#and still again and again and again we fall for the tale

[loserlvrss]

( ɪˈfemərəl ) ㅤ𓈒 ㅤ𓈒 you and the popular twitch streamer, 𝙃𝘼𝙀𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙉, had dated for years, breaking up because of a misunderstanding. and now you're haunted by the ghost of your failed-relationship, doubting whether you should reach out again. however, it all comes crashing down because of one sweatshirt and a tweet. 이동혁 &𝔣em! 𝔯ea.❛angst, half-smau, eventual fluff, streamer!au

or alternatively┊life gives you a second chance with the man who understood, and never sought to change you.

𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬───language, emetophobia, panic disorder, severe depression & anxiety disorder, mentions of food & not eating, argument, self-loathing, drinking / alcohol usage, perental truama / mentions of being an orphan, skinship, crude humor ⟡ est. wc : 1600THOU+ CLiCK4MORE (part two coming soon)

001: Whoever You Became and Whoever You Thought You Should've Been 

You've always been sure of yourself. That was never an issue. You always knew what you wanted and how to achieve the goal effectively. Yet, now you can’t even decide what to eat for breakfast—so you go without food most days.

The little girl you were would be disappointed in the mess she was looking up to. She’d be disappointed to have watched the walls of her castle crumble. She’d be disappointed to know that fairy tales were just stories made up by lonesome adults. You feared, she’d just be disappointed in you. You weren’t the person you thought you’d be by now. Well, actually, you thought you weren’t much of anything anymore. In reality, you’d lost all sense of whoever you became and whoever you thought you should’ve been.  

Yes, you knew that you’d been walking a fragile line; within everything. Your social life was crumbling, your career on the verge. The thought of romance was non-existent. You genuinely felt like you couldn’t breathe right anymore. Nothing was satisfactory. You never thought you’d watch things fall apart but, here you were watching it replay again and again every night. You couldn’t unsee or un-feel it no matter how hard you tried. 

You knew the risk taken but, sliding down a steep hill wasn’t in the 5-year plan. You, of course, couldn’t even regret what happened. You couldn’t regret giving it a try because, isn’t that what life is about? New experiences?

Yet, you still do. You still crave what you had and lost.

You were so confident but it seemed like everything changed just as quickly as it started. 

“Y/n! C’mon, dance with me!” A voice called out as a sashaying—painting worthy—woman made her way through a small crowd. She had smooth black hair and complimenting sharp features. “Please!” She begged, gripping your hand within hers and pulling you into the pile of people she’d just weaved between. 

Unfortunately, the beat-heavy music, that has been doing a decent job and drowning out your thoughts, had subsided into a slow-dance. Still, that didn’t stop her and she wrapped her arms around your neck, pulling yours up to mirror hers. 

We swayed to the music as she started speaking, “He’s not even here but, he’s still on your mind.” She didn’t roll her eyes visibly, however, audibly, it got the message across. “He’s not even worth your time anymore, babe! Who the fuck even is he? No one, exactly! Stop with the sad girl shit,” She pouted, “it’s supposed to be our hot girl summer.” 

“But I wanted taken-girl summer.” 

“No such thing!” She replied mockingly, “You’re too good for him anyways, I mean, look at you! You could have anyone you want crawling at your feet, yet, you still want him—a fucking twitch streamer? Oh my god,” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, more in sadness than confusion. The funny thing is, Alexa liked your relationship with Donghyuck. She was your number one supporter but, overnight, she became his number one hater. And, it’s not like you could blame her, it’s exactly the best friend thing to do. 

She was right though. Right now, you both were supposed to be celebrating her brother’s birthday but, here you were sulking over someone who wasn’t even close. Truthfully, you were sulking over him every and anywhere you went. It was pathetic, you knew that. It’s been months since you broke up. However, in hindsight, a few days wasn’t even allowed to compare to the two years you’d spent together. You wished that the hypothetical bad days outweighed the good ones but, they don’t compare. 

Donghyuck was always good to you. 

You weren’t always a vulnerable person, having to grow thick skin to survive. However, all it took was one funny boy to fuck up your life. He held part of your heart (still) and part of you would still give the rest back. Part of you would let him walk back into your life just as quickly as he left. 

You wanted to say that you and him were never getting back together but, that’s a door you feared would never fully close—no matter how long you stayed apart. 

“He’s not just a streamer, Lexa. You’ve got it wrong.” 

She cocked her head, “Tell me then, what is he?” 

You didn’t want to reminisce. You didn’t want to cross back over the bridge you worked so hard to crawl across. He was a core-memory you couldn’t escape and you knew leaving it in the past wouldn’t be so easy. You were his but he wasn’t yours. He still had a tight grip on what you wanted to do and where you wanted to go, even if you’ve fallen so far down his list of priorities. 

“He was good to me an—”

“Most people are good to you, y/n! You’re fucking y/n!” 

You bit your lip, “This was different, he understood me.” 

She huffed, readjusting her grip unnecessarily, “And? Anyone who understands you gets to call you their girlfriend for two years? I’ve known you for fifteen! What does that make me? I’ve seen this play out before, y/n, can’t you just listen to me this time?” 

You and her were much alike, externally stubborn, and you knew that if the roles were reversed she wouldn’t be acting all high and mighty. 

“You’re better without these stupid men who let you go!” She explained adamantly, trying to drill the message in deep, “You always get better.” 

Except, this time you couldn’t swallow your pride. He was different. He felt real in comparison to the flings you previously had and lost. He did understand and never looked at you like a hopeless girl he could save. You weren’t his challenge to fix. 

Because of that, he was the first person you could truly say that you loved. 

“When?” Your eyes glossed over, heart beating a physical pain throughout your chest. “When do I get better, Alexa?” 

She sighed, “When you let yourself.” 

You finally stopped abusing your bottom lip, letting it go. “What if this time it’s different?” 

She pat your cheek with the palm of her gentle hand—even if sometimes it wants to slap some sense into you. “It’s not. You’ll get over him, just give it some more thought.” 

But that’s all you’ve been doing. Giving him a thought, then another, and another, and another. It was a never ending loop you couldn’t escape the helpless feeling of. 

The rush of adrenaline was a scary thing. 

You tried a solemn smile, “Yeah, okay.” 

The only way to get her to stop was to agree—even if she knew it was fake. Somewhere deep down you heard her. 

And, it’s not like you didn’t want to move on, you just never thought you’d have to. If you’re being honest, you never thought you’d watch the two of you breakup like you did. You thought that if you ever broke up, it would have had to have been because of something awful. Yet, it was the complete opposite and maybe that’s why it hurt more than a little. You broke up mutually because even though it’s said that opposites attract, you weren’t so sure. Too different from one another to go on. You know now that the feeling inside of you for those years was only too good to be true. You should’ve known the storm would roll in at any second, sabotaging a sunny day. You should’ve known the whole thing would hit the fan and splatter against the wall. You should’ve known you would let your demons win. Donghyuck knew everything about you, and you should’ve known that to let him in meant letting them in as well. 

You hate how fast you switched sides, and how easily you gave in. That wasn’t like the old you but, you didn’t even know who the old you was anymore. And now, you had much less of a clue who the new you happened to be. 

You also had no insight on him. Sure, you could’ve pulled up one of Heachan’s (his online persona) streams. But, you gave him nothing, and got nothing in return. You acted like strangers so well one would think you’d actually never known each other. Just two people in the same circle. 

You didn’t want to yearn for a boy who didn’t even want you anymore. But, all you wanted was him. 

002: Fuckass Streamer Award Goes To…

You smiled, replying, “thank you,” as you read over the (specific) comment that was complimenting the selfie you used for engagement purposes. “It was after Alexa’s brother's birthday party—my running to the convenience store drunk, fit.” You read over the comments a little bit more, some saying that you were too dressed up to just go to a 7-eleven. “I take my outfits very seriously guys.” 

You took a bite of the food at your side, scrolling through your music options. You didn’t plan on posting the stream to YouTube so, you weren’t really concerned with what was played. 

“Are we fucking with Niki, chat?” You switched back to your Discord, “Oh my God, Jisung’s obsessed with me!” 

You clicked, finally answering. A ping! filled your ears, making you jump. Then a familiar voice filled them instead, singing along to the song that you had just started playing: Lowkey. Your heart rate was through the roof, hand clutching your chest. “Oh my God! I almost stabbed myself!” The voice laughed through the attempt at hitting a higher note. “Remind me to turn that off later, okay?” 

"Hey! You ignored me, and then decided to flame me on the main."

“Well, don’t be so easy to flame then, emo boy. I didn’t need you to scare the fuck outta me—like Freddy did you.” You laughed loud, putting the fork down, turning Jisung’s voice up. He still hummed along while trying to hold the conversation. 

The chats messages were out of control, some thirsting over his deep voice, others reminiscing past streams you two did. Honestly, you’d met a lot of people through Heachan, Jisung one of them. They played first-person shooter games or League, and occasionally Haechan would teach you, putting his hand over yours and pressing the keys. It made your heart thump, a shooting pain in your chest. 

You were just glad no one needed to choose sides after the breakup.  

The song changed to: Sugarplum Elegy. Jisung took a second to actually acknowledge the chat’s messages (for him, obviously), greeting them. 

Then he went silent when he realized, knowing that he was probably testing the waters, you tried to play it off, leaning back in the chair so your chat could (hopefully) not see your eyes glossing over. “H-hey, what if we played a game, Ji?”  

He cleared his throat, “Yes? Okay! Yeah,” He shouted, dragging out the end, “What should we play? Roblox? Minecraft? COD? Stardew?” 

You hummed, ooh-ing at his options until they peaked your interest, “Roblox! Roblox!” Your fingers started clicking against the keyboard, he was doing the same, pulling up the game. “Although, when we do an in-person stream, we need to play a scary game again–like when you and Donghyuck played Five Nights at Freddy’s. Maybe Poppy’s Playtime Chapter Three.” 

You must’ve not realized the words that came out of your mouth; too intrigued by the games you scrolled through. But, the chat started speeding by again, and the air felt stale, static heard over the other end of the call. 

“What? What happened?” You asked, still oblivious. Well, that was until it practically smacked you like a train. You had to pretend like you weren’t in the middle of its wreck. 

You heard Jisung audibly swallow, also pretending (for your sake) that he didn’t hear it either, “No, nothing! You just scrolled past a suss-ass game. Speaking of, what do you want to play?” 

“What about…I don’t know, one of the well known ones? Then chat can join too.” 

“Well, yes.” He should’ve just said duh! “But, which one? Natural Disaster Survival? Dress to Impress?” 

“Wait! Natural Disaster Survival! I’m so good at this one!” He typed for a second, and then an invitation popped onto screen, you pressed it, the loading screen taking over momentarily. 

It should’ve been funny how you could relate almost anything back to Donghyuck. The first time you played this game—even the first time you played Roblox—was with him. 

You bit your lip trying to focus on the game instead of the looming thoughts of him in the back (and front) of your head. Mostly, because if you thought about him too long, you’d start to wonder if he ever did the same. But, you couldn’t even get close to watching a video he uploaded or stream of his to read between his lines. Still, you wondered, if you ever reached out, would he reply or would it be radio silent? Would it give you the closure you think you crave? 

You shouldn’t hold your breath. 

For now, you were just two people who used to be more. And, you don’t know why that made you so sad. To think you used to share every dark and twisted secret—to hold the words so closely. To think you could’ve been so much more almost kills you. Sometimes you feel like you didn’t give it a shot, but in reality, that’s all you did. 

You guess that you both wanted something the other couldn’t give…or maybe it wasn’t like that at all. Maybe he gave you everything you could’ve ever wanted and that's why it was so goddamn hard to get over this speed bump. You know it would be easier to loathe him, to pretend like he did something terrible and unforgivable. Although, he wasn’t like that no matter how many times you imagined it. No matter what you told yourself, it was never convincing enough. Every scenario ended with you being the bad guy in your story. Every scenario led back to him, and as much as you wanted to hate it, that was what got you through the night.

It’s said that time heals all, but how much time exactly until it becomes something deeper than surface level? 

“I win!” Jisung shouted. 

You had, obviously, died earlier; the chat mocking your statement about being good at the game. But you just wanted to brag to Jisung—the man who was good at every computer game. It was annoying, actually. 

You started playing a different game, Jisung shouting, “Y/n! Y/n, I think they’re e-dating! That’s against the rules, let’s report them!” He laughed like he was scheming, “I did it! I reported them! Haha, losers!” 

“At least they have someone—you and I are shit outta luck, buddy.”

“Damn…” He sighed, “I’m looking—”

“You’re great and all, but I’d actually rather date anything else.” You interrupted. “I think Jaemin, Mr. Pussy Slayer himself would be better.” 

He scoffed, “Bold of you to assume I was talking to you! Bro’s before hoes, Y/n.”  

Your jaw dropped, “Oh my God, and the fuckass streamer award goes to…” You yelled down the mic, “Just say i’m fucking ugly next time, damn.” 

Laughter erupted over the call, filling the tense air with something lighter. The chat spammed L’s, TMI’s or random romantic-confessions to each other. Then your MOD’s started spamming, no dating in the chat otherwise you get banned (jokingly) as retaliation. 

They calmed down and so did your shared laughter, Jisung admitting that he had to leave to film a video—which you complained about not being invited to. Then, you said your goodbyes, ending the call. 

“Guys, I should leave too.” You pouted your lip out, “I’ll be back soon, promise.” 

You turned off the stream and almost sighed in relief, though it felt all but relieving. Honestly, you felt nervous, guilty even. Your hands shook as you shut down everything, turning off the lights and leaving the room with a shut door. 

You couldn’t let the thought go. Does he feel the same way you do? Has he been kept up at night wondering if you loved someone else? Does he remember all the firsts and lasts you two had, like you can’t get out of your head? Do his thoughts echo your name, like his replays on yours? You felt like a scratched record, repeating what you already knew; what you feared most, how much you do regret it.  

You said you wouldn’t—that you couldn’t—you decided mutually that it was for the best that you went your separate ways, and to not dwell on the past. But, here you were, doing the opposite. Would he think it was as pathetic as you do? 

You hated how much he lingered on your nerves and flowed through your veins like a pretty poison. You hated how you had to meet someone so good you know you’ll never have better. And, you hated how much his thoughts and emotions were a mystery—a mystery you craved solving. You knew that if you died tonight, you’d regret not reaching out. Unfinished business or something. But, what if you didn’t die during the night and had to face the consequences of your actions? What if you had to face him again one day? Would you be able to? So many hypotheticals you weren’t sure you really wanted the answers to. 

The ghost of your failed-relationship will always haunt you, and it only gets worse in the dead of the night when you’re alone with your thoughts. The cold moon always mocked you, never answering your silent pleas for someone to fix what you couldn’t turn back time to—something you used to desperately cry out for. Now, you know no one is listening. And it should be humbling, yet you don’t care how many times you have to keep his sweatshirt over your body to get even a bit of sleep. 

At least you were sleeping now. 

But, you never thought you’d have to imagine ways to figure out how to make someone miss you. You never thought you’d want to make him suffer like you were. However, you never thought you’d feel lonely like you used to feel his heartbeat against yours. 

Nevertheless, it’s always the one who got away, wasn’t it?

003: Plotting an Evil Scheme

Periodically, You’d go through the stages of grief. Sometimes you would even go through them so fast it felt like you were listening to a crazy, heavy-metal song. One moment, you’d go from crying, to accepting, to being happy it happened, to sad it ended. More often than not, you’d linger on the last. 

Every time you almost broke the distance, your finger would land on Alexa’s contact, because if you asked her to, she’d talk you out of it. And, at first she was sad that it ended as well. You knew she didn’t want to tell you no but, she still did because she had more loyalty to you—knowing it was what you needed. 

Now, she believes it’s what you still need. 

DND.  SOS

HEY GOOGLE!  The sza album?  🔥🔥

DND. Fuck off.

HEY GOOGLE! I'm just kidding What's up babes??

DND. What do you think is up I'm about to break down

HEY GOOGLE! You want me to come over?

DND.  No, what I want is for it to stop hurting so bad

HEY GOOGLE! You're going to make me cry

DND.  Then we'd be crying under the same stars How romantic  Just kidding!  No romance here at my place.

HEY GOOGLE! You're throwing a pity party again

DND. This time you're uninvited  Good night, Alexa.

HEY GOOGLE! Y/n  I didn't mean it like that You're just always sulking over Haechan It makes me sad I just want to see you happy again

You couldn’t help but feel like you didn’t know how to be happy again. You honestly just felt like you were here—there was no other way to describe it. It was just a comatose feeling, neither swinging one nor the other way. Honestly, it felt like you’d just been taking a never-ending bad trip. 

You stared at the spinning fan above your head, watching as it rounded and rounded the same path. You couldn’t not see yourself in it—relate to its mannerisms of the inanimate object which obviously couldn’t feel as you did; that couldn’t feel in general. 

You thought breaking up was hard, but the battle truly began the moment you realized you were alone, after so much time of having someone there. Memories were silhouetted where the paint wouldn’t cover—where the pain still lingered. 

You turned to your side, staring out at the blank wall; the fan making your head feel dizzier than usual. Your stomach turned with it…or maybe it was just the thoughts. Reality was, you couldn’t tell much anymore. You thought you had it figured out but, here you were, steps back once the sun went down. Funny how the darkness worked with your imagination.  

If only these four walls could talk, you probably wouldn’t be wondering how he felt. You’d probably be in a much different situation if only the plaster had mouths. Though, you’d rather they didn’t narrate everything they’ve seen since his absence. 

You closed your eyes, and it always seemed like the perfect opportunity for your memories to mock you. Honestly, you wish you couldn’t dream anymore—but, that would mean you’d have died, and that created more hypotheticals you couldn’t deal with right now.  

“Love,” A tender voice called out, and you quickly went to find it, “My daughter! Where are you?” She called again once you reached the entrance of the house. The woman embraced you, wrapping her strong arms around you and kissing your cheek. You did the same, slightly delayed from shock. 

You don’t even know if she realized what she said, but you could see it written across Donghyuck’s face when you turned around. You watched as his mother sashayed past him, adjusting the bag of food in her hand. 

Donghyuck’s mother was enlightened by him shortly after you two had started talking. He told her about you being practically homeless, what put you into the system at fourteen. You never lasted very long with the families you were placed with, always being sent back like you were just a free-trial. Eventually, you lost all hope of finding one that would actually want to adopt you. Then years went by, you turned of age and suddenly you were out in the big, scary world. 

“Did she just…” He trailed off, watching tears threaten to spill from your eyes. You nodded, pulling your bottom lip into your mouth and hugging your arms around yourself–trying to stop the faucet to the waterworks. 

Donghyuck pulled your wrist free, then closed the distance between the two of you. You sniffled softly, and he kissed the crown of your head. You didn’t have to tell him how much it meant to you, because he knew how hard you took rejection and how fast you absorbed any kind of parental figure. He knew you looked at his mother like a superhero. He knew you almost envied their mother-son relationship; how close they were, while yours were deemed unfit by the court because they didn’t want to clean-up. 

It still stings that they didn’t want you enough to get their shit together. 

Still, Donghyuck’s mother didn’t realize it but, those little words that probably had no meaning to her, that were just subconscious, were as deep as Mariana’s Trench to you–they were as much of a mystery as it was too. Words that satisfied a small part you’d thought you lost. It almost felt like fireworks were going off as it replayed. It almost felt like a part of your heart was clicked back into place. 

Oh, how you had so much to lose. 

“Why do you only have Doritos? What on Earth is Prime? Didn’t I teach you how to cook?” She rambled, scolding her son and catching both your attention, “Come here! Why do you have nothing to eat, Donghyuck? How are you even alive? Come help me cook something…you’re lucky to have her, oh my gosh.” 

Sirens woke you up; metaphorically, and as they flew past your window. You gasped for breath and wondered if your subconscious mind knew that you practically died every night, holding your breath like it was the last before taking a plunge. Though, they long passed by the time you turned over, the familiar fan still spinning. 

You shivered but your body felt like every fiber was set aflame. You kicked off the blanket in an attempt to regulate, the cool air not soothing any part of you. You just wanted to peel your skin off, feeling sticky and sickly, a cold sweat covering your pores. You groaned as you pushed yourself into a seated position. Your stomach churned again with the same kind of agony as before you miraculously fell asleep. 

You thickly swallowed, though now it was just lumped in your throat, and got from the drenched covers. Anyone who would see this out-of-context would think you were sick or having a terrifying nightmare, when the reality was much different. This was one of the good dreams; now bittersweet. And, you tried not to ask yourself about the elephant in the room but, you couldn’t help wondering if she’d still think of you the same way. 

It was sickening. You thought you could throw up.  

Maybe, in hindsight, that was because you already felt like doing so. But still, the knife of rejection cut you deep, straight into your heart you could physically feel it–spreading around your chest in the form of a burning sensation with little sharp sparks of pain here and there. You potentially thought that you were having a heart attack. 

It didn’t fade but the anxiety of a critical situation did. You knew the feeling all too well. You knew the pain like the back of your hand. It’s said heartbreak takes a toll on people. However, they didn’t tell you it would feel like dying. So, what a surprise you got when you woke up drenched in a cold-sweat for the first time. Then again, and again. Until eventually, it became your normal routine to fall asleep, wake up early in the AM and wash up. You wouldn’t fall back asleep no matter how hard you tried but, you were used to the scattered feeling throughout the day. 

HEY GOOGLE! I’m sorry y/n Just text me when you wake up

DND. Another day  Another slay

HEY GOOGLE! not funny. did you have that dream again?

DND. All lowercase??  You must really feel comforting right now

HEY GOOGLE! you bet i do🥰 try to get some more sleep

DND. And you stop watching crime documentaries at 3am Go to bed

HEY GOOGLE! You first

DND. Funny🫤

You practically peeled the clothing from your body. The sticky sensation gave you sensory-overload and made you mentally-gag. Then you put them into the basket, already filled with a week's worth of washing before stepping into the turned-on shower. 

The water ran over your skin but today it didn’t make you feel any less dirty–any better. It wasn’t soothing like it usually did. Honestly, it made you feel worse. Why’d it get to fall so freely and you couldn’t? Why were you envious of inanimate objects? 

Your body lowered to the ground, knees coming up to your chest. You wrapped your arms around your legs, placing your head against them; it was already heavy from the water droplets. 

You wanted it to make you feel better. 

Maybe living in Hell would be better than purgatory–there, at least, you’d know where you stood. Maybe feeling something would be better than nothing. But, everyone wants what they can’t have, and you were no exception. Honestly, it made you feel like a spoiled brat. You couldn’t look at yourself without thinking it–without being jealous of the people who get to walk around with him in their mind without feeling a sense of betrayal. 

You could hear a part of you plotting out an evil scheme, saying, if you can’t have him, no one can. Does that make you crazy? 

Well, that’s got to be better than numb. 

004: Your Burden to Bear

Were you grasping at thin air? Were you just holding onto a false sense of security? You guess you haven’t really accepted what you know has happened. You wondered a lot but, most of all, you wondered how long you’d fight yourself on the edge of a cliff. Afterall, it was just a matter of time until you toppled over the edge into a treacherous cavern. Would you even hate the free-fall as much as you hate looking across the trench? Because the other side looked so close but you refused to look down. 

You opened the fridge, the artificial light illuminating a sliver of the kitchen. It was now around half-past five, which seemed like an acceptable time for adults to wake up–though, you’d been up for much longer. 

Your eyes scanned the few options on the shelves, lingering on the pink-capped Soju for longer than they should have. Instead, you grabbed the bottled water, twisting off the top as the door swung closed quietly. 

Honestly, you wished you realized what you had before it was all in the past-tense. How can you feel lucky to have known him but still appalled by that exact thought? But, that’s the age-old story, isn’t it? So, maybe Alexa was right. Maybe you shouldn’t be throwing yourself another pity party. The silence just knew every way to get to you; to weave its way into your brain chemistry and alter it. 

You leaned against the countertop, sighing out, then taking a drink, only now realizing you felt overly parched. 

You wondered how many goodnights were just goodbyes in disguise. You wondered if you ever met face-to-face again, would it just be another one in the making? 

Maybe ripping off the bandaid and airing out the wound would be better than letting it fester in the dark. You, purposefully, haven’t even searched out a picture of him since Hell broke loose. You couldn’t help but feel like you’ve been dragging it on because you wanted what you knew and not change.  

Did what Alexa’s been saying for months finally make a dent in your unstably-stone mind? Well, each step you took you always back-tracked once you got deeper down one of your rabbit holes. 

Fuck, you’ve got to get out of your godforsaken mind, because you’re really starting to think that you wont ever reach the other side like Alexa says you will. You’re really starting to fear a full-body takeover by someone who probably hasn’t given you a second thought, when it seems all you do is give him a second, third and fourth. 

Right now the Soju felt like it would satisfy your insatiable thirst–but, you’d leave it, going back to your room. One thing you refused to do, no matter how sad you got, was turn to alcoholism. Look where it got your parents. That’s a guilt you didn’t (couldn’t) live with. But, you’re sure they don’t live with it, it would just be your burden to bear. Actually, it looked like it would be exactly like it is now anyways, so did it really matter if you drank or not? You’ve already lost your sense of self.  

You put the bottle on the side-table, turning to the mattress and taking the covers off of it. You bunched the sheets in your arms and carried them to get washed, because last night was especially bad for you, despite it being a good dream. 

You shoved them into the washing machine and went to drag your dirty clothes out of the bathroom. If you were going to wash one thing, you might as well do the others. You then turned it on, after putting a rightful amount of detergent. 

You backed against the wall, watching as it began to fill. You thought if you lost track of time you’d stand there for the full fifty minutes–yet, that didn’t seem like the worst way you could occupy your time. 

However, it was cut short when the keypad to your apartment door started singing individual notes with each press of the password. Two options ran through your mind: you were going to die because somehow a murderer got the password to your door, or it was Alexa. 

“Look who it is.” The black-haired woman motioned for you as you rounded the corner to meet her. “I brought you this, please eat it.” 

In her hand were two things, an iced-coffee, which was for herself, and a bag from a nearby grocery store. She handed you the bag and went to explain the contents. 

“It’s just a fruit platter because, I don’t know, this is the only thing I see you eat nowadays.” She also handed you her other things (keys, wallet and coffee) to hold while she took her shoes off. She laid them in an orderly line against yours and went to take her necessities back. “Yeah, I pay attention to you.” 

You laughed but it was honestly kind of nice. You knew she cared about you–at least, it’s been fifteen years, so you hoped she did. Alexa’s been the only thing keeping you together. You know it probably doesn’t look like you’re coping but, without her it would be much worse. 

“I can’t believe you promised to stream at six in the morning–with me. Who the fuck does that?” Alexa rambled, going into the kitchen. You could hear things hit the countertop, a cabinet then opening. “You remembered, didn’t you?” She called out. 

Reality was, you simply didn’t find space inside your brain for that information after you put it out to the world. Another reason you probably wouldn’t be a functioning human being without her. “Otherwise, I wouldn’t be awake this fucking early! It’s like seven hours I’m missing right now!” You wondered what time it was now. She had a habit of being late, and you hadn’t even started setting up the stream. 

You found your way into your guest-bedroom (makeshift office), switching on the light and illuminating your setup. You turned your computer on, logging everything back in–which, thankfully, you hadn’t done much of the opposite yesterday. Flicking to the bottom of the screen, it was 5:55am, which just meant the stream was going to be later than planned but, it was almost not going to happen. 

You pulled up Twitch, logging that in too and pulling up your just chatting screensaver. The waiting room was already starting to fill, almost 40k people at its peak. You turned on music for them, watching as they spoke indirectly to each other. 

Alexa joined you a few minutes later, sitting down in the chair next to you. She placed the fruit platter in the middle of you two, handing a fork to you. 

“Ready?” You asked, and she nodded. 

A smile plastered her face as you took the waiting screen off, unmuting and then greeting the chat. She followed your lead, saying hello to them as well. 

She got comfortable quickly, despite not being a streamer. “You guys know what this bitch did to me?” Her head turned briefly your way, “She made me get up at five for this stream! She’s lucky I like her, chat.” Her hand went up into view with her five-fingers out to exaggerate the time she had to wake up. 

“I remember you guys being very interested in Alexa and I’s friendship, and that’s how this stream came about. I don’t know why we said we’d do it at six in the morning–must’ve been something to do with most of the viewers' time-zones, or something.” You shrugged, stabbing a piece of watermelon with the fork, “Ask us questions.” 

You read over the chat trying to pick out a good one, chewing the fruit slowly. Alexa pointed to the screen, sharp-black stiletto nails tapping it–it was one-hundred percent someone saying something rude about the two of you, but it only caused a giggling fit. 

Eventually, Alexa found a question worth answering, “I mean, this question doesn’t have anything to do with our friendship but, I like to brag.” She laughed, a competitive glint in her eyes, “How many languages do we speak? Well, I speak English, Spanish and Korean. An interesting spread, I know.” 

“I technically speak more!” You butt-in, which earned you a daring look. “English, French, Japanese and Korean.” 

“You don’t speak French, you can only read it!” She huffed, “So, we basically speak the same amount.” 

“Isn’t reading harder?”

“For your dyslexic ass!” Alexa slammed her fork down dramatically, making you laugh. She then perked back up just as quickly, almost like a light had gone off inside her mind, “You know what she did to her French teacher?” 

Your hand shot out, cupping her mouth before she had the chance to spit it out. She licked it (what did you really expect?) but she's done worse, so you didn’t flinch away. 

“No, no…that’s not a story for chat. Only Belle and Jisung know–should I tell them what you said to our English teacher instead?” Her eyes narrowed and she slouched down, surrendering. You slowly backed your hand away, ready to slap her mouth again if she started telling the mortifying story. 

“How’d we meet? What about that? Can I tell them that?” She asked, her sharp eyes beaming into yours. You nodded, leaning back into the chair and putting more fruit into your mouth. 

She smiled, “Alright, this was, what? Fifteen years ago?” She grabbed your hand when you confirmed, “The teacher sat us next to each other. She was a little introvert–I know, hard to believe.” 

“Basically, she called me a little bitch because I wouldn’t introduce myself to the class, and then, I don’t know how, we became friends.” You mumbled the rest, “Where’d she even learn that word, we were like seven.” 

“No! I didn’t say that! I was a little saint at that age.” 

Your eyebrows rose, “A saint with a biting problem, maybe.” 

Her mouth hung open, then she mimed biting your arm through the sweatshirt you were wearing. You both giggled at each other again, playfully pretending to be piranhas. 

“But honestly, Alexa’s so scary that no one fucked with us during school. Mostly because of her biting reputation–” She smacked your arm, “Sorry, resting bitch face–But! She really helped me, and I owe her so much.”

She mimed wiping under her eyes dramatically, throwing her arms around you in a side-hug, “Stop! I love you–don’t actually stop, I love compliments–but, I love you so much, Y/n!”

“I really don’t know where I’d be without her.” 

“I know, I keep you in check.” She said as she broke from you, dusting her shoulders off confidently, “I’m just the bestest-best friend in the whole world.” 

Your eyes rolled at her, despite knowing it was true. Then, you went to read the chat some more; them awe-ing over your long-lasted friendship. 

“Well, this turned into me and Alexa bickering like a married couple instead of a Q&A,” You stated, “But, what’s my favorite song? Ooh, that’s so tough. At the moment it’s We Can’t Be Friends and Past Life. Obviously they’re so good but, honorable mentions are Dear God and Did You Like Her In The Morning. Shameless plug for my playlist, by the way.” 

You turned to Alexa, who looked like she was deep in thought, “I’m taking this so seriously, it’s not funny.” She explained, calmly looking off-screen to somehow focus herself, “W-what was the one song you played all the time? Please remember my an–”

“Try Again?” 

“Yes!” She shouted, “I loved it so much!”

Your finger shot up abruptly, “Clip it and send it to Jaehyun, Alexa’s a fan.”

The chat spammed ‘done!’, Alexa sitting back and nodding. She first heard the song, soon after your breakup, when you two went for a drive because you refused to be home alone. It was really therapeutic, yet dangerous, to cry and sing along to it–which is something Alexa always let you do. 

The other questions you answered were cliché things that honestly, you were expecting. Mostly things like, your favorite memory, who’s older, and etc. 

After a while, you ended the stream, saying your goodbyes to the chat after answering the (stated) last question: when are you two getting married for real?

Alexa grabbed your shoulder, rubbing down your arm soothingly. You were an anxious person, it’s always been like that; worse due to your introverted nature but, with someone you never had to worry. And you hated that you became dependent on that reliability. 

“Mom wants you for dinner, please come over later.” Alexa got from the chair, “She misses you, and so does Saja.” 

You waved her off and got up too, “Alright, I’ll be over at like…four, to help cook. Okay?” 

She jumped excitedly, pressing a kiss to your cheek as she hugged you close, “Perfect! I’ll buy wine!” 

“I got it.” You said, “I’ll pick up her favorite on the way.”

“You’re an angel, Y/n. I’ll tell her you’re coming!” 

She left, probably to go back to sleep as if she didn’t just drink a large coffee, and you repeated the steps to renew the room for the next use. 

You know why when she left the feeling of having no air crashed upon you. You almost clutched your chest, though, you also knew the feeling wasn’t something abnormal. It’s always funny the physical toll that anxiety takes on people because, at first, you always thought you were dying, sending you into a deeper frenzy. Now you know, if you were going to die, it wouldn’t be from that. 

005: Pictures Like Memories 

You walked the wine aisle, searching out the perfect one. Alexa’s mother was a woman of class, red being her favorite–though it couldn’t be too sweet or too dry. Though it needed to be bitter enough to give her a buzz after a while. Alexa, however, liked what she could afford. And, during highschool (when you shouldn’t have had a fake) that consisted of bottom shelf alcohol. 

You grabbed a pretty gift bag, specifically designed for wine, as well as a little green sweater with embroidered flowers. It had caught your attention, putting a small smile on your face–and your therapist used to say you should hold onto the little things that made you happy. 

That was before the small things turned bigger.

Alexa’s mother was the only other person who treated you like a daughter, so you never felt bad buying the best for her–she deserved it. She’s stated on multiple occasions that if she was able to adopt you back then, she would’ve. But, she was going through a messy divorce, soon falling into financial hardship. She could barely afford to keep Alexa, much less another kid and her fees. 

Still, she did the best she could for you. She let you stay over whenever you could, she’d even pick you up from school with Alexa, and buy you presents for Christmas and your birthday. As far as you knew, she was practically your mother; more of one than your biological one that is. 

You loved her dearly, and it broke your heart that you watched her cry with you. You never wanted to cause her sadness, just as much as Alexa but, you watched them both fall out of love with him too–and, that, you felt a guilt for. 

You’ve had your fair share of boyfriend’s throughout your life to cope with the abandonment. Most lasted only a couple months max, the rest, less. However, it seemed like Donghyuck had a special way of creating space in his heart for anyone. And, that, he did for everyone he met. Maybe, that’s why it killed you more than anyone else ever has because there was always someone after. 

However, now you know there’s not. And, you hate that you only got so close. It felt like you gave up–you hate giving up. You hate how you didn’t even put up a fight to the proposition…if only you could go back in time. 

“Excuse me?” You looked from the shelf to where the voice came from, whether or not it was talking to you, “Hi.”

Your eyebrows rose, and you fought with the urge to pretend like you didn’t hear him or be nice and greet him back. Did people even still meet like this? But, you didn’t really like talking unnecessarily, more of a listener, especially men you didn’t know. 

He approached you, and your posture straightened–mostly because you were on edge. “This may be forward but, I think you’re really cute. Can I have your SnapChat?” 

You huffed out a laugh, trying to play it cool. You swore you could see Alexa’s murder-documentary-watching ass trembling in the corner of your mind. “I’m sorry…” You said the first thing that came to mind, “I have a boyfriend.” 

"But, y-you hesitated. I swear I'm not trying to be creepy–"

You pulled out your phone, “Look, I’m sure you’re great.” Then scrolled through your camera roll. Alexa would literally kill you if she saw you still had these pictures, but right now you were glad you couldn’t delete them. You turned the screen around, an obvious picture of yourself and Donghyuck being more than friends. “But, I’ve been in a relationship for years now.” The man flicked his eyes from the phone to your face and then back to the phone. He made a disgusted sound, mumbling something about how you weren’t even that cute anyways and other things you’re sure you didn’t want to catch. 

After he turned the corner, the shuffling inaudible, you readjusted the bottle in the crook of your elbow, looking down at the screen. You had to choke down the tears that threatened to spill and turned off the phone. A shallow breath left your lips and you made your way to the front desk.

“Did you find everything okay?” 

You looked to the clerk, trying to focus yourself back down on Earth, “Yeah, thank you.” 

He smiled, ringing up the items you placed on the wooden counter, "Do you want to use this right away?" He picked up the little sweater and gift bag. You nodded, and he put them together.

You pulled out your wallet, then your ID and handed it to him. He looked it over for a moment, and within that moment you thought he wouldn’t let you buy the wine. But, he handed it back and you paid. 

He then handed you your items and you waited by the door for your Uber. 

Traffic was the same as usual, excruciatingly slow. Eventually though, you came to a stop in front of the house Alexa’s mom had bought a few years ago. She was the definition of better on her one, and you wondered if you could ever be too. However, she wasn’t in your DNA the way she was Alexa’s. 

You walked to the front door, rang the doorbell as solely the way of announcing you had arrived, and went inside. You walked through the house and into the kitchen, where loud music and even louder talking was going on. 

“Honey!” Alexa’s mom’s dog, Saja (though she wasn’t much of a lion), jumped from her spot on the ground as you entered. You put your bags onto the surface next to you so you could pet her. “I was so happy when Lexa said you’d be coming!” She grabbed your face, pulling you up-right and planting a kiss onto each of your cheeks. “I missed you so much!” 

“I missed you too. I’m sorry I don’t come around often anymore.” 

She steadied your head to look into her eyes, “Don’t be. You can now.”

Alexa emerged from behind you with the bottle of wine already in her grasp, “What the Hell! This is so cute!” She held up the sweatered-bottle, “Mom, look!”

Her eyes broke from yours, then to the bottle. You watched as they lit up with admiration. She pulled you into another hug, then went to find the opener. 

Alexa ushered you to sit down at the island in the meantime, and she resumed cutting onions next to you. 

“Was the rest of your day okay?” She asked, almost awkwardly. You laughed quietly, “Did you sleep some more after the stream?” 

“It was fine, Alexa. Did you sleep some more?”

"You bet your sweet-ass I did!" She started to giggle to herself, going back to focusing on not chopping her fingertips off as well, "Best nap I ever fucking had. I swear, it felt like I died and then got revived." 

Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you figured it was just a notification from YouTube saying that Belle had uploaded; she was the only notification you still had on. But, it was weird when another came right after it. 

While pulling it from your pocket, you pressed the side-button, the notification revealing itself with your face-ID. 

You couldn’t have said this day would arrive. You couldn’t have said you’d react the way you did–the way you were. Frozen, staring down at the notification that illuminated your screen. It just had to be one thing after another today, didn’t it?

But you put it out into the universe, didn’t you?

HYUCK Hey I think we should talk. 

Alexa tried to look over your shoulder, coming around the island, but you quickly turned it off and shoved the phone under your thigh. 

“What is it?” She asked, placing the knife against the cutting board, “What? You never hide, I’ve seen the worst photos of you. What is it?” Her face deadpanned, and that’s when Alexa’s mom came back with the bottle opener and three fancy glasses. 

She must’ve sensed something was wrong, stopping what she was doing as soon as she reached to be directly across from you two. “What happened?”

Alexa turned to her, “She’s not telling.”

“Nothing happened!” You (unconvincingly) stated, “It was just…YouTube. Jisung posted.”

YouTube my ass, Y/n!” She held her hand palm up to you, “What’d someone say? Was it Twitter?” 

You hesitantly started to grab your phone from under your leg, explaining in the process, “I turned those off a long time ago. I-it was a text.” 

“From who?”

Alexa snatched the machinery from your hand as soon as it was in her view. You watched nervously, awaiting her outburst once she got the password through. Suddenly her eyes were wide, and the phone was being shoved into her mother’s hands. 

“I’m going to kill him!” She shouted, getting from the stool to pace the hardwood, “How much prison time is murder?”

You released your lip, trying to crack a joke, “Should we ask Siri?”

But, she didn’t find it funny, actually she grabbed the phone back from her mother who was now approaching you with open arms. You felt them wrap around you from the side, and she kissed the top of your head. 

“My love, it’s okay. Don’t respond–you hear that Alexa? Don’t answer him!” Her daughter grumbled but put the phone down without (hopefully) doing any damage. 

Alexa’s mother broke away from your hug and went to open the wine, “You need this more than ever.” She stated, putting your phone into her back pocket and filling a glass until, practically, the rim. 

You had no idea how quickly something could shift–honestly, you willed the phone to ring so many times, yet, the time you didn’t, it does. The world never seemed to work with you, always against, and right now it felt no different. So conflicted. In a few drinks, however, you’d probably be crying on the floor. 

006: A Damn Sweatshirt 

It had been two days. You didn’t get another text, and it took everything in you to not disappoint Alexa and her mother by replying. However, you were never good at controlling your mind. 

You stared at the open messages. You could re-sight the last texts you’d sent to each other–texts you’d often find yourself reading, like an idiot, to get to sleep. 

Now, laid out was not a confession like you wanted. Actually, laid out was more confusion. What’d he want to talk about? Well, if you replied, he’d answer that. But, you still couldn’t find the right words to say back.  

You turned off the phone again, laying it face down against the mattress. Tears rolled down the sides of your temples, joining it as splotches. If you knew way back when, all the distress this would cause you, would you do it the same again? The question to re-open the door lingered in your head. Your hand was already on the handle, all you had to do was pull. 

You turned your back to the phone, though it didn’t last as long as you wanted it to. Honestly, you have no idea how you lasted through last night. The night before Alexa didn’t give you your phone until absolutely necessary. And, even then, she threatened you. 

HYUCK Hey I think we should talk.

Y/N Okay, talk then.

You didn’t know why you expected an answer right away, especially after you hadn’t replied for days. It was also half past three in the morning. You hated how this was going to turn into a game of chase, like you were a bunch of cats and dogs. It almost made you wish you were face-to-face. 

