#michaelkaiser x reader

[hqrbinqerruoo]

FORSAKEN - Michael Kaiser

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

"I have a feeling you got everything you wanted. And you're not wasting time stuck here like me."

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

CW - angst, emotional distress, mental health issues, mentions of physical abuse and injury, themes of abandonment and trust, and trauma.

            The playground was alive with the playful shouts of children, the squeal of swings, and the joyful clatter of footsteps. But you noticed him sitting alone on the faded, wooden bench under the big oak tree. His small hands clutched his backpack tightly, fingers digging into the worn fabric as if it were a shield. His shoulders hunched inward, and his dark eyes darted around nervously, flickering from the other kids chasing each other to the distant slide, as if he was afraid of missing something—afraid of being caught or left behind.

The warm sun shone down, casting dappled light through the leaves, but he seemed untouched by it, like a shadow had settled over him. His face was serious, almost like he was trying to hide something, or maybe just protect himself from the noise and chaos around him. His little legs swung nervously back and forth, the rough rubber soles scraping the dirt.

You hesitated for a moment, then slowly stepped closer, feeling the gravel crunch softly beneath your sneakers. Your heart pounded, not from fear, but from that strange mix of curiosity and kindness you felt whenever you saw someone lonely. You reached into your pocket and pulled out a small bag of crunchy chips, the salty smell already making your mouth water.

Gently, you crouched just a few feet away, holding out the snack. “Hi,” you said softly, voice barely louder than a whisper. “Want some?” Your hand was steady, but your stomach fluttered with nerves—what if he didn’t want to talk? Or what if he didn’t want to share?  

His eyes flicked to you, cautious, wary, like a wild animal sizing up a stranger. Then, slowly, his tiny hand reached out, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the plastic bag. When he took the chips, your fingers accidentally touched his, and he flinched, pulling back just a little. His eyes widened with surprise, like he wasn’t used to kindness, or maybe didn’t trust it.

You stayed still, offering him a small, gentle smile—warm and non-threatening. The breeze fluttered the leaves above, making a faint rustling sound, like whispering secrets. The distant laughter of other children drifted through the air, but for him, everything felt muted, distant, like he was watching the world through a foggy window. His small shoulders stayed hunched, eyes flickering with a quiet wariness, but he didn’t pull away completely.

You watched him quietly, feeling that strange ache inside—part worry, part hope. Maybe he was scared, maybe he didn’t know how to trust yet, but you knew you wanted to stay. You wanted him to see that not everyone was scary, that someone could be kind, even if he wasn’t sure he believed it.

And so, you sat there, offering the chips and your quiet presence, knowing that sometimes, just being there was enough. That maybe, just maybe, this little moment could be the start of something better.

—

A couple of days had passed, and the house was quiet now, the clatter of dinner long finished. You kept stealing glances at Michael from the corner of the kitchen, noticing how his shoulders sagged a little more tonight, how his face looked paler under the dim light. His eyes seemed tired, almost hollow, like he’d been carrying more than he could handle. You knew he needed more than just food—he needed someone to see how fragile he was.

Without thinking, you quietly pushed back from your chair, slipping out of the house, the cool night air greeting you like a gentle whisper. The scent of wet grass and earth filled your lungs as you hurried along the familiar path toward the park. Your shoes made soft crunches on the gravel, each step heavier with worry.

When you finally reached the swings, you saw him sitting alone on the bench, head bowed, staring at the dirt and grass beneath his feet. His small frame looked smaller somehow, like he might drift away with the breeze. You hesitated for a moment, then reached into your backpack, feeling the crinkling of paper and the coolness of the plastic as you grabbed a container of your dinner—your favorite sandwich, the smell of melted cheese and fresh bread filling the quiet.

Muttering softly to yourself, you crept closer, trying not to disturb the peaceful hush of the night. The faint scent of dew and grass mixed with the savory aroma of your food made your stomach growl softly. You moved behind him, kneeling, and gently touched his shoulder.

His head jerked up, eyes wide and wary, like a wild animal caught off guard. You noticed the tiredness behind them, dark circles and shadows that no amount of sleep could erase. His lips pressed into a thin line, shoulders tense, like he was bracing for something he didn’t quite trust.

You opened the container slowly, the soft scrape of the paper loud in the stillness. Carefully, you broke your sandwich in half and offered him the larger piece. “Here,” you whispered, voice trembling with quiet care. “You should eat. You look like you haven’t had enough.”

His eyes flicked to the sandwich, then to your face, a flicker of hesitation passing over him. He looked like he was about to refuse, but then he reached out, trembling fingers taking the piece you offered. His hand was cold, almost trembling, and for a moment, he just stared at the bread, like he couldn’t believe someone would share something so simple, so precious.

He looked up at you again, eyes searching, wary but desperate for the kindness behind your words. Slowly, he brought the sandwich to his mouth, biting into it carefully. The soft, warm bread and the rich taste of cheese and meat seemed to hold him still. The tension in his shoulders eased just a little, and a faint, almost uncertain look crossed his face, like a fragile crack in the armor he’d built so carefully around himself.

You sat quietly beside him in the cool night, sharing that small, stolen moment. The crunch of the bread, the faint hum of distant cars, the rustling leaves—everything seemed softer, more real in that silence. For just a little while, beneath the flickering glow of the streetlamp and the quiet hush of the park, you both held onto something delicate.

—

Shadows stretched long across the park as the fading sunlight cast a soft glow on the grass. You watched him sitting on the swing, shoulders hunched, head bowed low. His fingers clenched his knees so tightly that the knuckles whitened. The faint scent of sweat and damp earth clung to him, mixed with something sharper—an almost metallic tang you couldn’t place.

You hesitated, then slowly moved closer, your footsteps muffled on the soft dirt. Your hand brushed the fabric of his sleeve—cool, rough beneath your fingertips. You saw his body stiffen instantly, shoulders tensing as if you’d touched something fragile that might shatter. His eyes darted to yours, wary and guarded, like a frightened animal ready to bolt.

The silence was thick, almost suffocating. Your mind raced—how long had he been hiding this? How much pain had he tried to carry alone? Your chest felt tight, a dull ache spreading through it. You knew he was used to guarding himself, but part of you wanted to reach out, to do something, anything, to let him know he didn’t have to carry it all.

“Hey Micha,” you said softly, voice calm but full of quiet support. Your eyes lingered on his, not pushing, only offering a safe space. “I’m here.”

He hesitated, lips pressed tight, eyes flickering with a storm of emotions—fear, shame, maybe even relief. His gaze flicked away, cheeks flushing deeper, like he was trying to disappear into himself. Then, slowly, he pulled his arm back, reluctant, guarded. His skin was mottled with faint bruises, some dark and swollen, others just starting to fade. The sight made your stomach tighten—how much had he been trying to hide?

His neck, you noticed, was marked with faint, bruised fingers, you realized with a sudden ache in your chest. The raw, reddened skin looked tender, like a wound that refused to heal. His jaw clenched, the muscles tight, and you saw him fighting the urge to pull away, to hide even more.

He looked down, cheeks pink, trembling slightly. Then, in a slow, almost hesitant movement, he shifted just enough to reveal the bruised skin on his neck. His voice was barely more than a whisper. “It’s nothing.”

Your insides clenched. You wanted to say something—anything—to tell him it was okay, that he didn’t have to hide anymore. But instead, you kept your tone even, gentle. “Alright,” you murmured, voice low. “Whenever you’re ready, Michael.”

He looked at you again, eyes trembling, caught between fear and something fragile—trust, maybe. The kind that takes time to grow. After a long pause, he nodded faintly, almost imperceptibly. The smallest acknowledgment, a fragile crack in his armor.

Gently, you reached out, your fingers barely brushing his wrist—warm, trembling, but steady. You stayed silent, offering him space. Your heart ached for him, knowing how much pain he carried beneath that guarded exterior. The night air grew cooler, but your presence felt like a quiet, steady anchor—yet all you could do was hold his wrist gently and promise him he was safe with you.

Over the years, Michael’s walls got taller and thicker. He was like a fortress—hard and cold. When he spoke, it was quiet, almost like a whisper, and he didn’t say much. His shoulders hunched a little whenever you got close, like he was trying to pull himself further away. You could feel the distance whenever you tried to get near him, like an invisible wall that kept growing between you. His eyes avoided yours, flicking to the ground or some far-off place, like he was afraid of what you might see.

Every time you reached out, it was like touching ice—sharp, cold, and fragile. You could see it in the way he kept himself tight, shoulders pushed inward, as if trying to make himself smaller. His voice was soft, almost lost in the air, and you had to lean in to catch what he was saying, like trying to hear a whisper in a quiet room. It was like trying to warm a frozen window—cracks appeared, but the cold still stayed.

But even through all that, you saw it—the tiny flicker of something underneath. A little spark of vulnerability, a soft longing for someone to see past the walls he’d built. You noticed it in the way his eyes would sometimes linger on yours, even if just for a second, or in the slight tremble of his hand when he thought no one was looking. Deep down, you knew he was still fighting—still wishing someone could understand what was behind that cold mask.

And so, you stayed. You told little jokes, trying to make him smile, hoping the humor would melt some of that ice. You offered gentle smiles, easy and patient, like a promise that you were there. The smell of your favorite snacks—warm, salty, familiar—mixed with the cold air, but it was like a small light in the darkness. You sat beside him on the battered bench or the grass, just being there, quietly holding on.

Your presence was a pillar, something steady amid chaos, a gentle reminder that even the hardest shells can crack with patience. You could feel the weight of his storm, the silence pressing against your skin, but your hope burned brighter with each passing day. Somewhere beneath that frozen exterior, you believed there was still a flicker of something softer—something worth waiting for.

—

The park was just as you remembered it—familiar and peaceful. The old oak tree still stood tall, its branches stretching outward like welcoming arms. The swings hung motionless, their chains slightly rusted but sturdy, waiting for someone to push them. You strolled along the cracked concrete path, your footsteps steady and sure. You knew he’d be here. You always did.

You reached the bench near the picnic table, settling down comfortably, your gaze drifting over the space where he usually sat. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of fresh grass and earth, and the late afternoon sun cast a warm glow over everything. The birds chirped softly, filling the quiet with gentle melodies. You pulled out a small snack, unwrapping it with a contented smile, confident that he’d arrive any moment now.

