#is this a death that will matter for the rest of this character's existence?

[a99jazzybean]

HIIIII! I just binge read your date everything fics and I love them! May i ask for yet another Chance fic, where y/n is familiar with g&g and used to play with their friends from time to time - using his dice of course! And... y/n used to kiss the piece for the "lucky shot", doesn't matter if it worked or not. So now, with Skylars help, y/n can speak with him and even play a session or two and it is so much fun! But she is completely oblivious to the fact that he remembers every time y/ns lips touched his dice-y form and each time he silently yearns for her lips to touch him once again... The rest is up to you, lots of love!

I love this prompt so much! Thank you for the request!

With a Taste of Your Lips...

synop: You and Chance decide to play another session of G&G. Little do you know, a special tradition of yours has him feeling all sorts of hot and bothered. i.e. You discover Chance can feel when you kiss his die.

words: 4.7K

includes: chancexfem!reader, ttrpg playing, making out, fondling an object?, cumming untouched kinda, smut

a/n: I might make a part 2 to this one, thoughts? Also, its got smut. No minors!

“You feel yourself growing weaker. The spell the lich cast on you drains your life force. All of your comrades are downed. You are their final hope.” Your GM stares you down, brow raised. “What would you like to do?”

Looking around the table you see all of your friends' faces are grim. All eyes are on you. Taking a look at the battlemap before you, your eyes widened. 

“Past the cliff, it’s the Abysmal Pit, correct?” You asked the GM. 

“Correct.”

“And anyone who falls in is erased from existence, right?

“Correct.”

“No!” Sam shouted. “I know what you’re thinking. You can’t do it!”

You give her a solemn look, eyes filled with sadness. 

“I’m sorry.” You pick up your red D20. “But you can’t stop me. I’m going for a grapple on the lich, then I’m dragging him over the edge with me.” 

A chorus of gasps erupts from your party members. Some are getting teary-eyed. 

Two years of a campaign filled with adventure, friendship, romance, and tears. This is how it ends. Perhaps it was destined to be. 

“Make your roll.” Your GM feels tears prick in their own eyes. Not knowing whether they want you to succeed on this or not. 

As is tradition on major rolls, you bring your trusty die to your lips. Pecking it softly, you pray that this works. 

“Lucky shot,” you hear Sam say under their breath. 

Cupping the die in your hands, you give a good shake. Then you release it onto the table. Everyone in the room is holding their breath as it rolls. Finally, it stops. Natural 20. 

Normally, the table would erupt with cheers. This time, it wasn’t proper to celebrate. 

“Prim,” your GM took in a shaky breath as he spoke your character’s name. Trying to hold back tears. “You muster up the final dregs of strength within you. Pulling yourself up with a groan. Everything hurts, but your mind has been made up. Pushing through it all, you start to run. Taking one final look at your fallen teammates. This is the last time you will see them. Tell me how this ends.” Their voice wavered. 

“As I run toward the lich, I let out a final ‘goodbye’. I grab it around the waist, then throw both of us off of the ledge. No matter what it does I keep ahold of it. It’s coming with me.” Your own eyes fill with tears. 

“As you fall, the lich tries to get you off of it, but to no avail. For a brief moment you can see a flash of its past humanity. Fear filling its face as it realizes the one thing that it tried to run from has finally arrived. Death in the shape of a half-elf rogue who risked it all to defeat it.”

Chance sighed dreamily, remembering your great sacrifice. Seemed like you frequently played characters that laid their life on the line. No wonder he was absolutely smitten.

While you weren’t able to see his personified form at the moment, he was able to see you. Back hunched over as you typed on Mac. The computer feeling pretty good about themselves as you cranked out your latest self-insert fanfic. What else were you supposed to do when an AI took over your job? 

Chance wasn’t able to see what you were writing, but could see Mac occasionally blush and chuckle at the words you were typing onto them. 

“Care to share?” He asked the computer. 

Mac glanced over at him, then back to one of the screens in front of them. 

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea. She’s kind of mortified that I’ve even read this stuff.” Mac turned back to read what you had just typed out, red blooming on their face. “Yeah, no. You don’t need to know about this.” 

Chance grumbled to himself. It didn’t feel fair that Mac got to see the sexiest innermost thoughts of yours. Actually, he was kind of jealous of many of your objects. Betty slept with you every night, witnessing the limited sexual exploits of yours. Johnny, he wouldn’t talk about it, too much of a gentleman. But the massage setting on his shower head? He might have alluded to activities you had accomplished with that. 

It was frustrating to say the least. Seeing how much better the other beings in the home got to know you intimately. All Chance wanted was a taste of that knowledge. 

He hoped you’d put your Dateviators back on again. Now that you had been able to see him, all he wanted was your attention. It didn’t help that you enthusiastically offered to play G&G with him. Only feeding into the ever-growing obsession with you. 

It didn’t start when you put those glasses on, no. It started when you came up with that damned tradition. Kissing the 20 side of his die body. You didn’t know, couldn’t know, really. But he felt it, every single time. It was special, something you only did when making a major roll. And you always picked him. Your “lucky shot” for your “lucky die”. 

The thing was, you hadn’t ended that tradition. When you began playing with Chance, you continued to make your lucky shots. Not realizing that although the personified version was sitting in front of you, Chance was still very much connected to the object he was. He would have you roll on something difficult, and as if it were instinct, you pressed your soft lips right on the20 side. Thankfully, Chance had been able to maintain his composure as you watched the die roll. However, it was beginning to become too much. 

Each press of your lips to the die had him falling for you harder and harder. 

With a sigh, you pushed away from your computer. Eyeing the die beside you with a smirk. Tapping on the desk, your gaze flitted over to your glasses. It had been a few hours since you had them on, couldn’t hurt to say hi to your office. And there might have been a specific object that held your affections.

“You know. I can feel you looking at me, right?” You teased the die before putting on the Dateviators. 

Chance’s face was ruddy when you looked at him, caught red handed. Rubbing his neck sheepishly, he gave you an apologetic look.

“What can I say? You’re nice to look at.” 

Now it was your turn to blush. The damned man always seemed to fluster you in such innocuous ways. Somehow always polite with his flirting. 

There were times he could be fairly forward, but he never pushed. It was sweet. 

Thinking about it, you could go for something sweet now. But nothing that was consumable. 

“Do you have a session prepped?” You asked.

Immediately, he perked up. A bright smile on his face complimented by an enthused flush. 

“Of course! Ever since you’ve come along, I’m like ten sessions ahead!” He leaned toward you, bouncing on his toes. 

“I’m glad that you’ve been so inspired. I love your stories.” You gave him a soft smile. 

His eyes widen, practically sparkling at your words.

“Y-you love my stories?” He held his hand to his heart, feeling the muscle pump faster at your compliment.

“Why do you think I want to play with you so often?” You pulled his die over with a finger, rolling it around. “I have a lot of fun with you.” 

“We could have more fun.” He raised a brow suggestively, looking over his glasses at you.

Red in the face, you waved him off with a giggle.

“Do you have time to play now?”

“I always have time for you.” 

You were sure you heard Timothy scoff somewhere in the distance. That was no matter though, for now you had the full attention of your favorite die. 

“Shall we play, then?” 

Chance nodded enthusiastically, then proceeded to get his GM station set up. When his screen and notes were all in place, he gave an approved nod. Looking up, he beamed at you again. Feeling his heart squeeze at the content smile on your face as you sat on the other end of the table from him. Oh how he wished to always keep you happy. He would play forever with you just to make sure that smile never fell from your lips. 

“Alright, where did we leave off?” He glanced over his notes.

“I managed to talk myself out of being eaten by a giant.” You had your own notes pulled out. 

Chance felt his heart swell again. You took notes! Oh, you truly were the perfect player. 

“That’s right! My charismatic girl!” He chuckled as your face grew red. 

He was glad that he managed to make you as flustered as you made him. Equal opportunity flirting to make the other squirm. Again, perfect. 

“You’ve gotten away from the giant, but you still have yet to find the gilded egg laying hen.” 

“Thankfully, you have quite the wise girl as well!” You let out a satisfied huff. “Can I make a perception check to see where the chicken is?” 

“You may.” He motioned for you to continue.

Shaking the die in your hands you urged it to roll well. 

“C’mon D20, show me what you’re made of!” 

You released the die, it clattered into your dice tray. After a moment of circling, it landed on a 16. 

“Nice! And that’s a plus four to my perception!” 

“Wonderful!” He cleared his throat, continuing his tale. “As you look around the foyer of the giant’s castle, you aren’t finding any indications of where a hen might be roosting. However, after a moment of hearing silence, there’s a new sound filtering down the hallway to the north.”

“What’s the sound?” You ask with a knowing smirk.

“It’s soft harp music, almost dreamlike.” 

After your previous character died valiantly saving a village from a dragon, Chance asked if you would mind experimenting with a fairytale themed game. Of course, you agreed, excited to see what he would come up with. While some of the quests you have been on so far were a bit predictable, he had many twists and turns added in. 

Like Cinderella’s slipper turning out to be a baby mimic. When you had managed to aid the prince in finding his lost love, the mimic revealed itself, chomping down on her foot. However, she didn’t scream. It turned out, Cinderella’s ballgown had already consumed her and was using her head and limbs to blend in. The fairy godmother revealed herself as a demon looking to collect on the souls of the kingdom. All she needed was the prince to disappear so she could take his place. 

It was a lovely twist that ended with a fairly hard battle. Thankfully the prince that accompanied you turned out to be part of the bloodline of very powerful sorcerers, so he was able to aid in the defeat of the fairy godmother. 

The prince tried asking for your hand in marriage, but you had other adventures to go on. Instead, you left with a hefty amount of gold. A token of appreciation for saving the kingdom. The engagement ring hidden amongst the coins didn’t go unnoticed, Chance giving you a cheeky wink when he mentioned it. 

You had noticed the man had been throwing romance options at you throughout each of the fairy tales. Many of them were love stories, sure, but it seemed like he really wanted you to get with someone. Little Red Riding Hood, growing smitten with you after you saved her from the belly of a wolf. A huntsman asking for your hand after you aided him in saving the kingdom from a corrupt king. Snow White practically begged you to marry her after you turned out to be her “true love's kiss”. He was laying it on pretty thick, so to speak.  

Truthfully, the reason why you never accepted was because you wanted Chance to stop hiding his affections behind characters in your game. The two of you had constant flirty banter, but it felt like he could only speak through innuendo when hinting at wanting anything more. While it was endearing, it was starting to become tiring. 

Though admittedly, you were a coward too. It would be hypocritical to judge the man considering you couldn’t muster up the courage to do anything either. Instead, you sat in a flirtatious purgatory. Something that could be viewed as a comfortable platonic relationship, but in reality had very, very heavy overtones of desire. 

Neither you or Chance could be subtle. There were times where you could feel the hunger in his eyes as he ran your game. Usually when you did something quite clever. 

That time when you answered his Latin riddle? The man was very glad he had baggy pants on. 

Then there was you. Easily bending to his dominating whims when he was GMing. Something about him having that kind of authority over you often had you clenching your thighs and squirming in your chair. And don’t even get started on the villain monologues. He pulled one of those out, you left the gaming table with your panties soaked. Giving Betty quite the show when you couldn’t get to sleep. 

Back to your current game, Chance asked for your next move.

“I follow the sound of the harp.”

“You feel almost entranced at the music. Your steps pulling you to the north hallway. After about an hour of walking (remember, this is a GIANT’S castle) you made it to the room the music was coming from. Peering inside, you see a giant sitting on a bed. She appears to be much shorter than the one you first encountered, but still clearly a giant. You can tell she is related to the other giant, both sporting the same nose shape. The giant girl is playing the harp, her fingers delicately plucking at the strings. You look across from her and see what you’ve been looking for. A hen nestled in a nest of straw. Its body swaying side to side with the music. Below it you see a peek of gold. What would you like to do?”

“I’m not going to try and hide.”

Chance looked at you with wide eyes, surprised at your blatant move.

“I handled the other giant with my words, I can easily do the same again.”

Oh, he loved your confidence. Your willingness to dive in despite the consequences. He just hoped that it wouldn’t end with your bones ground up to make bread. Quite the horrific way to depart this mortal realm.

“If you say so. You stride inside with confidence. Hyping yourself up from your previous encounter with a giant.” He rolled a die, giving a grimace. “The giant girl doesn’t appear to see you. She’s looking right at the hen, swaying side to side as she continues to play the harp.”

“I try to catch her attention by clearing my throat loudly.” 

“You clear your throat, and she stops playing. A sour look grows on her face as she looks for the source of the sound. Looking down, she finally spots you. Crossing her arms, she gives you a pout.”

“You know, it’s quite rude to interrupt a performance.” Chance put on the voice of a little girl, making you chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

“Chance, you know that wasn’t in-game.” You gave him a stern look. 

“I know, I’m just messin. Anyways… she looks at you, waiting for you to respond.”

“I apologize, your music is lovely.” 

“Then why did you interrupt me?”

“Well, I have some important matters to discuss.”

“Important matters? What’s important is that Bailey gets her proper rest.” Chance returns to his normal voice. “You follow her gaze to the hen in the nest.”

“Is Bailey your hen?” 

“Obviously!” The character voice returned. “And she won’t lay eggs unless I play for her.” 

“I see.” You ponder on that information for a moment, then ask. “Is the harp huge?”

“It’s giant, so is the hen.”

“Didn’t the asshole who hired me say he had been here before? Why send me up if there’s no way to bring the items down?” You huffed in frustration at the quest-giver.

“Who said there wasn’t a way to bring them down?” He clicked his tongue at you, admonishingly.

“Hmmm. I think I'll talk to the girl some more.” He motioned for you to continue. “I’m sure Bailey loves your music.”

“She does, she always lays an egg when I play! My daddy says I’m gettin just as good as my mama!” Chance goes back to narrating. “After she says that she goes quiet. Her eyes widening as if she’s just realized you were here. There’s a darkness in them that surprises you for a girl so young.”

“I don’t have a good feeling about this.” You bit your lip nervously.

“You’re a human. Humans aren’t allowed here!”

“Um, you’re dad let me go. At least I think it was your dad.” You give Chance a nervous glance.

“Roll on persuasion.”

Shaking the dice, you let it drop. Watching in fear as it lands on a three. Chance’s gaze grows dark.

“You only think you know? How can I know if you’re telling the truth?” Chance narrates again. “The giant girl stands up, towering high over you. A glare on her face as her eyes narrow. But you spot something odd, her eyes are watering.” The little girl voice is put back on. “All humans lie! I bet you’re no different!”

“I decide to stay quiet, letting her speak.” You say to Chance. Again, he’s surprised at your action.

“Your people killed my mom!” He switches back to normal. “You now see tears falling from her eyes. She’s going to reach for you.” He rolls a die, eyeing you expectantly. “Would you like to do anything to stop it?”

“No. I let her.” 

“A large hand grabs you with a crushing squeeze. You feel the air forced out of your body by the strong grip of her hand. She lifts you to her head.” He clears his throat, going back to the girl voice. “I should just eat you, show you how it feels.” He gives you another expectant look. “Are you going to try and do anything?”

“Nope. I’m gonna close my eyes and accept my fate.” 

Impressed, Chance sits back with his arms crossed. Pondering on what to do next. While you had managed to talk your way out of the last giant encounter, he thought you would at least try to fight your way out of this one. The giant child’s stat block was something that you could manage on your own. 

“Okay. I want you to roll persuasion, and I’ll be nice and give you advantage for what you’ve managed to do so far.”

Pumping your fist in the air, you reached for the die. This time, you brought the D20 to your lips, giving it a light peck. This was a roll that was gonna need it. 

“C’mon lucky shot, don’t let me down now.” 

The first roll landed on a 6. Again, you brought the die to your lips. The kiss to the dice slightly lingering, just for good luck. You shook it in your hand and released, crossing your fingers for a good roll. Slowly, it spun to land on a 20.

“Nat 20 babee! Let’s gooooo!” You stood up and cheered, your character saved.

Chance remained seated, face beet red. His breathing had become labored. For some reason, he couldn’t get himself to calm down. Maybe it was the fact that you had kissed the die in succession. Something he could feel burning through his body. 

Coming down from your high, you realized Chance hadn’t continued. Turning, you gave him a concerned look. Walking over, you eyed the state he was in. Face still extremely flushed. 

“Are you okay?” You leaned toward him, trying to figure out what was wrong.

“I-I’m fine. We can continue!” He rubbed his neck nervously.

“Are you sure? Your face is really red.”

“What did you expect after kissing me like that!” He clamped his hands over his mouth, face turning another shade darker. 

“What? I didn’t kiss…” You looked over to the die, feeling a heat crawl up your neck. “C-can you feel that?”

Hands still over his mouth, he nodded. You realized you had been performing your luck ritual the entire time you had been playing with Chance. He could feel it. Every. Single. Time. 

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” You felt terrible, doing that to him without asking.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He said softly.

“But then I kept making you uncomfortable! Kissing you without your consent, ugh. I’m so sorry, Chance.” You gave him a sad look that pierced his heart. That wasn’t what he meant at all!

“I never said I was uncomfortable.” He composed himself somewhat.

“Huh?” 

“I might have liked it…” He trailed quietly. 

“What was that?” You couldn’t make out what he said.

“I like it!” He blurted. “I really like it when you kiss me.” His face grew red again as he waited for your response.

“Y-you do?” 

He nodded sheepishly. 

“Yeah. It feels… nice. Really nice.” He bit his lip nervously. “You’re always so soft and sweet.” 

“Oh.” Your face was burning.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” He gave you an apologetic look. 

“Chance…” This time you were nervous.

“Yes?” 

You leaned down toward his face. Arms planted on the headrest of his chair.

“Can I actually kiss you?”

“I-I mean technically you are ‘actually’ kissing me…” He stuttered out, eyes flitting between your eyes and lips.

You gave him an unamused pout.

“You know what I mean. How’s about this? Can I give you a reciprocated kiss? One that you also participate in?”

“Yes. Please.” 

With that, you pressed your lips to his. Chance froze up at first, eyes wide at the fact that this was happening. Leaning into the kiss, his eyes fluttered shut. You let out a content sigh at the feel of his lips against yours. Soft and plush, perfectly meldable with your own. 

With your tongue, you teased at his bottom lip. Gladly, he slightly opened his mouth for your tongues to intertwine. A low groan left him as he tasted you. So fucking perfect.

The man pushed the chair away from the table, letting you sink onto his lap. Your hand trailed up his neck, fingers lightly scratching at his scalp. He moaned against you at the action. His own hands trailed over your body, mapping out your slopes and curves. Ultimately they landed on your ass, giving it a quick squeeze. You giggled against his lips, pulling away to get a good look at him.

Face still flushed with kiss bitten lips and blown out pupils. He stared up at you like you were a goddess that was granting him a blessing. That was sure how this encounter was feeling. Something that he had only dreamed of. 

“You’re so handsome.” You pressed kisses against his jaw and down his throat, making him shiver. 

“And you’re beautiful. So perfect.” He pressed a kiss to your lips. 

Leaning your forehead against his, you smiled. Then an idea came to you. Biting your lip, you wondered if the man beneath you would oblige to your whims. 

“Chance…”

“Hmm?”

“When I kiss your die, where do you feel it?”

“Oh, um, I guess on my face? Like a whisper against my cheeks and the corner of my lips.” He let out an awkward chuckle. 

You shifted off of him to grab the die, then returned to his lap. Holding the die in front of you, you looked over the numbers.

“So what would happen if I kissed the other numbers?” You asked, gaze hungry.

Oh, oh, this was hot. So fucking hot. Chance thought just kissing you was a dream come true. You wanting more from him? That was merely a fantasy.

“I suppose I would feel you kissing me on other parts of my body.” He answered. Truthfully, he had no idea what would happen. You only ever kissed the 20.

“So if I kiss the one.” You brought the dice to your lips, pecking the side.

Chance giggled at the feeling. Right on the bottom of his foot. 

“I take it that was your foot?”

He nodded, excited to see where this was going. Already feeling himself growing semi-hard in his pants as  he watched you in anticipation.

You pressed a kiss to the five, eyeing Chance’s response. He twitched under you with a whimper. 

“Where was that?”

“My left thigh.” 

Okay, so if five was the left thigh then… you pressed a kiss to the six.

“R-right thigh.” He groaned out. Having your lips on him like this was something else. 

It was probably a good thing you never kissed the other numbers. He was sure you would make him cum from just kissing him alone. 

“So if six is your other thigh then that must mean seven or eight is likely your-”

“What if we avoided that area?” He cut you off, a nervous sheen of sweat on his forehead. 

“Why’s that?” You leaned in, giving him a deep kiss.

“I-I just…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. 

“Chance, would me kissing the dice equivalent of your crotch make you cum?” Wow, just right out with it. 

“Y-yeah, yeah. It would. I’m gonna be honest. With the way that you’re already going at it, I’d probably cum just from you kissing me.” 

“Really?” You sat upright, eyes sparkling. 

He nodded, blushing furiously. 

“Could we try it?” You bit your lip. 

The thought of having the man fall apart just from you kissing him had you riled up. You could feel yourself growing wetter at the thought. Seeing him squirm from your kisses before coming undone. Oh, that was very appealing. 

“You want to?” He was surprised.

“Yeah, I do. Only if you want to.” 

“You don’t have to ask twice.” He wrapped a hand around your neck, pulling you in for a kiss. Your tongues tangled with each other as you moaned. 

Pulling away, you brought the dice back up to your face. Eyeing the numbers, you decided to go for the 19. You gave it a slow kiss, watching Chance as he shivered and moaned. The feeling reached a sweet spot on his neck that had him keening. He was pretty sure he was addicted to your lips now. 

You continued to press kisses to various numbers. Loving every whimper and moan you managed to get out of the man. Occasionally you would lean back in to give him a proper kiss on the lips, only to return to tease him with the die. 

Chance could tell you were avoiding the seven and eight. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore. 

“P-please.” He groaned through gritted teeth as he felt your lips on his chest. “I need you…”

“Need me to what?” You teased with a smirk.

“Kiss the seven and eight. Please.” He begged, squirming beneath you.

“Hmm. Good boy.” Oh fuck. That had his dick throbbing. 

Slowly, you brought the die to your lips. You pecked all over it, then finally pressed a kiss to the seven. Chance cried out at the feeling. Your lips right where he needed them. Feeling them press against his throbbing length. He was sure the next one would be the last he needed. You gave another slow kiss to the eight. It was his undoing. Cock twitching in his pants, releasing a sticky load into his boxers. His hands gripped at your hips as he rutted against the feeling of your lips. 

“Oh f-fuck.” He stuttered out. 

You pressed your lips to his, then kissed all over his face. The man melting into your affection. 

“How was that?” You asked softly.

“Amazing. Perfect. Wonderful. Perfect. Did I mention perfect?” He chuckled.

“I’m glad I could give you that.” You picked up the die again, giving it a peck on the 20. 

“Guess I’ll be keeping my lucky shot tradition for our other games.” You gave him a sweet smile. 

“Oh sweetheart,” Chance pulled you back to him, “did you think playtime was over?”

[sagaduwyrm]

The reason I refuse to acknowledge any other batfam death other than Jason is because, narratively, none of the others mattered.

Jason's death shaped everything that came after it in how the batfam responded to his death and handled it, and completely shaped his character.

I don't even know about most of the other "deaths" because they were so comparatively unimportant.

[well-of-divine-if]

Well of The Divine - a work in progress Interactive Fiction Story

Well of The Divine is a 18+ fantasy text-based game built using ChoiceScript. Rated 18+ for explicit language and optional sexual content.

The Well of The Divine has been compromised. Once the source of the Gods strength, it is now closed off to them leaving them truly vulnerable for the first time in their long existence. They are scared.

What does this have to do with you?

Found as a new-born, abandoned by those that brought you into this world, you never knew your birth parents. Only those who took you in. The problems of the Gods had never involved you until now. Divine blood flows in your veins. An encounter with your Godly parent brings death to your village. Those who hunt the Gods have come for you too.

Now, who are you?

Features:

Play as male, female, non-binary or trans, straight, gay, bisexual or asexual

Customise your character's appearance and personality

Learn who your Godly parent is from one of five options

Gather allies, both divine and mortal to travel with you

Forge relationships with your companions, friendships, rivalries and more

Choose from five romance options to pursue, creating a deep romantic or platonic bond

Improve your skills including your control over your demigod powers

Discover who is hunting you and decide the fate of the Gods

Theresa Colt - She/Her - 25 - The Childhood Friend Only child to the village's herbalist, Theresa grew up alongside MC. When not working with her mother, Theresa was most likely to be found by MCs side getting up to all sorts of adventures. Some might mistake her softness of weakness but it takes a certain kind of courage to be kind in the face of hardship. Appearance: Theresa is a young woman fairly short in height, 5'3, with curly brown hair typically tied up in brightly coloured scarfs. Honey eyes framed with thick lashes on a round face with olive skin. Delicate hands that are surprisingly rough from years of work.

Maddox Rowe - He/Him - 27 - The Demigod Maddox Rowe has always been angry. From a young age he’s been told it’s in his blood, in his nature. He may be a bit of a hothead but anger isn’t all that’s left in him, but when you aren’t given the chance to be anything else you fall back on what you know. Appearance: Golden skin and angry red eyes, Maddow Rowe stands tall at 6'3 casting an intimidating figure to most. Broad shoulders and a powerful form gained from a life of combat only add to it. Dark shaggy hair and a strong jaw complete his look.

Cormac Winters - He/Him - 28 - The Charming Rogue Talking himself in and out of trouble, Cormac flits about from city to city never setting roots. If you set roots you get attached. To some, honeyed words fall from his lips. To others, he’s selling nothing but snake oil. And when trouble finally does catch up to him, like many before he’ll slip away in the night. Appearance: Long wild, wavy red hair is the first thing people notice when they see Cormac. The second is the sly grin that seems to have found a permanent place on his face. Lean in build, 6'0, and forest green eyes, some think him cocky but who can resist a pretty face?

Lucien Corvus - They/Them - 23 - The Hunter Alone from a young age, with no one to protect or care form them, Lucien learned that the only person you can rely on is yourself. Strangers will use and hurt you. Keeping this mantra close to their heart helped them survive. Besides, if you begged to the gods for aid none would answer. Appearance: Piercing ice blue eyes on a cool white angular face that rarely shows anything different to cold indifference. Short blonde hair that rests against their forehead. They stand with shoulders back to a height of 5'10. Is that a dimple when they smile?

Sabine - She/Her - ??? - The ??? Wise beyond her years in the matters of the divine and history of the world. There’s an energy about her the exudes a sense of calm. If you look closer, behind the golden eyes you may catch a glimpse of the power that runs beneath them. Appearance: Eyes of liquid gold, skin a rich deep black, and ebony coils styled into long twists. Holding herself with a sense of regal poise, Sabine stands to a height of 5'9. She keeps a calm countenance even in unfavorable situations.

[DEMO]

[ROs]

[Ko-fi]

This is my first time writing anything in ChoiceScript (first time coding in general) so please bare with me as I learn and thank you for your patience 💛

[bluebellhairpin]

Cregan Stark X Wife!Reader

Summary: Preparation to leave to Castle Black for the winter months is well under way, and you're reluctant to be left alone in Winterfell. Cregan, having had the same worry, provides what could be a solution. A solution with a name. And fur. (wc. 2.3k>)

Warnings: Reader has she/her pronouns + fem bodied. Pregnancy. Assassination attempt. Unnamed character death. Blood + gore. Cregan wants to be a girl dad. Unedited (lol).

Listening to: 'Wolf at Your Door' by Chole x Halle - "When you're laying in your bed at night, when the air's just a little too quiet, better hope that you're saying your prayers."

Series Masterlist || Masterlist || Ko-Fi || AO3 link

Winterfell was a somber place when the cold rolled down from the north. 

Although only ten men were sent to the wall every winter, everyone left behind knew someone who was sent away. No matter how short of a life you lived, you also always knew someone who died there. Indeed, life on the wall was as harsh as the force it existence kept at bay. 

For you though, the man you lost always returned. The last three winters had you spend upwards of three months without your husband - and in turn rising to take his place as custodian of Winterfell. No matter how busy the role kept you, it never helped you miss Cregan Stark any less. 

With winter approaching once more, each moment with him seemed to not be enough. Yes, the Wall was dangerous, and even Cregan was never guaranteed to return, but this year there was something else that willed you to want him to stay. Something else that made him want to stay too. 

“Each day my resolve seems to crack,” he told you one night, fire cracked in its hearth as you both lay under blankets of fur. His hand rested protectively over your belly. “Already now I can see our babe grow, and I know I’ll not only be missing you but her too.”

“‘Her’?” you hummed, head turning to nose his cheek. “Such a confident tone, my lord.” 

“I am confident.” he replied, turning to press a soft kiss to your lips as his hand idlily rubbed along your stomach. 

“And if you needed an heir at the end of this cold winter, what then?” 

“If my lady wife deems me worthy, we might try for one again.” he said, sedating what could’ve been the start of your mood change with words almost too sweet to be coming from the frosty king in the north. “But that is something we can decide once all three of us are safe together when summer rises.” 

Cregan’s soft words and warm breath on your cheeks made your mind wandered to a time not so far away where you wouldn’t have his heat so close. A time when his comfort was going to be gone. 

“I’m going to miss you.” you said, turning into his hold more, and he let you snuggle into his chest. “This time will feel longer than all the others.”

“I doubt that will be the case for you.” he said, lips moving from their place pressed into your hair. “Winterfell will keep you busy, between that and resting for the babe’s sake, you won’t have time on your hands for much else.” 

“I may not want to rest.”

“You will. The Lord of Winterfell commands it.” 

“The Lord of Winterfell won’t be here, he cannot have a for sure say in what I do or do not do.” You felt him smile into your hair, and you pulled away with a twitch of your own mouth. “What?”

He pulled away a little too, shyly smiling down at where you still laid. He was acting far too coy to be considered normal. 

“I might not be leaving you completely alone.” 

“... Cregan.” you started, sitting up on our elbow. 

“I was going to show you on the morrow, but since you’ve forced my hand -”

“-I? Forcing your hand?”

“- Since you forced my hand,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he slipped out from the bedcovers, “I will be right back.”

“What…” You tried, but your voice tempered out as he swiftly made his way from your bedchambers. 

Sighing, you sat back in your pillows, arms folded, and refraining from pouting. It wasn’t long into your settled position of guessing what in the seven kingdoms your husband was doing before he was back. 

Cregan had clearly gone outside, snow settled on the top of his hair and along the shoulders of the fur cloak he snatched before leaving. In his arms was something squirming. You frowned, eyeing the movement under the cloak as he strode over. 

“What is that?” you asked. 

“A protector for the Lady of Winterfell, as per the orders of her lord husband.” Cregan said, and let the squirming mass break free from his hold onto the bed. 

It was a… pup? No not possible, it was too big. From how it acted it was a few months surely, but it was just so big. Then you thought some more. Could it really be? 

“A direwolf?” 

“Not any direwolf. Yours.” Cregan said, rounding the bed and settling back at your side. “A protector to be at your side when I cannot. I’ve been training him and he follows commands well already. By the time I leave he should be grown to the size of any regular dog - then at least twice that when I return.” 