Just as the phone was about to turn off by itself, the screen illuminated once again. Your heart stopped beating and beat all too quickly at the same time. 

HYUCK Have you been on twitter recently?  You were wearing my sweatshirt. In that one stream with Alexa.

Y/N Oh  Obviously I can't lie since there's ss. Sorry, you can have it back. If that's what you want.

HYUCK But that's not what I want to talk about. I want to know how you are. I asked Alexa about a month back,  but she blocked me on everything. I can't blame her. 

Y/N Not well, Donghyuck. HYUCK Oh

You hadn’t realized the hoodie (that you were wearing now) was that recognizable. Of course, you usually tried not to wear it in streams for a different reason; the reason being that it would tell Donghyuck all that needed to be said aloud. 

You hated that Twitter was practically harassing him, while you peacefully remained blind behind your turned-off notifications. He reached out to you because of a hoodie, not because he really wanted to. 

You felt sick. Your hands immediately started to shake. How come you wanted this, but now you really can’t handle it? Maybe you should’ve stuck to pity parties. In reality, maybe you shouldn’t have manifested all of this to the moon. She’s always been tricky, but apparently she listens. 

What’s next? The walls are going to talk too?

HYUCK Honestly Me neither, Y/n.

Y/N What does that mean then? For us

HYUCK What do you want it to mean?

Y/N Don't do that. I can't be the one to make the decision again. I already regret the last one.

Mutuality was taken lightly–when it was leaned more on one side from the beginning. You thought whatever you could’ve said wouldn’t have mattered. You would’ve still broken up because it’s what you were both convinced the other wanted. What you were convinced the other wanted.

Except, it was pushed onto your shoulders more than his…or so you thought. You felt it more than he did. You said the words–agreed–and made the mistake to end it, but he vowed to keep it that way. And, for a while, it seemed like he did. Well, until he texted Alexa to ask whatever he needed to ask, and she didn’t respond. 

You felt like you could’ve gotten some kind of concrete closure months back. But, that’s not her fault, the message didn’t even reach her eyes. 

You guess, you’re not so different after all.

Y/N I wish I could read your fucking mind, Hyuck. Spell it out for me. Tell me you've moved on and I'll stop. I'll take off your sweatshirt  and you'll never hear about me again.

HYUCK Then I'd be lying to you. But I'll tell you want you want to hear, if you answer one question.  If it was any other day of the year,  would we have broken up?

Y/N I don't understand what you're asking me. Do you want me or not? 

HYUCK Right, fine. Spell it out. I haven't been the same without you, and I don't know why that is. Obviously, you must still love me too.

Y/N Too?

HYUCK You must be stupid to think I'd ever  fall out of love with you just like that. Y/n, you had me a wrapped  around your fucking finger. Have** I just want to know what was so special, that I still can't get you out of my head.

Y/N Oddly enough, I'm not glad to know that the feeling is mutual.  It kinda makes it worse. We wasted months. I cried for months.  And it was this fucking easy? 

HYUCK I'm sorry.

Y/N That pisses me off, Donghyuck. You're pissing me off.

HYUCK You didn't reach out either. At least I tried eventually. What were you going to do?  Wait until you felt better? Until you got over it? 

Y/N Eventually it would've gone away.

HYUCK If the feeling's mutual, then you don't truly believe that.

Y/N Don't tell me what I believe.

HYUCK Then tell me what you want to hear. I'll say it.  Do you want me to hate you?  Do you want me to be the bad guy?  Whatever you want, Y/n. 

Y/N I just want you to honestly  tell me if that was the end for us. If so, then I'll leave us in the past.  I mean it this time. 

HYUCK That'd never be the end for us.  But that's not what you want to hear, is it?

Truth be told, part of him was right, because part of you didn’t want to hear that. Part of you didn’t want to see, that’d never be the end for you two, written across your screen. Part of you wished he’d hate you and rip the rest of the heart he owned into pieces. But, the other part of you was drowning in conflicting emotions.

You could see the storm rolling in from the distance and you were stranded on a life-boat, surrounded by nothing but open ocean. You feared you’d soon see their depths. 

Y/N No, but it's what I needed to hear.

007: Everything Looks The Same Blurry

You weren’t on top of the world now that you were enlightened. Still, you pretended like you hadn’t swung the door open and crashed a hole into the plaster. You thought you’d know how to feel but, you felt just as–if not more–clueless than before. You fought with the urge to drive the distance to see what he meant face-to-face. Though, you feared that would make everything worse. Maybe letting it fester was a better option in hindsight. 

That’d never be the end for you two didn’t have to mean you’d date again, right? It could mean you could be civil; maybe even friends one day. But, you still couldn’t get it out of your sponge-like mind. Everything inside of you wanted to further question Donghyuck, ask what the fuck he wanted, but you knew you wouldn’t be able to do that. 

Not when it seemed he didn’t know either.

It should be easy to type but every time you hit a letter you erase it just as quickly. It’s like you know nothing you say would ever be enough to air-out what you’ve been feeling for months. The silence in the night also should’ve made this easier–you become reckless then. Yet, you still erased what you tried to say. 

Your stomach turned again as you sat at the marble-island of your kitchen. Your phone was in your hands, but all you were doing was staring at it through teary eyes. The words blurred together…but everything looked the same blurry. 

It’s been months…is what you told yourself to keep you alive. You were happy then, you could be happy now. Though, the memories flashed like a badly timed montage every time you closed your eyes–or left them open. You couldn’t escape no matter how far you ran because it seemed they had the stamina of a gold-medalist.

Donghyuck wasn’t even that far away, and that wasn’t easy to know. You both sought out where you reside now when you were still together. Obviously, you two didn’t want the distance, and now you’re not sure if you still do. 

It’s frustrating how unsure of everything you actually feel. You just wanted a sense of security, even if only for a short amount of time; maybe that would help you feel less like you were chasing a spirit. 

Your phone pinged in your hand, and you reluctantly looked down quicker than you thought you would. It wasn’t Donghyuck, the man you suspected it to be, but another creator asking if you’d join their stream. 

Was this all you were good for? Was this your cycle nowadays? It was getting repetitive. You hate boring but, that’s what your life is now: stream, try to sleep, make unrealistic choices, and repeat. 

Of course, you agreed, writing out a cookie-cutter cheerful message back. Exclamation marks and words you dragged out too many letters. You were getting too good at pretending for the camera. You were afraid that the life would drain from inside your eyes–or you just deserved an Oscar. You wondered if Donghyuck would notice, but you had to stop the thought before it buried you up to your head in its relatives. 

You didn’t want to be a sob story, especially without knowing the root of the problem. But, you could jump into any conclusion and, in that moment, it would be convincing enough. You could go on and on about every little thing you think you’ve done wrong or wish you could take back. 

You were reaching your limit. You felt like you were going to word vomit…or maybe just vomit. 

At this point, you’re not sure closure would be sufficient. Maybe committing arson and burning down what you two built would cause some sort of erasure–yet, no matter how hard you think you do, you don’t want to forget. You don’t want to lock up the memories and throw away the key. However, what if it turned out to be one-sided? How would you handle another fracture in your heart from him? 

The devil never did bargain, and you were bad at making deals. 

You feared you’d never be mentally prepared enough to know the answer to the many, many questions that flowed through you like a poison. You also feared you wouldn’t really have a choice in the matter but, time will tell. 

You could feel the road was splitting, and a new question emerged; go off towards a cliff, or continue floating in the storming ocean? You feel like you were blindly leading yourself into the dilemma with your eyes wide open. Would all this questioning be worth it in the end? Or would all this eventually fade into nothing but a past-tense? You were about to wear your heart on your sleeve when it should remain in your chest. In reality, you could probably think this out logically, but nothing about love is logical and you’re scared to admit that you’re scared of that. You don’t want to wait for nothing at all, but you don’t want to let go of the what-if’s because, what if? What if he cut so deep, it’s now engraved into your code? 

You have nowhere else to run. You had to make your choice now and get into the driver’s seat. You’d soon free-fall off the cliff, or go down with the ship and meet the depths of the ocean. You were cornered, and this would be your only retreat, because living in turmoil isn’t better than Hell. 

As much as you wanted to be okay with never knowing, you, simply, were not. You’re sure you could eventually choke it back but, deep down, there’s nothing worth fighting for then. That’s something that sat in your throat like a drug that wouldn’t stay down; love isn’t love if it’s not worth fighting for. 

It’s time to wake up now and face the reality of the matter. You dug your grace, isn’t it time you laid in it? Isn't it only fair that you realize the mistakes you’ve made, and let the fire burn around you and the silhouettes of what you won’t forget? You crashed the burden upon yourself, and now you have to accept the gravity whether you want to or not. 

008: Damage Control

The dramatics were getting…well, just that, dramatic. You convinced yourself you didn’t want to cope, while also convincing yourself you had to figure out a way to cope. You were running in circles, on the same old track, and that was getting annoying. 

Whether or not mentally you were in the best place tonight, Alexa was dragging you out to meet some of her online friends. She wasn’t even a streamer, or online figure per say, but since she was strongly associated with one, and her extroverted personality, she effortlessly connected with people of the sort. 

She always looked out for you, ever since you were young. She was the sister you never got a chance to have. You were grateful she tried her very best to be understanding–even if she didn’t understand. Underneath, you were so different but similar in many ways. You probably wouldn’t have been friends under normal circumstances, though it seemed the world placed exactly who you needed in exactly the right moments. 

You pressed your hands together, your heels clicking against the sidewalk. Alexa had her arm linked with yours, smiling from ear to ear. She was gorgeous–always so beautiful, it made you wonder if anyone had ever seen you the way you see her. 

“Y/n,” She stopped, placing her other hand against your bare arm, “You’re going to be okay, just take a breath.” Her words were comforting in themselves, but the truly solemn look on her face told the rest of the narrative. 

You forced a smile, “Okay…” You shakily agreed. 

Then she went back to leading you to the entrance of the building. Outside was a woman, looking down at her phone and typing away with cherry-red nails. She had soft features that genuinely just made her look nice–and the smile that plastered her face when she spotted the two of you, just confirmed your suspicion. Her hair was an ashy blonde, styled in effortless waves. She wore a white-ruffled dress that hugged her frame tightly, and similar black heels to yours. 

Alexa dragged you the rest of the way, and with the speed she was going, it made it almost impossible for you to not trip; you stumbled, earning laughs from the two as you concluded your journey. 

The woman’s hand replaced where Alexa resided moments before, “Are you alright?” She asked, steadying you. 

You nodded, and pulled the girl into a quick squeeze, “Yes, It’s so nice to finally meet you in person.” 

“I know, we live so close–and played Among Us so often, I’m surprised it’s taken us this long!” 

You glanced at Alexa, who was now bringing the woman into a hug, holding her tightly for a moment, “Yeah, well, Minjeong is my friend.” She shot you an annoying look of competition, but you just brushed her off. 

Appearing in your view from behind the two girls was another dark-haired person. This time, however, it was a personably-familiar face. 

You brushed past them, a smile pairing with your actions, “Well, Jaemin’s mine!” You embraced the man, and Alexa huffed, crossing her arms in a fake pout. You shoved the girl playfully, linking arms with her once again. 

Jaemin and Minjeong said their hello’s and then the four of you fully realized you were blocking the entrance to the karaoke bar. The rest quickly linked arms with you and Alexa, giggling as you pushed each other through the exasperated sighs of other customers. 

You eventually found the room that Alexa had rented for a few hours, just to have a, so called, party, for no apparent reason.

The room was dimly lit, with a table and booth-like bench facing the stage. TV’s lined the walls, as well as flashing lights and speakers. Minjeong and you sat together, Jaemin already checking out the microphone and music options; flipping through the binder. 

Minjeong turned to you, “Do you know if anyone else is coming?”

You shrugged a reply, “Probably–Alexa does whatever she wants in the moment.” 

As the saying goes, speak of The Devil, said girl appeared with a tall black-haired man at her side. She also had a tray of alcohol and shot glasses, which you laughed in disbelief at. 

“Look who I found!” She shouted, placing the tray against the table. 

“Jisung!” You stood up, briefly embracing the streamer over the table, “How’s it been? How’s my favorite emo boy?” 

“No, I found Tito’s.” Alexa grumbled, pouring it into the short glasses, “But, Ji’s cool too, I guess.”

Jaemin joined the circle for the shot, swinging his head back in the process. You scrunched your face at the smell of your least-favorite alcohol, nonetheless, taking it easily.  

“A shot? Without me!” Another man entered through the door, and suddenly everyone was yelling happily, “Some friends you all are!” 

You fully emerged from the table, embracing the other popular League of Legends streamer on your way to join Jaemin in singing Rocketeer, which you saw him cue up. 

“That’s all I get, Y/n? I’ve known you forever, and I don’t even get a hello?” He turned around, laughing out at his statement, “Only Alexa gives me this treatment.” 

You grabbed the microphone as the music started, “I’m sorry, Chenle! This is my song!” You practically pleaded before you sang the chorus down the mic like rent was due and you were lacking the funds.  

You and Jaemin finished the song with an impeccable performance–you were surprised he even knew it in the first place–your rapping skills outshining and earning the most outrageous cheers. Minjeong and Alexa tag teamed Britney Spears’ Toxic next, then Jisung and Chenle took turns for a while. In the meantime, you had another shot with Jeamin, then another with Alexa, and Minjeong, then Chenle and Jaemin.   

You were five shots deep and almost at the period of seeing stars when another man entered with his hands shoved down his pockets. And you think even if you had amnesia, you’d still recognize him. Your eyes went wide and you gripped Alexa’s arm, turning away and back like he was just a figment of your fucked-up imagination. It had to be some kind of joke. But, you watched as he spun on his heels, a sickly look falling on his face. 

Your eyes stuck to Alexa, who was just as shocked (if not more) than you were. She glanced your way with a look of disapproval. Yet, it didn’t matter, everything you convinced yourself of was crashing upon you. 

You practically jumped the table, a concerned glint on the faces that hadn’t seen who entered and just as quickly left. You stumbled over and through the door faster than Alexa–or anyone–could protest or try and change your mind. 

You were dead-set on stopping the man, locking your sights on his turned back and grabbing his arm. He didn’t fight, like you compelled him with a firm touch to obey and turn around. He avoided eye-contact with what seemed like the remains of his will-power.  

“Hyuck…” There was a nauseous look on his face, one you’d seen reflected back at you countless times, “W-why? How?” You couldn’t seem to get any words out; at least, nothing of substance. 

“I didn’t know you’d be here, Y/n.” 

You caught a glance of your hand so naturally holding his wrist, and you thought you might lose your mind. The feeling–taste–that your name from his lips gave you was a sense of doom, like he was a reaper coming to finally save you. 

Take you.

A pit formed where all the happiness from earlier faded, “I’m going to leave, go back inside and enjoy your night.” 

The words appeared and left too quickly for you to think about taking it back, “How the fuck am I supposed to do that!” You yelled, cocking your head, “How am I supposed to enjoy my night after this?”

He finally looked into your eyes, teary and holding back. If they were the window into one's soul, his were crystal clear. “I wouldn’t have come if I’d known. I promise, I’m sorry.” 

Apologies you didn’t want to hear. How were you supposed to water a rotting grave? How were you supposed to save something that was already dead? You wanted concrete closure, but you put your foot in the closing door, holding it open. Questions lingered–like they always have–in the air and clung to it like frost. 

His heart was heavy, and it weighed on your mind. 

But, did yours do the same for him? 

He turned from you, making your hand fall back to your side, “Wait! That’s all I get? Are you fucking serious, Donghyuck?”

He didn’t turn back but you could hear him perfectly fine–as if there were no other sounds in the raging world. “What do you want from me then?” He asked. You huffed out at his audacity; that stupid question again. “You looked happy in there–I’m happy you’re going out with your friends.”

“Fuck off…nevermind.” You crossed your arms, “You’re not.” 

Months of yearning for this to be the words that rolled off your tongue. Why couldn’t you just say it? You’ve been drowning in it, suffocating with the thought: him. You wanted him.

“I’m not, what?” He turned again, a dissatisfied look on his face, cheeks glistening (only a little) under the neon signs. 

"Being honest with me." 

He mirrored your arms with his, "And, you know me so well?" 

your eyebrows rose, and as if it was a tidal wave crashing onto you, you gawked. Of course you do–as much as you wished it wasn’t true. "How could you think I don't?" 

A familiar voice called from behind, grabbing at your shoulders to turn you away from Donghyuck. “Y/n! That’s enough!” 

His words were covered by Alexa’s, and you could barely comprehend what his reasoning was. 

“Because, you never called.” 

“What?” You looked over your shoulder as Alexa ushered you away, shouting. “What did he say, Alexa?” 

It might’ve been the alcohol but, you quickly realized that that was the most you’ve spoken in months, and you were very much still tangled in the webs he spun. The side-effect of love was a broken heart, and you should’ve known there were consequences. 

Now, your stomach twisted, yet, this time it felt different. You covered your mouth, and Alexa got another horrified look on her face when she noticed. Your breath was starting to shallow, and you shook within her grasp. Tears spilled from your eyes as you huffed for air, only causing the nausea to worsen. 

She turned to you, even with the threat of being thrown up on, “Calm down,” Her hands ran up and down your arms as she looked into your eyes nervously, “It’s fine. He’s gone now.” 

That was the problem, wasn’t it? 

But, somewhere deep down, you still knew what his gaze felt like against you. 

You were losing vision by the second as the feelings got deeper inside of you. You were losing the battle against yourself. Your knees were about to give out from under you, still, you couldn’t muster up the strength to reach out for Alexa; your own stone heart was making you feel like a million pounds. Everything was spinning and blurring together like a water-colored painting from Hell.

For a moment, nothing mattered. Your mind had gone blank, completely and utterly taken over with blending thoughts–seconds, minutes. You couldn’t stop spiraling. Was this what the depths of the ocean looked like? Or, did you stumble off the edge of the cliff? 

Only one person truly knew what you needed in the midst of the chaos. And, was that really comforting to know? 

Donghyuck wrapped his arms around you, holding you steady enough to stumble towards the nearest building. You could hear Alexa echo concern for the situation unfolding, stating that she had it under control. However, he was more concerned with the fact that you’d be mortified throwing up in front of onlookers when you finally came to. 

“I need you to try and work with me here–try and focus on breathing–I’ll do the rest.” Whether or not Alexa wanted to bicker with him, she let go. She once trusted him too. You nodded hesitantly, hyper-aware of the way his hands felt like fire on your waist. The way it felt like something chemically charged with his nerves on yours. 

Then, you practically peeled yourself from his arms…voluntarily? Well, it must've been. Hurdling through the bathroom door and gripping the porcelain. You’re not only lucky that you made it, but that it was also a single stall.  

Alexa clambered in quickly after, shoving Donghyuck from her way and taking your hair into her hands. She shot him a challenging look, and he backed away with his hands up, surrendering. 

“Oh my God,” You mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’m really—”

“Why are you apologizing right now?” She stated, not asked, “Just throw up, you’ll feel better.”

You feared you never would. You feared this would end up in flames–whatever, this was. You feared that you’d just lost him entirely. At least with no contact he lived in your mind. But, miscommunication leads to fallout. And, that's exactly what you did. 

“Hyuck,” Alexa quickly refocused on the task at hand, glaring into you hunched over the toilet still. You were barely audible over the chatter outside the door. “Will you take me home?” 

“What! You don’t mean that, you’re drunk!” The dark-haired girl shouted into your ear, “I’ll take you home—call you an uber, something.” 

“No, I’m fine. I’m fine,” You were laying your armor down, “You need to go back inside,” You tried to joke, “And handle damage control.” 

And you needed to claim your belongings in this wreckage. 

She protested some more, pulling your neck straight by your hair. But, all you were focused on was his answer. You knew it would tell you things you weren’t sure you wanted to know anymore. If you were prepared for the answers that haunted you? Only time would tell. 

“Yeah, I’ll take you home.”

009: To Sink or Swim

Unfortunately, you sobered up quickly. It was a family trait of yours that the high never lasted, and that’s why your parents kept going back for more.

You felt bad for leaving your friends—especially Alexa—without an excuse. But, you couldn’t lose him again. You wouldn’t survive it. 

And, that's how you ended up in the passenger seat of his car, looking out the window into the distance. You were just trying to distract yourself from the deafening tension casted over you. 

You held your breath, mumbling, “Thank you,” 

The rhythmic tapping against the steering wheel stopped, his voice taking over the silence, “I couldn’t just…” He replied slowly, dragging it out to a critical pause, “leave you like that. I couldn’t just let go.” 

“I’m sorry,” You laced your fingers together, “For being a burden.” 

“Why—what’s there to be sorry for when it’s not true?” 

You sighed, “I don’t know…you name it, and I’m probably sorry for it.”

In reality, you couldn’t list the amount of things on two hands, or even four. What a twist of fate this has become. You felt like every fiber that made up you had a reason to be sorry. It was parasitic. You couldn’t help but think that you’d mutually been through too much as adolescents. You were a student, focused on big future plans, and he was a career-driven twenty-something year old. You didn’t have time for romance, and frankly, neither did he. But, he was your heroine; the drug that’s too easy to start and too difficult to quit. It was your fault you both got derailed and addicted to the feeling, chasing a high you’d never live down. 

Donghyuck briefly turned his head, then looked back to the road, “Y/n, can I ask you something?” He quizzed. You hummed lowly, almost wishing he didn’t hear your approval to go on. “Did we—no, wait—were we on the same page, you know, when we broke up?” 

It was so easy for him, huh?

The rain started pouring down metaphorically, soaking you with the doubts that you thought you already casted away, “Wha-what did you mean then?” You swallowed the bile in your throat, “Back then?” 

“Did we both want that, for real? Is that what you really thought?” 

Your head slightly turned his way but you were too stunned to go any further. So, you opted for looking straight out the windshield, and your cheek found place between your teeth. 

“Is that not true?” 

He stuttered for a moment, the anticipation killing you. “N-no.” You’d never felt air so cold before, “I thought I told you I haven’t been the same since.” It’s like he knew every way to torture you, to keep you shaking from his side-effects. Because you were so damn affected by him. “You asked me what that meant for us…do you think that maybe we could at least be friends? Because, without you in my life at all, I swear, isn’t what I want.” 

“Hyuck,” 

“But, I understand that it might be too much. I mean, we used to…you know. I’m sorry, I just—I don’t know what to do.” 

Instinctively, your hand reached out and sat against his arm, “You’re rambling.” You cut him off. 

“I’m confusing you,” He stated, more to himself than you, “Okay, Y/n. I’m saying I can’t live without you.” 

Your eyes went wide. Everything felt like it had started spinning, your stomach (once again), your mind, you were spiraling into a state of oblivion. This was the depths of the ocean, you were sure of that. It was cold and dark and silent, and you felt like you couldn’t breathe without water filling your lungs. 

If you didn’t want to know, you shouldn’t have asked. Donghyuck has never had anything to hide from you, and you’ve always known it was only a matter of time until the questions were answered. 

“Don’t take me home.” You blurted, and if he wasn’t already at a complete stop, the car probably would’ve jerked, “I can’t be alone, Hyuck.” 

You were so tired of feeling so. 

It seemed like everything was in the process of crashing down. And you were sick of wishing you could breathe underwater. Everything you thought you knew about yourself was a one-way street that was paved in a straight line but the destination just got further the closer you got. 

Were you just losing your mind? You thought that if you screamed, no one would hear you—though it seemed he didn’t need words to. And, isn’t that what you wanted? You guess you better hold your breath and learn to swim. 

Otherwise, you’ll drown. 

010: I Want You to Sleep Alone, If Not With Me

It wasn’t gone, you hadn’t gotten better. You guess, it was only a matter of time until you finished what you started—for better or for worse. You were both walking a fragile line. One wrong move and you’d topple to opposite sides. But, maybe, strangers were better than lingering friends or reflections of lovers. 

You wondered from time to time, if you just deleted his number and pretended he didn’t exist, would it give you the sense of security you desperately craved? Or, did you know what you truly wanted? You couldn’t tell anymore. 

Tears, silently, rolled down the side of your face. 

Gravity was never something you were fond of; the center of it, the way it holds you down, anything. You were never fond of tearing yourself open, but it’s hard to care when you’re bleeding out. 

You weren’t drunk anymore but, part of you wished you still were. Maybe then you wouldn’t be laying on your ex-boyfriends couch crying as he sat on the floor, back to you. You wondered if he noticed (he did), yet, you couldn’t blame him for the internal conflict it caused. How would you react if the roles were reversed? You weren’t even sure what to do, so, how could you even begin to predict his next move, let alone, what was running through his mind?

You two were like a storm cloud over the calm ocean; or a cliff with a deep cavern. You wondered which metaphor suited your failed-relationship best but, reality was, you knew the answer. You knew where you resided. You just wished it was the eye instead of the winds.

He hadn’t spoken another word to you since you laid on the cushions. Truthfully, you don’t remember how you ended up in this position. You don’t remember what possessed him to bring you to his house over any other place—maybe familiarity? Maybe you didn’t want to remember so then you could make up whatever scenario made you feel less for him. You knew you were headed down a one-way street you wouldn’t be able to turn back around on. You had to choose whether to see it through and live with the outcome or hit the brakes. 

But, maybe, Hell together was better than Hell alone.  

You looked at the blank TV, then down a little to the glass coffee table that had various half-drank water bottles. You wondered if he had someone over. You wondered if she was a better fit for him. You wondered if the cherry in her chapstick tasted better. You wondered if she made him sleep through the night. You wondered who she was. 

Or, maybe, you were just delusional. But, jealousy was one Hell of an emotion to play with. 

Your voice broke, “Did…you have someone over?” 

He didn’t speak for a moment. You could tell he was pondering a response and that made you wonder if it would be the truth. 

“Jeno and Aeri came over,” He sighed, “But, don’t get the wrong idea, Y/n. I meant when I said I haven’t been the same. And the thought of anyone else trying to take your spot is…” 

You managed to push yourself upright, Donghyuck turning around with the sound of leather against skin. You looked away, to the kitchen; sleek, modern and clean. His mother had been over recently, too, you figured. 

You quickly wiped the tears away, hoping—but knowing—he’d already seen them, “You keep saying that,” You mumbled through an exasperated breath, utterly defeated by the past couple hours, “But, what does it mean exactly?” 

Again with the question that pissed you off, “What do you want it to mean?” Frustrating you beyond belief. He knew you were barely holding on, your capability to comprehend cryptic words minimal. At the moment, you fought with yelling back at him; it seemingly the only way to get your thoughts across. 

Since the first page in the story of your relationship, Donghyuck and you would never yell at each other. And, if you did, it would die just as quickly as it lived. He was good at getting over it and initiating apologies. He knew you hated confrontation and didn’t trigger you. He knew you could work it out civilly, so, why did it seem like fighting was the only option now? 

But, at least you were on the same page now. 

“Are you making shit up in your head again?” He glanced at the way you were looking away from him, “Don’t do that.” 

“I-I’m not making shit up! I’m trying to figure out what you mean, Hyuck!” Sometimes anger, frustration, sadness and everything in between overpowers your better sense of judgment—or maybe you yelled because he knew all the ways to bring you back to Earth. 

Sunshine…your sunshine.

“Don’t yell, I know that’s not what you want to do. Let’s not fight.” 

“No!” You could feel the fear enter your body, but maybe this is what you wanted from him, “No, Donghyuck. You don’t get to do that.” However, he got harder to read the longer you’d been away. 

“Do what?”

You scoffed, “Pretend.” 

He looked up at you, the inside of his lip being bitten, “Then neither do you, Y/n. Just fucking say it.” 

You, once again, let out an annoyed sound. Why should you—why shouldn’t you? What harm would it really do that’s not already been done? You had already broken up after devoting years of your life to each other. Cut the red string that attached you to him. Hell, a few days ago you two weren’t even on speaking terms. 

You guess you owe it all to a fucking hoodie. 

It was selfish but, when it came to Donghyuck, that’s all you could be. That’s all you could grasp on to; your jealousy, your envy; for the clothes that got to lay against his skin. For the people who could look at him without feeling vertigo. 

You reached the top with him, and now you were holding a stone-heart while sinking towards the ocean floor. 

“I want you to sleep alone for the rest of your life…if not with me.” 

011: The Very First Page of Lingering Lovers, Not The Last

Lingering lovers. It’s true, you were aching from the first and last time you spoke. However, some time within those painful days, you’ve realized what you failed to see in the past. You understood what you were feeling; under it all you’ve always understood the countless nights that seemingly lead you nowhere. He would always be your Holy Ghost, and that is, to feel it, is the only way to get through it. And, to admit it, only made you better for it in the end. 

Of course, you were still the same old you—with the same old patterns. You were about as predictable as rain. However, you didn’t manifest to the moon anymore. 

The phrase circled you like a bunch of ghosts you couldn’t fight, much less, banish. The phrase that shouldn’t have left your lips, yet clawed their way to the tip so easily. 

You want him to sleep alone for the rest of his life…

Your palm fell flat against your face, your forearm overtaking it after a second. Disappointment collided against the ghastly words, and honestly, it just made you want to pick a side. You’d been playing both the sinner and the saint for so long. 

And now, It blew up in your face. 

Why’d it have to be so humbling to say exactly what you didn’t mean to say? Drunk words are sober thoughts, except you weren’t drunk anymore. And, you feared that was no excuse. 

If not with you. 

You sat up, almost brutally slow, a pained groan leaving your lips as you felt sweat drip from your body. You fought with texting Alexa but you knew she had gone out the night before, her makeup still in your bathroom—actually, she was probably still dancing away, or at Chenle’s house by now. You couldn’t hate her for living the life you both promised but, she’d never had someone reach so deep and tangle her wires like Donghyuck did you. 

You were better after the fall, you knew you were, but that didn’t stop the tears from pricking your eyes. He’s still everything you’ve ever wanted.

You felt the cold paneling press against the soles of your feet, the image of something grabbing your ankles flashing through your mind. Then, you made your way to the bathroom, carving out the same path like clockwork. Déjà vú was all you saw in the person staring back at you—your wretched reflection.

You know it’s said that pain won’t last forever but you were so lonely it hurt. And, the swirling thoughts made the hauntings worse. 

You scoffed at the tears that rolled down your cheeks, “You’re so fucking ugly when you cry,” You mumbled as you practically slapped the tears away, “Always crying for someone who doesn’t give a fuck about you anymore. Losing all your goddamn friends, for what? Fucking snap out of it!” 

You didn’t realize you had your phone clenched in your fist until the buzz caught your attention. Your heart rose into your throat and sank to the floor all at once. Before you could even comprehend who it was, you brought it up to your ear, quickly answering. 

The voice stuttered, like they were convinced you wouldn’t pick up at this hour. And, honestly, you couldn’t even blame them. 

A breath left your lips, and slowly they started to speak, “Y/n? Why are you awake?” 

Your head cocked subconsciously, “Why’d you call if you didn’t want me to answer?” 

“Can I be honest?” He sighed, and you hummed in response, “I just wanted to hear your voicemail.” 

And, suddenly, it was silent. It made you wonder if everything you’d been thinking for the last month was untrue. Maybe he did mean it when he said that he wanted you in his life, even if not romantically. And, now you’re starting to think you meant what you’d said a little more than you thought. 

You were believing more and more that you were going to die on this ocean floor but your mermaid potions at ten never worked. 

“Wh-why?” You need to hear it—you need him to say the words you’ve craved so desperately, “Why’d you call me, Donghyuck?” And, maybe he was just a couple inches away, filling his lungs with water just as much as you were. 

“I don’t know, honestly. I don’t know why I did it. It was just too late when it started ringing. I know you would’ve freaked out if I hung up, especially this late. I j-just didn’t think you’d answer, so I let it ring…a-and maybe, maybe I wanted you to answer.” Your tears remained silent but by no means slowed. “Y/n…I can’t stomach you loving someone else.” 

Your stomach replaced your heart, the bile burning your esophagus as it rose. Sure, you knew you needed to hear it put simply, but it didn’t stop you from feeling sick and used. He had count of your scars and knew just what strings to pull to make them all reopen. 

The cold cup of coffee you kept reheating, vowing to drink it. 

The sequence of events was like an acid trip. Headlights shined through the windshield, blinding you, but only until it passed in the opposite direction. Where you were headed was also a blur. However, it was only a few minutes away in reality. Your brain was swirling with the ghosts you so inconsistently wished you could get rid of. The ghouls that made fun of your state, slurring your questions and thoughts together until eventually it'd drive you crazy. 

Your eyes felt heavy, the edge of the road seemed so easy to collide with, though you didn't shift the wheel like it screamed for you to do. 

You pulled into a familiar driveway, the lights of your car illuminating a very monotonously looking man—face frowning and hands together. In reality, you wondered if you looked the same. Two reflected souls tethered together so tightly. 

In reality, it was a once in a lifetime event. A supermoon. The dying of a star. An eclipse. A supernova that would consume everything around it.

Cold as the air was, your skin felt hot when they collided. You closed the door lightly, the noise making his body shift to face you. You knew you couldn't escape your history by burying what you didn't want to remember, because even fossils can be rediscovered. And, heartbreak didn't have to be messy, but looking at his face close up again made you think it ought to be for it to stick. It's true, you loved him to death. You just feared that that would be the death of you.

You hated how indebted to his shadow you actually were.

As if the mood couldn’t further, droplets started to paint the sweatshirt you hadn’t gotten the chance to take off. The realization sunk in, and the nausea came back. It’s crazy what a piece of fabric did to you—for you—swinging the door right off its hinges, you couldn’t even close it now if you tried. 

You were two people holding onto what you lost, and maybe you could meet again down the line. 

Maybe it’d be different this time.  

"I've missed you so fucking much, Hyuck." 

He slightly motioned for the front door, looking up at the crying sky, "Why don't we go inside, pl—"

"No, I'm not going inside." You shook your head lightly, looking down at the pavement, "I'm sorry but I need to stay out here and keep my head clear. Just for a second."

You couldn’t tell if the rain had just fallen onto his skin or if he was crying, and honestly, you couldn’t tell if you were as well. All you did know was that your emotions were fighting a vigorous battle against each other right now—a battle you were no longer good or evil in. 

“I love you so much…” He grabbed your face like he was about to plead you to change your mind, “I’ve loved you since that stupid day we streamed The Sims together, Y/n, please. I can’t lose you.” 

There was no one better. He was your redemption. He was your eternal sunshine. He was between every shade of black and white. No matter how many bridges you burnt, he’d build another just to get back to you. 

Your past, present and future life. 

“Please,” You just couldn’t let him go, no matter how hard you fucking tried, “Don’t leave me alone again, Hyuck.”

He pressed his lips to yours and it’s like the world stopped moving. If your life was a puzzle, then he was the missing piece. He was the X that marked the spot. He was the ghost that haunted you and will always remain as a stain on your heart. 

But, even ghosts can move on into the afterlife.

© soph 2025. reblogs ────& feedback r appreciated ૮´ ꒳`ა thnx !

🐻📦ˊˎ- since i just neglected to post the chapters, i made it a long-fic instead. this is just part one still though! also, this was kinda proof read, so, sorry for mistakes lolz

𝔱ags┊@kstrucknet @k-films @blossomnet @starlit-network @neocity-net @bbangbies @blue-jisungs @hhaechansmoless @dinonuguaegi @worldwidecutiemaya @chenlezip @nctrawberries @mmjjh1998 @luvs4haechan @nctfreak @hyuckluvr-com @cookiehaos @kiszjuli @yesohhsehun @spacejip @bettyschwallocksyee @desssss-0 @nctubatu | fill out form to added for part two

[artisiumstudios]

This is very angsty but TOTS except it’s Transmasc Stan who arrives very pregnant to Fords home. Does ford notice anything? No. Does Stan go into early labor since they both still fought and now ford has to explain why his “sister” was under a lot of stress, malnourished, and has a brand on his shoulder.

[ironbloodedprussian]

As Prussia and Berlin watched this other one huff around, they shared a glance. Liliane had not exaggerated. He was as quick to annoyance as he was to laughter. And now, Prussia couldn't help smirking. He strode over to the table, slowly, his back straight and tall. When he reached it, he leaned against it, staring down at his companion and still looking smug.

"I was simply curious to see if we were on the same page. And it seems we are not far off. Nature is, perhaps, our greatest challenge to conquer. Humans fancy themselves as the greatest threat, but they are nothing to strong winds and flash floods. They crave the discipline and leadership we bring, even when they claim otherwise. They fall into our hands with ease. But nature? She fights against us at every turn. She longs to be on top. She does not succumb to our conquering so easily. But, I find there is a beauty to that. Do we hone our skills and sharpen our blades by sitting around without a challenge to fight? Hardly. We must be actively challenged constantly, or we grow fat and complacent. And what greater challenge is there than a force who truly refuses to bend so easily to our will?"

He stood up straight again and took out a cigarette and lighter. After lighting it up, he blew smoke up into the air. After stashing away his lighter and cigarette case, he walked around behind the younger man, and patted his shoulder as he did. His hand then trailed along Gilbert's back shoulders until it came to the other side and rested there. He squeezed it, not too hard, and not too soft either. His eyes flicked to the movement he saw as Liliane walked past him to sit in the chair next to the other man.

He let go of Prussia and turned towards his daughter. But his words were still addressed towards the other man. "Do you remember, when wolves were still a force to be concerned about around these parts? Strong, vicious creatures, who could tear you apart in seconds." He reached out and put his hand on the girl's head now. "We wrote fairy tales about the 'Big, Bad Wolf,' who would come to eat pretty little girls if they strayed too far from the path." His hand now stroked her hair.

"Funny. We thought we'd be safe without them, but now that they're mostly gone, we find ourselves in deeper trouble. Our children don't heed our warnings so much now, when the wolf is not panting at the door or stalking them in the woods." His hand trailed down her face to her cheek, where he brushed his thumb a few times over the scar she had there. "Personally, I think a little bit of danger would do them good. It may teach them to listen better, don't you think?"

Gilbert isn’t quite sure what he expected when the other Prussia led him outside onto the manor’s wide patio, overlooking gardens below. Maybe a distraction. Maybe a change of topic. Perhaps a bit of exercise, or better yet—he would have preferred leaning against the balustrade, cigarette hanging loose from his lips, watching a line of soldiers sharpen their drills on crushed gravel. That would’ve been nice. While other European courts bathed in excess—mistresses, pearls, powdered wigs and hangover-inducing balls—he had turned pleasure gardens into parade grounds. No gentle kisses to start his day. No perfumed limbs tangled in silk sheets. He got his satisfaction from a rifle raised at the right angle, from footsteps falling in rhythm. Precision. Discipline. Purpose.

He still watches, now and then. Lingering a window frame at Schloss Bellevue while Germany’s Federal President greets foreign guests as the Guard Battalion of the Bundeswehr perform to the sound of Preußens Gloria. It makes him feel something warm in his chest, something dizzying and dangerous, knowing that his legacy remains.

Gilbert clears his throat, dragging his gaze away from the horizon and back to the earth. “Nature?” He lifts a brow, buying time. “Did you spend too much time with Germany and now you’re catching his sentimentalism? Or did gardening finally soften your hands and blunt your taste for refined things in life?”

He doesn’t look at the other man, not directly. His eyes fall instead on a rose bush halfway down the slope. It stands out. Oddly pruned, too symmetrical. Out of place. Clearly planted later than the rest, but someone cares for it obsessively. It’s not hard to guess who.

Semimetal, Gilbert thinks. A huff escapes him.

“I’m not a romanticist,” he says flatly, folding his arms across his chest, stance sharp against the soft air around him. A far cry, in fact. He’s never been able to stomach that movement—not then, not now. Romanticism. The fever dream of tormented poets and myth-chasers. A sickness, in his view, one even Goethe had the good sense to reject. Nature, in Gilbert’s mind, isn’t a muse or a metaphor. It’s a force. A challenge. Something to be subdued, reshaped, reasoned with. That was the Enlightenment’s gift. Clarity. Order.

He turns on his heel, steps thudding softly on the patio stone, and makes for the seating area with an air of practiced indifference. The chair creaks under him as he swings into it, already reaching for the plate of rhubarb cake.

“Some still like to call me Benevolent Despot,” he says, cutting into the pastry with a knife. “Vaterstaat. Has a better ring to it than Vaterland, don’t you think?”

He clicks his tongue, sliding a piece of cake onto his plate and topping it with a spoonful of whipped cream. Each motion sharp and deliberate. “All that romanticist drivel—it poisoned what was once a clear-headed, rational philosophy. Enlightenment turned fever dream. And look where that led us.”

He pauses, letting the silence fill in the gaps, then shoves a bite of cake into his mouth with satisfaction.

“So, what do I think about nature?” he says between chews. “If I had a divine sense for beauty and arts, I’d say it’s pretty to look at. But let’s be honest—nature is rough. Fickle. Vile and consuming, if left to its own devices. Like a mob without a leash.”

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, settling deeper into his chair.

“Why bother asking, anyway?” he mutters, gesturing with his fork. “Looking for gardening tips?”

[tonycries]

Madam Gojo - G.S.

Synopsis. Gojo Satoru, the strongest clan leader in all of Japan - and the most dangerous, too. You, rejected by the elders, and totally not his future bride, right? Right?

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, clan leader! Gojo, arranged marriage, Satoru is a little (very) INSANE and down bad, the elders are awful, oral (fem receiving), use of “madam”, unprotected, créampie, kníves, overstím, féral Satoru, heinous things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 4.9k

A/N. I need clan leader Gojo SO bad you guys don’t understand.

They say that the head of the Gojo clan is the one person who could burn down this entire world and get away with it, too. 

The youngest of all the clan leaders - and the most infamous - a man who keeps his friends close, and his enemies even closer. Enough so that you’ve heard whispers of his cruelty at every nook and cranny of those stuffy social functions your family has dragged you to. And it was more than enough to paint a picture of such terrifying power.

Of a sharp blade and an even sharper mouth. Of an angelic figure that left no evidence, nor anyone to tell the tale - only the final, hauntingly beautiful image of cloudy white hair, and electric blue eyes.