For a while, nothing felt wrong. You waited patiently, your eyes flicking toward the entrance of the park every few minutes, expecting to see his familiar figure emerge—maybe a little late, maybe breathless from running, but safe. The breeze ruffled your hair, and you took a deep breath, feeling the warmth of the sun on your face, the steady heartbeat of the world around you.

But minutes stretched into ten, then twenty. The usual rush of footsteps, the sound of his voice calling your name—nothing. The swings remained still, the park silent except for the faint whisper of the wind. You glanced at your phone, but no messages. No missed calls. Your confident smile slowly faded, replaced by a quiet, sinking feeling in your chest.

The breeze grew colder, and a strange stillness settled over the empty park. You shifted your gaze back to the path, your eyes scanning for any sign of him. The familiar shapes of trees, the empty benches—everything looked the same, yet somehow wrong. No sign of his familiar figure. No sign of life.  

A distant car passed by, muffled by the quiet, but it didn’t bring the comfort you expected. Your hands clenched into fists, feeling the rough fabric of your hoodie. You looked at the empty swings again, then at the space beside you. The confidence that he’d be here, like always, had dissolved into something heavier—something unspoken.  

A flicker of worry prickled at your mind. You called his name softly, more uncertain now. “Michael? You out there?” Your voice echoed, but only the wind responded, carrying away your words into the quiet. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the grass, and the warm glow faded into a cooler, darker hue.  

You stayed seated, eyes fixed on the empty path, feeling the ache tighten in your chest. You knew he’d be here—he always was—yet tonight, the silence told a different story. The park held its breath, and so did you, waiting for him to appear, or for an answer that wouldn’t come.

—

It had been well over four years since you last saw him, yet your eyes fixate on the screen, feeling a strange weight settle deep inside your chest. The image flickers, then stabilizes—there he is, on the field. You wouldn’t miss him anywhere. The oh-so glorious striker of ‘Bastard Munchen.’ Sweat beads on his forehead, catching the stadium lights, turning into tiny shimmering droplets. His longer hair is slicked back, damp from exertion, clinging to his skin. Every movement is purposeful, deliberate. His body, once so small, now moves with a strength that’s almost overwhelming to watch.

There’s a quiet moment—just a pause between plays—where he catches your eye. For a flicker of a second, you see something different: a flicker of focus, determination, that fire you remember from when he was just a boy. But even in that moment, your heart tightens, as if a part of you is being pulled away. 

You remember the afternoons in the park, sharing your sandwich, passing half to him because he looked so tired, so fragile. You recall how he hesitated—eyes flickering with doubt—before finally taking the food. The way he looked at you then, like he was unsure if he could trust someone with his broken pieces, even for a moment. But he did trust you, just briefly, enough to let you see that he was tired, that he was hurting.

Now, watching him run across that field, so confident, so fierce, you feel a slow, creeping ache—like your chest is trying to hold too much at once. Pride warms your heart, yes, but it’s tinged with something else—an almost stubborn sadness. Because somewhere, deep inside, you wonder if he still remembers those quiet moments you shared. If he still thinks about the one who offered him a slice of comfort when he looked like he was about to fall apart.

Your gaze lingers on him—the way his muscles flex, the sweat that drips down his face, the way his eyes burn with purpose. He’s so different from the boy who once whispered secrets, so distant from the boy who had trusted you enough to share scars beneath long sleeves. The memory of that boy feels like a fragile thing, slipping through your fingers, slow and inevitable.

You swallow hard and look away, feeling the ache deepen. The crowd’s roar is distant now, muffled behind a hazy fog of emotion. You’re not sure if it’s pride or longing or something darker—you only know that it’s heavy. You want to reach out, to call to him across the vastness, to tell him you see him, that you’re still here. But the words catch in your throat, silent and unspoken.

You breathe in slowly, grounding yourself. The boy on the screen—so fierce, so alive—has moved so far from the boy you knew. And yet, that ache remains, quiet but persistent, lurking beneath every heartbeat. You wonder, almost in a whisper, if he ever looks back, if he ever remembers the moments you shared—those quiet, fragile moments—when he was still a boy who needed someone to believe in him.

Your eyes drift to the flickering screen once more, and you sit with that slow, aching feeling—proud but painfully aware of what’s lost, longing for a past that feels just out of reach. 

In that quiet moment, you wished you could reach through the screen, tell him that you were still here, still holding onto the friendship that had seen him through so much. You longed to remind him that even in his success, he wasn’t alone. But you understood, deep down, that growing up was a journey—one filled with joy and pain, with moments of closeness and times of silence.

All you could do was hold onto hope, trusting that someday, he might look back and realize that your friendship was a constant—something steady and true, even amid the chaos he endured. And in your heart, you promised yourself to keep waiting and loving because some connections are too deep ever truly to be lost.

[hqrbinqerruoo]

SLEEPYHEAD - Rin itoshi

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

"I think I'm fallin' in love. This time I think it's for real.”

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

CW - Emotional intimacy and vulnerability.

-----------

The train moved with a gentle, rhythmic hum, a comforting lullaby of metal wheels on tracks. Outside, the city’s lights flickered past in a blur of amber and white streaks, casting fleeting shadows inside the carriage. The scent of faint engine oil mingled with the cool, recycled air, a familiar smell that made you feel at home even after a long day.

You waved goodbye to your friends, the warmth of their chatter fading behind you, and hesitated a moment before slipping down the aisle. Then, there he was—Rin, sitting alone by the window, his gaze unfocused on the passing lights but somehow still attentive, like he was tuning into something only he could hear.

Without a second thought, you slid into the seat beside him, the fabric of the seat cool and slightly worn beneath you. “Hey,” you said, voice bright but not overbearing, the edges tinged with that easygoing confidence you always had. “Mind if I sit here, Rin?”

Rin’s eyes flicked to you briefly, a subtle acknowledgment, then he gave a tiny nod—so quick, so quiet it almost blended into the scenery. His calm, steady gaze returned to the window, like he was still lost in thought but aware of your presence.

You stretched your arms, the soft fabric of your jacket brushing against your skin. The cool air made you shiver just a little, but it was refreshing after the heat of the day. The faint scent of shampoo and the hint of your sweat from walking around all day filled your nose, grounding you in the moment.

The train rocked gently, a rhythmic sway that made your stomach flutter. You looked out at the cityscape—buildings glowing with neon signs, streets flickering like veins of light—before turning your attention back to Rin. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an intensity in his quiet stillness, like he was absorbing everything around him in a way you admired.

Your fingertips tapped lightly against your knee as the hum of the train filled the silence. Then, you broke the quiet with a grin, voice bubbling with warmth. “You know, it’s kinda wild. We’re on this train, just like old times. Feels like yesterday we were messing around in middle school… can’t believe how long it’s been, huh?”

Rin’s eyes shifted to you, a faint flicker of recognition flashing through them. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I remember.”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound easing out like a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding. “You were always serious back then. Still are, huh? But I like that about you. Keeps things interesting.”

His lips twitched into a very subtle, almost amused smile—so delicate that it was easy to miss. “Some things don’t change.”

The train’s steady motion made your eyelids feel heavier, the rhythmic clatter soothing and hypnotic. You felt your body relax, sinking deeper into your seat. The scent of the upholstery—faintly musty but comfortable—mingled with the coolness of the air and the faint aroma of your skin after a day outside.

Your eyelids fluttered, and you hesitated only a moment before tilting your head back, your muscles going slack. Feeling the gentle sway of the train, you let your body lean just a little, your cheek pressing softly against Rin’s shoulder. The fabric was cool and smooth, a subtle contrast to the warmth radiating from his body. You didn’t think about it—just let yourself sink into the calm, the quiet hum of the moving train wrapping around you like a blanket.

Rin’s gaze lingered on you, the faintest flicker of something softer behind his steady eyes. His muscles tensed just slightly, shifting to make sure you felt supported, comforted. His voice was barely more than a whisper, but in that quiet space, it carried a quiet confession: “Cute.”

Your eyelids fluttered closed, your breathing evened out as you finally let your guard down completely. Your head pressed more firmly against him, seeking that gentle warmth, that unspoken trust. The steady thrum of the train, the faint scent of his scent—something clean and familiar—made everything feel safe and right.

Rin watched you quietly, noticing how peacefully you had fallen asleep. For a moment, he hesitated, aware of how delicate the moment was. His jaw tightened slightly as he fought the urge to move, to do something that might disturb the calm. Carefully, he reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, his fingertips gentle against your skin. As he did, he gently nudged a loose strand of hair from your mouth, making sure not to wake you. His heart beat a little faster, but he stayed completely still, afraid that any sudden movement might break the quiet serenity. Rin kept his breathing steady, watching over you with a quiet sense of protectiveness, determined to hold onto this fleeting, precious moment of closeness without disturbing your peace.

The train gradually slowed, brakes squealing softly as it came to a stop. The doors hissed open, spilling warm orange light onto the platform, which was alive with the distant sounds of footsteps, voices, and evening life. You stirred, blinking as your senses sharpened again.

Rin shifted slightly, his gaze lingering on you, a faint, almost invisible expression passing across his face—something gentle, unguarded. He extended his hand, and you took it without hesitation, stepping onto the platform. The cool night air hit your face, sharp and invigorating after the warmth inside the train. The scent of rain, asphalt, and night settled over everything, grounding you.

You breathed in deeply, feeling the crisp air fill your lungs, the faint scent of autumn leaves drifting through the quiet street. Rin’s footsteps were steady and silent beside you, the comfort of his presence like a silent promise.

As you approached your home, Rin slowed, glancing over at you. His eyes, calm as ever, held a quiet tenderness. 

“See you tomorrow,” he said softly, brief but sincere.

You nodded, warmth blooming in your chest. “Thanks for walking me, Rin!”

He offered a small, rare smile—more genuine than usual—and then turned, walking away down his street. You watched him go, feeling that quiet warmth settle deep inside you, knowing that this moment would stay with you long after tonight.

[hqrbinqerruoo]

SLIPPING THROUGH MY FINGERS - Rin Itoshi

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

"The feeling that I'm losing her forever.”

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

CW - themes of emotional neglect, heartbreak, loneliness, and intense emotional pain.

-----------

Rin Itoshi’s fingers trembled as he unfolded the fragile, crumpled letter, his eyes fixed on the words he’d never expected to find.  

