serious now. “You didn’t have to hold all of it.”

“Who else would?” she asked, eyes fluttering shut as his hands worked. “You were out of commission. Raki’s been rebuilding what was broken. And I…”

She trailed off, brushing her fingers through his long, pale hair.

“I kept it together because someone had to.”

His brow furrowed as he looked at her. “And now?”

“Now?” She gave a weak smile. “You tell me, sweet pea.”

He moved slowly now, hands helping her to her feet. He eased her dress down from her shoulders and wrapped her in one of his softest robes. The familiar scent of him clung to it. Without a word, he guided her to bed the way she had done for him—tender, unhurried, like a ritual between them.

They settled beneath the blankets, tangled together in the hush.

“Raki asked me why I don’t have more children,” Katsuka said after a long moment, voice low and thoughtful as he twisted a lock of her hair around his fingers.

“Oh?” she murmured, eyelids heavy. “And what did you say?”

“I told him what I always do,” he said. He pressed a kiss to her temple, resting his chin there. His voice vibrated softly against her ear. “That some things are worth waiting for.”

“And he believed that?” she teased, stifling a yawn.

“He has no reason not to.”

She felt him exhale through his nose, warm against her neck, as his arms pulled her closer — not possessively, but protectively.

The weight of the night melted away in that silence, and sleep began to pull at her bones.

“Sleep, darling,” he whispered.

And this time, she let herself.

~

She woke feeling well-rested for a change.

The sun was already high, filtering through gauzy curtains in golden ribbons. With a long stretch and a contented sigh, Anubis sat up in bed, blinking away the haze of sleep. It took her a moment to realise that Katsuka wasn’t still beside her.

Even more shocking — he was already dressed and moving.

“Good morning, darling,” he said from the doorway, lips tugging into a smirk. “Or should I say… good afternoon?”

She blinked. Then her eyes snapped to the clock.

“Afternoon?!” she gasped, scrambling upright. “Oh my stars — why didn’t you wake me?”

“Why would I?” He crossed his arms, clearly unrepentant. “You’re retired, remember? You don’t have to get up early.”

She opened her mouth to argue—then her stomach growled, loud and embarrassing.

“…Okay, maybe food first,” she muttered, brushing past him toward the bathroom with a small chuckle. “Then I’ll scold you.”

When she emerged — refreshed and dressed for the day — Katsuka was waiting. He pulled her into a soft, familiar hug, his chin brushing her temple as they walked together down the hall. Marina’s laughter echoed somewhere ahead, bright and full of mischief.

“Morning, Ma,” Raki grinned as they entered the dining room, his star-dusted eyes lighting up at the sight of her.

“Sorry I slept in.” She smiled at him sweetly — though her eyes flicked with a subtle, warning glow and he turned his gaze away.

Then she turned to Marina, who looked positively radiant even with the bulk of twins weighing her down.

“How are you, dear? Did you manage to get them to sleep after the party?”

“Oh my gods, best sleep they’ve had yet,” Marina laughed, rubbing her rounded belly. “Apparently being surrounded by a hundred foxes is soothing to the little monsters.”

Anubis slid into the seat beside her, resting her hand gently on Marina’s stomach. Her eyes shimmered faintly with starlight as she looked — not just at Marina, but through her, seeing the flicker of two tiny sparks nestled in safety. The fond smile she gave them was full of pride and ancient knowing.

Raki and Katsuka had started talking again — something about tea blends and lunch — and Marina leaned in close, voice conspiratorial.

“Raki said he saw you almost faint at the party,” she whispered. “Are you okay, Mama? You’re not… you know… pregnant, are you?”

Anubis let out a soft sigh, shaking her head.

“Heavens, no,” she murmured. “Just tired, that’s all.”

“Oh good,” Marina exhaled with relief, pushing a small green item from her plate over to Raki. “Because I’m barely managing this pregnancy, let alone trying to share that glory with my husband's mum.”

“Babe—come on.” Raki frowned. “You can’t just push stuff onto my plate.”

“It makes me feel sick,” she snapped. “Just eat it.”

“It’s best not to argue,” Katsuka cut in calmly, sensing the storm clouds gathering.

“You’re such a jackass sometimes!” Marina stood abruptly, chair scraping back with a squeak. “For once I’d like to see you try to eat lunch without wanting to vomit. Fuck you.”

“Babe—!”

She slapped away his reaching hand and stormed out of the room, belly swaying as she went.

Raki slumped in defeat. “Every single time.”

“I did warn you,” Katsuka said, sipping his tea with smug serenity.

“Do I go after her?”

“Absolutely not,” Anubis replied, shaking her head as she reached for her own tea. “Let her burn it off. You’ll only make it worse.”

“She’s so mad all the time lately.”