Eyes that were currently locked with yours, and didn’t seem like they’d stop any time soon. Dangerous. Magnetic. Twinkling with such odd amusement from across the long tatami room. 

Gojo Satoru, the head of the Gojo clan - your future husband.

“Tch, the Kamo girl’s family had a much better reputation than this one.”

Ah, right. How could you forget?

You shift awkwardly on the mat, managing to rip your eyes over to the line of elders behind Gojo, whispering just loud enough that you’d hear - and, of course, remember once more that no, the marriage proposal hasn’t been approved just yet.

And considering those disapproving glares you’d been so warmly welcomed with, it seemed that they were well and fully intent on keeping it that way.

“I can assure you,” you fight to keep the polite smile plastered on your face, painful and slowly cracking with each passing second being interrogated. “My family is well-respected in the community.” Eyes snapping over to a silent Gojo, skin burning at his intensity. “Very well respected.”

“Come now. We’re just saying.” Another voice speaks up, strained and tinged with a venomous tone you knew didn’t bode well. “Your lineage isn’t exactly illustrious, is it?”

The emphasis on “illustrious” isn’t lost on you, and it’s so fucking dramatic than you think you could almost laugh. Apparently, a few of the elders think so, too - because they’re positively seething at the sight.

Muttering an icy, “Something funny, dear?”

“Nothing at all.” you bite back any insults, sifting around the contents of your untouched dinner - the last thing on your mind right now when it seemed like you were the main scrutiny tonight. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Such attitude!” That offended croak is met with murmured agreements and nods from the end of the room, “The madam of the Gojo household must be demure- I told the young master we should go with the Kamo girl.”

God, why did you agree to this again? Something about strengthening your family ties? You felt sorry for the poor soul who’d end up marrying Gojo, because no matter how much beauty or power he held, it certainly wouldn’t make up for this. 

Scoffing, the words falling from your lips faster than you could register them. “Then why didn’t he?”

And this little question somehow seemed to have struck a nerve - multiple, in fact, as you watch in morbid fascination as the elders visibly bristle. 

“B-because-” one sends a hasty glance at their stone-faced clan leader, flushing at his still-unwavering gaze on you. “You- It doesn’t matter. Someone like you isn’t suited to marry-”

“Right, because this clan is that great.”

You freeze. The elders freeze. It seems like everyone in the world freezes except for Gojo - who only raises his brow. Letting your words hang in the air like a foul stench, studying just how awfully you’re digging your grave deeper in this hellish marriage meeting.

Eventually, the elder closest to Gojo’s right mutters a painfully saccharine sweet, “I knew we shouldn’t have let the riff-raff participate.”

And oh it was like a dam burst open.

“-out of the thousands of girls, for someone like master-”

“The scandal, too- imagine letting the Gojo name fall this far-”

“Isn’t worthy. Can’t let the bloodline be carried by some whor-”

You’re on your feet before you realize it. Whirling at the elders head-on, and if looks could kill then all those old fossils would be six feet under and their graves a dance floor for you already. 

Fists clenched, you spit, “If he’s so wonderful then you all can marry this oh-so-great bastard yourself-”

Oh. You’ve done it now.

You were fucked. You were so very, very fucked. 

You don’t even bother to meet Gojo’s stare, instead wondering whether you’d be able to outrun the strongest clan leader alive. Sure, you could take those old toads but-

“Sit.”

Your heart leaps at the voice, the first time you’re hearing it since entering this room - deep, almost-melodic, and for a second you don’t even recognize who it came from. Not until Gojo’s flashing you a mirthful grin, blue yukata shifting as he moves to sit cross-legged, “Sit.”

Oh, God, you didn’t know of any torture methods one could do while sitting - but you didn’t doubt that Gojo was an expert in all of them. 

And as your knees buckle, sinking ever-so-slowly to sit back down on the floor, Gojo tilts his head in confusion. Brows scrunching together as he gestures downwards.

“On your…lap?” You question, as if the answer wasn’t glaringly obvious. 

The only response you get is a careless nod, Gojo spreading his knees further as if to prove his point. No care or concern as he plows on, “If you’d like, of course.”

It’s a silent staredown - you, and him - and the elders watching jaw-dropped, of course. None of you have ever known the young master to let anyone get this close - let alone give them a decision on, well, anything.

. 

A weighty beat passes. One. Two. 

He wins.

And you find yourself walking unsteadily towards Gojo’s imposing figure, all eyes on you as you plop down unceremoniously in his waiting lap. Warm - and it catches you off guard. Gaze flickering over his broad shoulder to look at the aghast faces behind you. Tension crackling in the air as they wonder the same thing as you at this very moment - just what type of torture method is this? 

“Interesting…I need this one.” You blink up in confusion, heart racing and oh- shit, when did he get so close? But Gojo’s chest only rumbles with laughter. Circling his long fingers around your waist, pulling you flush against his sculpted chest, “As the new madam of the Gojo household.”

What? 

The elders behind let out stifled gasps, as bewildered as you were. And you swear you saw one faint, though, you don’t get to take a close look, because Gojo’s gently grabbing your chin, tilting your head up at his pretty face. 

“Wan’ me to kill them?”

“Kill- why?” you sputter - both from his idea and the heat of his proximity. 

“Why not?” He looks at you through his long lashes, so deceivingly innocent that it makes your head spin. Tone so light, as if he was talking about something trivial like the weather. “An early wedding gift, maybe?” And he sounded like he was joking - you wished he was joking. But you knew better. 

So you swallow thickly, “N-no…thank you.”

At this, Gojo’s eyes twinkle. “Yeah, real interesting.” he coos, voice so uncharacteristically playful. And his lips are so close - too close. Running a thumb along your bottom lip, “Gorgeous, too. Tell me, pretty, what do you think of ruling over this trash?”

And you could feel every eye on you as you mull over the question. Weighty. Scrutinizing - except for Gojo who seemed like he was hanging onto your every word. 

Hell, might as well give ‘em a few heart attacks right?

Words that never come - because your body moves before your mind. And you’ve got one hand gripping his expensive Yukata, the other scrambling for his broad shoulders. Softening the blow as you crash your lips onto his.

Soft - it’s the first thing you register. Followed very shortly by the taste of those cheap lollipops from those local convenience stores you loved - strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because the kiss is over as soon as it happens.

Gojo’s pulling away with a strange light in his eyes, lips flushed a pretty pink, yukata dangling off his shoulder already. You have to train your eyes away from the milky skin, and over to the elders. Yeah, one really had fainted - three, now, actually. 

And only one of them is brave enough to pipe up a rapid, “You- how dare you dirty-”

Thud!

It all happens so fast you’re not sure if your eyes are playing tricks on you. In a split second, there’s a long dagger pulled out from his yukata, embedded deep into the tatami mat - not even an inch away from the elder who’d opened his mouth. 

“Out.” 

It’s so abrupt that for a second, you think Gojo’s talking to you, voice soft, and so so eerie. It sends shivers down your spine as you raise your eyes to look at his glare at the frozen crowd behind him.

Eyes wide, aura menacing - a grin gracing his features, absolutely nothing like the one he’d sent you - it was something so dangerous and cold. The temperature in the room dropping about ten degrees as he mutters, “I won’t say it twice.”

And immediately, it’s chaos. Each one stumbling over the other to run out the sliding doors first, none of them daring to look you in the eyes now. 

“O-of course, master.” the leader, seemingly, chokes out. One foot out the room already, “I’ll um- check that the servants are doing their work-”

“No. You all will stand outside.” Gojo murmurs, not even bothering to look at them. Instead, cupping your face closer towards his, “And close the door.”

That door could not have been shut faster, ringing in the tense silence. And suddenly you’re too-aware of the audience outside. Too-aware of being left alone with…your future husband? And the way he was looking down at you with something so dark in his eyes.

“So…” he runs his nose down your neck, breathing in your scent. “If you don’t want me to kill those bastards…what else must I gift you, my wife?” 

“Like what?” You gulp, back arching involuntarily into him. 

Gojo laughs at the reaction, teeth ghosting over your racing pulse. “An estate?” Dancing ever-so-slowly, up your jaw, “All the cars you could want?” He blows gently in your ear, chuckling as you yelp in surprise. “Maybe jewelry?” Kissing the tips of your ears, “You’d look gorgeous in blue. And the Zenin clan has the perfect necklaces I can…convince them to send over.” He pulls away, taking you in entirely, “Or maybe-” Lips now ghosting yours. “-something else?”

And then he’s kissing you - and you’re kissing him. 

You don’t know who leans in first, just that Gojo’s lips were so sweet on yours. So addictive. Palms cradling your face so softly, while his lips were anything but. 

“Open your mouth, pretty.” he pants into your lips. “Kiss your husband properly, now.”

Shit, you barely even realize the way you’re listening to every single word he says. Jaw falling slack to let him lick at the seam of your lips. Such a messy clash of teeth and spit and him - so hot and starved. Like he couldn’t get enough with the way he hastily moves to press wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw. 

“Satoru-” you gasp, and he nips lightly at your bottom lip once you immediately shut yourself up because shit, you’re getting ahead of yourself. Calling the clan leader Gojo by his first name? Hell, you’ll see the gates of heaven before you see an altar. 

But Gojo himself seems to think the complete opposite. “Don’t get all shy now.” he pries away the hand covering your mouth. “Call me ‘Toru’.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed, trying to will yourself to say this little nickname.

Too slow, apparently. Because his hands are suddenly everywhere - on your breasts, your hips, giving your ass a slow squeeze. “T-Toru-” you squeal. 

Gojo’s mouth drops into a soft oh! Immediately surging forward as if to claim your lips again - stopping mere millimeters from your lips with a pained grunt. Like it killed him to stay away. 

“See? Jus’ like that.” he angles your head just right, before spitting, once. Twice. Right into your pretty mouth. “N’ now you’re mine.”

And fuck if Gojo wasn’t going to prove it.

He’s laying you down on the mat, fumbling with the ties of your yukata, “Mine to wed. Mine to carry my legacy.” Thumb running over your hardened nipples as he urgently unbuckles your bra, throwing it behind god-knows-where. “Mine to-” Biting down, ever-so-lightly on your nipple, “-worship.” Hands dipping lower, and lower - just barely teasing the hem of your drenched panties. “Mine to ruin.”

You don’t know what you’re reeling more from - maybe from those words, which you’re sure he said loud enough for the elders outside to hear.

Maybe from the way he’s sliding a finger underneath your panties, sliding it up and down your puffy folds. Making you arch into him like such a slut as he pools your sweet sweet juices on his fingertips, popping them into his mouth with a low groan. 

“Oh. Fuck. Oh, fuck-” Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. Not wasting a second before ripping off your flimsy panties, tucking them away into the waistband of his yukata. “Sweeter than I imagined.”

“S-so filthy-” you mewl, as he spreads your shaky thighs. Lips wobbling pathetically at how he’s admiring your glistening cunt. “Toru, no one’s ever…”

At this, his eyes are back on yours now. Half-lidded, pupil’s blown - and you don’t think you’ve ever even heard of the leader of the Gojo clan being so out of it, let alone see it first-hand. His voice strained as he breathes out a barely audible, “Shit- really? So then…” He’s moving to lick lewd little circles on your inner thigh, “...your husband’s gotta make this memorable, right?”

Gojo doesn’t give the time to even think about answering - he doesn’t trust that he has the fucking sanity to wait that long. Because you’re so pretty splayed out like this for him. Your moans too sweet. Your cunt too tempting. Too his. 

So, really, you can’t blame him when he’s plunging nose-deep into your quivering pussy, licking one, long stripe right up your swollen folds. And fuck the cute lil’ whines escaping your lips are so addictive that Gojo just can’t help but do it again. And again. And again and-

“O-oh my god, ngh- feels too good-” you card your fingers through his soft locks - something that would usually result in a lost hand or two. But for you - anything, for you. “More, Toru.”

Shit, if Gojo thought he’d lost his sanity before then he definitely wasn’t ready for this. 

“So needy.” he’s chuckling into your glistening folds. One hand throwing your legs over his shoulders, the other thumbing over your needy clit. “So perfect. Can’t believe no one’s ever hah- eaten out this pretty cunt before.”

Immediately, he’s squeezing his hot tongue past your folds. And it’s all you can do to buck your hips up so sluttily when he licks at your sloppy entrance. Your throbbing clit. Anywhere and everywhere Gojo could reach.

“Hngh- yes yes yes, too good.”

“Yeah? Ya like this?” He moves his fingers down from your already-ravaged clit, circling your sopping wet hole. “Ya like making such a mess on m’tongue?”

“W-wha-” The words get caught in your throat as you whirl down at the sight below you - Gojo. Gojo, with strands of white hair sticking to his forehead, eyes so glassy. Gojo, tongue lapping at your sweet juices, looking like he wanted to devour you with his eyes, as much as his mouth. 

At your reaction, he grins, furrowing his brow in mock-concern, “What’s wrong, pretty? Can’t talk?” Bullying his long fingers past that first feeble ring of resistance, massaging your plushy walls. “N’ you were so hah- feisty earlier. Thought my new mmpf- wife would be mouthy?”

You give his hair a warning tug, whispering, “Sh-shut up-” But it comes out more breathless than you intended. 

Gojo notices, of course he does. Because he’s letting out a whiny, “Sh-shut up.” Wrapping his pretty pink lips around your pulsing clit, “As you wish, madam Gojo.”

You hear a dull thud from outside, but you can’t even think about turning your head to look because Gojo’s drinking you in like a man possessed. Pumping his fingers in and out, expertly hitting that one spot with each and every thrust. Looking nothing like an infamous clan-leader and every bit on cloud nine as he rolls his tongue over your clit. Over and over and-

“P-please ah- oh-” you squirm.

“Move your hips like that. Yeah- jus’ like that, pretty- fuck-” The most powerful man in the country letting himself be angled and pulled as you pleased, grunting each time you drag your pussy all over his mouth. Fingers frenzied on your clit - sloppy. Fast. 

But it still wasn’t enough for Gojo - he thinks it’ll probably never be. But that’s fine - the two of you have until the wedding night to perfect it, right?

So he’s looping a big arm around one leg, pulling your snug cunt impossibly closer, reaching over to toy with your pretty clit. And then he’s nose-deep in your sloppy entrance, preparing you for what was to come - fucking you both on his tongue and his fingers. 

Jaw grinding deeper, stretching you out, thrusting in and out in and out in and-

“Fuck fuck fuck- Toru m’so…”

“Close?” he slurs into your cunt, grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Fingers just digging into your hips, sure to leave pretty little marks for him to admire later - and to give a message to those old toads outside. “Cum f’me. Shit- cum f’me, pretty.”

Gojo realizes it before you when you’re finally cumming - because your gummy walls are squeezing around him so tight that it’s almost difficult fuck you through your high the way he wants. 

You’re shaking. Blood roaring in your ears, vision spotty. Crying out a hoarse, “Fuck fuck fuck- oh my god, Toru-” Barely even realizing the way you’re rocking your hips so hard into his hot mouth. 

And Gojo keeps going. 

Even when you’re blinking your vision back, big fat tears pricking your eyes at the sheer overstimulation. Even when white-hot electricity sparks behind your eyes each flick of his tongue. Still toying with your poor clit, tonguefucking you so messily. 

“Toru, s’too- ngh- much- fuck.” You can barely get the words out, jolting. Wondering how the fuck his mouth wasn’t tired, yet - how his fingers weren’t cramping up, tongue still as greedy as ever. “C-can’t-”

“You can. You will.” he’s murmuring into your cunt. Running his mouth now, like he was drunk off your pussy. Words as fast and ragged as his tongue. “C’mon, faster. Harder. Fuck-” you flinch as he spits out little profanities into your messy cunt. “Fuckin use me. Use me like the good lil’ wife you are.”

“Oh- shit.” you whine. Clawing at the mats, Gojo’s hair, his shoulders - just anything to cope with the sheer stimulation as he made out with your pussy like a mad man. “Wait- cum- m’gonna…”

You’re cumming and cumming all over again. So hard, even as you grind your hips deeper into Gojo’s mouth. Riding out your orgasm on his pretty face, so painfully good. 

And only then is he finally pulling away. Absolutely wrecked, eyes miles away already, mouth glistening with your slick. Going all the way down his jawline, and onto the tatami mat in a deafening drip! drip! drip!

“Oh.” he runs his tongue along his wet lips. “Who made you cum like this?” 

A smile slowly splits across his face as you manage out a little, “Y-you, Toru…”

“That’s fuckin’ right. Me.” Hypnotized by the heavenly sight of you all fucked-out and twitching with the aftershock. Marveling down at his hand - glossy, and covered with your slick, “N’ m’gonna love you.”

And, well, a good husband always shares, right?

Because Gojo’s shoving his fingers past your kiss-bitten lips, pressing right at the back of your tongue in a way he knew would have your eyes watering, gagging around him so prettily. Eyes widening at the feeling of something so hard and hot between your legs. 

“C’mon, lil’ madam. Lick them clean f’me, will you?”

You’re gasping, “Mmpf- Toru-” Eyes flitting between a smug Gojo and the hand currently untying his robe. So teasing with the way he’s giving you just a flash of those boxers before oh-

Shit. 

You thought that he’d be big - it was expected, in fact. But this was fucking ridiculous. 

All sculpted curves and dips of his body, faint scars painting his milky skin - stories he’d tell you about later, you think. A fucking masterpiece. All the way down, down, down to where his throbbing cock was leaking all over those tufts of white at his toned pelvis.

Rock-hard, and so so angry. Prominent veins running along the side, flushed a shade of pretty pink that glistened with precum in the dim lighting. So intimidatingly long that it already had you worrying for your poor cervix, and thick enough that it had your thighs pressing mindlessly together. 

Something that Gojo obviously didn’t appreciate.

“Now now.” he tuts, pulling back his fingers to spread apart your thighs with ease. So far apart that it burned. “I need these legs open, pretty. I like the view, y’see.”

And he made it quite obvious, too. Spreading your swollen folds so shamefully apart with his thumb - wet with your split. All the blood rushing to his cock at the way you flinch in embarrassment, at the feeling of being so used. Cute. 

“Shhh, relax.” Gojo hums. Spreading the spit and slick lazily along your cunt with his fat head, purposely letting it smear all over your thighs. “M’gonna make this feel so good for you.”

And let it be known that Gojo Satoru was a merciless man - for everyone. 

Except maybe his cute lil’ wife. 

Because, yes, he’s suddenly splitting you apart on his massive cock. Yes, he’s holding your poor hips still, head dropping into the crook of your neck as he sinks in inch by fucking inch. 

But oh God does he have to hold back from fucking your tight cunt exactly the way he wants. The stretch too sinful, your pussy too heavenly. 

Instead he’s kissing away the single tear rolling down your cheek, muttering, “Too big? Aww, f-fuck, pretty. You needa breathe-.” Rich, coming from him considering that Gojo doesn’t know if he was breathing right now. Too caught up in the way he’s rolling your swollen clit between his fingers, gasping into your open mouth, “Trust me. M’gonna make it f-feel hah- good. So fucking good.”

“F-fuck-” Your head is spinning. And you can only give him such delirious little nods as Gojo starts to push in quick, lazy little grinds of his hips just to squeeze inside your gummy walls. Past that first, tight ring of resistance. 

“S’too big-” you squeal, nails raking down his back. “A-are you all the way in- yet?”

“Nope.” he’s popping the p, so unfairly smug. “Not even halfway in.” Drinking in all your cute lil’ sobs as he snakes a hand up to draw an invisible line across your stomach. “But you b-better be prepared, wifey. Because this-” Pressing down, hard. “-is where I’ll be.”

You didn’t know who wanted that to become a reality more - Gojo or you. 

Especially with the way your tight cunt is sucking him up so good, and shit for all Gojo’s reputation, he feels like he could’ve cum right then and there. 

“Shit- so fucking tight. God- you’re gonna make me lose my mind.” words so strained. So dangerous. He kisses down your neck, biting right above your racing pulse. “How do you want it? Like you’re my hah- wife- or my lil’ slut?”

A trick question, you think - as much as you could when you’re this cockdrunk, at least. 

Locking eyes down at the way your cunt was bulging so obscenely around his cock, clamping and quivering as he keeps pushing in in in- Unstopping. Relentless. Mewling a little, “L-like I’m your…wife.” 

“Louder.”

“Like I’m your wife.”

Several things happen at once - that faint muttering suddenly increases tenfold, and maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have noticed the few gasps. Gojo, however, does hear. 

It only takes an irritated growl and a split-second flash of metal for a second dagger to be struck deep into the thin wooden panel of the door - unfortunately for whoever just so happened to be on the other side. 

“That’s right. My wife.” And then he’s bottoming out - heavy balls smacking your ass, leaky tip nudging your poor cervix, letting you mark him up all you want as he rocks his hips faster into yours. “And you- ah- you realize they’re beneath you, right?” he’s stroking where he can feel himself bulging inside you. “That my lil’ wife just has to say the word n’ I’ll ngh- take ‘em all out?” 

You can only sob at the pressure, because his words are so soft but he’s fucking you so mean. Sounding like he was losing his sanity with each time your heavenly walls milked him. 

“I’ll kill ‘em- kill ‘em all-” he’s gritting out. “Hell, I’ll take down the r-rest of those clans ah- too if it pleases you.” Fingers getting so erratic on your clit, angling his hips just right to try and find- 

“Hngh- f-fuck, Toru- there-”

That.

So sloppy with the way he’s alternating between hitting that one spot and just abusing your cervix. Bruising - like he wanted to mark you everywhere n’ show it off, too. Biting down your neck, whispering into the skin, “Anything for you, madam.”

Rocking his hips harder, and he couldn’t give less of a fuck about the lewd little pool of slick and split forming on the mat below. Can’t even think to bring himself to be disgusted. 

“Feels good?” he’s drinking in your adorable sobs, “S’what you imagined?”

You’re torn between running away and fucking your hips up so bruisingly into his, hells digging into the mat as you push and pull away. “Yes. Feels- ah- ngh-” And for all your mouthiness earlier, you can’t even form coherent sentences right now - something that makes Gojo balls squeeze so painfully.

Something that has him wrapping his arms around your legging, dragging you like some ragdoll back to him. Rocking his hips so bruisingly deeper and deeper as he babbles. 

“Gonna make you c-cum. So hard.” He’s fucking you harder into the mat. Faster. Sloppier. “Gonna ngh- make you my beautiful bride.” Bouncing you on his painfully hard cock like he was claiming you from the inside - to leave marks for everyone in the clan to know. His balls on your ass, your nails down his shoulders, lips on your neck leaving little bites. “Gonna make you mine, pretty. And everyone else s’gonna know.”

And Gojo can tell when you’re close because he’s learned that you have a habit of squeezing him to insanity when you are. 

“Close?” At your delirious nod he’s giving you a blinding grin, “How cute. Why don’t you hah- cum f’me like the good lil’ wife you are, hm?”

Cum for him you do - thighs shaking, body jolting. So hard and violent that you’re covering him in all your sweet sweet juices. 

And he can only watch - awe-struck - as your pretty pussy squirts all over his angry cock glistening, and just drenched with your slick now. Beads of it getting all over his burning abs, trickling down every dip and curve as he uses your quivering pussy harder and harder-

“God, you’re so good f’me. Look how much you came.” Giving a final, harsh thrust. “So perfect f’me.”

So fucking smug as he finally cums as well. Letting out a low, muffled moan into your neck as he fills your poor pussy with rope after rope of seed, painting your walls such a sinful white. All the way until he was sure you were bloated with his cum, until he could feel it dribbling down the side. Looking down to confirm and- ah, sure enough, it was such a heavenly sight - thick globs drenching your clothes below. Spreading in a pool as his hips push deeper and deeper. 

Like it hurt to stop. Like it hurt to even think of tearing his eyes away from you. 

But, alas, this old meeting room could only take so much, and Gojo thinks you’ll enjoy his - your - bedroom much better for round two.

Which is how the elders outside found the door kicked open not too long after. Blinking up in shock at the tall figure of the Gojo clan leader at the frame holding you. Tired and limp in a princess carry, all bundled up your yukata and one of his outer robes. 

And they can only avert their eyes, faces burning at the hazy expression on your face, hair so unsubtly messy, bare legs twitching ever-so-slightly from where they were just peeking out from where the fabric had bunched up. Sinful. Desecrated. And evidently his. 

“Clean that room up.” 

Gojo’s stern command snaps them all out of their reverie. 

But before they could all run to do so, he’s plowing on, unapologetic and low. “Oh, and bow down-” chuckling lightly as they scramble to their knees before him - and your barely-lucid figure. “-to the new madam of the Gojo household.

A/N. On my period I’m gonna cry. 

Plagiarism not authorized.

[deathsmallcaps]

Ok when I reblogged this last night, I picked 3rd because that’s what I’ve heard, but I also said maybe a little bit #4? Because at the time I thought ‘well something not really mattering to you = a sort of rejection” so I was a little confused as to how they were separate options?

And then when I woke up and I saw this I remembered that the ‘rejection’ idea was an antisemitic talking point. As in supposedly you saw the undeniable truth of Jesus and were like nah.

So I’m not sure how else it could’ve been worded - it was quickly visible to me after a good night’s sleep - but I wonder how many other people were thinking similarly to me when they picked #4, and how many are genuinely antisemitic. But I hope there’s just a lot of confused people.

[nochd]

This was on @whatareyoureallyafraidof's post where they put up this:

And I responded with this image:

and promised in the tags to elaborate if asked. And, @frodo-the-weeb, I will. But it's going to get long and I'm going to have to split it up into several reblogs.

First of all, since not everybody in the world is a Silmarillion enthusiast, let me explain what we're referring to.

One of the stories in the Silmarillion, and possibly the one Tolkien cared about the most, is the tale of Lúthien and Beren; a highly condensed version of a narrative poem called the Lay of Leithian, which Tolkien began writing in the 1930s and tried to get his publisher interested in after the success of The Hobbit.

(Their readers said no, and they tactfully asked him to focus on his Hobbit sequel instead. "The result," in Tolkien's own words, "was The Lord of the Rings.")

The skeleton of The Lay of Leithian is as follows; I'm intentionally leaving out a bunch of information that weaves it into the overarching story of the Silmarillion but isn't relevant to the thesis I'm advancing here.

Lúthien, an Elven princess and enchantress, falls in love with a mortal man, a ranger called Beren. Her father, the Elven King Thingol, disapproves and sends him Beren off to fetch one of the jewels from the crown of the Dark Lord Morgoth. Lúthien tries to join Beren but her father imprisons her in a tower to stop her, only it's actually a treehouse because they're forest elves. Lúthien magically grows her hair long and uses it to escape. By the time she catches up with Beren he is chained in the dungeons of Morgoth's second-in-command, Thû (whom Tolkien later renamed Sauron). She rescues him with the help only of a dog, who defeats Thû himself in single combat. They then live in the forest together for quite some time, but Beren feels bad about being the reason she can't go home to her family, and still intends to finish his mission and get the jewel. He leaves one morning while she's still asleep, so as not to put her in danger, and then when he's on the threshold of Morgoth's underground fortress in the far North of Middle-Earth she catches up with him again and he accepts that she's not going to be put off. Together they enter Morgoth's fortress and make their way to his throne room. They are in disguise but Morgoth is not fooled and uncovers Lúthien in front of everyone, declaring his intention to make her one of his many slaves. Lúthien offers to sing and dance for him, which is the way she works her magic. She puts everyone in the throne room to sleep, including both Beren and eventually Morgoth. She wakes Beren and he takes the jewel and they flee, but as they get to the outer door they are stopped by Morgoth's guard-wolf, who bites off Beren's hand holding the jewel.

That's as far as Tolkien ever got with the poem, but we have the synopsis in the prose Silmarillion to tell us the rest of the story; again cutting it down to the quick, Thingol accepts Beren as his son-in-law, Morgoth's guard-wolf attacks Doriath, Beren goes and hunts it but is mortally wounded, his spirit goes to the Halls of Waiting in the Undying Lands where the dead in Middle-Earth go, Lúthien also goes there and, again through her magical song, persuades Mandos the god of the dead to let him come back. Mandos offers her a choice: live on immortally as an Elf without Beren, or return to Middle-Earth with Beren but both of them will grow old and die. She chooses the latter.

Tolkien created Lúthien as a portrait of his wife Edith, which makes Beren a picture of himself. We know this for a fact because he had LUTHIEN written on her grave when she died, and when he joined her in it two years later the name BEREN was written for him:

Now on the lower right side of my response image you'll see Pauline Baynes' illustration of the Lady in the Green Kirtle from The Silver Chair, one of C. S. Lewis's Narnia stories. A quick synopsis of the Lady of the Green Kirtle's part in the story:

The Lady is a witch who rules a gloomy kingdom underneath Narnia, accessible through a fissure in the earth in an old ruined city far to the North. Before the story opens she has enspelled and kidnapped King Caspian's son Prince Rilian, whom she intends to send leading an army to conquer Narnia in her name. For twenty-three hours a day he is her willing slave and lap-dog; to maintain the spell, he must be bound to the titular silver chair for the remaining hour, during which he is sane and aware of his imprisonment. The protagonists, Eustace and Jill and their guide Puddleglum, meet her and Rilian unawares on their journey to the North; she sends them astray and almost succeeds in getting them eaten by giants. Eventually they rescue Rilian from the chair, but she sings a magical song which very nearly puts them all to sleep but for Puddleglum's intervention. Foiled, she transforms into a serpent, attacks them, and they kill her.

It is my contention that the Lady in the Green Kirtle is Lewis's caricature of Lúthien, with the enslaved and befuddled Prince Rilian representing Beren; and further, that Lewis knew or recognised that Lúthien and Beren were a literary portrait of the Tolkiens, so that The Silver Chair is ultimately a nasty commentary on their marriage.

In forthcoming reblogs I will lay out my evidence for this thesis.

[shokocide]

HEART OF THE OCEAN - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru was never meant to survive your song. You were never meant to fall for a human. But the ocean has never followed the rules.

word count. 17.2k (nnyeah)

content. mdni fem!siren!reader, pirate!gojo, slowburn, mutual pining, forbidden love, reader lowkey has daddy issues, fluff, pet names, making out, really inaccurate transformations from siren to human, smut, fingering, p in v, feral gojo, slight dacryphilia, pearl necklaces, aftercare, ANGST, violence, gore and blood, major character death (not too graphic tho), rebirth

author's note. idk y'all i just wanted to write some angst

The ship rocked gently beneath a sky smeared with pink clouds and salt-kissed breeze. The sails are full, the air warm, the crew loud as ever. Shoko tosses a flask to Geto across the deck, slouching against the railing with her usual lazy grin. Nanami mutters to himself over the ration count, already annoyed and it wasn’t even noon. Yuuji and Nobara are bickering again, locked in a heated knot-tying competition that neither of them are winning.

Gojo stood at the helm, one hand on the wheel, the other dragging along the edge of a map he’d practically memorized. His fingers paused over a spot he’d circled days ago, the charcoal mark smudged from how often he’d touched it.

"Been staring at that for hours, Satoru," Geto called out, an amused lilt in his voice. "You sure you’re not in love with that map?"

Gojo didn’t glance up. "If it leads to what I think it does, I just might propose."

"Treasure, treasure, treasure," Nobara groaned. She climbs up onto a barrel, arms crossed. "You know there’s more to life than gold, right?"

"I respectfully disagree," Nanami mumbles.

"I just hope we don’t run into any sirens," Yuuji says, tossing a pebble into the sea, watching it plop uselessly into the waves.

That earned a collective scoff.

"Oh, not this again," Nobara rolled her eyes.

"I’m serious!" Yuuji turned around, pointing his finger like he was telling a ghost story. "They sing to you and boom—you're overboard. You don’t even realize your legs stopped working ‘til you're halfway down."

"Those are just stories," Nobara snaps. "Tales to keep dumb kids from getting too close to the water."

"But what if they’re real?" Yuuji presses. "Like, really real. What if one of us hears singing and just jumps in without meaning to—"

"I vote Megumi," Nobara cut in, grinning.

Megumi didn’t even look up from the net he was mending. "You’d drown before I would."

Shoko snorted. "That tracks."

Their laughter rolled like thunder, loud and light. But Gojo’s gaze slid back to the horizon, narrowing just slightly. The water was still. Too still. Then, a ripple. Subtle, but there.

He blinked. A shimmer caught his eye—just beneath the sunlit surface. Iridescent. Brief. Gone.

His fingers flex around the wheel. There it was again. That strange pull. A drumbeat deep in his chest. Familiar and foreign, like a memory from a dream he couldn’t place.

He exhales. Must’ve been the fish.

"Alright," he says, snapping the map shut with one hand. "We drop anchor near that island before sundown. We’ll stay the night."

"Think the treasure’s buried there?" Geto asks, already reaching for the spyglass.

"No," Gojo replies, voice as easy as ever. "But I’ve got a good feeling."

He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t mention the ripple, or the flash of light beneath the water. Doesn’t mention the song he swore he hears every now and then, just barely, rising from the sea.

-

The ship had long since gone quiet. Lanterns dimmed, voices hushed, footsteps replaced with the rhythmic creak of wood and the hush of waves licking the hull. The moon hung low, fat and silver, scattering a path of light across the water.

Gojo lay stretched across a barrel of rope, arms folded behind his head, eyes half-lidded but nowhere near sleep. The wind was calm. Almost too calm. He should’ve been tired—hell, he was tired—but something kept tugging at him from inside his chest. That same pull again. A gnawing curiosity. A whisper. And then he heard it—voice. Not loud. Not calling. Just… singing.

Soft. Sweet. Smooth like honey and salt. The kind of sound that shouldn't exist out here. Not this far from civilization. Not on an unmarked island in the middle of nowhere.

He sat up slowly, blinking. The song wove through the air, light as seafoam, curling around him like mist. It didn’t sound human. It sounded too perfect for that. But it didn’t sound inhuman, either. It sounded like longing. What the hell?

He stood, quiet, careful not to wake the others. No one stirred—not even Geto, who usually slept with one eye open. Gojo climbed down the side of the ship, boots hitting sand with a soft thud. The island was still. The trees whispered, but there was no wind.

The voice carried again. Closer now. Just beyond the curve of the beach. He walked toward it, heart thumping hard. His mouth felt dry.

And then—he saw you.

You were seated on a wide rock near the shallows, bathed in moonlight. The surf curled gently around your feet. You glowed, in a way no human could—skin kissed with shimmer, hair catching the light like strands of pearl. And you were singing. Not to the sky, not to the sea. To him.

Gojo froze. You looked up, still singing. His throat went dry. He blinked once. Twice. No way.

He pinched his own arm, hard. Ow.

Still there. Still singing.

His heart was thundering now. Not in fear—he didn’t know what this was. Enchantment? A dream? A warning? He couldn’t tear his eyes away. He’d seen beauty. But this—this was something else. Something ethereal. Something that didn’t belong in a world full of men with swords and ships and thievery.

You smiled, just barely. And kept singing. To him.

You don’t stop singing. If anything, your voice softens, curling like silk around his ribs as he takes a slow step forward. Then another. The moonlight halos around you and the wet sheen of your skin shimmers. Your fingers trail along the stone you’re perched on, just barely touching the water, like you're inviting him in without a single word.

He’s never seen eyes like yours. Deep and endless, like the ocean. And they’re looking right at him. He swallows hard.

“...What are you?” he whispers. It’s not fear in his voice. It’s awe.

You tilt your head. Your song slows, just a little. A single note hangs in the air, trembling like a secret.

His boots crunch the sand as he nears the edge of the water, close enough to see the shimmer of your scales beneath the surface. He doesn’t stop walking. He should. But gods, he doesn’t want to.

You lift your hand then—slow, graceful, beckoning. He’s close enough now to see the curve of your mouth, the glint of something glowing faintly at your throat. An amulet. Round. Ancient. The glow pulsing softly like a heartbeat.

You hum one final note, low and intimate, and it lingers in the air like perfume. Your voice disappears into the sound of the sea.

Gojo takes another step, so close now the tide laps at his ankles. His mouth parts like he’s going to say something again, ask what this is, who you are, why it feels like the ocean is calling his name through your lips. But all that comes out is “You’re real.” And gods help him, he wants you to be.

The silence that follows is deafening. The sea seems to still around you. Even the breeze hesitates. He stands there, thigh-deep in the water now, eyes fixed on you like a man utterly enthralled. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. You watch him with a soft smile curling your lips—dangerously pretty, devastatingly calm.

Then, finally, you speak.

“Well,” you murmur, voice dipped in honey and seafoam. “Took you long enough.” It’s like breaking a spell—and casting another one right after.

His breath hitches. That teasing lilt in your voice? It sparks something wild in his chest. His fingers twitch at his sides.

“Was beginning to think you’d never come closer,” you purr, tilting your head, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. It bares your chest completely—not that you were hiding it.

Gojo’s breath catches. His hands—previously relaxed at his sides—suddenly twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them. His gaze darts away, toward the horizon, the water, anywhere but you. And yet—he keeps sneaking glances. Quick. Desperate. Guilty.

You watch his throat work around a swallow. He shifts his weight. Drags a hand down his face. Tries very hard to look like he’s not flustered out of his goddamn mind.

He fails spectacularly.

You don’t move. You don’t need to. Just sit there, naked under the moonlight, letting him unravel quietly in front of you.

The silence stretches.

His mouth opens. Closes. For once, Gojo Satoru is speechless.

“You—” he tries.

You blink slowly. Innocently. “Me?” The word rolls off your tongue like silk.

He swallows hard. “You’re not afraid I’ll—”

“What?” You laugh, soft and rich. “Try to capture me? Drag me aboard your little ship and chain me like some prize?”

His eyes narrow, but there's a flicker of a grin tugging at his lips.

You lean forward, elbows resting on your tail, eyes gleaming. “Tell me, sailor,” you whisper. “What would you even do with a creature like me?”

He’s standing there like a man caught between heaven and hell. Every instinct in him is screaming this is a bad idea. But gods above, he wants to find out.

You watch him take another step. The water reaches his hips now, the fabric of his coat floating around him in soft ripples. He’s soaked, hair damp, moonlight catching on the white strands like frost. But he doesn’t seem to care. You don’t move. You don’t need to. He’s the one crossing the sea for you.

“Still think you’re dreaming?” you ask, voice low, velvet-smooth. You rest your chin in your hand, gaze locked to his. There's a dangerous sort of curiosity behind those sea-deep eyes—like you’re not just waiting for him, but testing him.

He lets out a breathless laugh, half-shaky. “Wouldn’t be the strangest dream I’ve had.”

Gojo’s throat bobs as he swallows. His hand lifts slowly, as if moving through water thick with molasses, hesitation and desire tangling in every breath he takes. You watch him with a smile, calm and inviting.

His fingers are just inches from your skin now. The curve of your jaw. The shimmer of your collarbone. One final confirmation that you’re real.

He pauses. “You won’t disappear, will you?” he whispers.

“I could,” you say. “But I won’t.”

He reaches. Slowly. And when the tips of his fingers brush your skin—just barely—you don’t flinch. You don’t pull away. You lean in. A little. Just enough. Enough to make him ache.

Suddenly it isn’t just his hand. It’s his whole body straining forward, the pull of something ancient and dangerous and inevitable. You smell like salt and stormwinds, something sacred and wild, and when your skin meets his, warm and cool at once—

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for centuries.

You smile. “Not a dream,” you murmur. “Sorry, sailor.”

You feel it. The shift in the air, the quiet tremor in the waves. Your amulet pulses once, faintly, like it senses what’s supposed to happen next. The ritual. The ending.

But you ignore it.

Because he’s still looking at you, cerulean eyes boring into yours like he’s never seen anything more divine.

For just a little longer, you want to be worshipped.

Your fingers move before you even think. Lightly, you drag one hand along his collar—soft, teasing, feather-light. His breath stutters. You smile, letting your nails trail just barely down the line of his chest. He leans in without realizing it, gaze half-lidded, pupils blown wide.

“What’s the matter, sailor?” you whisper, voice melting like warm tidewater. “You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.”

His hands twitch at his sides. “Kinda hard to remember… when you keep doing that.”

You laugh—quiet, delighted. He doesn’t even know what that is. The way your voice coils around his ribs, your touch singing along his skin. He doesn’t know that every second he stays in your presence, he’s sinking.

Not just into the sea. But into you.

Your palm finds the side of his neck, thumb brushing just under his jaw. His heart races. You can feel it. It makes something hungry stir in your chest—but beneath that hunger is something else. Something like want.

You lean in until your lips are just a breath from his ear. “It’s time, you know,” you murmur, voice so low it’s almost a song again. “I’m supposed to take you now.”

He doesn’t pull away. He shivers.

“…Take me where?”

You smile, lips ghosting over his jaw. “To the depths. The dark. Where all your kind eventually go when they trespass too far.”

Silence stretches, heavy, water-thick. He finally meets your gaze again. “Then why haven’t you?”

Your smile fades. Not completely—but the edges tremble. Just slightly.

You trace the line of his collarbone, softer now. “Because I don’t want to. Not yet.”

And it’s true. You should have dragged him under the moment he stepped into the tide. But you can’t bring yourself to. Not with him. Not when you still want to hear the way he laughs. Still want to feel the heat of his skin beneath your hands. Still want to be wanted.

So instead, you look at him like he’s something sacred. Like he’s the one you’d worship.

And softly, you say: “Stay with me a little longer, sailor. Just a little while.”

Because even if the sea eventually takes him, you want him to be yours first.

He doesn’t know who moves first—him or you. All he knows is that your face is suddenly closer. The moonlight curves along your cheekbone, your lashes, the tip of your nose. And then, your lips brush his. Featherlight. Barely there. But it undoes him.

He inhales sharply, like you’ve stolen something from his chest. Like a breath, or maybe a part of his soul. It wasn’t a real kiss—not really—but gods, it might as well have been. Because everything inside him lurches forward. He needs more. Needs to feel your warmth pressed to him, to find out what it’s like to drown in you.

But before he can pull you closer—before his hands can cup your face and drag you into the kind of kiss that ends men—you’re already gone.

A teasing smile dances on your lips as you drift back, slow and languid, water curling around your waist.

“Goodnight, sailor,” you murmur and then you dip beneath the waves.