You said you couldn’t keep doing this.

A certain scene played over and over in his head. The room was silent, heavy with unspoken words. You lay beside him, trembling softly in the quiet darkness, your hand resting gently on his side—an instinct, a desperate, trembling plea for connection. Your fingers curled slightly, fragile and uncertain, aching for him to notice, to reach out. All you wanted was for him to see you, truly see you, your love, your pain, your longing.  

Suddenly, he shifted. Without a word, his arm jerked away, shoving your hand off his waist as if it burned him, like your touch was a burden he couldn’t carry. His eyes flicked open just for a moment, and when they landed on you, he saw that same peaceful, fragile smile.  

But it wasn’t real. A silent, gentle mask concealed the silent plea to be loved–yet behind it, eyes reflecting something raw and hollow. You smiled because you wanted him to believe you were okay. After all, you wanted him to see the love you carried in silence. But inside, your heart was breaking—cracked and bleeding, aching for him to hold you, to love you the way you desperately needed.  

You just wanted him to love you. To hold you like you mattered, to see the pain in your eyes that you never dared to speak aloud. Every night you begged silently, hoping, praying that someday he’d notice—the way your love was wrapped around him, tender and real, though he never saw it.  

And yet, in that moment, he pushed you away again, oblivious to the invisible scars he’d left behind. His rejection cut deeper than any words could, stabbing into your soul, tearing at the fragile hope you clung to.  

He looked at you and saw only the peaceful smile, not the storm of ache behind it—the longing that screamed inside you, desperate to be loved, craving just a fraction of the affection you’d sacrificed everything for.

All you ever wanted was to be loved. And in that quiet, cold night, you had shown him your love—hopeful, trembling, real—while he had only seen the mask. And that realization tore him apart, gut-wrenching and raw, knowing he’d lost someone who loved him more than words could ever say.

Your handwriting was shaky, trembling with unspoken pain, each word heavy with sorrow and regret, echoing the ache he had left unacknowledged.  

“I feel like I’m just another thing you forget about,” you wrote.  

On another night, he remembers seeing you standing there, trembling in the cold, clutching your phone as if it were the only thing keeping you tethered to him. Your shoulders hunched, not from the chill but from the weight of silent despair, eyes empty and dull, staring past the flickering streetlights like you were already dissolving into the night.  

He remembered glancing at his screen and seeing your message—how you had begged for just a moment of his attention, a quiet plea that you mattered. But he had been too wrapped up in his world, too consumed with training to notice. His thumb hovered over the dismissive reply, then moved on, ignoring your call that night.  

And despite everything, you had forced a fragile smile, trembling as it touched your lips—a ghost of a grin that barely masked the ache inside. Your eyes flicked up, trying desperately to meet his, to show you were okay, even as the tears threatened to spill over. You looked so exhausted from waiting, shoulders hunched, as if trying to shrink into yourself to disappear. Silent. Broken. Hopeless.  

He couldn’t forget the look in your eyes—how hollow and tired they had become, how your face betrayed the exhaustion of pretending. You looked so drained from waiting, from holding back the tears, from pretending you were fine when every second in that cold, silent night was ripping you apart inside.  

And now, as he remembered it, that ache in his chest grew heavier, a suffocating weight of regret and grief. He had let you stand alone, abandoned your silent cry for help. You had begged him to see, and he had looked right past you, too blind to notice the cracks that were breaking your soul. 

You were tired of being ignored.

He often remembered how you would sit alone on the couch, eyes fixed on the worn carpet beneath you, as if the world around you had faded away. Your gaze was distant, lips pressed into a thin line, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to fall. You looked so small, so invisible, as if you were trying to disappear into the silence, your quiet presence heavy with unspoken hurt.  

He’d storm past you, lost in his own chaos, barely registering how your body tensed at his passing. Sometimes, he’d snapped at you, voice sharp and dismissive, brushing aside your worries about his schedule as if they were trivial. “It’s not a big deal,” he’d said, waving you off like an annoyance, as if your concerns meant nothing.  

And yet, he often replayed that look in your eyes—how you’d glance up at him, desperate for a sign that you mattered, that he saw you. But he’d turn away, blind to the silent plea, as if you already knew he’d never truly notice.  

He realized how you’d tried to be invisible, hiding your pain behind a fragile mask, knowing deep down that no matter how much you needed him, he wouldn’t see. 

“I’ve given you everything I had, but it’s never enough for you,” you admitted.  

He remembered that night as if it were etched into his skin—how his voice had erupted, harsh and unforgiving, each word a lash that cut deeper than any physical blow. His anger had blurred his judgment, and he shouted at you with a fury that made his chest ache. In that moment, he saw himself, voice rising, accusing, blaming—words sharp and cold, dismissing your pain as nothing more than an overreaction, as if your tears were just an inconvenience he didn’t have time for.  

He could still feel the weight of your trembling shoulders, the way your hands had clenched into fists, trembling so violently it seemed you might shatter. Tears shimmered in your eyes—unshed, but so close to spilling—yet he’d dismissed that too, as if your hurt was a lie, a drama you’d invented for sympathy. He didn’t see how your voice cracked, how your body shook with the effort to stay composed, to hold back the storm threatening to drown you.  

In his mind’s eye, he watched you slowly retreat, head low as if trying to make yourself smaller, to disappear from the storm he’d created. His shouts echoed louder, each word a blow that pushed you further away, further into the silence where he couldn’t reach you. The gap between you widened with every shouted accusation, until you looked like a ghost slipping into the shadows, broken and invisible.  

He saw himself shouting, his voice raw with anger, pushing you back with words that sliced into your heart and made it ache so painfully he thought he might break. And then, just like that, you were gone—silent, retreating into a space where nothing he said or did could reach.  

And in that quiet aftermath, he finally saw it—the hollow, shattered look in your eyes, the way your trembling shoulders betrayed your attempt to stay strong. Every cruel word, every angry shout, had left scars he’d never seen until now, until it was too late to undo what he’d broken.

“Sometimes I wonder if you even see me,” you wrote.  

He remembered your quiet tears—how you looked at him with hope, only to be met with cold indifference, your eyes searching his face for just a flicker of love.  

A memory drifted back—nights when he sat on the couch, shoulders hunched and brows furrowed, lost in his frustrations. His phone was glued to his hand, screen glowing, as he scrolled through whatever was bothering him. You’d sit nearby, trying to catch his eye, voice quiet as you reached out, fingers trembling as they brushed against his arm. But he didn’t look up. He simply pulled away, as if he hadn’t noticed. His focus didn’t shift, not even for a second.  

You sat there, shoulders hunched, eyes shimmering with unshed tears, fighting to hold back the ache in your chest. You looked at him like he was the only thing that mattered, your gaze searching his face for just a flicker of warmth, a sign that he cared. But his face remained distant, cold, unmoving—like he was somewhere far away.  

He sat in the silence, but he could almost feel it— the ache in your chest, heavy and relentless. It was in the way your shoulders hunched, as if carrying an invisible weight, and in the trembling of your hands clutching that small bag so tightly. Your eyes, filled with quiet desperation, begged silently for him to notice, to understand, to care. You looked at him with a hope that sheathed your trembling voice, waiting for a sign, a single glance that might tell you he saw what you were feeling.  

But he didn’t look up. He didn’t move. His gaze remained fixed on his phone, lost in a world that didn’t include you. The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating, as if the very air around you refused to acknowledge the ache you carried. And still, your eyes searched his face for just a flicker of warmth, a sign that he cared—even as he remained unaware of the silent plea you’d been making all night.

“I don’t think I can keep waiting for you to change,” you said.  

He saw you standing by the door, your hand trembling as it clutched a small bag. Your shoulders shook slightly, and your voice cracked as you tried to speak, but the words caught in your throat. You looked exhausted, like you’d been holding back tears all night, and now they threatened to spill over.  

You expected him to stop you, even just for a second. To reach out, to say something—anything—before you left. But he didn’t. His eyes stayed fixed on his phone or somewhere else, completely ignoring you, as if you were invisible.  

You hesitated, your breath hitching, then forced out the words that broke his heart: you loved him, but you needed more—something he couldn’t give. The desperation in your voice made it feel like a knife stabbing through him, yet he couldn’t move.  

He watched as you took a small, trembling step back, then another, your eyes shimmering with unshed tears, quietly slipping away without resistance, like you'd already prepared yourself for this moment, like you’d known it was coming all along. The soft click of the door closing behind you echoed in the silence, no fight, no goodbye, just a quiet, final departure.  

He didn’t care at first. He didn’t think you were leaving for good. He told himself that you’d come back, that it was just a moment of pain, a temporary goodbye. But then he found the letter hidden under your bed, the words faint but clear on the worn paper. One whole month before he found your letter. That’s when the ache began—the yearning, the regret, the terrible truth he had ignored for so long.

He can still remember hearing the final click of the door closing behind you, the silence that followed echoed louder than any words spoken in anger.

His eyes stay fixed on the final line, each word burning into his mind.  

He couldn’t look away, even as his hands trembled uncontrollably.  

That last line—the unspoken farewell—felt like a punch to the stomach, leaving him breathless.  

His tears blurred his vision, falling steadily, soaking the paper as he stared at it, unable to stop.  

They blurred the ink, smudging the words he desperately wanted to remember.  

Gently, he folded the fragile paper, as if afraid it might tear further.  

But no matter how carefully he handled it, the pain inside him only grew worse.  

He realized he had lost someone who loved him quietly, who had only wanted to be seen.  

And now, that silence was deafening, leaving him with a hollow ache he couldn’t shake.

—

Dear Rin,

I feel like I’m just another thing you forget about.

I’ve given you everything I had, but it’s never enough for you.

Sometimes I wonder if you even see me

I don’t think I can keep waiting for you to change.

I just wanted you to see that I was enough.

                                                    Sincerely, Y/N.

—

The weight in his chest grew heavier with each breath, like a stone lodged deep inside him, pressing down until he could barely breathe.  

His eyes darted back and forth over the crumpled paper, hands trembling as he reread every word—the raw, aching truth bleeding from each line, as if reading it could somehow make it less real.  

He was caught in a loop, every sentence stabbing anew, each one a mirror of the heartbreak he’d refused to see.  

He remembered your trembling hand reaching out, your eyes flickering with hope that he had refused to notice, your voice trembling as you begged silently for just a moment of his attention.  