“She’s pregnant, dear,” Anubis smiled, “and she’s still talking to you. That’s a miracle in itself.”

“Three more months,” Katsuka said cheerfully.

Raki groaned and let his forehead hit the table.

Anubis chuckled as she took a bite of toast. “How is she doing otherwise? Still sick in the mornings?”

“She says she’s fine,” Raki muttered. “Which usually means she’s not, and I shouldn’t ask.”

“Sounds familiar,” Katsuka said over his teacup.

“Oh shut up,” Anubis grumbled, shooting him a glare. “You have no idea how sick I was carrying Raki.”

Raki leaned over now, tone shifting.

“Are you okay, Ma?” he asked, voice suddenly quiet. “You didn’t look good at the party.”

“I’m not pregnant,” she said flatly. “And please don’t let that rumour spread. It’s ridiculous and hurtful.”

“I didn’t say that,” he said, raising his hands. “I just… I saw something last night.”

Katsuka’s head turned sharply. Anubis clicked her tongue.

“Don’t,” she said to Raki, tone sharp enough to silence him.

“I’m fine,” she added, hand reaching under the table to find Katsuka’s. His fingers closed around hers without hesitation. “Just tired.”

“I can take the corruption— if it’s clinging to you—”

“I said I’m fine,” she snapped, though her voice trembled at the edge. “I just need rest.”

Katsuka said nothing. But under the table, his grip on her hand tightened.

“Let her eat lunch before she withers away,” he said with a dry chuckle, smoothing out the tension in the room. “She did sleep through breakfast, after all.”

Anubis sighed through her nose.

“I told you to wake me.”

Katsuka just smiled.

~

The steam curled in lazy tendrils against the marble tiles.

The bath was drawn deep, hot, and perfumed with crushed nightbloom and orange rind. A gentle glow came from floating candles scattered across the surface, casting soft, amber halos that danced across the water. The gentle splash of movement was the only sound in the private bathing chamber, hidden deep within the heart of their home — a place meant for unwinding, where the outside world didn’t reach.

Anubis sat with her back to him, sunk low in the water, her navy blue hair bobbing on the water untouched by the ripples. Her wings had fully retracted — no shimmer of celestial status — and she looked smaller without them. Mortal, even. Just tired. Bone-deep tired.

Katsuka sat behind her on the bath ledge, one foot lazily submerged, the other curled beneath him. He said nothing at first, just idly combing his fingers through her wet hair, smoothing knots with patient hands.

"You’ve gone quiet," he said softly.

“Hmm,” was her only answer, more hum than word. She had her arms curled around her knees, her chin resting there, eyes half-closed.

He didn’t press. Just kept brushing. Letting her take her time.

Finally, after a long silence, she spoke — voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t sleep in because I was tired,” she murmured. “Not really.”

Katsuka blinked but didn’t interrupt.

“When I cleansed you… I didn’t just purge the corruption. I absorbed it.”

She closed her eyes again, and her voice cracked, just slightly. Her body glowed faintly, flickering like a flame about to extinguish, and faded.

“It was the only way. You were too far gone. So I took it.”

A slow breath. Her hands curled tighter around her knees.

“And it hasn’t left me yet.”

Katsuka stilled. His hand paused in her hair, then gently resumed — slower, more deliberate.

“You should have told me.”

“I know.” Her voice was hoarse now. “But you were so broken. Raki needed strength. Everyone was looking to me. I couldn’t—” Her words caught in her throat, and she tilted her head back, blinking up at the ceiling as if willing the tears not to fall.

She didn’t want to cry. Not again. Not in front of him.

But then Katsuka slipped fully into the bath behind her, arms sliding around her waist, bare chest pressing gently to her back. His chin rested lightly on her shoulder as the water rippled softly around them.

“You always hold everyone else,” he said, his voice barely audible over the gentle splash. “Let me hold you.”

That undid her.

Her breath hitched, and then — quietly, fiercely — she wept.

She didn’t sob. Not the way some did. But her body trembled with the effort of it, and her shoulders shook as she buried her face in her arms. The sound was barely there, like a storm muffled under thick snow — all pressure and silence and weight.

Katsuka didn’t try to stop her. He just held her tighter, resting his cheek to hers, letting his breath sync with hers, offering nothing but presence.

She didn’t apologise. And he didn’t expect her to.

When her breathing finally slowed, when her heart stopped pounding against her ribs, she whispered through the tears,

“I’m so tired, Karu.”

“I know,” he whispered back.

“It burns under my skin. Some days I can’t even breathe.” She shook her head slightly, ashamed. “But I’m an angel. My body can destroy this. Yours can't.”

“You’re not just an angel,” he murmured, lips brushing her shoulder. “You’re you."

“I didn’t want Raki to see it. He’s been through so much already—”

“Then let me see it.”