The moonlight ripples where you vanish, and for a moment, he sees it—just the faintest shimmer of your tail, iridescent, unreal, slipping deeper and deeper into the dark.

He stays in the shallows, breath shallow, chest heaving. The sea laps at his thighs like it’s trying to tug him in after you. He doesn’t even realize his hand is still outstretched, reaching for something that’s already gone.

But now he’ll search every shore, scan every ripple, chase every whisper of song.

Just for a glimpse of you.

Just for another chance.

-

The waters are quiet.

You sit curled within the shell of your chamber, arms wrapped around your tail, staring out the arched opening where light from the surface used to filter in. Now there’s only dark. The soft glow of the seabed pulses around you—blue, green, violet. It reflects off the polished coral walls, dances across your skin like gentle ghosts. But you barely notice it.

Because all you can think about is him.

The sailor with sapphire eyes and a grin like sunlight. The one who didn’t flinch when you touched him. The one whose heart beat so loud, you could still hear it ringing in your ears even now.

“Stupid,” you mutter under your breath, sinking your chin to where your tail bends. “Stupid, stupid—”

“You’re not stupid,” comes a voice, soft and familiar.

You glance up to see your sister floating just outside the chamber, arms crossed, watching you with an arched brow.

You blink. “Were you listening?”

“I didn’t need to. Your amulet’s been glowing for the past half hour like you swallowed a lanternfish. What’s going on?”

You try to play it off. “Nothing. Just tired.”

She swims closer, unimpressed. “Liar. You only get like this when something really bad happens. Or really good.”

You sigh, letting yourself drift down a little, hair fanning around you like seaweed. “I… I met someone.”

That gets her attention.

“Oh?” Her tone sharpens, cautious. “Down by the shore?”

You nod. “He was on a ship. Docked just off the cove. I heard his voice before I saw him.”

“Did you sing?”

“Of course I did.”

“And?”

“I was supposed to take him under.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “But you didn’t.”

“No.”

A long pause. Then: “Why?”

You shake your head, frustrated. “I don’t know. I should’ve. It would’ve been easy. He was right there. I touched him. He was already falling.” Your voice trails off. The memory of his warmth haunts your fingertips. “But I didn’t want to. I just… wanted to keep him for a little longer. Just—just talk. Just see him.”

Your sister tilts her head. “You’re not supposed to see them. You’re supposed to lure them, enchant them, end them. That’s what we do.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you still thinking about him?”

You don’t answer. Because you don’t have one. All you know is that his laugh is stuck in your head. His breathless voice. The stunned way he looked at you when you kissed him—if you could even call it a kiss.

You press your hand to your chest, just above where your amulet hums. And softly, almost too quiet for even the sea to hear: “I don’t think I want to forget him.”

Your sister doesn’t speak for a long time. She just floats there, expression unreadable, eyes dark with something older than you can name. Then she drifts closer, gently reaches out to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.

“We wouldn’t know this. We weren’t born yet,” she says softly, “but it wasn’t always like this. The reefs used to glow. The caverns used to sing with color. Our kind would  dance with dolphins, weave pearls through our hair, and the waters would hum beneath us—alive.”

You look up at her, startled by the sadness in her voice.

“It was beautiful,” she says, almost to herself. “Before they came.”

You know who she means. The humans. Greedy fingers always reaching for more.

“They took everything. Our shells, our corals, our sacred stones. Even the bones of our dead. Called them artifacts. Called them treasure.” Her voice hardens. “They don’t see us. Only what we can give them. And they always want more.”

You want to argue, say he’s not like that, but the words tangle in your throat. She sees it. “You think he’s different.” A statement, not a question.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe.”

“You hope he is.” She shakes her head. “But hope doesn’t stop a ship’s hull from crushing the sea floor. Doesn’t stop the spears. The nets. The hands that rip and take and never give back.” She floats away from you then, back toward the chamber’s edge.

“You don’t know what it means to lose your first home,” she says quietly. “To watch the sea dim, to see your mother weep because the place she was born in no longer sings. You don’t remember the day we buried our queen and humans tore open her grave two tides later.”

Your chest aches.

“They don’t love us. Not really. They love the idea of us. They love the lure. And they’ll take everything you are if you let them.” She turns back once, eyes sharp, but not unkind.

“So whatever you think you feel—kill it. Before it kills you first.” Then she’s gone.

And you’re left alone in the dim quiet of your chamber, the weight of her words settling like silt in your bones. But still, you think of him.

What if he is different?

-

The surface is calm tonight. Moonlight drapes across it like silk, soft and glowing.

You hover just beneath, eyes fixed on the ship above. On him.

He’s standing there again. Alone, hands on the railing, silver hair catching the wind like sea foam. He doesn’t know it—but he calls to you. Every night. Not with his voice, no. But with something else.

A longing. A question. A pull in your chest you hate and crave at once.

You shouldn’t have come back. You told yourself that night was a mistake. That you'd been foolish to linger. To touch him.

But here you are. Again.

The current shifts. You swim a little closer. Close enough to see the frustration in his face. The tension in his jaw. He’s been looking for you. You know it.

Your fingers curl at your sides.

One more song and he’ll follow. That’s how it works. You know the rules. Lure them. Seduce them. Pull them down. Return the treasures they stole with their lives.

But he didn’t take anything. He only looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And damn it all if that isn’t the worst kind of theft.

You drift to the surface. Just your eyes above water now. Watching. Waiting.

He sighs, and his hand lifts—briefly—toward the sea. Like he knows. Like he feels you here.

He doesn’t call out. Not this time. He just walks to the same stretch of shore, boots sinking into the sand, cloak fluttering behind him. The moon is brighter tonight. Or maybe he just wants it to be.

He stares out at the water. “I know you’re there,” he says quietly.

Silence.

Then a ripple. A shimmer. And then you. Rising from the waves with water trailing down your arms like glass. Your hair clings to your skin, your eyes reflect the moonlight, and your expression? Playful. Curious. Maybe even… fond.

He steps forward. Doesn’t dare blink.

“Did you miss me, sailor?” you ask.

His lips twitch. “Starting to think I dreamt you up.”

You tilt your head. “Would that be so bad?”

He’s close now. Close enough to see the droplets on your lashes, the delicate gleam of scales at your shoulders, the curve of your smile. “I don’t dream like this,” he murmurs.

You glide a little closer, arms resting on the rock, the moonlight catching on your skin and droplets of water that haven’t quite dried. The sea rocks beneath you gently.

Gojo’s doing his best. Really.

But his eyes keep flicking downward and snapping back up—like he's fighting a war with his own damn brain. He clears his throat, face a little pink. Then pinker.

Then finally: “Uh… don’t mermaids usually wear… like… shells? On their, y’know. Their… uh.” He gestures vaguely in your direction, eyes avoiding your chest like it’s going to smite him.

You blink at him. Then smile. Not cruel. Not teasing. Just… amused. “Shells?”

He shrugs helplessly, ears going red now. “Yeah. You know. Like in the drawings? I thought it was a mermaid thing.”

You laugh—quiet and genuinely delighted. You’ve never seen a human blush like this. Pink all across his cheeks, nose, even the tips of his ears.

You tilt your head. “You think I’d strap bits of broken clam to my chest for modesty?”

He makes a sound that might be a choke or a laugh. You’re not sure.

You let your gaze drift up and down his face, watching how he refuses to meet your eyes for too long. It’s charming, really—how flustered he gets when you do absolutely nothing but exist.

“I never understood why humans found breasts so enticing,” you murmur, thoughtful now. “They’re just for feeding the younglings. We never bother covering them.”

Gojo covers his face with one hand.

You smile wider. “And yet you’re looking at me like I’ve committed a crime.”

“I’m not!” His voice jumps. “I’m not looking—I mean—I’m trying not to.”

You hum, resting your chin on your arms. “You’re adorable when you’re embarrassed.” You tilt your head at him, gaze soft, voice feather-light.

“If it’s troubling you so much,” you say, letting your fingers lazily swirl the water, “I suppose I can do something about it.” You smile, watching his composure slip through his fingers like sand.

“What would you prefer, sailor? Shells? Seaweed?” You lean forward just slightly. “Or should I just stay like this and let you keep pretending not to look?”

Gojo’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s blinking fast, flaming in the face now. “I—uh—whatever—” he swallows hard, waves a hand uselessly between you and the horizon. “Whatever you’re—uh—comfortable with.”

You laugh—a soft, melodic thing that makes his chest ache.

He looks like he wants the sea to swallow him whole. His ears have gone from pink to red, and he’s clearly regretting everything that brought him to this moment.

You hum, lounging back a little. “You really are sweet.”

He scrubs a hand through his hair, still pink to the tips of his ears, but now there’s a lopsided grin tugging at his mouth. He reaches out again. Slower this time. Testing the moment. His fingers brush your cheek. Trail down your neck. Neither of you move.

“You’re real.”

A ghost of a smile tugs at your lips. “You say that like you still don’t believe it.”

“Maybe I’m afraid if I do, you’ll vanish.”

You wade in closer, just enough that the sea brushes his boots, and he doesn’t move back. “You came back,” you murmur.

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes not leaving yours. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

You laugh softly. “A sailor with a soft heart. That’s new.”

“You’re the one who sang to me.”

“I sing to many.”

He narrows his eyes. “Did you kiss them too?”

That catches you off guard—but you recover quick, smile sharpening. “Would it matter if I did?”

He doesn’t answer right away. But there’s something darker flickering in his gaze now. Possessive. Curious. “…No,” he lies.

You swim forward, water lapping at your waist. “You don’t even know my name.”

“I don’t need it.”

“And what if I pull you under?” you ask, voice like silk and storm.

He smirks. “Then I’ll die with a smile.”

You blink. For a moment, you’re not sure if he’s joking. But he is. Mostly.

Still—his words land heavy. Make your throat tighten. “Humans don’t speak like that,” you say.

“I’m not most humans.”

Silence stretches again. His eyes roam over you. Not in lust—not yet—but in reverence. Like he’s trying to understand what you are. Why he isn’t scared. Why he feels like he’s been waiting for you.

You reach for him then—not to kiss. Just to touch. A gentle drag of your fingertips across his wrist. He doesn’t flinch. He leans in.

“Why are you here?” you ask, softly.

He looks at you like the answer should be obvious. “I think,” he says, “I was meant to find you.”

Your heart skips. The ocean pulls at your waist. It’s almost time. But you stay a little longer. “You should be careful, sailor,” you whisper. “Saying things like that. You’ll make me believe you.”

He watches you like he already does.

You don’t notice the ripple. Not the soft shift in the waves behind you, not the gleam of eyes just beneath the surface. You’re too caught up in him.

You tease him, you laugh. You reach out again, a touch light as foam across his skin. And this time, he leans into it.

You don’t pull him under. Not yet.

You want more of this. The way he speaks. The way he looks at you. The way he doesn’t flinch from you like the others do. You want to keep this, even if just a little longer.

But you’re not alone.

Far behind you, beneath a curtain of kelp and shadow, a shape floats. Still. Silent. Watching.

Your sister’s eyes glint through the dark, catching every flicker of movement between you and the sailor.

She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. She sees enough.

And when she finally sinks back into the depths, the water grows colder in her wake.

-

The moonlight hasn’t even faded from the surface when you slip back beneath the waves.

Your pulse is still racing. Your cheeks are still warm. His voice still rings in your ears—teasing, amused, wanting. And stars, if he had leaned in just a little more, you might’ve let him kiss you.

You should feel shame. But all you feel is light.

Until the sea goes cold.

There’s a shift in the current—sudden and sharp—and when you whirl around, she’s there. Floating in the dark like a phantom. Your sister.

Her expression is unreadable, lips pressed into a thin line, dark hair fanning out around her shoulders like a halo of judgment. “Sister,” she says, voice low and echoing. “Do you think we wouldn’t notice?”

You open your mouth—but nothing comes out.

She swims closer. “The sailor,” she hisses. “You’ve met him more than once now. I saw you. I saw everything.” Her words slice into you like a harpoon.

“I wasn’t going to—”

“You weren’t going to what?” she snaps. “Pull him under? Take what belongs to our people? Do your duty?”

You flinch. “He’s not like the others—”

Her laugh is sharp, bitter. “They never are. Until they are.” She grabs your wrist, not harshly—but firmly. “You’re forgetting why we sing. Why our mother gave us this gift. We are not meant to love them. We are meant to protect what’s left.”

You look away. But she’s not done.

“You think he’s blind? He knows what you are. Your tail, your voice, all of it.”

Your jaw tightens. “And yet he’s still here.”

She blinks. You keep going, voice sharp. “He’s not afraid. He doesn’t flinch. He treats me like I’m more than just a creature in the water. Can you say the same about anyone else?”

Her eyes flash. “That’s not the point—”

“No, you’re missing the point,” you snap. “I’m not dragging him under. I’m not stealing from him. I’m not using him. I’m just… being with him.” Your voice drops to a whisper. “And maybe I want to be more than what we’ve been taught to be. Maybe I want something for me.”

The silence that follows is heavy, the water still between you. But you don’t regret saying it. Not this time.

Your sister says nothing for a long moment. The anger in her eyes dims, simmering into something quieter, wearier.

Finally, she sighs. “You always were the stubborn one.”

You don’t speak. You’re still braced for more venom, more warnings. But instead, she moves closer, brushing her fingers against yours beneath the water. A small, wordless gesture of truce.

“I still don’t trust him,” she murmurs. “But I trust you. And if this is something real… I won’t stop you.”

Your chest tightens.

Then she adds, low and urgent, “But we can’t let Father know. You know what he’d do. To him, all humans are thieves.”

You nod, slowly. “I know.”

She meets your eyes, serious now. “Then be careful, sister. Whatever this is… keep it hidden. For both your sakes.”

And just like that, the warmth of her hand fades as she turns, slipping back into the dark sea, leaving you alone again—with your heart, your secret, and the ache of wanting something that feels more dangerous than ever.

-

The tide laps gently at the shore, but you hear none of it. All you hear is his breath.

He’s there again. Leaning against a crooked, barnacle-bitten post, sleeves rolled to his elbows, moonlight caught in the silver strands of his hair. He doesn’t speak when you emerge. He just watches, as if he’s afraid too much sound might send you fleeing back into the sea.

Your arms fold loosely across your chest, and you regard him with cool eyes. “You’re persistent.”

A smirk tugs at his lips. “Only when I think it’s worth it.”

That stupid charm at your chest pulses again. You hate it. Almost.

You rise from the water just a little, arms shifting subtly—and for the first time, he notices something different.

Draped lazily across your chest: a strand of seaweed, delicate and half-hearted, barely clinging to its job. Twined between it—two pearlescent shells, awkwardly fastened like a joke.

His gaze catches. Lingers. His brows lift in disbelief.

You blink at him, expression unreadable. Then slowly—so slowly—you smile. “Better?”

He lets out a disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You did not—”

“I thought it might make you more comfortable,” you say, perfectly composed. “Isn’t this how your kind prefers mermaids?”

“You’re mocking me.”

You tilt your head. “Am I?”

Silence stretches between you, filled only by the sound of waves kissing the sand. He doesn’t reach for you. Doesn’t even step forward. But you can feel his eyes—soft and searching, like he’s trying to read the parts of you you’re too afraid to say aloud.

Your gaze flicks toward the water. “This is a bad idea.”

“I know.”

Your brows knit. “Then why are you here?”

He pauses, then slowly reaches into his coat. “To give you this.”

He steps forward—not too close—and opens his palm.

A pendant. Sea glass, pale and smoothed by time, looped into a simple twine necklace. It glows faintly blue beneath the moonlight.

“I don’t know if it’s good enough,” he says, voice low, “but I thought… maybe you’d like something that wasn’t stolen.”

Your heart jerks. You stare at it. Then at him. And for a moment, you can’t breathe.

This—this isn’t what humans do. They come to take. Always. Treasures, songs, magic, you. But this one came to give. Something small. Something quiet. But his.

You take it with trembling fingers, brushing his palm as you do. Your voice is soft. “Thank you.”

His smile is gentle. “Didn’t know if you’d show.”

“I shouldn’t have,” you murmur.

“But you did.”

You pull back before it aches more. Let the waves touch your skin again.

“Don’t follow me,” you say—not unkindly, a soft warning.

He nods. Doesn’t stop you. Just watches you go, watches the silver glint of the ocean close around you. Watches the glimmer of sea glass now hanging around your neck.

-

There’s a puddle of rum soaking into his map. Gojo doesn’t notice.

Not when he’s got his chin in his hand, elbow propped up on the wooden table, and a downright dreamy expression on his face. His eyes are unfocused. His mouth is curved in a faraway smile. And he hasn’t blinked in… a while.

“Okay, what is wrong with you?” Nobara’s voice cuts through the cabin like a blade.

He doesn’t react.

Yuji leans over the table and waves a hand in front of his captain’s face. “Hellooo? Earth to Gojo?”

Still nothing.

Shoko groans and sips lazily from her flask. “He’s doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” Megumi deadpans, though he already knows.

“That thing where he zones out and grins like he’s in love.” Nanami’s tone is dry as the open sea.

“Because he is,” Geto mutters, arms crossed.

That gets Gojo’s attention—he blinks rapidly and jerks upright like he’s been caught with a dagger behind his back. “What? No. I’m not—what do you mean in love? I’m not in love. You’re in love. Shut up.”

“You literally didn’t hear a single word of our battle plan,” Geto says.

“There was a plan?” Gojo blinks again. “Oh… crap.”

Nobara slaps the table. “See?! He’s bewitched.”

“Bewitched,” Shoko echoes with a snort. “You’ve been reading Yuji’s ghost stories again, haven’t you?”

Yuji raises his hands defensively. “They’re good stories!”

Gojo stands, brushing imaginary dust from his coat. “Listen, listen. I’m fine. Perfectly composed. Mentally sound. Fully focused.”

Megumi gives him a look. “You just tried to drink ink thinking it was rum.”

Gojo looks at the bottle of ink in his hand—the one he's brought dangerously close to his mouth. “Not my fault the bottle looks the same.”

“You’re seeing someone,” Nobara accuses.

Gojo doesn’t even deny it this time. He just hums under his breath, dreamy-eyed as he watches the waves lap against the hull.

Shoko raises an eyebrow. “And who exactly is this mystery woman?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” he says, ever the smug bastard, but there's a wistful edge in his voice. Like he’s holding on to something delicate.

Yuji leans in. “Is she pretty?”

“She’s… beyond.” Gojo exhales, like saying even that aloud is sacred. “She makes the sea itself look dull.”

“Ugh,” Nobara groans. “You are so whipped. You don’t even know her last name.”

“Or her name,” Megumi mutters.

Gojo only smiles. Because he doesn’t know. Not really. You never gave it. Never offered. Only left behind shimmer and salt and the echo of your laugh in the breeze.

-

The sea is quiet tonight. Not still, but calm—the kind of hush that makes it feel like the world’s listening in.

You float easily beside the ship, water lapping gently against the hull. The sea glass he gave you hangs around your neck, cool and smooth, right beneath your amulet and shifting with every little ripple. You still don’t understand why he gave it to you. Maybe he doesn’t either.

Gojo leans against the railing above, chin resting on his forearms. He’s not smiling, but he looks… content. Like just being here is enough for him.

"You never told me your name," he says.

His voice is quieter at night. Less show, more real. He’s asked before, but not like this. Not like it actually matters.

You trail your fingers along the wood of the hull.

"Names carry weight," you murmur. "Especially mine."

He hums, like he gets it. "Then I’ll carry it carefully."

It’s not a line. Just something simple and steady, like most things about him that surprise you.

You glance up at him. Moonlight catches in his white hair, makes him look more ghost than man. And still—he waits. Patient, like the sea.

You hesitate. You’ve kept it to yourself for so long it almost feels like giving it away would be losing something. But he gave first. Not a demand. Not a trick. A gift.

"Would you even use it?" you ask.

"Only when it matters," he says.

That earns the smallest flicker of a smile from you. Not that he sees it.

So you say it. Soft. Almost like you’re not sure you meant to. But he hears it.

He says it back—quiet, careful. Like he doesn’t want to chip it, like it’s something that can bruise if he’s not gentle.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it, but it sticks. Settles into the space between you like it belongs there.

"Can I come down?"

His voice drifts lazily over the railing, casual like he's asking to sit beside you—not throw himself into the ocean.

You glance up at him, raising a brow. "What, you planning to jump?"

There's a flicker in his eye. Something boyish and stupid and far too Satoru.

Something in your gut tightens. “Don’t.”

But his smile tips, sharp and boyish. “Too late.”

Before you can make sense of it—before you can even move—he cannonballs.

You barely have time to curse before instinct takes over. You dart backward, tail slicing through the water as you throw yourself out of the drop zone. The splash hits like a small explosion—loud and ridiculous and completely him. Salt sprays across your face, cool and stinging, and you blink rapidly, water rushing past your ears.

He breaks the surface a moment later, coughing, laughing, looking wildly pleased with himself.

"You're insane," you sputter, treading a safe distance away. "You almost landed on me."

He slicks his hair back with both hands, grin still wide. “I knew you’d move.”

“You hoped I’d move.”

“Same thing,” he says easily, floating on his back now, arms stretched wide like he belongs here. Like the ocean’s always been waiting for him.

You stare at him. You should be mad. You should be furious—he scared the breath out of you, risked everything on a whim, shattered the calm of the night like it meant nothing.

But all that comes out is a laugh.

A real one. Unfiltered. It bubbles up from your chest before you can stop it—light, surprised, almost giddy. You cover your mouth too late, shoulders shaking.

Gojo blinks. Then stares.

And slowly, that ridiculous grin fades—not fully, but enough for something softer to settle in its place. Something honest.

“That,” he says, voice quieter now, “is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

You don’t respond. You can’t.

Because he says it like he means it. Like your laugh just rewired something in him. Like that sound—the one you didn’t even mean to give—touched a part of him no one else ever has.

You duck under the surface for a moment, just long enough to cool the flush spreading across your skin. When you rise again, he’s still watching you. Not smug. Not proud.

Just there. Floating in your world. Not asking for anything. Not running.

“I thought humans were supposed to take,” you say quietly, your voice barely above the lapping waves. “Steal. Want. Use.”

His brows lift just slightly, water beading on his lashes. “Maybe I’m just bad at it.”

You shake your head. “No. You’re just… different.”

You don’t know why you say it. But it’s true. You’ve known it for a while now.

He’s not perfect. He’s a little reckless, probably too brave for his own good, but he gives. Things that matter. His attention. His time. The necklace still hanging at your throat. Your laugh.

He blinks salt from his eyes, and when he speaks, it’s soft. “So are you.”

You look at him for a long time, silence pulling between you like a tide.

You were supposed to drag him under. That was the plan. Lure, tempt, drown. Like you’ve done before. Like you were made to do.

But now… all you want is to float beside him, just like this. For a little longer. Maybe forever.

Gojo floats a little closer. He’s still grinning, but it’s softer now. Less playful, more… thoughtful. The kind of look he only gets when he forgets to be loud. When the walls slip and all that’s left is the man underneath—tired, curious, dangerous, and kind.

His voice breaks the hush, low and deliberate. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“Why haven’t you pulled me under yet?”

The question sinks like stone.

You don’t answer at first. Not with words. Just look at him—really look—and see all the reasons you haven’t. The way he watches you like you’re not a threat but a wonder. The way he gives without expecting. The way his voice softens around your name like it’s something sacred.

“I was supposed to,” you admit. “The first time I saw you. You were an easy mark.”

He lets out a low breath, water curling around his fingers. “But?”

You shake your head. “You smiled at me. Like I was real. Like I wasn’t just something to catch.”

His eyes flicker. Something shifts behind them—something too big to name.

You don’t notice how close he’s gotten until your hands brush beneath the surface. Neither of you moves away.

You feel the pull of it now, subtle and steady. Not magic. Just you, drawn toward him like the tide.

“Are you gonna kiss me?” you ask, the words barely audible.

Gojo tilts his head. “I want to,” he says.

You blink. The breath in your lungs feels heavy, thick with the weight of everything this isn’t supposed to be. You shouldn’t let this happen. You shouldn’t. But you nod.

And then he waits.

He waits while the space between you shrinks, while the water ripples with tension. He waits with his gaze fixed on you, patient, like this is the first thing he’s ever wanted badly enough not to rush.

You lean in—barely. Enough to close half the distance.

He mirrors you.

It’s slow. So slow. One inch, then another. Close enough now that your noses almost brush. Close enough to feel his breath against your lips, warm despite the chill of the ocean.

Your eyes flick to his. There’s no trick there. No hunger. Just want.

And when you close the gap, it’s not a crash. It’s a pull.

The kiss is gentle, almost shy. Like you’re both afraid to break it. Like neither of you expected this to feel like something holy.

And then—something cracks.

Maybe it’s the way you tilt your head just slightly, or the way his fingers lift from the water and find your jaw like it’s instinct. But the moment shifts, deepens.

He kisses you again, firmer this time.

His hand comes up to cradle your cheek, thumb skimming along your skin, warm and reverent. Your body leans into his before you can think to stop it, the sea curling around you both like it’s trying to pull you closer.

He exhales against your mouth—half a sigh, half a groan—like he’s been holding this in for far too long.

And then he kisses you properly.

Deep. Slow. Like he’s learning you one breath at a time.

You feel his other hand slide along your side beneath the surface, barely touching, not pushing—just there, steady, grounding. Your fingers curl around his wrist. Not to stop him. Just to feel him there.

You move closer to him, body pressed flush against him. The heat comes quiet, curling up your spine, pooling low. Not wild, not frantic—just consuming.

He pulls back just slightly, just to breathe—but his forehead rests against yours, and his mouth still ghosts over yours like he’s not ready to let go.

Neither are you.

“Wow,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “That was…”

“I know,” you whisper.

His thumb traces your cheek again, slower now. You’re both breathing hard, but it’s not tension anymore—it’s something else. Something softer.

He laughs, just a puff of breath against your mouth.

And then he leans in again—not a kiss, not quite. Just his nose brushing yours. His forehead still pressed to yours. Like he can’t bear to be further away than this.

No more talking. Just warmth. His hands on you. Yours on him. Water cradling you both.

Like the sea finally made space for two.

-

The waters of your chamber are still. For once.

No humming currents. No idle song. Just the soft flicker of bioluminescent light playing across the curved walls of coral and stone. You hover near the ceiling, resting against a smooth shelf of shell, the sea-cushioned silence wrapping around you like a second skin.

The charm at your chest glows faintly. Steady. Unyielding.

It hasn't dimmed since your last meeting with him.

You close your fingers over it—try to will it still.

A shadow passes the outer threshold. Then a ripple, soft and polite, before a familiar voice filters in: “Forgive me, my lady. Your father has asked for you.”

You don’t move right away. Just tilt your head slightly, slow and deliberate.

“Did he say what for?”

The palace stirs as you pass through.

You swim down the coral corridor with practiced grace, head held high, ignoring the way the other courtiers glance your way—curious, cautious, always whispering behind their hands.

The throne room opens like a cavern—high and echoing, walls pulsing with soft light from the sponges embedded in the stone. The court has gathered, a loose semicircle of officials and guards trailing the edges of the chamber.

And there he sits. Your father. Tall and silver-scaled, eyes like polished obsidian. He watches as you approach.

You stop a few lengths from the throne, posture poised.

“You summoned me,” you say.

A pause. The room is quiet.

Then, his voice: “I did.”

He shifts on the throne, steepling his long fingers, scarred from past wars.

“There’s been talk,” he says slowly, “of a ship lingering far too close to our waters.”

Your chest tightens.

He meets your eyes.

“And I’ve heard whispers,” he continues, voice sharper now, “that its captain has not drowned.”

Your spine stays straight, but you feel the flicker of heat pulse at your chest. Not from fear. From that cursed charm. Still glowing. Still betraying you.

You school your features. “Plenty of ships pass through our waters. If they’ve not drowned, perhaps they’ve not been foolish.”

Your father’s gaze sharpens. “Or perhaps they’ve been warned.”

The air—no, the water—tightens. Just slightly.

You don’t flinch. “I wouldn’t waste my song on men who pose no threat.”

A silence blooms after that. Heavy. Testing.

Then he leans forward, voice dropping low. “There are rumors, child. A human—a pirate—who’s seen you more than once. Who still lives.”

You say nothing.

His eyes narrow. “If a human captain resists a siren’s call, it invites suspicion. If a siren chooses not to call—”

He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to.

“I have not failed my duty,” you say, calm, cool, perfectly composed.

“But you haven’t fulfilled it, either,” he counters. “Not yet.”

Your jaw tightens. A flicker of motion at your side—a ripple of your tail.

Your father leans back again, like he’s weighing something.

Then “You have until the next moonrise. Handle it.”

He doesn’t say what “it” means. He doesn’t have to.

-

He’s already there when you emerge.

He’s sprawled out on the sand like he’s got nowhere else to be—hands behind his head, boots kicked off, one knee bent lazily as he stares up at the sky. The sea breeze stirs his white hair, moonlight catching in the strands like glass.

When he hears the water shift, he turns his head and grins.

“Took you long enough,” he calls. “Was starting to think you’d moved on to prettier sailors.”

You roll your eyes, swimming closer. “You’d be the last to believe someone prettier than you exists.”

His grin widens. “True. But flattery from a sea goddess? I’ll take it.”

You laugh. Light. Smooth. Just like always.

You even smile up at him, that soft little tilt he’s grown too fond of. It feels easy—almost too easy—to slip back into it.

He starts walking. Slow, unhurried, straight into the sea.

The waves rush over his ankles, then knees, soaking his rolled-up trousers until the fabric clings to him. But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate.

“Most men run from the sea,” you murmur, brow lifting.

He grins. “Most men don’t get invited back.”

You let him come closer.

The water laps at his hips now, warm and slow between you. He stops just short of where you hover—still half-submerged, hair trailing like silk beneath the surface.

“So,” he says lightly, “do I pass the test?”

You hum. “That depends.”

“On?”

You tilt your head. “Whether you plan on drowning.”

He huffs a laugh, eyes flicking over your face, then down to your fingers curled lightly against the water’s surface. The charm at your chest pulses faintly, soft as a heartbeat.

“I think,” he says, voice gentler now, “if I were going to drown… I’d want it to be like this.”

And for a moment—just one—you forget what you are. What he is.

You forget the crown in your blood, your father’s cold warning, the weight of your song.

There’s only him. Standing in the sea like he belongs there. Looking at you like you do.

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

The water is still between you—warm and golden in the fading light. His eyes hold yours like they’re tethered, soft at the edges, full of something that makes your chest ache.

Then—

He flicks water at you.

You blink, stunned.

A single splash, right to your cheek.

Gojo grins. “You were looking too serious.”

You sputter, flicking water right back—quick and sharp, right between his eyes.

He laughs. Loud, real, head tipping back as droplets catch on his lashes. “Oh, is that how it is?”

You duck half-under the surface, sending a wave his way with a flick of your tail. He gasps, mock-betrayed, and retaliates with both hands—splashes big enough to soak your hair again. The charm at your chest pulses with warmth, steady now, matching the laughter bubbling out of you.

You’re not thinking of your father.

Not of the sea. Not even of what this could cost.

Just this—this moment.

Him. You. The light in his eyes. And the sound of your laughter rising above the waves.

The waves settle.

Laughter fades into the hush of the sea, and slowly, the two of you drift back toward the shore—water clinging to you like a second skin.

You lie on your back just where the sand meets the tide, the cool grains molding to your elbows. Gojo flops down beside you, chest rising and falling as he catches his breath, hair sticking out in damp tufts.

For a while, neither of you speak.

Just the sound of waves. Wind. The far-off cry of a gull.

Above, the sky stretches wide and black, scattered with stars.

And yet you can’t enjoy it. Not fully. Not with your heart tight in your chest.

He turns his head lazily toward you, voice soft. “You're quiet.”

You swallow. “I’m thinking.”

He hums, teasing lightly. “Should I be worried?”

But you don’t laugh. You don't even smile.

And that’s when he sits up a little, his brows drawing together as he watches you more closely.

“What’s wrong?”

You don’t want to ruin this moment. You really don’t. But the words come anyway, soft and shaking at the edges.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

The look on his face flickers—surprise first, then something more unreadable. “You’re serious.”

You nod slowly, arms curled around your tail. “You don’t understand what you’re stepping into. What I am. What this is.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, quiet and still.

You keep your eyes down, watching your fingers press into the wet sand.

“I was supposed to lure you in,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “Draw you under. That’s what we do.”

Your voice trembles, and for the first time in a long time, you feel something unfamiliar tighten in your chest.

“But then you gave me that necklace,” you continue. “And you didn’t take anything in return. You just… smiled at me like I was someone.”

A shaky breath escapes you.

“And now I don’t know how to stop this.”

Gojo’s face softens—but he doesn’t rush in. Doesn’t try to fix it. Just lets you speak.

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” you whisper, finally looking at him. “But I think—”

You stop. Bite your lip.

“I think I’m falling. For you,” you finish, so quietly you’re not sure he even hears it. “And I don’t know what that means for either of us.”

He doesn’t speak right away.

Just watches you.

Then, with that same gentle steadiness, he shifts closer, brushing the wet hair from your face with fingers that tremble just slightly.

“Let me stay. Just for now,” he says quietly. “Just… don’t push me away.”

You blink, breath catching. You hesitate.

And then, slowly, you lean into him. Just enough that your shoulder brushes his. Just enough that you feel his warmth.

The tide laps gently at your fins. Above, the stars keep watching.

And below them, you let yourself fall—just a little more.

You don’t realize how close he’s gotten until the distance between you feels like nothing. Just breath and warmth.

Your fingers twitch where they rest in the sand—close enough to his that the edges brush.

He doesn’t move. So you do.

Slowly, you turn your hand, the tips of your fingers grazing the back of his. And when he still doesn’t flinch, you let them slide higher, curling gently around his wrist.

You reach up with your other hand, brush his hair back from his face, and your fingers linger—just a moment longer than they should.

He exhales, slow. Careful. Like he's scared one wrong move will send you swimming off into the dark.

But you're not running. Not this time.

His hand lifts to your cheek—hesitating, then settling like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His thumb strokes the curve of your jaw, and you tilt into it, letting your eyes flutter shut.

Then his lips are on yours.

Not greedy. Not rushed. Just soft.

Like he wants to memorize the shape of you this way. The taste of salt on your lips. The quiet catch in your breath.

Your amulet pulses low and warm against your collarbone, steady as your heartbeat.

When the kiss deepens, it’s unspoken permission. His hand tangles in your hair, your fingers sliding up his chest, feeling the damp fabric clinging to skin.

It shouldn’t happen.

But it is.

And gods—neither of you wants it to stop.

The kiss deepens—soft to slow, slow to aching. Every brush of his mouth against yours says please don’t send me away yet.

Your fingers trace the line of his jaw, then slide down his throat, feeling the heat under his skin. He exhales shakily when your hand flattens against his chest, just over his racing heart.

His own hands hesitate at first, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to want this much. But when you don’t stop him—when you lean into his touch like it’s the only thing anchoring you—he gives in.

One hand cradles your face, the other drifts down, tracing the edge of your ribs where skin meets the soft iridescence of your scales.

He pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips.

"If I’m leaving, at least let me have this."

You open your eyes. He’s looking at you like he already knows how this ends—and wants this moment anyway.

Your charm pulses once—bright and warm between you.

You nod, barely.

And that’s all he needs.

His hands grow bolder. Slower. Reverent. Like he wants to map every inch of you to memory. His lips trail down your neck, lingering at the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone. Your fingers thread into his damp hair, tugging just slightly, urging him closer.

He groans low against your skin. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

You shake your head, breathless. “Don’t.”

The moonlight catches the water still clinging to your skin, to his. Everything feels soft. Dreamlike.

Your bodies press together—heat against heat, breath catching, mouths seeking. It’s not rushed. It’s intentional.

And when his hand grazes the edge of your hip—where scales shimmer under his palm—and you shift closer with a soft gasp, he kisses you like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to.

Because maybe it is.

Your back arches under him, breath trembling. His mouth finds the center of your throat and lingers there, reverent, like he can feel your pulse answering his own.

Then—

“Wait,” you whisper.

His head lifts instantly. He’s off of you in a heartbeat, but still so close, lips parted, breath warm against your cheek. Hands hovering, eyes searching yours.

He doesn’t ask why. He just waits. Because that’s the kind of man he is.

You sit up slowly, water slipping off your skin, your tail coiled beneath you. You reach out, cup his face gently in both palms and then cover his eyes with one.

He stiffens, just for a second. But he trusts you.

Your amulet glows.

It begins soft—just a pulse, like a heartbeat. Then brighter. Warmer. It blooms across your collarbone, pulsing with something deeper than magic.

When you remove your hand from his eyes, they open slowly, blinking against the moonlight, the shimmer still lingering in the air.

And what he sees leaves him speechless.

Your tail is gone. And in its place there’s a pair of legs.

Smooth and bare.

Skin kissed with salt and moonlight, knees curled delicately beneath you. You’re still you, but softer. Closer. Changed.

For him.

His mouth parts slightly. Not in lust. In awe.

“Gods,” he breathes.

You smile, just barely. “Better?”

He swallows hard. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to,” you say, quiet. “I want you.”

And that’s it. That’s all he can take.

He’s on you again—but slower now. Like he’s been handed something fragile. His hands slide up your thighs, careful, reverent, like he can’t believe you’re real. His mouth meets yours with heat, with hunger—but still gentle. Still asking.

And this time, when you press your chest to his and pull him in with both hands, there’s nothing between you.

Only skin. Only breath. Only wanting.

The glow at your throat flares again—hotter now. Brighter.

It pulses against your chest, steady at first. Then quicker.

Gojo pulls back just enough to look down at it, breathless, the tips of his fingers still ghosting along your skin. The glow matches the rhythm of your breathing—no, your arousal.

He laughs under his breath, something low and amazed, eyes wide as he watches the way your amulet throbs brighter each time his palm smooths over your skin. “It responds to touch,” he murmurs, like he’s just discovered treasure. “To you.”

His hand moves, slow and steady—gliding up from your waist, fingers splaying across your ribs until they rest just beneath your breasts. His touch lingers.

And then, with a careful brush of his fingers, he nudges the coverings away. You shiver—not from cold, but from how he looks at you.

He doesn’t rush. Just grazes his palm over one breast, watching the charm flare in response. His thumb circles over your nipple gently, and your breath catches. Your eyes flutter half-shut, hips shifting just slightly toward him.

“Fascinating,” he murmurs.

You almost want to laugh—except he’s looking at you like he’s in awe, like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and it makes your pulse skip.

His hand drifts down, fingers mapping the line of your hip. Over your thigh. Skin to skin, gliding slow.

And then lower.

He watches you the whole time—eyes dark, steady, waiting for the moment your body reacts. His hand dips between your thighs, and the charm flares, sharp and brilliant and hot.

You gasp—eyes fluttering closed, hips tipping into his hand.

“Gods,” he breathes. “That’s incredible.”

His fingers tease, slow and deliberate, and you feel your thoughts unravel with every stroke. Every touch echoes in your core—and in the gem at your chest, glowing like a heartbeat, wild and bright.

“Is this…” he leans closer, lips brushing your jaw, “...what you want?”

You can barely speak—but you nod, eyes glazed, back arching toward him.

His fingers slip lower, parting you with reverence and care.

And there—there it is.

That first brush over your clit, light and exploratory, has your hips jerking and your lips parting in a soft gasp. The charm at your collar flares like it’s tethered to the aching beat between your legs—responding with each subtle throb, each flutter of sensation.

“Shit,” he whispers, mesmerized.

He strokes again, more deliberately now—just the pads of two fingers sliding through your slick, testing how wet you already are. The gem flashes again, and your head falls back with a breathless whimper. Your thighs twitch beneath his touch, eyes hazy as he watches you squirm. Then—gently, carefully—he sinks a single finger inside.

The charm flares so bright it casts shadows along the shore.

You’re impossibly warm around him—soft, tight, slick with want—and when he curls his finger just right, your body clenches, a pulse deep inside that matches the flickering of the charm exactly.

His breath catches. “You feel—fuck—you feel perfect.”

He moves slowly, drawing that finger out, then easing a second in with practiced patience. The stretch makes you moan, your hand flying to his arm like you need something to hold onto. He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Breathe, angel. You’re doing so good.”

The glow brightens with every pump of his fingers, every soft squelch of wet heat. The deeper he strokes, the harder your body responds—hips rising into him, breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

And the amulet pulses in perfect rhythm with your cunt.

Throb. Glow. Throb. Glow. Throb.

“Can’t believe this thing’s showing me everything you’re feeling,” he murmurs, lips brushing your jaw, your cheek, the shell of your ear. “You like this? Like my fingers inside you?”

You nod frantically, unable to speak—your body already trembling, on the edge.

And he feels it.

The way your walls start to flutter, how the glow grows unstable—flickering wildly now, close to bursting.

“Let go for me,” he whispers, dragging his thumb up to circle your clit just once—soft and perfect.

And you do.

You fall apart with a cry, back arching, thighs shaking, body clenching around his fingers as the charm explodes in a radiant wave of golden light.

He watches it all—spellbound.

Then leans in to kiss you—slow and deep and full of heat that says we’re not done yet.

He watches your cunt flutter around nothing, charm still flickering weakly at your throat like it’s trying to recover from what just happened. You’re limp beneath him, chest rising and falling, skin shining with salt and moonlight.

“Didn’t know you could sound that sweet,” he breathes, dragging his fingers up your thigh, smearing your slick along your skin like he wants to mark you with it. “Might lose my mind if you do that again.”

You try to say something back—something sharp, something teasing—but all that comes out is a soft, shattered whimper.

He groans.

Low and ragged and wrecked.

His head drops for a second like he’s trying to collect himself—but you feel it. The tension in his body, the restraint snapping thin. He looks at you, eyes blown wide, lips parted.

And then—“Fuck this.”

He shifts back onto his knees, still between your thighs, eyes raking over your glowing body as he tugs at his soaked shirt. The fabric sticks to his skin, but he doesn’t care. Just wrestles it off and tosses it somewhere behind him, hair even messier now, chest rising fast.