Now, the silence was deafening—an unspoken void that screamed louder than any words ever could.  

He felt the ache of what he’d lost—what he’d shattered—like shards of glass lodged in his chest, bleeding pain he could no longer ignore.  

He finally saw the love you’d poured out, quietly, unrelentingly, the kind of love that never demanded, only gave, and hoped he’d see it someday.  

And that realization hit him like a fist to the gut—too late, too blind, too selfish to hold onto it.

[hqrbinqerruoo]

PAPARAZZI - Rin Itoshi

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

“Promise i’ll be kind, but I won’t stop until that boy is mine.”

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

CW - none!!

The late afternoon sun cast a soft amber glow over the empty field. Dew still clung to the grass, and the air was thick with quiet—the distant call of a bird, the rustle of leaves in the breeze. Rin moved across the dirt with purpose, every step measured, every kick sharp and precise. His face was blank, eyes focused ahead, muscles tense with effort.

You leaned against the fence, arms crossed, watching him silently. His posture was sharp, shoulders rolling with each movement, like he was trying to push everything else out of his mind. You didn’t need to understand his thoughts; just watching him had always been enough. Since you were kids, you’d looked up to him—his focus, his strength, the way he carried himself without apology. That quiet determination had always drawn you in, made you admire him more than you knew how to say.

It wasn’t just about the game. It was how he refused to give up, how he kept going even when everything seemed to weigh him down. You’d always admired that unwavering resolve—how he looked like he carried the world on his shoulders but never let it crack him. Watching him now, you felt that familiar ache—an unspoken mix of respect and something softer, a quiet hope that he’d see you, too, in all those hidden pieces of himself.

Finally, you broke the silence, your voice calm but steady. “Hey, Rin.”

He slowed, ball at his feet. His eyes flicked up, narrowing as he assessed you—no expression, just that intense stare. After a moment, he tilted his head slightly, as if deciding whether to dismiss you or ignore you altogether.

You didn’t push. You only looked back, steady. “You’re pretty serious today,” you said softly. “Almost like you’re trying to rip the field apart. Maybe slow down a little—before you hurt yourself.”

He blinked, exhaled sharply through his nose. No reply. Just a slight shift in his stance—more guarded now, shoulders tensing as if he was preparing for your next move.

He went back to practice, but your gaze lingered on the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the subtle tension in his jaw. You’d always admired that quiet strength. Sometimes, patience was the only thing that mattered. Because you believed that, someday, he might let someone see all those pieces—those quiet, hidden parts of himself.

A few days later, you lingered at the sidelines after practice, watching Rin wipe sweat from his face with a damp towel. The sun was dipping low, casting long, amber shadows that stretched across the worn grass. The air still carried the scent of earth and grass, mixed with the faint metallic tang of sweat—an almost tangible reminder of the effort he’d poured into the game. A gentle breeze brushed past, stirring the loose strands of his damp hair and carrying the faint sound of rustling leaves.

Rin was nearby, shoulders slightly hunched as he pressed the towel to his forehead, muscles tense from the exertion. His breathing was even but shallow, each inhale slow and controlled. The damp fabric against his skin made a faint squelching sound each time he pressed it down, like the soft whisper of fabric on flesh. His dark hair clung to his forehead, damp and tousled from sweat, stray strands sticking where the breeze tugged.

You moved slowly, deliberately, your footsteps muffled against the uneven concrete, reaching for the water bottle you’d stashed in your pocket. The plastic was cool and smooth against your palm, a stark contrast to his overheated skin. You hesitated for just a moment, then spoke softly, voice nearly lost to the wind.

“Y’know,” you murmured, “you’ve been at it all day. Might want to hydrate.”

He looked up at your voice, eyes heavy with fatigue. They held a quiet, distant focus, like he was trying to hold himself together. For a moment, he just looked, then slowly reached out and took the water from you, fingers brushing yours briefly—an almost accidental touch that made your skin prickle. His grip was steady, deliberate, as if holding onto something to stay upright.

He lifted the bottle with slow, careful movements, the faint scent of sweat and grass curling from him. The plastic pressed cold against his sun-warmed fingers, a small relief from the heat radiating from his body. He tilted it, swallowing a long, slow sip. His throat moved visibly—tight, controlled—like he was trying not to show how much he was feeling. His eyes, dark and focused, flicked shut for a moment, savoring the coolness, then opened again.

He exhaled quietly, slow and measured, like he was trying to contain the tension inside. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin caught the fading sunlight, the damp hair clinging to his forehead. His shoulders remained tense but relaxed slightly, fingers finally unfurling from fists, the grip on the bottle steady.

You watched him, silent, sensing the weight he carried—not in words, but in the way he held himself.

“You know,” you said softly, voice blending with the breeze, “sometimes even the strongest guys need to ease up. Push too hard, and—”

His eyes flicked to you, lips pressing into a tight line. His jaw clenched briefly, then loosened. After a beat, he finally spoke, voice low and gravelly, with just a hint of reluctance.

“Can’t stop,” he said quietly. Almost like he was reminding himself.

You nodded, understanding. You gave him a small, quiet smile, a gesture that needed no words. Sometimes, patience was the only thing that mattered.

The wind shifted again, carrying the scent of rain. The clouds above grew darker but held back, heavy and slow. The world around fell into a hushed stillness. You stayed there, watching him, knowing that beneath his calm exterior, something was shifting—slowly, like the dawn waiting patiently behind the night.

-

Over the next few weeks, your interactions grew quieter, more layered Rin’s responses, once sharp or dismissive, now carried an edge of guarded hesitation. He was more deliberate—more careful—like he was testing whether it was safe to let someone see beyond his walls.

You started noticing small things: how his shoulders loosened just a fraction when he thought no one was watching, how he’d clench his fists during moments of frustration, then slowly relax when he believed he was alone. The faint sound of his breathing—steady, controlled—mingled with the distant patter of rain threatening to fall. The scent of damp earth and lingering sweat clung to him, faint but persistent, like a reminder of how much effort he was putting into holding himself together.

One evening, after a long, exhausting practice, you found yourself on the same weathered bleachers. The sky above was a dull, heavy gray, clouds rolling in slowly, casting the field in a muted, almost somber light. The air felt thick and cool, carrying a faint dampness that seeped into your clothes. The wind was persistent, tugging at your hair and clothes, making the fabric flutter and your skin prickle. 

You set your water bottle beside you with a slow, deliberate motion—fingertips brushing the rough plastic, the slight coolness of the cap against your palm. The faint scent of rain mixed with the earthy smell of grass and dirt. Your eyes traced the silhouette of Rin, standing a few meters away, his back turned, shoulders hunched as if he were trying to physically contain some unseen weight.

His breathing was steady but uneven, just enough to notice. His shoulders moved with each inhale and exhale, subtle as the whisper of wind through the trees. His shirt clung to his back, damp in some places, the fabric sticking slightly where sweat had cooled. His hair, dark and slightly tousled, was tossed by the breeze, strands falling across his forehead, brushing against the faint lines of his brow.

You watched him, silent for a moment, then softly broke the quiet. “You look like you’re carrying the weight of the world.”

He shifted, the movement catching the faintest sound—the soft rustle of fabric, the faint scrape of his shoes against the concrete of the bleacher seat. His head turned slightly, enough for his profile to catch the dull gray light. His eyes, shadowed and distant, flicked in your direction, like a flicker of something deep inside him—doubt, maybe, or exhaustion.

His jaw was tight, lips pressed together as if holding back a comment. The muscles in his neck twitched, a faint flicker of tension—like he was fighting the urge to tighten further or relax. His hand, resting limply on his thigh, twitched—fingers curling into a fist, then slowly unfurling, nails pressing into his palm. 

The wind brushed against his skin, pulling at the collar of his shirt, making the fabric ripple softly. The faint scent of rain was thick now, almost like a promise of coming storms. His shoulders rose and fell in a slow, measured rhythm—an attempt to keep everything inside under control.

“Why are you here?” His voice was quiet, gravelly, the sound barely cutting through the thick air, like a stone rolling over gravel.

You hesitated, then spoke softly, your voice even but carrying a weight of quiet patience.“Same as always. Just… watching. Trying to understand why someone like you is so distant.” The words hung in the air, carried by the wind, as you watched his shoulders tense and relax. “You move like you’re trying to hide something. Or maybe someone.”

He finally turned a little, enough for his face to be partially illuminated by the dull sky. His eyes, dark and shadowed, flickered briefly—like a flickering candle, fighting to stay lit. His jaw clenched, lips pressing into a tight line as if he was biting back something unspoken. 

The muscles in his neck twitched again, subtle as a heartbeat, almost like a reflex. His hand, still resting on his thigh, clenched into a fist—nails digging into his palm, skin taut. Then, after a long, heavy pause, he loosened it, the fingers unfurling slowly, the faint scrape of nails against skin.

He looked away, silent, and the wind caught loose strands of his hair, tossing them across his face. His shoulders rose again, then fell, as if trying to breathe out the tightness, to release the invisible burden he carried. 

You saw the faint flicker—the flickering of something deep, like a dying ember—uncertainty, longing, or maybe just the aching desire to be seen. His breathing was slow, steady, but there was a faint hitch every few seconds, like cracks in a calm surface.

“I don’t need anyone,” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper, the words almost swallowed by the wind.

You looked down at your hands, then back at him, your voice soft but unwavering. “You don’t have to be alone. Not all the time.”

He didn’t turn to face you. Only stared into the distant gray, shoulders still tense. The faint tremor in his hand remained—a tiny, persistent sign that he was fighting against himself, holding back something larger than words.

The clouds pressed closer, heavy with rain, but neither of you moved. The only sounds were the whisper of the wind, the faint rustle of grass, and the distant, faint drip of water from the trees. 

You stayed still, watching him, understanding that this fragile, tentative pause—this quiet moment—was part of something larger.

-

One night, after a long, grueling game, Rin was quietly collecting his things at the edge of the field. The stadium lights flickered faintly overhead, casting shadows that stretched across the cracked concrete. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, grass, and the faint metallic tang of equipment—an almost tangible reminder of the effort he'd poured into the match.