Another silence. Softer, easier now.

Her hands slid down from her knees, floating gently in the water as she leaned back into him fully, resting the weight of her head on his shoulder. Her breathing was slower now. Calmer.

“I love you,” she said, so quiet it might’ve gone unheard in the steam.

He pressed a kiss to her wet hair. “And I love you, even when you’re stubborn as hell.”

She huffed a wet, tired laugh.

They stayed there in the stillness a while longer, the water growing cooler around them, but neither moved.

When she finally stirred, it was to whisper, “Thank you.”

“Always,” he replied. “Now come on, I think I've boiled my skin off.”

She laughed.

Katsuka smiled and helped her rise from the water, wrapping her in a thick towel and steady arms.

For tonight, at least, she could fall apart and know someone else would keep the pieces together.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

I always come back

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Only Human

The palace had never been this quiet.

Kai sat alone in the grand hall, where frost curled like breath across the stone floor and the cold didn’t bite—it simply settled. It should’ve been peaceful. The hearths were glowing blue, the distant hum of guards' boots muffled behind thick walls of enchanted frost. But peace never sat right on his skin. Not like this. 

Just him. And silence.

He leaned back on the steps of the dais, still in his red-trimmed undershirt, the throne looming empty behind him. He wasn’t meant to sit on it today. Or maybe ever.

His fingers drummed against his thigh. They wouldn’t still. His mind wouldn’t still.

Three days without Katsuka. Maybe more. He’d lost count how many hours since he’d heard his voice, talking to him like he was more than a title. The silence pressed in like snow collapsing off a roof. Soft. Sudden. Smothering.

"Ridiculous," he muttered aloud, just to hear something—anything. His own voice echoed back, hollow and too sharp.

He pushed to his feet and paced. Shadows from the high archways flickered as he passed. He’d walked these halls a thousand times. Fought in them. Bled on them. Kissed someone—

His foot faltered. Kissed…?

He frowned. The thought drifted like smoke—nothing solid to hold. No name. No face. Just a feeling, like his chest had cracked open once and never quite healed right.

Something was missing.

Or someone.

He pressed a hand to his sternum and let his fingers graze lightly down, where his heart still beat strong—but uneven. It wasn’t pain, not exactly. 

Just… emptiness.

As if someone had once fit there. Seamlessly. Fiercely.

He scowled and dropped his hand. “Tch. Probably just need sleep,” he lied to the air. But he wasn’t tired. That was the worst part—he never was when he was alone.

His eyes lifted to the frost-rimmed glass at the far end of the hall, where the stars hung in their frozen tapestry. For a moment, he imagined a shadow crossing that glass. Someone stepping through it. Someone familiar, with a smile like fire.

He blinked. Nothing. Just frost.

~

Kai lay sprawled now across the frost-kissed lounge, one arm dangling over the side, the other resting flat across his chest where his heartbeat beat too softly—muted, like someone had turned down the volume of his soul. It didn’t ache exactly. But it was weak. Off.

His vision doubled slightly when he sat up too fast, so he didn’t anymore. 

He swallowed and turned his head slowly, letting his gaze drag across the quiet chambers. Even the palace seemed unsure of itself without noise. The mirrors held only his reflection instead of memories, not Nuru’s lips on his neck, not Katsuka rolling his eyes like he hadn’t been the one to linger too long. Just him. Pale. Quiet. Slightly unfocused.

Nuru always filled space with movement. Warm hands, mischievous growls, long nights tangled in silk sheets and whispered promises neither of them bothered remembering come morning. Being with him was easy—so easy Kai sometimes forgot how lonely he could be.

Katsuka, though... Katsuka had a way of not touching him that drove Kai insane. The little flicks of his eyes, the snide comments that never quite masked the hesitation. As if his heart was coiled, waiting. 

Kai pushed, of course. He always pushed. Brushed too close, touched too long, teased too hard. It was how he felt things.

Now there was no one to touch. No one to tease.

He tapped his fingers along his collarbone, letting the claw of his pinkie trace the faint pulse there. Still steady. Still slow. The angel’s mark had singed deeper than any wound he’d taken in battle—not because of pain, but because of what it had touched. His fate. His core.

And his humanity meant his recovery dragged.

He blinked, slowly, and the chandeliers shimmered into double again. The lingering double vision. His least favourite side effect. He could see himself twice in the mirror across the hall—both versions of him looking just as irritated.

He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eye. “Great,” he muttered. “Still broken.”

He told himself he wanted to be alone. Needed to be.

Because when the double vision crept in and the mirrors blurred, and his heart gave that occasional uncertain stutter, there was only one name that tugged at the edge of his thoughts.

Katsuka.

He missed him. And not just in the vague, distant way people missed a friend.

He missed the closeness.