You blink up at him—bare-chested now, sea-glossed skin kissed with salt and moonlight. He looks wild like this. Like he could devour you whole.

And still not have enough.

Then comes the belt—fingers fumbling, desperate. He mutters a curse, half-laughs through it, then undoes his pants, shoving them down with just as much frustration. You catch a glimpse of him, long and heavy and twitching with need.

He kicks the rest of it off and lowers himself over you again, your slick thighs pressing to his hips, the heat between you crackling.

And oh, the moan he lets out when your bare chest presses to his.

“That’s better,” he whispers, forehead against yours, hips rocking once more, cock sliding between your folds. “So much better.”

He looks down at the glow between your breasts, at the way your body responds to his bare skin like it’s craving it.

And he grins.

“Think your magic likes me.”

And then he’s back over you—fully bare, hot and heavy against your slick, glowing skin. “Gods,” he murmurs. “You’re unreal.”

You whine as he settles between your thighs, guiding himself to your entrance. His cock is thick, flushed, glistening with precum. The tip nudges at your folds—hot, insistent—and your breath catches in your throat.

“You can take it,” he murmurs, hand sliding up to cup your cheek. “Already so wet for me.”

He starts to push in. Slow. So slow you feel every inch. Every stretch. Your back arches and your mouth parts in a silent gasp. He groans low in his throat, dropping his head to your shoulder as he sinks deeper.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he hisses.

You’re trembling beneath him—clutching at his arms, moaning helplessly as he bottoms out.

And once he’s fully inside, he stills. Not out of mercy. But reverence.

“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to see your face, the glow between your breasts starting to flare again. “All stretched out just for me.”

He rocks into you once. Slow. Deep.

You mewl, legs instinctively trying to wrap around his waist—and the glow pulses brighter.

“Gods—let me see how much you want it, sweetheart.”

He sets a rhythm that’s deep and steady, hips rolling into yours with that perfect pressure that has you melting under him. One hand tangled in your hair, the other on your thigh, pushing it open further so he can fuck you deeper.

And he talks the whole time.

So sweet. So filthy.

“Taking me so good. So perfect inside.” “You were made for this, weren’t you? For me.” “Look at you. So needy, so pretty.”

You’re babbling now—half his name, half nonsense, your hands scrabbling at his back like you need to anchor yourself.

He watches the way your lips part, the way your lashes flutter.

You feel the stretch as he pushes in again—inch by inch, deliberate—like he’s savoring the way you tremble beneath him.

“Shit—too much?” he asks, voice tight, lips brushing yours.

You shake your head, a breathy moan breaking free.

“N-no—don’t stop—fuck, ’Toru!”

He groans, pressing his forehead to yours. His hands grip your hips like he’s anchoring himself there, holding you still as he sinks into the feeling of being completely surrounded by you.

“Feels so fucking good,” he whispers. “You—you feel so good.”

He pulls back just enough to thrust in again—slow, smooth, deep—and your body arches.

The sound you make is soft, helpless.

He does it again. And again.

You’re gasping now, fingernails digging into his back, every roll of his hips sending sparks down your spine.

“Yeah? That what you needed?” he murmurs against your throat. “Want me to fuck you slow like this, baby? Let you feel every inch?”

Your only answer is a broken moan—and he grins.

His rhythm stays steady. Deep. Each thrust has your body trembling, your cunt clenching so tight around him that he shudders.

His groans grow louder. He doesn’t care if his crew wakes up from it. Can’t even think about it now, not with the way you clench around him like that.

“Gods, I’m not gonna last,” he admits, voice hoarse. “Not when you’re like this—tight little thing, crying under me—fuck—”

You try to speak, to beg for more, for faster, for anything, but your brain’s not working anymore. All you can do is cling to him, ride out the wave of pleasure crashing over and over—

And he feels it.

Feels the way you start to shake, the way your breath hitches.

He grabs your hand, laces your fingers with his, and presses your arm into the sand beside your head.

“Come for me,” he whispers, voice soft—almost reverent now. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

His thrusts grow more desperate—less patient, more need—until your body tightens beneath him with a stuttering gasp and you fall apart all over again.

Your orgasm hits hard. A cry breaks from your throat, your body arching as you clench around him—pulsing, shaking, stars exploding behind your eyes.

Gojo groans as you come—low and rough and helpless.

“Holy shit—fuck, that’s it, that’s my girl—”

He thrusts once, twice more before pulling out and shooting his load all over your stomach and chest with a broken sound, his fist tight around his cock, hips twitching.

And then silence. Heavy breathing.

His lips brush your temple.

“Still with me?” he asks, voice hoarse but soft.

You’re barely breathing.

Chest rising in little, uneven gasps, thighs trembling, your hand still tangled in his hair like you forgot how to let go.

Gojo doesn’t move at first.

He just stays there, nose brushing your cheek, lips parted against your skin. You can feel the beat of his heart where his chest rests over yours, still racing.

He presses a kiss to your jaw.

Then another, to the corner of your mouth. His hand slips down to soothe the shake in your thighs, thumb grazing your hip.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice thick. “You okay?”

You nod, blinking dazedly, lips barely able to form the words.

He huffs a soft laugh, curling beside you, arm hooked under your head to ease you into his chest. He’s warm. Still a little damp. Still naked. Still pressing soft kisses wherever he can reach.

You manage a breathless smile, curling closer. His hand trails down your spine, settling low on your back like he needs to keep touching you.

And for a while, that’s all it is.

Touch. Breath. Silence.

Then “I should get you cleaned up,” he murmurs. “You’ve got sand in places sand was never meant to be.”

You laugh—softly, tiredly—and he grins like he just won something.

He shifts, kneeling between your legs, coaxing you to sit up. His hands are gentle, wiping away the mess, brushing the hair from your face, fingers lingering everywhere like he can’t believe you’re real.

And when he wraps you in his discarded shirt, helps you back into the shallows to rinse off, he does it all like you’re something sacred.

Afterwards, he’s dressed again—barely dry, shirt wrinkled and hair a mess, but somehow still glowing in that effortless, infuriating way. He settles next to you, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the stars.

You lie beside him in silence, your body still humming from everything he gave you. Everything you let him give you.

Then he says it, so simply, like it costs him nothing at all: “Stay.”

You turn your head.

His eyes are closed, voice soft. “Just a little longer.”

You don’t answer. You just stay.

You stay as the moon climbs higher, casting silver light across his face. You stay until his breathing evens out, until his eyes can’t stay open any longer and until the smirk fades from his lips, replaced by something softer. Peaceful.

You reach out, brushing your fingers through his hair once—just once.

Then you rise, slow and silent, not daring to look back. The sand is cool beneath your feet as you cross to the water’s edge. Each step feels heavier than the last.

When your toes meet the sea, you pause. Your hand lifts to your chest.

The amulet pulses—soft and bright.

One more step.

The glow flares as your legs shift, flesh transforming back into scaled fin, your body easing into the current like it belongs there.

You look back only once.

He’s still there. Still asleep. Still smiling, just a little.

And then you sink beneath the surface—silent, alone, and glowing like you’re breaking apart from the inside out.

-

The ocean is quiet today.

Too quiet.

No schools of fish flitting past your chambers. No kelp swaying with the currents. Even the water feels heavier somehow, like the weight of what you did has sunk into the sea itself.

You don't sleep that night. Not really.

You drift. You float.

You try not to think about his hands, his mouth, the way your charm glowed for him like it had never glowed before.

But the sea doesn’t forget.

By morning, a summons arrives.

No explanation. Just a stiff nod from the attendant, eyes carefully averted, voice flat:

“Your father wants to see you.”

You already know what for.

Still, you school your face into something composed as you swim through the winding halls, past the guards who can barely meet your gaze. You feel the glimmer of your charm even now—dulled, but not dark. Not completely.

Your father is waiting.

Throned, still, massive. His presence fills the chamber before his voice ever does.

“You broke the law,” he says.

You lift your chin, but say nothing.

He rises—slowly, deliberately—and you feel the pressure of his disappointment before he’s even crossed the floor. “With him. A human. You let him touch you.” His eyes narrow, ancient and sharp. “You let him claim you.”

Your fingers twitch at your sides. Not in denial. Not even in shame. But in memory.

Because you remember the way Gojo held you like you were something to be worshipped, not stolen. Not claimed.

Still, you say nothing. And your silence seals it.

Your father exhales, slow. “Then you leave me no choice.”

His trident slams to the ocean floor with a crack that echoes through your bones.

“There is only one thing left to sever the bond you’ve created.”

Your breath stutters in your throat.

He looks down at you. “You will return to the surface. And you will bring me his heart.”

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

His words hang heavy in the water, thick as blood.

Your heart thunders, but your voice is barely a whisper. “…No.”

He narrows his eyes. “You would defy me?”

“I—please.” The word leaves you before you can stop it. Your hands rise, open in front of you. “You don’t understand. He’s not like the others. He didn’t take anything—he gave.”

“A trinket,” your father snaps. “A distraction.”

You shake your head. “It wasn’t just that.”

Silence follows. Deep. Crushing.

His eyes bore into you like the weight of the entire sea. But still, you try again.

“Let him go,” you whisper. “Please. If I made a mistake, punish me. But don’t—don’t hurt him.”

Your father stares for a long, still moment. And then, he speaks again. Quietly this time.

“If you cannot do it,” he says, “I have men who will.”

“No—” you surge forward, falling to your knees before him. “Please, Father. I’ll stay here. I won’t see him again. I’ll do whatever you ask, but don’t send anyone after him—don’t kill him.”

You’re shaking. You can feel it. The way your voice trembles. The way the charm around your neck flickers in protest.

But your father doesn’t soften.

He looks down at you—not as his daughter, but as something lesser. A traitor. A disappointment.

“You broke the laws that bind our kind. You let a human inside your mind, your body, your power.” He leans forward. “This is not about love. This is about balance. And you have tipped it.”

You go quiet.

Because you know then—he’s already made up his mind.

Gojo Satoru is as good as dead.

Unless you get to him first.

The moment you rise from the floor, ready to run—he moves faster.

A wave of pressure slams down around you. Not painful, but impossible to push through. You twist, try to swim forward, but it holds you in place like invisible chains.

“I know you, daughter,” he says, voice colder now, more ancient. “I know what you’d do.”

Your eyes widen.

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Please—”

“You would betray your kingdom for one man,” he says. “I won’t let you.”

You surge forward, desperate, heart thudding so loud you swear he can hear it through the water. But the force field remains. Sealed. Final. “Father.”

He turns his back to you. His guards step in. “Lock her in the coral chamber,” he commands.

“No!” Your scream is swallowed by the sea. “Please, don’t do this—he’ll think I left—he’ll think I meant to—”

But your father doesn’t look back. Not even once.

And as the guards grab your arms, drag you through the halls, you realize something far worse than being punished: Satoru will never see this coming.

-

The coral chamber is silent but for the soft hum of the magic holding it sealed. It’s not a prison in the traditional sense—but it might as well be. The walls pulse with a faint light, ancient enchantments woven into every inch of the reef.

And then a ripple. You spin, heart in your throat, and see her.

Your sister floats just outside the barrier, arms crossed, gaze sharp. “You look like you’re going to pass out,” she says coolly. “Did you think you could hide it forever?”

You exhale shakily. “He wasn’t supposed to find out.”

“I told you,” she snaps, gliding closer, her face stern. “You were reckless. You fell for a land-strider. You gave him your power. Do you have any idea what that means for us?”

“I didn’t give him anything!” you hiss. “It wasn’t like that.”

Her silence is pointed.

You run a hand through your hair, frustrated, angry, terrified all at once. “He wasn’t like the others. He didn’t want to take. He saw me.”

Her jaw tightens.

“And now he’s going to die for it,” you whisper, voice cracking. You reach the edge of the barrier, fingertips barely brushing the glowing wall. “Please. Please, I need to warn him.”

She doesn’t answer. You see it in her face—the doubt, the war she’s fighting behind her eyes. “Do you love him?” she asks finally.

You hesitate. “…Yes.”

Her features flicker, soften just a little. “You know what our father will do to me if I help you.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” you whisper. “But if you don’t, he’ll never even see it coming. He’ll think I abandoned him.”

Silence stretches long between you. Then she breathes out through her nose. “You always were the reckless one.”

And her hand reaches forward. The barrier parts, just a crack. “Go. Now.”

You grip her wrist before she can pull away completely. “I can’t leave,” you say, voice trembling. “He’ll know. He’ll tighten the wards. But please. Just find him. Tell him I didn’t abandon him. Tell him I tried.”

Your sister hesitates. “…I don’t even know what he looks like.”

You give her the faintest smile. “Tall. White hair. Blue eyes. Stupidly pretty. He waits near the tide line at night.”

Her lips twitch. “Sounds irritating.”

“He is,” you breathe out. “But I—he matters.”

Another pause. And then she nods. “I’ll find him.”

You watch her disappear into the deep. You’re left with nothing but the steady pulse of the chamber’s magic and the wild pounding of your heart.

-

The tide laps gently against the rocks. Gojo sits near the edge, legs drawn up, his arms resting over his knees. The stars scatter across the surface like they’re watching him wait.

He checks the horizon again. Still no sign of you.

It’s the third night in a row.

His easy smile is gone now, replaced with a quiet furrow between his brows. “Starting to think I scared you off,” he mutters, trying to sound light. It falls flat.

Then a shimmer breaks the water. He jerks upright, hopeful.

But it’s not you. A different figure rises—eyes too familiar, but colder. Cautious.

His confusion lasts only a second. “You’re not her.”

“No,” she says. “I’m her sister.” She studies him, as if weighing whether he’s worth the risk she just took. “She didn’t leave because she wanted to,” she says. “Our father found out. He locked her away before she could warn you.”

Gojo goes still. The next beat of his heart is loud enough to drown out the sea.

“She tried,” her sister adds, voice quiet. “She begged.”

For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Just stares out at the water, jaw tight, something in his chest twisting painfully. Then, slowly—he stands.

“…Where is she?” Gojo takes a step toward the tide. “I’m going after her.”

She blinks. “Are you serious?”

His jaw is set. “You just said she’s locked away. I’m not letting her sit there thinking I gave up on her.”

“Okay,” she huffs, flicking a bit of water off her wrist, “and how exactly do you plan to breathe underwater?”

He pauses.

“…Minor setback.”

“Minor—” She cuts herself off, dragging a hand down her face. “Gods, she really would fall for someone like you.”

He flashes a grin. “Thanks.”

“Not a compliment.”

But the smile fades quickly. “I mean it. I have to do something.”

She regards him for a moment. He’s serious. Really serious. No smug teasing, no flirtation—just that unshakable look in his eyes that tells her he’d throw himself into the ocean for you without hesitation.

“She wanted to warn you,” she says more softly now. “She tried. But our father… he knows. And if he catches you near our waters again—he won’t show mercy.”

Gojo’s mouth tightens. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Then be afraid for her.”

That silences him.

Your sister crosses her arms, not cruel—just resigned. “The only way you keep her safe now is by staying away.”

“…So that’s it?” he asks hoarsely. “I just go? Pretend it never happened?”

“No,” she says, gentler now. “You remember it. Every moment of it. So does she.”

A long silence passes.

Then Gojo turns back to the shore. Shoulders stiff. Jaw clenched. He doesn’t look back when he walks away. But the ache he leaves in the sand stays long after the tide rolls in.

-

The ship creaks gently beneath their feet as the sails fill again with wind, the salt-stung breeze tugging at hair and loose shirts. They’ve set course for somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Gojo stands at the helm, one hand gripping the wood so tightly his knuckles pale. The horizon is just blue and endless, but he keeps staring, like he expects something to rise out of it. Like he’s hoping to catch one last glimpse of what he left behind.

Behind him, Shoko lights a cigarette and leans against the rail. “He’s been like that all morning.”

“More like all week,” Nanami mutters.

“Yuuji tried giving him an orange,” Nobara says, arms crossed. “Didn’t work.”

Megumi doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are fixed on Gojo’s back. He sees the way his captain keeps shifting like he’s restless. Like he’s waiting for the sea to give something back.

“Did something happen on shore?” Shoko asks finally.

Yuuji plops down on a crate nearby, chewing absently on a strip of dried mango. “Did mystery girl dump him or something?”

Gojo doesn’t flinch. But his grip tightens. Slightly. Sharply. The tension in his shoulders is sudden and obvious—and enough for Shoko to groan under her breath and flick Yuuji on the back of the head. “Yuuji.”

“Seriously?” Nobara scowls.

“...What?” Yuuji says, rubbing the spot. “I was joking!”

Megumi exhales slowly. “Read the room. Or boat.”

Gojo still hasn’t said anything.

Nobara steps up beside him, quieter now. “You don’t have to tell us what happened.”

Gojo’s voice finally breaks through, low and flat, “I left her behind.”

Silence spreads like fog.

“I didn’t want to,” he adds, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “I had to.”

Shoko crosses her arms. “Is she in danger?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then—barely audible—“I don't know.”

And that’s all he says. No one jokes after that. Not even Yuuji.

-

The silence in your chambers has been so loud lately, it’s almost a relief when the door bursts open. Your sister rushes in, breathless, hair wild from swimming too fast. “They’re moving.”

You blink, still half-curled on the smooth stone floor, tail tucked beneath you like you were trying to disappear into it.

Her voice is breathless. Urgent. “The guards—Father’s men—they’re already close. Too close.”

Your heart stutters. “No,” you whisper, sitting upright fast, tail shifting beneath you, trembling. “He—he promised me time.”

“He never meant it,” she says, voice thin and breaking. “He just wanted you calm. You know how he is.”

The charm at your neck pulses once—weak and frightened. “How close?” Your voice comes out barely audible.

She hesitates. That alone is answer enough. “Close enough that you might not make it in time,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

Your chest feels tight. Like the water around you is thickening, pressing in, suffocating. “I should’ve gone sooner,” you murmur, guilt blooming like ink in your gut. “I should’ve warned him.”

Your sister moves closer. “If you leave now—if you swim hard—maybe…”

You don’t respond. Because maybe isn’t good enough.

You move, slow at first, like your body is still catching up to what your mind already knows—then faster, faster, until you’re flying through the water, heart in your throat, pulse roaring in your ears.

Please, you think, over and over, please let me be wrong. Please let them be safe.

Because if you're not—if they aren’t—then it’s already too late.

-

The ocean is too quiet. Not calm—quiet.

The kind of stillness that makes even seasoned sailors look over their shoulders.

Gojo leans against the railing, forearms braced, eyes fixed on the horizon like he’s trying to find something he can’t name. His hair’s still damp from a morning swim he swore he wasn’t waiting around for. Salt clings to his skin. But his charm’s gone dim.

Behind him, the crew stirs with a strange energy.

Shoko’s brow is furrowed as she peers into the distance through a spyglass. “Feels wrong,” she mutters.

“Like storm weather?” Yuuji asks, quieter now.

“No,” Nanami says, voice low and firm. “Worse.”

Gojo turns finally, eyes narrowed just slightly. “How long until we’re ready to move?”

“Half hour, if the wind holds,” Megumi replies.

Gojo doesn’t nod. Doesn’t speak. Just looks out again—toward nothing—and feels something tightening in his chest.

He doesn’t say it out loud, but they can all tell:

Something’s coming.

The first jolt doesn’t come from above—it comes from below. A violent lurch rocks the ship, enough to knock Megumi sideways and send a bucket skittering across the deck.

“What the hell—?!” Shoko grabs the railing.

“Something hit the hull,” Nanami barks, already moving.

But it’s not just one strike. The second comes harder. Something slams into the underside of the ship with a dull, sickening crack, the kind of force that splinters wood. The whole vessel groans in protest.

“Below deck! Check for breach!” Geto shouts.

Gojo doesn’t move. He knows what this is. Not a storm. Not sea creatures.

This—this is retribution.

Another strike. This time from the side—something sharp tearing into the boards just above the waterline. A wave sloshes over the deck.

“Someone’s attacking us,” Nobara shouts, already drawing her blade.

“No ships in sight,” Shoko says, snapping the spyglass shut. “No sails. Nothing.”

“Because it’s not human,” Gojo says softly.

Everyone goes quiet. The water stills again. Only for a breath.

Then—something breaches. A dark, jagged figure shoots up from the depths, slicing the surface like a living spear before diving back under. Sleek. Fast. Not quite human.

There’s a chorus of shouted commands, boots thundering across wood, hands grabbing ropes and weapons. But Gojo doesn’t shout. He steps to the edge, staring down into the deep.

You promised him time. And he knows now—you never had it.

The first crash nearly knocks the mast loose. It hits low—beneath the waterline. A sickening jolt, wood shattering like ribs, sends barrels tumbling and sailors cursing.

“What the fuck was that?!” Nobara yells, grabbing onto the railing.

“Something’s under us!” Megumi shouts, already disappearing below deck.

Another impact. This one’s higher—near the stern. It scrapes deep, long, like claws carving into the hull.

The crew scrambles, chaos erupting.

“Plug the breach!” Nanami orders, voice like iron even as water pours through the cracks. “We’re taking on fast—!”

Then silence. Not peace. Stillness. It only lasts a second.

And then something launches from the water. It isn’t human. Slippery, scaled, and lean. Gills flaring. Hands like knives. A sea-creature—no, a hunter—lands on the deck.

“Starboard!” Shoko shouts, throwing a harpoon from behind a barrel. It pierces straight through the creature’s side—sends it flailing back over the railing with a screech.

But more are coming. Dozens. Fingers claw the sides of the ship. Webbed hands. Serrated weapons. Shifting forms dart just under the surface, circling like sharks.

Geto kicks a supply crate toward Yuuji. “Arm everyone—now!”

Nobara’s sword is slick with blood already. “I’ll gut every last one of you scaled fuckers!”

Gojo’s still at the edge. Frozen. Not with fear—but with a gut-deep knowing.

This isn’t a random attack. This is a message. From the sea. From the ones who’ve taken you.

Another clawed hand slams onto the railing beside him. He reacts fast—kicks it off, blade out, breath heavy.

Behind him, Nanami grabs rope and starts tying barrels together. “If we have to abandon ship—”

“We’re not abandoning shit,” Gojo snaps, spinning around. “We hold until we can’t.”

But even as he says it—his eyes flick toward the horizon. Still no sign of you. No soft laugh. No glowing charm.

Just the black, roiling sea.

The ship groans—loud, guttural, like it’s begging to stay afloat. They’re everywhere now. Climbing over the sides, pouring up from the sea. Not all of them fully formed—some half-human, half-monstrous, with fins instead of feet, barbed tails slashing through the air. The deck is slick with seawater and blood, bodies scrambling between debris and weapons, screams barely heard over the crash of the waves.

“Get back!” Nobara snarls, kicking a writhing thing off the main mast ladder.

“Too many!” Geto yells. “We won’t hold this!”

“I told you something felt wrong last night!” Shoko ducks under a spear, slices its wielder’s throat clean with a broken bottle. “Where the hell is Gojo?!”

Then they see him. At the far end of the deck. Standing above the chaos, coat soaked and sticking to his skin, hair clinging to his forehead, hands trembling just enough to show he’s running on pure adrenaline. His blade’s buried in one of the creatures—but he doesn’t look back at it. He’s looking at them. “Get to the rafts!” he shouts. “Now!”

“No—” Yuuji tries to argue, but Gojo’s already throwing a crate across the deck, knocking one of the attackers away from a half-loosened life raft. “We’re not leaving you!”

“Just go!” he shouts again, this time louder—eyes hard, desperate. “I’ll keep them off you!”

One of the creatures lunges at him from behind. He ducks it. Spins. Stabs. Another comes from the side. He doesn’t flinch—slams his elbow into its gills, kicks it back into the sea.

And when Geto opens his mouth to argue again—he sees it.

Gojo’s not planning on coming with them. Not yet. This happened because of him. He’s not letting anything happen to his crew—his family.

He’s buying them time. A distraction.

“Move!” Nanami grabs Yuuji by the collar, dragging him toward the rope ladders. “He made his choice—don’t waste it!”

The crew rushes to untie the rafts, each member fending off attacks as they scramble toward escape. The ship lurches again—one final groan from the keel, deep and ugly.

And through it all, Gojo fights. Face bloodied, body bruised from the impact of too many claws and spears. But he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look away. He stays. Waiting. Hoping.

Because maybe you’ll come. Maybe you know.

-

The water is far too calm.

Too still for what should’ve been here—shouts, battle cries, fire and fury. All that’s left is quiet. A quiet so deep it feels wrong, like the ocean itself is holding its breath.

You break the surface, expecting chaos. Expecting the fight. But there’s only ruin.

Pieces of the ship drift past you—shards of splintered wood, torn cloth fluttering uselessly. A piece of railing, a shattered crate. The scent of smoke still clings faintly in the air.

You swim further in. Your eyes are wide, darting. Searching. Where is he?

You don’t realize you're whispering his name until your voice cracks.

The deeper you go, the worse it gets. A mast, snapped clean in two. Ropes hanging uselessly. No figures. No sound. Just wreckage.

And blood—thin, diluted trails fading into the tide.

You pass the remains of a lifeboat. Empty.

Your stomach turns. Your hands tremble, barely keeping you above water now.

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Just a hollow breath. The glow of your charm dims at your chest—flickering, like it, too, has begun to mourn. You turn slowly in the water.

And then you see it. A large, flat piece of the ship’s hull—still afloat, barely. And on it, unmoving, soaked through, arm dangling off the side—Gojo.

Your breath catches violently in your throat. You freeze. For a second, you don't move. Your body forgets how. Your mind goes blank. Then you’re flying through the water, limbs cutting through it as fast as you can move. You reach him and he’s still there. Still whole. Still—

“Satoru,” you whisper, pulling yourself up onto the debris, crawling to him on shaking arms. “Satoru—”

His skin is cold. Salt-stung. Pale.

You don’t know when you started shaking. Not from the cold, not from the sea.

From what rests in your arms.

You cradle him as best you can atop the broken hull, dragging his weight against you as your tail propels you toward shore. The waves are gentle now—cruelly so, as if mocking what the sea just took.

His head slumps against your shoulder. His skin is ice. No breath. No movement.

And still you keep going. You drag him onto the sand, gasping, coughing. The glow at your chest is frantic now—wild, erratic, pulsing like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to you anymore.

You drag him onto the sand, gasping, coughing. The glow at your chest is frantic now—wild, erratic, pulsing like a heartbeat that doesn't belong to you anymore.

You barely feel the shift until it’s already happening—muscle pulling, fins splitting apart, the weight of your tail giving way to something softer. The cool press of sand meets your knees. Your calves. Your feet. Legs.

Breath shudders out of you. You clutch at the charm, still burning warm against your palm, as if it’s trying to hold you together. But all you can see is him—still too still, too pale, the sea in his lungs and salt on his skin.

“Please,” you whisper, your voice hoarse, your hands pressed against his chest. “Please—” You don’t know who you’re begging. Him. The ocean. The gods. Anyone.

You press your forehead to his, still dripping, still trembling. Saltwater pools around his body. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t breathe.

He’s gone. You know it.

But you refuse.

“No,” you breathe, louder this time, almost choking on it. “No—I didn’t come this far for you to leave me. You can’t—,” your voice breaks. Your chest heaves.

You sit there for what feels like forever—holding him, cradling his lifeless face, brushing damp white strands from his eyes.

“You said you'd always find me,” you whisper. “Even if I was hiding beneath the sea.”

Silence answers.

And still you stay there, beside him, your charm glowing so desperately it hurts.

Until the sea turns quiet again. Until your tears dry with the wind. Until you're left with nothing but the weight of him—and the crushing ache of everything you didn’t get to say.

You’re not sure how long you’ve sat there.

Long enough for the stars to shift overhead. Long enough for the tide to creep higher around your legs. Long enough to feel the weight of him turning cold in your arms. And still, you can’t let go.

Your fingers slip to your charm. It’s still glowing faintly—soft white, barely flickering, as if mourning with you. You don’t know what you’re doing until it’s already in your palm, the knotted cord pooling there. Your voice is barely a whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m so—so sorry.”

He’s heavy in your arms. Too still. His lips are blue. His skin is cold. You don’t realize you’re crying again until your tears hit his cheek.

Then you slip it around his neck, letting the charm settle over his chest, right where his heart should be beating.

The glow flickers. Soft. Faint. Then—bright.

But it’s not white. It’s blue. The deep, clear cerulean of his eyes. The kind of blue that once made you hesitate mid-sentence. The kind that lit up when he laughed. The kind that stared at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And then his body jerks. He spasms, and your hands fly to his shoulders just as he twists onto his side, choking, convulsing. He gasps—wet and raw. Saltwater floods from his mouth, spilling over his lips. He coughs hard, body wracked with it, and you hold him through every shudder. “Breathe,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “Please. Just breathe.”

Another violent cough. His fingers dig into the sand, weak and scrambling. His chest heaves. And finally—finally—he sucks in a breath. A real one. It’s ragged. Fragile. But it’s there.

His eyelids flutter open slowly. His gaze is unfocused at first—glassy, dazed. But then those eyes shift. Land on you. “…You,” he croaks, hoarse. Barely a whisper.

Your heart cracks open. You lean over him, one hand cradling his cheek, the other smoothing wet hair back from his face. “I thought I lost you,” you whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just stares up at you like he doesn’t quite believe it either. Like he’s still half between this world and the next.

“I’m here,” you say, softly. “I’m right here.”

And finally, his eyes flutter closed again—not unconscious, just overwhelmed. He lets out a weak breath and presses his forehead against your palm. And you sit there, holding him, while the waves keep rising.

You feel warmth slowly return to him—the cold fading from his skin, replaced by the heat of life. Of him. He’s curled against you on the sand, breathing shallow but steady, as the ocean hums quietly at your back. Neither of you speak for a long while.

Then, his fingers twitch—reach for yours. And when you lace them together, he holds on like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. “…You saved me,” he says, voice rough.

You don’t look at him. “You shouldn’t have been there.”

“I couldn’t stay away.” Your throat tightens. He squeezes your hand, and when you finally meet his gaze, it steals the air right from your lungs. He’s looking at you like you’re a miracle. Like he’s afraid to blink and lose you again.

“I thought you were gone,” you whisper. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Same,” he breathes, giving you a half smile—soft, tired. “But apparently I’m too pretty to die.”

You let out a shaky laugh. Then a tear slips down your cheek, and he catches it with his thumb. “No more running,” he says. “No more hiding.”

Your voice trembles. “They’ll come after you.”

“Then let them.” His tone is quiet but sure. “Let them come. I’m not leaving you.”

You barely have time to breathe before his hand is on your jaw, tilting your face toward his. He doesn’t kiss you gently. He crashes into you, his hand cupping your jaw, pulling you in as his lips claim yours with raw, aching need. There’s no hesitation, no fear. Just everything he’s wanted to say and never had the words for.

You melt into him, fingers knotting in the fabric of his shirt—still soaked, still clinging to him like your touch does now. The taste of salt lingers between your mouths, your breaths shared and stolen, again and again. He groans softly into your lips as you shift over him, your body fitting against his like you were always meant to. His hands—calloused and warm—trail down your back, over the ridges of your spine, holding you closer, closer.

When you pull back to breathe, you hover there, foreheads pressed together, your lips barely apart. “I missed you,” he whispers. “More than I can explain.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “I never stopped thinking of you.”

Another kiss. Slower this time. Full of promise and pain and everything you’ve both fought so hard to bury. His tongue slides against yours—gentle, then greedy. And you let him have you, let him take all of it.

Because he came back. Because you saved him.

Because against every odd and warning, he’s still yours.

And you’re not letting go.

author's note. after almost A MONTH we're back gang. the PAIN i went thru before posting this- FUCK TUMBLR'S BLOCK LIMIT i had to delete an entire scene (but dw the full version will be on my ao3 soon)

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

[cryoculus]

— RETROGRADE ⟢

you’re a fugitive with forbidden magic in your blood, hunted by the masked killer known as the flame reaver. but when a chase ends with a fall that leaves his memory shattered, you’re left to deal with what’s left behind—a clueless man with the bluest eyes you've ever seen.

★ featuring; phainon x f!reader

★ word count; 17k words

★ tags; alternate universe, bounty hunter phainon, enemies to lovers, amnesia, slow burn, survivor's guilt, angst, eventual smut, blood and violence

★ notes; for the first time ever: user kaientai cryoculus posts a fic on tumblr the same day they dropped it on ao3 <3 NO THANKS to the 3.4 trailblaze quest. we don't talk about her. this fic probably isn't any better angst wise but we do what we gotta do to cope with whatever shit shaoji puts us through, yes?

READ ON AO3

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

There’s a fire in the hearth, burning low and smoky—more ember than flame with each quiet crackle. Inside the tavern, the air hangs thick with the scent of stale drinks, pine soot, and damp wool. Somewhere near the door, a dog lies curled against its master’s boot, half-asleep and steaming faintly from the snowmelt clinging to its fur.

The village is nameless to most, forgotten by the empire’s maps, remembered only by the ones who stay behind. Farmers. Blacksmiths. Widows. Hunters with crooked teeth and mouths full of tales. In a place like this, stories have more weight than anything else. They settle in your bones and linger in the corners of the room like smoke that will not lift.

“I heard he leaves no ashes behind,” an old man near the hearth says, his voice like something clawed from the bottom of a chimney. “Nothing but shadow scorched into the ground, like even the fire doesn’t want to remember what it touched.”

“And I heard,” adds the woman beside him, cradling a mug between hands reddened by years of cold, “that he once burned through a storm somewhere in Thalara. The wind howled, the rain fell in sheets, and still the roof caught his flames anyway. An entire manor, gone before the lightning did the sky in.”

You lift your cup to your lips, slow and unhurried as you nod along. A few seats away, a boy too young to drink but too proud to admit it leans forward with his elbows on the splintered table.

“Do you all think it’s true? That he doesn’t speak, only kills,” the boy says, as though the thought thrills him. “Like a wolf who just can’t sate its own bloodlust?”

“A wolf?”

You haven’t spoken since you sat down in your creaky little barstool, but the scoff leaves your lips before you mean it to—equal parts dry and amused. Eyes flick toward your form, but no one looks too closely. After all, you’ve always played your part well. The traveler, the wanderer, the woman who’s stopped in from the road.

You tip your head slightly, fingers idly tracing the rim of your cup. “Wolves don’t burn their prey.”

The boy frowns. His cheeks flush, but it’s the kind of irritation that passes quickly—youth making him pliable. “Alright, so what is he, then? A ghost?”

“Worse,” says the old man again, voice rasping through the low thrum of the fire. “Ghosts don’t chase you past the veil. This one does.”

The woman nods. “You can at least banish a ghost if you know its name. But no one’s ever gotten his. Not the real one, at least.”

You lower your gaze to your drink, letting the steam curl against your face. 

The conversation drifts, as it always does. Talk of the weather. Of soldiers moving through the southern pass. Of beasts in the highwoods, and girls gone missing near the old mines. But the name lingers in the smoke above their heads like something taboo:

The Flame Reaver.

You’ve heard it whispered in places colder than this. In border towns and outlaw dens, in forest clearings where old women still leave sprigs of sage on their doorsteps come nightfall. You’ve heard it enough times to know when to lower your eyes, when to tuck your hands out of sight, when to vanish before the smell of ash returns.

But tonight, in this nowhere town with its poor ale and quieter mouths, you stay a little longer.

Just to see if the stories have changed.

The snow falls softly by the time you leave the tavern. Flakes catch in your cloak, melting in your hair before the cold can find your skin. No one stops you. No one calls your name. To them, you were just another woman walking into the woods with her hood pulled low, and not much to fear.

Snow is a rare thing in Ashkarra.

This is a land born from fire—a continent carved from the mouth of an ancient caldera, its mountains black with cooled lava, its rivers warm even in winter. Most villages know only ashfall, soot storms, and the red heat that sleeps just beneath their soil. Cold is unwelcome here. The empire has long cultivated warmth as both weapon and law.

But here, in the highwoods near the province’s forgotten edge, something in the land resists. The altitude, perhaps, or the stubbornness of old trees that refuse to die. Whatever the reason, snow sometimes falls here—quiet and thin, like it never meant to exist in such a place at all. 

You take the old trails, not the well-known roads or the paths still marked with hunter’s flags. Your steps curve where the trees grow closer together, and the light doesn’t quite reach. Where memory clings thick beneath the bark and stone. The woods here breathe differently; older than conquest, older than the empire itself. You walk for what feels like hours before you find the hollow you’ve been searching for. 

Here, at last, you let yourself breathe.

Your campsite is nothing more than a fold in the earth—sheltered between the roots of a gnarled tree and the lip of an old stone ledge, where wind seldom reaches and moonlight scatters like dust. There is no fire to betray you, no canvas to catch a wandering scout’s eye. Only your cloak, thick and travel-worn, and the quiet comfort of distance.

You kneel in the snow and lay your palms flat against the ground, where the soil is cold, but not dead. Beneath the frost, something stirs—slow, ancient, drowsing deep in the roots and marrow of the land. You close your eyes and reach gently, not to take, but to ask.

Without hesitation, the earth listens.

Magic rises from the soil with a patient breath. Faint warmth seeps into your fingers as the Thread stirs—verdant and veined with gold like secrets passed from leaf to leaf. It winds between your knuckles like something alive, something that remembers you, and you guide it outward with unyielding grace.

It takes shape in mere seconds: the curve of your back, the dip of the hollow, the uneven scatter of pine needles across the snow. You weave light into shadow and presence into absence, until the world no longer sees you the way it should.

You aren’t invisible. That isn’t what the Thread does. It simply bends the gaze elsewhere, toward things that make more sense—a boulder, a trick of dusk, a patch of overgrown moss. Something forgettable. Someone unremarkable.

If a traveler passed within a hand’s breadth of where you lie now, they would pause only for a moment and keep walking. Not out of ignorance, but because their mind would simply choose not to look too closely. You’ve done this before. The spell hums in your chest like a heartbeat; long enough to know the cost of living as you are. 

But it still works, and that is enough.

You don’t remember the moment sleep takes you—only the weightless drift into stillness, the way the snow seemed to muffle even your thoughts, pressing them down beneath layers of earth and illusion. For a while, there is nothing but the gentle hush of snowfall piling in soft patterns overhead, and the distant ache of names you no longer speak aloud curling like smoke beneath your ribs.

They called you Princess in another life, back when Virelya still bloomed with wild apricot trees and pale glass towers. Before the empire came with fire braided into its banners and justice carved into the edge of their swords. Before the walls you were meant to inherit were swallowed whole by the very flames meant to cleanse you.

Your name had meant something then—heir to a kingdom built on rain and roots, daughter of spring, beloved of the bloom.

Now it lives only in rumors and half-remembered syllables clinging to the edges of worn parchment and bloodstained wanted boards. No longer a title, no longer a promise, but merely a mark. A bounty.

Sleep had been a mercy. It arrives only when you are too exhausted to fear what follows. But the waking is slower—less a return, and more a recognition that something in the air has changed. At first, it's barely noticeable. A tremble beneath your spellwork, a subtle pressure folding in on itself. The trees no longer sway. The wind has gone still. Even the snow, once gently falling, seems suspended in the branches above.

Yet, you feel it.

A presence.

It feels like the faintest unraveling at the edge of your magic’s weave, as though the forest has shifted to make space for something it does not trust. Your wards still hold, but they shiver faintly in your bones, drawn as taut as thread stretched too fine across a needle.

The scent reaches you next.

Not smoke, but something close. Something scorched and bitter, the aftertaste of iron and char. You’ve smelled it before—on the edges of blackened fields, where nothing grew back. When you open your eyes, there’s nothing in the clearing. No footprints. No broken twigs. No silhouette standing above you, cloaked in shadow or flame. The illusion still breathes quietly against your skin, but something has changed.

The Thread itself is well aware. It trembles as if some opposing force presses down on it, dulling its edge, unraveling its quiet trust in the shape of the world around you. You know better than to rise too quickly and disturb the silence. You’ve learned that the Reaver does not always announce himself. He moves like smoke, like something that should not be able to bleed, and yet somehow still leaves the world red behind him.

Weeks ago, in the marshlands north of Caerwyth Pass, you thought you’d lost him. Though barely, your illusions held fast, and when the glade was lit ablaze in deep black flames, you didn’t stop to see the ruin he left in his wake. Now, here in this snow-laden highwood, there is no fire—only heat simmering beneath the frost. 

And the unmistakable knowledge that you are not alone.

You keep your eyes open. Beneath your skin, the Thread coils tighter, each strand vibrating like a plucked string as it shifts and recalibrates, feeling the way the forest breathes around you and where it now refuses to breathe at all, until—

There.

You sense a break in the flow, subtle but distinct. There is no movement or sound, only absence. Your magic can no longer see through a patch of air just twenty paces north, where the trees are thick enough to hide things that do not belong. The Thread doesn’t tell you what waits there, but that alone tells you enough.

He doesn’t know you’re awake. He doesn’t know you’ve seen him.

So, you ease a hand toward the soil, fingertips brushing away the frost. Carefully, you slip the Thread deeper into the roots beneath you, sensing where the ground dips just out of sight, and the exact spots where the underbrush thickens. You feel the deer path just west of your hollow, the slope of ice-glazed stone that might catch a careless step. You stitch the memory of it all into a single thought:

Go.

Your limbs protest the movement—still stiff from stillness, heart already surging in your throat—but your body obeys before fear can win. You slip from your resting place like water through reeds, a whisper of movement beneath the cloak of magic before you run.

At first, there's no sound but your own breath and the crisp hush of snow and soil crushed beneath careful feet. But it doesn't take long before the forest erupts behind you.

A blast of heat tears through the clearing you left behind, searing through snow and spellwork alike. Branches snap from the force; bark splits open with the shock of sudden flame, but you know better than to meet death with your eyes wide open. The Flame Reaver doesn’t falter. He moves like he was forged in a god’s dying breath—his fire sharp as a blade, his blades as swift as lightning. He isn’t bound by the same terrain. He cuts through trees instead of turning from them. Roots that might trip any normal man simply burn to cinders underfoot.

But the forest is still yours.

Even this far from home, even half-starved and weary, even with your spells fraying under the pressure—the forest remembers you, and it answers.