The wind stirred softly, rustling the loose strands of his dark hair and the fabric of his jacket. It carried the distant hum of the city, muffled but persistent, like a quiet pulse in the background. The sky darkened steadily, clouds swelling slowly, heavy with the promise of rain that hadn’t yet fallen.

You stayed nearby, your presence quiet, almost blending into the background. The silence stretched comfortably, yet thick with unspoken thoughts. Then, softly, without urgency, you broke it.

“Rin.”

He paused, muscles tensing for a moment, then turned toward you with slow, deliberate movements. His eyes, dark and guarded, met yours—an unspoken assessment, like a predator watching carefully. The air between you grew still, weighty—thick with the quiet of someone holding back a thousand words.

You took a small step forward, your voice low, almost hesitant. “I’ve been watching,” you said softly, your words measured and gentle. “You work hard. I see it.”

His eyes flickered—just for a moment—as if he’d been caught off guard. His cheeks were faintly pink now, subtle enough that only proximity revealed it. His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line, a sign of restraint.

You didn’t press, only looked at him with quiet understanding, your gaze steady but soft. “Just… remember. I see everything.” Your words were understated, almost like a whisper carried by the wind.

He stared at you, silent. The faint flicker of vulnerability crossed his face—gone as quickly as it appeared—then settled back into that guarded calm. His shoulders remained tense, but there was no longer the sharp defensiveness he sometimes carried. Instead, a quiet tension, a silent acknowledgment of what you’d said.

The wind pressed against your skin, brushing past him, ruffling his hair, carrying the faint scent of rain. The clouds above grew darker, heavier, holding back the storm. The world seemed to hold its breath.

You stayed there, watching him, knowing this moment was fragile—an unspoken understanding, a small crack in the armor. Neither of you needed to fill the space with words. Sometimes, silence and the quiet weight of presence spoke the loudest.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he was starting to let himself be seen, a little more each time.  

-

Time drifted by quietly. Rin continued to keep his distance outwardly, but little things changed. He’d challenge you with a sharper look, sit beside you for a moment longer, or linger in silence when the sky darkened.

One day, you sat on the same bleachers, watching the sunset bleed into the horizon. The sky was streaked with muted pinks and oranges. The cool air brushed against your skin.

“You know,” you said softly, “I used to think you were impossible to reach. Like a fortress I’d never get through.”

He snorted softly, eyes still on the distant sky. “You’re persistent,” he muttered, voice rough. “Annoying.”

You nodded slowly, feeling the quiet truth in his words. “Yeah,” you said, “but I like that. I like that you’re not afraid to be a little vulnerable. That’s rare.”

He studied you for a long moment, then finally looked away, face calm but eyes softer than before. No more icy walls—just a tentative openness, a small crack in the armor.

In that silence, you understood—this was how it would be. Slow, steady, uncertain. But real.

-

It wasn’t fireworks or grand promises. It was the slow, quiet realization that beneath Rin’s cold exterior was someone who wanted to be seen—someone who needed patience.

And you? You kept showing up, with small words, tiny gestures, waiting. Because some things, like a slow-burning fire, only grow brighter with time.

[hqrbinqerruoo]

NO. 1 - Rin Itoshi

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

"The look of love, the rush of blood.”

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

CW - Fluff!!

-----------

His eyes held a look—a silent, unwavering look that felt like love. Not loud or obvious, but deep and consuming, like a secret shared only between you two. It was the kind of look that made your stomach flutter, the kind that whispered promises without a single word.

You saw him.

Rin stood by the door, eyes fixed on you. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His gaze was slow, deliberate, almost reverent, as if he was trying to memorize every detail of your face in that quiet moment. 

His eyes—sharp, calculating orbs—held a look you’d never seen before. It was not the cold, distant stare he usually wore like armor. No, this was different. It was something deeper—an expression so raw and sincere it made your breath hitch.

It was love.

Unspoken, yet all-consuming.

His gaze poured into you, unwavering and steady, like a silent promise—an oath only your heart could understand. The kind of look that whispered, “I see you. All of you,” without a single word passing his lips. It made your stomach flutter, the way a secret does when it’s too beautiful to be spoken aloud.

You felt your cheeks flush, warmth spreading from your chest to your face. Your eyes welled with unshed tears—not of sadness, but of overwhelming emotion. You wanted to speak, to tell him how much that look meant—that it silenced every doubt, every fear, every silent cry you’d ever held inside.

But you couldn’t find the words. Instead, you met his gaze, your breath hitching as your heart raced faster. The world outside faded away—the noise, the worries, the noise inside your mind—all dissolving in the quiet space between you two.

His eyes held that silent promise, a reassurance that he was there, completely, utterly there. Not with grand gestures or loud declarations, but in that single, unwavering look.

And in that look, you knew everything. Love wasn’t always shouted or screamed; sometimes, it was just a look—deep, consuming, and perfectly understood.  

Your heart fluttered again, caught in the tide of unspoken words, feeling the weight of that silent vow—an unbreakable promise etched in the quiet gaze of Rin Itoshi.  

---

Rin’s actions carried secret words—quiet gestures that spoke volumes, conveying what words could never express. Each movement was deliberate, tender, and full of unspoken meaning, as if every touch, every glance, was a promise only you could understand. They whispered truths in silence, leaving behind a trail of feelings too profound to put into words.

The clock struck midnight, casting a pale glow through the living room window. The house was silent, the kind of quiet that made the ache of loneliness settle even deeper. You sat on the couch, eyes fixed on the flickering candlelight, feeling the hollow weight of a day that everyone had forgotten.

A faint knock broke the silence.

Your breath hitched. Hesitant, you rose and opened the door. There stood Rin, his expression calm, eyes soft but unwavering. In his hands, he carried a small pink bag and a wrapped box, simple yet thoughtful.

Without hesitation, Rin stepped inside. He moved with quiet purpose, placing the gifts gently on the table, then turned to face you. His gaze held yours—steady, full of meaning—unspoken words passing between you like a secret language.

He reached out, softly took your hand, and gently guided you to sit beside him. His touch was warm, deliberate, grounding you in the moment. No need for words; his actions alone conveyed everything— ‘You’re not alone. I see you.’

Rin’s eyes lingered on you as he silently handed you a small slice of cake. His fingers brushed yours as he pressed them into your hand, a fleeting touch that carried an entire conversation—care, tenderness, understanding. His gaze softened, almost vulnerable, as if to say, ‘I’m here.’

He didn’t need to speak. Instead, he poured you a glass of water, his movements careful and deliberate. When you shivered, he gently draped a blanket over your shoulders, slow and precise, as if memorizing every detail of your comfort. Every gesture was a silent vow—an act of love that needed no words to be understood.

Later, Rin simply sat beside you, shoulders nearly touching, eyes fixed softly on your face. His silence was heavy with meaning—every small action, every gentle glance, whispering truths that words could never capture.

Finally, Rin leaned in just a little closer, his voice low and steady. “Happy birthday,” he said softly, with a quiet smile.  

And that was all. No more words were needed.

---

Rin’s lips parted just slightly, a gentle hitch in his breath as he silently took in the sight of you. His eyes linger with a softness that speaks volumes—an unspoken admiration, a quiet moment of vulnerability. The way his gaze held a tenderness that went beyond words, as if he was simply appreciating everything about you, quietly and completely.

Rin leaned casually against the wall nearby, his posture relaxed yet attentive. Dressed sharply in his tailored suit, he seemed to be watching you without making a sound. His eyes traced your reflection in the mirror—so focused, so tender, as if he were memorizing every detail. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips, almost imperceptible but filled with genuine admiration.

He shifted slightly, the soft scrape of his shoes on the polished floor the only sound. His gaze was steady and unwavering, yet there was a softness behind it—an unspoken affection that no words could quite capture. His arms crossed loosely over his chest, but his posture was open, as if he was savoring this quiet moment.

Then, without warning, his lips parted just slightly, a gentle hitch in his breath as he silently took you in. His eyes lingered on the graceful curve of your neck as you adjusted your hair, on the way your hands moved with quiet purpose. There was a tenderness in his expression, a vulnerability that revealed how much he was truly appreciating this moment—how deeply he admired you, not just for your beauty but for the way you carried yourself.

You caught his reflection in the mirror, and your cheeks warmed under his gaze. His eyes briefly flicked to yours, and in that glance, you saw everything—how he saw you as something precious, something worth quietly cherishing. He didn’t need to speak; his silence conveyed more than words ever could.

Finally, Rin pushed off the wall with a faint, almost shy smile, stepping closer but still maintaining his composed posture. His voice was low, steady, and filled with sincerity. “Beautiful,” he said softly, eyes locking onto yours with quiet intensity. 

He paused, a subtle flicker of emotion in his expression—almost like he was afraid to disturb the delicate moment. Then, with a gentle, almost hesitant gesture, he reached out, lightly brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, his fingertips lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

---

And the few times Rin expressed his love with words, those moments felt rare and precious—like delicate whispers that broke through the silence, carrying all the feelings he kept hidden. When he spoke, it was as if the world paused, and in that quiet honesty, you could feel the depth of his affection, spoken softly but with unwavering sincerity, meant only for you to hear.

The first rays of dawn seeped through the frosted windows, casting a gentle, cold glow over the quiet cabin. Outside, the world was hushed in snow, pristine and untouched. Inside, Rin sat slumped near the hearth, his face pale and eyes tired, shoulders tense from the ache in his body. His breathing was shallow, and the silence stretched between you, heavy but comfortable in its quiet way.

You moved softly, draping a warm blanket around his shoulders. His eyes flicked to you briefly, then away, as if reluctant to show too much vulnerability. You caught the faint flicker of gratitude in his gaze and offered a small, reassuring smile. Carefully, you reached for the first aid kit, gently cleaning and wrapping his injury.

He watched your hands work, silent but attentive, then finally broke the quiet with a low, measured voice. “I’m still half-baked.”

You paused, your fingertips stilling for a moment, then softly replied, “You did your best. That’s what matters.”

Rin’s eyes lingered on you, a quiet moment passing between you, one filled with unspoken understanding. He hesitated again, then reached out, his hand brushing yours with a tentative, almost hesitant touch. His voice was brief, almost dismissive of the emotion behind it, but there was a subtle softness there. “Thanks… for staying.”

You looked at him, your gaze gentle but steady, sensing the effort it took for him to say so much with so little. You reached out, lightly squeezing his hand, trying to convey what words couldn’t quite capture. “You’re grateful I’m here, huh?”