While he spoke, the pup sniffed around your bed covers, curiously wandering on unsteady feet. You had to admit, he looked gorgeous, all black fur, with green eyes, and you didn’t doubt he would grow to be a fierce thing. But sometimes that wasn’t always good. 

“Cregan, are you sure about this?” you asked. “It’s… he’s a direwolf, not a dog.” 

“I’m sure,” he said, lending his arm out. The pup stepped closer, licking Cregan’s fingers and settling on its belly with its nose on Cregan’s knee. “They’re our house symbol. The direwolf are as Stark as I am, they know who we are, and they can be as loyal as they are fierce. That’s why I wanted to introduce you before I left. He’s going to be yours, loyal to you.” 

His arm wrapped around your shoulder, and like second nature you made yourself comfortable by his side. The pup shifted too, now his nose was itching closer to you, wanting to know who this new person was. 

“I supposed you ought to tell me what I'm going to be calling him then.”

“You can call him anything you like,” Cregan said, “But I’ve been calling him Striker.”

Five months passed, and Cregan was right. You were never without anything to do. 

The babe growing inside you made mornings rough, and you often weren’t seen before noon, especially in the earlier months. The rest of your day was spent catching up on what you’d missed while resting, and then catching up on what you missed while catching up. Then the evenings were spent with Striker. 

He had grown on you, just as he had grown physically. Cregan was still able to lift the wolf when he left, but now you doubted it. He was already well on his way to rivalling a regular wolf in size. Despite how intimidating that might’ve been, you couldn’t be more fond of Striker even if you tried. 

Your belly swelled, and with it so did the direwolf’s protectiveness. Your handmaids were tolerated, your guards struggled to be in the same room, and when the maesters dared tough you Striker had to be sent out of the room. Walks around Winterfell were soon out of the question, at least if you were to bring the direwolf along, since he took to growling at everyone who stood too close. 

Cregan really picked well, Striker surely was serving his purpose, and soon he earned his namesake. 

Word came from Castle Black that Cregan was going to return, that the Winter had been fended off once more. That brought joy foremost to you, but really all in Winterfell knew what that meant, even if Westeros didn’t. It was cause for celebration when they returned. 

It also gave a false sense of security. Winter was gone, and so was the evil - but evil didn’t just come from the north. It could come from anywhere. 

You’d settled into bed for the night, Striker laid beside you, head facing towards the door, and your hand rested on his flank as you looked over one last paper. He growled, and you petted his fur, silently reassuring him that it was just a guard passing outside - but then his head lifted, and turned toward your window. His sudden, still alertness put you on edge. 

He’d been hostile before, but this was aggressive. 

Candle flames flickered, Striker’s fur stood on end beneath your palm, the latch on your window clicked open, creaked open, and you could hear your heartbeat in your ears. A cloaked figure slipped into your room, and you couldn’t even bring yourself to cry for help - nor to remember anything Cregan had taught you. But you didn’t have to.

The figure, a man, unsheathed a knife, and with the glint of steel in the candlelight Striker struck. He surged off the bed with a vicious bark and bit into the man’s arm, snarling all the while and all but went to tearing the man to shreds. 

The commotion had people coming in through the door, and the sight had you still rendered motionless and speechless. 

The man’s cloak was torn away, and by now he was pinned to the floor, blood pooling on the stone as he fruitlessly tried to get Striker off him. You barely registered your guard, Gunther, asking you what was happening.

“He came in the window. He had a knife.” was all you could say. You could guess he was saying things to calm you down as he pried your fingers off your bedsheets that covered your swollen belly - he was probably trying to get you out of the room so you didn’t see the mess. It was too late for that. The man was a whimpering, bloodied mess on the floor by now, and no one had yet been brave enough to pry Striker’s jaw off his shoulder. 

Gunther had an arm around you with your hand in his, guiding you away. Others attempted to move closer, either to help the man or take him away - but Striker was still growling. 

“Striker, here.” you called, just finding your voice enough for it to carry over the commotion. The direwolf looked up, and seeing you being led away, he relented, fitting into your side with ease. 

The three of you walked away. Now you were away from the scene you could think again and guess you were going down the hall to another room, one you decided you’d stay in until Cregan returned. 

You looked down at Striker, threading your fingers though the fur at his neck. 

“Good boy.” you said, stroking between his ears. 

“He sure is, my lady.” Gunther said, “Who knows what could’ve happened if he didn’t act so fast.” 

You smiled a little at that, at how right Cregan was in leaving the direwolf for you. He was meant to be company, a protector second - but tonight he proved to be as good, as loyal as any of your guards. He proved to be the real sigil of House Stark - just as Cregan told you he was. 

You reached the door of your new room, and as your hand lifted off Striker’s back you noticed it chill with the cold night air. Turning your palm over, you saw red - and Striker’s nose made home in your fingers, licking away every drop as if it wasn’t ever there to begin with.

A week later, Cregan returned. 

You had been in a foul mood for the past three days, since the maester had put you on strict bed rest because of the babe. Therefore you had been deemed unfit to greet your husband at the gate as he finally came home. In your defense, it definitely seemed like a good reason to be sour. 

So you waited, sat on a chaise, with Striker’s head in your lap pressed to your stomach. 

You could hear a commotion outsider, which only made your face scrunch in annoyance - not just at missing out but also at the pity looked you knew your handmaiden would be giving you. She offered to go fetch Cregan, and you nodded her leave with a wave of your hand. 

“He will be here soon.” you said, cradling Striker’s muzzle in your palms. 

“Indeed he will.” Cregan said. 

“Oh, Lord Stark!” your handmaid said, startled. Your head turned, and you saw him standing in the doorway. 

“Cregan!” you said, grin covering your face - and even after such a long time away, Striker seemed to recognize him, for he didn’t growl, and his tail started thumping against the rug. 

“My love,” he said, shedding his great sword carelessly, and sunk to the floor beside where you sat. You heard your handmaid mumble a goodbye before stepping out and closing the door behind you. “Are you alright?” 

“I couldn’t be better now.” you replied, feeling tears welling in your eyes as you took in your husband's face for the first time in months. He looked tired, older, but as you took his face in your hands his cheeks felt exactly the same as they were when he left. “I missed you so much.” 

“I heard about what happened the other night. I -” he said, mouth hanging open in what could’ve been shock, in his eyes there could’ve been anger. Vengeance would do nothing now, the man was dead, he bled out before anyone could decide to give him mercy - undeserved or otherwise. But as Cregan leant forward to hold you into his arms, his warmth felt like nothing else except fear. “I can’t believe I could’ve lost you.” 

“You didn’t.” you said, taking an arm away from being wrapped around his shoulders to pull his face away from your chest. “You provided the means for me to stay safe long before you left. Striker was better than any guard. He was fearless when I was frozen. I owe him my life, all because of you.” 

Cregan’s face turned soft, and he smiled at you. He leant forward and kissed you. For the first time in too long, his lips move against yours. You felt his jaw move beneath your palm as his fingers grazed your neck and held onto your hip. When he pulled away, he kept your head cradled close to his. 

“I love you.” he said. 

“I love you too.” you replied, and he smiled, pressing another kiss to your lips, then your cheek. 

“Now tell me all about how my little girl is growing.”

[hederasgarden]

Eternal Devotion (1/3)

Summary: Months after your husband's untimely death, his presence lingers, haunting you in ways you never expected. Pairing: Vampire!Friedrich Harding x Wife!Reader  Word Count: 3.9K Rating: Mature, 18+ only. Heavy angst and grief, period typical sexism, creepy things, mildly dubious consent, sexual content, vampirism and all the warnings that come with that (I’m diverging from canon a bit in regards to feeding). This is my attempt at Gothic Romance. A/N:  The reader has always been Friedrich's wife, Anna does not exist in this AU. Big thanks to @ryebecca, @otaku-girl-ao3, @whatblogisthis216 , @eremeldanin and @caught-reading for their help with this fic.  Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Aaron Taylor Johnson Character Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her. -Hozier

The room is dim with the curtains drawn tight, allowing only a sliver of daylight to creep through the gap. In the distance, the soft hum of morning activity rises from the rest of the house, the gentle chatter of your two daughters layered over the quiet rustling of the servants preparing for the day ahead. You should rise and follow the rhythm of the world outside this room, but you cannot. 

Friedrich has been gone nearly six months. It feels like a lifetime. The days stretch endlessly, and each one feels like an affront, a reminder that the world refuses to stop turning. How are you supposed to go on living? You know if you had died, Friedrich would have climbed into the casket beside you and his grief would have blotted out the sun.

But there was no casket for him. No body left to bury. He was swallowed by the sea, lost while fulfilling a promise you made, helping Ellen return to Thomas.

Your daughters do not yet grasp the finality of it. No matter how many times you tell them, they speak of their father like he is simply away at work, perhaps, or out on some important errand. And each morning they act as if he’s come to tuck them into bed, kiss their cheeks, and say their prayers like he did before. They look up at you with soft eyes, the very same as his and you must relive the pain of it again and again when you remind them their father is gone.

Sometimes, you wish you could believe your own dreams, the ones where Friedrich slips back into bed beside you. Yet even in those fleeting moments of illusion, something is wrong. The warmth you long for is absent. His touch is colder, harder, his presence not the way it used to be. When his lips meet your skin, it stings, sharp and unfamiliar, and the truth rises within you, pushing against the comfort of the dream. 

It’s not him. And it never will be. Now and forevermore, each morning you will wake to find the sheets beside you cold. Empty.

Everyone told you the grief would abate with time but these past few weeks have drained you more thoroughly than any that came before. Each morning, it feels as though your very blood has turned to sand, your bones to lead. Even the simple act of turning onto your back, to stare up at the wooden beams of the ceiling, takes more effort than you can summon. 

You remain in bed until the door creaks open, and the light sound of footsteps follows. Kerstin’s voice is no more than a whisper as she brushes your shoulder.

“Frau Harding. Your parents have arrived for breakfast. Your father wishes for you to join them.”

The sight of your maid’s pale, worried face is enough to rouse you. You let her dress and prepare you for the day. Although she’s done this a thousand times, there’s something about the way her hands hover over the buttons of your gown, the hesitation before each movement, that makes you feel like a stranger in your own skin. You see how she and the other servants watch you now. Even when they pretend to be absorbed in their tasks, their glances are sharp, laden with worry. They fear you’ll descend into the same madness as Ellen, but it is only your grief, so vast and deep, that’s reshaping you in ways you can’t even recognize. 

When you enter the dining room, your daughters rush to you. You hold them close, inhaling the familiar scent of their hair. Your mother greets you next, reaching out to cup your face in her hands, her fingers trembling slightly as they linger there. There is a deep sadness in her eyes and she glances over at your father with a look halfway between pleading and resignation.

“Come, you must eat,” she encourages, guiding you to sit beside her.

Your father, sitting at the head of the table, offers no such tenderness. His presence is a commanding weight in the room and the deep set of his brow lets you know this is not merely a social visit. You glance at your mother who stares at the hands in her lap and your fingers curl around the richly upholstered arm of the dining room chair. Whatever he has come to say will not be good, you realize. 

“The children are finished with their breakfast,” he announces sharply, his voice cutting through the air like a command. With a quick flick of his fingers, he gestures to the governess. “Take them to the parlor. Their mother and I have matters to discuss.”

Once they are gone, your father doesn’t wait long to speak again. “It has been six months,” he begins, his gaze unwavering. “Long enough. You must remarry, and soon.” 

You blink, momentarily stunned. Six months? Six months since Friedrich was swallowed by the sea, leaving nothing but an empty, aching space behind. Six months in which you have not even been able to make sense of the grief that clings to you like a second skin. How could he even think of you remarrying so soon?

“But… Father, I…” you begin, the words faltering in your throat.

He doesn’t let you finish, his voice growing sterner. “You must think of the future, not just of your own sorrow. The children need stability, and you need a husband. You cannot manage alone, not with the wealth you inherited from your late husband.”

You shake your head, even as you know there is a kernel of truth to his words. The vast estate, the shipyard, and the assets Friedrich once managed all fall on you now. It is a burden you are not prepared to shoulder and one you have steadily ignored these past months. But even beyond all that, the thought of remarrying, of taking another man into your life is something you can’t even entertain.

"I cannot… not yet," you whisper, barely above a breath. And in the pit of your chest, a deeper thought rises unbidden: Not ever.

“I understand your reluctance,” he says firmly. “But even now, men circle you like vultures. They want your husband’s wealth and his business. We must act swiftly and secure the right match — for you, for the children, for our family’s future.”

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat refusing to pass. Your hands move to straighten the cutlery in front of you, anything to occupy them, anything to hold off the flood of emotion threatening to spill over.

And then, almost without thinking, you speak. “You never say his name.”

Your father’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Friedrich,” you whisper. “It is always my husband or your son-in-law. You do not… you do not say his name.”

There is a long pause before your father clears his throat, dismissing the uncomfortable silence. “We cannot afford to linger on sentiment,” he says. “Sentiment will not feed the children or keep the business afloat. We need to think practically.”

You stare at him, hearing nothing more than the absence of your husband's name in his voice, the not-so-subtle command that you too must move on, move past this grief, and return to the world of the living. 

“You cannot make me do this.”

"Perhaps not," your father concedes, exhaling sharply. "But your husband has many cousins who would think nothing of reclaiming control over the business." He pauses, taking a deliberate sip of his water, his eyes never leaving yours. "Men who would see no value in a widow and her daughters when they have families of their own.”

His words have their desired effect, leaving you feeling small and powerless. Your shoulders slump, the strength in you draining away as your head hangs, heavy with the crushing knowledge of what awaits.

“Now, your mother has already arranged for you and the girls to have new clothes made for your return to society," he continues, his tone cool and businesslike. "We will host a small, intimate gathering. I will invite a few prospective suitors—men I consider promising options. You may, of course, choose which one you wish to pursue."

“How kind you are to offer me a say,” you murmur, the words bitter in your mouth.  

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I know grief has stolen your good sense but you will watch your tongue when you speak to me,” your father warns. 

A surge of emotion rises within you, sharp and unwelcome, forcing its way up your throat. The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and unrestrained. “You would not speak to me this way if Friedrich were here.”

Your father shakes his head, rising from his seat to tower over you. “He is not here, my girl. He will never be here again. You are alone in a world that is unkind to women such as yourself.”

The pity in his eyes is more than you can bear. The dam breaks, and the first wave of tears crashes down, unbidden and unstoppable. A�� flood that drags you under. You sink back into the chair, helpless as wracking sobs tear through you, a deep, raw ache flooding every part of your being.

Distantly, you hear your mother’s voice chastising your father. Her arms slip around you, pulling you close. She whispers gentle reassurances, her shushing echoing the soothing words you’ve said a hundred times to your own girls, but it feels empty now, a hollow repetition that cannot shield you from the brutal reality.

Friedrich is gone. And with him, any hope you once held of finding happiness.

–

When you step into your father’s parlor, the weight of every gaze in the room settles on you like a tangible thing. The faces that turn toward you are mostly unfamiliar, offering you that sad, understanding smile you’ve grown so weary of. It is a smile that means nothing at all in light of their presence here. Each one of them is complicit in your father’s schemes.

“You look lovely,” your father says. He presses his lips to your cheek in an exaggerated gesture of affection, more a farce than any real expression of love. “The blue truly suits you,” he adds, his eyes dropping to take in your fine silk dress. 

It’s the latest fashion from Paris, or so you’re told. Once, a dress like this would have delighted you—Friedrich always took such joy in bringing you the finest, most exquisite silks and fabrics from his travels. But now, the dress feels all wrong, too tight and too revealing, exposing more of your shoulder and décolletage than you’re comfortable with. 

You smile at your father. Even though it barely touches your lips it doesn’t seem to bother him. He simply sweeps you further into the room, his hand on your arm guiding you forward as he begins the task of making introductions. It’s a performance, and you are trapped at the center of it. But you do as your father and society demand, falling into the practiced motions of politeness. 

You engage in small talk, offering the kind of perfunctory responses that are expected of you, feigning interest in whatever these men have to say. Some ask after your children, while others offer their condolences for your loss. But behind their kindness lies a predatory sort of interest. It is all you can do to nod, offering your own strained smile as you stand there wondering how much longer you can keep up this charade.

When your father finally leaves you for a moment you close your eyes, exhaling. 

“Oh, dearest girl.” 

The unexpected voice makes you flinch. You turn, meeting a familiar pair of brown eyes of Herr Gothrim. Of all your father’s friends, he is the one you think might understand your plight the best. He lost his wife to the plague that swept the city nearly a year ago.

“It is shameful what your father is doing. Forcing you from your mourning period so soon.” He shakes his head. “Though, I confess, had I daughter like you I might be convinced to do the same.” He steps closer, his voice quieting. “You are the talk of the city and beyond.”

“They desire Friedrich’s wealth,” you reply. “Nothing more.”

Herr Gothrim stares at you for a moment before he speaks again, his words laden with something that makes your skin crawl.

“Do not sell yourself short. You are young. Beautiful. You might still bear your future husband a son or two.”

Friedrich had wanted a son. You knew that long before you ever married him. He had spoken of it often, longing to see his name carried on but he never once made you feel like an instrument to secure his legacy. More than that he loved your daughter fiercely, completely. And though it might have been a sin, he loved you even more.  

“I fear you will not have the luxury of time, my dear,” Herr Gothrim warns. “Your father will push forward with his plans, and if you do not make a choice, one will be made for you. Perhaps a familiar one would be best.”

His eyes briefly flick over his shoulder, and you follow his gaze. It rests on his son, Pieter. The sight of him makes a sharp, uncomfortable feeling bubbling up from within. Once, he had petitioned your father for your hand and before Friedrich had made his offer, Pieter had been the one your father had entertained as a potential suitor. 

To your dismay, Pieter seems to take your attention as an invitation, crossing the room to join the two of you. He greets you with an overly familiar kiss to your cheek that lingers, brushing against the corner of your lips. When he pulls away his hand remains on your elbow, tethering you to him. 

“Frau Harding, you look well,” he says brightly. “Or should it be Fräulein now?”

His boldness stuns you but before you can gather your thoughts, he continues, oblivious to the discomfort in your silence. “I must confess, I was both surprised and pleased to receive your father’s invitation. And to see you again after so long. I am eager for a second chance to win your hand.”

It is only the thought of your daughters and the need to ensure their future is safe that keeps grief from sharpening your tongue. You force your eyes downward, focusing on a speck of dust on his lapels to avoid looking at his face. “My father was pleased you accepted his invitation. He has always been fond of you,” you reply hollowly.

Pieter smiles, seemingly unaware of how your voice thins and your words fall flat and meaningless. 

“You look cold,” he observes. “Come, you should warm yourself by the fire as we reacquaint ourselves. My import business has grown greatly since we last spoke.”

His touch feels possessive, demanding even yet you are helpless to do anything more than follow him. You catch your father’s eyes when you pass him. He looks pleased and it turns your stomach. 

Pieter keeps you by his side for the rest of the evening, his words a constant hum around you. Whether he’s wholly unaware of your discomfort or willfully blind to it, you can’t decide. His conversation is a relentless stream of boasts about his business, his wealth, and his success, as though he expects you to be impressed, to be eager for his attention. Each time you try to excuse yourself, your attempts are dismissed with a smile and an insistent push to stay.

It isn’t until your mother comes to collect you at the end of the night that you are finally freed from his hold. You follow her away from the gathering and into the waiting carriage, Pieter’s gaze lingering on you. 

You’re so exhausted on the ride home that the muffled sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestone streets and the rocking of the carriage nearly lulls you into sleep. You find your daughters are already in bed when you arrive at the house. Though you loathe to disturb their peaceful slumber, you find yourself drawn to them, compelled to check on them before you can rest. You make your way down the dark hallway, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath your feet the only sound betraying your presence.

When you crack open the door to their room, a cool rush of air greets you, sending a shiver through you. You find their window unlatched, the curtains fluttering in the autumn breeze that has slipped in. Startled, you step further into the room, a wave of panic rising in your chest. You move quickly to reach the window and quietly shut it again. 

Once it is secured, you turn to your girls. The sight of them, peaceful and safe in their beds, eases some of the tension in your chest. Your youngest clutches a slip of fabric in her hands, her tiny face relaxed in sleep. There is something about the cloth she holds that gives you pause. You kneel beside her, gently prying it from her grasp. At the sight of the familiar handkerchief and your own needlework, worn and fraying with time, your breath stutters in your throat. 

It was one of the first gifts you ever gave Friedrich, back when he was still courting you. You had made him dozens more over the years, but still, he carried it with him, even as it began to unravel at the edges. You always assumed it was lost with him and to find it here, tucked in your daughter’s hands, feels like both a balm and a wound.

Fingers trembling, you press the fabric to your face and close your eyes. For a brief moment, you swear you can still smell Friedrich’s cologne, faint but unmistakable. You linger in that moment until your daughter shifts in her sleep and you're brought back to reality. Carefully, you tuck the handkerchief into her tiny hands and kiss her forehead before retreating from the room.

–

Your dreams are restless, an amalgam of fractured images and disjointed sensations. Pieter’s dark, unblinking eyes merge with the black fabric of your mourning gown, and then, without warning, the scene shifts, plunging you into the vast, endless depths of the sea that claimed Friedrich. 

The cold water envelops you, and you gasp for air, but the water rushes in, drowning your cries. In your panic, you thrash wildly, desperate for escape. Just as you feel yourself slipping into the abyss, strong hands seize you, pulling you upward. Your eyes snap open, your breath coming in sharp, desperate gasps. The water recedes, and in its place, Friedrich’s face fills your vision.

“I am here, I am here, my love,” he murmurs softly, pressing his forehead to yours. His hand rests lightly on your chest, guiding your breath to match his steady rhythm, coaxing the frantic pace of your heart to slow.  

You stare at him as the world crystallizes around you. Then, you surge forward, your lips crashing into his with a desperation that consumes you. Your hands find their way to his shoulders, clutching him tightly like he might vanish if you let go. The kiss is a lifeline and you cling to it with a need so raw it aches.

“Friedrich,” you gasp, reveling in the familiar tickle of his mustache and his strong hands on your body.  

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if this is real, if he’s truly here, or if your grief has finally unraveled, conjuring him from the depths of the ocean to haunt you. But then, as his lips press urgently against yours and the solid weight of him fills your arms, you decide you don’t care. It doesn’t matter if he is a ghost, risen from the sea’s cold embrace. Nor does it matter that death has leached the color from his cheeks and the warmth from his hands. All that matters is that he’s here.

“My love,” you cry. 

“I am here,” he promises, trailing his lips down the side of your throat until his mouth seals over the juncture where your neck meets your shoulder. 

He lingers there, the sting of his kiss euphoric. You bury your fingers in his thick curls, tugging gently and he all but growls against your skin. With his mouth still on you, his fingers tug at your nightgown, baring your body to his eager hands. They slip between your parted thighs, finding your wet heat, and stealing it away as they work you to the peak of pleasure. Friedrich groans and the pain in your neck flares, sharp and sudden.

When he pulls away, a wave of exhaustion crashes over you, leaving you breathless and spent. You stare up at him as your vision shifts, the world taking on a hazy hue. In the dim light, his blue eyes are dark, almost silvery, and something deep within you recoils, an instinctive fear that you can’t quite name. But then, he blinks, and just as quickly the shadow fades. The warmth of his gaze returns, and those same familiar blue eyes, the ones you’ve loved for so long, look down at you with tenderness.

Your fingers hover over his face, longing to touch him again. But a painful realization stops you. 

"You are not real.” The words leave you in a rush. 

“Does it matter if I am?" he asks. "Does this not bring you peace, my love?"

You shake your head, the pain of his absence still raw in your chest. You can’t resist the pull of him, the need to feel close again, even if only in this fleeting moment. Without thinking, you draw him down to kiss you, and the taste of him is sharp, unexpectedly coppery.

"It is a horrible thought," you murmur, breaking the kiss, "but I wish I would not wake when morning comes. I want to stay here with you. In this dream."

A deep frown forms between his brows, and his hand finds your cheek, his touch colder than it should be. His mouth parts slightly, and his teeth, white and sharp, glimmer faintly against his pale lips. 

“You do not wish to find a new husband? To live?” he questions. 

"I wish only for you," you say, voice trembling but sure. "And for our girls."

“My dearest wife,” he whispers, kissing you sweetly. “I will never leave you. I cannot.”

A soft moan slips from you, unbidden, the sound encouraging him to kiss you deeper. His lips move with a possessive tenderness that fills the hollow spaces inside you. “Nor would I ever let you go," he promises. “We are bound even in death.”

Part 2

[ccazimi]

Currit in Sanguine Nostra

pt. 1

cw: vampire hunter!sukuna x vampire!reader, dubcon, enemies to...???, blood (blood drinking, mild gore), violence/torture (electrocution), sadism, usage of a shock collar, petplay, male masturbation, facial, humiliation/degradation, forced submission, piv sex, very mild anal play (more like teasing), hatefucking, creampie, major character death including murder-suicide, angst wc: 12k a/n: i listened to ma meilleure ennemie while writing the ending and lowkey cried ummm also i didn't edit this i'll clean it up tmr sorry if it's a bit rough

songs i listened to while writing this part

me again - 12 rounds

stitch in time - genitorturers

ma meilleure ennemie - stromae, pomme, arcane

You drift in and out of a restless mockery of sleep the next day, dreams pulling you under in ragged fragments. In some, you’re a child again—perhaps the closest you’ve ever come to feeling human.

Sometimes, you used to pretend you were one of them. But the hunger always ruined it in the end.

Hunger.

Your oldest companion…your only companion.

It’s the thing that defines you, that sets you apart. The reminder that no matter how well you mimic them, you don’t belong. Not to the world of the living, nor the dead. You exist somewhere in between—drifting, untethered.

But there are two absolutes in your reality, two anchors in the dark.

Hunger.

And Sukuna.

The man who was your enemy before you even knew his name. The man whose purpose was to end you—but instead, became bound to you, inexplicably and irrevocably. The man who, despite everything, has become just as much a part of you as the hunger itself.

Hunger and Sukuna.

The two things you can never escape.

And now, they’ve become one and the same.

You should have run, should have fed elsewhere, done anything.

But instead, you lay tangled in fever-damp sheets that still smell like him, every nerve fraying, every breath dry with wanting.

You wake with a jolt—head heavy, limbs trembling. His blood still burns through your veins like venom, sweet and spoiled.

You're not just hungry—you're sick.

The room is quiet in the evening that has settled like a bruise.

He hasn’t killed you. Maybe he’s waiting—for you to crawl, beg, break.

You move slowly, swallowing your weakness and forcing your steps to be deliberate.

His scent draws you to the living room… and there he is. Sprawled out on the couch like a predator at rest. Shirt open, glass of liquor dangling between his fingers, looking completely at ease.

Like he’s not the reason you’ve been wrecked for the last twenty-four hours.

The wound on his neck is closed now, but the bruising’s deepened—an angry, violent purple. Evidence of your teeth.

Your throat still burns, your stomach’s a churning knot, but it's deeper than hunger.

It’s worse.

You feel like you're rotting without more of him—yet at the same time, your body is rejecting it.

“What the hell did you put in your blood?”

Your voice comes out hoarse, but steady.

Sukuna doesn't blink. Just tilts his glass, gaze lazily dragging down your body—your flushed skin, the faint tremble in your fingers.

“I didn’t take anything,” he says evenly.

You stare at him, trying to read the lie. But there isn’t one, and unfortunately you believe him. You tasted it last night. There was nothing foreign, just him.

How perfect, then. That the blood that’s rivaled yours for generations would be the one that makes you sick.

And the one you crave more than anything else you've ever tasted.

The irony would be almost funny if it didn’t feel like it was killing you.

But then, another thought pierces through the haze.

“…Not even antivenom?”

You fed from him enough that his mind should be bowing to your will. The average man would become obsessed with you from a single bite, and while Sukuna isn't the average man it's odd that there was no reaction at all.

He snorts. “Don’t need it for a sucker as weak as you. Wouldn’t do shit to me anyway.”

You grind your teeth but force yourself to stay neutral, prowling toward him with slow steps.

“I’m hungry.”

Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, more amused than anything, and lifts his glass for another slow sip.

“That so?”

You swallow your irritation, keeping your voice level.

“Yes.”

Finally, he looks at you fully—his eyes glinting with something sharp, yet cruelly playful.

“And what, exactly, do you think I’m going to do about that?”

Your jaw tightens.

He knows. Of course he does. He always does.

Sees right through you—down to the marrow, to the way your body hums with sickness and longing, wound tight with want.

“I need more.”

You don’t beg, don’t bother to soften it, just lay it bare.

His lips curl.

“Need?”

He leans forward slightly, the lazy shift of weight somehow predatory. “Didn’t take long for you to turn into a little addict, huh?”

Heat flashes under your skin as your fingers twitch.

You hate the way he says it, like this was always going to happen, like it was his plan all along.

“And?” You step closer. “Are you going to give it to me, or just sit there running your mouth?”

His brows rise, mock-surprised. “Oh? You want me to?”

You bite your tongue as hunger claws at you, tight and wild beneath your ribs. Your throat is dry, pulsing, the remnants of his blood still lingering on your tongue—something divine turned rotten by denial.

Sukuna leans back, head tilting as he studies you.

“Tell me, little leech,” he murmurs, voice smooth and dark. “Which ache are you really asking me to fix?”

Your stomach drops, a shiver crawling up your spine, slow as poison.

Because you don’t know. Not really. Lust, desire, hunger—they’ve twisted into something indistinguishable.

It’s all the same in the end. All a craving for him.

But you won’t flinch, won’t give him that.

Instead you sneer at him. “Why don’t you give me what I want and find out?”

His smirk deepens.

“Oh, I already know.” His voice dips, twisting with something cold.

“Bet you couldn’t even sleep, could you? All squirming, all wound up—” He leans in, voice low and cutting, “—fingers weren’t enough, were they?”

Your body moves before your mind catches up.

One moment, he’s lounging there, glass dangling from his fingers like a dare, smirking like he owns you.

The next, you lunge.

Hunger rips through you, primal and brutal as instinct blots out reason. You’re on him in a blink—fangs bared, claws digging for his jaw, desperate to rip it sideways, to expose the throb of his artery.

But Sukuna is faster.

He pivots—just enough to throw you off balance. Then his palm slams squarely into your sternum and he throws you.

Your spine hits the floor with a crack that leaves the walls shuddering, as pain detonates up your back.

You snarl, writhing, legs lashing out to knock him off and he just laughs.

“Poor little thing,” he sneers, voice honey-thick with mockery. “Left to take care of yourself like some neglected pet. And still—”

His knee drives up between your thighs, cruel and deliberate in the way it grinds into that one aching spot. You gasp—body reacting against your will as heat throbs through your core.

“—you came crawling back.”

You twist, head spinning, teeth snapping toward his throat. They clack as they close around nothing when he jerks back just enough to stay out of range.

“Tch.”

His hand clamps your jaw, forcing your mouth open, fingers digging into your cheeks until your breath shudders.

“What now?” he murmurs, low and cruel. “Acting like some wild animal? No pride left?”

You growl, chest heaving.

You despise how your body responds to his weight, how his scent drowns your thoughts, how his pulse sings in your ears like a curse.