You conjure up vines that shift subtly beneath the snow, giving way where you step as the branches overhead bend just enough to clear your path. The undergrowth ripples behind you, not quite forming a wall, but close enough to put some distance between you. However, it's incinerated in seconds as another surge of fire roars too close to your left. The heat sears past your cheek, glancing off a tree that erupts into flames behind you.

He isn’t aiming to kill you yet. He’s herding you. Toward what, you don’t know, but it’s enough to make your pace falter just for a moment.

And that moment is all he needs.

A blade whistles past, embedding itself in the trunk just ahead—a warning, or a miss by design. You lurch sideways as you veer sharply down a slope, barely catching yourself as snow gives way to slick stone and tangled ferns. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t taunt. Doesn’t even speak. You almost wish he would because at least then you’d know where he was.

But the Reaver was never trained to hunt like a man. He was made to hunt like a weapon, and tonight, his Ember Ledger waits to claim its final name.

Yours.

The slope steepens beneath your feet, slick with ice and shadow. You push harder as the air tears sharp in your throat, your cloak snapping behind you like the ragged tail of something being hunted. For a breathless moment, you think you might outpace him after all. Not because you’re faster, but because the forest keeps changing, twisting, and folding to meet your will as if some deep root still remembers the old pact made long before the empire took your name.

But then, the rhythm breaks.

A stone gives way beneath your boot. You stumble just enough to throw off your trajectory—and in that heartbeat of imbalance, the forest opens ahead into a ledge. The cliff appears too quickly, too suddenly. You almost go over, but your reflexes scream as you twist mid-stride, catching yourself on a jagged outcropping. Your fingers tear through frostbitten moss as your momentum drags you dangerously close to the edge. But you manage to stop before falling over the edge.

He doesn’t.

The Reaver bursts through the trees behind you like a shadow torn loose from the heart of a blaze. Too fast to slow, too relentless to care. He lunges for you with the certainty of someone who has never missed a mark in his life.

But the ground betrays him.

The stone crumbles underfoot with a thunderous crack, and he goes down in a flurry of motion—his dark cloak whipping behind him like a veil of shadows. He hits the slope hard, skidding across the uneven terrain and before disappearing over the cliff's edge without the slightest whisper of sound.

Silence wraps around you like snowfall on bare skin, thick and soundless and strange. The breath in your lungs stills. Even your heartbeat feels distant, like it belongs to someone else entirely. You remain crouched at the edge, one hand buried in frost, eyes scanning the ravine below without knowing what you’re looking for. The wind hisses through the pines like a warning, but all you hear is the memory of that final impact. 

No fire rises from the trees. No heat stirs the snow. There is no warning flicker of movement, no sharp scent of scorched air. 

Eventually, you rise.

Not because it’s safe or clever, but because something beneath your ribs—too human, too unkillable—drags your feet forward until you find yourself crouched again, this time at the very edge of the cliff, staring down into the hollow he’s carved with his fall.

And then, you see him.

Sprawled among the rocks like a statue cracked from its pedestal, limbs splayed at unnatural angles, his body half-sunken into snow and stone. One arm is curled beneath him awkwardly, the other stretched toward a blade he didn’t get the chance to draw. His cloak is torn and tangled beneath him. That infamously obsidian mask sits shattered across the slope in two jagged pieces, as though the forest itself decided he no longer had the right to hide.

Your breath hitches when you see his face.

Because you’ve never thought of what the Reaver would look like behind the mask. You don’t know what you expected.

But it’s certainly not that.

Not the blood matting white hair to his temple. Not the pale lashes brushing cheekbone. Not the faint, perpetual frown still creased between his brows, etched so deeply it seems less an expression than a wound that never healed. You take it in slowly, unsure where recognition begins and dread ends. For all the fire and fury he’s carried, he looks…

Young.

Too young for what he’s done. Too human for what he’s become.

Not a wolf, not a myth forged in fire; just a man—broken, unconscious, bleeding into stone.

You curse under your breath.

You should leave. You want to leave. There is no logic in staying, no wisdom in kindness, no reason to waste your magic on the very blade pressed to your throat for the better part of a year. And yet, there’s a heaviness rising in your chest, an irritation so familiar it almost feels like grief. You know this version of yourself. The one who still flinches at the sight of blood. The one who still bends, even after everything.

By the time you realize you're moving, your feet have already committed the crime.

The climb is slow. Steep and slippery in the worst ways. You pull the Thread into your hands just enough to light the way, but not enough to make yourself obvious—not enough to tempt the sleeping gods of your regret. The rocks bite at your knees. Twigs claw at your wrists. Every snag of your cloak feels like the forest trying to hold you back.

But still, you descend.

When you reach him, he hasn’t moved. The angle of his limbs hasn’t shifted. His breathing, faint as it is, has not faltered. He lies as he fell—half-shrouded in dirt and snow, as if the mountain meant to swallow him whole and changed its mind at the last second. You crouch beside him, and press your fingers to his throat. 

The pulse you find is strong and insistent. Not the heartbeat of someone ready to die.

You exhale through your nose, and then, without looking at his face again, you call forth the Thread—letting it gather in the cradle of your palms, warm and luminous and reluctant. It does not like him. It knows what he’s done, and what he’ll do again, but it obeys you like it always has.

You press it into the worst of the wounds, watching as the green, gold-veined light slips beneath skin and cloth like moss returning to a ruined temple. You don’t bother with tenderness. You’re too angry for that. Too annoyed. Too tired.

This isn’t compassion or mercy. This is obligation—old and unwilling and so bitter it tastes like iron in your mouth. The Thread works quickly, but you don’t watch. Instead, you glance toward the slope above, where your escape still waits. The snow has already begun to fall again, delicate and silent like a blessing you do not deserve.

Still, you linger long enough to be furious with yourself.

Long enough to wonder what you’ll do if he wakes.

But not even five minutes into this understated reverie, you feel the Reaver’s breath catch. Your gaze flickers back, instinct tightening every muscle in your body, but it’s already too late.

He jolts upright with a guttural gasp, like a man dragged too fast from drowning sleep. His body curls inward, instinctively bracing against pain, and then his arm flails out to catch the ground with enough force to spray loose gravel. You pull back instantly, the Thread already coiling again at your fingertips, but he doesn’t move to reach for a weapon. Doesn’t move at all, really, save to clutch at his ribs with a quiet, strangled groan.

You freeze. So does he.

Your eyes meet, and it takes a moment for the full weight of it to settle. Because you’re looking for fire. You’re bracing for that unholy heat, that unerring judgment, the blade that should’ve already been at your throat. But instead, you find… something else.

His expression shifts. Blank at first, then unfocused, as if the world around him hasn't quite settled into place. Confusion follows shortly as it softens the hard lines of his face. Worse than that, it’s open—the look of someone who hasn’t remembered how to lie. His brow furrows faintly before his gaze drops—to your hands, to the Thread still glowing dimly between your palms, to the snow-draped trees beyond. He squints at the light like it stings.

“...Where am I?”

He tries to shift again, but fails with a wince. His hand rises to his temple, fingers coming away red. He stares at the blood for a long moment before lowering it, and when he speaks again, it’s not the voice of a killer.

“Did you…” He pauses, swallows. “Did you bring me here?”

You say nothing, even as your magic pulses uncertainly at your fingertips.

His gaze flickers to the slope where his mask lies in two jagged pieces, black as coal against the snow. To the blade still sheathed beside him. And then, hesitantly, back to you.

“I don’t—” He swallows hard. “I don’t remember...”

A lie. It has to be. Perhaps he’s learned that if he means to kill you, it’ll take more than brute force.

But even the Thread doesn’t recoil.

The look on his face—confused, wary, flickering faintly with fear—is not one you've ever seen on the Flame Reaver. There is no glint of recognition in his eyes. No sign he remembers the dozens of times he’s hunted you. No trace of the weapon the empire carved him into.

Only the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, wide and unguarded in a face that, until now, had only ever belonged to your nightmares.

And somehow, that unsettles you more than any blade ever could.

You don’t stay long after the healing takes. Just enough to ensure he won’t bleed out on the rocks—then you drag him into a tucked-away thicket at the edge of the forest’s spine. There’s a hollow there, sheltered from the worst of the wind, thick with bramble and moss-covered stone.

By the time you’ve bound his wrists, he’s already stirring again, limbs heavy and useless but expression shifting between groggy and bewildered.

“Don’t try anything,” you mutter, adjusting the knots.

He blinks at you slowly, as though he’s just now processing the cold. His lashes are pale, and the streak of blood above his brow is drying unevenly. “Anything like what?”

You ignore him.

“You’re tying me up,” he adds after a moment. “Did I try to hurt you?”

You glance up sharply, but his gaze is too earnest. Too baffled.

Gods, he really does look like a kicked dog.

“Not yet,” you say, voice dry. “But I’d rather not give you the chance.”

He frowns. “You saved me.”

“I’m regretting it.”

He’s quiet after that, head tilted like he’s trying to solve a riddle that keeps changing its shape. The bindings around his wrists shift faintly as he tests their give, but not seriously. Not like someone trying to escape. More like someone poking at a bruise to see if it still hurts.

Then, softly, “You used… something on me. Back there.”

You glance at him from where you crouch, gathering a handful of dry moss and tucking it beneath the kindling you’ve managed to scrape together. You don’t answer.

He doesn’t seem deterred.

“It wasn’t light,” he muses. “Didn’t feel like it, anyway. Too warm. Too—” He trails off, searching for the word. “Alive.”

You pause, then shove the flint against the steel with a little more force than necessary. Sparks jump, catching on the moss.

“I’m not going to thank you, if that’s what you want,” he says after a beat, and it’s not unkind. Just honest. “I don’t even know what you did.”

You don’t look up. “Good. I don’t want your thanks.”

He shifts again, scooting very slightly closer to the fire with a grimace. His arms stay bound, resting in his lap.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

“I do. Just not to you.”

“Is that a rule?”

“It is now.”

That earns a soft huff that almost sounds like a laugh, making you risk a glance in his direction. He’s not smiling, but there’s the ghost of something like it—bemusement, maybe. Or curiosity. It should irritate you more than it does, but the blue of his eyes does its job in disarming you in more ways than one.

He tilts his head again. “Did I deserve it?”

You frown. “Deserve what?”

“The fall.”

You study him for a long moment, then say, “You deserved worse.”

He nods slowly, almost in acceptance. “Did we know each other?”

“No.”

Another pause.

“…Did I try to kill you?”

You level him with a look. “That’s three questions too many.”

He lifts his bound hands a little. “Hard to shut up when my wrists are tied and have a head full of nothing.”

“Try harder.”

He settles back, exhaling a slow breath, steam curling from his lips. For a while, there’s only the quiet crackle of the fire as the wind rustles faintly through the bramble above. You sit back on your heels, fingers hovering over the Thread curled warm and sullen in your palms, still humming low from earlier. 

He’s silent for a moment longer, blinking slow at the firelight like it holds answers. Then, without looking at you—

“…Do you know my name?”

You don’t respond right away. You press your palms into your knees instead, feeling the dull throb of magic still warming beneath your skin. He casts you a sidelong glance. Not exactly pleading—he doesn’t seem like the type to beg—but there’s a question in his gaze all the same. One that doesn’t ask who am I? But who was I to you?

“If you don’t stop asking questions, I’ll knock you out again and figure out how to sew your mouth shut with bramble.”

That earns another breathy little huff, and for some reason, that shakes you worse than any weapon might have. Because you’ve seen what he is. You’ve run from what he is. The Flame Reaver doesn’t laugh or smile or blink at a stranger like he’s trying to memorize the way she breathes.

Still, you wrap your arms around your knees, resting your chin in between.

“Phainon.”

His head tilts. “What?”

You don’t meet his eyes. “Your name. That’s what I’m calling you.”

He’s quiet for only a moment.

“Phainon,” he repeats slowly, as if tasting it. He turns it over in his mouth like it might spark some memory, but none comes. Instead, he just murmurs, “That’s… strange.”

“Then it suits you.”

Another pause. “Does it mean something?”

You shrug, poking the fire with a stick just to keep your hands busy. “A lot of things.”

You don’t tell him it was the name of the morning star in an old Virelyan dialect. That it once belonged to a celestial wanderer, cast down from heaven and bound to walk the world in flames. You don’t tell him it came to your mind the moment you saw his eyes in the dark.

Instead, you say flatly, “Go to sleep.”

To your surprise, he doesn’t argue. He only lowers his bound hands to his lap again and leans back against the mossy rock with a quiet breath. His lashes dip shut as the wind picks up a little, brushing snow from the branches above. Still, you sit up long after his breathing settles, just to make sure he stays asleep. Just to be sure he doesn’t wake up and remember what he was.

Because you don’t know which would be worse:

The Flame Reaver coming back to kill you—

Or Phainon looking at you with those deep blue eyes again.

Serrek’s Reach isn’t the kind of place meant for fugitives. The hills here roll soft and slow beneath the sun, covered in terraces of sage and myrtle that sway like waves in the wind. The air smells sharp with seasalt carried in from the coast not far beyond the southern cliffs.

But for now, it’s safe enough.

Locals call the village you’ve stopped in Crosspine, after the gnarled old tree standing at its center, where four roads meet. It’s a place for traders passing through the Reach, too small for maps and too stubborn to vanish entirely. A cluster of whitewashed stone houses huddled beneath clay rooftops, ringed by gardens and low walls, its streets twisting through shaded groves and shallow streams.

Here, news moves faster than travelers do.

Which makes it exactly the kind of place you shouldn’t linger in.

Yet here you are, halfway through the market at Crosspine’s southern square, weaving through stalls of fruit and leather, with Phainon still trailing after you like a tether that refuses to snap.

He’s too tall to blend in properly, too broad-shouldered, too pale in a way that draws the eye no matter how many layers you’ve shoved him into. The hood you forced him to wear casts enough shadow to hide the worst of it, but not quite enough. You can still feel him lingering two steps behind, watching your every move with that same stubborn focus that has followed you since the highwoods.

You try to ignore it.

You pretend not to notice the stares, the way people glance between the two of you, murmuring under their breath like they’re already halfway through writing the story themselves. Lovers, surely. Or bodyguard and mistress. Or something worse.

It’s when you stop to buy bread that it happens.

“Ah,” the vendor says, eyes flicking over your shoulder toward the looming shadow behind you, voice thick with amusement. “You’re lucky to have a man so devoted, miss. Won’t take his eyes off you, not even for a second.”

You freeze.

Phainon, to his credit—or perhaps his complete lack of self-awareness—just tilts his head faintly, like he isn’t quite sure what’s been said. He’s still watching you, calm and patient, as if this entire exchange is nothing more than a passing breeze.

You let out a sharp, awkward laugh and slam down a few extra coins with more force than necessary.

“For the bread,” you mutter. “And your silence.”

The vendor grins but wisely says no more.

You snatch the bread and turn on your heel, stalking off with Phainon following dutifully in your wake, unbothered as ever.

It’s ridiculous, really.

You never stay in the same place for long. That’s the first rule. After leaving the highwoods and slipping past that nameless village and its gossip-thick walls, you had every intention of continuing alone. Even with the Reaver—Phainon—technically out of commission, you knew others were still circling like vultures. Plenty of coin still dangled from your name. Staying meant risking not just yourself, but worse—being cornered somewhere too small to slip away.

You told him not to come with you, as any other sane person would.

“I saved your life,” you said, the night after you dragged him from the ravine, sitting across the fire and refusing to meet his eyes. “That doesn’t mean you get to follow me.”

But he only stared, quiet for a long moment before tilting his head—same damned puppy-like stubbornness curling into his voice.

“But that just means I owe you,” he replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You nearly laughed. Or screamed. Maybe both.

It wasn’t just foolishness. Keeping the Flame Reaver at your heels was nothing short of suicide. Who knew when those fractured memories would slither back in? Who knew if they’d ever truly left? In fact, this could still be some elaborate act on his part—a trap coiled tight around your neck, just waiting for you to fall asleep.

But that night, after you gave in to exhaustion and drifted toward sleep, the Thread never stirred. No warnings. No danger. No heat curling too close to your skin. Just silence, and the soft, steady sound of his breathing across the fire.

So you’d begrudgingly agreed and muttered the first condition that came to mind.

“Fine,” you’d sighed, half in disbelief. “But we need to get you more… normal clothes.”

Because there was no hiding what he was, not while he still wore the remnants of that blackened uniform—the cloak gone, the blades left behind, but the rest still clinging to him like old smoke.

Now, days later, you’re regretting every single decision that led to this moment, with him shadowing your steps through the market like some overgrown mutt convinced it’s your sworn protector.

And worse, you’re starting to think he actually believes it.

By habit, you begin your usual search for somewhere to stay. Normally, you’d settle in the woods beyond the roads, tucked beneath the roots and thickets where the Verdant Thread curls strongest—where it can shield you, veil you, wrap around your bones like a second skin. The Thread answers you best where it’s greenest. You’ve always known that.

But this close to the sea, there’s little woodland to speak of. The hills are bare in places, draped in low shrubs and dry grasses that don’t sing to you the way the highwoods did. The Thread still answers, but not with the ease it did when you were running, breathless and desperate as you shook the Reaver off.

Though you feel the difference like a weight in your chest, you can’t afford to be choosy. The village has a small inn near the northern gate, half-hidden behind a crumbling stone wall draped in ivy. You barter for a room—barely more than a loft above the kitchen—and take it without ceremony.

Once you’ve secured the door and settled your pack by the hearth, you notice Phainon in the corner, quiet and watchful as ever.

“You don’t have to stand guard,” you mutter, peeling off your outer layers and unspooling the long scarf that hides your face from most passersby.

He doesn’t move. “What exactly is it that you do?”

The question comes so plainly, so without malice, that it nearly catches you off guard.

You glance at him, half-tempted to lie. But there’s no real point—not when he already follows you like a hound, not when he’s already seen the Thread.

“I help people,” you answer simply, turning away as you unlatch the window to let the salt wind in.

He tilts his head. “That’s vague.”

Your jaw tightens. “Exactly.”

You hear the faintest sound from him—almost like a huff of laughter, though he doesn’t press further.

Later, you slip out a few hours before dusk, with Phainon trailing behind despite your warning to stay. You don’t argue with him about it anymore. 

The hospital lies on the edge of Crosspine, beyond the terraces where the hills fall away into rougher ground. It isn’t much—just an old granary converted into a sickhouse, with patched roofs and walls thick with the scent of herbs. You’d heard of the raid in whispers back in the last village, where a band of rogue sellswords, grown too bold on the Reach’s quiet roads, prey on anyone without enough coin to hire protection.

You find the steward near the entrance, a woman bent over a ledger. The moment she glances up, you explain yourself with quiet efficiency—no names, no details beyond what’s necessary.

Just a traveler passing through. Someone familiar with certain remedies.

She doesn’t question it. She’s too tired, too desperate for help. She only nods and waves you toward the worst of the cots—those left too long without tending, whose bandages have gone untouched because there simply aren’t enough hands to go around.

You feel his stare the entire time.

Phainon lingers near the door, leaning against the frame like he belongs there, watching every word exchanged with that steady, unreadable gaze. He doesn’t interrupt, but he doesn’t look away either, his eyes sharp as blades, summer blue and too clear for someone who supposedly remembers nothing.

You ignore him.

You’ve done this before—countless times, in countless places—and the routine steadies you. Once you’re directed to the farthest corner, you roll up your sleeves, kneeling beside the first patient. The Thread stirs immediately, called by instinct more than intent, winding up from your chest to your fingertips in soft, green-gold light.

They called it a heresy when the Ashkarran empire razed your home to the ground. Witchcraft. Blasphemy.

But the Verdant Thread is older than any empire. It is the magic of life itself—the stitch between root and bloom, between marrow and blood, between one breath and the next. It winds through the world like a hidden river, binding flesh and earth alike, and your kingdom had once been its cradle.

Virelya.

They called it the Blooming Throne, once. The last kingdom where the Thread was tended openly—where children of the royal line were taught to weave it as they learned to read, where gardens grew from their footsteps, and sickness was as fleeting as morning frost.

Until the empire burned it all.

You kneel beside the nearest cot, weaving the magic as you’ve done time and time again, your hands steady as you ease it into broken skin and bruised bone. You mend what you can—not all of it, but enough to buy these people another day, another breath.

You don’t need to glance back to know that Phainon’s still watching.

The weight of his stare is impossible to ignore. It lingers in the room like smoke that refuses to clear. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t ask, yet there’s something in the way he watches you that stirs unease beneath your ribs. The Thread moves easily under your touch, weaving through skin and bone as it always has, but you feel it tightening just slightly in your hands, wary of the one standing too close.

You almost expect the heat to come next. For his body to remember before his mind does. For that terrible fire to bloom where it lies dormant, wild and merciless.

But it doesn’t.

By the time you finish, dusk has begun to stretch long across the hills, casting the sickhouse in soft, amber light. You’ve moved from cot to cot in near silence, hands steady as you let the Thread do its work. You’re wiping your hands on a scrap of cloth when the steward approaches again, her expression drawn but grateful. She doesn’t ask what you’ve done—doesn’t seem to want to know. Perhaps it’s easier that way.

Still, she bows her head, pressing a bundle of cloth-wrapped fruit into your hands.

“Take it,” she insists. “For the both of you. We can’t pay coin, but… this, at least.”

You glance toward Phainon, still leaning in the doorway. He hasn’t moved once, but the steward doesn’t seem to mind his looming presence, nor does she seem to suspect the strangeness of the pair you make. You almost laugh at the absurdity of it.

You offer a brief nod of thanks, slipping the bundle into your satchel, and murmur something quiet about leaving before dawn.

She smiles faintly. “Safe travels, then.”

But as you step toward the door, she pauses—squinting at you, as if something has just tugged loose in the back of her mind.

“…Have we met before?” she asks, studying your face with sudden, sharp focus. “You look familiar.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, but you force a thin, polite smile, already shifting your weight toward the exit.

“Must be mistaking me for someone else,” you say lightly, already nudging Phainon toward the door with a flick of your fingers.

But the steward’s gaze lingers, thoughtful, narrowing faintly in recognition—not enough to name it, but too close for comfort.

You don’t wait for her to puzzle it out.

By the time she opens her mouth again, you’ve already slipped out into the fading daylight, walking briskly down the hill with Phainon at your heels, his long strides keeping pace with unsettling ease.

“You’re walking faster than usual,” he remarks, more amused than concerned.

You don’t answer. Not until you’ve put enough distance between the sickhouse and yourselves to speak without fear of being overheard.

“She recognized me,” you mutter under your breath as the market square comes into view again, its streets beginning to fill with the evening crowd.

Phainon tilts his head. “From where?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

He watches you, clearly waiting for an answer, but you don’t offer one.

Of course it matters. You know exactly where she’s seen your face—on wanted posters, nailed to outposts and tavern walls across Ashkarra, alongside every price and charge they’ve pinned to your name. Your face has been passed from hand to hand, from bounty hunters to soldiers to mercenaries desperate enough to try their luck.

If any of your siblings could see you now, they’d call you a fool.

They always said you were soft—too prone to mercy, too willing to let the world sink its claws into you. Even before everything fell apart, they’d chide you for slipping from the palace gardens at dusk to tend to the villages beyond the walls, for wasting your time on strangers who would never repay you.

And now, here you are. Healing the children of the empire that burned your kingdom to ash. Mending wounds that should have been left to fester.

You can almost hear your eldest brother’s voice, cold and steady as a blade: Why risk your life for them?

Why use the Thread—your inheritance, the last remnant of everything they couldn’t kill—on people who would turn you in the moment they saw your face on a posting?

But they never understood.

To wield the Verdant Thread is to carry more than magic. It’s a duty—rooted deep, older than grief, older than vengeance. You were taught that from the moment you could speak. Those who carry the Thread must tend it, wherever it winds. To refuse is to let the weave fray and wither, to let life itself go barren.

You’ve told yourself, over and over, that it’s only pragmatism. Heal a few strangers, ease a few ailments, then slip away before anyone grows suspicious. But it’s a lie you stopped believing a long time ago. The truth is much simpler.

You help because you can.

Because you’re still the fool they said you were.

And now, with the weight of the Thread cooling against your palms, with danger once again breathing down your neck, you can only hope it’s enough to keep you ahead of the next hunter waiting in the dark.

You say nothing to Phainon as you both weave into the safety of the square, where noise and bodies make it easier to disappear.

“Let’s eat,” you tell him. “Make sure to have your fill because we leave at first light.”

Phainon follows without question, keeping pace like always—calm, steady, oblivious to the weight hanging between you. If he notices the tension crawling beneath your skin, he doesn’t mention it.

You can’t decide whether that makes him easier to bear… or far more troublesome

By the time dawn breaks, you’re already gone—slipping down the coastal road in the outskirts of Crosspine toward a city with higher walls and even higher stakes: Vherisport.

One of the Reach’s larger cities, perched right at the mouth of the Sarnin Bay, where ships from across Ashkarra dock in endless streams. The streets here are broad and bustling, paved in worn stone, hemmed in by colorful awnings and sharp-tongued merchants hawking everything from silk to saltfish.

You hate cities like this. But you need supplies, and worse, you need coin.

Because now, for the first time in years, you aren’t traveling alone.

You’ve been careful, making sure not to display open shows of magic. But even without weaving, you can feel the Thread fraying beneath your skin—tight with unease as you slip through the crowds, as Phainon keeps pace beside you like he’s been doing it his whole life. The worst part? He doesn’t even look out of place anymore.

You did what you could—traded out his old clothes for plain linen, shoved a hood over his too-pale hair—but nothing could disguise his height, or the way people’s eyes still snagged on him. However, in a city this crowded, no one stares too long. People mind their own business, too busy watching their own backs to care about a man who looks like he could break them in half.

Still, you tug Phainon aside the first chance you get, slipping down a narrow side street, away from the crowd and noise.

“We’re out of coin,” you say flatly.

He lifts a brow, entirely unbothered. “Then we’ll find more.”

You glare at him. “Oh? And how exactly do you plan to do that? You think coin just falls from the sky?”

He tilts his head, studying you like you’ve said something strange. “You don’t have a plan?”

“Not one that feeds both of us,” you mutter, half to yourself. You’re no stranger to going hungry, but you weren’t dragging around a second mouth to feed before, let alone his.

His gaze sharpens slightly. “Then we shouldn’t have wasted so much back in Crosspine.”

You scowl. “That’s not your business.”

“It is,” he says simply, without hesitation, as though this fact has been obvious all along. “You saved my life. I owe you. I’m not letting you starve because of me.”

You stare at him, stunned by how genuinely he says it—like it’s some eternal truth.

Gods above...

You scrub a hand over your face, sighing hard. “We need work. Fast. And before you suggest anything stupid—no, we’re not robbing anyone.”

“Alright, no robbing. But we’re allowed to take jobs.”

You narrow your eyes at him, already wary of whatever’s turning in that half-empty head of his. “Jobs?”

Phainon gives a small, self-satisfied nod. “I may not remember much, but isn’t that how people survive? By earning coin instead of doing everything free of charge like you do?”

You groan, wishing you’d left him in the damned ravine.

But he’s right.

If you don’t stop playing the bleeding-heart traveler in every town, you will both die starving in a gutter. No Thread, no magic, no mercy. Just a fool with too many secrets and a man with too many sharp edges.

That’s how you ended up lingering in the port city far longer than you’d like.

You’ve long since grown used to deprivation—scarcity has been your shadow ever since you became a fugitive. But your insufferable, newfound companion wasn’t having it. Phainon insisted, with that stubborn tilt of his head, that if the two of you were to keep traveling, you needed to stockpile enough coin and supplies to last at least a few months.

Remaining in Vherisport for more than a handful of days gnawed at your nerves, but you couldn’t deny the logic. Better to scrape everything together now than be forced to worry about it later, somewhere less forgiving.

You could’ve argued and said something harsh, something like I’d be perfectly fine if you just left me alone.

But for some reason, you didn’t.

So, the two of you did the most practical thing first—found a place to stay. Somewhere cheap enough to not drain what little coin you had left, with a landlord lenient enough to overlook rent being a few days late, at least until you and Phainon could find work. 

As luck would have it, the person you came across felt like they’d been sent by the heavens themselves.

Old Merrow, a retired sailor known around the docks, owned a crumbling property near the edge of the shipyards—a squat little house with an attached workshop that hasn’t seen proper use in years. No one visits anymore. The workshop’s roof is half-caved, the walls leaning just enough to make you uneasy on windy nights. But it was shelter, and better yet, it came with a bargain.

Merrow isn’t interested in coin. He’s well past the point of needing it, living off old sailor’s pensions and favors owed. What he wants is stories, company, and meals shared over the fire every few nights, with tales spun thick enough to keep him entertained.

Phainon agreed before you could even blink.

You don’t trust it, of course. Who asks for stories as payment?

But you take the deal anyway.

It’s easy enough to satisfy Merrow. You’ve been on the road long enough to gather dozens of half-truths and scraps of myth, and you’re practiced at shaping them to suit your needs. You never give names or anything that might tie back to your past. Only tales of wandering healers, lost cities swallowed by the sea, spirits that guide travelers through fog and storm.

You always weave a little extra protection over yourself before every meal—subtle illusions draped across your features, just enough to blur recognition if Merrow’s old eyes ever happen to catch the truth beneath.

The first time you do it, Phainon watches closely.

After Merrow has gone back to his house and you’re both settling down on the worn quilts you’ve dragged into the workshop’s back corner, he asks—quiet, but direct:

“Why hide your face?”

You glance at him warily, but he doesn’t press for an answer. Phainon simply watches with that same steady patience he’s carried ever since the ravine. There is no fire in his gaze, only calm curiosity tinged with that faint doggedness that refuses to leave you alone.

Still, you brush it off.

“Some faces are safer hidden,” you say, and roll over before he can push further.

He doesn’t ask again after that.

Still, work finds you faster than you expect.

Vherisport thrives on hard hands and harder backs—too many ships, too many goods, and too many people in need of something mended, carried, or fetched. There’s no shortage of tasks for those willing to work without asking too many questions.

Phainon, predictably, falls into the heavy labor without complaint.

Most mornings, you watch him vanish into the maze of docks, roped into loading crates, hauling barrels, or wrangling shipments with the other dockhands. His strength makes it easy for him, though you still don’t understand why he seems to enjoy it. You catch him smiling sometimes with sleeves rolled up, the sun catching in his pale hair, as if the work itself pleases him—as if it’s enough just to have something to do, somewhere to belong.

It’s strange, but everything about him is.

Meanwhile, you drift through smaller jobs. Sometimes you brew salves for fishermen’s aching joints; in others, you tend to minor illnesses, and stitch up sailors too stubborn to see proper healers. You keep it quiet, making sure not to rely on the Thread to make a living here. Instead, you use your bulk of knowledge with just enough skill to pass as a hedge-healer.

And every time you slip away from the legitimate work to do something softer—mending a sick child’s cough for free, slipping a coin into an old woman’s hand—Phainon notices. He doesn’t scold you for it anymore. He’s long since given up on that, like how you simply resigned yourself to his constant presence.

But he always sighs.

Sometimes with the faintest shake of his head, like he’s wondering how he ended up tethered to someone like you. Other times, it’s just a soft, wordless breath, as if he’s accepted this strange rhythm you’ve both fallen into.

It isn’t quite a partnership, not in any formal sense. You wouldn’t dare call it friendship, either. But there’s something… steady about it. You’ve begun to move around each other without thinking—picking up the slack where the other leaves off, sharing what little you earn without keeping score.

After the city winds down and Merrow’s house grows quiet, you both sit by the cold hearth in the workshop, counting the day’s wages. You’ve managed to find an old clay jug tucked away in a dusty corner, likely once used for wine or oil. It serves the purpose well enough.

Each night, you empty your earnings onto the floor—rough copper, dulled silver—and split them evenly between what’s needed for food and what can be saved for later. Phainon takes it strangely seriously, watching the way the coins stack and clink together with an intensity that almost makes you laugh.

Tonight is no different.

You finish counting your share first, sliding the last of it into the jug with a soft clatter, and glance over to see Phainon still bent over his coins, brow furrowed in deep concentration.

“You’re acting like we’ve won a king’s ransom,” you mutter.

He looks up, and there’s something bright in his expression—something that catches you entirely off guard.

“It’s enough,” he says simply, his voice low but pleased. “Enough for a lavish dinner we can share with Old Merrow. And enough left for sweets, too, if we want.”

You blink at him, dumbfounded by what just came out of his mouth.

Sweets.

The Flame Reaver—terror of the empire, hunter of mages like you—genuinely looks pleased by the thought of buying sweets.

You stare at him for a long moment, unsure whether to laugh or be unnerved.

“Gods,” you mutter. “You really are impossible.”

Phainon only smiles, faint but honest.

The worst part is, you’re starting to get used to it.

By the end of the second month, you’ve more or less settled into Vherisport.

It isn’t comfort—you wouldn’t dare call it that—but the days have begun to blur together in a way that no longer feels dangerous.

The apothecary you work at is nestled near the quieter end of the market district, tucked between a glassblower’s shop and a stall that sells old books and stranger charms. The owner, Mistress Elwen, is a sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued woman well past her prime but still quick on her feet, with silver hair always tied in elaborate coils and a knack for knowing everything before anyone says a word.

She took you in without question, saying she could always use another pair of hands to grind herbs and stock shelves. But she isn’t blind.

You suspect she saw you use the Thread once, when your hands slipped concocting a rare tonic too delicate for mortal hands alone. You meant to keep it mundane, but the work was too precise, too tedious without it.

Mistress Elwen never said a word.

She only watched, calm and unbothered, as though she’d seen stranger things in her many years. When you’d glanced up, heart pounding in your throat, she merely arched a brow and said mildly, “About time you stopped wasting your talents on salves.”

And that was that.

Now, she keeps you busy with orders from all corners of the city—tonics for sailors with seasickness, remedies for merchants with failing eyesight, charms and teas to ease fevers in restless children. The work is quiet and patient work, perfect for someone like you. She never pries into your past. But gods, she does love to meddle elsewhere.

Especially when Phainon shows up.

The first time it happens, you nearly faint.

It’s just past midday, the shop feels just a tad bit drowsy in the heat, when the door creaks open. Phainon lets himself in with long strides—broad-shouldered, still dusted with salt and sweat from the docks, carrying a wrapped parcel under one arm. You freeze in place, but he doesn’t even hesitate.

The man just walks right up to the counter where you’re sorting dried lavender and sets the bundle down with far too much casual confidence.

“For you,” he says with a lopsided smile.

You stare at the parcel like it might explode. “What—what are you doing here?”

“Lunch,” he reminds you, entirely unfazed. “And this.” He taps the bundle lightly. “Saw it in the market district. Thought you’d like it.”

You can feel Mistress Elwen’s gaze burning holes through your back.

“Phainon,” you hiss under your breath. “You can’t just—”

“Why not?” He tilts his head, looking genuinely puzzled. “You’re working. You should eat.”

You want to die.

Worse, Mistress Elwen lets out a delighted little hum from her seat near the window, where she’s pretending to sort herbs but is very clearly eavesdropping on every word.

“Well now,” she says, bright as a bell. “Isn’t he thoughtful? You’re welcome here anytime, dear. My assistant forgets to care for herself more often than not.”

Phainon actually has the audacity to smile at that—clearly far too pleased with himself—before bidding you farewell and vanishing back into the sunlit street. You stand there clutching the cursed parcel of lunch he left behind like it’s some kind of trap, mortified beyond belief.

Mistress Elwen doesn’t wait long.

The moment the door shuts, she gives you a sly, knowing look. “Quite the handsome young man,” she remarks, as if commenting on the weather. “And bringing you gifts, too. You might as well just accept him.”

You nearly choke on air. “Accept what?”

Her eyes gleam with mischief. “Why, his proposal, of course.”

“What proposal?!” you hiss.

She only laughs, soft and amused, like she’s watching some play unfold before her eyes. “Oh, come now. You mean to tell me a man looks at you like that, brings you food from the market, and it’s not because he’s courting you?”

You gape at her, entirely at a loss. 

Mistress Elwen chuckles again, utterly entertained, and goes back to her herbs as if she hasn’t just thrown your sanity into the sea.

You, meanwhile, sit there in stunned silence, staring down at the parcel Phainon left behind—still warm from the sun, smelling faintly of honey and roasted nuts.

His proposal.

Gods, you should’ve never let Mistress Elwen put such nonsense in your head. But no matter how hard you try to shove it away, the thought sticks like sap.

You and Phainon.

No, you and the Flame Reaver.

You almost laugh aloud at how insane it sounds.

Even so, you think about it later that evening, as you walk back from the edge of the docks with Phainon in tow, the streets already thinning out as the lamps are lit one by one. You’ve done this walk dozens of times by now, but suddenly you notice things that were easier to ignore before.

Like how every time you pass the market’s flower stalls, the vendors always seem to beam at Phainon, calling out with far too much familiarity.

“Oh! Here comes my favorite new face again,” one of them coos today, waving cheerfully from behind her baskets of wild blooms. “Bringing something for your sweetheart, dear?”

Your head snaps toward her, horrified.

Phainon only tilts his head. “Sweetheart?”

The vendor laughs, clearly finding both of you adorable. “Oh, don’t play coy. It’s plain to anyone with eyes.” She casts you a fond, knowing look that makes your heart sink into your shoes. “Such a devoted pair, the two of you.”

You don’t even have the words to respond—only a strangled noise as you all but drag him away by the sleeve.

But now the dam has broken, and you can’t unsee it.

No wonder Old Merrow always gives you both privacy after dinner, chuckling under his breath as he limps back to his house with a wink thrown your way. No wonder people smile at you two when you’re sitting together at the edge of the wharf after work, sharing quiet conversations over the day’s haul, too tired to bother moving apart.

To everyone else, you must look like—

You feel yourself spiraling.

It’s ridiculous. Completely, utterly absurd. You—fugitive, outlaw, last of the Verdant Thread—and him, the most infamous monster the empire ever unleashed. How could you possibly—?

But the more you try to scoff it away, the more your thoughts slip somewhere you don’t want them to go.

You’ve seen sides of Phainon no one else has.

The man who comes home each evening with sunburnt cheeks and bright eyes, speaking with quiet pride about how many ships they loaded before sundown.

The one who kneels down to play with the dockhands’ children, letting them braid flowers into his hair without complaint, his laughter low and steady and warm.

The one who shows up at your workplace every afternoon without fail, carrying some trinket or treat he thought you would like, as though the port city is something the two of you could make into home.

Right now, he isn’t the Flame Reaver.

He isn’t the butcher cloaked in fire, who reduced cities to ash and hunted people like you down without mercy.

This is just... Phainon.

You don’t know when you stopped being afraid of him. Somewhere along the way, between all the shared wages, quiet dinners, and long walks home, you let him in. And now, sitting here with your heart in your throat, you realize something far more dangerous:

You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to push him back out again.

The first whispers of the Moonlight Festival drift through the city like the scent of jasmine on a summer wind. It seems every other breath carries it now, tucked between dockside gossip and the sing-song voices of vendors in the market.

You’ve heard it mentioned in passing for weeks now. The festival is an old tradition, held once every year, when the sea glows with silver tides and every street from the wharf to the edges of the city is strung with lanterns. A celebration of safe voyages and the moon’s blessing, or so they say.

You hadn’t paid it much mind. You and Phainon had been too busy shouldering your work, too busy making ends meet and ignoring how easily the days had begun to slip by. Besides, you hadn’t expected to stay this long. Every time the festival crept into conversation, you let it drift past like smoke, another thing that didn’t concern you.

Until Mistress Elwen brings it up one late afternoon, as she watches you arrange bundles of rosemary by the window.

“It’s nearly time,” she says, voice light as ever, but her gaze sharp beneath her lashes. “The Moonlight Festival’s only a week away now. You ought to go.”

You glance up, startled, already halfway into shaking your head. But she isn’t finished.

“Take that handsome young man with the blue eyes,” she adds. “The one who keeps bringing you lunch.”

Heat creeps up your neck faster than you can stop it.

“Mistress Elwen,” you mutter, glaring down at the herbs as though they might save you. “We can’t afford that sort of thing.”

“Oh?” Her tone is far too innocent. “Coin troubles again?”

You hesitate for a breath too long.

It isn’t money, of course. You and Phainon have more than enough stashed away by now, tucked in the old clay jug hidden beneath the floorboards of the workshop. Enough to leave tonight, if it came to that.

No, it isn’t coin keeping you away.

It’s the way your skin crawls some nights as you walk through the market, senses pricking at the weight of certain glances. How some people linger too long when they pass you, eyes sharp, watchful, as if they can see through the veil of the Thread when you’re too tired to hold it steady. You’ve grown lax here, lulled by the slow ease of Vherisport and the strange comfort of Phainon’s constant, looming presence. But you know better than to believe it can last.

Mercenaries don’t forget debts. And the empire does not forget its fugitives.

One of these days—maybe tomorrow, maybe the day after—someone will look too long. Someone will follow too far. And when that happens, you’ll have no choice but to run again, before your throat is slit and your magic burns out in the gutter.

Still, you can’t tell Mistress Elwen that.

“We’ll be leaving soon,” you say, feigning nonchalance. “Best not to get tangled in city festivals when we won’t be here long.”

Mistress Elwen watches you closely, those sharp old eyes of hers missing nothing. She says nothing for a moment, letting the weight of her silence press into the air like another stone on your back.

Then, softly, she says, “You always say that.”

It cuts deeper than you expect.

You busy your hands again, tying rosemary into neat little bundles, but your pulse stumbles as the words settle under your skin.

She’s right. You’ve said it before—said it so often that even you’ve begun to forget whether you truly mean it anymore.

We won’t stay long.

We’ll leave soon.

Just a little longer.

And yet, here you are. Two months deep into Vherisport’s crooked streets, weaving roots into boiling pots, sharing wages by a cold hearth, walking home beneath lamp-lit skies beside the man everyone mistakes for your lover.

Later that night, you find yourself lingering by the window of the workshop, watching the city below.

The festival’s preparations are already well underway. Lanterns being strung across balconies, silk banners stitched in midnight blue and moon-white, fluttering in the sea breeze. Even the vendors have started stocking their carts with honeyed sweets and sugared plums, silverfish charms and painted masks.