He shot you a quick, faint glance—almost shy—and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. His lips pressed into a thin line, and he looked away again, as if embarrassed by the weight of his feelings.

In that quiet, snow-blanketed dawn, Rin’s actions—his careful touch, his lingering gaze, the brief words—spoke volumes. His hand still held yours, firm but gentle, a silent promise of trust and gratitude. When he finally spoke again, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “Yeah.”

You nodded softly, feeling the warmth in his words despite the cold outside. You knew that beneath his reserved exterior was a depth of feeling he rarely expressed—yet in those small gestures and that rare, honest phrase, everything he wanted to say was there.

[hqrbinqerruoo]

PLAGUED - Reo Mikage

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

"Every bond you break, every step you take. I'll be watchin' you”

───────── ⋆⋅꒰ა☆໒꒱ ⋆⋅ ────────

CW - Obsessive love, emotional manipulation, controlling behavior, coercive and unhealthy relationship dynamics, vulnerability, intimacy, and emotionally distressing interactions.

Author Note: Let me know if this was too much or if it was okay. I would like to know because writing about toxic love and relationships is very new to me!!

------

It was the kind of love that shined brightly in the spotlight, yet felt intimate in the quiet moments—like a secret only you knew. Back then, everything seemed effortless. You were the star on stage, captivating millions with your voice, and Reo Mikage—the athletic, charming soccer player—stood by your side, his eyes never leaving you. 

The backstage area was alive with a comforting hum—the low murmur of voices, the distant echo of applause still lingering in the air. You could feel the pulse of your heartbeat beneath your fingertips, steady and electric, as you prepared to step back into the spotlight. Reo Mikage was beside you, his presence a grounding warmth that seeped into your skin.

He reached out, his hand brushing yours softly, fingers gentle but firm, like the steady beat of a drum. His eyes sparkled with pride, a quiet admiration that made your chest swell. When the crowd cheered, he leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear.

“You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice low and steady. The words felt like a promise, a vow wrapped in tenderness. His hand found your waist, grounding you, his fingers subtly pressing into your side, offering silent reassurance.

The rich scent of his cologne lingered, fresh with a hint of pear and something earthy, grounding. His touch was reassuring, like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, steady and strong. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, anchoring you amid the chaos of flashing lights and roaring crowds.

Every glance exchanged was a secret language—smiles that lingered just a moment too long, a gentle squeeze of your hand, the way he’d softly brush your hair aside when your voice cracked during rehearsals. His presence was bold in its quiet strength, a fortress of devotion.

The air around you felt thick with anticipation—your hearts pounding in unison beneath the shimmering stage lights. His eyes held a tenderness that made your knees weak, a silent vow that he’d be your shield, your confidant, your everything.

In those moments, it seemed like nothing could break you. Time slowed, and the world outside faded into insignificance. You had each other—unshakable, radiant, perfectly in sync.

And yet, even then, a tiny whisper stirred at the back of your mind. A fleeting thought that, perhaps, the roots of something unseen were already taking hold. But you pushed it away, caught up in the warmth of the present, in the love that felt like the brightest star in the night sky.

Because love—true love—feels like that, doesn’t it? Bright, warm, unbreakable. And in those moments, you believed it would last forever. Yet beneath the surface, the roots already began to deepen.

—

Backstage, the faint hum of the crowd still lingers in your ears, a distant echo that slowly fades into a quiet hum. You lean against the cool, smooth wall, your body humming with adrenaline—your heart pounding, lungs still catching their breath. The bright stage lights have dimmed, replaced by the soft, warm glow of the dressing room lights, casting gentle shadows across the space. Everything feels still, almost suspended in a peaceful hush, as if the world outside has momentarily paused just for you.

You close your eyes for a moment, sensation after sensation washing over you—the faint scent of hairspray, the soft rustling of costumes, the distant murmur of voices congratulating each other. The adrenaline begins to ebb, leaving behind a calm that’s tinged with exhaustion. Your mind drifts elsewhere—toward the quiet moments that follow, the stillness that now feels almost sacred.

Suddenly, a gentle presence approaches. Reo Mikage moves silently, his footsteps barely whispering against the floor. His eyes are soft, warm with admiration, like a painter gazing at a delicate masterpiece. His expression is tender, almost reverent, as if he’s trying to memorize the way you look in this fleeting, perfect moment.

“You did incredible out there,” he whispers, voice low and measured, carrying a softness that feels almost like a caress. “Everyone loved you. I knew you’d be amazing.”

His words settle over you like a warm embrace, and a small, genuine smile unconsciously blooms on your lips. You feel a gentle warmth rise within—gratitude and affection mingling in your chest. His praise is comforting, but beneath it, you pick up on something else—an unspoken pride, a quiet protectiveness that seems to shimmer just beneath his words.

He steps a little closer, eyes never leaving yours, and with a playful grin, he adds in a teasing tone, “I almost got jealous with how much they loved you.”  

That last sentence is light, almost innocent, but it hangs there—an unspoken thread of something deeper, something just beneath the surface. You laugh softly, the sound genuine but tinged with a subtle curiosity. As your laughter fades, he leans in slowly, eyes flickering with affection. Gently, he presses his lips to yours in a soft, lingering kiss—an unspoken affirmation of the bond you share. It’s tender, almost tentative, but full of unspoken emotion, a quiet promise beneath the playful teasing.

His gaze remains softly fixed on you afterward, and for a moment, the two of you stand there in the hush, wrapped in a shared silence that feels just as fragile as it is intimate. Then, with a small, reassuring smile, he brushes a strand of hair from your face, as if memorizing this fleeting, perfect moment, guarding it carefully.

You brush off his teasing comment with a gentle smile, but inside, a tiny seed of doubt or wonder has been quietly planted. Something about his tone, the way he looks at you, feels different tonight—softer, maybe a little more guarded, more private. The pride he usually wears so openly now seems layered with something else— a tenderness that’s just barely veiled.

—

A couple of weeks into your tour abroad, the hotel room is quiet and dimly lit. The glow from the city skyline filters faintly through the window, casting a muted, restless shimmer across the walls. Outside, the distant hum of foreign streets drifts into your space—cars passing, muffled voices, footsteps on unfamiliar pavement—but inside, everything feels still, almost suspended in a peaceful, isolating quiet.

You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, the soft hum of the air conditioner lulls your senses, exhaustion from travel and rehearsals weighing on you. Your eyes flick to the screen, and you notice Reo’s name flashing repeatedly, a gentle vibration rattling through the device. It’s late here—well past midnight—and the time difference only deepens the ache of being so far away from him.

Your thumb hesitates over the screen, feeling a faint, familiar tug in your chest—like a quiet instinct that you’re not alone, even across oceans. That steady, caring presence, still so vivid in your mind. You take a deep breath, then finally unlock the phone and press it to your ear.

“Hey,” you whisper softly, voice warm and careful, trying not to sound overly tired or distracted.

There’s a faint pause on the other end, then Reo’s voice responds, gentle and weighted with care.  

“Did you eat?” he asks, almost a whisper, a tender concern wrapped in softness. “Are you okay? Please reply.”

You smile faintly, feeling a gentle warmth bloom inside, even from this distance.  

“I’m fine, Reo. Just a little tired,” you say softly. “It’s been a long day, but I’m okay.”

You listen for a moment longer, sensing the quiet tension behind his words, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for your reassurance, even from thousands of miles away.  

“Good,” he replies quietly, voice barely audible. “I just… I want to know you’re alright.”

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “I’m here,” you whisper, “and I’ll be here for a little while longer. Don’t worry.”

The line remains silent for a beat, and you notice the faintest flicker of hesitation in his breathing—an almost subconscious dependence, delicate and persistent, quietly growing over the weeks. It’s subtle, almost like a whisper in your mind that there’s more beneath his words—an unspoken need for closeness that’s become a quiet part of your connection.

Then, in a gentle, shared moment of vulnerability, you both speak at the same time, almost instinctively:

“I love you.”

The words hang in the air, soft but full of meaning, a fragile affirmation across the distance. For a moment, everything feels suspended in that quiet space, bound by those simple yet powerful words.

Finally, you set the phone down carefully on the nightstand, your fingers lingering on the cool surface for a moment as the line goes quiet. Outside, the foreign city continues to pulse and breathe, but inside, the stillness deepens, and a gentle, almost unnoticed awareness settles over you, woven into the quiet love that quietly sustains the distance.

—

The bustling arrival hall is alive with motion—voices overlapping in multiple languages, luggage wheels rattling loudly over the polished tiles, and the distant hum of chatter from travelers reuniting. The scent of fresh coffee wafts from a nearby café, mingling with the faint aroma of damp clothes and the lingering warmth of the day. You step out into the open air, the sun already sinking low in the sky, casting a golden glow over everything, with long shadows stretching across the pavement.

Your body feels the weight of hours of travel—aching legs, stiff shoulders, eyes heavy from jet lag. Still, the thought of seeing him again keeps your spirits afloat. You scan the crowd, your heart pounding softly in your chest, and then—there. Just a few paces away, leaning casually against a sturdy pillar, is Reo and his luxurious car. His expression is relaxed but attentive, the soft glow of the setting sun highlighting the delicate lines of his face.

His gaze locks onto yours with an almost reverent tenderness. It’s a gaze that holds a thousand unspoken words—relief, affection, a quiet possessiveness that’s subtle but unmistakable. There’s no rush in his movements; he approaches slowly, as if savoring the moment, like a quiet promise that he’s been waiting for this reunion.

He steps forward, voice soft but steady. “Hey,” he murmurs, eyes flickering with warmth and something deeper. “I thought I’d come get you myself.” Giving you a wink.

You give him a tired but genuine smile. “Thanks. It’s good to see you.”

You close the distance in a few steps with his eyes never leaving yours. The air between you feels charged, almost suspended—neither rushing, nor demanding. His gaze is tender but possessive, like he’s holding onto this moment, anchoring himself to you. His lips curl into a soft smile, but there’s a flicker of something more—an almost protective pride as he walks with you back towards his car. 

Without a word, he moves to the side, smoothly opening the car door. You slide into the seat, the fabric cool against your skin. The interior is quiet, the leather of the passenger seat enveloping you as the engine hums softly to life. You glance in the rearview mirror and see his reflection—focused, attentive, with an almost lingering tenderness as he watches you settle in before closing the door.