You spit his own words back at him, poison-laced. “And you love it.”

His grin splits wider, something dark flickering behind his eye.

“Maybe I do.”

His lips brush your ear—just breath and heat.

“Did you cry for me last night?” he whispers. “Touch yourself to the thought of me?”

One moment of hesitation—just long enough for him to see it.

His grin sharpens, wicked.

“Ohhh… You did, didn’t you?”

Rage detonates.

You snap again, harder, fangs out, strength flaring wild as you thrust your torso upwards.

Impact.

Your back slams into the floor again with a crack loud enough to splinter the wood.

In your stomach, something lurches, your brain pounding with that toxic blood coursing through it.

Still, even in your feverish, sickened state, you can't stop.

You twist like a rabid thing, clawing and bucking, fingers slashing until he catches your arm mid-swing and twists.

The crack of your bone is sharp and awful, pain lancing up your arm like lightning.

You scream—but not from fear.

From fury.

He slams your wrist down, pinning it to the floor. His other hand wraps around your throat and squeezes, cutting off your air.

“Pathetic,” he breathes.

You manage a snarl through clenched teeth. “Fuck you.”

He laughs. Horribly delighted.

“You can’t even touch me,” he mocks. “What, all that hunger, and this is the best you’ve got?”

You lash out again, thrashing as much as you can with any free part of your body.

His hand tightens on your throat.

His voice drops lower, like he's talking in pity to some fucking stray. “You’re so hungry, aren’t you?”

You snap, flailing around again, this time with mild success when your long nails catch his cheek deep enough to draw blood.

There's just a flicker of satisfaction in you before his laughter deepens.

He licks the blood from his lip, eyes glowing with some kind of thrill. “Good,” he growls. “That’s more like it.”

Suddenly he lets go, and that's when you feel it—the pain in your arm, the bone he cracked—it's knitting itself back together.

You feel the muscle realigning, sinew fusing. The sound is low, wet, wrong, and then it’s done. You don't have to look to know bruises are already fading from other parts of your skin, scrapes sealing themselves over.

His eyes flick to your arm, watching the contorted limb revert back to its original state, and something in his expression changes.

Not surprise or fear. More like...intrigue.

Dark, vicious intrigue

You try to spring up again, feral instinct overriding thought, and that's exactly what he wanted.

He catches you mid-motion, spins you, and slams you down, face-first this time. The breath is knocked clean from your lungs.

Before you can recover, he’s on you again, weight crushing your back, knee digging into your spine. One hand knots in your hair, yanking your head back, the other twists your arm behind you—just shy of breaking it again.

You thrash, scream, curse.

He just chuckles.

“I should break you. You’re too stupid to quit.”

Your vision swims red. Maybe because he's partially right.

His knee presses harder into your back, then something cold brushes your neck.

Metal.

Click.

A collar.

You freeze; not from fear, but recognition.

The pressure on your arm eases slightly, just enough for your fingers to reach your throat as you claw at the cool metal. It won't budge.

Beep.

Your pulse spikes.

Sukuna leans close as he clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Try to take it off,” he whispers, “and I might just test it on you.”

You go still, but your eyes blaze.

He trails a slow finger along the edge of the collar. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

His hand tightens just enough to make you swallow, to make you feel it.

Something inside you snaps in panic, like a wild animal realizing it's been caged in and exploding. Against your better judgement, you try to go for him again.

Another mistake.

The moment your arm swings up, there's pain.

White-hot, searing, blinding pain.

The collar pulses with raw electric current, slamming through your body. You scream as your muscles seize, legs collapsing till your knees hit the floor with a sickening crack.

Your back arches and every nerve burns.

And through the agony, you hear his laughter.

Finally the waves stop and he crouches beside you, watching the way your body twitches from the aftershocks.

“You’re not very bright, are you?” he purrs.

You shake, but you don’t cry. There's a cloyingly sweet smell, and you realize with disgust it's the smell of your flesh cooking.

Your teeth bare as you glare up at him, every breath a battle though your body is already regenerating.

“Oh?” he taunts. “Still got fight left?”

You snarl, body trembling, fangs glinting.

Click.

The second shock hits harder, the healing process interrupted as your whole body jerks, bones slamming against the floor. Your scream rips free, raw and ragged.

Light blooms behind your eyes, fracturing your vision.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Shaking already?”

He watches your fingers spasm, watches the flicker of humiliation in your eyes.

Then, he caresses your cheek.

“Did you really think you could take from me?” he whispers.

You twitch under his touch—still burning, still raging.

But bound and helpless.

Suddenly, beneath the sharp, acrid sting of singed skin, you smell it. That same scent from last night — alkaline and musky.

Your stomach twists as your gaze drops slowly, unwillingly, and there it is — a bulge, obvious and undeniable.

Your breath catches, not from fear, but revulsion as you shudder.

He’s hard.

Your stomach roils. You want to claw his other eye out, rip his throat open, scream.

God, you hate him.

“You get what I decide to give you." His smirk turns into something heinous. "And tonight? You get nothing."

Then, just to drive it home, he pats your cheek and stands, leaving you there—collared, quivering, burning with humiliation, hunger, hatred.

You wake up seething.

Your body aches, your pride is in shreds, and worst of all, the collar is still there. A cruel weight around your throat, snug against delicate skin, mocking you with its presence.

You fumble with it for a few minute, to absolutely no avail as the lock holds, unmoving. No matter how hard you tug, no matter how raw your skin burns, it doesn’t budge.

Fucking bastard.

The door creaks. Footsteps.

You don’t need to look up; Sukuna’s presence is suffocating.

“Morning, pet.”

Your hands ball into fists, nails digging into your palms.

His voice is too amused, too self-satisfied, and it takes everything in you not to lunge at him on sight.

He crouches, tilting his head as if examining you.

“Oh? No snarling today? No pathetic little threats?” He grins, eyes dancing with delight. “You’re not pouting, are you?”

You whip your head up, glaring daggers.

He laughs. Loud, open, unbothered.

“Ahhh. There it is.” His fingers flick under your chin, forcing your head up higher. “That pissed-off little glare. Always so mad.”

Your lip curls. “I’m going to rip your fucking throat out.”

Sukuna just clicks his tongue.

“Tch. More empty threats? Haven’t we been through this?”

Click.

Pain explodes through your body.

A sharp current crackles through your nerves, muscles locking, lungs seizing as you choke on a strangled gasp. Your vision whites out for a second, fingers digging into the floor you haven't even realized you've collapsed onto.

“You never learn, do you?”

The moment the current stops, your body collapses, gasping, shaking from the aftershocks. Every nerve is burning, but the rage—the rage is blinding.

“Fuck—you,” you snarl, voice ragged, barely above a growl.

Sukuna’s smirk deepens.

"See?" he breathes, trailing lazy fingers along the collar. "That’s why you need training."

Your body tenses.

“You—”

His hand clamps onto your jaw, cutting you off instantly.

"Shhhh." His grip tightens until your teeth grind together, his mocking amusement never faltering. "Did I ask you to speak?"

Fury churns in your chest, a wild, blistering rage—you lash out, but Sukuna’s already waiting for it. The moment you move, his other hand presses the remote.

Click.

Electricity rips through you once again. Your whole body convulses—a ragged scream ripped from your throat as the pain tears through your nerves.

It lasts longer this time. When it finally stops, you double over, chest heaving, limbs trembling uncontrollably.

You snarl, teeth bared, but your body still shakes from the shocks.

"You want me?" he purrs. "Then earn it."

His fingers toy with the collar again, voice dripping with amusement as you pant, catching your breath, feeling your cells renew.

“You do as I say. You behave. And maybe...maybe I’ll reward you.”

Sukuna pulls back, grinning.

“But if you don’t?” His thumb hovers over the remote.

His eyes are bright, thrilled, drinking in your rage, your helplessness.

“Then we keep doing this.” He chuckles. “Again. And again. And again.”

The next day is humiliating.

The collar is tight, an ever-present reminder against your throat. The remote is always in his grip, always a threat, and Sukuna?

Sukuna is having the time of his life.

“Go on.” He gestures toward the floor with a flick of his fingers, voice mocking. “Crawl.”

Your teeth grind.

You stay frozen, muscles coiled, every nerve in your body screaming at you to refuse. To tear him apart, to fight, to kill him.

His smirk widens.

“Oh?” he purrs. “You think you still have a choice?"

Click.

It lasts just long enough to remind you. Sukuna tilts his head, watching you pant through clenched teeth.

“Don’t make me say it twice,” he breathes.

Your breath shudders, hands clenching into fists. Your pride screams at you not to, but the threat lingers, hot and buzzing under your skin.

Slowly, your fingers uncurl and your arms lower as you sink down to your hands and knees.

Sukuna grins, victorious.

“Awww,” he croons, eyes gleaming with delight. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

Vitriol burns deep, scalding inside you like a toxin. Your hands shake against the floor, your body tense, humiliated, but you can’t react, not if you want to avoid the next shock.

Sukuna leans back against his chair, watching you like something he managed to capture.

“You know,” he muses, “I think I like you like this.”

Your head snaps up, glaring up at him.

His eye flashes, anticipating your outburst, enough to make you bite your tongue as your body tenses, practically able to feel phantom shocks running through it.

“Ohhh,” he breathes, thrilled. “You almost did it, didn’t you? Almost told me to go fuck myself.”

Your teeth grind harder, muscles locking.

Sukuna snickers. “You’re learning.”

Then, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a black cloth, dangling it from two fingers.

“Put this on.”

You blink. “What—?”

“The blindfold,” he says, voice syrupy and cruel. “Now.”

You hesitate.

He doesn’t even speak this time—just taps the remote with one nail, the silent threat making your gut churn.

With shaking hands, you take the cloth and tie it over your eyes.

Darkness swallows everything, amplifying every other sense. The sound of his breath. The hum of the lights. The subtle movement of air as he shifts nearby. The faint smell of his bodywash.

You're blind now. Vulnerable and open.

You flinch as you hear him move—closer, closer, until the heat of him is almost brushing your skin.

“Good girl,” he whispers beside your ear.

A hand slides along your cheek, then down—and then you hear footsteps, the noise of him sitting back on the couch.

Silence stretches.

You sit there, blindfolded, the floor cold beneath your knees, every inch of your skin crawling with unease.

A soft rustle, like he’s shifting.

“I should invite someone over,” he says idly, like he’s thinking aloud. “Let them see how obedient you are. How pretty you look when you’re quiet.”

He laughs softly at the way you stiffen.

“Relax,” he drawls. “Not today. But maybe someday.”

You hear the clink of glass and ice. A drink being poured.

“Spread your knees.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t move.

Click.

A jolt of pain zips across your spine—sharp, fast, enough to make you flinch and gasp.

“Don’t make me ask again,” he murmurs.

You force your muscles to obey, sliding your knees apart against the floor.

There’s a long, deliberate pause.

You hear him take a sip of his drink, the clink of ice again.

“Hands behind your back.”

Another pause, but you obey.

Your breathing is loud now, uneven, as you sit there, nerves wracked in anxious anticipation.

Sukuna hums in approval as you sit, rage rolling off you in waves as you’re forced to kneel before him like some kind of god.

“Good. Just stay like that, alright?” he purrs, followed by the sound of a zipper being undone.

Your eyes widen beneath the mask of black, like they’re straining to see through the fabric.

“What the fuck—” You pause, reluctantly correcting yourself. “What are you doing?”

Another rustling and then the scent of his pre-spend hits your nostrils, stirring something in you, between your thighs.

“Mm. Wouldn’t you like to know?”

The soft sound of skin being stroked.

You swallow, heart in your throat as you pick up gentle shucking sounds, followed by the sharp hiss of a breath sucked in between teeth.

When he speaks again, his voice is lower, a little rougher.

“But pets don’t get to ask questions. They just need to sit there and look pretty.”

You keep silent, unsure how to feel right now.

You’re still entirely clothed — he could’ve made you undress, touch yourself, do anything at all to get off to. And instead he’s jerking off just at the sight of you helpless and compliant.

Bowed in submission.

“Tell me how much you hate me.”

You blink, straining to pick up any deception in his voice. Some kind of trap, surely.

“I don’t know what you mean…” you mutter unsurely.

A throaty breath escapes him as you hear his pace picking up slightly.

“Exactly what I said. I know you’ve got some nasty little things you’re just dying to spit out.”

You hesitate.

“Or—” The sharp click of his nails tapping on the remote.

Your breath stutters.

“I hate you,” you blurt, chest rising and falling too fast. “I hate everything about you.”

He hums, pleased, the slick sound of him pumping his cock becoming louder, more intense. “Keep going.”

Your throat tightens. “You’re cruel. Sadistic. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”

He says nothing.

You push forward, heart pounding, the smell of his pre cum flooding your keen senses, making you salivate even as you spit the venom you hold for him.

“You enjoy watching people suffer. You enjoy watching me suffer.”

A deep groan cuts through the air—low, filthy, pleased. It makes your stomach twist and your skin burn in humiliation.

You know he’s getting off on this, but you can’t help yourself, not when he’s finally given the chance for you to speak your mind.

Your jaw locks. “Ironic they call me a monster,” you snarl, “when a sick fuck like you gets to walk around free.”

“More,” he rasps. The sound of it is hungry, breathless. “Say it like you mean it.”

Your nails dig into your palms.

“I wish you were dead,” you whisper, each word trembling with rage. “I wish you’d choke on your own blood, feel every bone in your body snap, scream until your voice gives out.”

His breathing deepens.

“I want to be the one who ends you,” you hiss. “I want to watch you die slow. I want to see the panic crawl across your face when you realize no one’s coming to save you. I want to be the last thing you see before everything goes dark, before you go burn in whatever hell you’re going to.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Filled only with the sound of him jerking his dick, slower right now.

You hear the couch shift as he leans forward, breath brushing the shell of your ear.

“There she is,” he purrs. “My little monster.”

You flinch.

His hand slides along your jaw—gentle, almost affectionate.

“You hate me,” he murmurs, “but you’re still here. Still kneeling. Still obeying.”

His fingers trace the edge of your blindfold.

“Tell me why.”

You stay silent, jaw clenched, blood roaring in your ears.

He tilts your chin up—his grip firmer now. “Tell me.”

“Because you’ll hurt me if I don’t.”

“Exactly.”

The word comes out as a growl, and there a second of stroking and low pants before you feel something splatter against your cheek, taking you by surprise.

Warm. Salty. Bitter.

His cum spills all over your face, some catching across your nose and lips, dripping down. It feels like bugs crawling on your skin, and you have to fight the urge to wipe off the virile fluid now painting you.

It smells like his precum, but stronger. Hotter. Alive.

Finally you feel no fresh spurts landing on you as the sound of his movement slows, replaced only by his breathing, heavy and satisfied.

You don’t realize your lips are slightly parted until some of the cum trickling down your face tickles the curve of your upper lip.

“I should really take a picture of you like this. What do you think, leech?”

You bite your cheek, jaw clenched so hard it hurts. “I think there’s something really fucking wrong with you.”

Sukuna snickers—no shame, no guilt, just cruel amusement. You hear the rustle of fabric, the zip of his fly. The sound makes your gut twist with something shameful. Your thighs press together instinctively, helpless against the dull, throbbing ache between your legs.

It’s sick. You feel sick.

He’s doing this on purpose.

You know he is.

“…Can I take this off?” you ask quietly, voice frayed at the edges. The blindfold itches, clings.

You want to be alone, want to fall into your sheets and do something—anything—to bleed the heat out of you.

He lets out a breath, bored now. You hear him lean back, the lazy clink of ice against glass.

“Mm. Sure. Whatever.”

A sip.

You fumble at the knot behind your head, fingers shaky. The fabric peels away with a damp, dragging sound, and the sudden light—however dim—makes you squint. Your eyes take a second to adjust.

And then you see him.

Sitting in that chair like a king—loose shirt, legs sprawled, drink in one hand. Still watching you with that unreadable, heavy-lidded gaze. Nothing about him says danger, and yet every part of you feels wired to flee.

Instead, you sit there, skin prickling, shame still thick on your tongue.

You expect him to say something cruel. Another jab, another reminder of who holds the leash.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his gaze lowers to your mouth.

“You’ve been good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Didn’t beg. Didn’t bite.”

His eyes flash with something darker, something considering.

“You want a reward?”

“What?”

He doesn’t repeat himself, just sets his drink down, rolls up his sleeve and turns his wrist over, exposing the unscarred skin of his other forearm.

The knife appears like magic, you didn’t even see him grab it.

There's a clean slice, and a ribbon of red swells instantly.

He holds it out to you.

You freeze, contemplating, mind reeling.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” Sukuna says, voice low but sharp now.

You hate him.

You hate him for knowing exactly what this will do to you. For how fast your fangs descend, for the way your pulse howls at the scent.

But most of all, you hate yourself—because your body’s already moving.

You crawl to him.

Every step feels like it costs something, like pride scraped off your ribs, dignity leaking out your eyes. Your knees burn on the floor as you inch forward, closer and closer to where he sits, arm outstretched like an offering from a throne.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.

You pause at his feet, breath shallow. The scent is dizzying—copper and warmth and him. Your fingers tremble as they curl around his wrist, guiding it down. His blood drips slow, thick, a thread of red down his arm. Your mouth opens.

And when your lips finally touch his skin, something breaks.

The taste floods you instantly—hot and heady and so much more than it should be. Not just nourishment. Not just survival. It’s him, and it’s power, and it’s control, and you hate it. You hate that you moan softly, that your tongue presses hungrily into the wound, that your hands slide up his arm like you’re holding onto something holy.

And worst of all, he lets you.

You feel his fingers in your hair, slow and steady, as he watches.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

Your body shudders at the praise. You want to spit it out. You want to tear your mouth away. But your hunger is deeper than your shame, and right now you're starving.

You drink like he’s the only thing keeping your body from unraveling into ash and dust, knowing full well how ill you'll feel later.

The blood is hot, thicker than it should be, each swallow burning its way down your throat, and your limbs tremble as strength seeps back in—strength that comes from him.

But that’s not what breaks you; it's the sound he makes.

A soft exhale almost a sigh—and his grip in your hair tightens, not to stop you, but to keep you there. Like he’s savoring this just as much, the sight of you on your knees, mouth to his skin.

And something inside you twists.

Not with rage, not with grief, but something worse. Something wet and hungry and needy.

You’re not just feeding anymore.

You’re worshipping. The act changes without you realizing it. It’s not frantic or desperate anymore, the way it was before. The hunger is still there, but it’s become more—soothing, almost tender in its own dark way. Your lips are gentle against his skin, your tongue tracing the wound with a kind of reverence. The movement is soft, almost hypnotic, and it feels like a surrender, a quiet admission that you’ve already given in to him more than you care to acknowledge.

Because you’re already there—somewhere past the threshold of shame, in that liminal space where pain and power collapse into pleasure. Where your body has stopped belonging to your will, and now belongs to.

And finally you pull away, almost against your own will, as the blood continues to course in your veins, heightening every nerve, every sensation. But something about the intensity, the closeness, makes it too much.

The hunger in you, the desperation—it’s suffocating.

You let his wrist go, slowly, and your hands fall to your sides, trembling from the pull of everything you’ve just given away.

Sukuna’s presence hovers over you, almost tangible, his eyes never leaving you. It’s as though he’s waiting for something more—waiting for you to crack open completely. But you can’t. Not like this. Not yet.

You don’t look at him.

Instead, you focus on your breath, on the way your body seems to react to the smallest movements. Heat simmers under your skin, traveling elsewhere, somewhere it shouldn't.

Something urgent, that will need to be taken care of soon.

The room feels too small now, stifling, the air thick with tension and unspoken words. His smirk hasn’t faded, but there’s something cold in his eyes now, something that wasn’t there before.

“You’re weak,” he says quietly, but the words lack their usual bite... they sound almost measured, as though he’s seeing something new in you.

Or perhaps, you’ve shown him too much.

You don’t answer. You can’t bear to hear him anymore.

It’s not even two more days, yet time passes slower when every second feels like torture.

Every waking minute with that fucking collar around your neck, with him making you do whatever humiliating trick that he fancies at the moment.

There’s something uniquely horrifying about being a supernatural being with healing capabilities, yet the capacity to feel pain like any other living creature.

And there’s something unique about the pain of being electrified.

It isn’t like stabbing or burning, no, it’s an invasive type of pain that hijacks the entire neurological system, fires every pain receptor at once, inside and outside.

Put the two together and you get a body that can never adapt—because each time the nerve damage from the shocks is repaired perfectly.

Calluses, scars, numbness— these are adaptive responses. Things you don’t get.

So every click of that remote, every electrocution feels like the first.

No dulling, no immunity. The pain never gets easier—of having every muscle in your body seize, of feeling like your nerves are on fire, smelling your skin sizzle.

And though your body may reset, your brain doesn’t.

The end result is feeling powerless in a uniquely feral way, because the one thing you can’t regenerate is control.

So you bow your head, do what he wants. Endure the humiliation rituals. The demeaning words. You hate them, but you learn that to ignore them is self-preservation.

But then he pushes too far. Sukuna's always been good at finding what really makes you tick.

“God, you’re so weak it’s pathetic.”

And as usual, you don’t reply, keeping your gaze lowered. But it’s his next words, that spark something bitter in you.

“Probably runs in the blood. Mm, what happened to your parents again?” He scoffs as you stiffen. “Killed off by some amateur fucking hunters. Now that’s humiliating.”

There's a shift in you, but you push it down and just stare blankly, at the floor, the wall—anywhere but him.

Anywhere safe.

And yet it festers—that sound in his voice, that smirk you can feel even without seeing it. It grows like pressure behind your eyeballs, a dizzying sensation in your brain.

Because you’ve taken everything—every insult, every jolt, every order barked with that false, velvet calm.

But this is different. He doesn’t just want you obedient; he wants you small.

And for the first time in days, you feel it—a flicker of something wild, a heat that doesn’t come from the shocks.

At first it’s a twitching in your jaw, but then your fingers curl just slightly as it builds like a pressure throbbing in your skull.

You wish you could control it—keep pushing it down, stay smart, stay quiet—but it’s done. The dam breaks.

There's no warning when you abruptly pounce towards him.

He doesn’t expect it, but instinctively the button on the remote is pressed, and that now familiar pain overtakes your system.

This time however, by some streak of luck, you continue to swipe at him with your flailing limbs, aiming loosely for the remote held midair.

It falls to the ground, and in an instant the shocks stop, your body already putting itself back together.

There’s a single second, one of those few moments where genuine surprise flashes across his face.

A hint of worry even, maybe.

Too late.

Your heel stomps onto it, the material giving way with a brittle crack, and something inside you unhinges with it.

Silence. A flicker of eye contact, and a wicked grin unfurling across your lips.

Then you move, but Sukuna’s already calibrated then, adapted to the new circumstances.

The fight explodes—fast, brutal, feral.

No strategy, no restraint, just raw nerve and muscle and memory. The blur of bodies crashing against walls, teeth flashing, claws slashing. Your claws rake across his side, catching skin along with the cloth and peeling it back with a wet sound that makes your stomach knot, but you don’t stop. He blocks, counters, but you’re not the same thing you were moments ago, not when your blood sings with rage, your limbs moving faster than thought, all sharp instincts and hunger.

He underestimates how long you've been waiting for this, how long you've needed this, how much of your rage you've been collecting.

Your shoulder takes the brunt of a punch that sends you sprawling against the wall. Plaster explodes in a white puff around you, and a rib gives with a sickening crack. Pain lances through your spine like lightning—but you're already up again, fangs bared. Blood clings to your lip, not all yours. Some of it you can taste—copper and heat, familiar now.

Addictive.

No more snarky comments, no more clicks or shocks erupting from the metal around your neck, only the sound of fists hitting flesh, of bone cracking under pressure.

You drive him back, but he’s laughing. He’s grinning—if the borderline maniacal expression on his face can even be called that, something so exhilarated that it makes your own skin buzz, fueling you more.

You feel your body burning, every nerve awake, every injury healing almost as fast as it happens, but not fast enough to avoid pain. No, you feel everything.

But this time, the pain feels almost like catharsis.

You spit blood, swipe your hand across your mouth, and launch again.

You don't know how long you fight, but it must have been long, with the way your strikes start to lose precision. His too. Sloppier now, desperate.

Everything that could’ve been a weapon has been—shattered chairs, broken lamps, jagged pieces of the coffee table now scattered like shrapnel across the floor.

Half the room’s destroyed, maybe more.

Sukuna is a ruin—his body a map of fresh wounds and older ones split open. Bruises bloom along his ribs, one arm hangs slightly looser in its socket, his lip is split, nose flattened, and even the scarred hollow where his eye used to be is bleeding.

You don’t wear your wounds the same way. You heal, yes, but even that comes with a price. Your body screams with fatigue, not just from the blows but from the endless, greedy churn of regeneration.

It’s slower now. Faltering. Some of your skin still glistens with that pale, translucent sheen of half-healed flesh—sticky, pink, leaking the thin serum that comes before blood. Other gashes are raw and red, torn back open mid-repair by the next hit, or the one after.

You're dripping, and trembling, but not from fear.

Every time you think you've hit your limit, your body finds one more burst of energy. And so does he. You’re both running on fumes and fury now, nothing left but nerve and instinct and the memory of pain.

You don’t see it coming.

One second you’re lunging, the next—he catches your momentum, turns it against you. Your back slams into the edge of a wooden table with a sickening crack. Pain explodes through your body, but you barely register it; you're already twisting, half instinct, half calculation—until he’s there again.

His chest crashes into yours, and the next moment, you're pinned. His body drives forward, shoving you hard against the table, the shock collar biting into your throat.

Your breath stutters.

The position feels wrong, and yet, it feels like everything you want, have been wanting—his weight on top of you, something dangerous in his eyes, something hungry.

“Still fighting?” he growls, rolling his hips into yours, slow and heavy, a taunt made of friction. You hate the gasp it forces from your lips.

You bare your teeth. “Fuck you.”

He smirks, all teeth. “Not yet.”

You thrash, but his grip just tightens—like he’s daring you to break.

“You hate this,” he whispers against your ear, his breath electric. “But you’re shaking. Not just from anger, either.”

Your nails carve red into his chest. He doesn’t even flinch. Just grins wider.

“I should kill you,” you hiss.

“You’ve tried.” His hand drags down neck, till your chest, giving one of your heaving breasts a testing squeeze.

“Fuck—Get off me,” you growl, breathless.

“Make me.” The challenge hangs there, hot and sharp, as he deliberately presses the hardness in his pants against you.

You snarl and buck, fury boiling up—but his voice drops lower, more dangerous.

“Mm, keep fighting. It just gets me harder."

A jolt of white-hot shame and arousal flashes through you. The shock collar burns your throat with every movement, but it’s nothing compared to the heat pooling between your legs, desire flaring despite every instinct telling you to resist.

“You’re pathetic,” you whisper, tears burning at the corners of your eyes as he leans in close, split lips ghosting over the corner of yours.

“Makes two of us then, I guess,” he murmurs with a dark laugh.

His lips capture yours in a hard, almost bruising kiss, and you try to resist, but the taste of him is overwhelming, the tip of your tongue automatically darting out to lick the blood seeping from the cut. It's sweeter here.

Your body reacts before you can stop it, your legs wrapping around his waist in spite of yourself, pulling him closer.

And Sukuna relishes it.

Every struggle, every breathless gasp, every moment of broken resistance only makes him more satisfied, more hungry for the fight, for the chaos, for the way you’re teetering on the edge of everything.

“Such a good little pet,” he whispers, his voice low and mocking as he grinds against you one last time.

“Su—kuna, please—” you choke out, unbearable heat burning you all over, more and more slick pooling into your panties as his bulge rubs into you. You hear him exhale when you tightens your legs around his waist further to match his movements with your own undulating hips, grinding your clothed cunt onto his erection.

“Please what?” He breathes, though you can tell he’s barely holding on himself, holding onto every last bit of his self control.

“Please fuck me.”

With those three words his hands are on the waist of your pants, ripping them off, sliding them down along with your panties in a borderline feral urgency. There’s almost a kind of relief when you finally get them off, falling to the ground, feeling your dripping cunt finally freed from the confines of clothing.

His gaze is ravenous—almost mirroring your own hunger—as he pushes you further onto the table, yanking your legs apart to forcefully spread them so he can see the sticky mess between your thighs.

You pant softly as he looks your pussy up and down, eye darkening as it roves over your puffy folds, your leaking hole clenching over nothing, his lip curling into a smirk.

“Aww all this for me?” he coos, before abruptly spanking your swollen clit with one hand. The impact makes you jolt, involuntarily letting out a small whine. “Does my pet need her needy little hole filled?”

You just sob in desperation — that burning, horrible ache only worsening with how close you are. “Y-Yes…”

“Finally honest for once, are we?” he hums, before pushing your legs up all the way to your chest and taking one of your hands to hook it behind your knee. “Here. Keep yourself held open like a good slut. Think you can do that?”

Anger pricks at you again, but you bite your lip and nod quietly, following his instructions to hold both your legs folded into you, exposing your holes to him completely.

Perhaps, if your head wasn’t spinning and so utterly lost in the need right now, you’d have some shame.

You watch with eagerly as he frees his cock, eyes widening and then dropping further in lust at the sight of it.

A trail of dark pink hair leads down to the tattooed base of his girthy length, though what really catches your eye is the glint of metal on the underside of his shaft.

Your mouth falls open a bit in surprise and he drinks in your reaction, smirking at you from over the bridge of his nose as he continues to pump his leaking cock at a relaxed pace. “Drooling just at the sight of my cock like a pathetic mutt, huh?”

Your lip curls back slightly as he provokes you again, clearly intent on not letting you live any of this down. But once again, you resist the urge to say anything back, knowing that if you open your mouth nothing good will come out.

The slightly alkaline smell of his precum hits your nostrils again, flaring up your hunger and the ache in your cunt all at once as you wet your lips, watching him with dark eyes.

Sukuna slaps his hard cock on your cunt once, then twice, humming in satisfaction at the soft gasps leaving your lips with each lewd wet smack.

With all your senses on edge, you become even more aware of the uncomfortable metal still wrapped around your neck.

It annoys you.

“Can you remove this thing?” You shift to show him the collar, slightly out of breath already.

He glances at it, unconcerned as he drags his cock through your slick folds, torturing you with the way his piercing catches on your clit. “Mmm, I don’t know. Seeing it on you turns me on.”

Sukuna flashes you a sleazy grin as the tip of his cock, oozing with pearlescent pre, smacks again on your clit. “So quit complaining…you wouldn’t want me to get that remote again, would you?”

Your mouth goes a bit dry, the threat snapping you back to reality just a bit as you obediently shake your head.

“Please.” You swallow. “I just need you in me, Sukuna…” You hold your legs apart a bit wider as you look up at him with pleading eyes, showing him that you’re willing to behave.

“Hm. Guess all that training did pay off,” he muses, flashing you a wicked grin as you feel something prod against the tight rim of your asshole.

Your jaw clenches as you flinch, trying to shrink away. “Fuck, n-not that hole—”

He leans over you, one hand planted firmly by your head as the other holds the tip of his cock, teasingly pushing a bit into your entrance.