The quiet resistance in the way Katsuka always told him to step back, but never actually pushed him away. The half-hearted protests. The sharp words laced with heat. The way Kai could lean in just a bit too close, and Katsuka’s breath would hitch—but he’d never move.

He let him stay.

Always.

And Kai, for all his bravado, had come to rely on that more than he realised.

The warmth of a body beside his. The knowing glance. The bite of a dry remark that only barely hid the way Katsuka’s gaze would linger a moment too long on his smile.

~

The cold no longer stung.

It simply was.

A constant presence draped over the palace, much like the silence—thick, unmoving, weightless in the way snow is before it collapses.

Kai shifted in his seat by the frost-laced window, half-sitting, half-folded over the armrest. His breath fogged the pane in slow, uneven pulses. His heart still hadn’t caught its rhythm. It beat, but softly. Like it was uncertain of itself. Unwilling to overcommit.

His double vision lingered. Sometimes things shifted just enough to make him dizzy. Other times he saw two versions of himself in the mirrors: one who still carried the blood of a king and a wolf, and one who looked like a stranger.

The latter was becoming more real.

He’d noticed it slowly—first in the mirror.

His curls had lost their brightness.

Not dulled to silver.

Not faded to white.

But turned—brown.

Earthy. Unremarkable. Human.

And his eyes… no longer blood-red but a piercing, glacial blue.

Not wolf.

Just… cold.

Mortal.

His hand had trembled the first time he saw the full transformation. Not from fear. Not from pain.

But because, for a moment, he didn’t recognise the man staring back at him.

His claws were gone.

The slight shimmer of frost that used to cling to his breath had vanished.

Even his aura—once sharp and edged like a blade left in snow—was now soft. Barely there.

Human.

He was fully human, as his demon energy retreated deep within, conserving itself while his body fought to recover what had been taken by the angel’s touch. The singeing of his fate thread had disrupted more than just magic—it had shaken the foundation of what he was.

And it was during this strange in-between—this slow return to strength—that the loneliness hit hardest.

Because Katsuka wasn’t here.

One week without him.

The one person who filled silence with tension, who made the walls feel less hollow simply by existing within reach.

Kai had always handled solitude with bravado. Teasing. Flirting. A smirk and a shrug.

But now?

Now the ache was physical. It sat in his chest beside the weak thud of his heart.

He missed him.

Missed the biting remarks. The sideways looks. The way Katsuka would say “don’t” and never mean it.

The room had no fire. The mirror had no colour. The silence had no shape.

And Kai…

Kai had never felt so mortal.

He didn’t notice Matthias enter.

He was too focused on the stranger in the mirror—on the pale blue eyes that used to burn red, the soft brown curls that no longer shimmered with frost. His hand rested absently on the edge of the vanity, the other combing through his hair, trying to make it look… like something.

Something he could recognise.

Or maybe something Katsuka would recognise.

“Identity crisis?” came Matthias’s voice—low and even behind him.

Kai’s breath caught.

He didn’t jump, didn’t flinch, but he froze in that very specific way only Matthias could cause.

“You don’t seem surprised,” he said quietly, eyes still fixed on the reflection.

Matthias approached, his steps silent across the frost-veined floor. He stood beside Kai now, both of them facing the mirror. Two figures—one still regal in his dark navy coat, the other stripped of power, skin warmer, eyes gentler.

“You’ve always had her eyes,” Matthias said softly.

Kai glanced sideways at him. 

Matthias smiled wistfully. “Even when they were red… the glimmer was the same. She had this way of looking at the world like it should behave—but knowing it wouldn’t.”

Kai huffed a breath, part laugh, part ache. “She sounds dramatic.”

“She was.”

Kai turned fully now, searching his brother’s face.

“Why aren’t you shocked?” he asked, voice quieter. “Why aren’t you… I don’t know, doing that thing where you act annoyed and overly responsible about it?”

Matthias looked at him for a long moment. Then his eyes fell to Kai’s chest, and his brow furrowed—just slightly.

“You don’t usually revert like this,” he said. “But once… a long time ago. You were like this before.”

Kai frowned, instinctively glancing down.

And that’s when he saw it.

A pale white X, carved across the centre of his chest. Like someone had marked his heart with intention.

He ran his fingers across it slowly. The skin was smooth, cold to the touch, like the scar remembered frost that his body had forgotten.

Matthias’s voice softened.

“You were recovering from something. Something you didn’t remember. And when I found you, you looked just like this. Human. Still. With that scar.”

Kai’s voice caught in his throat. “What happened?”

Matthias didn’t answer right away.

He studied the mark as if it held secrets even now. When he finally spoke, his voice was low—cautious.

“It was the first time your fate tied itself to another’s.”

Kai looked down at the scar, palm resting flat over the X.

“And you pulled me back?”