The traffic at the airport was terrible—every lane crawling at a snail’s pace. Reo kept tapping his fingers on his thighs, like he couldn’t sit still. You could tell he was getting impatient, his jaw tightening just a little as he slowly raced toward the highway, eager to get out of that mess and onto the open road.

Suddenly, the doors swing open—flashes erupt from the paparazzi just as you’re about to close the door. The cameras are relentless, capturing every moment, every glance. Reo’s eyes flicker with a mixture of annoyance and something darker—an instinct to protect what’s his, even in this fleeting moment.

He leans toward you, hand resting on your chin, fingers gentle but firm enough to command attention. His gaze locks onto yours, a subtle warning—this is his, and he’s going to make sure they see it.

In that instant, Reo presses his lips softly against yours, slow and deliberate, but with a possessive edge. His hand remains on your chin, thumb gently caressing your jawline, anchoring you in the moment. The kiss is tender but lingering, a quiet declaration for the cameras—an assertion of connection, of closeness, of ownership. The flashbulbs go off wildly, but his focus is solely on you, as if nothing else exists.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are smoldering, a faint, proud smile curling his lips. He gently signals for you to close the door as Reo locks the car promptly after. His hand resting lightly but possessively on your waist as he helps you settle back into your seat from the fright of the paparazzi. His eyes flicker with an unspoken promise—security wrapped in a quiet, subtle claim. As he starts the engine and pulls away from the airport, the city lights twinkle in the dusk, and the paparazzi’s flashes fade into the background.

In the silence that follows, you catch his reflection in the rearview mirror once again—calm, confident, and gently possessive. Everything about him says: I am yours, and I will protect what’s mine, even in the fleeting chaos of the world.

The next day, you’re sitting on your couch. You were just scrolling aimlessly through your social media feed when your phone suddenly buzzes, making you jump. You glance at the screen and see a new notification from your manager. Curious, you open it, expecting maybe an update about your schedule or some small detail.

But the message hits you like a tidal wave.

"Did you see the photos? They’re everywhere—on every site, every tab, trending all over. The paparazzi shots with you and Reo Mikage? The world is losing it."

Your brow furrows. You blink a few times, scrolling quickly through your notifications, expecting maybe a comment or a fan post. Instead, your feed is flooded with headlines, fan reactions, and shared articles.  

"Who knew a simple ride could blow up like this?" you whisper, eyes wide as you scroll through the images—yourself and Reo, caught in those quiet, intimate moments, the photos capturing everything—the gaze, the touch, the kiss. They’re all over the internet now, and you had no idea.  

Your heart starts pounding a little faster. You look back at your phone, rereading your manager’s message.  

"Everyone’s talking about your relationship now. The photos are all over the news. Fans are shipping you two like crazy. The media’s calling it ‘the hottest new couple.’ This is huge—your name is everywhere."

You lean back, processing the whirlwind of information, feeling a mix of surprise, nervousness, and an unexpected thrill. You had known the paparazzi took pictures—yet somehow, you’d convinced yourself they wouldn’t go beyond that. You didn’t expect the world to see it all.  

As you sit there, a faint, almost unnoticeable smile tugs at your lips, though you’re not quite sure why. Maybe it’s the way everything has shifted so suddenly, how the universe seems to be echoing something unspoken. Because deep down, you might not realize it yet, but Reo’s way of claiming you—quiet, possessive, almost primal—was never really about the moment itself. It was a promise, a silent vow, woven into every glance and touch, now laid bare for everyone to see.  

Later that night, the room was quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside the window. The soft glow of your bedside lamp cast gentle shadows across the walls, but even the calming light couldn't quiet the restless ache inside you. Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, jolting you from your half-sleep. You reached over, eyes barely open, and saw Reo’s name flashing on the screen.

Without hesitation, you answered.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice thick with exhaustion.

There was a brief pause, then Reo’s voice, low and steady but tinged with something unspoken—almost like he was hesitant to say it aloud. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. I need to stay over. Can I come by?”

Your chest tightened slightly, a rush of warmth and relief flooding over you. The day’s chaos still echoed in your mind—the flood of fans, the headlines, the impossible pressure of being under such a microscope. But hearing his voice now, so vulnerable, made everything else fade just a little.

“Yeah,” you said softly, pressing your hand against your chest. “Come over. It’s late, but I want you here.”

A breath on the other end. “Thanks,” Reo whispered, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ll be there in about ten minutes.”

You set the phone down, your stomach fluttering with anticipation. Not long after, your doorbell chimed. You got up, smoothing your pajamas, and opened the door to find Reo standing there—hair tousled, eyes darker than usual, a flicker of nervousness behind his gaze.

Before you could even step back, he moved quickly—almost instinctively. His arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you into a close, familiar embrace. His hands found your waist, gripping gently but with a hint of possessiveness, as if he needed to hold on tight.  

Reo’s lips brushed your neck in a soft, lingering kiss—hungry, almost tentative—his body pressed close to yours. His fingers drifted along your hips, holding you steady, craving that physical connection, that closeness.  

“I didn’t want to be alone,” Reo murmured into your skin, voice thick with emotion. “Not tonight. I just… needed to be with you.”  

His grip was firm but not overwhelming, more like a desperate need for reassurance—something to remind himself that you were his, that you belonged to him in this moment. His forehead rested against your shoulder, eyes fluttered shut for a second, and he held you close, trembling just a little—an unspoken desire to stay connected, to keep you near.

You reached up, your hand brushing through his hair, fingers softly tangling as you pulled him closer. Reo responded with a gentle, almost instinctive kiss—soft but filled with longing. His body pressed into yours, hands tracing along your sides, holding you in a quiet, intimate claim.

Behind his eyes, there was a flicker of something darker—an unspoken possessiveness fueled by the way the world had been watching, by the attention, by the feeling that everyone was aware of your relationship. It was in his touch, in the way he clung just a little tighter—needy, wanting to keep you close, staking his claim in this chaotic world.

He pressed his forehead against yours, eyes half-lidded, breath steadying. “I really need you tonight,” he whispered, voice husky but less frantic, more tender. His hands lingered on your hips, holding you softly but with intent.  

You reached out, your fingers gently threading into his hair, pulling him into a softer, more intimate kiss. Reo responded, lips brushing yours in a gentle, lingering manner. His body stayed close, his touch lingering on your skin—possessive in a quiet, tender way, reassuring both of you that you belonged together, even amid the chaos outside.

In the quiet darkness, with only the distant hum of the city outside, Reo’s touch spoke volumes—not just of love, but of that unspoken promise: you were his, and he wasn’t going to let anyone else take that away, not tonight, not ever.

—

Over the months, your relationship with Reo flourished, intertwined with your rising music career. Soon, you found yourself invited to a prestigious artists' award show, a testament to your growing presence in the industry. 

The ballroom was alive with shimmering lights, casting a golden glow over the sea of elegant outfits and polished floors. You adjusted the strap of your crimson dress, the fabric smooth against your skin, the deep V neckline accentuating your collarbones. The slit on the side revealed just enough of your thigh as you moved, your heels clicking softly with each step. Your hair was styled in gentle waves, cascading over your shoulders, and your makeup was flawless, subtle but striking, matching the confident glint in your eyes.

Reo stood beside you, every inch as captivating. His slicked-back purple hair gleamed under the chandeliers, dark and rich, catching flashes of light with every subtle movement. His tailored black suit fit perfectly—sharp lapels, the fabric smooth and immaculate, a glimpse of the silver chain hanging from his pocket catching the light. His expression was calm but watchful, eyes flickering across the room with a quiet intensity that made it clear he was paying close attention to everything… and everyone.

The room was packed with industry insiders, fellow artists, and reporters, all whispering about the awards, about you. Cameras flashed repeatedly, capturing the way your dress shimmered and your smile lit up the room. But through it all, Reo’s gaze was unwavering on you, his focus sharp, almost predatory.

A woman approached, her heels clicking softly as she extended her hand with a warm smile. “Congratulations on your performance earlier,” she said, voice smooth, eyes twinkling with admiration.

You offered a polite nod, preparing to reciprocate with a handshake, but Reo’s hand shot out gently, fingers curling around your waist. His grip was firm enough to be reassuring but not uncomfortable, anchoring you in place. His eyes flicked to hers, calm but with a subtle, unspoken message: *You’re with me.* 

You felt his touch linger just a second longer than necessary—not possessive, but deliberate. A silent reminder that you belonged to him tonight. His gaze stayed steady on her, as if silently marking her as someone to be wary of, even if his face remained neutral.

“Reo,” you said softly, leaning just slightly into his touch, your voice warm but gentle. “It’s just a handshake. Relax.”

He nodded slightly, eyes still locked on her, then slowly eased his hand away. His fingers brushed against your side for a moment longer, a silent reassurance. “Just wanted to remind you—you’re with me tonight,” he murmured, voice low but steady, a quiet promise wrapped in calm.

The woman smiled politely and nodded, walking away with a subtle glance back. Reo’s gaze followed her for a heartbeat, then shifted to you with a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head. His eyes flickered with a hint of something—an obsessive streak hidden beneath that composed exterior.

As the night moved on, others approached—another singer, a producer, a few industry friends. Reo’s body language subtly shifted, always leaning in just enough to keep others at a distance. His stance was protective without being overtly aggressive, but the way he kept a hand on your back or your arm, never letting you drift too far, said far more.

His eyes darted around the room, tracking every glance, every whisper. When someone else dared to make eye contact or get too close, his jaw clenched slightly, and he subtly moved to block your view or position himself between you and them. It was an almost subconscious act—an instinct to shield, to claim.

You caught him glancing your way when you laughed with a fellow artist, his expression softening but still holding that undercurrent of intensity. When you finally excused yourself for a moment to step outside for fresh air, you felt his presence immediately behind you. 

He leaned against the wall, hands loosely clasped in front of him, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. As you approached, his lips curled into a small, reassuring smile, but his hand was already reaching out, gentle but firm, guiding you to stand close.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, voice smooth but with a hint of something more—like he was measuring your reaction, making sure you were still within reach.

You nodded, feeling the comforting weight of his hand on your lower back, anchoring you. His eyes softened, but the underlying protectiveness lingered just beneath the surface. Sometimes, his gaze flickered with a flicker of something darker—an obsessive need to keep you close, to monitor everyone around you, to make sure no one else could get too close.