“Oh? But didn’t you know?” he coos, breaching the rim just enough to make you squeak in pain. “Dirty sluts like you take it in the ass.”

Sukuna, who was probably expecting you to put up a fight or something, is evidently amused when all you do is pout in the most miserable, helpless way.

“I’ve beaten you up, cut you, drugged you, poisoned you, electrocuted you, and this is what you’re scared of? Anal?” he snickers.

“I can’t… I’ve never done it before, you’ll tear me apart…”

“Huh.” He grins deviously, rubbing his sticky tip into your rim, smearing it with precum. “I've seen how well you can heal yourself, though...”

Your eyes shoot open as you once again flinch, recoiling from the touch. “Sukuna!”

“Mm, fine,” he sighs, and you breathe out in relief when you feel the pressure lift away as he pulls his cock up to your other hole. “But misbehave and that’s where you’ll be taking it next…”

You frown at his dark promise but it’s soon forgotten when he begins to push into your weeping cunt.

Both of you inhale sharply as he breaches your entrance, pushing into the warmth of your plush walls, inch by inch. Even as aroused and wet as you are, you can still feel the stretch of your cunt around his thickness, a dizzying fullness that leaves you breathless when he finally bottoms out.

You’re given approximately one second to adjust to him inside you.

And then, the last of the restraints are ripped apart.

With a growl, Sukuna’s hips begin thrusting violently, making you squeal at the brutal pace he’s abruptly set, cock hitting you deep inside where you’ve been needing him, craving him.

Pleasure blanks your mind completely, eyes rolling back and pulling the most filthy moans from you as his cock rams against the sensitive wall of your cervix, over and over again, heavy balls slapping against your cunt.

“Oh shit, your cunt was made to be my cocksleeve,” he grunts as he ruts into you like a feral animal. “Good little pet, keep squeezing like that. Show me all that you’re—hah—good for—”

“Sh-Shut up!” you hiss between your own whines and the obscene noises of skin slapping against skin, his cock plowing into you like he’s trying to kill you with it. “I’m going to fucking murder y—”

Smack.

Sukuna slaps you for your insolent words, scoffing when you accidentally moan, and your cunt clamps down on him even harder. “Pathetic thing -fuck- you fucking love when I’m mean to you—”

He grips the back of your knees on top of your own hands in the crooks from where droplets of sweat trickle down, pushing down on your thighs to fold you further till your ankles are practically by your ears and it almost hurts. “—When I hurt you—”

“Y-yes, harder Sukuna!” you cry out, tears streaming down your cheeks, not even trying to deny his words.

What’s the point? Sukuna knows you better than anyone else on this planet.

“Filthy mutt!” he snarls, leaning down till his hot breath trails across your lips, cock hitting a tender spot in your silken flesh that makes you buck in ecstasy. “I hope that whole wretched bloodline of yours is watching me defile you!”

You bare your fangs, combined hatred, need, and every other twisted emotion culminating into just this, him buried inside you, dragging along your inflamed walls. And then the chain tucked into his shirt escapes. At the end of it, your broken fang, the one he kept, swinging against your face, suddenly feeling less like a taunt and something much more intimate.

You need him carnally.

With him fucking into you, your tits bouncing with each thrust, you lift your head, bared teeth attempting to latch onto his skin.

Sukuna notices what you’re trying to do and his hips halt suddenly, making you freeze mid bite too.

“I-I’m sorry…I can’t help myself…” you whisper.

The most puzzling part is you genuinely feel bad — which makes no sense. He’s hatefucking you, spitting vile words even when he’s balls deep inside you, and what should really seal in his sadistic nature — that damn necklace — it didn’t. Instead, for a split second you got a different glimpse of him, you, the complex nature of your entanglement with each other.

Maybe you mean as much to him as he does to you.

You wait, looking up at his unreadable expression, waiting for him to shatter the delusion, tell you how goddamn pathetic you are.

Sukuna stares at you, something flickering in his eyes—something unreadable, something dark yet intrigued. His hips are still buried inside you, his body taut with tension, but for once, there’s no mocking words, no sneer on his lips. Just silence.

Then, slowly, his grip on your chin tightens—not cruel, just firm enough to make you look at him, to hold you there beneath his gaze.

"Didn’t mean to?" he echoes, cock still buried inside you. His eyes burn into yours, unreadable. "Since when do you apologize for wanting something?"

You shake your head slightly, breathless, your chest rising and falling against his.

"I—" you swallow thickly, ashamed, confused. "I don’t know. I just—"

Your eyes dart to his neck, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin, calling to you like a drug you can’t resist. Your body betrays you, a soft whimper slipping past your lips as you force yourself to tear your gaze away.

For a long moment, he just watches you. Studies you.

Then, to your shock, his lips curve. Not into his usual cruel smirk, but something slower, something almost… amused.

"You’re pathetic," he murmurs, but it lacks the usual venom. Instead, there’s something almost indulgent in his tone, like he’s pleased.

He shifts suddenly, pressing his chest against yours, his voice a low, taunting whisper against your ear.

"You really do need me, don’t you?"

Heat rushes through you, shame and hunger tangling together into something unbearable. You squeeze your eyes shut, shaking your head no, but he only chuckles.

"Liar."

Then, to your shock, he tilts his head back, just enough to bare his throat.

Your breath catches.

Your fingers curl into his skin, your entire body aching, trembling with restraint.

"Go on," he murmurs, almost mockingly. "Take what you want."

He’s toying with you, you know that. But for a moment, just a split second, it feels like something else.

Like he’s giving you permission.

Your lips part—your fangs ache—

Then, just before you break, his hand yanks back on your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze again.

His expression is unreadable.

"But if you do," he murmurs, eyes gleaming darkly, "then you admit it. That you belong to me."

You give him a long look, fangs aching, mouth dry, cunt leaking as the pulse under his skin taunts you, the promise of his taste underneath.

You want to believe you don’t belong to anyone. That you existed always as your own.

And still with an exhale you let go of your legs to hold his neck gently as you wrap them around his waist, pulling him deeper to where his cock is still in you.

Your fangs pierce his skin, and the moment his blood touches your tongue, your whole body shudders. It’s too much—rich, intoxicating, him. You whimper before you can stop yourself, burying your face against his neck, drinking deep, desperate.

He gasps ever so slightly, even stiffens a bit, but you swear you can feel his dick twitch in excitement. A low, broken laugh escapes him as his hips begin moving again, working in shorter but harder thrusts. "Fuck—look at you.”

Your hands tremble against his back, nails caressing the surface of his skin, letting out a moan of pleasure, drinking deeper, dizzy with need. And then you feel it, the slight hitch in his breath, the way his hand clenches at your waist, fingers digging in too hard, as if to ground himself through the sharp bloom of pain.

This isn’t the first time you’ve fed from him.

But perhaps all the fighting, all the blood he’s already lost, even the physical toll of fucking you is finally getting to him.

Still, you sink deeper, trying to ignore it, his blood coursing down your throat, and his body shifts against yours, a ragged thrust that pushes deeper, rougher.

But even as you feed, you notice the tightness in his jaw, his breath quickening, a barely perceptible shudder running through his body. His control is slipping, but his pride won’t let him break.

You can’t ignore it.

So you pause.

You draw back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes flicking over his clenched features, the tension in his body a stark contrast to the hunger thrumming between you.

“You’re in pain,” you whisper, your voice barely audible, but the accusation is clear.

You wonder how much if for the first time, the cracks in his armor are showing, if ever so slightly.

His lips curl into a smirk, but there’s something softer, something reluctant beneath the bravado.

“Does it make you feel powerful?” he asks, but his voice cracks, betraying the effort it takes to remain in control.

You want to say yes, more than anything, but it would feel like a lie.

So, instead, you tell yourself that this hesitation, this sudden pull back, is simply the guilt of taking advantage of his weakness. This isn't about dominance. There’s nothing satisfying about an unfair fight. Or… well, whatever this twisted dance is.

But even as the thought crosses your mind, his fingers slide up the back of your neck, possessive, pulling you back into the crook of his neck.

“Take it,” he murmurs, voice roughened now. “If it means you’re mine, I’ll bleed for you.”

He must be delirious from blood loss. You can feel it—the faint tremor in his hands, the exhaustion creeping into his voice. But what’s your excuse? Why does your chest flutter in response, why does your heart race even as your body aches with hunger?

The sharp edge of his words has dulled, the venom slipping away as the heat between you grows. There's a rawness now, something unfamiliar even to you. Something that makes you want to take from him, just as much as you want to bury your face in his neck and stay there forever.

You hesitate, but only for a breath.

And then, with a flick of your fangs, you’re sinking back in, deeper this time, drinking greedily from the source, tasting his blood like a poison you can’t resist.

His body goes still, and for a split second, you think you’ve gone too far. But then his grip tightens, his body jerking against yours, his hips snapping forward in a desperate push.

A muffles sound escapes you as you suck harder, the potent taste of him going straight down to your swollen cunt like an aphrodisiac, your combined juices dripping lewdly from where his cock fucks into you, down the curve of your ass and collecting on the table.

“You don’t stop, do you?” he breathes it out like a curse, but it’s coated with something darker than frustration—something deeper. Something that feels like acceptance. “Just takes it like its yours.”

You suck in a shaky breath as he pinches your hard nipple, sending another jolt through you down to your cunt, lips slick against the wound on his skin.

“It—It is…” you gasp as he keeps moving inside you, each thrust tighter, more deliberate, like he's forcing himself through the ache. Blood drips from his throat, warm on your tongue, and still he keeps his head tilted back like an offering. “It’s always been, hasn’t it?”

Your whole body burns, his blood already beginning to rot inside your veins and you can only cling to him harder, shaking, gasping. Sweat slicked bodies stick to each other as your tongue slithers out as you drink, laving over the swelling skin, and all that exists here and now is him, him inside you, on your tongue, in your nostrils—

He growls softly, almost tender, almost cruel. His fingers tighten in your hair and he yanks your head back, tearing your mouth from his throat.

“Look at you,” he hisses.

You glance up at him, barely. Lips slick with blood, eyes hazy with lust and shame and something unbearably tender underneath. He stares at you like he’s about to devour you whole.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice ragged with possession. “No matter how hard you fight it or how much you hate it. You are mine.”

His hips speed up again, sloppily battering against your cunt, your garbled cries swallowed when he crushes his mouth to yours, tongue prying your lips open to taste his own blood on your tongue. It’s brutal, a bloody mess, sticky crimson fluid staining his lips as well, the scent of metal combining with the musk of sex permeating the air.

Him. His.

All his.

With a garbled cry and tears on your cheeks you cum as you tangle tongues, saliva mixing as warm liquid rushes from your hole. His own movements lose their rhythm, becoming erratic before with a final twitch of his dick he cums deep inside your cunt, the sticky white fluid almost as warm as his blood. It floods you till it starts seeping out as you pant into each others’ mouths, he keeps going, making sure to fuck his cum back into your spasming pussy.

Then, silence.

You lie there, tangled in the aftermath, sweat-slicked bodies cooling against each other, your breath still brushing against his punctured throat. His hand is knotted in your hair like he’s not ready to let go—no words, just the soft, steady rhythm of his breathing.

Neither of you speaks.

The room is heavy with the scent of sweat, blood, and the feral musk of sex. A healed wound on your ribs still seeps, and his lip is split, but the damage feels irrelevant compared to what’s left unsaid.

But then he untangles himself slowly, deliberately, stepping back. His brows scrunch slightly in pain, his shoulders stiff, his gaze avoiding yours.

You frown, confused. “What—”

“Get dressed,” he says, flatly, his voice an unreadable monotone.

“What?”

He stands, fastening his pants with a lack of care, not sparing you a single glance. “I’m letting you go.”

The words land like a slap.

You sit up, the sudden shock of his statement rattling you, the words caught in your throat. “You said—”

“I changed my mind.” And just like that, he turns back toward you, leans in close. You instinctively recoil, heart thudding as his hand moves toward your throat.

“Relax,” he mutters, his gaze never leaving the exposed skin of your neck. His fingers tilt your chin upward with a quiet precision, the other hand brushing over the metal collar locked around your throat.

Your pulse quickens. “The remote—”

“There’s a trick to it,” he says, his voice almost bored, like he’s speaking to a child. “You just never bothered to learn.”

His thumb presses beneath your jaw with firm pressure—a click, and a small hiss as the lock releases. The collar falls from your neck with a metallic weight, the finality of it making the air feel impossibly thick.

The gesture is disconcertingly tender almost, but a part of you stays still for some reason, still half-naked and leaking, blood drying in flakes around your lips.

“You have until dawn.”

Something twists in your chest. “Why?”

No answer.

You study his back, the rigid line of his spine, the bruises blooming under his skin, the flicker in his jaw. There’s no fear, only confusion—and something too terrifyingly close to hurt.

He doesn’t say it but you can see it now, in the way his hands shake slightly as he buttons his shirt. In the way he won’t meet your eyes.

He wants you gone because killing you would be too easy.

Because this chase is all he has left.

So you dress slowly, defiantly, watching him the whole time, waiting for him to change his mind again.

But he doesn't.

And when you finally reach the door, you pause. “This doesn’t change anything.”

“Good,” he says, finally meeting your gaze.

You nod once.

Then you’re gone, into the dark, not looking back.

The forest is damp from earlier rain, the small unpaved road muddy and glistening with small puddles under the dappled moonlight, the sound of an owl hooting somewhere nearby. Blood stains your skin, hair clinging to your damp temples, yet you don’t stop to fix it.

The empty peacefulness of the forest at night feels too big.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter—that you’re free. That he let you go and that’s all that matters.

But something gnaws at you, a restlessness curling in your stomach like hunger.

You vaguely note you’ll be feeling unwell soon with his blood in you.

You could disappear. Vanish into the cities, into the forests, into the dark corners where even he wouldn’t follow.

But you won’t.

Instead you continue on, the only thought in your mind is a silent promise to take his other eye.

Time passes.

Not in peace—no, never that.

But in violence and whispers and blood-slick headlines and cold case files that gather dust.

You move through the world like smoke—harder, leaner, hungrier. A myth haunting cities that chew people up and forget their names. Everytime, you leave your mark with surgical precision—corpses with their right eyes missing.

Not just a signature, but an invitation. And he answers—sometimes in shadows, sometimes in person.

You’ve fought him more times than you can count.

Each time, it ends the same—broken glass, broken bones, someone limping away before the killing blow can land. Sometimes it's you, sometimes it’s him.

Sometimes the line blurs.

The one constant, however, is that it never feels quite finished.

Once, you kissed him just to buy time to stab him. Another time he held your bleeding body and whispered something you refused to hear.

Neither of you ever stays down.

Among vampires, your name becomes cursed—not because you’re feared but because wherever you go, Ryomen Sukuna follows and no one survives him.

Among hunters, it’s quieter. They understand something the others don’t, that no one chases what he’s claimed.

Still, you chase him and he chases you, like wolves in circles, like hunger gnawing at itself.

Until, one day, the pattern breaks.

The next body you find isn’t a vampire, but a young hunter. Sloppy. Killed quick. And this time, it’s not the right eye that’s gone—it’s the left.

It’s the first time he’s answered with something of his own.

And somehow, that's how you know that it’s time.

You straddle his torso, blade pressing into his cheek, panting. Even his own chest rises and falls in an uneven rhythm.

Both of you are smeared with grime, sweat, blood—your hair tangled, his disheveled.

It’s the dead of night, but the old train station feels like its own world, frozen in time. This place, like the two of you, feels forgotten by the rest of history.

You’ve been waiting for this day for years.

Sukuna’s face is torn up, more than a few of his ribs are broken, one of his legs is bent at an odd angle.

And yet, as broken as he is, he still watches you with that one remaining eye—unsettlingly lucid, like a window into the abyss of whatever terrible, beautiful thing lives at the core of him.

The eye you promised to take years ago. A promise handed down by blood. By centuries of hate and duty.

Your hand shakes as you raise the crimson-stained blade, your pulse pounding in your throat.

And he smiles. That maddening, blood-slick smile.

“Go on then,” he rasps. “Even score. You’ve always wanted it.”

You stare, intense with something unnamable as the blade hovers, ready to plunge in and leave him in a world of pure darkness.

This moment has been imagined, fantasized over. All the ways you’d carve it out, what you’d do with it. Once you even thought about pickling it.

But life never goes as planned, does it?

Revenge tastes sweet in theory, perhaps. Not in practice. Not now.

His eye, the last one, is fixed on you, unwavering. Like he wants to see everything—all of you—even as you hover at the edge of his death.

And in this moment, you realize you don’t want to destroy it.

Not out of mercy. Not out of weakness.

But because it’s the only part of him, maybe the only thing in the entire world, that ever really saw you.

And it’s hauntingly beautiful.

Feral. Fever-bright crimson, even as he stares down his death. Achingly human in a way neither of you were allowed to be.

“I—” your voice cracks. “I don’t want to. I want you to see me,” you whisper.

He exhales a shaky, rattling laugh, surprised. Then nods.

“Fine,” he says softly. “You’ll be the last thing I ever see.”

This day would have always come. Because however bright they may burn, humans only exist fleetingly. And one way or another, he would die long before you—the only difference would be that it wouldn’t be at your hands.

Something mundane, even. A miscalculated move, the slightest mistake.

You can’t bear to even think about him going out like that.

So it has to be you, and it has to be now. The only ending he deserves.

With trembling hands and stinging eyes you drag the blade down, touching it to his neck. Not deep, just enough for him to feel it.

And then he says your name.

The first time he’s ever said your name.

You pause.

“I’m glad it was you,” he whispers.

Something in you shatters unrepairably. Something that can never be put together no matter how many centuries you live.

Your throat tightens, silent tears streaming down your cheeks, and before you can think twice, you push the blade in. Slow and clean, but still he jerks slightly, though not with the strength he once had.

Blood spurts, spraying across your face before it begins to pour, running down his flesh like rivers of red. It smells as rich and alive as ever.

Instinctively his hands come up—you don’t know whether to stop or hold you. Either way, they falter halfway, dropping back down.

It’s too late now.

You can tell from the way he tries to breathe, but all that comes out is a wet, choking sound that might be your name as a gurgle rises in his throat, blood bubbling at his lips.

Sukuna was, perhaps, the strongest man you’ve ever known. But death humbles all things. And in the end, he’s no different—just another body reaching blindly for breath, caught in that last, trembling moment of naked, undeniable fear

The realization that this is it. That you don’t know what comes after this.

What hurts most is that moment—his lungs struggling, clawing for air that isn't there.

Then his gaze snaps to yours.

And in it, a glimpse of the impossible—a life that might’ve been yours together, if the world had given you a different story.

Like he promised, he watches you till the very end. One single bright eye that stays locked on you, even when the light fades out like a dying star. Till it goes dull and glassy, still staring at you till it isn’t.

He goes still.

And suddenly it hits you—sharp and certain, like a stake through the heart, why your venom never worked on him.

Because he was always in love with you. Or something close enough to it that the body couldn’t tell the difference.

You feel hollow. Like when he died, a part of you went out with him.

Hunger and—

Just hunger.

That’s all the rest of your existence will be now. Wandering, empty, purposeless.

Time slows and thickens, like air turned to water. Your ears are ringing, but there’s no sound. No wind, no breath, no heartbeat.

You’re not sure who you are without Sukuna.

And now you know what you have to do, something implicit in your bones that knows, that’s already pulling the blade out of his neck.

You stare at the blade in your hand, wet with his blood. Still warm.

It glints in the dim light like it wants you to follow.

You don’t cry; there’s nothing left for that.

Just silence.

Just the ache of his absence pressing down on your ribs like a weight too heavy to breathe through.

Slowly, you lower yourself beside him, curling into the warmth that’s already leaving his body. Your forehead brushes his jaw, lips pressing against the blood-slick edge of his throat like a kiss goodbye.

“Don’t wait for me,” you whisper, though you don’t know if you mean it. You hope you do.

Then you take the blade and guide it up, not hesitating now. There’s no drama or fanfare, just inevitability.

The metal bites in just beneath your sternum, and it’s almost a relief. The pain blooms sharp, then dull, then distant.

Your body slumps forward into his, cheek resting against his chest as you wonder what will happen next.

And in those final seconds, heart slowing, vision blurring, you swear you hear it—a heartbeat.

Not yours.

His.

Or maybe… just the echo of it. A phantom memory to carry you into the dark.

Days later, only Sukuna’s body is found. Next to him, a mysterious pile of ash.

Together at last.

a/n: something something something abt ending generational cycles idk lol

taglist: @mistalli @latrotoxiins @maomimii @indiewritesxoxo

[heavenlymorals]

I feel like a lot of people forget that the Van Dir Linde gang was actually famous in their universe- Dutch Van Dir Linde was as famous as the real life Butch Cassidy. The gang had as much infamy as the Wild Bunch or the Dalton gang. Arthur Morgan, John Marston, Bill Williamson, Javier Esculla, Lenny Summers, Charles Smith, Sean McGuire and more were probably as famous as the real life Doc Holliday, Jesse James, Black Bart, Rufus Buck, Ike Clanton, the Sundance Kid, Wild Bill Hickock, and more.

Sadie Adler would've been just as famous. She was a gunslinger like the real life Calamity Jane and Anne Oakley and she was an outlaw at one point like Laura Bullion, Pearl Hart, Belle Star, The Cassidy Sisters, and more.

The other women of the camp would've probably been less popular but still very intriguing figures to people in the future.

In the newspapers, we see that there are songs about Dutch's boys and books too. Trelawny mentions them being on dime novels. In the future, the pieced together story of the Van Dir Linde gang might've gotten adapted into a movie, similar to "Butch Cassidy and the Sun Dance Kid" or "The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford". They could've gotten biopics, documentaries, and more.

Historians and fans of the wild West era would dig up records, find pictures, and maybe even track down people who were apart of the gang, accomplices to the gang, or victims of the gang. They would try to piece together stories to figure out the mystery of what actually happened to the gang.

People would argue over things that happened in the gang and have their evidence to back it up. Letters written by gang members would become so valuable. If they ever someone come across Arthur's journal, it would probably be considered one of the most valuable pieces of documentation to ever exist for that time period.

The guns of the gang would probably be kept in museums if found. Albert Mason's portrait of Arthur Morgan would be found in history books, same as other pictures.

Dutch would probably be a very controversial figure in history- some would hail him as a failed hero and others would condemn his violence no matter the reason- they wouldn't know what the people in the gang knew- especially in the end. Same with the rest of the gang members.

They'd probably all get romanticized. Hosea and Dutch's friendship, the raising of the boys, Dutch and Annabelle and his fued with Colm, Mary and Arthur, John and his family, Javier being a revolutionary- no one would know the full story.

And then there is Jack- he may live to see the 1960s and 70s and 80s. He may have grandchildren who'd pull him into a theater to watch a retelling of the gang that he was a part of at one point. He'd be amused. He'd think that the actor playing his father was too clean looking, too pretty. He'd think that the movie Arthur was too skinny. He'd think that the man playing Dutch had a funny voice as he tried to mimic the accent. He'd laugh and make notes in his head of the historical accuracy. He'd feel sorrowful at the deaths of the characters- he knew them at some point. And no one at the theater would know that the old man with the rowdy bright eyed boys who brought him there was Jack Marston, the last of the Van Dir Linde gang.

Jack might talk about it to the public. He might do interviews. He might even write a book about his father, the infamous John Marston. Those would be priceless. Even Beecher's Hope might be kept around and visited as a historical site for history goers.

And honestly? It is such a bittersweet thing.

[thedarknesslord]

SAGAU but you're saved by characters from other Self-Aware games

TW: It's SAGAU, so expect some violence, religious themes, and pratically everything you can expect from SAGAU itself. Plus, this is before we get to know who the Pyro Archon is.

"IMPOSTOR!"

"DEATH TO THE USURPER!"

"YOU CAN'T ESCAPE FOREVER!"

At this point, you've lost count of how many times you've heard those words once the "Hunt for the Imposter" began.

You've heard them numerous times before. The moment you arrived in a world you once thought to be a game. The moment you got sent to Hell when that damn drunken driver smashed right into your car.

Now, the Demons that you once thought were Angels in your eyes hunted you throughout all of Teyvat, treating you like the worst criminal in all of existence.

You know the first place you arrived Mondstadt, but the rush from running away for god knows how many days left your memories somewhat blurry. That, and all the pain and wounds you received from the Genshin cast.

All over this weird belief that you were a "False Creator".

*WHOOSH!*

A blinding pain interrupts from your thoughts. You scream in agony as you abruptly fall to the ground, shocked by the sight of an arrow lodged in your leg. Most likely Vent-no, Barbatos. That's who the bard really was.

Tears stream down your face as you see the horde of people with raw, indistinguishable looks of contempt directed towards you. You could recognize them all; Lisa, Kaeya, Yae Miko, hell, you even spotted Tartaglia in there.

Accompanying them where the Gods of Teyvat. The Archons themselves, or atleast, the ones you knew were officially Archons. From Morax, Ei, Barbatos (Who giggled as he saw his arrow lodged on the target) and even the Tsaritsa herself. Her appearance being similar to the one drawn by one Astruma2.

(A/N: You can check it out here!)

"Ehe!~ Oops, did that hurt?" Barbatos sneered, a sadistic glee in his eyes that would be out of place in the drunken bard you use to love. The supposed "God of Freedom" approaches your beaten form alongside his fellow gods.

"Usurper. For the longest time, you have refused to atone for the biggest sin imaginable; stealing the face of the Almighty Creator. Your mockery of the Divine has come to its end. It is time to pay for your crime." Raiden Ei's stern voice spoke to your sobbing body, hand clenching the Musou Isshin, which was crackling with purple lightning. Fitting for an Electro user.

Tears continued dripping down your face. Was this really it? Was this how you would die? Stuck here? Or would you come back to your world after perishing?

Approaching you with a Polearm held in his hand, was your "Executioner." You perked up when the steps stopped in front of you. Deciding to at least see who it was, your eyes went up before locking view with the golden orbs of the Lord of Geo. Morax looked down on you with pure disgust, seemingly restraining himself from striking you down right here and now.

"This ends now, you filthy heretic. The taint you have put on The Divine Grace's name with your mocking flesh shall finally end right here. Prepare to join your sinful brethren at the Abyss." Snarled the God of Contracts, pointing the Vortex Vanquisher at your head.

Part of you knew that some of them wanted to torture you even further (Mostly that damn Fatui Doctor who you simped for), but after all the time you also expected them to end this cat and mouse game once and for all.

"NO! STOP!" Called out the Traveler, trying to push through the crowd alongside Paimon. From the moment you fell to Teyvat, they remembered your aura. It was the same one guiding them from the moment you started playing. They tried numerous times to find you, but your desperation for survival stopped that from happening.

Tears fall from your eyes as you close them and take a deep breath, before giving up. Whether you go back to your world once you die or not doesn't matter, you're free from this whole disaster. You're tired, and you can finally rest after all this time.

Staring at Morax eye to eye, you give him the order.

"Just do it already."

However, it seems like Fate had order plans for you.

"Epsilon! Abstract Tragedy!"

A unfamiliar voice to you, with a French-tinged English, calls out before flashing lights appear and an invisible force hits the Archons, pushing them back. You and the crowd can only stare in shock as a white, floating ring appears; Apparently the cause behind the attack.

"C'mon Kris! We gotta help them!"

Another voice proclaims, and you hear as presumably two people run towards you, trying to get you up. The shock you were in fades away, as you stare at the tanned face of a cat; One from a very, very familiar game that broke your heart.

....Niko?

"(Y/N), please! We need to get away from them!" Niko cries out in distress, the sight of your battered body bringing tears to their eyes. Out of all the ways they expected their reunion with you after you helped them go home, this was definitely not how it should've gone down.

You just stare dumbfounded at them, before a constant tug at your arm makes you makes you turn to a side, this time being greeted by a certain Lightner in a knight-like armor staring at you with a single red eye.

Kris!?

Kris just stared at you with a solemn look. While they weren't exactly happy about you controlling their body, they knew something was odd when you simply didn't appear one day. Soon enough, they now had to travel to this world with two others in order to save you from the hell you were currently living. They had to admit; Kris had grown used to your presence, and while they wanted you to stop using them like a puppet, what was happening to you now was beyond cruel.

They tugged your arm before pointing backwards, indicating that you all needed to get out. You simply nodded, as you quickly got back to your senses and got back up to your feet, albeit with some difficulty with your injuries. Your two protectors let out a breath in relief, before Niko shouted at the person who stopped your would be murderers, "Batter! We got them, try and fend them off while you can!"

As the duo rushed to get you out, your eyes went back to the mob that was hunting you down, and just like Niko described, yet another character from a self-aware game you once played was there to help you. This time it a rather tall, monochromatic baseball player with three floating rings serving as his Add-Ons. The same one you had helped to purify his broken world.

Batter!

The Batter glared with his four eyes, a look of sheer anger in all of them. He had sensed you were in danger; how could he not? He was your loyal puppet, after all. During the time you guided him, he had sworn to protect you should you ever somehow be in danger. And after a long hibernation in the Nothingness, that time had come now. Now, these filthy criminals shall pay for their crimes against you.

"Repent while you can, corrupted Guardians. For I am the Judgement that has come to punish you for your countless sins." His Ashley Bat held tightly in his hands, Batter prepared himself for a battle, intending on giving his two new "partners" time to help his God escape far from here.

As the Archons wielded their weapons, his Add-Ons floated besides him, all three ready to help them like they always had. He had purified the Guardians of his world, alongside the many specters invading it. Thanks to you, he had reached Level 50; the maximum he could get. It would take these fools a miracle to finally end him.

Before giving out the first attack, Batter only let out three simple words:

"Purification in Progress..."

(A/N: Phew! Hope y'all enjoyed this little thing I made! It honestly saddened that there weren't any other SAGAU post that implemented games that were actually self-aware like, say, OFF or Deltarune. Thus, this was made! Oh and don't worry about Batter, he makes it out fine :D)

[feelingthedisaster]

The King's Men's plot structure is genius.

TKM has been critized a lot for not following the conventional plot structure, because it doesnt end inmediatly at the resolution of the climax, like they taught us in class. But it actually has a reason behind it and it think that is what makes AFTG unique and Nora Sakavic an amazing writer. I'll explain.

So, we all know AFTG has a lot of chess metaphors, however i think it doesnt contain the metaphors, it is the metaphor. Each character represents a piece of the board (Riko king, Kevin queen, Neil pawn, Andrew knight, etc) and exy is the chess, but but but, a chess game not only involves the pieces, the game cannot exist without someone playing, the chess masters (which would be Kengo, Ichiriu, Nathan and all the mafia stuff).

So, AFTG is divided into two plots happening at the same time: what happens on the chess board (exy season) and what happens outside it (the mafia mess).

Of couse, the climax has to be about the outside out, because who cares which one of pieces move in which way if the players are pointing guns at eachother under the board? The guns are more more important. So who cares? The pieces on the board care, the ones that are being played with. And who is the narrator? The character that represents the pawn, the less important figure of the entire room.

Yeah, the 'outside of the board' plot is over half way into the book, but it doesnt matter because that happens outside the board, the chess game has not ended yet. The pawn cannot go back to rest in the box until the game is over, until the king dies. The book cannot be over until the chess game our protagonist is a piece of ends. The books have to end with the king's (Riko) death and that is exactly what happens.