Matthias’s gaze didn’t waver. “You were never gone.”

The silence that followed was heavier than the room.

Kai blinked at his reflection—at the unfamiliar face. The mortal softness. The fragile breath.

“This is what I looked like before?” he asked quietly.

Matthias didn’t answer.

He just placed a steady hand on Kai’s shoulder.

And whispered again, more to himself than to Kai:

“You’ve always had her eyes.”

~

Kai leaned in toward the mirror, bracing his hands on the cold edge of the vanity. The frost on the glass caught his breath, curling in soft clouds around the edges, but he didn’t move to wipe it away.

He just stared.

The man looking back at him had his face—but not his fire. Not the red eyes. Not the bright, wolfish glint he used to carry without effort. His hair was thick, soft brown now, curling in gentle waves instead of its usual brilliant frost-touched blue.

Everything about him looked quieter. Warmer. Wrong.

Kai tilted his head slightly. Furrowed his brows. Then, carefully, he pulled the corner of his mouth into a smirk.

That smirk.

His signature grin—charming, sharp, reckless. The one that had disarmed enemies and undone lovers. The one Katsuka could never quite look away from, even when he pretended to.

But now?

It looked strange. Unbalanced. Like a ghost of something that used to live there.

He pressed it wider, trying to find the angle that felt natural. Forced his brow into a confident lift. Raised his chin just enough to give it edge.

Still wrong.

Still not him.

He even stuck his tongue out, crooked and playful, the way he always did when teasing someone too serious.

Then sighed.

His face relaxed. The grin faded. His expression dropped into a pout—not playful, not mocking. Just tired. Quiet. Like something had slipped through his fingers again.

He looked… like a stranger wearing his skin.

And then he thought of Katsuka.

How the shadow lord had once trembled through the act of showing himself—fox ears and freckles bared in quiet defiance of his own fear. How he’d let Kai see him, really see him, through all his panic and pride.

And yet here Kai stood, unable to do the same. 

Except… he wasn’t hiding, was he?

This wasn’t him. 

His power would return. His grin would find it’s sharpness again. The weight in his limbs would lift.

“I’ll recover,” he murmured to his reflection. “I’ll be back soon enough.”

Then, with the ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, he added under his breath:

“I always come back.”

~

He’d stopped checking the mirror days ago.

There was no point. Every glance just showed him the same stranger: brown curls, soft jaw, ice-blue eyes that held none of the bite he was known for. Human. Fragile. Powerless.

And worst of all—forgettable.

He still tried sometimes, out of habit. A flick of his fingers, a sharp snap—expecting the spark, the frost, the familiar rush of cold dancing across his skin. But nothing came. Only the hollow clack of bones meeting air, echoing in the silence of the chamber like mockery.

“Pathetic,” he muttered once, collapsing back into the chair with a sigh. His chest ached faintly. Always.

The days blurred together in quiet staleness. His strength returned in slow, unsatisfying increments—but his power, his self, remained distant. And yet… something was shifting.

It started with a strand. One morning, brushing his hair back, he caught the glint of white at his temple. He frowned and leaned closer—too tired to hope. But it wasn’t dust or a trick of the light. Just… white.

He said nothing. Touched it once. Let it go.

Then the next day, two strands. Then four. Strand by strand, it crept outward like frost spreading over a frozen lake. His eyebrows paled. Even his irises began to drain of their pale blue hue, replaced by a glowing, milky white light that pulsed faintly behind the surface. He avoided the mirror again. It made him feel like a ghost.

But by the end of the week, the shift couldn’t be ignored. His hair was all white now. His lashes matched, dusted snow. His eyes a radiant, haunting pearl.

And then—slowly, almost reluctantly—the colour returned.

Threads of blue bled into his hair like ink in snow, rich and bright, curling with life as if memory itself rewrote his appearance. His eyes, pale as winter skies, flushed with scarlet at the edges—until the red overtook the frost completely, igniting that familiar, arresting glow. 

His signature dissonance returned—icy hair against burning eyes, softness and threat in one body. Kai.

He tried it once more. A flick of his fingers. There was a sharp crack! and a crystal bloom of ice burst to life against the glass, spreading like veins.

And then—he exhaled.

The breath misted into the air, frosting the mirror in a fine halo of frost. A deep rumble stirred in his chest, like distant thunder rolling through his ribcage. Not pain. Power. The wolf had stirred.

It wasn’t violent. It was… present.

Two weeks. Two long weeks trapped in fragile humanity.

But now, the frost was thick in his lungs again. His strength, his stillness, his chaos—they all surged back like a tide drawn to the moon.

He tilted his head. Looked at himself properly. The blue hair, wild and curling. The red eyes, sharp and alive.

He was back.