He didn’t say more. Instead, he simply reached out, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering just a second longer than necessary. His thumb brushed your cheek softly before settling on your shoulder. His touch was gentle, but deliberate—a silent promise that he was watching, guarding, claiming.

The room continued to pulse with the energy of celebration, but around you, Reo’s quiet actions painted a different picture. His calm, steady presence was less about love and more about possession. The way he kept you close, always within arm’s reach, the way his gaze lingered just a little too long when others looked your way—every gesture, every glance, stitched together a quiet, unspoken truth: he was watching, and he wasn’t going to let anyone take you from him.

–

At the end of the night, you sank into the plush sofa of Reo’s apartment, your legs crossed, a warm cup of tea cradled in your hands. Reo sat next to you, his purple hair catching the dim light, a subtle smirk on his lips as he watched you.

“I’ve got a public interview in two weeks with some podcast company,” you said softly. “Kinda nervous, but I think I’ll be okay.”

Reo nodded, a quiet smile touching his face. “That’s good. I know you’re going to do amazing.”

You looked at him, feeling the familiar comfort in his presence but also sensing something unspoken beneath his calm exterior. You hesitated before adding, “But I was kind of surprised at how rude you were to some of the people at the event tonight. When they got close, you snapped at them… I don’t think that’s really like you.”

His smile flickered, and for just a moment, his eyes darkened with a flicker of guilt—before that calm, charming mask slipped back into place. He took a slow step toward you, voice velvet-smooth, almost soothing. “Yeah… I guess I lost my temper a little. I get protective. Sometimes, I overreact. You know how I am.”

His hand reached out, softly brushing a stray lock of your hair from your face, fingers lingering just long enough to stir a sense of closeness. His touch was gentle, but the way he looked at you made your skin tingle. The gesture was intimate, but beneath it, a quiet manipulation simmered—something you didn’t see, something you wouldn’t recognize.

You looked away, feeling a flicker of frustration. “It just felt like you were angry at everyone, not just protective. You were rude to people, Reo—especially when they got too close. That’s not how you normally are.”

He inhaled slowly, as if weighing his words, then stepped even closer, his voice lowering. “Look, I am sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to ruin your night. I guess I just got carried away. I care about you so much, sometimes I forget myself.” His lips curved into a soft, almost apologetic smile. “I’d never want to hurt you. Never.”

His eyes searched yours, imploring, but your mind was clouded with frustration, still feeling the sting of his earlier words, unsure if his apology was genuine. You didn’t realize how he was subtly twisting his words, making it seem like his overreaction was just a sign of his love, his care.

Reo’s hand moved to your face, fingers softly tracing your jawline, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I just want you to be safe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Sometimes I get a little intense, I know. But that’s because I love you… more than anything.” His eyes flickered with that familiar, dangerous softness—part tenderness, part manipulation.

You felt your heart flutter, despite your lingering irritation. His gaze was so focused, so intense, it was easy to forget how carefully crafted his words were. He wasn’t truly sorry for losing his temper; he was just making you see his “love” through a lens that blurred the lines between caring and controlling.

He took another move closer, his lips brushing lightly against your temple, then whispering against your skin, “Let me make it up to you. Just one night. Let me show you how much I care.” His voice was inviting, seductive—an unspoken promise of comfort, of closeness.

Your cheeks warmed, your mind clouded with conflicting feelings. You were still upset, but his touch and words had a strange way of pulling you in, making your anger feel secondary to the heat rising in your chest. You hesitated, unsure if it was love or the subtle manipulation working its way into your subconscious.

Reo gently pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Stay with me tonight,” he whispered, voice thick with promise. “Let me remind you how much you mean to me.”

And in that moment, even as your heart fluttered with a mixture of irritation and desire, you didn’t see the way his words twisted and turned, how he subtly made it seem like his apology was sincere, while framing his actions as acts of love—when really, they were just tools to keep you close, to control your feelings, to manipulate your vulnerability.

Reo’s lips brush gently against your temple, his breath warm and inviting. His fingers trace a slow, deliberate path down your jaw, then slide to your neck, his touch feather-light but possessive in its softness. His fingertips linger just beneath your ear, teasing the sensitive skin there.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, voice low and husky. “All I want is for you to feel safe with me. Just one night—let me take care of everything.”

His eyes lock onto yours, dark and shimmering with that familiar, dangerous softness. You can see the unspoken promise behind his gaze—a challenge. His hand moves gently to your waist, fingers curling softly but firmly, pulling you slightly closer. You feel the warmth of his body, the subtle rise and fall of his chest, as he leans in just enough to make your heart race.

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he murmurs, voice a velvet caress. “Tonight, I want to drown out all the noise—the cameras, the fans, everything. Just us. Just this moment.”

Your breath catches in your throat. His words sound sincere, but beneath them, you sense the manipulation-the way he’s carefully crafting this moment to make you forget your frustration, to draw you into his orbit again. It’s a familiar dance: the soft words, the gentle touches, the promise of comfort that’s laced with something darker.

He leans in, his lips brushing just below your ear. “Let me make you forget everything else. I’ll take care of you, I swear.”

You feel a flicker of heat—an unwanted, confusing heat—rising despite your lingering annoyance. His lips are so close now, just a breath away, and you’re acutely aware of how his body presses against yours, how his hand on your waist pulls you in, subtly asserting his control.

For a moment, you hesitate, caught between your frustration and the magnetic pull of his closeness. There’s a dangerous allure in the way he’s looking at you—like he’s trying to seduce more than just your body, but your mind, your resolve.

Reo’s voice drops even lower, almost a whisper. “You don’t have to say anything. Just stay with me tonight. Let me hold you, let me show you how much I care. You’re mine, and I want to remind you.”

His lips graze your cheek, then trail down to your jaw, his breath warm against your skin. His hand tightens just slightly on your waist, enough to make you feel the heat of his touch, the promise of something more—something tempting but still just beneath the surface.

And despite yourself, your body responds—your skin tingles, your pulse quickens. You’re aware of the way he’s carefully pulling you into a space where love and obsession blur, where desire becomes entangled with control.

He presses a slow, lingering kiss to your collarbone, his lips soft but insistent. “Just one night,” he whispers again, voice thick with promise, “and I’ll make everything better.”

Your eyelids flutter, caught in that fragile moment—suspended between anger and desire—uncertain if you’re surrendering to him or simply succumbing to the seduction he’s masterfully weaving.

—

The soft glow of morning sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a warm, golden hue across the room. You lie tangled in the sheets, your body still bare, skin cool against the fabric of the blankets. Your heartbeat is steady, but your mind is fluttering with the aftermath of last night’s intensity. 

Reo is beside you, eyes half-lidded, watching your face with a quiet, almost predatory gaze. His presence is calm, yet there’s a flicker of something darker lurking just beneath his gentle exterior. His gaze lingers on your exposed shoulder, the curve of your collarbone, the faint outline of your skin still visible beneath the thin sheets.

His hand reaches out, fingers softly brushing along your arm, then resting lightly on your waist—his touch gentle, but with a possessive weight that makes your skin prickle. His eyes flicker with a dangerous tenderness, as if memorizing this vulnerable moment.

“You’re so beautiful like this… I could stare at you forever.” Reo lulls into your skin.

His hand moves to your side, the fingertips brushing the bare skin of your stomach, lingering just long enough to remind you of your vulnerability. His gaze remains fixed on your face, but his eyes flick to the faint outline of your exposed skin, the way your body has relaxed in sleep—yet he’s clearly captivated by how delicate and exposed you are.

You shift slightly, attempting to sit up, but Reo’s hand on your waist tightens just enough to hold you down, his grip firm but not painful. His eyes narrow with a subtle, obsessive glint until you hesitantly speak up, “I have to go… I need to leave soon.”

He leans in, his lips brushing your temple, voice smooth and low, like a velvet curtain hiding something sharp beneath, before he opens his mouth to speak. “Stay a little longer. Just a little. I don’t want you to rush away from me after last night.” His fingers tighten gently on your side, not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you close. “You don’t have to leave so soon. Not when I haven’t shown you how much I really care.”

His lips curl into a slow, hypnotic smile. “You’re mine. You remember that, right?” He presses a tender kiss to your temple, his lips lingering just a second longer than necessary. His voice drops even further, layered with a dangerous softness. “I don’t want to share you with anyone else. Not even for a moment.”

Your heart pounds, and despite your desire to leave, you’re caught—your body still exposed, vulnerable. The way he’s looking at you, so softly possessive, makes it impossible to ignore the power he holds in this moment. His words are manipulative, cloaked in tenderness, but beneath it all, you sense an obsessive need to keep you tethered, to control the space between you.

“I need to go, Reo. I have things to do—people expecting me—” You softly whisper, trying to assert yourself.

He cuts you off without raising his voice, voice velvet but unwavering. “You’re not going anywhere today. Not until I say so.” His hand moves to your wrist, gently but insistently, holding you in place. “You’re not leaving this bed until I know you’re safe with me. And right now, I’m the only one who can do that.”

You feel the faint, exposed skin of your arm, the vulnerable state you’re in—yet his grip is gentle but unyielding, asserting his control. His gaze is relentless, like a predator studying its prey, yet he’s still calm—too calm, too controlled. It’s the kind of obsession that whispers in your ear, convincing you that leaving would be dangerous, that you need him more than anything.

He leans closer, lips brushing your ear, voice impossibly gentle. “You don’t need to rush. You don’t need anyone else. Just me, okay? I’ll keep you safe. I’ll keep you close.”

The words seem sincere, but they’re laced with manipulation—an unspoken reminder that your vulnerability is his tool, that your freedom is fragile, and that he’s the one who holds the power. The faint hint of your skin, still exposed beneath the sheets, only deepens the sense of fragility—your openness, your trust, all laid bare before him.

You stare at him, feeling the pull of love and obsession, helpless in the face of his quiet, relentless possession. His gaze never leaves yours, and his hand remains on your waist, holding you in his orbit.

In this quiet, sunlit moment, you realize—you’re caught in a cycle. The push of your desire to leave, and the pull of his obsessive need to keep you close—both tangled in a web neither of you can escape, yet neither willing to fully surrender.

And despite everything, you stay—because part of you still cannot fully break free.