If this isnt excellent writing and one of the best examples of know the rules so you can break them, i dont what is.

[riddlemelater]

Last Call - M.R (Part 3)

masterlist | nav | part 1 | part 2

⚠︎ all characters 18+ | MDNI ⚠︎

warnings: alcohol use/dependency, mentions of war, death, depiction of injury/blood, dark themes, post-war vibes, implied trauma, reader suffers from night terrors, Mattheo is being a little shit...

w.c: 4k

summary: Mattheo Riddle was sharp, charming, and haunted. Now he’s just a shadow at the bar—drunk, quiet, unraveling. You don’t know why you care. Maybe it’s who he used to be. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you like he doesn’t expect kindness anymore. But one things certain: you won't turn your back on him, not like the rest of the world already has.

The walls of Hogwarts would always feel like home to you, no matter what age you were, or how long it had been since you'd last stepped foot in the castle. There was just something comforting in the flickering sconces that lit every hallway, the warm crackle of wood burning that was always in earshot, or the distant smell of that evening's feast carrying through the air. Fresh pastry, roasted chicken, caramelised vegetables— all wafting through the heavy stone walls.

Your shoes clicked against the thick stone floors, the sound both familiar and comforting, reminding you of a younger version of yourself, trodding through the hallways as you tried to remember the route back to your common room. But something was amiss, something was different, and no matter how hard you tried to pinpoint it, you couldn't figure it out.

The halls were empty, for starters. Not just quiet, but empty. No portraits muttering to themselves or conversing with each other. No shifting suits of armour, or cheerful ghosts floating by. Not even the hum of magic in the air, something so small but so innately part of the school's charm.

No, all that remained was silence. Cold, hollow, silence.

You slowed your pace, gaze flickering to the stained-glass windows lining the corridor. They didn’t show the usual saints of Hogwarts or the heroic founders that you'd so often admired in your youth. Instead, they were blacked out. Not shattered or covered, but blank. As if the once colourful glass had been painted over with shadows.

Any attempt to peer outside was useless. Where you would normally catch a glimpse of the Scottish landscapes, the tall hoops of the Quidditch pitch, or even the distinct outline of the giant squid lounging in the Black Lake, there was nothing.

You squinted, as if by some miracle that might somehow bring the world back into focus, might claw something back from the nothingness. But instead, the darkness just stared back at you, cold and unflinching.

An unsettling sensation ghosted up your spine, like you'd suddenly materialised in some sinister, other world. One that looked exactly like Hogwarts, but in some twisted way wasn't.

Your feet moved as if they had a mind of their own, carrying you deeper into the castle. But with each step you took, you noticed something different, something wrong.

Each altered detail stuck out to you. As you passed the Great Hall, your brows furrowed at a stairwell you didn’t remember being there. Your fingers tensed at your sides as you turned down a hallway that definitely never existed. The air grew colder, and with each step, your chest burned as breathing grew harder and harder.

The torches were lit, but the flames didn’t flicker. They burned still and silent, blue-white and unnatural, casting no warmth over your chilled skin.

You didn't recognise your surroundings, and when, finally, blessedly, you heard a sound other than the gnawing stillness, your blood ran cold.

It wasn't comfort. It wasn't the chatter of students filing out of their classes, or the sound of cutlery clinking together as the feast began.

It was a scream.

A choked breath. A broken groan. Someone struggling to speak through clenched teeth— like they were drowning in their own blood.

Your walk became a run. Shoes pounding against the stone floors, echoing against the walls in sharp thuds. The persistent ache in your side forgotten, chest heaving with each laboured breath. You didn’t know what you’d find; all you knew was you had to get to whoever it was.

Before it was too late.

The corridor ended in an arched doorway, and the moment you crossed it, the world shifted. The warmth of Hogwarts vanished, flickered out like a flame with no more air. You were somewhere deeper now, older.

The walls were carved with symbols that seemed to squirm if you looked too long. The air damp and metallic, thick with the scent of earth, blood, and fire left to die.

And in the middle of it all— Mattheo.

Bound. Kneeling. Head bowed like he couldn’t lift it anymore.

You tried to call out, but no sound came. Your lips didn’t move. Your hands wouldn’t lift, no matter how hard you tried. Frozen, like you’d just caught the reflection of a Basilisk.

He looked up slowly. His face was drawn tight with pain, shadows under his eyes like bruises. Mattheo looked like hell personified; gaunt, bloody, and broken.

He heaved, gaze fixed on your face, eyes pooling with desperation. You tried again to reach out, to move closer and release him from the rope that dug painfully into his skin, but your feet felt glued to the floor.

Helpless you tried to call out to him, watching in horror as Mattheo’s figure lurched forwards once more, writhing, mouth wide in a soundless gasp of agony.

Growing desperate your pulse quickened, body twisting to look for a way out. But the hallway behind you was gone, you were trapped. Frantic now, your head whipped around scouring the stone walls for an explanation, for help, for mercy.

You were alone. Helpless but to watch as he squirmed in pain.

Nauseated, your gaze fixed on Mattheo. His body arched sickeningly, contorting as a silent, strangled sound wretched from his throat. His eyes wide and burning with terror.

Your own pulse roared in your ears as you tried to scream, pleading to Merlin, God— whoever— to make it stop.

Just as you were certain you couldn't watch another second, the scene before you began to warp— walls bending, light distorting, the sconces flickering and stretching like flames underwater.

It was like all oxygen had been stolen from the air, your throat too tight, lungs burning with each strained breath. Then, like a candle snuffed out between two fingers, darkness.

You gasped awake, thrashing against the damp sheets twisted tight around your limbs like ropes. Your pulse was hammering, sweat beaded on your forehead as your hands skimmed the damp sheets around you.

Gasping you propelled forward, panting as your bedroom came into focus. You blinked, head snapping from side to side, room illuminated only by one flickering candle you’d forgotten to blow out.

Mattheo wasn't here; he wasn't in agony. You weren't trapped. It wasn't real.

You didn’t move for a moment. Just sat there, spine rigid, chest heaving, hands fisted in the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring you to reality. You half-expected the candle to go out, for the silence to crack open again. Like the dream hadn’t finished with you yet.

But the candle on your bedside table only guttered in the quiet, its glow casting trembling shadows across the room. Your gaze fixed on it, unblinking, as if it might suddenly flicker out too. Cautious, anxious almost, you waited for it to morph once more into the still blue-white light from your nightmare.

Your pulse was still racing, still beating that sick rhythm in your ears like a war drum, but the change never came. Slowly, your fingers loosened, releasing the twisted fabric beneath them. You flexed your hands, not even noticing the way they shook as you held them out in front of you.

It was just a dream, you reasoned. Knees coming up to your chest without thinking, wrapping your arms around them as if to make yourself smaller— less exposed. Your forehead dropped to your knees, eyes fluttering shut as you let out a shaky breath.

Just a dream. A horrid, twisted dream you repeated in your mind.

The pressure behind your eyes was sharp, hot and searing, like something inside of you had cracked and hadn’t quite sealed right. That look in his eyes. That look of pure, unbridled fear settled at the forefront of your mind. Flashing across your vision, no matter how hard you tried to blink it away.

It had felt so real.

You pressed your forehead harder against your knees, squeezing your eyes shut. You knew what this was. You'd had dreams like this before—trauma dreams from the war. Not always like this one, but close enough. Dreams where you couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t stop something from happening.

Couldn't protect someone from death.

Your body hadn’t caught up, so it didn’t matter what your mind said; didn't matter how many times you told yourself it was only a dream—it still felt like you'd been there. Like you’d failed him.

You pushed a shaky hand through your hair, dragging it back from your face. Your fingers snagging on the damp strands. Somewhere in the back of your mind, Mick Tolliver’s voice crept in—quiet and offhand, but echoing now in the quiet of your bedroom.

"Fellas like that? They don't come back clean, that's for sure."

You let out another long, shaky breath. You weren’t a seer. You didn’t have visions. This wasn’t that. It was your brain, dredging up things it didn’t know how to process. A pressure valve releasing in the ugliest way possible. You knew that.

But it didn’t make it any easier to sit with.

Your hands were still shaky by the time morning came. Showering had no effect; no matter how hard you scrubbed at your skin, it was impossible to wash the dream away fully.

Your appetite was non-existent; the thought of eating made you gag, never mind the uneasy feeling that had settled at the pit of your stomach. Even as you walked to work, your mind couldn't sit still, couldn't detach itself from the memory of Mattheo strung out and writhing before you.

"You're slow today."

The voice pierced through your clouded thoughts— Albion, already behind the bar with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a crate of Odgen's Firewhiskey bottles in his arms.

You blinked, snapping out of your daze and glancing up at the voice disorientedly. You’d been standing still, one hand on a drinks tray and staring blankly at the wall of spirits behind the bar like they owed you something.

"Didn’t sleep," you muttered, realising Albion was expecting a response, and setting the tray down before your fingers dropped it. Avoiding his gaze, you busied yourself with unloading the glassware from the washer, wiping over the already dry glasses to keep yourself busy.

Albion didn't answer straight away. Just set the crate down with a thud, and looked at you the way someone might study a mirror that had fallen from the wall for fractures.

"You've looked better," he said finally. Not in a judgmental way, you knew he didn't mean it like that, but you could hear the concern in his voice as he said it.

"Thanks," you retorted flatly. You tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite land. More of an awkward grimace than anything. Your bottom lip stung beneath your teeth, willing yourself to keep it together.

But Albion didn’t push. He never did, and he didn’t look away either.

“You look like you didn’t come all the way back from wherever you went last night,” he commented, voice dry but quiet. "Is it the dreams again?"

Your hand paused mid-reach for a bar towel. Lips twitching as you tried to pretend he wasn't right. But he saw through you, immediately.

That was the thing about Albion. He noticed everything and always seemed to know the right thing to say, perks of being a bartender, you assumed.

You didn’t answer. Just nodded once and busied yourself wiping down the already-clean bar. Albion knew about the dreams more than anyone else; he was the only person you trusted not to have you checked into St Mungo's the minute you opened up about them.

Albion didn’t say anything for a moment. Just leaned against the back counter, arms crossed, watching as you lined up the tumblers with unnecessary precision. The silence stretched, but not unkindly.

“Is it still the same ones?” he asked, brow arching curiously. “From the war?”

You hesitated. That was usually the answer. But this time, it wasn’t true. You debated lying for a moment, but he always knew when you were lying to him. It was like a sixth sense, you weren't entirely convinced he wasn't a legilimens at times, no matter how much he denied it.

“No.” Your voice was quiet, ashamed almost. “A... different one.”

Albion tilted his head slightly, waiting. You took a breath and reached for the next glass, only to stop short, fingers trembling just enough to rattle it against the one beside it. Your eyes closed in frustration, grasping at the back counter to steady yourself.

Albion moved toward you and began placing tumblers onto the shelf like he'd not noticed. "You know," he spoke, sparing a glance over at your shaking hands, "some things in that part of town… they’re built to see your weaknesses before you even step inside."

You swallowed dryly and nodded, solemn and slow.

Albion gave a low chuckle, the kind that didn’t quite reach his mouth. “Always said you Gryffindors are terrible at keeping your noses out of trouble. And worse at pretending you don’t care.” He nudged a tumbler into place with a small clink, just as he fixed you with a stare. “Hearts on your sleeve's even when it’s bleeding through your jumpers.”

You laughed under your breath, even when he meant to chastise, Albion seemed to know how to make you crack a smile.

"Knockturn's a dodgy place, love. No wonder your mind's playing up again." He continued, softly and with the wisdom that people his age seemed to possess. "Don't let it get to you."

You nodded awkwardly and pressed your palms flat to the bar top. The polished wood was cool beneath your skin, grounding.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It was stupid, Albion. I know.”

Albion let out a long, slow breath. Not disappointed. Not surprised. He'd probably expected you'd do it, likely even knew the second you made a move to leave the night before.

“Well... did you find him?”

“No.” You swallowed. "That Mick Tolliver's got a few loose cauldrons rattling around upstairs, though." A small smile spread across your face as you spoke.

Shuddering, Albion barked a laugh in agreement. "The world's full of strange folk. I knew Mick back in the day, he's harmless—but he's a bit... full-on. Knows how to talk a good game, right enough, but you can't trust a word out of his mouth."

Albion straightened, pushing off the back counter when you didn't reply. You were already wondering how much of what Tolliver had said was truthful, if Mattheo really was in any danger at all. Albion seemed to notice the thoughts swirling around, even if he didn't let on.

"Maybe he doesn't want to be found, love," he said, reaching for a bottle at the back of the bar. Something dark, and by the dust lingering on the neck, one that wasn't touched very often. "Whatever it is, he's bloody lucky he's got you lookin' out for him, eh?"

Your eyes dropped, despite his tone, you couldn't help but feel like you'd disappointed him, too. He'd warned you from the start not to get mixed up in this, yet here he was, still acting like you could do no wrong in his eyes.

He sighed as he uncorked the bottle, grabbing one of the clean tumblers he'd just stacked, and poured two fingers' worth without asking. The glass slid across the polished wood with a gentle scrape, stopping in front of you as you pinched the bridge of your nose.

"Drink that." He said gruffly, yet with more kindness and sympathy than you probably deserved, you'd done it to yourself after all. "Calms the nerves."

You stared at the drink for a second, then your fingers curled around the glass, eyes sweeping over him from the corner of your eye. He watched with an approving look as you took a long sip, the liquid burning as you swallowed nearly half in one gulp.

It certainly wasn't a calming draught, but it helped to settle your frayed nerves, at least.

"Was it him, then?" he asked eventually, once you'd swallowed the whiskey and your eyes had fluttered shut in contemplation. "In the dream."

Your jaw clenched as you gave the smallest nod. Embarrassed, almost, but grateful that it was Albion who was seeing this side of you. He didn’t sigh, didn’t offer comfort. Just looked past you at the dark window above the sink, deep in thought as he scratched at his beard.

“Some people,” he said, “don’t know they’re drowning ‘til they’re under. And even then, they won’t reach for help. Not unless they’ve got something left to hold onto.”

He had a way with words; sometimes he'd come out with things like this, and you'd just be left to sit with them. You set the glass down tenderly, glancing toward him.

“And you think I’m that something?”

“I think you want to be,” he said. “Which is worse, probably.”

You blinked. His answer hit hard, true in a way that made your chest tighten. But Albion had that bluntness about him, that ability to tell you something straight, no matter how hard it may be.

And it made you think. Did you really want to go chasing after ghosts? After someone you once knew— and, years ago, at that. You weren't so sure you could, not if it meant you'd never sleep well again.

“I can’t fix him,” you said finally, but you weren't entirely sure if it was Albion or yourself you were convincing. "I know that."

“No,” Albion agreed. “But you can make sure you don’t go down with him.”

Silence fell again, but it didn’t feel like judgment. Just quiet. Like he’d said his piece, and now it was up to you—cut your losses, or keep stringing yourself along.

“You plan on opening tonight?” you asked eventually, voice hoarse, dipped in humour. Grasping at straws, not wanting to speak anymore about the curly-haired boy who plagued your thoughts night and day.

Albion gave a dry snort. “Not unless you plan on helping me unload the rest of that Firewhiskey,” he gestured toward the crate, all seriousness gone from his face.

You nodded once and smirked a little at how easy things flowed between the two of you. How simple it was to have a difficult conversation and never worry about the aftermath. You grinned slightly, lifting the glass for another sip and swallowed what was left whole.

"Better get a shift on then, Albs." You said, straightening yourself up and dusting down your apron.

The next few hours passed in a blur of serving on autopilot and nodding at jokes you didn't really hear. You were split down the middle, tugged in two directions. But you kept circling back to one fact: You didn’t know Mattheo. He was just another customer at the end of the day.

Besides, he had friends. Friends who cared—even if they didn’t always show it. If he needed help, he had options. Theodore had all but crumbled at the bar not long ago when Mattheo was nowhere to be seen, and even Draco had seemed nervous when he asked after him. Which said more than words ever could.

If Mattheo Riddle truly was in danger—if he really had people after him—he should go to them. Draco Malfoy was one of Britain’s top Aurors, for Merlin’s sake. If anyone could protect him, it was Malfoy.

Not you.

You were being dramatic. Some stubborn Gryffindor streak you hadn’t outgrown. You weren’t responsible for him. No matter how much you wanted to help, it wasn’t your place.

You’d already felt guilty enough to go walking into Knockturn Alley, alone and with no backup plan if things went south. But that wasn’t bravery—it was stupidity.

It had just been a dream. A bad one. Your body would forget the worst of it soon enough. Your brain was already trying to file it away—into whatever drawer it kept nightmares full of fire and blood and people you shouldn’t care about.

Mattheo Riddle was not your problem. And by the end of your shift, you’d nearly convinced yourself it was true.

You left the bar that night with tired legs and a tighter chest, the sky above you heavy with clouds that didn’t break. The streets were wet from a drizzle you hadn’t noticed starting. You didn’t look over your shoulder once.

The curtains were already drawn, and you were certain you hadn’t left them that way.

You noticed it the second you stepped into your flat. The air was different — cooler, disturbed. The kind of change you didn’t notice with your eyes, but with your skin. Instinct.

Your hand hovered by the doorframe for longer than it should have. Listening. Waiting. Every nerve stretched taut like a bowstring. Fumbling silently, your fingers clutched your wand, drawing it out of your pocket slowly and pointing it ahead of you before you made any attempt to move.

Then you heard it. A thud. Not loud, but definite. Coming from your bedroom.

Your blood ran cold. Mind wandering back to Mick's words yesterday, "They'll come for you too."

Part of you wondered if you should call someone, but it was a small flat. Whoever, or whatever, was in your bedroom would have heard you by now; there was no time to write a letter to MLE or send a message via Patronus.

Not if you wanted to catch them before they caught you.

You exhaled shakily, knuckles white with how hard you were grasping your wand, and took a few tentative steps into the hallway.

You could hear it again, like bedsheets rustling around. Like they were looking for something. Perhaps you were being burgled, you reasoned, just an ordinary muggle thief searching for cash or jewellery. You inched closer to the door, cursing silently as the floorboard underneath your foot creaked loudly.

The rustling stopped.

You froze, wand raised, and heart hammering like it might crack a rib. The noise had definitely stopped, and no matter how much you reasoned with yourself, you couldn't get the image of a masked hit wizard waiting on the other side of the door.

You moved again, breath caught between your teeth as you edged toward the bedroom door like it might explode. Silently, your hand reached out, gently grasping the cool brass door handle and twisting it slightly. Your wand still pointed ready to use whatever curse came to mind first on your attacker.

As the door swung open, you inhaled sharply. A nasty knock-back curse on the tip of your tongue when your eyes settled on the intruder.

Collapsed halfway onto your bed, coat drenched, boots trailing muck across your floor like he'd dragged himself inside. Mattheo Riddle.

For a moment, nothing made sense. Like your brain had short-circuited from exhaustion and fear. Like your dream hadn’t ended, just bled into real life. Your first thought was that it wasn’t real.

“What the fuck?”

It came out sharp and breathless. Your wand stayed pointed. Your heart tried to claw its way up your throat. “What—how— Riddle what the fuck are you doing in my bed?"

He stirred weakly. Barely. Drunken.

You advanced one step, fury outrunning fear. “You broke into my flat? You broke in—why?”

Mattheo didn’t respond. Just slumped further onto the bed, like even holding his head up was too much.

"Godric give me strength," you whispered, your wand arm dropping limply by your side, rushing towards his slumped figure. His wand dangled uselessly from one hand, forgotten. His mouth was bloodied. One eye swollen shut.

"Mattheo," you hissed, unsure whether you wanted to slap him or tend to his wounds, "Mattheo, wake up!"

He didn’t. Just groaned once, barely conscious, arm pushing your fussing hand away, and passed out cold on your bed. He didn’t move again. Not when you dragged off his boots, not when you muttered every curse you knew— he just lay there, dead to the world, while you took the couch. Infuriated yet slightly relieved.

At least he wasn't dead, yet.

©️riddlemelater. 2025.

[chasing-posts]

Gai and Kakashi are the healthiest Rivalry in Naruto

In Naruto, rivalry is a key component of the show. Showcasing how it can uplift and destroy the characters, their bonds and inpact their psyche.

In most rivalries, there is an end goal in mind, where a victor must exist and someone must lose something for the other to gain:

Sakura Vs. Ino was about who could attract the attention of a boy

Gaara Vs. Lee is a classic battle of Talent Vs. Hard Work.

Obito Vs. Kakashi was a one sided duel about Obito trying to get others to see him by dragging Kakashi down.

Hashirama Vs. Madara is the climatic battle of two people born into war, and both trying to find a way to end the cycle and coming to two different conclusions

Naruto Vs. Sasuke starts as a classic battle of fighting the strongest kid on the playground for dominance, and slowly evolves into a battle of wills to decide the best way to lead the world.

In most of these, friendships are built and destroyed over the rivalries. Some recover, others don't. But there's always an end goal in mind. Pulling the other down so the victor can stand above them. Proving their point with their physical prowess. Sometimes its about changing the perspective another holds, other times its proving ones worth, but no matter the battle, the end result is all about defeating their opponent to raise themselves in some way.

Which is where Gai and Kakashi's rivalry stands out amongst the rest. At first glance, it may be like Neji and Lee's rivalry, genius vs. hard work. Or maybe like Obito, people may think Gai is trying to defeat Kakashi to gain status, self worth or to improve his ego, but that's not the case.

The thing that changes Gai and Kakashi's rivalry, is that theirs is about raising one another up, not tearing each other down.

When Gai was young, he wanted to meet Kakashi's standards, and so he started challenging him. Like other rivals on the list, he thought he could defeat his Kakashi to prove himself and strengthen his beliefs on hard work vs. Genius... until the day he saw Kakashi training by himself...

Seeing how hard Kakashi pushed himself to stay on top, changed Gai's initial beliefs and made it go from wanting to take Kakashi down... to wanting to stand beside him.

Soon after, the challenges went from trying to defeat Kakashi, to a battle of understanding him. His challenges were no longer about just physical powress, but turned into games from eating competitions, to rock paper scissors, to silly dance offs. And with every new challenge, Gai learned more about Kakashi.

Wanting to win was still an aspect, the two do love to compete to win. But losing was no longer a consequence ro rheir core beliefs or self worth. Sure Gai added stipulations to his losses, but those to were to help self improve and regain focus. To make himself better to stay equal with his rival.

More than that, Kakashi also had to learn to lose with Gai. In doing so... he learned it was okay to fail. That not everything would have devastating consequences if he was not the best. The show never dives into this, but for someone who was forced to become a child soldier, and who learned that failure could equal death at a young age, thst losing could mean a loss of prestige or position... to be able to be challenged by Gai, eventually start losing often... was to realize it was safe to fall. That he could lose a challenge and his friend wouldn't even mock him if he won. For soneone eho must have had a bunch of rivals who try to tore him down (like Obito) this must have been so refreshing.

In the end, their rivalry works so well, because its about raising the other up. Gai can help see where Kakashi is at mentally in their challenges and get him out of his head to help Kakashi relax by allowing him to play. Whwre at first Kakashi helped Gai improve his skills as a child, and then helped him push past his limits as an adult. To validate his friend's hard work and dedication, as well as to just enjoy time together.

Their makes them better people, helps them compete and check in with one another, lets them bond. They learn more about one another and their own short comings through their challenges, and it lets them communicate in a way without putting the other down. No other rivalry in the show does this. For them its about friendship, comradery, and being there for each other in a way no one else on the list is.

Its one of the most beautiful things Kishimoto created in his works.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Villain Creation System Chapter 2

Pairing/s: Invincible x Reader x Invincible Variants

CHAPTER 1: Don't Mix Red Bull with Coffee   Series Masterlist <<read the synopsis and trigger warnings first>>

444 Alternate Universes Ago…

The instant you agreed to sell your soul, or rather, save it, you were teleported away from the site of your death and into a pure white space. 

[Scanning Host’s memories…]

[Re-calibrating for comfort…]

There was a ding and the whiteness shifted into a gorgeous lobby with expensive wallpaper and a wooden floor. The place was green with all sorts of hanging and standing plants. One wall was just a giant floor-to-ceiling window pane framed by sheer curtains in your ideal color, behind the glass were trees as far as the eyes can see. In the middle of the room was a singular sofa, the one you always wanted but could never afford in life. 

[To minimize damage to the Host’s mental health, the Main System instructed me to shape the Soulscape into your ideal space. I looked into your memories and recreated all the repeating trends you saved on your Pinterest board.] 

“... you read my mind?”

[You sound upset. Rest assured, after you agreed to become my Host, we are now intimately intertwined. I have access to the deepest recesses of your mind.]

You did not appreciate the way it said “intimately” and you certainly did not like how casually it treated breaching your privacy.

[If you are scared about my knowing the memories that your kind deems “shameful” or “embarrassing” then do not be afraid; we systems do not care about such unimportant things.]

“Just… stop.” You walked over to the window. You could see a mountain range from this point. It looked like you were in a mountain lodge.

[Ah, I might as well tell you, but we are in a pocket dimension that’s been limited to simulate your ideal space for working and thinking. If you were to leave this area, which you can’t, you will not find trees.]

“I get it.” You put your hand on the glass. “Outside of this room there’s only that white void.”

[Ding. Host is correct. You’re not as dumb as I thought.] 

You ignored its unintentional jab and took a seat on the sofa. If you were alive you might have fallen straight to sleep with its welcoming softness, but because you didn’t have a physical form you felt awake, vigorous. You’ve never felt this… lack of fatigue when you were alive.

“Let’s get this over with.” 

[You’re lucky, Host, compared to other systems the demands for our contract is easy.] 

A holographic display flashed before you to reveal a few animated clips of Invincible.  

You knew that the show was about a superhero named “Invincible” and his dad was a piece of crap who ran his face through a train full of civilians, and you did see a couple of short clips online, but that was it. Surface level stuff. The series skyrocketed into mainstream popularity during the pandemic but you didn’t get the chance to join the bandwagon before you died.

You had a lot of questions. Not just about the show or the system, but the whole “Is there a God?” and “Do our choices even matter?” package. But you were in no mood to be insulted again so you decided to keep such questions to yourself.

[For each mission world that you enter, you have but one simple task: break that universe’s Mark Grayson to the point of villainy.]

The screen paused and zoomed in on a bloodied Invincible, his right eye was swollen and his hero suit was torn.

The system then played a clapping noise. [Easy, no? Other systems usually have their contractors move into the body of pre-existing characters so those people need to maintain their character settings within 80% or risk getting too OOC and hurting the fabric of reality.]

“Wait a minute, what are the parameters for villainy?” You threw an accusing finger at the screen, not at Mark but at the system. “The task is too vague, how will I know that he is villainous enough for me to move on to the next world? Morality is relative.”

[Host is sharp. Are you perhaps afraid that we’re tricking you?]

Your eyebrow twitched.

The screen showed what appeared to be a health bar, but instead of red or green, it was black. Above it was the word “DARKENING.”

[This bar measures what we consider the corruption of one’s soul. No tricks or whatever.]

“How do I know what counts as corruption?”

[Unfortunately, detailing what constitutes as “corruption” itself is far beyond my capabilities, but luckily for you, you don’t need to know that. Just understand that as long as the bar reaches 100% the mission will be considered successful.]

“Fine,” you capitulated. “Do I get a cheat or a skill? A lot of isekai mangas and webnovels have that.”

[This is not fiction, Host.]

It paused.

[But yes, you do have access to cheat items.]

There was a ding and the screen showed you a digital store with a search bar and a shopping cart.

[You don’t have any currency at the moment, but a successful mission will give you reward points that you can spend.]

You browsed the products: “The Little Mermaid’s Voice in a Bottle. One sip and you can make any man, woman, or sea creature do your bidding!” for 25000 points.

“White Moonlight, Untainted. Look ethereal even as you wither away from a terminal illness and become a beautiful memory that haunts his dreams with this perfume!” for 22000 points.

“It’s Alive! Imbue sentience to anything, from a churro to a stuffed toy with this ray gun! (disclaimer: the system is not responsible for any vengeful, murderous object that you cursed with thought)” for 50000. 

Every product felt like one sick joke after another. 

“Is the amount of reward points constant for every mission?”

[No, your reward points will be proportional to your grade, which will be proportional to the difficulty of the mission world.]

You got it. Just because they were all Mark Grayson didn’t guarantee that they were the same. Not just them, the settings could be unlike your Earth but dystopian, the “stories” may not even take place on Earth.

“Does using system cheats affect my grade? How am I graded? And how many worlds before I can get my life back?”

[To answer the Host: no, using cheats is irrelevant so long as you do your job successfully.]

[As for the grading criteria, it all depends on the Host’s performance in each world. Please direct your attention to the screen.] The light monitor displayed the criteria. 

[The grades you can achieve by doing your mission are listed from lowest to highest: C, B, A and S. You must achieve a hundred S-graded missions in order to return to your original world, or the equivalent of a hundred S grades, like a thousand A’s.]

“But you just said I only have one task, to darken Mark Grayson, with zero other requirements, shouldn’t I be on a pass or fail grading system?”

[Spoken like a true nerd–]

You wondered if it was possible to physically choke this thing.

[Ahem.]

[According to the Main System, a pass or fail grading scheme is too harsh.]

“Then what is the breakdown for my grades? What is the percentage–”

[Geez. I was bred for helping lost souls but you are loquacious for someone who just died.]

“Sorry, am I annoying you?” You crossed your arms. “My life is on the line here.”

The system sighed, actually sighed. You didn’t think you would ever be on the receiving end of a sigh from a night-omniscient, maybe-divine, maybe-demonic artificial intelligence. 

[Don’t sweat the small stuff, Host.]

You swallowed the lump of irritation in your throat and inquired, “Do I get access to the plots of these worlds?”

[That’s a negative. Depending on the world, we may be able to provide a brief overview, but we can’t provide you minute details or predict the future.]

“But these universes aren’t even real, right? Surely–”

[Host, with each work of fiction, there will be fanfiction and fan arts made. For every piece of fan content that is created, a branch of the universe is created, and from each branch blooms a new world. Think of a copy of a copy of a copy, ad infinitum, some so close to each other that they’re almost impossible to tell apart, others so fantastically different from the original that you can tell immediately, but even those that differ from the original are bound to have produced branches of their own. Sorting these parallel dimensions would be too troublesome.]

You massaged your temples. “Okay, I think I understand.” Basically, knowing the future is useless because you wouldn’t know that it is the future, but a future. 

“But why do you want to turn these Mark Graysons into villains? Shouldn’t they be evil already?”

[A lot of these Marks were created simultaneously by fans, some with care, some without thought about how they became the way that they are. These Marks had to come from somewhere. But they were created by humans, who are finite creatures, so the laws established within these realities are often arbitrary. The World Consciousness, that is, the force that keeps each alternative universe from collapsing, will compensate for the missing puzzle pieces. But its work is not without flaws. It’s a machine working on a set of preprogrammed commands, so it is bound to have missed something or encounter a situation that was not included in its original instructions, resulting in imperfect solutions. Your world does not have this problem, because it was created by an infinite, all-knowing being.]

“That… sounds like a lot of work.”

[It is.]