Kai exhaled, slow and sure, frost misting out before him. His grin returned, sharp and tired but glorious - unmistakably him.

“Took you long enough,” he whispered.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

You always did sweep me off my feet…

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

Milestones

Katsuka sat at their usual table at the Happy Fox Café, watching as the foxes bustled around the courtyard. Kits darted between legs, some carrying armfuls of colourful fabric, others struggling with vases of flowers twice their size. Tables were dragged into new positions, bunting strung between trees.

Kai gave the chaos a glance, then arched a brow.

“What’s all that about?”

“Rukaria’s birthday,” Katsuka said, eyes flicking toward a group of kits wrestling near the road. He gave a low whistle and motioned for them to move along. “Your children are invited, of course.”

His shadows had been slowly returning. Not quite as they were, but enough to help wrangle the children when everyone else was busy.

“Well, I guess we’ll have an early night,” Kai muttered with a playful sigh, but there was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

“You’re welcome to stay,” Katsuka offered before he could stop himself — and immediately cringed inwardly. That was the kind of thing Mitsuki usually filtered out.

Kai’s grin turned wolfish. He leaned in a little too close, nudging him. “Bit of a problem with your wife, don’t you think? I mean, I don’t mind — but she might.”

Katsuka’s ears folded back, a faint flush colouring his cheeks. “No, that’s— I didn’t mean— I just—” He sighed, rubbing at his temple. “I’ve been tired lately.”

Too many mistakes. He’d been making too many of those lately.

Kai, of course, had taken full advantage of it. He’d been gentle in the way only Kai knew how: teasing too closely, brushing past him too deliberately, offering touch without pressure. And gods help him, Katsuka had been grateful for every second of it.

The world had felt too loud. Too sharp.

Except for Kai.

“It’s alright, Kitty,” Kai said, resting his chin on his hand, his smile soft for a fleeting moment before mischief reclaimed it. “Are you going to dress up then?”

“Oh, yes. I suppose I should.” Katsuka looked down at his tailored suit with a dry chuckle. “Can’t exactly wear this old thing. I’m sure Naru’s had something made.”

“Wait— you’re not going to be in this suit?” Kai’s eyes lit up like a boy promised sweets. “But it fits you so well.”

“Not this one, no.” Katsuka’s ears twitched back toward the squealing kits again. One darted under a table leg—he reached out instinctively, shadows sliding across the ground to nudge the child away from a painful bump. “Something less formal, considering the event.”

“Ooooh, no fair. You never dress up for me.” Kai pouted dramatically.

“What reason would I have to dress up for you?” he drawled, rolling his eyes.

“I dress up for you all the time,” Kai replied, gesturing at his loosely buttoned shirt like it was haute couture.

“You’re barely dressed.” Katsuka huffed. “Give me a reason, and I’ll consider it.”

He regretted the words instantly.

Kai’s eyes gleamed with wicked delight.

Damn it.

Yes, you really shouldn't, Kit Kat...

The voice hit him like a crashing wave.

Katsuka gasped audibly, hand flying to his mouth as his body jolted forward. Shadows rushed up around him in an instant, rippling over his shoulders and curling tight around his chest in a crushing, familiar embrace.

“Whoa— don’t throw up on me,” Kai said, scooting back, but his wary expression shifted quickly to understanding. “Oh. They’re back.”

Katsuka exhaled, long and slow, as the warmth flooded his limbs. His heart thudded against his ribs. He rubbed a hand over his sternum, smiling as he felt it — that constant companion settling in behind his thoughts again.

“You have no idea how good that feels,” he murmured, letting his shadows ripple gently across the edge of the courtyard. Home. Whole.

What the fuck did you get into without me? Mitsuki’s voice growled in his head. Why do you feel like a basket case?

Katsuka chuckled aloud.

“Uncle!”

He looked up to see one of the foxes waving at him, gesturing toward something inside the café.

“Apologies, darling,” he said, standing smoothly. “I’ll make it up to you another time.”

He paused for just a moment, casting one last look over his shoulder. “You’re always welcome. I thought you enjoyed making Anubis jealous?”

As he turned to go, Mitsuki groaned in the back of his mind.

Ugh. Why? You know he's not going to come...

Katsuka just grinned and walked away.

~

The party had been a great success.

The park buzzed with noise and motion — foxes of all ages dashing between tables, extended family trading hugs and gossip, children yipping with laughter. Colourful lanterns bobbed on strings overhead, casting warm light over every familiar face. And for the first time in what felt like forever, Katsuka truly felt at home in the chaos. The din thrummed in his bones, filled the hollow spaces left behind by silence, and he let it.

He had worn colour, as promised — no suit tonight. Just a simple purple button-up and golden slacks held up by glittering suspenders Naru had insisted were “non-negotiable.”