You catch sight of Phainon in the distance, his pale hair unmistakable even in the fading light. He’s hauling barrels toward the docks, laughing at something one of the dockhands says. The children dart around him, trailing ribbons and laughter, and he lets them climb him like some great, gentle beast.

You grip the windowsill tighter.

It doesn’t matter what Mistress Elwen says, or what foolishness the city believes. You are not meant for this. You cannot afford to dream of lanterns and festivals when your shadow stretches longer than the streets you walk.

You will leave.

You must.

But as you watch Phainon smile below, bathed in the glow of a thousand hanging lights, you begin to wonder whether you’ll have the strength to go without him.

Come dinner, the scent of roasted fish and spiced rice fills the little workshop. It had been Phainon’s idea, and somehow you’d been foolish enough to agree. A proper meal, he’d said, something more than root stew and yesterday’s bread, since the wages had been good this week and the festival was drawing near.

Now, the three of you sit crowded around the low table in the corner, knees knocking together as you portion out the feast onto chipped plates. Merrow looks half in disbelief, half in delight, as he watches you and Phainon bring out a whole sea bream roasted in citrus and herbs, bowls of saffron rice studded with pine nuts, and flatbread slick with oil and rosemary. A meal far too fine for your station, but Phainon had been insistent, flashing that sun-bright grin of his as he traded coin for spice and sweetness.

Merrow claps his hands together, his leathery face creasing with mirth. “By all the gods,” he says, voice warm and raspy with age. “This is the finest spread I’ve seen in this house since my hair was still black.”

You manage a weak smile. “Don’t get used to it.”

But Merrow only laughs, deep and contented, already helping himself to generous portions. “Ah, let an old man indulge! I’ll eat like a king tonight and die happy tomorrow.”

Dinner passes in a slow, golden haze. The food is good—far better than you expected—and even better when shared in the soft hush of the sea breeze drifting through the cracked windows. You eat until your stomach aches, until the weight of the day begins to loosen from your shoulders.

Strangely, Merrow doesn’t ask for stories tonight.

That alone is enough to set you on edge. Ever since he took you both in, he’s always demanded tales in exchange for your keep. It’s been his only price.

But tonight, he leans back in his chair, cradling his cup of plum wine with a faraway look in his eye, and speaks instead.

“Moonlight Festival’s near,” he murmurs. “Hard to believe it’s come ‘round again.”

You glance at him warily, unsure where this is headed.

“Met my wife at the festival, you know. Many, many years ago, back when I was still a foolish sailor with more luck than sense.” He chuckles softly, lost in the memory. “She was standing beneath the lanterns—gods, I thought she was some sea spirit come to drag me under.”

You blink, caught off guard by the softness in his voice. You’ve only ever known Merrow as a sharp-tongued old dockhand with too many bad jokes and not enough teeth. But he’s different today. He speaks as though he can still see her, standing there in the glow of the lantern lights.

“Never missed the festival after that,” he says, voice turning quieter. “We’d dance every year, right until her last one. Even now, I swear I can feel her waiting for me, somewhere out there.”

You don’t realize how tightly you’re gripping your cup until the clay creaks faintly under your fingers.

Merrow’s gaze sharpens, and he grins. “You two ought to go.”

The words drop into the air like stones into still water, rippling outward.

You nearly choke on air. “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, lifting his cup in mock toast. “The Moonlight Festival. It’s not something to miss, especially not when you’ve got someone to share it with.”

You flush, stammering to find words that don’t sound utterly insane. “We—we can’t just—”

But before you can even form a proper excuse, Phainon’s voice cuts in, calm and maddeningly steady.

“All right,” he says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You whip toward him, staring in disbelief. “What do you mean alright?”

“We’ll go.” He doesn’t even look fazed, casually sipping his wine. 

“But we don’t even have clothes for something like that!”

Phainon only lifts a brow, tilting his head in that infuriating way of his. “Then we’ll go to the boutique tomorrow. You can pick something for us.”

You nearly drop your cup right there.

Merrow lets out a great, bellowing laugh, the sound filling the room like thunder. “That’s the spirit, lad! Go on, let her dress you up proper. You’ll both turn heads, I wager.”

Your heart pounds, caught somewhere between utter mortification and some strange, traitorous fluttering that you refuse to name.

Phainon turns to you then, his gaze steady, his smile soft and warm beneath the lamplight.

As though this is all perfectly normal.

As though he isn’t the monster who once left ashes in his wake.

All you can do is sputter as your fate is sealed yet again by the whims of the man who once stopped at nothing to kill you. The same man who now speaks in the softest voice you’ve ever known, blue eyes brighter than any lantern Vherisport could ever light.

That’s how you know you’re well and truly doomed.

Morning finds you sullen, stiff-limbed, and determined to talk Phainon out of this ridiculous scheme.

You trail behind him through the winding streets of Vherisport, scowling beneath your hood as the first light of day spills golden across the harbor. The market is already stirring to life, stalls creaking open, scent of fresh bread thick in the air, and still he walks with that infuriating ease—like he doesn’t feel the weight of your glower drilling holes into his back.

“This is madness,” you mutter, hurrying to keep pace. “We don’t need to spend coin on nonsense like this.”

Phainon hums as though you’ve complimented him. “It’s not nonsense.”

You nearly trip over a stray cat darting across the cobblestones. “It’s splurging. Lavish, wasteful, unnecessary splurging. Do you know how long we could live on what we’ve earned already? Months. Months, Phainon. We could leave tonight and never have to work for the rest of the season.”

He glances at you over his shoulder, that same easy smile playing on his lips. “And then what? Hide again?”

Your steps stutter, nearly faltering in the middle of the street, but he keeps walking with his hands tucked into his pockets, calm as ever.

You shove past him with a glare sharper than any blade he’s ever carried. “That’s the plan, yes. We’ve stayed too long already.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just follows, quiet and thoughtful as the streets narrow, leaving behind the bustle of the harbor in favor of the artisan quarter, where the scent of the ocean drifts from shaded courtyards. Then—so softly you almost wish you hadn’t heard it—he asks:

“Why do we need to leave anyway?”

You freeze as Phainon’s gaze finds you again, steady and piercing beneath that cloudless sky.

“Isn’t our life here good enough?”

And just like that, something splits wide open inside you.

Because of course he would ask that, in his blissful, maddening ignorance. 

He doesn’t know the name that still haunts you through every border town, passed from mercenary to mercenary, spoken in low voices with sharpened smiles. He doesn’t know the legacy you carry in secret—the reason you’ve never allowed yourself to belong anywhere, never dared to call a place home.

Phainon doesn’t know that every time you laugh with him and let yourself feel safe here, it’s a blade held to your throat.

You’ve never told him.

Not when he first stumbled into your life as that half-dead amnesiac who placed his trust in you with the same thoughtless faith he still wears like a second skin.

Not even now, when he smiles faintly at you as if this city could be yours.

You feel something bitter crawl up your throat—shame, maybe, or something close to it—but you swallow it down with the sharpness of old instinct.

“We can’t afford to stay,” is all you tell him.

Phainon watches you for a long moment, but if he hears what you aren’t saying, he doesn’t press.

The rest of the walk is quiet.

You keep your gaze fixed ahead, heart pounding beneath your ribs, too tangled in your own thoughts to notice the way he lingers just behind you.

The boutique comes into view before you realize it, its windows bright with morning light and lined with fabrics in every shade imaginable. Velvets, silks, gauzes that shimmer like starlight. Phainon pushes the door open for you, and the bell above the frame chimes sweetly, beckoning you inside.

You hesitate at the threshold, every instinct screaming to turn back.

But when you glance at Phainon, you find yourself stepping forward anyway.

You smell lavender and pressed starch, hear the faint shush of fabric shifting as you’re ushered in by the seamstress herself.

“Oh, you’ve come just in time,” she says, hands already measuring you with a glance. “You’ll want something light for the Moonlight Festival. The evenings get warm by the water.”

You open your mouth to protest, to make some excuse about how you’re only here because he insisted—but Phainon, damn him, simply hums in quiet agreement behind you, too at ease for his own good.

The seamstress clicks her tongue, already rifling through the racks with practiced speed.

“No need to fuss,” she calls over her shoulder, pulling bolts of fabric free. “I’ve dressed enough couples for the festival to know what works.”

Couples.

You nearly choke, but before you can object, she’s pressing a soft bundle of fabric into your arms.

“This will do,” she says, firmly brooking no argument. “For you, something soft and cool-toned—brings out your eyes.” Then she turns to Phainon, utterly unfazed by his towering height or the way he watches her with mild curiosity. “And for you, something clean and tailored. Simple enough to move in, but elegant once the lanterns are lit.”

You glance down at the garments she’s thrust into your hands—fine linen and gauzy layers, silver threaded through soft blue.

“Wait, this is—” You struggle to keep up. “We’re not—”

But the seamstress only waves you toward the fitting rooms with a knowing grin. “Oh, don’t fret so much, love. I’ll have my girls help you dress.”

Before you know it, you’re whisked away by two giggling apprentices, your protests drowned beneath their chatter.

The fitting room is quiet, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the occasional pin prick as the apprentices fasten the gown around you. You flinch, but one of the girls’ hands pause for just a breath before continuing, gentler this time.

Of course they see them.

The burn scars along your back aren’t easy to miss—not with the way the gown dips low across your shoulders, the fabric barely brushing old wounds etched like ghosted flames across your skin. You keep your eyes fixed firmly on the floor, heart pounding in your throat as you wait for the inevitable gasp or whispered question.

But it never comes.

Instead, one of them quietly steps away, returning a moment later to drape a soft shawl over your shoulders—light as air, cool to the touch, matching the gown perfectly. 

She tucks the fabric in place with steady hands, offering you a small, knowing smile through the mirror.

Somehow, that’s worse than pity.

You can’t look at yourself at first, but when the last lace is cinched and the girls step back with pleased little sighs, you have no choice but to lift your gaze.

The mirror is cruel in its honesty.

You almost don’t recognize yourself.

The gown isn’t anything like the ones you once wore in the gilded courts of Virelya, but it’s beautiful in its own way. Soft, layered fabrics that catch the light like mist over water, delicate without being fragile. The bodice shapes your figure with quiet grace, and the color—pale as moonlight—renders your features almost unearthly.

For a fleeting second, your heart aches.

It’s been so long since you’ve seen yourself like this.

Not a fugitive. Not a healer hunched over boiling herbs. Not a shadow slipping through alleyways with your face veiled in Thread. Just a woman in a lovely dress, standing beneath soft lamplight, gazing at a reflection that feels like it belongs to someone else.

You’re still lingering there, when one of the apprentices nudges you gently toward the door.

“Go on,” she whispers, stifling a grin. “He’s waiting.”

It takes more strength than you’d like to admit, but you manage to steady yourself, smoothing the fabric with clammy fingers before you step out.

Phainon is already in the main hall, standing near the mirrors—and gods above.

The seamstress was right.

His outfit matches yours perfectly—tailored navy linen, silver threading along the cuffs and collar, cut to sharpen his broad frame and lengthen his already impossible height. He’s rolled his sleeves just slightly, revealing strong forearms, and the dark color makes his pale hair gleam brighter than ever beneath the boutique’s soft lights.

But it isn’t just the clothes. It’s the way he looks at you.

Because the instant you step out, his gaze lifts and he stares.

Wide-eyed, utterly silent, every ounce of calm stripped away. His breath catches, his mouth parts slightly, but no words come out—just pure, stunned awe.

And then the seamstress’s voice cuts through the thick silence.

“Well,” she says, clearly entertained, “shall I mark it down for alterations? Or do the two of you plan to run off in those as you are?”

“I—I—this—this must be well out of our budget,” you blurt, clinging to the first excuse you can grasp.

The seamstress only laughs. “Nonsense. You’re the one from Mistress Elwen’s, aren’t you? The healer who brewed that salve for my mother’s joints a fortnight ago?”

You freeze, clearly not expecting that.

“You have a good heart, child.” The older woman grins. “My mother’s walking again because of you. I’ll throw in a discount—call it fair trade.”

You’re too stunned to answer. Phainon, however, recovers faster—still watching you from beneath those summer blue eyes.

“Well then,” he says, voice quiet but warm, “I suppose we have no reason to refuse.”

Never, until now, have you wished so fiercely for the earth to swallow you whole.

The days leading up to the festival slip by in a strange, breathless haze.

Your new outfits hang in quiet accusation in the corner of the room, far too fine for the cramped space you now call home. They’re tucked inside the old wardrobe Merrow lent you weeks ago—the same one Phainon hauled up the stairs himself, shoulders flexing beneath the weight, sweat lining his brow but his grin as bright as ever when he declared it “sturdy enough for two.”

You’d scoffed then, muttering something about how little space you had to begin with, but now… now it feels like the wardrobe itself watches you.

You try not to look at it as you lace your boots each morning, as you tie your apron and slip out before dawn.

Phainon leaves first, as always, off to the docks with that lazy saunter of his The city knows him now as the dockhand with the sharp smile and steadier hands, the man who carries crates like they weigh nothing and teaches the children how to carve little ships from driftwood.

You envy his ease, sometimes.

Your own days at the apothecary grow heavier with each passing hour.

It happens on the third evening after the boutique.

The shop is quiet, the air thick with lavender and mint as you mix a tonic for some merchant’s sickly wife. Mistress Elwen is out back tending the drying racks, leaving you alone at the counter. The bell above the door barely jingles. But when you glance up, you finally notice him.

A stranger, too still and sharp around the eyes. Clearly not a mercenary—they’re far more cunning than this one is—but there’s a wild edge to him. A hungry look, like a hound scenting blood. His hand twitches beneath his cloak, just once, enough for you to spot the glint of metal hidden there.

You don’t flinch.

By the time he lunges, you’ve already moved—grabbing the iron pestle from the counter, sidestepping his clumsy strike with the grace honed by too many nights running through streets darker than these.

You move without thought, the Thread flickering beneath your skin, weaving the faintest shimmer of illusion over your features as you slam the pestle into the side of his head.

He crumples.

It’s almost laughable, how easy it is. A child’s game compared to the hunts you’ve escaped before.

Phainon would have made quick work of him too, you think bitterly, as you drag the unconscious man toward the back door and dump him in the alley with nothing more than a whispered curse to keep him asleep till morning.

You don’t tell Mistress Elwen. She’d only look at you with those knowing eyes of hers and say something infuriatingly calm like “So they’ve caught your scent, have they?”

No, you carry the weight of it yourself, like always.

But it lingers in your chest as you walk home that night, heavy and cold.

You can’t stay. You know that. And yet…

The wardrobe waits for you when you return, its doors shut tight, hiding the fine fabrics inside.

Phainon returns late, as he always does, cheeks flushed from sea air and hands rough with salt, grinning as he sets down the catch he helped haul that day. He doesn’t notice the stiffness in your shoulders.

“Merrow says he’ll cook up a stew tomorrow,” he says, stripping off his boots and tossing them aside without ceremony. “Said we’ve been working too hard to bother with bread and cheese again.”

You nod vaguely, watching him from across the room as he rakes a hand through his silver hair, shaking out the last of the salt. You hate how easy he makes it seem—this life, this fragile peace.

You hate it even more when you realize you’ve started to crave it, too.

The shared quilts you’ve been sleeping under for months feel different now, too. He sleeps warm, always has, radiating heat like an ember banked low—but lately you’ve started drifting closer without realizing it, drawn to the quiet calm of his breathing, to the steady weight of him beside you.

One night, half-asleep, you find yourself curling toward that warmth, your fingers brushing the bare skin of his forearm beneath the blanket.

Phainon stirs slightly, but doesn’t wake, letting you settle against him as if this has always been your place.

You tell yourself it’s just the cold even if it’s the middle of summer.

But deep down, in the part of you that still aches when you catch him smiling at you like the world’s sharp edges don’t exist, you know the truth.

The festival looms closer, its glow already beginning to spread through the city—lanterns strung above every street, laughter spilling from taverns thick with honey wine and spiced cider. Your gown still waits in the wardrobe. Phainon always hums when he catches you staring at it from the doorway, leaning against the frame with that maddeningly soft look in his eyes.

“You’ll look beautiful under the lanterns,” he says, like it’s already been decided.

And gods help you—

You almost want to believe him.

The Moonlight Festival arrives with the sea winds, weaving its magic through every corner of Vherisport.

By sundown, the harbor has transformed.

Lanterns drift like stars along the water, their glow soft and golden, swaying gently with the tide. Silk ribbons ripple in the breeze, strung from mast to mast across the docks and curling down from rooftops in streams of silver and blue. The streets are alive with music while the air is thick with salt, spice, and smoke from festival fires.

It’s the kind of beauty only a port city could conjure, built from all the stories that pass through its gates.

You’ve never seen anything like it.

Phainon waits for you by the door, already dressed, and gods, you wish he didn’t look so effortlessly handsome.

He wears his festival clothes with an ease that should be criminal—navy linen tailored close to his frame, the silver of his cuffs like frostbite kissed across his skin. His hair looks well-kept for the occasion, but a few strands still fall across his forehead, softening the sharpness of his jaw.

“You ready?” he asks, offering you his hand, his blue eyes crinkling faintly as they meet yours.

You hesitate just for a moment before taking it.

The streets swallow you both in their revelry.

You try to keep your wits about you. But it’s hard not to lose yourself in it all: the scent of honeyed wine, the bright laughter of children darting through the crowds with lanterns in their arms, the calls of merchants selling sweets shaped like seashells and candied seafoam spun into delicate curls.

Phainon keeps close to your side, his arm brushing yours with every step, steady as an anchor in the rush of bodies around you. He never strays far—not when you pause to admire the fire dancers or when you stop to watch the sailors lighting candles along the docks.

And under the lantern light, he somehow glows.

You don’t know if it’s the wine or the warmth of the evening, but everything about him feels magnified tonight—the brightness of his laughter, the steady weight of his gaze when he looks at you, like there’s no one else here but the two of you.

They pull you into the dancing before you can stop them—locals and travelers alike joining hands in the streets as the music swells. Phainon laughs when you tug him along, stumbling over his feet as he tries to follow the rhythm.

“I don’t think I’ve ever danced before,” he confesses, breathless, as you spin him around.

“What? Your memories finally coming back or something?”

He shrugs. “Just a gut feeling” 

You grin despite yourself, caught in the thrill of it. “Then you’re lucky I know how.”

And you do.

Some part of you still remembers the old lessons—how to move through the steps like drifting through a dream, how to guide your partner with nothing but a press of your hand and the sway of your hips. You lead him with ease, laughing as he fumbles and trips, his wide grin growing brighter with every turn.

“Like this,” you say, hands steadying his as you draw him close, and he listens, always so eager to follow your lead.

You dance beneath the glow of the lanterns, your skirts spinning like seafoam around you, his hands firm at your waist as he finds his footing at last.

By the time the music slows, your heart is pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the dance.

You let him guide you away from the center of the square, both of you breathless and laughing, your cheeks flushed from more than just the heat.

You don’t stray far—only enough to catch your breath, slipping into the quieter fringes of the celebration where the music softens and the lanterns sway gently overhead. Phainon leans back against the worn stone of a fountain, his silver hair shining under the glow of hanging lights as his gaze settles solely on you.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you glow like this,” he murmurs, voice low and rough from laughter.

You try to summon a retort, something sharp or dismissive, but it slips through your fingers like sand.

You can’t unsee it now—how easily he fits here, among these people, smiling with the same warmth that drew you to him from the start. How the sailors call to him in passing, offering drinks and hearty slaps to his back, welcoming him without question.

He belongs here.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

Because standing here in your borrowed silks, with his warmth still lingering on your skin and the taste of wine and laughter on your tongue, you feel it stirring in your chest—that awful, fragile thing you’ve spent your whole life smothering.

Hope.

Hope that maybe you could stay. That maybe you could call this place home, live quietly by the harbor with him at your side, share nights like this again and again until you forget what it feels like to run.

For the first time in your life, you let yourself dream.

But the moment you realize what you’re thinking, the weight of it comes crashing down on you.

You can’t stay.

You can’t keep living this lie, letting him pull you deeper into a life that was never yours to claim. You’ve grown soft, even more foolish than your siblings made you out to be. The girl who once slipped through cities like smoke, who outwitted the Flame Reaver himself, now dreams of lanterns and warm hands and laughter shared over wine.

You watch Phainon from across the street, laughing easily with the dockhands—his smile brighter than the festival fires, his eyes finding yours through the crowd, just as they always do—and your heart aches.

Because he’s the first thing you’ve ever wanted to stay for.

But you already know how this story ends.

Before your foolishness becomes your undoing, you’ll have to walk away from all of it.

Even him.

You both stumble back to Merrow’s workshop well past midnight, the streets quieting now that the festival’s peak has passed. Most of the lanterns are still glowing, but the crowds have thinned to scattered laughter and the lingering scent of spice and smoke. The house is already dark—no surprise. The old man likely retired hours ago, leaving the door unlocked for you as promised.

You fumble with the latch, shushing Phainon as he nearly trips over the doorstep.

“Quiet,” you hiss, tugging him inside. “You’ll wake the whole damn street.”

But he only grins as he sways where he stands.

“I am  quiet,” he insists, entirely too loud about it, and lets out a soft, giddy laugh like he’s still caught in the spell of the night.

Gods, he’s a lightweight. You’d suspected as much from the way he flushed after the second cup of wine, but this is something else.

“You’re impossible,” you mutter under your breath, dragging him up the stairs toward the second floor where your shared room waits. He nearly takes both of you down the first few steps, and you tighten your grip, cursing him softly as he giggles again.

“I should gag you with the Thread,” you mutter through gritted teeth, earning yourself another breathless laugh from him.

“Sounds indecent,” he slurs, far too amused for his own good.

By the time you shove him through the door, you’re sweating and thoroughly regretting every decision that led to this.

He collapses onto the edge of the bed in a graceless heap, flushed and fever-warm, eyes half-lidded with the kind of lazy contentment that makes you want to throttle him.

“Off,” you order, gesturing sharply at his festival clothes. “Change before you keel over.”

He hums, clearly only half-listening.

“And don’t look while I change,” you add as you shed off your shawl, tugging at the ribbons of your gown with fumbling fingers as your cheeks burn at the thought of his gaze.

To his credit, he turns away at first, tugging at his sleeves with sluggish movements. But as fate may have it, Phainon when drunk is a menace, even when he’s trying to behave. You hear the soft rustle of his tunic falling to the floor just as you manage to slip out of your gown, the cool air brushing against your bare back. And then—

Silence.

You glance behind you just in time to see him staring—utterly still, his haze of wine-blurred laughter gone in an instant. It takes you only a moment to realize why.

His gaze is fixed on the old scars curling across your back, half-hidden by your loosened underclothes, but unmistakable under the lantern glow. Pale and jagged, the shape of it impossible to forget.

You freeze under the scrutiny. 

When his voice comes again, it’s rough with something that doesn’t sound like drunkenness at all.

“…Who did that to you?”

You spin, but not fast enough. Before you can stop him, his hand is already there—callused and broad, pressing warm and steady over the scarred skin as if trying to shield it.

You should pull away. You should shove him off, curse him, thread his mind into forgetting.

But the heat of his palm seeps into your bones, anchoring you to the spot.

“…Who?” he asks again, almost pleading.

And you—gods, you don’t know why you say it. Maybe it’s the remnants of wine in your blood, or the weight of the night still hanging heavy on your chest. Or maybe it’s just the truth you’ve carried too long.

Without thinking, you answer. 

“You did.”

Phainon goes utterly still.

The words hang between you, heavy as iron, impossible to take back.

He stares at you, blinking slow and heavy like the wine hasn’t fully worn off. His thumb brushes over the scar again, tender despite the callouses, as if he thinks he’s misheard. But you’re already drifting far away, too deep inside yourself to notice.

Because the moment his touch found you there, the memory surged back.

The palace had smelled of chrysanthemums that night.

You remember it clearly, how the blooms lingered thick in the air, heavy and cloying, even as the screams began to rise.

You’d heard them before you saw the flames—your people, your city, your home—crackling alive with terror beneath the violet sky. The fire didn’t look real. No ordinary blaze devours stone and marble with such hunger, eating through walls like they were parchment. And at the heart of it all, cloaked in shadows and crowned in black flames was him.

The Flame Reaver.

You remember the way he moved through the halls of your family’s palace, merciless and silent, cutting down every guard foolish enough to cross his path. You remember the heat of his magic, how it seared through the very air as he set the throne room ablaze.

You’d escaped that night, but not without scars.

You could have healed them. You already knew how to weave the Thread into yourself, how to coax flesh and bone back into place, and erase pain with enough time and precision.

But you didn’t.

You let the wound fester, let it burn into you, let it stay—because you needed it.

A reminder of what you lost. Of the home you failed to protect, and the only kingdom you would ever belong to, now reduced to nothing but ash and dust.

Virelya was all you’ve ever had. All you’ve ever been.

And now—now, you stand here with the monster who burned it down, his hands gentle where they once were cruel, his voice soft as he unknowingly tends to the ruin he made of you.

It makes you feel sick.

Because you can’t wrap your head around it.

You can’t reconcile the man who stands behind you now with the killer who razed your world to nothing.

You’re a fool for letting it get this far. For ever dreaming you could keep him close without breaking yourself open in the process.

Because no matter how softly Phainon touches you now, this scar has always been his.

And some wounds aren’t meant to heal.

He doesn’t speak. For all the weight of your words—for all the ruin they should’ve unleashed—Phainon simply… lets it go. His hand lingers only a breath longer, warm and steady over the mark he left, before it falls away, slipping back to his lap with a soft, shuddering breath.

He doesn’t ask again.

Somehow, that mercy hurts worst of all.

You’d expected questions. Rage. Horror. You’d braced yourself for the sharp edges of his voice, for accusations or apologies or something—anything—that would make this easier to bear. But Phainon, only leans back against the worn bedding, eyes heavy-lidded as he settles down, like it’s enough for him to simply know.

You should’ve known better.

Despite his easy laughter and careless charm, he’s never been a fool.

You saved his life that night—dragged him from death’s door with bloodied hands and trembling magic. You bound his wounds, nursed him back to health, sheltered him in the shadows of all the places that should have turned him away. Even without his memories, he must’ve realized what that meant.

That before you ever became his healer, before you were two nameless shadows bound by chance—your paths were already intertwined.

He never asked why you saved him.

He simply lingered in quiet ways you didn’t know you needed—carrying crates too heavy for your hands, fixing the leak in the workshop roof without complaint, dropping by the apothecary to make sure you were eating right. Always steady, always close, but never pressing where he knew it would hurt.

But even so, there’s no place for you here.

Not with him. Not anywhere.

So when Phainon finally succumbs to sleep—his breathing soft and even beneath the patchwork quilt, silver hair spilling across the pillow—you make your choice. The Thread answers your call with quiet familiarity, slipping beneath your fingertips as you weave it through the air, soft as a lullaby, delicate as moonlight. You twist it once, twice, and cast it over him like a veil.

A spell of quiet slumber, just enough to keep him from stirring.

You move quickly after that.

You take only what you need—just a small purse of coin from the jug you’d both filled over the seasons, leaving most behind without a second thought. The gown stays too. You barely spare it a glance as you hang it in the wardrobe, the fabric glimmering faintly in the dark. What use would you have for such a thing? It belonged to a version of you who shouldn’t even exist.

When everything is ready and your cloak is drawn tight around your shoulders, you pause only once.

Phainon sleeps so easily, as if nothing in the world could ever harm him. One hand curled loose near his face, the other resting over the empty space you’re about to leave behind.

You wonder, fleetingly, if he’ll hate you for this. For leaving without a word. For vanishing into the night after everything you shared. Your heart twists violently in your chest as it threatens to drag you down before you can even reach the door. But you’ve run from things worse than heartbreak.

With one last, aching glance at his peaceful form—at the man you should never have dared to love—you slip out into the sleeping streets.

And you do not look back.

⟢ end notes: OH MY GOD. i don't know what came over me lol this has been sitting in the drafts for a while now, but after playing through 3.4, i was struck with phainon disease just like any Completely Normal hsr player out there. amnesiac fics are always such a dear thing to me, and getting to write "who did that to you?" "you did" gave me unparalleled catharsis. they reunite soon, i promise <3 but thank you for reading what i have so far with retrograde! :3c

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[thingswhatareawesome]

¨

[brittle-doughie]

Tale of the Forced Hand: Reunion

[Virtue of Compassion AU]

I know, I see the comments of you guys wanting a continuation, so I’m testing the waters to see if I’m still cooking with this.

———————————————————————

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Aww, it’s been so long since we last met. What’s a little chat between old pals?”

You couldn’t believe your eyes. Was he one of the Beast Cookies from Elder Faerie’s story? Shadow Milk Cookie…..he was Shadow Milk Cookie.

You couldn’t explain it, but the name sounded..familiar to you, as if you knew it before the name came out of Elder Faerie’s mouth.

Shadow Milk Cookie: “I just had to pop out of that tree for a teensie little moment when I felt something outside of that tree. Something I haven’t felt for a long, long, long, LOOONG time.”

Elder Faerie lets that statement linger in his head as he looked over the group, worried that his assumptions were not as implausible as he thought.

Elder Faerie Cookie: “No one brought you forth, Shadow Milk Cookie. I will devote the rest of my life to casting you back to your prison!”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Aww, why so cranky! Could it be that you’re…afraid? Afraid for a special little Cookie in particular? Did you believe I would just forget!”

His smile immediately falls into a cold stare.

“Did you seriously believe that I would ever forget them?”

Without warning, blue strings coil around your limbs and lift you up in the air and right over to Shadow Milk Cookie.

You struggle against your binds, yelling for him to let you go as Shadow Milk’s silly demeanor returns.

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Sorry, no can do! You gave me quite the scare all those years ago, but it looks like compassion never really dies, amirite?”

He brings you to him as he hugs you tight, nuzzling his face against yours.

Shadow Milk Cookie: “Oh, my sweetest, dearest Cookie. How I missed you so, so, SO much! We all have! The others would KILL to see you again right now!”

Strawberry Cookie: “Did he just say compassion?”

Wizard Cookie: “He’s just tricking you! There’s no way he can prove that it’s true!”

Elder Faerie Cookie: “Shadow Milk Cookie is a Cookie of Deceit. Nothing he says rings an air of truth.”

Pure Vanilla Cookie: “Let Y/N Cookie go! They are not the Cookie you think they were before!”

White Lily Cookie: “Yes, we must help them!”

“I…would never lie when it came to them. For eons, I replay that day over and over again in my head. I thought it was all my fault, I thought that I had lost them forever….”

Shadow Milk Cookie: “So imagine the upmost JOY that I felt when I felt their presence near the tree! I simply couldn’t let my most cherished audience member wait, so I made my move! Now that they’re back, my fellow Beast Cookies can awaken too!

Shadow Milk Cookie: “What do you say, sweetie? Shall we show them what we can really do with you back?”

There’s no way! You didn’t remember having any life before this! This had to be another one of his tricks! What did he really want from you? Why was he acting this way towards you, a complete stranger?!

And just how worse were his friends going to be?

———————————————————————

[rafeslvbug]

heyyy!!! i have been loving your nfl!rafe fics so muchhh!!! idk if you're taling requests or not but you said this in the sfw alphabet:

now he says it daily. he won’t go a day without saying it, not even if he’s in a bad mood. he needs to hear it back too, it hurts if he doesn’t.

and i was thinking what if they got into a fight or something and reader is upset and he's saying i love you but she doesn't and he gets upset too?? 🩷

the sheets were cold, your back turned to rafe as he laid facing the ceiling, incredibly restless. you could feel him shifting every few seconds, not being able to find comfort in the bed he usually melted in. lingering tension from your previous argument was still heavy in the air, and must’ve been what made sleep so uncomfortable for the both of you.

it didn’t stop you from trying, though.

sleep sounded like the perfect escape from this. you knew you shouldn’t have been trying to escape the argument, but your daughter had just taken an hour to fall asleep, and to say today had drained you was an understatement. you felt completely lifeless, except for the pounding in your head.

the argument was something you perhaps could have anticipated. rafe wanting you to attend his game this weekend. not a local one, just a big one. he only asked for you to come, suggested you leave the kids with a babysitter or a friend and you guys could make it a date. you hadn’t been to one yet this whole season, mainly because your daughter was only a few months old. it was a separation anxiety that would fade with time - but now was not the time. naturally, this compelled you to say no, to say you’d go to another one and rafe didn’t take it too lightly. he didn’t yell - he rarely does. his words were instead infused with a type of hurt you also rarely saw, and was somehow worse. while you knew he had every right to be angry, what he said you couldn’t justify. claims you didn’t love him as much, or that you didn’t care, that you were changing. it was bullshit, and untrue, when everything you did was for him.

in the silence of your thoughts, and his, you hear his quiet mutter of, “i love you sweetheart.”

you don’t return it.

rafe’s brows furrow, his head shifting to the side to stare at the back of yours. he blinks, rubbing his ear, thinking perhaps he heard wrong. because he heard nothing at all.

it’s silent in the room, the kids are asleep, you haven’t said anything. there’s no way you couldn’t have heard him, he made sure you would. he was never tentative to tell you he loved you. so why hadn’t you said it back?

he props himself up onto his forearm, switching on the lamp beside the bed.

“owh rafe, why’d you turn the light on?” you whine, shielding your eyes from the brightness.

“why’d you ignore me?” he responds, the faintest of pouts on his face while he looks down at you, still recovering from the harsh light exposure.

“ignore you?”

“yes. i said i love you an-“

“oh my god rafe,” you groan, burying your face into your pillow at his words ; you’re both deflated after arguing and too tired in general to deal with this, hoping the pillow might consume you whole as you so desperately want it to.

rafe’s frown deepens, sitting up fully in bed and crossing his arms over his chest. “sit up, i’m talkin’ here.”

you sigh, exhaling out your nose, rubbing your eyes and rolling over to look at him properly. the stubborn look on your face is enough to piss rafe off, even when he’s trying to be as patient as he can manage, it’s still slipping away from him.

“we don’t do this. we don’t ignore each other or not say ‘i love you’ back. that’s not us, never has been, never will be. d’you hear me?” he says, voice stern and allowing no room for argument.

“yeah i know,” you mutter.

silence beats between the two of you, a few fading heartbeats.

once.

twice.

then, “we ever gonna talk about it again?” his voice is low, referring to the initial argument, clearly not having given up on it.

“we will.”

“when?”

“now…?”

“now.” he sighs, like he’s about to go into a game where the odds are against him. “just come. there are a million people we trust to leave the kids with.”

you’re biting your lip, unsure and thinking of the similarly million ways it could all go wrong, forever apprehensive to leave your kids alone. “okay but-“

“no buts. it’s gonna be fine, it’s always been fine. it’ll be one day, out of hundreds. you can do that, baby.”

you’re mulling it over in your mind, thinking of how he said you didn’t care about him anymore.

as if on cue, reading you like an open book, rafe interjects your thoughts with a soft, “i know what i said, an’ i’m sorry. none of that shit’s true, i know that. i just want you to be there.”

“yeah?” you turn your head to look at him a little better, while he brushes back some hair that falls into your eyes.

“yeah.” he murmurs, tilting his head down at you.

he’s looking down at you with the same blue eyes that can do no wrong, even in the worst days of your marriage. the look is so desperate, a silent plea in them to just say yes, one you’ve always been ridiculously weak for.

“mkay, i’m sorry too an’ i’ll come,” you finally agree, leading rafe’s face to break into a grin as he leans down to you.

“you’re sure?” he hovers over you, forearms on either side of your head.

“yeah i’m sure,” you mutter, laughing when he presses his lips to yours, quickly switching to messy pecks across your whole face.

“rafe! cut it out!” you squeal, trying to keep your voice to a minimum so as not to wake up the kids next door.

he only hums, however, stopping for a brief second. “i love you,” he repeats, this time dangling the words like a warning in which a satisfactory answer might prevent his onslaught of kisses.

“i love you too,” you exhale, blowing your mess of hair out of your way.

“there we go, sweetcheeks,” he grins, causing you to laugh against his chest while his arms hold you impossibly closer.

[deliajackson]

@streets-in-paradise you are so real to hide it on the tags

Greek Mythology ≠ Fanfiction

For starters i will repeat that creativity in literature and inspiration from the ancient myths is totally fine and i support it! What i will mention is the damage society has done by repeatedly and unintentionally not respecting the source material ,or the importance of cultural heritage the myths have for a country.

Some supposedly "harmless" comments i always come across when a Greek or anyone in general dares to criticise the retellings:

That's the tip of the iceberg, because oftentimes that results ,worst case scenario, in harsh criticism and even cyber bullying for no reason.

It’s honestly frustrating to see Greek mythology reduced to comparisons like “Technically, all Greek mythology books are fanfics.” I get the humor, but comments like this oversimplify something deeply cultural and significant. Greek myths were never just “stories for fun”—they were a way of life. They were sacred tales created to make sense of the world: the seasons, the elements, morality, laws, ethics, and even human suffering. Myths reflected the collective consciousness of entire societies.

It’s disheartening to see corporations exploit this misunderstanding, pushing out lazy retellings that slap popular terms like “Hades” or “Aphrodite” onto cheap, unresearched works just to sell books. These stories weren't written to cater to trends—they carried cultural weight, values, and meaning. And no, this isn't gatekeeping mythology; it's about respecting its roots, especially for those of us who come from the very culture these stories were born in.

There’s a fine line between creative interpretation and shallow, profit-driven marketing. By treating these retellings like disposable fanfiction, it reinforces that line being crossed over and over again. Greek mythology deserves better than that—respect its origins and the people who still see it as part of their heritage.

[trans-emet-selch]

I have always found it interesting that the WoL refers to Emet-Selch as not Emet-Selch but as Hades.

Sure, the journal entry is named Emet-Selch. But the first thing written there is that his true name was Hades. You also see this when you describe him to the Minstrel for his extreme trial.

Additionally, the description of the trial alludes to this as well. As when we talk about those we have faced in the First. We talk and refer to him as Hades. Which is also written similarly to the journal. Both of which were described/written by the WoL.

"Hearken unto a requiem for a hero fallen. A man who lived a thousand thousand of our lives clinging desperately to faint hope, never shirking his sworn duty to his long-lost brethren. A man who stood proud and did avow his true name on the threshold of the battle that would see him fall to his rival—the light to quench his shadow. Borrowing liberally from the funereal rites of the Night's Blessed, the minstreling wanderer weaves an elegy in that hero's honor—the tragic-yet-triumphant tale of a man and a battle that ne'er shall be forgotten."

You can also see this in the quest dialogue and while we cannot know the exact words the WoL used (as it is your own intrepretation of it) it is still clear that the WoL didn't refer to Emet-Selch as Emet-Selch they call him Hades.

For the WoL, this is about honoring the man who held steadfast to his ideas. Who fought for his loved ones just as much as the WoL does. Not the Ascian Emet-Selch. To honor and remember Hades as he once lived.

There is however, the matter brought up by the Minstrel: Why did Emet-Selch reveal his name to the Wol?

We do have a simple meta reason why: Hades is a recurring Summon across the Final Fantasy games. Using the name Hades is just natural to do so.

However, let's look at this from an in-lore perspective as well. For which we can look to what he says and speculate.

In the quest, Return to Eulmore, before leaving to Wright you can question Emet-Selch over the information he gives in the cutscene before. Revealing to us that Emet-Selch, along with the rest of the ascians encountered, is merely a title inherited. Their true names are hidden to take up the name and position of their seat.

You can, upon hearing this, ask him for his true name:

His reply to this is rather interesting:

There are a couple of things to note from his response. Firstly, he doesn't outright dismiss telling you his name, only says that eventually he'll reveal it. Of course, this hinges upon you living through your trials in putting down the Lightwardens and containing the light within, or simply dying from other matters.

But this would be disappointing for him. This dialogue ties into what he proposes to you later in The View From Above. To stand with him as allies. He doesn't propose this to the rest of the Scions, just the WoL. He dangles these threads because he wants them to reach back as Azem would. The WoL dying would be disappointing, and he would have to begin his search anew for Azem's soul.

We don't know if Emet-Selch has encountered Azem's shards before the WoL. Maybe he had or maybe he didn't. But it wouldn't change the fact that the WoL's death would have him searching again.

Even as he hurls insults upon the WoL for once more disappointing him, that is still Azem's soul in there. After all, his invitation to seek him out in the Tempest allows you to die with dignity. Everything he ever does is not let himself be alone and reach out to an old friend.

He wants someone else to remember it all. Who is more worthy of remembering it all than Azem?

Emet-Selch is a man of many masks. It is true, and his emotions are ever cloaked, but there are ever glimpses of them throughout Shadowbringers. Especially if it's Azem's soul prodding at him to reveal the layers underneath.

So in his final confrontation, when either the WoL dies or he, wouldn't it not be disappointing to leave the question of who the man underneath is all truly is? Perhaps even this even the last-ditch attempt to have the bearer of Azem's soul remember before either of you dies.

Emet-Selch yearns for his old friend to come back to him and remember. Just as much as he wishes shoulder the burden of remembering all of those that lived before. The WoL bears that last wish and remembers the man who fought for it all underneath as Hades. A man who once lived.