“So why bother?”

The system replied cheerfully: [Because it is our job.]

You groaned inwardly. Guess this was your life now. 

“Okay.” You exhaled, patting your cheeks. “Okay, I can do this.”

[Does Host have any further questions?] 

“Shouldn’t I at least know the main timeline’s plot?”

[Ding. Request denied.]

“What?!”

[Host, I told you, a lot of the parallel universes are eerily similar to each other, and these universes are almost exact replicas of the main one. There is a reason why humans are not given the ability to see the future. If you could then the fear of making the wrong choice can cripple you to the point of uselessness.]

“So you want me to go in blind? In a world of supers and villains that cut through normies like they’re veggies?”

[It is the will of the Main System. But I did receive authorization to provide minor details should they help.]

“...”

[...]

“Fine.”

[Does Host have any further questions?] 

“None at the moment.”

[Ding. Then prepare for transmigration. Be not afraid for this system shall accompany you every step of the way.]

“Oh, goodie.”

[Communicating with World Consciousness…]

[Gestating…Creating Host’s backstory…]

[Synchronizing soul with puppet…]

[Initiating transfer ... 1%, 43% ... ]

You were lulled to unconsciousness. Your soul ebbed into the stream of time and space. For a while you felt… almost free. Weightless as you were carried by the Main System through various dimensions. 

[... 98%, 99% ... Transfer complete.]

[Ding. Invincible Alternative Universe No. 1 welcomes you. World Difficulty: Tutorial Level.]

[Happy darkening, Host!]

When you came to, the feeling of weightlessness was gone, replaced by the familiar ache in your back and shoulders and heaviness under your eyes. You observed the environment. You were in a university. Even without the system providing you details, the giant, imposing buildings and wandering undead young adults were a dead give away. 

You lifted your hands. They were exactly like the ones your old body–your real body–had. The fingernails cut too short, the calloused pads, the climbing veins too visible under the thin skin. 

You touched your face. Same nose. Same contours.

“I’m actually here,” you muttered, still processing. It wasn’t just because you were in a new reality, it was because of the unfamiliar memories–

While you were being transferred to this body, memories of your life here poured into your mind seamlessly. 

You were Mark Grayson’s next door neighbor and childhood friend, but when you turned twelve your family had to move countries. But now you were back in town and starting college.

It was scary how they fit so well into your head. 

[Don’t worry, Host, in a way, you have achieved enlightenment. You are aware of the so-called fourth wall. You don’t have to fear losing yourself to these false memories.]

You stared at your hand, opening and closing it. “Let’s hope so.”

You turned your attention to your surroundings. “What now?”

[For now, may I suggest you start walking to class? You don’t want to be late.]

***

The good news was that the you of this universe was also pre-med. Even better news was that you had a philosophy elective, which wasn’t an option when you were in college. 

Your professor was a stocky built middle-aged man who wore a tweed sweater and thick black spectacles. 

He stood behind a podium and spoke in that unique way only intellectuals seemed to speak. For a fictional character, he was an excellent lecturer. You didn’t take notes. You couldn’t, you were too busy debating with him.

“You’re saying that you would choose to sacrifice five people for one person?” He asked.

“No, I’m saying that the choice is not that easy–”

“Of course not, that’s the entire dilemma.” The whole class laughed.

You didn’t back down. “What I mean is that we’re so intent on choosing between the needs of the many and that of the few that are presently in front of us, that we forget that the trolley problem was created to demonstrate that a utilitarian view is not applicable to mortals.”

“Explain.”

“Well, we are given the options with so little information. We are forced to make life or death decisions under the assumption that we know everything. What if the one person we decided to sacrifice was a super genius who could cure cancer? What if the five people we decided to save were terrorists or robbers or murderers? The problem shows that we cannot make a decision based purely on the outcome because as humans, we are incapable of knowing everything.”

The professor was grinning. “Excellent point.”

The bell rang. 

He sighed. “Sadly, that’s it for today’s lectures. I hope the next class will have another enthusiastic debate, and not just with one person. I already uploaded the reading materials for the next session. Please do not neglect them.”

You packed your untouched notebook and unused pen.

“You still use actual paper for taking notes?”

That voice. No way–

[The target, Mark Grayson, is here.]

Your memories of him were foggy, as are most childhood memories.

He was taller than you remembered. His limbs were less lanky now, too. His shoulders were broad and his arms bulged against his quarter sleeves. 

Gone was the graceless boy who used to cry when he tripped playing tag. 

Standing before you now was a young man who exuded confidence.

[Ding. Affection: 5%. Darkening: 3%.]

[Ding. Affection: 5.1%. Darkening: 3%.]

You were so confused, until he chuckled and you realized that you’ve been staring, way more than what was socially acceptable. 

Willing your attention back to your things, you explained, “Writing makes it easier, but I digitize my notes at home.”

[Affection: 5.2%. Darkening: 3%.]

“That so…” He purred, reaching over to play with the hamburger keychain hanging from your bag. “I’ve never seen anyone talk that passionately with Professor Harper. Did you just start attending classes?”

“Um. No?” You started the semester at the same time as everyone else.

“That’s weird, cause there’s no way I wouldn’t have noticed a pretty thing like you.”

“...are you hitting on me?”

His smile hardened, surprised, then he snorted. Then he laughed. “Wow, you’re cute.”

[Affection: 5.3%. Darkening: 3%.]

Hold on.

“Wait. You don’t remember me, do you?” 

This time his grin left his face completely. “Ah, crap. Did we already–”

“Mark, it’s me.”

“...”

Total blank. 

He tilted his head, thinking. Then he snapped his fingers. “Amber’s party?”

Silence.

“No? Was it at the freshman orientation? Was it prom? Jesus, that was so long ago–I mean, uh…”

[Affection: 5%. Darkening: 3%.] 

You shouldn’t feel offended, after all, it’s not like he was your friend, and yet you could not stop the frustration that swarmed you. 

You pressed a finger to his chest and told him your name. 

For a second, you thought that jogged his memory, but no, he simply raised his palms in the air in surrender. “Sorry, I don’t usually remember a lot of my flings. Nothing personal, I swear.”

Your logic quickly overrode your petty feelings and you pulled back. “Right. Nevermind.”

[Affection: 4.9%. Darkening: 3%.] 

Jerk.

[Host, an orifice he may be, he is still your ticket to a happy life.]

“You don’t have to remind me,” you huffed.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.” You grabbed the straps of your bag and breathed. You then glanced back at him and asked, “Wanna grab an early lunch?”

Mark fell quiet. So did the system. 

Through your mind, you directly communicated with the system, Did I do something wrong?

[You have the eyes of a dead fish.]

It stopped.

Then it added: [And you sounded like someone who crossed paths with an acquaintance and politely asked them how was their day even though you don’t care but you had to because they definitely saw you and it would be weird to just walk away.]

Well. Crap. 

As you scrambled for a backup plan, Mark laughed again. 

[Affection: 5.5%. Darkening: 3%.] 

“Sure, I could eat.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I know a good burger place.” 

“Just so you know, I’m not paying.”

He chuckled. 

The restaurant was called Burger Mart, and he wasn’t joking when he said the place served good burgers–actually, that adjective undermines how amazing they are. 

The bun was soft and fluffy. There was no trace of the usual cheap American cheese that felt like plastic on your tongue but actual, melt-in-your mouth cheese. The lettuce was crispy and the tomato super tangy. And the meat patty? Thick and juicy and perfectly seasoned.

Mark watched, half-horrified, half-impressed, as you chomped down your second ultra deluxe cheeseburger. He was barely done with his. He wasn’t trying to be judgmental, but the burger was comically huge. He didn’t expect you to finish half, let alone order another round. 

“You sure like burgers…”

You dipped a fry in your sundae and then put it in the burger. “I always celebrate finishing an exam with lots of carbs.”

“Exams?”

Oh. 

You cleared your throat. “I mean, a successful debate.” 

“You were really cool back there.”

“You don’t have to make fun of me.”

“I mean it though.”

You snuck a glimpse of him from the corner of your eye. For the first time since you two interacted, he looked serious. 

“Eh.” It was a basic thing to discuss in a first year philosophy class, nothing worthy of compliments. That being said, you enjoyed when the professor praised you. Who doesn’t like praise?

“You still didn’t make it clear whether you would choose one person or five people, though.”

Your jaws worked overtime as you tried to argue.

He interrupted you, “Don’t tell me that ‘that’s not the point.’”

He then leaned on his elbows. “No omniscience, no extra information. If you were put in a scenario where you have to choose between one person’s life or five other lives, I wanna know which would you choose?”

You slowed your chewing and tilted your head.

You then answered, “I would choose the option that lets me save everyone.”

He snorted. “There is no third option.”

“Then I’ll make one.”

His eyes widened, then he grinned sardonically and reclined into the vinyl cushion. “That’s optimistic.” 

You wish. 

“Nah. It’s more like…” You didn’t want that blood on your hands and be blamed. “I’m a coward who hates confrontation.”

He glanced at the window, then his chin dipped with a chuckle. 

[Affection: 7%. Darkening: 3%.]

You didn’t know what happened. But you were eating a burger and no one has attacked you so you were going to consider this a win. 

After you finished the last of your fries, Mark offered to walk you to your dorm, which was sweet, you had to admit. However, his smart watch beeped. 

His face scrunched up with irritation. 

You saved him the trouble of coming up with a lie. “That looks important.” You then told him you’d be fine on your own and watched as he reluctantly left you alone in front of Burger Mart.

“Now that he’s gone, mind telling me what that affection meter is all about?”

[It’s exactly what you think it is. It measures the target’s affection for you, in this case, it’s specific to romantic affection.]

“You said there were no other requirements.”

[This is not a requirement, more like a … necessity, to ensure both your survival here and to improve your ability to increase his darkness.]

You stared at the two bars. One was pink, the other was black. 

[Throughout history and fiction, humans have become victims and instigators for the name of love. And Mark Grayson may be a superman who can fly and survive the vacuum of space and punch through cement, but he is just a man.]

You hate to say it, but you understand.

author's note: gee, i wonder which mark is this?

@weponxwrites

CHAPTER 3: When In Doubt, Do Your Research Series Masterlist

MASTERLIST | request rules | ask box

[pineconepie]

CHARACTERS: Vincent, reader/you

WARNINGS/TAGS: Parental yandere, light infantilization, implied revenge via murder, hospitals (briefly), gender neutral reader, Vincent doting on Reader

WORD COUNT: 1.4k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was another commission, so thank you to the commissioner! This is a part 2 to this fic featuring Vincent!

You wake up sometime later with Vincent's arms wrapped around you protectively.

The oxygen mask is gone, replaced by a cannula under your nose, and all you feel is groggy. From painkillers, you're guessing. Most of the wires and devices from earlier were also taken off of you.

Guess that's a sign your vitals have stabilized and there's no more danger of death looming over you.

When Vincent feels you stirring in his arms, he snaps awake instantly. "Kiddo?" He blinks tiredly, raising himself on his elbows as he sits upright. You're pulled upwards with him, resting your chin on his collarbone.

"G'morning," you mumble sleepily.

"Evening, more like." He brushes your cheek with his thumb. "Feeling any better? Still hurt?" You shake your head. "Any trouble breathing or feeling sick? Nausea, pain?" You shake your head again. He sighs in relief and plants a kiss on your forehead. "Thank God. The doctor said you should be able to go home today if you're still feeling okay in a couple hours."

"I'm thirsty," you say.

"On it." He picks up a plastic cup on the table nearby, unscrewing the cap. He holds the cup to your lips and tilts it gently, helping you take slow sips of water. Once you nod, letting him know you're finished, he screws the cap on and sets the cup aside.

You try sitting up on your own, only to let out a sharp hiss as a sudden stab of pain shoots through your abdomen.

Immediately he's all over you again, fussing. "Easy, pumpkin. I got you," he coos, pulling you back into his arms. "No moving too quickly right now, okay? You got pretty badly injured after ingesting the poison." He strokes your hair gently. "Gave me quite a scare, kiddo. Do you remember anything? From..." He trails off, and you see he looks pained for a moment, recalling the memories. "From the gala?"

"Sullivan poisoned our drinks," you answer quietly. "Did you find him?"

"Oh, we found him, alright," Vincent answers darkly, tracing nonsensical shapes and patterns against your back. "Rest assured, I'm taking care of it, sweet pea."

You know him well enough to read between the lines.

Sullivan was doomed. Nobody made a fool out of Vincent Brewer and survived long enough to tell the tale.

They were extra doomed if they even got the honor of having him end their life personally. Vincent may be fond of bragging about how many lives he's ruined or ended, but the truth is he never gets his hands dirty if he can help it.

Not unless it was a personal grievance.

You know you'll never have to worry about seeing Sullivan again. He'll cease existing shortly. Vincent always delivers, in that regard.

Vincent is dangerous, but he loves you more than life itself.

Everyone else can go screw themselves as far as he's concerned. You're the only one who matters.

In fact, he'd burn the city down just to keep you warm.

Now, he wants nothing more than to rip Sullivan's head clean off of his body for this, but his urge to stay by your side and care for you outweighs that desire for violence.

Besides, if he wants to make sure Sullivan suffers every excruciating second of his demise, he needs to wait until you've fully recovered anyway. He'd never leave you alone unless the situation demanded it, especially after what just happened.

That event just further convinced him that the world is too cruel and harsh a place for you. His baby.

"Should've brought more blankets..." Vincent mumbles to himself. You glance behind you to see he's counting the hospital bed's blankets and pillows. "It's not nearly enough."

"Dad, I'm not even cold," you argue gently. "I think it's enough."

"It's freezing!" he counters. "We gotta get you home and bundled up ASAP. Poor baby." He rubs your shoulders comfortingly, even though you just roll your eyes, all in good faith. He smiles at your reaction, glad to see you're feeling okay enough to return to normal behavior.

Soon, after the doctor runs a few final tests on your lungs and heart, he's given the all-clear to take you home.

Vincent wastes no time bundling you up in the new clothes that he had Quinn fetch earlier, carrying you out to the car where a limousine is already waiting.

He brings you inside the limo and takes the seat opposite of you, scooting in and wrapping a blanket around you. He buckles you up securely, then does the same for himself, instructing the driver to head home.

"We're gonna put you straight to bed after lunch and bathtime," he says.

"I've been doing nothing but sleeping," you sigh dramatically.

"So?! You were poisoned! That counts as an excuse for plenty of rest," he insists. "Plus, that means lots of cuddles for Dad." He squeezes you, making you laugh softly. He rests his chin on top of your head, humming pleasantly.

Before long, the two of you reach the penthouse. He guides you out of the limousine and walks you up to the door, unlocking it swiftly. He helps you onto the couch.

Vincent takes off his coat and puts it on the rack, stretching with a crack in his back.

He smiles knowingly at your grimace. "Alright, kiddo, have any requests for lunch?"

It's more leaning on dinner, but you don't mention that. "Not really picky today," you shrug.

"Hmm," Vincent thinks out loud. "How about your favorite soup and grilled cheese sandwiches?" You perk up, smiling brightly, and he takes that as a yes.

You curl up on the sofa as he moves around the kitchen to start making food. He keeps glancing over at you as he's cooking, ensuring that you're comfortable and still breathing (not that you'd drop dead within 5 minutes).

Once he's done preparing the soup and sandwich, he arranges it on the plate neatly.

He walks over to you, handing the tray over. He sits down next to you, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, bringing you closer. The TV is already set on a kid's cartoon channel. You smile gratefully and dig in, humming in delight at the taste.

"Thank you," you say in-between bites. "Its yummy."

"Of course, kiddo," he coos, petting your hair. Once you finish eating, Vincent turns the TV off. "Bath, then bed," he declares.

"I don't need a bath—" you protest, but he's not hearing it.

"Yeah you do," he says firmly. "Come on. I'll give you extra bubbles if that'll cheer you up."

After drawing the bath and stripping you of your clothes, Vincent helps lower you down into the hot water, letting you enjoy the relaxing steam for awhile as he scrubs you clean.

"Dad," you huff impatiently. "This isn't necessary, y'know. I am feeling better."

"And I'm going to keep it that way." He squeezes a washcloth tightly, sending water rolling down your back. Then he massages your scalp, washing your hair thoroughly with shampoo before rinsing it out with a small pitcher. He repeats the process with conditioner, all while humming.

He pulls the plug on the drain once he's satisfied. Grabbing a fluffy towel, Vincent pats you down with it, then wraps you up snugly in it. He carries you to your bedroom, which is fully decorated, now.

Posters of cute things cover the walls, along with shelves displaying plushies and action figures, and anything else he knows that you like.

Setting you on your feet, Vincent goes through the closet and dresser to find some new pajamas for you.

You end up changing into soft blue pajamas with clouds on them. He pulls your arms through the sleeves and buttons them together.

"There!" Vincent claps his hands together proudly. "Let's get you into bed." He tucks you beneath the covers, planting a kiss on your forehead. "I love you, kiddo. So, so much." His voice trembles a little bit, subtle but not something you miss. He stares at you for a moment, then stands. "Dad needs to take care of some business now, okay? I'll be back before you know it."

"Wait," you say before he can step out the door. "Can that wait? I know what you want to do, but... I just want you here right now."

Vincent breaks into a smile. "Anything for my kiddo," he promises, kicking his shoes off and climbing into the bed beside you. He pulls you into his embrace, letting your face press against his chest. You breathe in deeply, inhaling his scent, comforting and familiar.

It's warm.

Safe.

You can trust Vincent to protect you, no matter what happens. He's ruthless enough to do whatever it takes, and has enough power and influence to ensure nobody ever hurts you, not without paying with their life. Whatever he does, even if it's bad, he does it for you.

"You're so precious," Vincent murmurs. He has a hand on the back of your head, keeping you secured to his chest. "Get some sleep, sweetie. I'm not going anywhere."

[arkaiveofurown]

Love Against Justice

Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x Reader

tags: angst, major character death

You were born into justice— Admiral Akainu’s perfect daughter, raised to obey, to believe that fire could burn the world clean. But then you met him.

Portgas D Ace. Son of the Pirate King. Wild, golden-eyed, and free. He showed you a world beyond orders, beyond duty—a world where you could choose.

You weren’t supposed to love him. He wasn’t supposed to matter. But on the night you met, everything changed.

And when the war came, you had to make the hardest choice of all.

Stand by your father…

Or die for the man who taught you how to live.

Word count: ~4,500 words

my masterlist here ♡

——

The island was supposed to be quiet—just another checkpoint. You were out past curfew, your boots light on the sand, the stars above your only company.

Until he spoke.

“You shouldn’t be walking around here in that uniform, you know. Might give someone ideas.”

You froze, hand hovering over your sword. But the voice wasn’t threatening—just amused.

From the shadows, a man stepped forward. Black tattoo on his back. Orange hat. The moment your eyes met his golden ones, something in your chest shifted.

“Portgas D. Ace,” you said carefully.

He tilted his head. “And you are… a Vice Admiral’s brat?”

You stiffened. “Admiral. I’m his daughter.”

He let out a low whistle. “Didn’t expect Sakazuki to have a kid. You don’t have his scowl.”

Your lips twitched, despite yourself. “I get that a lot.”

He smiled then, soft and crooked. “So what’s a good little Marine doing walking alone?”

“I could ask you the same. You’re a wanted man.”

“And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “you haven’t drawn your blade.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t. For some reason, looking at him didn’t feel like facing an enemy.

“I’m not here to fight.”

He looked up at the stars. “Good. Neither am I.”

That night stretched longer than you expected—two hours of talking by the water’s edge. About justice. About pirates. About fathers.

“You trying to make yours proud?” he asked, picking up a shell and tossing it into the waves.

“…Yes.”

He turned to you, serious now. “You know that’s not living, right?”

Your voice faltered. “Then what is?”

He chuckled softly, plucking up another shell. “Living is… waking up and knowing the choices you’re making are your own. Not someone else’s. Not your father’s.”

You stared down at the water. “It’s not that simple. I was raised to believe in justice. That pirates were evil. That anything less than total obedience is weakness.”

Ace didn’t laugh this time. He just nodded. “Sounds lonely.”

You blinked at him. “It is.”

“Then why keep doing it?”

You sighed, fingers curling into fists at your sides. “Because it’s all I’ve ever known. Because I thought if I could just be strong enough, obedient enough, perfect enough—maybe he’d actually look at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t just another soldier in his fleet.”

Ace was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “You matter without any of that. You shouldn’t have to bleed yourself dry just to earn scraps of love.”

The words hit too hard, too fast. “That’s easy for you to say. You’re free. You get to be who you are. You’re not being crushed under your last name.”

He tilted his head. “You think freedom means not being weighed down? I’ve spent most of my life wondering if I even deserve to exist. Carrying my father’s name like a curse I never asked for.”

You looked at him, startled. “Your father?”

Ace looked away, a shadow in his gaze. “Gol D. Roger. The Pirate King.”

You swallowed. “But that means—”

“Yeah,” he said. “Everyone thinks I should be something—good or evil, depends who you ask. But none of them care what I want. They only see what I was born from.”

You stared at him, quiet now.

Ace sat down in the sand, arms resting on his knees. “So yeah. I know a little about trying to run from your blood. Or trying to live up to something impossible. But trust me… it never works. Either way, you lose yourself.”

You sat beside him slowly, the sea breeze brushing your face. “Then what do I do?”

He turned to you gently. “Start small. What do you want? Not as a Marine. Not as Sakazuki’s daughter. Just… you.”

You hesitated, breath catching in your throat. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” he said quietly. “Knowing you don’t know—that’s a hell of a start.”

You looked at him then, really looked. At the man who was supposed to be your enemy. Who was offering you more kindness in an hour than your father had in years.

“Why are you telling me all this?” you asked.

He gave a crooked smile. “Because you looked like someone who needed to hear it. And maybe… because I wish someone had said it to me when I was younger.”

You didn’t respond. You just sat there with him, watching the waves roll in.

The wind stirred your hair, the ocean licking at your boots.

“I want to see you again,” you whispered, surprising even yourself.

Ace blinked—then nodded. “Then we will. One day.”

That night, there was a pull between the two of you—something magnetic, impossible to ignore. Without a word, Ace closed the space between you, his hand finding yours, warm and calloused, his fingers intertwining with yours.

You didn’t pull away.

He kissed you then, a soft press of lips that deepened slowly as the tension between you both flared into something more. There was no rush—only the pressing need to feel alive, to be seen, to be wanted. You kissed him back, hands gently threading into his dark hair, your heart racing in a way that felt both terrifying and freeing.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, the stars above you like silent witnesses to something new and raw. Ace’s eyes were dark, but his smile was soft.

“You’re not alone,” he murmured, his thumb brushing against your cheek, a promise in the quiet of the night.

You didn’t say anything, just nodded, letting his words sink in.

There, under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms, you found something unexpected. You weren’t sure where it would lead, or if it would survive the world that lay ahead. But for that moment, it was enough.

“I’ll see you again,” you whispered, a promise between the two of you.

He nodded, the faintest glimmer of hope in his eyes. “One day.”

——

Marineford roared like a monster of steel and flame. Cannons fired. Blood painted the sea red. Above it all stood your father, barking orders with magma on his fists.

You stood with the other officers, heart numb, until your eyes found him—Ace, shackled on the execution platform, chest heaving.

You couldn’t breathe.

You hadn’t meant to fall for him. But those nights thinking about his laugh, the way he listened—like you were more than your name…

He found you too. His gaze locked with yours, even from the distance. You couldn’t tell what emotion flickered behind his eyes. Recognition? Regret?

Was this the future he’d imagined for your reunion?

——

“You seem distracted.”

Your father’s voice cut through the storm like a knife.

You stiffened. “Just focused.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t lose yourself. This war is for justice. For order.”

You nodded, throat tight. He’d never ask if you were afraid. He’d only care that you stood tall.

But inside, you were already breaking.

“Father…” you tried, voice trembling. “What if there’s more to this than justice? What if—”

“SILENCE.”

His voice boomed like thunder. “There is no ‘what if.’ There is justice. There is crime. And there is fire to purge it.”

You turned away before he could see the doubt in your eyes.

——

When Luffy burst through the chaos, a part of you hoped he’d fail. Another part—the part that remembered moonlight and laughter—begged him to win.

And he did.

The chains broke. Ace stood free.

You ran before you could think.

He was there, coughing, dazed. You called his name. He turned.

“…You came.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I couldn’t let you die.”

He smiled, pain flickering across his face. “You always were too good for them.”

You touched his arm. “We have to go.”

But fate doesn’t care about love.

——

Admiral Aikanu stepped into your path —raw, unrelenting, and burning with hate. His coat billowed like smoke in the wind, and steam hissed off his molten fists. You saw the rage in his eyes before he even spoke. It was the same rage you’d grown up under, now aimed straight at the man you loved.

“Portgas D. Ace,” your father snarled. “You dare escape judgment?”

Ace instinctively pushed you behind him. “Stay back,” he said, voice low and urgent. “Don’t let him touch you.”

But you stepped forward, shoulder brushing his. “I’m not hiding, Ace. Not from him. Not anymore.”

Akainu’s eyes burned into yours. “So. You’ve chosen your side.”

His voice cracked like fire through stone.

“I chose it long before today,” you said, lifting your chin. “You just never wanted to see it.”

“You would throw away justice for him?” His voice seethed, disgust curling in his lip.

“I’m not throwing anything away,” you said. “I’m claiming what’s mine. My life. My choice.”

Akainu’s fists ignited with fury. Lava spilled from his knuckles, hissing as it hit the ground. “Then you’re no daughter of mine.”

Something broke in your chest—but it wasn’t grief. It was the last thread of fear.

Ace’s voice cut through the tension. “She was never yours to shape into a weapon.���

Akainu turned his wrath back toward him. “You speak of freedom while hiding behind her skirts?”

And then he moved.

His magma-coated fist blazed through the air toward Ace. Time slowed.

And without thinking, without hesitation—

You stepped in front of him.

——

The pain was instant. A white-hot agony tore through your side as the lava smashed into you. You felt yourself being thrown back into Ace’s arms, the world tilting, fire blooming across your vision like a dying sun.

You were weightless and heavy at once.

“No!” Ace caught you, stumbling as he dropped to his knees. His hands trembled, cradling you like you were glass already cracking. “Y/N—no. No, no, no…”

Your blood was everywhere. On his arms, on your uniform, soaking into the dirt.

Your breathing came in ragged gasps, and yet—you smiled.

“Why…?” he choked out, eyes wild and wet. “Why would you do that?”

You reached up with shaking fingers to brush his cheek. “Because I love you.”

He held you tighter, pressing his forehead to yours. “You weren’t supposed to die for me. You were supposed to live. With me. You were supposed to live.”

Your voice was barely a whisper. “I know… I wanted that too.”

“Then why—why—”

“Because this was my choice,” you said, voice thin but steady. “Not my father’s. Not the Marines’. Mine.”

He shook his head violently, tears spilling freely. “You idiot… you beautiful, stubborn idiot…”

You tried to smile again, even as the cold crept in. “This… this is freedom. I finally got to decide what I’d give my life for.”

Ace was sobbing now, arms wrapped around you like he could hold your soul in. “No. No, don’t go—please, Y/N…”

You leaned closer, eyes fluttering shut. “Live, Ace. Please. Not for him. Not for Whitebeard. For you.”

Your fingers slipped from his, and the last thing you saw was the sky—vast, open, free.

And Ace—broken, holding you like the world had ended.

Behind him, your father stood still. Staring. Silent. Like even fire had forgotten how to burn.

——

They say Ace fought like hell that day.

They say he screamed your name like a prayer turned curse, tearing through enemy lines with fire that scorched even the sea-slick stone beneath his feet. Magma met flame, and still, he stood. Burning. Bleeding. Unstoppable.

They say it took Luffy, broken and battered, to drag him back—his brother’s arms locked around his chest as he screamed and kicked and sobbed. They say Ace didn’t want to run. That he wanted to die there, next to you.

But Luffy wouldn’t let him.

Not after you had already made that choice.

After the war, Ace disappeared from the public eye. But everyone in Whitebeard’s crew knew where he went.

The first place he returned to was your grave.

Buried quietly, anonymously, far from Marine monuments or war heroes. Your marine pin sat at the headstone, cleaned and polished. And on it was carved only what Ace asked for:

“She died free.”

He stayed there for hours the first time. Maybe days. No one knows what he said. But when he came back, something in him had changed.

He still laughed. Still drank. Still threw his arm around Thatch and teased Marco and got into brawls with the crew. But the light in his eyes had shifted.

He lived like a man with a fire he couldn’t put out.

Every time the Moby Dick passed through a new island, he asked for any news of the Marine girl with the burning eyes and the fireproof heart. Every time he met someone who believed they were born into chains, he told your story.

Not to make them mourn you.

But to remind them what choice could look like.

“Don’t live trying to prove yourself to people who will never see you,” he’d say. “She taught me that.”

He never said your name out loud. Not often. It hurt too much. But your memory followed him like a shadow—like the steady heat of a fire that never died.

Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, he’d take the small locket he wore under his shirt—a single photo of you, tucked behind a scrap of your old Marine uniform—and whisper,

“I’m still burning for you.”

And he was.

Not for Whitebeard. Not for revenge.

For you.

Because if someone like you—born into war, raised under fire—could choose love in the end…

Then he could choose life.

Just as he was.

And he would live every day the way you wanted him to:

Free.

[needfantasticstories]

“Many places I have been

Many sorrows I have seen

But I don't regret

Nor will I forget

All who took that road with me”

-The Last Goodbye by Billy Boyd

This is an Adjuration by @not-freyja, after 86 chapters, 300k words, and 10 months of joy, laughter, tears, heartbreak and love, has finally reached its end. 

Adjuration is a tragedy that is nothing short of an act of love. That much is clear in the passion and dedication put towards the story, the characters, and the message Freyja is trying to convey. This fic will teach you about love. About death. About the inevitability of existence and why despite knowing it will all come to an end, there is still meaning in trying and hoping and loving each other. In loving yourself. You will laugh, you will cry, you will hope and you will despair as you read this story, but you will not be able to put it down.

It’s hard to say goodbye to something that has been so important to and loved by so many people. So we won’t. Instead, we will say thank you for this incredible journey and the community this fic has built. For the friendships that have been made and the endless inspiration you have given us. Thank you for wanting to tell a story, and for letting us join you around the campfire to listen.

Thank you.

(If you like Linked Universe and haven’t yet read Adjuration, see below for spoiler free reviews of this fic and artist credits.)

This is an Adjuration is the kind of story you fall in love with, the kind of story you think keep thinking about long after you put it down. The kind you keep finding hidden details in after you think you’ve got it figured out. 

The characters are distinct and people with their own voices, motivations, relationships and histories. You’ll have your favourites but love them all. They influence how you’ll see the characters in everything else. 

It’s full of moments where everything clicks and everything before is recontextualised in a way that’s so satisfying and make the whole story very re-readable. A time travel story where all loops are already closed, where you can know but not yet understand what will happen. It’s long, complex, and beautifully, meticulously planned and detailed. It’s clever and considered, funny and heartbreaking. 

A story that whispers ‘it matters’ over and over. It is worth it to love, it is worth it if it doesn’t last forever, it is worth it to give someone a little more time, it is worth it to fight. It’s about loving others and your world and finding grace for yourself. 