Across the crowd, Raki raised a glass. He stood beside Marina with a sparkle in his eye and a grin that stretched wide as he turned to face Ruru.

“Too young to be a grandparent,” he announced, “but not too old to be head of the clan. Happy birthday to our dearest Rukaru!”

The gathered voices erupted in cheers, whistles and applause ringing up into the warm night air.

Ruru’s eyes widened, just for a moment — caught on the feminine version of her name name. Rukaru. It was subtle, but not missed. Not by her. Not by the others who watched her with quiet reverence.

Even Anubis had been coaxed into something festive. Naru had made her a long, golden dress embroidered at the hems with purple, the threads catching in the lantern light. She hadn’t protested it for once. A quiet win for them both.

The music shifted. The air turned soft with melody, and Katsuka found himself pulling Anubis out onto the dancefloor with him. She resisted only for a breath, then smiled and followed.

The slow waltz suited them. He held her close, their steps gentle and practiced, his shadows curling faintly at their feet like extensions of memory.

“You seem… less anxious,” Anubis said, voice low, probing gently as her silver eyes searched his.

“It’s good to feel whole again.” His ears twitched happily, the faintest purr in his voice as he leaned into the rhythm of her body against his.

The music shifted.

“Oh— gods, I haven’t heard this in years!” she laughed as the tempo lifted, and he spun her with a delighted grin, watching the flare of her skirt as she moved.

By the second verse, their roles had reversed completely. Anubis took the lead, eyes sparkling as she dipped him low, his golden hair nearly brushing the ground as laughter bubbled from them both.

A few wolf whistles and cheers rang out from nearby cousins.

“You’re sweeping me off my feet now?” Katsuka teased, grinning up at her from the dip.

But his smile faltered.

Anubis had gone pale, her hand suddenly clinging tight to his shoulder. She straightened slowly, laughing a little too breathlessly.

“Sorry— must’ve been all that spinning.” She tried to brush it off, but he had already wrapped an arm around her waist, steering her toward a bench.

“Careful, darling.”

She nodded faintly, sitting with a grateful exhale. “Just a little dizzy.”

“I’ll get you a drink.” He pressed a kiss to her temple and left her in the gentle hush of the evening, weaving through the crowd.

Raki caught his eye briefly — watching Anubis with those reaper eyes of his with a faint frown before leaning in to whisper something to Marina, who promptly smacked his arm with a laugh.

Katsuka returned, sliding onto the bench beside Anubis and handing her a glass. She smiled, took it, and leaned against him as he slung an arm around her shoulders.

“Are you pregnant?” he asked quietly, only for her ears.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Why would you ask that?” she deflected, which only made his grin widen.

“Dizzy?” he raised a brow. “Darling, you don’t get dizzy.”

“I’m just tired,” she snapped softly, fingers tightening around the cup. “Thank you for the wine.”

“Oh, it’s not wine. Can’t give wine to a pregnant woman.”

She smacked his arm with a grunt. “Once again: not pregnant. And do not start that rumour here— I don’t need your entire family whispering nonsense.”

You think she’s lying?... Mitsuki’s voice hummed in the back of his mind. She’s always had a good poker face...

Katsuka said nothing, his tails curling reflexively around his legs. His ears twitched back toward the dancefloor, scanning the crowd. His eyes paused on Kai's "twins" — the foxes mingling happily with their extended kin.

Anubis caught the motion instantly, of course.

“Expecting someone?”

“Would you be terribly angry at me if I had invited Kai?” he asked, tone light, almost sheepish.

She sighed and gave him an exhausted look. “At this point, I’d be relieved. Leave me in some peace for a while.”

She stood, adjusting her skirt as she waved to someone across the lawn. “Let me check on Marina. Try not to incite more rumours. Behave.”

He watched her go with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. She was flustered — and that was always a rare and delightful thing.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

I Didn't Meant To Scare You

Raki had felt strangely empty after the battle.

He’d watched his mother carefully tuck his father into bed like a child. Then she had turned on him with a fury he hadn’t expected.

Her hand cracked across his cheek.

He'd frozen, too stunned to respond, one hand rising to press against the burning skin. She pointed at him, eyes glowing with starfire and anger.

“Don’t you ever do something that stupid again!” she hissed.

He’d nodded, silent, shaken — not by the slap itself, but by the emotion behind it. He’d never been struck before. His father was deeply against violence; not even the foxes had ever laid a hand on him.

It was oddly humbling.

But he didn’t hold it against her. He’d seen the panic in her eyes when he’d stepped into that fight. He’d felt it. She had been afraid. For him.

He made a mental note not to piss her off again and had retreated to bed, exhausted. He hadn’t fought much himself, but holding the mountain-wide barriers had drained him dry.

What he hadn’t expected was how long it would take his father to recover.