[sheyfu]

yappologist degree holder ༊*·˚

𝗧𝗛𝗘𝗜𝗥 𝗩𝗢𝗜𝗖𝗘𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗘𝗦 about you.

feat. dan heng, aventurine, luocha, jing yuan, gepard, jiaoqiu, argenti and moze (gn!reader)

cw. ooc (very); jiaoqiu talks a lot; [slight] sexual innuendos

note. TRYING SOMETHING NEW GRAHHHHHH i dont think i captured their personalities correctly but 🙏🙏 WE BALL LAMSDOASDI i hope you guys enjoy it >:DD reader is identified as [name] and uses they/them prns (GANG I TRIED MY BEST LAMSDOAMSD) if you see me use fem prns in this piece please tell me <3 lmk if you'd like a pt. 2 w other chars (WOMEN ASHDUASHDUH)

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ DAN HENG

about [name] [name]? what about them?

chat: significant other  [name] is my significant other. aside from the express, they’re one of the only ones keeping me grounded whenever i become… “emo”. their words, not mine.

chat: sleep sleep is something i found hard to come by; everytime i closed my eyes, visions of my past appeared. but now that [name] is by my side, it has become easier to fall to a peaceful rest.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ AVENTURINE

about [name] through a game of life or death is how [name] and i met. hm? unconventional you say? well, it’s one of the reasons why i fell for them.

chat: bet betting has become an integral part of [name] and i’s life. while it’s not a common way of expressing your love for someone, it’s how we do things. whether those bets entail having to have the other run errands or even give your own life up, it sends spikes of adrenaline up our bones resulting in a very fun game of cat and mouse.

chat: loss there are seldom games i lose — and most of the time, i still somehow come out as, partially, a winner. but for some reason, whenever i offer a game of chance against [name], i seem to lose every game we have. i can’t lie, i get somewhat annoyed at how i can’t seem to win a game against them. but then again, life would be dull if it were just an unending series of wins.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ LUOCHA

about [name] [name] is a travelling merchant i’ve come to know over the past years of my journeys as one myself. if i didn't have anyone to rely on before, i've got my dearest to thank now. 

chat: bargain as a merchant, it is important for me to know how to bargain, especially when deals presented to me are severely unfair for me. i must admit, i wasn’t very good at striking fair deals when i was starting off my path as a travelling merchant. but over the years, [name] has taught me a lot about this art. by observing their ways of negotiating, i am now able to attain very fair and valuable trades. 

chat: aromatherapy with [name]’s upbringing as an herb specialist, i get to experience their family’s aromatherapy service. with every scent i am presented with, i am able to clear my mind and slip in the embrace of solitude and calm. 

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ JING YUAN

about [name] [name] is someone who can ease my troubled mind with an embrace; the calm in my storm, the light of my life, and the heart of my soul.

chat: birds when little birds flock to my head, my spouse wonders if im this character called… snow white… *sigh* i am not sure as to who that is due to my upbringing as a military leader — i had no time for these trivial tales. but whenever they tell tales about this... gizney? no.. bizney? not quite right either.. ah yes, disney princess, the intent of me being dressed with robes of royalty are reflected in their eyes.

chat: mimi what was once a kitten, has now grown into a ferocious little lion. i remember when i first got her, [name] was all over the poor thing — smothering it with their love and words of praise — mimi didn’t complain though, she let herself get spoiled. and even up until now, she’s still that same, little spoiled lion she is. 

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ GEPARD

about [name] [name] is my significant other – how i was able to catch their eye? i don’t know. sometimes, i doubt my ability to love, especially with my role as the captain of the silvermane guards. but whenever those thoughts appear in my mind, [name] is there to quell my uneasy mind.

chat: family the way [name] treats lynx makes me feel… funny. i can’t really describe it but my heart beats whenever they entertain my little sister. oh, and don’t even get me started with how serval treats them. *sigh* what should i do to ease this beating heart of mine?

chat: de-stress ways on how to de-stress? well, after a long day i am usually greeted with the embrace of my beloved once i step into our abode… then after that i’m littered with- o-oh.. apologies. i was supposed to give advice. let’s start over again, shall we?

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ JIAOQIU

about [name] [name]? you want to now about them? well you see, as general feixiao’s doctor, it is important for me to have assistants whenever patients visit the clinic in a time when i am tending to duties involving her – this is where my dear [name] comes in. they’ve been with me from the start; us being classmates in the medicinal school we attended and all that. they’re easily one of the very dearest people in my life. most people only know them as my assistant due to their preference of upholding a “low-profile”; of course, i am very much alright with it. but when time comes and they’re ready to reveal our bond to the world, i’ll be the happiest man in the whole entire cosmos.

chat: sweets  oh? you liked the sweets i gave you? well, you have my dear [name] to thank. they’re quite the connoisseur when it comes to making them. speaking of sweets, i forgot to mention we have a pastry shop in aurum alley. if you’re able to drop by, i’ll consider giving you a bundle of sweets, and probably other pastries, free of charge.

chat: coriander whatever you do, please do not hand me a bunch of coriander. i will absolutely lose my mind having to deal with a coriander-obsessed lover. 

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ARGENTI

about [name] my love for [name] transcends even the distant stars of the cosmos. my heart, my soul, and my own being belong to them. 

chat: roses roses are my beloved’s favourite flowers, as they are mine. every morning, i wake from my peaceful slumber to see my dear tending to the beds of flowers with a gentle smile on their face that makes me fall in love all over again. *sigh* i miss them so much, trailblazer.. please bring me back to my ship. i would like to sink into my lover’s embrace at this moment. 

chat: baking my beloved takes time to make my preference for thick baguettes each and every morning. while it warms me to receive such a valuable gift, i am not sure if i am deserving of their unconditional love for i am just a mere knight of beauty, idiotically searching for the goddess i’ve devoted myself to.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ MOZE

about [name] i am [name]’s lover. i am bound to them by fate and affection which is why you shouldn’t come close to them — unless you’d like to request an audience with the weapon in my hand.

chat: shadow [name] gets frightened whenever i appear randomly — jiaoqiu tells me it’s a normal reaction as he too, gets startled whenever i show my face to him. although.. im not quite sure how my sudden appearance has them stunned...

chat: cleaning [name] and i share the same hobby of cleaning. whenever i am relieved of my duties assigned by the general, i watch them- no. they tell me of the rather… unconventional ways of cleaning our abode.

tagging: @ayrastv, @whatisnerotypical, @lia-loves

🐈‍⬛: thank you for reading! reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!

if you'd like to be part of my taglist, please access the gform below! thank you and hope to see you <3

© sheyfu on tumblr

[inseobts]

Hey hey so I absolutely love your writing but I have an idea and I need you to kinda hear me out… so basically law x f!reader but BUT she’s kaidos daughter GASP (that gasp was totally real) but she hides it but the find out and uh that’s kinda it but maybe like kinemon and the others of the Kouzuki know her somehow (maybe by a birth mark or her eyes or something). So yeah 😋

Shadows of the Dragon

law × reader

a/n: bestie, I spent all morning writing this instead of looking for a job lmaooo I was really into it ngl

words count: 6.3k

tags: wano arc spoilers, reader is kaido’s daughter, first meeting, fluff, slow burn(?)

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The battle for Onigashima has already begun.

Explosions echo through the halls. Screams, smoke, clashing steel. The floor shakes beneath your feet as you weave through the chaos, hood low over your face. You’re not meant to be here. If Kaido knew, you’d be caged.

Just like Yamato was.

Your lungs burn as you duck into the shadows behind a cracked pillar. The air tastes like ash and blood. You scan the fight ahead, Beasts Pirates swarming a small group.

At the center: Trafalgar Law.

He’s calm, calculating, his sword slicing clean arcs through the crowd. But there’s too many. One slips past his line of sight, a massive axe raised behind him.

You don’t hesitate.

Your blade flashes, a quick, clean throw. It hits the attacker’s shoulder, knocking him off balance before Law even knows he was there.

He turns instantly, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye. But you’re already gone, disappearing into smoke and stone like you were never there.

“Someone’s following me” Law mutters minutes later, once the fight thins out. Bepo tilts his head.

“An enemy?”

“…Not sure.”

He looks toward the shadows where you linger, high above on the rafters. Watching. Quiet.

You saved him. You didn’t have to. And now you can’t stop watching him.

That night, as the battle calms down, you leave another Beast Pirate unconscious behind.

Law appears near the crates just moments later. He sees the body, then the knife still buried in the man’s leg. Same kind of blade as before.

He kneels down, inspecting it “You again.”

You smile from the darkness above, unseen.

The next day.

“You know someone’s been helping us,” Law tells the others “Takes out enemies before we see them. Gets in and out like a ghost.”

Momonosuke frowns “A spy?”

“Could be,” Law says “But whoever it is, they’re not with Kaido’s soldiers.”

Kin’emon stiffens at that. His eyes flash toward the shadows “Did you say… ghostlike?”

Law looks over “Yeah.”

Kin’emon’s face darkens “There is an old tale… of a girl with a dragon’s eyes. One who walks through Wano like smoke. Seen, but never caught.”

“Sounds like a myth.” Law says.

Kin’emon shakes his head “Not a myth. A warning.”

You press your back to the wall, heartbeat rising.

They’re starting to notice you. But you can’t stop now. Not until Kaido falls.

Later on you start to pay more attention and you think you’ve gotten better at hiding. But Trafalgar Law is better at catching.

“Room.”

His voice is quiet, but the pressure shifts.

Before you can leap away, you feel the strange ripple in the air, the pull of his power.

Shambles.

The space around you blinks, your feet leave the ground.

You land hard on stone, the shadows gone, replaced by firelight.

You freeze.

He’s already standing there, arms crossed, sword sheathed at his side. Calm, unreadable.

“Not bad,” he says “You lasted longer than I thought.”

You say nothing, the hood still covering your face. Your heart hammers in your chest. You didn’t expect this.

He steps closer, slow and deliberate “You’ve been following me since the inner gate. Took down five of Kaido’s men without being seen. Saved me twice.” He tilts his head “Why?”

You grip the edge of your cloak tighter.

“I don’t owe you an answer.”

“You do if you want to leave.”

You look past him. The door is blocked. No windows. Just firelight, stone, and the surgeon of death with those piercing eyes.

“I’m not your enemy” you say, voice steady but low.

“That’s not an answer” he replies.

His tone isn’t cruel. It’s precise. Focused. He’s dissecting you with words the same way he would with a scalpel. Slowly. Carefully.

You shift your stance, weight toward your heel, just in case.

Law’s eyes flick down for a split second. He notices.

“You’re not used to being cornered,” he says “You don’t like it.”

“Who does?” you mutter.

He steps closer, now only a few feet away. You can see the cut across his brow, half-healed. You almost patched it yourself... almost. But you stayed hidden, like always.

“I don’t like mysteries in the middle of a war,” he says “Especially ones that move like assassins and carry Kaido’s blades.”

You stiffen. Just slightly. Enough for him to notice.

He watches you, eyes narrowing “You’re not with him.”

You hesitate.

“I’m not” you say.

“But you know him.”

That lands like a knife between your ribs. You don’t speak. Can’t.

He stares, then slowly lifts a hand but not threatening, just… thoughtful.

“Let me guess,” he murmurs “You’re not one of his soldiers. But you move like someone who trained. Someone who had to hide.”

He pauses.

“You’re someone close to him.”

Your heart kicks harder. Your hand twitches toward your hood.

He notices everything.

“I won’t say it,” he adds “But you’re going to have to. Eventually.”

You step back, the fire behind you casting long shadows “I’ve done more for your side than you know.”

“Then say it.”

“No.”

He sighs through his nose “Then take off the hood.”

You don’t move.

“I won’t force you,” he says “But if you want me to trust you, I need a face.”

A long beat of silence stretches between you.

Then, finally you slowly lift your hands and pull the hood back.

Your hair spills down. Your face is lit by firelight. And your eyes, Dragon gold. Just like Kaido’s.

Law freezes.

His expression doesn’t change, but you feel his silence is sharp now. Like something just snapped into place.

You say quietly, “Now you know.”

He doesn’t say anything. Not at first.

Then he speaks “…You’re his daughter.”

You flinch.

“I’m not him,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out “I don’t fight for him. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

Law’s jaw flexes. His eyes narrow. You can tell he’s thinking fast, too fast.

“You expect me to believe that Kaido’s daughter, his blood, is sneaking around, saving my life and stabbing his men in the back?”

You lift your chin “I never chose him.”

He’s silent again. The fire crackles behind you.

“Yamato knows,” you add “I saw him with your group and he knows who I am. He knows what I’ve done.”

“Then why hide?”

“Because if Kaido finds out I’m against him…” You shake your head “I won’t get another chance. And neither will anyone else. I'm not as strong as Yamato.”

He stares at you for a long time. You’re sure he’s going to walk away. Or call you a liar. Or worse.

But then he mutters “…You’re reckless.”

You blink “What?”

“Reckless.” he repeats “And lucky I didn’t stab you the first night.”

You give a breathless laugh, more from relief than humor “You tried.”

He smirks faintly “I missed on purpose.”

You roll your eyes “Sure you did.”

He steps back, finally giving you room to breathe “You’re staying close to me now. No more hiding.”

You hesitate “You trust me?”

“Not yet... not fully.” he says flatly “But I’m curious.”

After that he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches.

You shift under the weight of it, but keep your chin up. You’ve already shown him too much.

“So,” he finally says, voice quiet, flat, “you can throw a blade, take down five men without being heard, and disappear into smoke.”

He tilts his head.

“Were you trained as an assassin?”

You snort, soft and bitter “No.”

He arches a brow.

“An obedient wife who had to learn how to survive.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the twitch in his jaw. The faint disbelief.

“…What?”

“That’s what I was trained to be,” you say, eyes fixed on the flames “Kaido wanted me to be a perfect bride. Pretty. Polite. Silent. Loyal.”

You shrug like it doesn’t matter, even though it burns like hell.

“They taught me how to move without being noticed. To listen more than speak. To smile even when I hated it.” You pause, voice low “It made it easy to sneak around later, though.”

He’s quiet. Watching you too closely now.

He says, “Then you’re surprisingly good at throwing knives.”

You let out a short laugh “Yamato taught me that. In secret. He said if I was going to be caged, I should at least know how to stab the lock.”

That earns a very slight, very rare pull of a smirk from Law. It fades fast.

“Do you know who he wanted you to marry?” he asks.

You glance at him, just for a moment “Someone powerful. Someone Kaido could use. It never got that far.”

“Why not?”

“Because I disappeared.”

You watch him now. The way his gaze drops to the stone floor for a second, like he’s putting together pieces you can’t see.

“And now you’re fighting against him,” he says “From the shadows.”

“It’s the only place I can do anything.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, quietly “Until now.”

You blink “What do you mean?”

“You’re not in the shadows anymore.” His voice is soft, but steady “You showed me your face. That means you’re in it now. With us. Whether you like it or not.”

You swallow.

“I didn’t save you to join your army.”

“No,” he agrees “But you saved me anyway.”

The fire pops. His gaze softens, not much, but enough to make your stomach twist.

“You’re not what I expected" he murmurs.

“Good or bad?”

He considers.

“…Confusing.”

You huff a quiet laugh “That’s fair.”

He steps away, hands in his pockets now, a casualness that’s almost too calculated.

“We leave at dawn. We’re moving to the eastern wing. I want you close.”

Your brows lift “What, no cages? No cuffs?”

“You’d just slip them.” He glances back at you “Besides, I already know you’re dangerous.”

You arch a brow “And?”

He shrugs, dry as ever “So am I.”

You’re walking a few paces behind Law, half-shrouded by the long corridor shadows of the eastern wing. The firelight makes your cloak shimmer at the edges, but your hood is back now. He insisted on it.

He doesn’t speak as you move, he’s not much of a talker unless he’s annoyed or amused. Right now, he’s somewhere in between.

And then, around the corner, you both stop.

Yamato stands at the end of the hall, bandaged and panting, having just shoved open a heavy side door. Behind him, Kin’emon and Momonosuke follow close.

“Law! There you are—” Yamato pauses as soon as his eyes land on you.

The whole corridor stills.

You feel their gazes like blades. Momonosuke blinks, trying to place you. Kin’emon’s eyes narrow, sharp with memory.

And Yamato smiles.

“You told him” he says, voice low with something like relief.

Law glances at you, then back at Yamato “You knew?”

Yamato steps forward, nodding “She’s been helping from the start. Since the capital. I only found out a few months ago, but I kept quiet because I know that she likes to hide.”

Kin’emon steps forward now, slowly “Wait…”

You tense as his eyes roam over you, his expression shifting from suspicion to something more ancient, recognition.

“The birthmark…” he murmurs, eyes locking on the base of your neck.

You instinctively reach to cover it.

“You were a child, around my age.” he says “I saw you once. During a peace talk… when dad... Oden was still alive.”

Your breath catches.

“I thought you were just a servant. But I remember your eyes.”

Momonosuke stares at you, wide-eyed “She’s Kaido’s daughter?”

“She is,” Yamato answers for you, calm but firm “But she’s not like him.”

Law stays quiet through all of it. Watching you. While you lower yuo head to not face them.

Yamato faces Kin’emon and Momo “She never supported him,” he says “She kept me safe. Snuck food to villages, warned people before attacks. She hid it for years. But she was always there, helping everyone but herself.”

Momonosuke steps behind Kin’emon, still processing. But Kin’emon… he lowers his sword.

“If what Yamato says is true… then I owe you an apology.”

You blink “Why?”

“For not helping you leave,” he says “For walking past a child in chains and doing nothing.”

That stings more than you expect.

Yamato’s hand rests gently on your shoulder “She’s with us now,” he says “She wants Kaido gone as much as we do.”

Law finally speaks, voice as dry as usual “She’s good at hiding. Quiet as a whisper. But she throws knives like she means it.”

Kin’emon raises a brow.

“She’s also very stubborn, I'd say.” Law adds.

You glare at him “Says the man who cornered me into a room with his powers.”

“You were being annoying” he replies flatly.

“You were being slow.”

Momonosuke blinks between the two of you “Are… are they flirting?”

Yamato groans “Oh no.”

Law just turns and keeps walking “We move in twenty minutes. Don’t fall behind, princess.”

You hiss under your breath, chasing after him “Don’t call me that.”

But he just smirks without looking back.

The room they gather in is small.

You stand near the edge, half-shadowed again, cloak pulled tighter. Law’s somewhere behind you, flipping his blade open and closed in that restless way he does when he’s thinking too hard.

Then the door slams open.

Luffy barrels in followed by Zoro, Killer, and an annoyed-looking Eustass Kidd. They’re dust-covered, blood-smeared, and loud.

“Yo! Law!” Luffy waves like they’re at a barbecue instead of the middle of a war “We just trashed another floor!”

“Obviously” Law mutters, but doesn’t look up.

Then Luffy spots you.

He stops walking.

“Eh? Who’s that?”

You shift, not answering. Yamato clears his throat behind you, ready to explain. But Luffy just beams.

“Oh! Is she your girlfriend or something?”

Law doesn’t even blink “No.”

“Really?” Kidd snorts, arms crossed “You’re keeping her that close and glaring at us like that, but she’s not your girlfriend?”

“I’m glaring because you’re way too loud” Law deadpans.

Zoro eyes you, a flicker of curiosity behind his boredom “She’s been following us, right? I saw her take out two Beast Pirates before anyone noticed.”

“She’s Kaido’s daughter” Law says bluntly, like he’s ripping off a bandage.

The room goes silent.

Even Luffy blinks.

“…Eh?”

You sigh and step forward, lifting your chin “Technically. I didn’t sign up for it.”

Kidd’s eyes narrow “You’re serious?”

Yamato nods “She’s been on our side the whole time. She’s the one who warned the capital two nights ago.”

Zoro whistles low “Well, shit.”

Luffy grins wide again “That’s awesome!”

You blink “You’re not… mad?”

“Why would I be?” he says, confused “You’re fighting him too, right?”

“…Yes.”

“Then you’re with us.”

Simple as that.

Law rolls his eyes “Don’t let him fool you. He always accepts people way too easily.”

Luffy shrugs “I like her.”

You stare at him, stunned. No suspicion. No fear. Just… acceptance. Like it’s normal to welcome the daughter of the enemy with a smile and an outstretched hand.

“Thanks?” you say softly, unsure how to react.

Then Kidd rolls his eyes and mutters, “Still sounds like you picked a girlfriend up mid-war.”

Law turns to him, voice flat “Do you want to be shambled into the ocean?”

You cover a laugh with your hand.

Zoro smirks “He’s definitely keeping you close. That’s not nothing.”

“Shut up.” Law mutters.

“You’re blushing!” Luffy points out.

“I will kill you.”

“I ship it.” Yamato adds unhelpfully.

Killer says nothing, but you’re pretty sure he snorts behind the mask.

You shake your head, hiding a smile you didn’t expect to have today. It feels like chaos, but not the kind you were raised in. It’s lighter. War still rages outside, but here you can finally breathe.

And maybe… fight for something more than just survival.

The storm of battle breaks again not long after.

Steel rings out, smoke choking the air as the ground trembles beneath the weight of clashing armies. Thunder crashes overhead.

You stay close to the walls, in the dark, your steps silent, your blade lighter than air.

This is where you belong.

Not at the front. Not swinging heavy weapons like Yamato. Not rallying the rebels with a captain’s call.

No. You were trained to be invisible. To listen. To vanish. And you’re good at it.

You slip past a Beast Pirate without a sound, catching the edge of his weapon with your cloak as you pass, he stumbles, confused, then goes still as a blade brushes his throat. Yours.

One down.

You never linger. Never let them see your face.

From your perch on a rooftop beam, you watch the others fight below.

Luffy is chaos incarnate, leaping from debris to debris, fists flying. Zoro and Killer carve through the crowd, Kid hurling steel like it’s an extension of his rage.

And then there’s Law, controlled. Deadly. Calling out “Room” like a calm god of precision. You watch his fingers flick and another soldier vanishes mid-swing.

He doesn’t look at you, but you know he knows where you are.

He always does.

But something’s shifting. You feel it in the way Kaido’s men move. Sharper. Slower. Looking up. Behind. Whispering.

They’ve noticed.

You drop behind a wall and press your back against the stone.

Two soldiers stand nearby, speaking low.

“…Too many of us gone too fast” one says “No one saw who did it.”

“She’s here,” the other growls “The girl. His daughter.”

Your breath catches.

“They say she’s with the rebels now.”

“She wouldn’t. He loves her.”

“He doesn’t love anything. You know that.”

A pause.

“If she’s here, and she’s helping them... we’re supposed to kill her, right?”

“…Only if we’re sure. But we better capture her alive, or if we kill her at least make it look like an accident. Don't go ma—”

You’re already gone before they finish the sentence.

Your lungs are tight, your movements sharper than before. Every shadow feels thinner. Every glance feels aimed.

They’re looking now. Not for a fighter. Not for a rebel.

They’re looking for you.

A hand reaches from behind a torn banner, grabbing your wrist.

You twist, knife in your palm, ready to fight.

“Easy.” It’s Law.

His fingers tighten around your wrist just enough to still you. His voice is low, close to your ear “They’re starting to talk.”

“I heard” you breathe.

His eyes flick toward the rooftops “We need to move. If they know you’re here, they’ll send someone.”

“They won’t be sure.”

He stares at you “You don't know how strong some of them are.”

You glare “And you don’t know me.”

He smirks faintly “That’s why I’m keeping an eye on you.”

You pull away, stepping back into the shadow “Then keep up.”

And just like that, you vanish again. But now, they’re hunting you.

You keep your distance, wait to strike when it’s necessary. And then, it happens.

You’re climbing a rickety scaffold to get a better vantage point on the battlefield when a voice, sharp and familiar, cuts through the noise.

“There! There she is!”

Your blood runs cold.

You whirl around just in time to see a Beast Pirate, a low-level soldier, pointing directly at you from across the field. His eyes widen with recognition, then narrow with intent.

“There she is!” he shouts again “Kaido’s daughter!”

A sickening rush of heat floods your chest as the world seems to slow down for a moment.

You don’t think. You react.

In an instant, your hand finds your blade, and you spring forward, vanishing behind a pile of debris.

They saw me.

Your heart pounds as you look for an exit. Somewhere, far down the hall, you see movement, more men. More eyes.

But this time, you’re not just running. You’re not just hiding.

You’re being hunted.

Your mind races, trying to find the quickest escape route, but the sound of footsteps behind you grows louder. They’re closing in.

“You’re not getting away, princess” the Beast Pirate shouts, his voice thick with malice.

Then, a voice, so familiar, so close, cuts through the tension.

“Room.”

The air around you shifts in an instant. A pull. A tug. A lurch.

The ground beneath your feet vanishes, and the next thing you know, you’re thrown sideways, but somewhere else entirely. A shadowy corner of the battlefield, far from the soldiers who are still scrambling.

Law stands over you, the same sharp, unreadable expression on his face.

He doesn’t ask questions. Just holds a hand out to help you up “You good?”

You nod, gasping for air, your heart still hammering in your chest.

“Thanks” you manage, your voice a little too thin. You push yourself to your feet, checking over your shoulder.

He looks behind you, eyes narrowing “They didn’t see you slip away. For now.”

“But they know. They’re coming for me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his hand rests on his sword as if it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

“We need to move” he says quietly, pulling you along behind him.

You glance back, but it’s already too late. The soldiers you just outran are regrouping.

And then, you hear it.

“I’ve seen her!” the Beast Pirate shouts “Kaido’s daughter’s here! She’s helping the rebels!”

The words pierce through the noise like a lightning strike.

“You need to go tell Kaido.” another pirate shouts, clearly panicking “Now!”

Your blood runs cold.

Law’s grip tightens on your wrist “Stay close.”

You’re both moving again, but now, it’s not just about escaping. It’s about buying time.

“Shambles.” Law snaps his fingers again, his power yanking you both forward, but this time, it’s a wider distance. You’re thrown through the air, landing against the stone wall of a nearby ruin. But you’re still not safe.

The Beast Pirates are catching up.

You glance back toward Law “You know they won’t stop looking for me now.”

He nods once “I know. That’s why we don’t stop either.”

He strides forward, facing the group of pirates charging in your direction. They’re only seconds away from being on you.

You feel the familiar panic start to settle in, but you force it down. You know how to fight in the shadows, even when you can’t be hidden.

You swipe a hand to your side, pulling out a dagger. Law’s eyes flick to it, and a rare smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“You know, you’re not as bad as I thought, princess” he says, voice dry.

“Right now, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t call me that” you mutter under your breath.

He doesn’t answer, only moves to block the advancing soldiers, his sword raised with calculated menace.

One of them steps forward, eyes gleaming as he sneers at you “You're in the middle of the enemy camp. You think you’ll survive this? You think he alone can protect you agaist all of us?”

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, all you can see are shadows.

“I don’t need to be protected and I don't care to survive anymore.” you murmur, and then, you move.

The soldiers charge forward, teeth gritted, weapons drawn. They must think you’re just a soft girl trained to be a wife, that somehow you found someone who protected you all this time.

They’re wrong.

You’re quick, faster than they expect. One rushes you, sword raised, and you sidestep him in a fluid motion. A twist of your wrist, a flash of silver, and the soldier crumples in silence.

Next.

Law’s already engaged, slicing through the soldiers with his surgical precision. He doesn’t need to think about it. Just moves, calm and cold, his blade cutting through the air with deadly accuracy. His power flicks like an extension of his body, ripping through the battlefield with ease.

“Room” he mutters, and in an instant, a soldier who thought he was safe is yanked off his feet and flung into the distance. Law turns toward you with a sharp glance “You’re doing well, princess.”

You twist, knocking the sword of another soldier out of his hand with a well-placed strike “I told you not to call me that!”

He raises an eyebrow as he cuts down another pirate “What’s the matter, princess? I thought you liked the title.”

“I don’t!” You lash out with a quick thrust, taking down another attacker “Don’t call me that!”

He watches you for a moment as you fight, the sword flashes in your hand a blur of motion. But instead of teasing you more, he sidesteps an incoming blow and slides beside you, his voice quieter now “Why?”

The question isn’t mocking. He’s genuinely curious, and for the first time, you can feel the weight of his attention on you. The question hangs in the air, a rare moment of understanding between the chaos.

Your breath catches as you dodge another blow. The soldier’s eyes widen in surprise when you duck, slipping into the shadows just as you’ve been trained. You’re not done yet.

You drop the soldier with a swift kick to the ribs.

Law’s voice follows you through the smoke and dust “You’ve told me to stop calling you that. Why?”

You hesitate for a moment, turning to him as the last of the soldiers scatter in defeat. The heavy weight of the title, the one that’s been used to cage you your entire life, weighs on your tongue.

You take a breath “Because that’s all they’ve ever called me. Kaido’s princess. His daughter.” Your voice cracks slightly, and you quickly steady it “I’m not a princess. I’m just… me. I’m not his.”

The words hang in the air like a challenge to the ground beneath you. For the first time, Law’s sharp gaze softens just a little. He stops for a moment, looking at you, his brow furrowing in thought.

“I’m sorry” he says, his voice quieter than before. The usual teasing is gone.

You’re not used to hearing that from anyone.

You give a curt nod and start walking again, ignoring the weight that still clings to your chest. You don’t need his pity. You don’t want it.

But you’re not used to this either, someone recognizing that you’re more than what others called you. Not Kaido’s daughter. Not some “princess”.

“Let’s just finish this,” you say, pushing forward, your eyes scanning the shadows “They’ll be back. More of them.”

Law watches you for a beat longer, then falls in step beside you, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze “Right.”

You don’t know what’s different now, whether it’s the way you both move in sync or the fact that Law’s stopped calling you “princess” with his usual sarcastic grin, but you know it’s not the same as before.

Not anymore.

The rooftop battle is chaos.

You hide just behind a crumbling pillar, smoke curling around your feet. Lightning flashes above the shattered remains of Onigashima’s highest level, casting jagged light over everything. You can barely breathe through the thick air, heat, ash, blood.

Luffy’s up front, panting hard but still standing.

Kidd is yelling something, hurling twisted metal with wild force. Killer and Zoro are bleeding but moving, their blades catching firelight.

And Law is precise. Silent. His blade is slick with sweat, his coat scorched and fluttering with each blast of energy, but he never stops. His voice is calm, clipped.

You stay hidden. He told you to.

“Don’t show yourself” he said back before the fight began “You’re not ready for this kind of power. And if Kaido sees you…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

So you wait. You watch. And it’s killing you. Because they’re losing.

Zoro’s down on one knee. Luffy coughs blood. Kidd takes a brutal hit to the ribs and staggers, cursing.

And Kaido laughs.

“Pathetic,” the dragon snarls, his voice cracking the sky “You ants dare challenge me?”

He raises his kanabo, slamming it into the stone with earth-shattering force.

You don’t even think.

You move.

You’re in front of Law before you realize it. Blades drawn. Eyes locked on Kaido.

He sees you. And he knows.

The laughter stops.

Kaido’s gaze sharpens like a blade “You.”

The silence cuts deeper than the wind.

“My daughter.”

Law’s head snaps toward you, eyes wide “No!”

But it’s too late.

Kaido takes one slow step forward, the storm above him crackling “You’ve been hiding behind them,” he growls “Lurking like a coward.”

You hold your ground “I’m not your daughter.”

That makes him snarl. The kanabo swings up, glowing with thunder.

“I gave you everything, and this is how you repay me?” His voice booms like thunder cracking stone “I should’ve thrown you away like you brother. Thought you were smarter.”

Your stomach twists but you don’t move.

You hear Law behind you “Get back.”

“No” you whisper.

Kaido lunges. The ground shatters.

And then—“ROOM.”

One second, you’re standing in front of a god. The next you’re nowhere.

The battlefield is gone. The air is cold. You’re lost somewhere far from the battle, knees hitting the ground as you fall from the jolt of his power.

You look around, eyes wide “Why?!”

You're alone.

You keep walking and walking, until you see Kidd and Law stand half-collapsed in the wreckage of victory, bruised and bloodied and barely alive.

You run to him.

“Law!”

He looks up and the flicker of relief in his eyes almost breaks you.

You drop to your knees beside him, checking his pulse, your hands already on his shoulder, trying to stop the bleeding.

Kidd, lying flat in the rubble nearby, groans “Hahh… damn… this hurts…”

You ignore him, completely focused on Law.

Kidd glances over and smirks through cracked lips “Tch. So what, Law? Your girlfriend gonna patch you up, cry a little?”

Law glares “Shut up, Kidd.”

You roll your eyes, already ripping fabric for bandages “Don’t tempt me to throw a rock at your face.”

“You see?” Law mutters, eyes fluttering half-shut “Not a princess.”

You snort softly, pressing your palm to his chest to keep him still “Damn right I’m not.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just lets you touch him. Lets you stay.

And for once, you’re not in the shadows. You’re right here, with him.

You don’t want to leave him.

You glance up as one of Law’s crewmates rushes over, panting and wide-eyed.

“Captain!”

You stand immediately “He needs stitches. Internal bleeding, maybe more.”

“I—I’ll take care of him,” the Heart Pirate stammers, already pulling out medical supplies.

Law grabs your wrist before you can move away. His fingers are weak, but his grip is firm.

“Don’t disappear” he mutters.

You offer him the smallest smile “Not this time.”

Then you let go, and walk away.

The celebrations stretch on for hours.

Wano is free. The skies are clear. Kaido’s rule is shattered. And for the first time in years, you breathe without watching your back.

You’re standing by a balcony overlooking the lanterns floating up into the sky, your hair loose, a small drink in your hand. The laughter from the festival below rises with the breeze.

Yamato appears beside you, sliding you a grin as he leans on the railing.

“Still not used to this,” you say, looking up at the stars “No shadows. No running.”

He nudges you gently with his shoulder “Told you we’d get here.”

You smile. You’d never had a chance to just be with your brother. Not like this. Not in peace.

You both stand in quiet for a moment, letting the warmth settle.

Then Yamato glances over your shoulder, eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Well, I’m gonna go… talk to Momo. Alone...” he says casually “Very alone. Don’t follow me.”

You frown “What?”

Then you hear the footsteps behind you.

You turn and Law is there.

Cleaned up, bandaged, coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak. Tired, but standing. Breathing. Alive.

Yamato’s already halfway down the stairs, wearing that dumb knowing smirk.

Law stops a few feet away from you. Hands in his pockets. Watching you with that unreadable stare.

You speak first “I didn’t think you’d be up already.”

He shrugs “Didn’t want to waste time.”

You shift your weight, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands “You shouldn’t push yourself.”

“Not pushing.” He takes a step closer “Looking.”

You tilt your head “For what?”

Law pauses.

Then he softly says “For you.”

Your breath catches just slightly.

He glances out toward the lanterns, jaw clenched like he’s thinking too hard about what he’s about to say.

“I’m not good at this,” he mutters “Saying things.”

“I noticed.”

He gives you a dry look.

You let him continue.

“I’ve had enough of people who only look useful when they’re strong.” he says “That’s not you. You’re not strong the way people expect, but you still held your ground. Even when it nearly got you killed.”

You don’t respond. Just… listen.

He shifts, eyes flicking to yours “I could use someone like that on my crew.”

You blink “What?”

Law exhales, as if this was harder than any battle he’s fought “Join me.”

You stare at him, stunned.

“You don’t belong here” he says, quietly now “You’re free. Don’t waste it standing still.”

Your heart thuds hard in your chest. Because you hadn’t even let yourself dream that far ahead. But the idea of being with his crew, the sea, freedom, it blooms fast in your chest, warm and terrifying and right.

You finally ask, softly, “And what would I be to you? On your crew?”

Law’s mouth curves just slightly. Not a smile, not yet, but something close.

“Not a princess,” he says “That’s for sure.”

You don’t sleep much.

Your mind buzzes with Law’s words, your heart thudding with something between fear and excitement. You lie in the quiet room the Kozuki retainers offered you, eyes on the wooden ceiling.

Freedom is loud in your chest.

By dawn, you’ve made your decision.

Yamato nearly chokes on his rice ball when you tell him.

“You’re what?!”

You grin “I’m joining Law’s crew.”

He blinks like he misheard you “Law’s? The grumpy one with the resting death glare? Does he know??”

You laugh “Yeah. That one. And of course he knows, he's the one who asked me to.”

“Wow.” He leans back, genuinely stunned “I mean, I knew something was going on between you... but… joining his crew? Really?”

You nod.

Yamato grins, proud and a little sad all at once “So you’re finally leaving Wano.”

You look out over the now peaceful land. Lanterns still float in the breeze. The smoke of war is gone.

“I’ve hidden here long enough...” you say “It’s time.”

He claps a hand on your shoulder “Then go. Find your freedom. You earned it.”

The samurai don’t question your choice. They bow, grateful and respectful, and offer quiet farewells. Kin’emon even presses a small wrapped charm into your hand.

“For protection,” he says “Not that you’ll need it.”

You smile and thank him with a bow.

The Polar Tang is docked just off the coast, preparing for departure. The sun glints off its yellow hull, and the crew bustles around the deck, laughing, loading crates, checking gear.

You approach, a little hesitant until a loud voice cuts the air.

“Oi, captain!” Bepo calls from the deck, waving wildly “She’s here!”

Law steps out from the lower deck, coat swinging behind him. He’s in full command mode again, but when he sees you, something shifts in his eyes.

He meets you at the dock, hands in his pockets.

“You’re sure?” he asks.

You smirk “I’m already packed.”

That earns a short, quiet chuckle from him “Good.”

He turns and gestures to the ship “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”

You climb aboard, the sea breeze rushing against your skin, the world stretching wide in front of you.

“This,” Law says as the Heart Pirates pause to stare, “is our newest crewmate.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Bepo cheers “Welcome aboard!”

Shachi whistles “Whoa, the boss brought back a pretty one.”

You laugh, already feeling the knot in your chest loosen. Law just rubs the bridge of his nose.

But just then, Penguin glances at you with a smirk, looking at Law.

“So… she’s the one?” he asks, raising an eyebrow “The one Kidd and Luffy were talking about? Your girlfriend?”

The words hang in the air for a moment, and Law freezes. His eyes narrow, a small frown forming.

“What?” Law mutters, his voice barely above a growl.

Penguin shrugs “Well, they seemed to think so.”

Law’s frustration is clear, and you can’t help but laugh a little, leaning against the ship’s railing “It’s not like that,” Law says, brushing his hair out of his face “We’re not—”

“You’re not?” Shachi cuts in, grinning “Then why were you looking so worried she wouldn’t join us, captain?”

Bepo joins in, his innocent smile hiding the teasing tone “Yeah, captain, never saw you being so obviously anxious… Sounds like you’ve got a thing for her.”

Law glares at them all, his face flushed with frustration “I’m not doing this” he says, rubbing his temples.

The crew laughs. You, however, are enjoying the banter, crossing your arms and smiling to yourself.

Law sighs heavily, looking at you like you’re both cursed and a blessing “I’m really starting to regret bringing her here” he mutters under his breath, but you can hear it clearly.

“Yeah, sure,” you say, laughing softly “Regret it all you want… captain.”

Penguin grins at Law one more time “Hey, she is cute, captain. You could do worse.”

Law just shakes his head in defeat, not bothering to argue anymore “Can we please just get to work?”

You chuckle, feeling a warmth in your chest. Even with all the teasing, it’s clear to you that the crew already sees you as part of their family. And while Law’s still trying to keep his composure, there’s a quiet part of you that feels like maybe this is the place you’ve been searching for.

[wheeloffortune-design]

Mrs. Victoria buys a brothel

a novel by Talhí Briones

1865, United States— It took thirty years and a dislocated arm for Victoria to leave her abusive husband. Heartbroken, she has to choose her own life over the hope of ever seeing her son again. She escapes the manor in the dead of night, only bringing with her a white wedding dress.

She ends up in Swainsburg, a minuscule town in Wyoming, where she’s adopted by the local prostitutes. To save them from expulsion, she buys the building and learns that in these parts, entertainment is worth more than gold. It’s almost easy, even fun, to organize piano recitals and cancan shows for the cowboys of the area, but being a Madam comes with responsibilities and dangers she isn’t ready to face. Her husband, after all, has contacts everywhere.

It’s hard to navigate the delicate tensions between respectable ladies and whores, between white society and the ‘others.’ Her new friends are women who carved their place in this merciless life; people who, like her, ended up in Swainsburg when they got tired of running.

Victoria doesn’t notice, can’t even imagine the possibility; but she falls in love. The townfolk say the widow Díaz is strange, but Natane is actually incredibly awkward, kind, and very lonely. Victoria has no name for this burning friendship, but the feeling grows and demands to be acknowledged.

This is a story about women who age, gossip, drink, love... and help you hide the body of your dead husband.

---

Launch: May 20th, 2025

Here are some places you can order the book:

Barnes and Noble

Indigo Canada

Amazon.com

Renaud-Bray

FNAC

Get the e-book directly from the publisher, helping me get a bigger portion of the royalties.

You can also ask for it at any local bookstore or library :)

---

Kickstarter news

The kickstarter for Mrs. Victoria buys a brothel managed to reach more than 350 backers! All the reach goals were unlocked in 48h!

If you bought a physical copy of the novel on kickstarter, it's on its way!

The e-books will be sent to kickstarter backers during the week of May 5th, 2025.

Tales of Swainsburg, a series of short-stories set in the universe of Mrs. Victoria buys a brothel, will be sent in August 2025.

An audiobook will be produced and sent to kickstarted backers, date to be determined.

All those books on their way to their future readers ❤️

---

Discord channel

Want to read along with everyone else? We have chatrooms specifically tailored to share your reactions with other readers without spoiling the rest of the story.

Link to the discord channel

---

FAQ

- Is this book in English of French?

English :) My previous books were in French, but this kne was written directly in English.

- Is this an illustrated book?

There are chapter headers drawn by me, and illustrated maps. All the other illustrations you see online are not included in the book, I just like to draw my girls.

- Is this self-published?

No, it's traditionally published by Renaissance Press, who focus on printing diverse Canadian voices.

- What is Tales of Swainsburg?

A collection of short-stories I am currently writing, set in the universe of Mrs. Victoria buys a brothel, centering various characters with interesting backgrounds. Tales of Swainsburg will be sent as an e-book to all corresponding kickstarter backers, and as a printed paperback to everyone who backed the higher tiers. After, Tales of Swainsburg will be available to buy as an e-book. I do not yet know if a printed paperback version will be available to the general public.

- Will there be an audiobook?

Yes! The kickstarter reached enough money to let us produce a professional audiobook. We have no planned release date for the moment, but I will announce it. Corresponding kickstarter backers who receive it automatically.

- Can I get a hardcover?

A number of hardcovers were produced exclusively for the kickstarter, backers will be receiving them. There's a number of them left, but we still don't know where/how we're going to sell them. Bookstores will only sell the paperback version.

- Can I buy your art?

Not for the moment, but I do want to reopen my online store. Any updates will be posted here.

---

You loved the book? You think other people will love it? You want to promote queer stories and bipoc authors? Don't hesitate to talk about this book with your people!

❤️