It’s loss and tragedy and the cruelness of fate. It is the sacrifice and the breaking. 

Full of heart to both fill yours and break it in the best possible way. 

It’s about love. Always.

By @toyouhellohowareyou

Sometimes, it’s hard to explain to others why art moves us.

I could tell you This is an Adjuration will make you cry, laugh, and sit at the edge of your seat in anticipation. And it’s probably true - I did all of that as I read, often with a coffee in one hand, early in the morning as I got ready for the day. 

But that’s not the reason why I’m writing this.

The real reason is how it followed me during the rest of the day.

You see, at a certain point I realized this isn’t a story about Links going on adventures. Well, it does feature Links, and they do go on adventures, so let’s talk about that for a minute.

The first thing that caught my attention about this book was the characters. Each individual is unique, interesting, and exciting to follow. Not only are the Links individually compelling, but one thing that stands out in Adjuration is how the relationship between each Hero and their own worlds matter, and these connections shift, evolve, break and grow as the plot progresses.

Freyja does an incredible job of bringing together impactful storytelling with humor and heart. This is an Adjuration starts with an interesting premise, and then twists and turns in directions you wouldn’t expect. It’s rich in thought-provoking moments, soft joy and intense action, blended in with carefully crafted time travel and magic.

Adjuration sucked me into the world it builds, combining believable characters with fascinating stories, an unnervingly devious antagonist, plot twists, and lovingly crafted details that slip unnoticed until you’re surrounded on all sides. It made me cheer for characters I feel as if I’ve known intimately for years, made me worry for their safety as I would for that of a loved one, kept me hunting for hints and hidden references, pulling on a thread to try to find the end only for it to twist and loop into itself and show me a completely new side to the story.

Yes, This is an Adjuration is a fanfiction piece that explores the winding river flow of the Legend of Zelda timeline and how the stories of each Hero merge into each other. It also stands out for its heavy emotional content, and it doesn’t shy away from angst and hurt.

But to me, Adjuration is an epic journey that taught me how the choices we make, make us in turn. It’s a tragedy that deals with pain and healing, and it bares naked the non-linear nature of grief. It’s a celebration of the things that make us unique, of our flaws, an essay of the impact of little acts of love. Indeed, it’s a story about love.

I can tell you now, This is an Adjuration moved me. It still does. It has a special way to surface in my mind in unexpected ways at seemingly random times, from something as simple as tossing an apple core, to watching a lightning storm in the distance, or finding a picture of an old friend.

And every time, without fail, it makes me think about love.

By @sunny-porridge

This is an Adjuration is a wonderfully and beautifully crafted story about love, loss, and choice as the various incarnations of Link come together and travel through time. Freyja seamlessly weaves a tapestry of setup and payoff across different timelines and loops, in the best-constructed time travel plot I’ve ever seen on page or screen. Even at its surface, Adjuration is an emotional rollercoaster involving tragedy and the soft moments that make that tragedy worth it. But the deeper you look, the more meaning you can pull from every chapter of this amazing work. This work has made me cry, squeal with delight, and think more deeply about its themes all while having an absolute blast reading it. So in summary: READ IT. READ IT. READ IT NOW. YOU WILL NOT REGRET IT.

By @life-in-winter

While I love that every chapter is emotionally enthralling, with carefully woven, visceral tension you crave in any good story, yet Adjuration is more than that, and you feel it in the careful weave of each character and plot point. Nothing is lost or unanswered. It's the kind of story that, by the end, makes you stop and take a hard look at your own life. Are you appreciating the now? Are you savoring joy? Are you so wrapped up in fear that you can hardly take care of yourself? Do you know who you are?

This story is more like an external experience. It's riding atop a tsunami. How do you handle that ride, Link?

There aren't enough words to describe how amazing this fic is.

@needfantasticstories

Artist credit

Legend: @gia-d

Hyrule: @bittirsweeteer

Time: @toonblade

Sky: @noorahqar

Warriors: @whitewinterstar

Wild: @weavingstarlight

Twilight: @bluury2

Wind: @thewitchdoctor39

Four: @lunaopus

Red: @peepthatbish

Blue: @glowingmin

Green: @winterfen

Vio: @waterfallstream

Shadow: @deleetrix

Wolfie: @linkiscool333

Fierce Deity: @awildsilver

Ravio: @lele5429

Malon: @tooner-tastic

Dink: @passerinesoncaffeine

[gyu-tori]

When The Reaper Weeps | K.TH

⟢ Pairing: grim reaper!taehyun x fem mortal!reader ⟢ Genre: Angst, Romance, Mortality, Second Chance

Summary: The afterlife, where death waits in shadow, Taehyun walks the line between humanity and duty, a grim reaper bound by unyielding rules and a heart he has long denied. Cold and distant, he collects souls with precision—until one last wish changes everything.  

Y/N’s days are numbered, given seven days before the after life welcomes her. Her final mission is simple: mend the broken ties of her past.

As the days slip away, Taehyun’s carefully constructed world unravels. Y/N’s determination forces him to confront the emptiness in his existence. When choices arise—between rules, rebellion, and a love neither is prepared for—Taehyun must face the cost of defiance.  

Will he remain the Reaper, bound to his duty, or will he weep for the first time in centuries?

⟢ Warnings: taehyun is a bit of a tsundere, mentions of death, major character death(ish), reader is already dead, let me know if I missed any!

Word count: 12.4k

The quiet stillness of the afterlife was the only constant that Taehyun had come to know. The cold winds of eternity blew through the halls of the reaper’s realm, carrying whispers of the souls he’d escorted to their final resting places. Most of them faded into nothingness, their cries for help or hopes for redemption dissipating the moment they passed beyond the veil. It was his duty to guide them, and that was all. A grim task, but one that he carried out with cold efficiency.

Taehyun’s hands, always steady, gripped the scythe tightly as he watched the elderly woman in front of him. She was fragile, trembling with fear and sadness, the weight of her approaching death finally sinking in. Her eyes met his, seeking some kind of comfort, some sign that her journey would be gentle.

"What lies beyond isn’t for you to know now," he said, his voice as cold and unyielding as the winds. The words were automatic, a rote response that he had long since perfected. There was no room for sympathy in his role, and he had learned to suppress any flickers of emotion that might arise.

The woman’s hands shook as she clasped them in front of her, a final prayer for peace on her lips. "Will it be kind? The afterlife, I mean. Will it be peaceful?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Taehyun’s gaze softened, just for a moment. He had heard that question a thousand times before, but this time, it lingered in the air, thick with the weight of her fear. "All you need to know is that your soul will rest, and that is enough."

As he raised his scythe, the motion fluid and practiced, a pang of guilt tugged at his chest, though he quickly buried it. It was foolish to care. Souls were meant to pass on. They all did.

He pulled the soul from her, watching as the light faded from her body. The process was familiar, mechanical, but for a fleeting moment, something about her lingered in his mind, something he couldn’t quite name.

As he faded back into the ether, his scythe still in hand, the brief sensation of her fear remained with him—a reminder of the humanity he had long since abandoned. The wind rushed past him as he disappeared into the void, but that fleeting moment, that brief spark of emotion, stayed behind.

It wasn’t supposed to matter. Souls moved on. They always had. So why did it feel different this time?

She wasn’t ready to die.

Y/N laid on the hospital bed, surrounded by the sterile scent of antiseptic and the hushed murmurs of the doctors outside the room. Her body, frail and weak from the illness that had taken hold of her over the past months, felt as though it were no longer hers. She could feel the pull of death, an invisible force dragging her deeper into the dark abyss, yet she fought it.

There was still so much to do, so many things she hadn’t said, hadn’t fixed. The regret was a heavy weight on her chest, suffocating in its intensity.

Her eyes fluttered open as she heard the faint creak of the door, the cold, quiet footsteps that followed. She turned her head, her vision blurry from the painkillers they’d given her, and there he stood. The reaper.

Kang Taehyun.

His presence was as imposing as it was cold, a figure of dark silhouette framed by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. His scythe, dark and gleaming, rested in his hand with an aura of finality.

Her heart skipped a beat, a mixture of fear and confusion swirling in her chest. She had imagined this moment so many times, but never like this. Never with so much unfinished business.

“Are you here for me?” Her voice was soft, weak, but there was an unshakable resolve behind it. She was ready. Not to die, but to make a wish. A wish she needed more than anything in the world.

Taehyun didn’t respond immediately. He stood in the doorway, his cold eyes scanning her. The air seemed to grow heavier, and she could feel his judgment. The reapers were not known for their compassion. They were silent, emotionless beings who did their duty without question. It was a matter of fate, of inevitability.

“Your time has come,” Taehyun said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, as though the words came from a place as distant as the very afterlife itself. “There is no place for you here anymore.”

But Y/N’s gaze never faltered. “I’m not ready,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Please... I have a request. A final wish.”

Taehyun's expression didn’t change. He didn’t care for wishes. Souls were meant to pass, and once their time was up, they moved on. There were no exceptions, no delays. It was the way of things.

“You have no time for such things,” he replied coldly, his eyes never leaving hers. “You’re wasting what little remains.”

But Y/N, though frail and nearing the end, still had strength. She pushed herself up slightly, ignoring the pain that seared through her body. Her voice became more desperate, her words sharp as a plea. “I have one wish, one thing I need to do before I go. Please. I want to fix things with my little sister. I’ve hurt her so much over the years. I need one more chance to make things right. One more chance to say I’m sorry.”

Taehyun felt a flicker of something—something he couldn’t name, something he had long since abandoned—but he pushed it aside. Emotions were for the living, and he was no longer that. He was a reaper. He collected souls. That was his purpose.

“No one gets second chances,” he stated, his voice flat and final, as though sealing her fate with the words. “You’re being selfish. There is no time for you to play at redemption. Your soul belongs to the afterlife.”

Her heart sank, and yet she did not relent. “Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Just seven days. Just seven days, and I’ll go peacefully. I promise.”

There was silence between them, an air of finality that Taehyun couldn’t shake. For a brief moment, he considered it—her request. He could simply take her soul, and it would be done. But something gnawed at him, something buried deep inside. The desperation in her eyes, the raw vulnerability she displayed. It was foreign to him. She was so different from all the others.

Taehyun's eyes narrowed, his hand tightening around the scythe. He could feel something in the pit of his stomach—something unshakable, a shift in the air, as though fate was tugging at him. He stepped back from the bed, the weight of her gaze following him.

Before he could speak, a voice rang out from the shadows.

"Taehyun."

A figure emerged from the corner of the room. The head reaper, Soobin, appeared like a shadow in the doorway. His presence was commanding, his eyes sharp with wisdom.

"You're being too hasty," Soobin continued, his gaze flicking from Taehyun to Y/N, then back to the reaper. "She’s not asking for much. Seven days. A mere week. Let her have it."

Taehyun’s gaze flickered, his face betraying the smallest hint of surprise. "You can’t be serious. We don’t give second chances. We don’t interfere with fate."

Soobin’s expression softened ever so slightly, a touch of sorrow in his eyes. “Even we were human once, Taehyun. We understand what it means to want redemption. To feel the weight of unfinished business.”

The words struck Taehyun like a physical blow. He had long since buried his humanity, and yet... something in Soobin’s tone made him question his certainty.

"You’ve always followed the rules," Soobin continued, his voice calm but firm. "Perhaps it’s time to let her try. Seven days. That is all she asks."

Taehyun stood in silence, his hand tightening around the handle of his scythe. A storm of conflicting emotions churned inside him—frustration, confusion, and the gnawing sense that he was being forced into something he couldn’t control.

Finally, he exhaled, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the decision had crushed him. “Fine,” he muttered. “Seven days. But if she wastes this opportunity, I will return her soul without hesitation.”

Soobin’s expression softened just a fraction. “You’ll do well, Taehyun. Just remember... there are things even reapers can’t ignore.”

With that, Soobin disappeared back into the shadows, leaving Taehyun alone with Y/N once again. He could feel the weight of her gaze, the silent hope in her eyes. Something had shifted—something he wasn’t sure he understood. But the words were out, and there was no turning back now.

"You have seven days," Taehyun said, his voice colder than ever. "Do not waste it."

Y/N nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. "I won’t," she promised.

And so, Taehyun’s reluctant task began.

Taehyun stood by her side, watching in silence as Y/N gathered what little strength she had left. It had been a few hours since Soobin had granted her seven days to fulfill her wish, and though Taehyun was reluctant to admit it, he found himself watching her more closely than he had ever watched any soul before.

Y/N was different. She wasn’t like the others. The other souls he had collected were often resigned to their fate, accepting the inevitable with a quiet grace, or they fought with fear in their hearts, their cries drowned out by the pull of the afterlife. But Y/N was determined. There was no giving up in her. She had an energy about her that felt almost... alive, despite the state of her body.

He had barely said a word to her since the agreement was made, the silence between them stretching like an endless chasm. He had his orders, and he intended to follow them. Seven days. That was all she had. Seven days to fulfill a wish that had little chance of succeeding.

"You’re supposed to be my guide, right?" Y/N’s voice was soft but filled with determination.

Taehyun glanced at her, his face unreadable. "I’m here to make sure you don’t waste the time you've been given." His tone was clipped, formal. He didn't owe her anything more than that.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, meeting his gaze with an expression that was equal parts challenging and weary. "How can I not waste it if I don’t even know where to start? I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m just... trying to find my sister."

Her words were heavy, and despite his best efforts, Taehyun could feel a flicker of something in his chest—something like sympathy, but not quite. It was a feeling he had long since buried, and he quickly stamped it down, pushing it into the deepest corner of his mind.

"Start by listening to me and following the rules," he replied curtly, avoiding her gaze as his hand tightened around the scythe’s handle. “You need to stay out of trouble. No unnecessary interactions with the living. No distractions.”

She nodded, though her face was still clouded with doubt. “I understand.”

But Taehyun could see the doubt in her eyes. She wasn’t the kind of person who could follow rules so easily. He could already tell she wasn’t going to let go of her mission that easily. It didn’t help that the very concept of human emotions—the ones she clung to—puzzled him. He had seen them before, but he didn’t understand them. They were irrational, unpredictable, and they often got in the way of his work.

As they walked through the shadowed streets of the city, the weight of her sadness settled heavily in the air. Her body, still frail from the illness, moved slowly, but her determination was unmistakable. She refused to stop, her mind set on finding the one person who had once meant the world to her.

Taehyun’s gaze flicked from her to the quiet streets around them, his senses alert. The afterlife always felt close in moments like this—like the very air around them was charged with the weight of the dead. Souls wandered the streets in their ghostly forms, unaware of their fate, and Taehyun couldn’t help but wonder if they, too, had once been as driven as Y/N. Driven by love, regret, and unfinished business.

As if on cue, they encountered someone who was anything but quiet.

From an alleyway, a figure emerged—a tall, charismatic soul with an air of defiance around him. His eyes, gleaming with mischief, met Taehyun’s with an expression that could only be described as smug.

“Ah, what do we have here? A reaper and his charge, how quaint.” The man smirked, leaning casually against the wall.

Taehyun’s posture immediately tensed, the air around him growing colder. “Yeonjun,” he said in a low voice, his eyes narrowing. “I told you before—stay out of my way.”

Yeonjun chuckled, unbothered by the threat in Taehyun’s tone. “Oh, I’m just passing through. I don’t want to get in the way of your little... assignment.” He turned his attention to Y/N, a grin spreading across his face. “But I’m curious. Are you really going to follow a reaper’s orders? You’re not really his type, are you?”

Y/N’s eyes widened slightly, confusion and curiosity flickering across her features. “Who... who are you?”

“Yeonjun,” he said smoothly, “a soul who’s... well, I don’t really belong here. I’ve escaped the system. I live by my own rules.” He shrugged nonchalantly, as if it were no big deal.

Taehyun’s gaze hardened, his hand tightening around his scythe. “Don’t listen to him. Souls like him only bring chaos.”

Y/N glanced at Taehyun, then back to Yeonjun. There was a hint of intrigue in her eyes, and Taehyun felt a knot form in his stomach at the way she looked at the rogue soul.

“But he’s free,” she said softly. “He doesn’t have to answer to anyone.”

Yeonjun flashed her a knowing smile. “Exactly. You see, Y/N, you could be free, too. Why bother following the rules? They don’t care about you. They don’t care about your little wish.” He turned his gaze to Taehyun, his expression turning mockingly serious. “You really think this cold-hearted reaper is going to help you? He’s just doing his job. He’ll take you straight to the afterlife without a second thought.”

Y/N hesitated, her gaze shifting between Taehyun and Yeonjun. Taehyun’s heart clenched—he could see her beginning to doubt him, doubt everything he represented. And yet, deep inside, he knew he was right. Souls like Yeonjun were dangerous. They didn’t care for anything other than their own freedom, their own selfish desires.

“You’re wrong,” Taehyun said, his voice colder than ever, the weight of his words cutting through the air like a blade. “She is not like you. She is not some rebellious soul looking for a way out. She has something to accomplish.”

Yeonjun tilted his head, his grin never faltering. “We’ll see about that. Seven days, right? That’s hardly enough time to do anything. You think she’ll be satisfied with some half-baked apology? Let’s see how this plays out.”

He lingered for a moment longer, his eyes locking with Taehyun’s one last time, before he disappeared back into the shadows of the alley.

Y/N remained silent, the weight of Yeonjun’s words hanging in the air. Taehyun could feel her doubt festering, a crack forming in the wall she had built around her heart.

He clenched his jaw. This was the last thing she needed—someone like Yeonjun planting seeds of rebellion in her mind. She had to focus. She had to—

“You’re not like him,” she said suddenly, her voice quiet but firm. “You care.”

Taehyun froze, his mind reeling. Her words were unexpected, and for a moment, he didn’t know how to respond.

“You care about something,” she continued, looking at him intently. “I can see it. You’re not as cold as you pretend to be.”

He felt his pulse quicken, an unfamiliar heat rushing to his face. He quickly turned his gaze away, hoping she couldn’t see the flicker of emotion in his eyes. He couldn’t afford to care. He couldn’t afford to let her see him for what he was—something more than just a reaper.

“I don’t,” he replied curtly, his voice laced with icy detachment. “Now focus on your mission. That’s the only thing that matters.”

The days were starting to blur together, each one passing with a quiet urgency that seemed to weigh heavier on Y/N’s shoulders. She had tried to reconcile with her younger sibling twice now, each attempt met with rejection. The first time, she had been met with an angry outburst, her sibling accusing her of abandoning them for years, and the second time, they had simply turned away, too hurt to face her.

Taehyun remained by her side, his presence a constant reminder of the weight of the task at hand. He said little, only offering cold and practical advice, but his silence often felt heavier than any words could be.

"You're making it harder than it needs to be," he said one evening as they walked through a desolate part of town, the fading light casting long shadows over the pavement. "You're not going to win them over by pushing. They need time."

Y/N was silent, her eyes fixed on the ground. She didn’t want to hear that. She didn’t have time. Her soul was slipping away, and every moment spent with her sibling was precious. She couldn’t afford to wait.

"I know," she said quietly, her voice breaking slightly. "But I don’t have time for that. I just want... I just want to fix everything before it's too late."

Taehyun’s lips pressed together in a thin line, his thoughts distant. "You can’t fix everything. Sometimes people... people aren’t ready to forgive."

Her words were sharp, but Taehyun caught the crack of emotion in her voice, the rawness of the hurt she carried. "I’m not asking for forgiveness. I just want a chance to make things right. To show them that I care. That I never meant to hurt them."

Taehyun stopped walking, his gaze settling on her, his usual stoic expression faltering for a moment. He couldn’t understand it—the human need to keep fighting for something that might never come to pass. He had seen enough souls over the years to know that people didn’t always get what they wanted. But there was something about her conviction, something that tugged at him, even though he was reluctant to admit it.

"I can’t promise anything," he said quietly, "but I’ll make sure you get a chance to try."

She looked up at him, her eyes searching his face. It was a fleeting moment of vulnerability—one that Taehyun quickly masked with his usual indifference. He quickly turned away, hoping she wouldn’t see the flicker of something else in his gaze.

Before she could respond, a voice interrupted them, smooth and teasing.

"Well, well, if it isn’t the reaper and his charge," a familiar voice called out. It was Beomgyu, a reaper whose presence was always accompanied by an air of mischief. He appeared from the shadows, his expression amused as he approached. "I hope I’m not interrupting anything too sentimental."

Taehyun stiffened, his irritation flaring at the sight of Beomgyu. "What do you want?" he asked, his tone colder than before.

Beomgyu’s grin widened as he walked toward them. "Oh, nothing much. Just wanted to see how my favorite reaper is holding up. Looks like you’re babysitting another soul. How’s that going?"

Y/N frowned at the teasing tone in Beomgyu’s voice, sensing the tension between the two. She had seen Taehyun’s frustration before, but this was different. He seemed genuinely irked.

"It’s fine," Taehyun said curtly, ignoring Beomgyu’s attempts to rile him up. "I’m doing my job."

Beomgyu raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. "Your job? Is that all you’re doing, Taehyun? Just... following orders?" He let out a small chuckle. "You’ve got a good heart buried under all that coldness. Too bad you don’t know what to do with it."

Taehyun’s grip on his scythe tightened, but before he could retort, Beomgyu’s expression shifted, his teasing demeanor replaced with something more serious.

"Listen, I get it," Beomgyu continued, his voice quieter now. "I’ve been where you are. There’s a reason the rules exist. I broke them once, thinking I could save someone who didn’t belong in the afterlife. It didn’t end well. Don’t make the same mistake I did."

Y/N looked between them, sensing the weight of Beomgyu’s words. "What happened?" she asked softly, her voice gentle, yet full of curiosity.

Beomgyu’s gaze darkened for a moment, his usual mischievous attitude slipping away. "I got attached to a soul. I thought I could help them, give them a second chance. But I ended up making things worse. I lost my position. And the soul... they disappeared. Like they never existed."

There was a heavy pause. Taehyun knew the story all too well. It was one of the reasons he kept his distance from the souls he was tasked with guiding. Attachment only led to pain. But still, a part of him couldn’t help but wonder... Was there a better way?

"You’re right," Taehyun said, his voice flat, though the weight of Beomgyu’s words hung in the air. "The rules are the rules. And I’m not about to break them."

Beomgyu eyed him for a moment longer before giving a resigned sigh. "Just don’t say I didn’t warn you." With a final smirk, he turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving them alone once more.

Y/N watched the interaction closely, the silence between them stretching. "Is it really that dangerous to care about someone?" she asked quietly.

Taehyun’s eyes darkened, and for a moment, he said nothing. "Yes," he replied finally, his voice low. "It is. The more you care, the harder it becomes to let go. And in our world... you have to let go. It’s the only way."

But even as he spoke, he could feel the truth of it slipping through his fingers. His resolve was crumbling, piece by piece, as he spent more time with her. He had never cared about a soul this much, and he didn’t know how to handle it.

"Then why do you keep helping me?" she asked, her voice soft, but filled with a quiet challenge.

Taehyun froze, his heart skipping a beat. She was right to ask. He didn’t know why he kept helping her. He had tried to remain detached, to keep his emotions in check, but the more time they spent together, the harder it became.

"I’m not helping you," he muttered, almost to himself. "I’m just doing my job."

Y/N didn’t say anything more, but the look she gave him was one of quiet understanding, as if she saw through the walls he had carefully constructed around himself.

The next day, they were joined by Huening Kai, the newest reaper, still learning the ropes. He had joined their group without much fanfare, and despite his soft-hearted nature, he had already begun to question the ethics of their duties.

"Is it really right to just... take souls without knowing the full story?" Huening Kai asked, his voice filled with genuine curiosity. "What if they still have something to do? What if they’re not ready?"

Taehyun glanced at him, the irritation that had been simmering beneath the surface resurfacing. "It’s not our place to decide," he replied curtly. "The rules are set. We don’t question them."

But inside, Taehyun couldn’t help but wonder what might have happened if he had questioned them—if he had listened to the voices like Huening Kai’s, or even Beomgyu’s.

As hours and hours dragged on, each moment more suffocating than the last. Y/N’s attempts at reconciliation with her sibling had begun to feel like futile gestures, her heart breaking a little more with each rejection. Yet, she never gave up. Even when she felt the weight of failure pressing against her chest, she stood tall, determined to finish what she had started.

Taehyun watched her from a distance, his gaze sharp, but his mind conflicted. Her determination was both admirable and frustrating. She was too stubborn for her own good, too attached to the idea of fixing things. And yet, there was something in the way she refused to give up that gnawed at him, something that made him feel like maybe, just maybe, humans were capable of something more than mere selfishness.

That night, as they walked through the quiet streets, the weight of unspoken words hung between them. Y/N had just returned from another failed attempt to speak with her sibling. Her shoulders were slumped, her face drawn with exhaustion, but there was a flicker of defiance in her eyes. She wasn’t going to let it go.

"I don’t understand," she said suddenly, breaking the silence. "Why is it so hard for them to forgive me? I know I hurt them, but... I’ve changed. I’ve spent so much time regretting what happened, and yet they... they won’t even let me try."

Taehyun didn’t answer at first. He had heard her speak of her regrets before, but tonight, her pain seemed to resonate deeper than it ever had before. Her voice trembled, and for a brief moment, he found himself wondering if he understood her pain more than he cared to admit.

"People don’t always forgive," he said softly, his voice almost too quiet for her to hear. "Sometimes, they can’t. And that’s not something you can control."

She stopped walking, turning to face him. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but there was no anger in her gaze, only a quiet sorrow. "But I didn’t mean to hurt them. I never wanted this."

Taehyun’s heart clenched. He didn’t want to feel this—didn’t want to feel anything for her. But her pain, so raw and honest, made it impossible to ignore.

"Not everything is as simple as you think," he replied, his voice hardening again. "People hold grudges for reasons that go beyond your actions. You can’t expect them to forgive you just because you want it."

Y/N nodded slowly, as though accepting the harsh truth of his words. "I guess I’ll just have to keep trying, then," she said, her voice quiet but resolute. "Because I can’t leave this world without knowing I did everything I could to make it right."

Taehyun watched her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Despite himself, he felt a flicker of admiration for her unwavering resolve. But that was dangerous. Dangerous for him.

"Don’t get too attached to the idea of it," he warned her, his words cutting through the silence like a blade. "People don’t always get what they want. You need to be prepared for the possibility that you may never get the chance to make things right."

Y/N’s gaze softened, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "I know. But I have to try. Even if it’s just for me."

Before Taehyun could respond, a sudden rustle in the air caught their attention. They both turned to find a familiar face emerging from the shadows.

Yeonjun.

The rogue soul had appeared without warning, his usual cocky grin in place as he sauntered toward them. Taehyun tensed, his grip tightening on his scythe. He didn’t want to deal with Yeonjun right now—not when things were already complicated enough.

"Well, well," Yeonjun drawled, his eyes flicking between the two of them. "It looks like you’re both still at it. How’s the soul-sitting going, Taehyun? Still keeping things under control?"

Taehyun’s eyes narrowed. "This is none of your business, Yeonjun. Stay out of it."

Yeonjun’s grin widened, his gaze lingering on Y/N. "Oh, I think it is my business. You see, I’m a bit of an expert when it comes to breaking the rules and finding freedom. And I think your little friend here could use a bit of that."

Y/N frowned, confusion flickering in her eyes. "What do you mean?"

Yeonjun’s gaze softened slightly, though his grin never faltered. "I mean, why bother with all this... pointless struggle? You’ve got the time you need. The rules don’t have to control you. You can be free, live your life on your own terms. No more waiting, no more regret. Just... freedom."

Taehyun’s jaw tightened. "Don’t listen to him. He’s nothing but trouble."

But Yeonjun wasn’t deterred. "Come on, Taehyun, don’t be so rigid. You know as well as I do that the system is flawed. Why should she have to follow rules that don’t make sense? You want to save her, don’t you? Then let her go. Let her live."

Y/N turned to Taehyun, her expression uncertain. She had been listening carefully, and part of her felt the temptation rising within her. What if Yeonjun was right? What if there was a way to break free from this cycle of duty and loss? But even as the thought lingered, she couldn’t help but feel the weight of her own promise to herself—to try, no matter the cost.

"I... I don’t know," she murmured, torn between the pull of Yeonjun’s offer and the responsibility that Taehyun had placed on her shoulders. "But I can’t just... give up. I need to finish what I started."

Yeonjun’s expression softened, his usual smirk replaced by something almost like understanding. "You’re a stubborn one. But don’t say I didn’t offer you a way out."

With that, he turned and disappeared into the night, leaving the two of them alone again.

The silence that followed was thick, the tension between them palpable. Y/N glanced at Taehyun, her heart heavy with the weight of the decision that lingered over her.

Taehyun didn’t say anything at first. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He was too caught up in the storm of his own thoughts, in the doubt that Yeonjun had planted in his mind.

Finally, Y/N broke the silence. "What do you think, Taehyun?"

Taehyun’s gaze hardened, his usual cold exterior slipping back into place. "It doesn’t matter what I think," he said, his voice low. "You’ve made your choice. Just don’t expect it to be easy."

She nodded, the resolve returning to her features. "I won’t give up. I’ll find a way."

And though Taehyun couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud, a part of him wished—just for a moment—that she didn’t have to struggle so much. That there was an easier path for her.

As the days wore on, Y/N’s resolve never wavered, but the strain was beginning to show. She still visited her sibling, trying every approach she could think of to mend the broken bond, but each attempt was met with rejection, or worse—indifference. The closer she came to the end of her time, the more desolate the world seemed.

Taehyun, on the other hand, found himself increasingly caught between the rules he was sworn to uphold and the emotions he didn’t want to acknowledge. His duty as a reaper had always been clear: to collect souls and ensure that the natural order was maintained. He’d never been one to question the process, nor had he ever felt any significant attachment to the souls he collected. But Y/N was different.

Her tenacity, her refusal to give up even when everything seemed lost, stirred something in him that he couldn’t quite understand. He hated how she made him feel. How he wanted to comfort her, wanted to ease her pain, even though he knew he shouldn’t. He wasn’t supposed to care.

One evening, as the two of them walked in silence, a heavy fog began to settle around them. The streets were deserted, the usual sounds of the living muffled under the dense mist. Y/N had returned from another failed attempt to reach her sibling. Her eyes were red, and though she tried to keep up her usual determined front, it was clear she was exhausted—emotionally, physically, and mentally.

Taehyun glanced at her from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on her for a moment too long. Despite everything—despite how much he wished he could stay detached—he found himself walking just a little closer to her.

"You should rest," he said, his voice softer than usual, though he still couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her gaze. "You’ve been pushing yourself too hard."

Y/N shook her head, the movement small and almost imperceptible. "I can’t rest," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not yet. I have to try… even if it doesn’t work out. I can’t leave this world without knowing I did everything I could."

Taehyun clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the scythe at his side. "It’s not worth it," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "Some things can’t be fixed. Some things are beyond your control."

Y/N stopped walking, her eyes meeting his with an intensity that caught him off guard. "I don’t care," she said quietly but firmly. "If I don’t try, then I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. Even if I can’t make things right, at least I’ll know I gave it everything I had."