Anubis explained it simply: the corruption had built up in him again during the fight, and she’d had to cleanse it. Katsuka was resting. Recovering.

But something had changed.

At breakfast, Raki had been happy to see him — genuinely. It had been nearly a week since he’d been up. But when their eyes met, something in his father fractured. The tension that surged through him, the way he latched onto Anubis’s hand like it was the only thing keeping him upright, the tremble that overtook him — it was horrifying.

Anubis had once said that Katsuka was a nervous man. Raki hadn’t fully believed her.

Now he did.

Because Mitsuki had always been there. And now, without that guiding force, Raki began to recognise things he’d seen before: the blank stares, the sudden stillness mid-conversation. He had thought it was... quirks. Now he knew better.

This was the first time he had seen his father not continue.

He was grateful Marina had been there, redirecting the panic with that effortless grace of hers. He called it her superpower. She called it common sense.

~

That night, unable to sleep, he found himself drifting through the palace like a ghost. He ended up where he often did — at the nursery, by his daughter.

He wasn’t surprised to find Katsuka there.

His father's ears twitched at the sound of the door, then relaxed when he saw it was him.

“Sorry,” Raki said softly, stepping into the room. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“She’s back to sleep now,” Katsuka murmured, gently rocking Nadia’s little body side to side in the crib. His voice was quiet, careful not to wake her.

Raki joined him, smiling as he looked down. Her tiny fists were curled up like she was ready to fight nightmares.

“You don’t have to watch her at night,” Raki said, casting a glance toward the tired lines around his father’s eyes. “We have nursemaids for that.”

“It’s fine. I don’t mind.” Katsuka’s smile was soft as Nadia shifted in her sleep. “She’s well behaved. Exact opposite of you.”

Raki raised an eyebrow. “You saying I was difficult?”

“Your mother never told you?” Katsuka chuckled as they left the nursery, quietly closing the door behind them. “Of course she didn’t. You were a nightmare for her.”

“But not for you?”

He followed Katsuka into a small sitting room. They settled into plush chairs, and Katsuka poured two fingers of golden whiskey into glasses, handing one over.

“Oh no, you were just... energetic,” Katsuka replied with a smirk, swirling his drink. “I’d had more practice with children than she had.”

“I’m surprised Leia was your first,” Raki said, watching him over the rim of his glass. “You love kids. You were married five times — you could’ve had more.”

Katsuka snorted, then took a sip. “Some things are worth waiting for.”

A wistful look crossed his face, one Raki hadn’t seen before. They sat in companionable silence for a time, the crackle of the nearby hearth filling the room.

Then Raki asked gently, “Is it strange, not having them there? The shadows?”

Katsuka’s shoulders stiffened.

“Yes.” The answer was immediate. “You don’t realise how much you rely on them — how much of yourself is them — until they’re gone.”

“Are they? Gone, I mean?”

He watched his father carefully now, not wanting to push, but knowing he had to ask.

“Your mother thinks they’re not,” Katsuka replied after a long pause. “She believes they’re... healing. I just— can’t feel them. Can’t hear them.”

Raki could barely imagine it. The shadows had been with him since he was a teenager. They were part of him now.

"I'm sorry I frightened you the other day." Katsuka said as he looked to him, ears twtiching as he struggled to find the right words. "I'm normally better at hiding the attacks. It wasn't..." he paused and let out a frustrated sigh. "It wasn't anything you did."

Raki picked at the edge of his nail and nodded. “You don’t have to hide it. I can help. I want to help.”

Katsuka studied him, as if seeing him anew. Then a faint smile broke through.

“It comes on unexpectedly,” he said. “Touching helps. It grounds me.”

He reached out and ruffled Raki’s hair.

Raki scowled, batting his hand away. “Ugh. You always do that.”

But there was a smile on his face now, small and true.

“I walked into a bloody wall yesterday,” Katsuka admitted, groaning. “Tried to leave the room too fast. Shadows weren't there. Absolutely mortifying. And Rukaria saw.”

Raki snorted, then laughed — a real, chest-deep laugh.

“Gods, I needed that,” he wheezed.

“Happy to be your comic relief,” Katsuka replied dryly. "If that fox tells anyone save you, I'll have her hide."

They drank in silence for a while after that. It wasn’t heavy, or awkward. Just quiet. Shared.

“Hey,” Raki said eventually, tilting his head, “I mean it. I can help. You don’t have to handle this alone.”

“I know,” Katsuka said. “But you don't need to take on that burden. You know I'd never ask that of you.”

“That’s alright,” Raki said, raising his glass. “I’m still your son. I’ll figure it out.”

They clinked glasses, and in the flickering firelight, for the first time in days, Katsuka looked a little less alone.

[cheshamstreetbreakdowns]

“That’s what makes you unique, and beautiful”