Her words echoed in Taehyun’s mind, each one striking him with the force of a thousand emotions he couldn’t name. He wanted to shout at her to stop—to give up before she hurt herself even more—but he couldn’t. He couldn’t tell her to stop trying, not when it was so clear how much it meant to her.

For a moment, the world around them seemed to fade, the fog enveloping them in a quiet, almost surreal stillness. The air felt thick, heavy with the weight of unsaid things.

"Why do you care so much?" Taehyun asked, his voice barely audible, the question slipping out before he could stop it.

Y/N blinked, taken aback by the question, but she didn’t hesitate to answer. "Because I have to," she said simply. "If I don’t care, then I’ve wasted everything. My life… my time here. I owe it to myself and to the people I’ve hurt to make things right."

Taehyun turned his head, his expression unreadable. He didn’t know what to say to that. He had never understood that kind of commitment, that kind of stubbornness. In his world, everything was final. There were no second chances, no room for regret. Souls were collected, and that was that.

But Y/N wasn’t like the other souls he had guided. She wasn’t resigned to her fate. She was fighting it with everything she had, and in that fight, Taehyun found something that threatened to unravel everything he thought he knew about the world.

"I don’t understand you," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Y/N smiled faintly, her expression a mix of sadness and understanding. "You don’t have to. You just have to let me try."

Taehyun’s heart skipped a beat at the softness in her voice. He wanted to say something—anything—to make her stop, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he found himself nodding, albeit reluctantly.

"Fine," he said, his voice clipped. "I’ll give you another day. But after that, you’re on your own."

Y/N’s eyes softened, and for a brief moment, the walls she had built around herself seemed to crack. "Thank you, Taehyun."

He looked away quickly, his face flushing ever so slightly, but there was something about her gratitude that made him feel both uncomfortable and... something else. Something he couldn’t name.

As the fog thickened around them, they continued their journey, the silence between them carrying an unspoken understanding. Despite everything, despite the rules, despite the inevitable end that loomed over them, something had shifted. And neither of them knew what to do with it.

That night, Taehyun found himself standing on the edge of a rooftop, staring at the dark sky. The moon was hidden behind a thick cloud, and the stars were just barely visible through the haze. His scythe lay beside him, its cold steel gleaming faintly in the dim light.

He thought about Y/N—about her refusal to give up, her strength, her resilience. He hated how much it bothered him. He wasn’t supposed to care about her. He wasn’t supposed to feel anything for any of the souls he guided, especially not one who was determined to defy the natural order of things.

But as he stood there, the wind ruffling his hair, Taehyun couldn’t help but wonder—what if he could help her? What if, for once, he could break the rules and save her?

But that was impossible. He was a reaper. He followed the rules. He couldn’t let himself get caught up in something as dangerous as hope.

A soft sound broke his thoughts, and he turned just in time to see Y/N standing at the edge of the rooftop, her eyes on him. She looked smaller under the vastness of the sky, her figure barely more than a silhouette against the dark backdrop.

"You’re thinking too hard," she said quietly, her voice reaching him in the still night air.

Taehyun didn’t respond at first, his gaze fixed on the ground. He wasn’t sure what to say to her—how to explain the conflict inside him without betraying everything he stood for.

"I know," he muttered after a beat. "But I can’t help it."

Y/N stepped closer, her presence strangely comforting. "I think you’re the one who needs to let go," she said softly. "Not me."

The words hung between them, and Taehyun felt a strange tug in his chest—a pull that made him want to listen, to understand, even though he knew he couldn’t.

With a heavy sigh, he turned away from her, his gaze falling back to the city below. "You’re wrong," he said quietly. "Letting go is impossible."

And yet, as he spoke the words, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he might be wrong—wrong about everything.

Y/N’s determination never faltered, though the toll it was taking on her was becoming apparent. She had grown quiet, her spirit slowly eroding with every failed attempt to reach her sibling. But despite the exhaustion in her eyes, the weight in her shoulders, she refused to give up. Every time she stood before the closed door, every time her sibling looked at her with cold, hurt eyes, she stood her ground.

Taehyun, too, found himself growing weary. Not from his duties—he was as efficient as ever at collecting souls—but from something he couldn’t explain. He had always been cold, detached, but something about Y/N, something about the way she refused to back down, was slowly cracking the wall he had so carefully constructed around himself.

He watched her one evening, as she stood by a window, looking out at the world she could no longer be a part of. The soft glow of twilight bathed her figure, highlighting the exhaustion etched on her face. Her shoulders were hunched in weariness, her eyes distant, but when she turned to face him, there was still that spark of determination in her.

"How much longer do I have?" she asked, her voice tired but resolute.

Taehyun hesitated, his mind fighting with itself. He knew the rules. Seven days. That was all she had. But it felt wrong, saying it out loud. Saying it to her, when she was so close to breaking, when her resolve was the only thing holding her together.

"Two days," he said softly, his voice betraying a hint of something unspoken. "Then you’ll be… taken."

She nodded, but he could see the way her face tightened, the faint quiver in her lips. He wanted to say something to comfort her, something to ease the pain he knew she must be feeling. But the words wouldn’t come. He couldn’t allow himself to say anything that might make him appear weak—because the moment he did, the moment he showed even the slightest crack in his armor, she would have power over him. And he couldn’t afford that.

Instead, he simply nodded curtly, his eyes avoiding hers. "I’ll be here, like always. If you need anything."

Her gaze softened, but there was a sadness there that made Taehyun’s heart ache in a way he couldn’t comprehend. She wasn’t afraid of death, not really. She was afraid of not finishing what she had started, of leaving behind a broken world and a broken family. And Taehyun knew, deep down, that no matter how much he tried to distance himself, he couldn’t ignore the pain that reflected in her eyes.

The next day, as Taehyun stood outside, waiting for Y/N to finish her visit with her sibling, his mind wandered back to his own past. To the things he had left behind when he died.

He had been human once—before the coldness, before the endless duty that bound him to the afterlife. He too, once had a family, friends, dreams. But all of that had been taken away from him when he crossed over to the other side, when his own soul had been claimed by the Reaper’s scythe. He had been assigned to guide the souls of others, to ensure they moved on to their next life—or to collect them when they refused. But over time, his humanity had withered. He had become numb to the pain of others, indifferent to the lives he saw pass through his hands. After all, what did it matter? He wasn’t alive anymore.

But then he met Y/N, and everything started to unravel.

She had been a breath of fresh air in a world that had grown stale, a reminder of everything he had lost but could never get back. Her strength, her kindness, her determination—all of it was so human, so raw. And it terrified him.

A soft voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Taehyun."

He turned to find Y/N standing a few feet away, her gaze a little more distant than usual, but there was a hint of something else there too—something like peace, something like acceptance.

"You look lost in thought," she said with a small smile.

Taehyun straightened, instinctively pulling his cold mask back into place. "I was just waiting for you," he said curtly, his eyes scanning the area, looking anywhere but at her. "Are you ready to go?"

Y/N nodded, but there was a weight in her expression, a heaviness that Taehyun could feel pressing against his chest. She had come to terms with it. She had accepted the reality of what was happening, and for the first time, Taehyun wondered if she might have already given up on her mission, on the family she so desperately wanted to reconcile with.

"I’m ready," she said softly, the words almost a whisper. "But I wanted to thank you… for everything."

Taehyun’s brow furrowed slightly. "For what?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of confusion.

"For being here," she explained, her voice barely above a whisper. "For guiding me when I didn’t know what to do, for not leaving me to face this alone."

He was silent for a moment, the words taking him by surprise. He hadn’t expected gratitude. Not from her, not when he had done nothing to earn it. He had only done his job, after all. It wasn’t as if he had any choice in the matter.

But then, for a brief moment, his eyes softened. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but Y/N caught it.

"I’m just doing my job," Taehyun said, trying to brush it off, but his voice was softer than usual, almost as if the words themselves were reluctant to leave his lips.

Y/N shook her head, her eyes sad but full of something else—something deeper. "You could’ve just taken me when my time was up," she said, her voice steady despite the emotion behind her words. "But you didn’t. You’ve been here, watching over me. You didn’t have to. And I know it’s not easy for you. But you’re still here."

The words struck Taehyun harder than he expected, his chest tightening with an unfamiliar sensation. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. He wasn’t sure how to respond.

"I’m not a hero, Y/N," he said finally, the words almost a whisper, as if he were trying to convince himself more than her. "I’m just a reaper. This is what I do."

Y/N’s eyes softened, and for a brief moment, she reached out, her hand brushing against his arm in a gesture of comfort.

"I know," she said quietly, her gaze searching his face. "But you don’t have to be just that. You can be more."

The moment lingered between them, a quiet connection that neither of them knew how to navigate. For Taehyun, it felt as if the world itself had paused, as if he were standing on the precipice of something he couldn’t understand but could no longer deny.

With a final, lingering glance, Y/N turned and began walking, her steps heavy but steady. Taehyun stood still for a moment longer, staring after her, his thoughts in disarray. He had spent so long keeping everything at arm’s length, convinced that his role as a reaper was all he needed to fulfill. But as the days dwindled and Y/N continued to fight, he found himself questioning everything.

He had never been one to defy the rules, but for the first time, he wondered… what if, just this once, he could break them? What if, just this once, he could save her?

With a bitter sigh, Taehyun followed her, unsure of what would come next, but knowing deep down that whatever it was, it would change everything.

The next day arrived with an oppressive silence hanging in the air. The world seemed to hold its breath, as if even the universe itself was waiting for Y/N to complete her mission or for the inevitable moment when she would be taken. But Y/N wasn’t ready to surrender, not yet.

She had spent the morning pacing, trying to think of another way to reach her sibling. Her resolve, though worn thin, remained steadfast. It had to. This was the only chance she had to make things right, to repair the fractured bond before her time was up. But with each passing second, she could feel the walls closing in on her, the weight of impending death pressing down on her chest.

Taehyun was no better. Every day, as he followed her, he found himself becoming more entangled in her world—her pain, her determination, her humanity. It was the last thing he wanted. But there was something about her that made it impossible to look away. Every time she failed, every time her heart broke a little more, he felt it too. It wasn’t just sympathy. It was something deeper, something that gnawed at him from the inside out. And every time he looked at her, he could see it: the raw vulnerability she tried so hard to hide.

He hated it. He hated how much he cared.

But it wasn’t like he could walk away. He had a duty, after all.

That evening, Taehyun watched from a distance as Y/N stood at the edge of a small park, gazing at the trees and the sky, her expression distant. There was a wistfulness in the way she stood, as if trying to hold on to every last ounce of life she had left. It wasn’t fair, not to her. He knew that.

He stepped forward, his footsteps quiet on the grass. "Y/N," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

She turned to face him, and for a brief moment, the flicker of something familiar passed across her features. It was sadness, but also something else—something that made Taehyun’s heart ache in ways he didn’t understand.

"You’re still here," she said softly, her voice barely audible.

"Yeah," Taehyun replied, his gaze softening despite himself. "I’m still here."

She looked at him for a long time, as if weighing something in her mind, and then, with a deep sigh, she spoke. "I’m not giving up, Taehyun. I won’t."

"I know you won’t," he said quietly. "But time’s running out."

She nodded, but there was something resolute in her eyes, something that told him she wasn’t about to give up, even if the world around her was crumbling. Her eyes met his, and for the first time since he had met her, there was no fear, no desperation in them. Only acceptance.

"Maybe," she began slowly, "I wasn’t meant to fix everything. But that doesn’t mean I won’t try. I’ll never stop trying."

For the first time, Taehyun didn’t know how to respond. He had never been good with words, never good at comforting others, especially not humans. But this… Y/N’s resolve, her refusal to bend, it made something inside him shift. For a fleeting moment, he imagined what it might be like to live with that kind of determination, to live for something bigger than himself. He didn’t know if he could do it. He didn’t know if he even had that kind of strength left in him.

But he wanted to believe. For her, he wanted to believe.

Before he could speak, a sudden rustling in the trees caught their attention. Taehyun’s senses immediately sharpened, his hand instinctively gripping the scythe at his side. He could feel the familiar presence of a rogue soul—someone who didn’t belong here, someone who had escaped their fate.

"Yeonjun," Taehyun muttered, his voice hardening as he scanned the darkening park.

Y/N’s eyes widened as the figure of Yeonjun stepped out from the shadows, his usual mischievous grin plastered on his face. "Well, well," he drawled, his eyes gleaming in the low light. "Looks like I’ve found you both. How’s the mission going, little soul?"

Y/N’s expression tightened, but she stood her ground. "I’m doing fine, thank you for asking."

Yeonjun laughed, taking a casual step forward. "Oh, I’m sure you are. But you’re running out of time, aren’t you?" His gaze shifted to Taehyun, and the grin faltered just slightly. "And you… still playing the obedient reaper? How’s that working out for you?"

Taehyun’s grip on his scythe tightened, but he remained silent. He hated Yeonjun with a passion—hated everything about him, from his rebellious attitude to the way he constantly undermined everything Taehyun stood for.

Yeonjun’s eyes flicked back to Y/N, a smirk spreading across his face. "You know, there’s another way," he said casually. "You don’t have to go through with all this. You don’t have to stick to these silly rules. I can help you escape. I can show you a life without death chasing you. No more reapers, no more soul collection. Just… freedom."

Y/N stared at him, her lips pressed tightly together as she considered his offer. Taehyun felt a sudden surge of protectiveness—he didn’t trust Yeonjun. He never had. The rogue soul was dangerous, and his offers were always coated with lies.

"No," Y/N said firmly, shaking her head. "I won’t run from this. I’ve made my choice. I’m not going to give up now."

Yeonjun’s smile faltered, but only for a moment. He took another step toward her, his tone turning more insistent. "And what about the people you’ve hurt? The family you can never make amends with? What’s your ‘second chance’ really worth? You’re just buying time, Y/N. Time you’ll never truly have. It’s all just an illusion."

Y/N’s hands clenched at her sides, but she stood tall, her voice unwavering. "Maybe I can’t fix everything. But I’ll try. I’ll do what I can, and if it’s not enough, then at least I can die knowing I tried."

Taehyun stepped forward, his voice low and commanding. "Leave her alone, Yeonjun. Your offer means nothing."

Yeonjun chuckled, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. I’ll leave for now. But remember, Y/N," he said with a pointed look at her, "there’s always another way. You don’t have to stay on this path."

As Yeonjun faded into the shadows, Y/N let out a shaky breath, the weight of his words still lingering in the air. Taehyun didn’t speak, but he could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the conflict gnawing at her. He wanted to reassure her, to tell her that she was making the right choice, but the words never came.

Instead, he simply stood beside her in silence, the two of them facing the night ahead.

The clock was ticking. And neither of them knew what would happen next.

The final day arrived, heavy with the weight of its inevitability. It was a strange kind of stillness that surrounded them, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting for something—anything—to break the silence. The clock was winding down, each tick bringing Y/N closer to the end, and Taehyun could feel it in his bones.

He had tried to prepare himself for this. He had tried to remain detached, to be the cold, unemotional reaper he was supposed to be. But as he stood beside her now, watching her take tentative steps toward her sibling’s house, he couldn’t shake the feeling that everything had already slipped out of his control.

Y/N didn’t speak as they walked. Her steps were slow, deliberate, but there was an exhaustion in her that Taehyun couldn’t ignore. Her hands were trembling, and the slight hunch in her shoulders betrayed the weight she had been carrying for far too long. The struggle to keep going, to stay strong when every part of her body screamed for release, was taking its toll.

She stopped before the door, hesitating for a moment as if she was unsure whether she was truly ready to face the past. Taehyun couldn’t blame her. The things she had left unsaid, the broken promises that had lingered between her and her sibling… It was a lot for anyone to carry, let alone someone who had only days left to live.

"You don’t have to do this," Taehyun said quietly, his voice soft but firm, though there was a strange uncertainty underneath it. "You’ve done enough."

Y/N didn’t turn to look at him. She simply stared at the door, her brow furrowing as she weighed her next move. "I can’t leave things like this. Not without trying one last time."

Taehyun took a step closer, but kept a careful distance. "What if it’s not enough? What if they still don’t forgive you?"

Y/N’s eyes flickered to him, and for a brief moment, their gazes met. There was sadness there, but also an incredible determination that made his chest tighten. "Then at least I’ll know I tried," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "At least I’ll know I didn’t give up."

It was the same answer she had given him countless times before. The same response that made him want to shout at her, tell her that there was no point, that she was wasting precious time. But for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he watched her reach out and knock softly on the door.

The moments that followed felt like a lifetime. Taehyun stood by her side, the air thick with tension as they waited for the door to open. It felt as if every breath they took was a countdown to something neither of them wanted to face.

When the door finally creaked open, Y/N’s sibling stood there, eyes wide with shock and confusion. There was a long, uncomfortable silence before they spoke.

"Y/N… What are you doing here?" The voice was cold, guarded. It was clear that the years of hurt hadn’t been forgotten.

Y/N’s face softened, but there was a tremor in her voice as she spoke. "I… I know I can’t undo the past. I can’t take back the things I’ve said or done. But I need you to know that I’m sorry. I regret all of it. And I just… I want to make things right before I…"

She faltered, and Taehyun could see her fighting to hold back tears. He knew how hard this was for her—how deeply she wanted to reach out, to close the distance that had formed between them over the years. But he also knew that no matter how much she wanted to mend things, there was a chance that it might not happen. People didn’t always forgive. Sometimes, things were beyond repair.

The sibling didn’t speak immediately. Instead, they just stared at Y/N, their expression unreadable. The silence stretched on for what felt like an eternity, and Taehyun’s patience was wearing thin. He wanted to tell Y/N to leave, to save herself from the heartache, but he didn’t.

He watched as Y/N swallowed, her breath shaky, and she took a tentative step forward. "Please," she said softly. "I know I hurt you. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I just… I need you to know I’m sorry."

Her words hung in the air, fragile and vulnerable, and for a moment, Taehyun thought maybe, just maybe, they would make a difference.

But then the door slowly closed, the sound a final, painful confirmation that her sibling wasn’t ready.

Y/N stood there for a long time, her head lowered as if the weight of the world had just crashed down on her. Taehyun took a step forward, unsure of what to say, but knowing that he needed to say something.

"Let’s go," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "It’s not worth chasing something that won’t change."

But Y/N didn’t move. She stood there, motionless, her heart broken all over again. Taehyun watched her for a long moment, his thoughts in turmoil. He didn’t want to see her like this. He didn’t want to see her hurt.

But more than that, he didn’t want to see her give up.

He reached out, his hand tentative as it brushed against her arm. "Y/N…"

She looked at him then, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, and for the first time, Taehyun saw just how much she had been carrying. All the weight of the world, all the pain of her past, all the love she had been holding on to in the hope of redemption—it was all written in her eyes.

"I tried," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I really tried."

And for the first time, Taehyun understood what it was like to want something so desperately that it hurt to even speak of it. He understood the agony of seeing someone you loved slip away, of not being able to make things right.

He didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to comfort her. But he couldn’t let her suffer like this, not when there was still a chance. Not when there was still time.

He pulled her into his arms, awkwardly at first, but then more firmly, holding her close as if he could keep the world at bay for just a moment longer. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have the words to make this better.

But he held her, and for the first time in his existence, he felt the warmth of something human stir within him. Something deep and aching that made him realize just how much he had changed since meeting her.

Y/N let out a shuddering breath, and for a brief moment, it felt like everything in the world had paused. She leaned into him, allowing herself to feel the comfort of his presence, even if just for a moment.

But the clock was still ticking.

They both knew it.

And in the end, there was nothing they could do to stop it.

The night stretched on in silence after that moment. Taehyun held her as the weight of what was happening pressed heavily on both of them. Time was cruel in its consistency, ticking away regardless of the emotions that churned in their hearts. Y/N’s breaths were shaky, each exhale a quiet surrender to the reality that she might never get the closure she sought. And Taehyun, standing with her in that small, broken moment, felt something within him crumble—a part of himself he hadn’t realized was still intact. A part that had once believed in the value of his role, in the necessity of following the rules, of keeping his distance. Now, standing beside her, he realized that it wasn’t enough.

He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to care.

But it wasn’t enough to just care. She was still running out of time. And he was bound by the same cold, unwavering laws that had governed his existence for so long.

When she finally pulled away from him, her face was streaked with tears, but there was something different in her eyes. There was no resignation, no defeat. There was resolve, tempered by sadness, but it was there. She wasn’t going to give up. Not now.

"I’m sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible as she wiped her eyes. "I thought… maybe if I could just say it one more time, it would make a difference."

"It’s not your fault," Taehyun replied, his voice rough with emotions he refused to acknowledge. "Not everything can be fixed."

Y/N shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line as she took a steadying breath. "I know," she said quietly. "But I had to try. I had to do everything I could."

He nodded, his throat tight. He wanted to say something more—something that would bring comfort, something that would make all the pain, all the hurt, go away. But there were no words. Not now.

For a long moment, they just stood there, the sounds of the world around them fading into a quiet hum as the night deepened. Taehyun’s thoughts were a tangled mess, but in that moment, there was a single thought that kept returning to him.

She was still here. She was still alive, and that was a miracle in itself.

But it was a fleeting miracle.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Taehyun spoke, his voice quieter than before, but laced with a tenderness that was foreign to him. "I’ll take you back. We can’t stay here."

Y/N’s gaze flickered to him, her expression unreadable for a moment before she nodded silently. She didn’t argue, didn’t protest. There was no more fight left in her—not after everything she had done, everything she had tried to fix.

As they walked away from the door, Y/N’s head hung low, her shoulders slumped with the weight of defeat. Taehyun’s heart ached for her. There was nothing he could say that would make it better. But he had to try to do something.

"I don’t know if it’s enough," she whispered, her voice barely a breath in the cool night air. "But I did my best. That’s all I can do, right?"

Taehyun remained silent for a long moment, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He didn’t know how to answer her. But he found himself unable to walk away from her—not yet.

"You did more than anyone could," he finally said, his voice steady. "You fought for what mattered, even when it seemed impossible."

Her lips curved up slightly, but there was no joy in the smile—only the faintest trace of something like peace. "Thank you," she said softly.

As they made their way back toward the place where time was ticking down to nothing, the atmosphere around them seemed to grow even heavier. It was as though the very air was thick with finality, as if the end had already been written and there was nothing left to do but walk the path to meet it.

But there was still something left to do. Still one last decision to make.

Later that night, Taehyun found himself standing before Soobin, his form cast in the dim light of the ethereal realm where the reapers convened. The weight of his actions pressed heavily on his chest, but there was no turning back now. He had done something he wasn’t supposed to do, something that could cost him everything—his position, his very existence as a reaper.

"Soobin," Taehyun’s voice was firm, yet there was a thread of uncertainty running through it. "I need more time for her."

Soobin’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes held a certain weight, a depth of understanding that made Taehyun uneasy. "You know what this means," Soobin replied quietly, his voice heavy with the gravity of their world. "You’re asking for something that could undo everything you’ve known. A reaper’s duty is to maintain balance, Taehyun. To preserve order."

Taehyun clenched his fists at his sides. "I know," he said, his voice trembling with the truth of it. "But what if the balance isn’t right? What if it’s broken?"

Soobin’s gaze softened for the briefest of moments, a flicker of something familiar in his eyes. "Even we were once human," he said cryptically. "We were given the same choice—to live, to love, and to face the consequences. And we made our choice."

"I’m not asking for myself," Taehyun said, his words coming faster now, desperate. "I’m asking for her. She deserves a chance. A real one."

Soobin sighed, long and heavy. "You are asking for the impossible," he said, almost sadly. "But I cannot change the rules, Taehyun. You know that. This is not something that can be undone. Her time is running out."

Taehyun’s heart pounded in his chest. He knew what he had to do, and the consequences were beyond anything he could fully comprehend. He had to make a choice—his duty as a reaper or his feelings for Y/N.

And as he looked at Soobin, as he thought about everything that had led him here, he realized that the rules didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was her, and what she had fought for.

Without another word, Taehyun stepped back and raised his scythe. His hand trembled, but he knew what he had to do.

"Taehyun, wait," Soobin warned, his voice low and firm, but Taehyun’s mind was made up.

"Just this once," Taehyun whispered, his heart breaking as the words left his lips.

The moment his scythe cut through the air, he knew the price he would pay. And yet, he didn’t hesitate. For her, he didn’t hesitate.

The light around them began to flicker, the air growing colder with each passing second. And then, as if the very essence of existence itself had shattered, Taehyun made his choice.

He would save her. No matter the cost.

Struggling with his steps, Taehyun returned to where Y/N was. Seeing his state, she frantically ran up to him, just as his legs gave up on him. “Taehyun! What happened?” she holds him in her arms, tears welling up in her eyes seeing him like this. 

“I did it…” he weakly says, “You’re safe now.”

“Taehyun…” Y/N whispered, her voice full of sorrow and fear as his body grew lighter with every second that passed, as if gravity was losing its hold on him. “Please don’t leave me.”

Taehyun’s gaze softened as he looked at her, his body trembling with the force of the afterlife’s grasp. “I won’t leave you,” he promised, his voice barely audible. “Not now. Not ever.”

But even as he spoke those words, he knew they were a lie. The consequences of his actions were already taking hold, and he could feel himself slipping away. His once-immense power as a reaper was dwindling, and with it, his existence in the afterlife was being erased. His body grew heavier, and the light around them began to dim.

Taehyun looked at Y/N, his eyes filled with a deep sadness that pierced her heart. “I can’t stay, Y/N,” he whispered. “Not in the way you want me to. But I’ll always be with you. Even if you can’t see me.”

Tears spilled from Y/N’s eyes as she clung to him, refusing to let go. “I don’t care about the rules,” she cried. “I just want you to be here. With me. Alive.”

Taehyun smiled faintly, his form growing weaker by the second. “I’m sorry. This is the price I must pay. But know this, Y/N: I love you. And I’ll never forget you.”

With those final words, Taehyun’s form flickered like a candle in the wind. Y/N’s heart shattered as she watched him fade away, his essence slowly being consumed by the afterlife.

And just like that, he was gone.

The world around her seemed to crumble, as if the very foundation of her existence had been torn apart. She collapsed to her knees, her sobs echoing through the empty void. She had lost him—forever.

But even as the tears fell, she could feel a faint presence lingering in the air around her. The love they had shared, the bond they had formed, was still there, somewhere. She didn’t know how, but she could feel it.

For a single, suspended moment, everything was still. Time itself seemed to hold its breath.

Then, with a sudden rush of energy, the light enveloping Y/N burst outward, and her body collapsed to the ground in the human world, alive. She gasped, her chest heaving as air flooded her lungs, her heart pounding wildly as if racing to make up for lost time.

But the memories were gone.

The love, the anguish, the fleeting moments they had shared—everything that had made the last seven days hers to cherish, to mourn—vanished like a dream upon waking.

Y/N sat up slowly, dazed, her eyes scanning her surroundings. The world felt… unfamiliar, like a place she hadn’t seen in years but somehow knew by heart. A faint ache lingered in her chest, a bittersweet longing she couldn’t name. It whispered of something important, something precious lost to her. But no matter how hard she tried to grasp it, it slipped through her fingers, leaving only a vague sense of gratitude.

Taehyun’s fall from grace was swift.

The moment the forbidden magic completed its work, he felt the pull—an immense, tearing force that stripped him of everything that made him a reaper. His scythe, his cloak, the weight of his power—all vanished, dissipating into the void as though they had never existed.

He stumbled, the ground beneath him hard and solid in a way he hadn’t felt in centuries. For the first time in as long as he could remember, his body ached. The world around him wasn’t ethereal or formless; it was real, tangible.

Human.

His memories as a reaper blurred and fractured, the clarity of his existence splintering as his consciousness faded into the soft haze of mortality.

When he opened his eyes again, he was someone else. A human man with no scythe, no duties, and no name but the one he had been given in this new life.

And yet, there was something that lingered—fragments of a past life he couldn’t quite shake. In his dreams, he saw a woman. Her face was a mystery, her name always just out of reach, but her presence was undeniable. She was there, in his mind, in his heart, haunting him with the weight of something he couldn’t remember but couldn’t let go of.

He lived a quiet life now. The days passed in unremarkable fashion, but he found himself drawn to certain places, certain moments. As though some invisible thread were guiding him, pulling him toward something he had lost.

It was a quiet afternoon when their paths crossed again.

The small bookstore was warm and inviting, the scent of old paper mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed coffee from the café next door. Taehyun stood near a shelf, absently flipping through the pages of a novel he had no real intention of buying. His mind wandered, as it often did, to the dreams that had plagued him for as long as he could remember.

Then, he felt it.

A presence.

It was subtle, like the first note of a forgotten song, but it struck him with enough force to make him look up sharply. Across the room, she stood by a display table, her fingers trailing lightly over the spines of a row of books.

He didn’t know her name, didn’t know who she was, but the sight of her filled him with an overwhelming sense of familiarity. His heart raced, his chest tightening as if something deep inside him had been waiting for this moment.

Y/N glanced up, her eyes meeting his. For a moment, she froze, her breath catching in her throat. There was something about him—something she couldn’t explain but couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t recognition, not exactly, but it was close.

“Hi,” she said, her voice soft, hesitant.

Taehyun blinked, startled by the warmth that spread through him at the sound of her voice. “Hi,” he replied, his voice quieter than he intended.

An awkward pause lingered between them, neither knowing why they felt compelled to speak, why their gazes held for a beat too long. Finally, Y/N smiled, a small, uncertain curve of her lips that sent a pang of something indescribable through Taehyun’s chest.

“Do I know you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “You seem… familiar.”

Taehyun hesitated, the words on the tip of his tongue. Did she? Did he? He didn’t know how to answer. All he knew was the pull toward her, the way his heart seemed to recognize hers even if his mind couldn’t.

“I don’t think so,” he said finally, though the words felt like a lie.

Y/N nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Maybe I’m just imagining things,” she said, though her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely convinced.

Taehyun smiled faintly. “Maybe.”

They stood there for a moment longer, the noise of the bookstore fading into the background as the weight of something unspoken hung between them. Neither of them could name it, but neither wanted to let it go.

“Well,” Y/N said, breaking the silence, “it was nice meeting you… again, maybe?”

Taehyun chuckled softly. “Yeah. You too.”

As she turned to leave, something in him stirred—a sudden, desperate urge not to let her go.

“Wait,” he called after her.

She turned, her expression curious.

“Would you… like to get a coffee sometime?” The words tumbled out before he could stop them, and for a moment, he felt like he was holding his breath.

Y/N’s smile widened, a hint of something brighter, warmer in her eyes. “I’d like that."

© all rights reserved ─ @gyu-tori 2025

Rei's Notes ✎: I wasn't expecting to write another fic this fast, but I really enjoyed writing this. It might've been done a tad bit rushed so I hope it still makes sense. I was just randomly inspired and wanted a bit of angst so here it is. I will be spacing out my releases after this though so I don't run out of ideas and writer's juice lmao. This is still my second ever fic so I hope you give it as much or even more love than the first!! ^-^

P.S. I really love reading out your thoughts and how the fic made you feel so please don't hesitate to share your opinions in the comments or through reblogs, I would really appreciate it~

⟢ Taglist: @yunverie @dawngyu @hueningstar @hhoneyhan @vicurious28 @xylatox @baekberrie @immelissaaa