Late To The "leona Kingscholar Has A Driving License⁉️" Train But I Do Think That He Goes On Road

യ YOU PRETEND YOU DONT WANT TO SLEEP NEXT TO THEM, SFW ﾉ FLUFF

gn reader x sunday, dr ratio, moze, blade + jing yuan ( seperate ) ; fluff ﾉ sfw scenarios. petnames used ; my dear, my angel. it is all lighthearted and a prank. these are quite silly but i enjoyed writing them!

word count. 900 to 1.4k max. ₊ 𓂃 return to masterlist.

౿ SUNDAY

There’s quite a gentle, relaxing atmosphere in the quarters that you reside in now — tucked beneath the expensive, silk sheets as you rest on your side. And were you not feeling particularly menacing, you think you’d be able to knock out fairly quickly given how comfortable you are, though unfortunately for the man to your side, you’re feeling like teasing him.

You make it fairly obvious that you’re uncomfortable at first, though in your own mind it’s in a playful sort of way, you can feel the way Sunday’s giving you a curious sort of look from where he rests in his own space. He’s flicking through the pages of his notebook quietly, though hardly paying attention as he focuses on your figure instead.

“Is the bed not to your liking?” His words hum and they urge you to stop from where you’re now turning away from him, thankfully so as you find yourself smiling— almost grinning. Before you successfully settle it down enough to give him a neutral look over your shoulder.

“No, it’s not that. I just can’t sleep.” Your tone carries as an almost disinterested sort of drawl and you watch the way that alone makes Sunday’s wings stiffen.

“Ah, I see.” He closes his book before he turns around to give you a gentler, affectionate look. “Is there something troubling you then?” And you feel his fingers reach to rest upon your shoulder as he gives you a soothing sort of squeeze.

You have to resist the urge to curl your way against his chest, shuddering beneath the warmth of his palm. So you just shrug instead, shaking your head.

Your lack of response makes Sunday hum— he picks up on the tense feeling in your body despite your words, but he opts not to press out of fear of making you feel worse. So he continues instead, “Nevertheless, if you are having trouble sleeping, would you like me to read something for you?”

You meet your eyes with his question and you feel that familiar pull towards him again. Maybe it’s the tender tone in which he speaks to you, but it takes everything in your body not to really roll into him this time. You can’t believe you’ve wound up cursing yourself for such a playful prank.

Sunday goes on when you don’t answer him, in that same affectionately gentle drawl. “At one point I too found myself in the same predicament. So if I can be of any assistance to you, we could even go for a stroll if you so please.” His words make you swallow loudly, almost guiltily, and you have to break the way his gaze holds yours before you reply.

“No, I just don’t think I want to sleep next to you.” You respond quickly, an almost jumble of words that you had to press out before you backed out.

Though it makes something in your chest hurt when you see the way they change Sunday’s expression anyway. He chuckles, though not as humorous as it normally is — sounding a little more awkward than anything. “Ah, well. If you’d much prefer — I can sleep elsewhere. There is no absence of spare rooms here if you would like to make yourself more comfortable.” He says quite flatly though you can tell he seems a little hurt when you watch the feathers in his wings wilt.

But even despite all of that— his hand doesn’t leave you as it still rests on your shoulder. Instead, you feel him offer you another affectionate, warm squeeze before he’s turning to look away from you, and part of you wants to reach out to pull him back as he pushes himself to the edge of the bed.

Your body feels suddenly cold when his touch finally leaves you.

“Though, I apologise if I have upset you in any way. Should you not desire to be around me anymore, I can see to it that my schedule keeps me preoccupied until you feel better.” Sunday doesn’t look at you when he lets his legs rest over the edge of the bed, he keeps himself turned away. Yet, you can still hear how quiet his voice sounds as you push yourself up on your forearm. You’re watching him as he rests on the mattress, “If you prefer, we can discuss it more after a good night of rest.”

Then he does look at you, only for a glance, but he still has that soft look on his features despite the way you’re kicking him out your shared bedroom. “Though I doubt I will sleep much without you by my side, heh.” And despite the way his words are a low mumble, you realise that you don’t really sleep well without him either.

So you only last as long as the time it takes Sunday to rest his hands on either side of himself to push himself off the mattress before you’re reaching out to stop him. Almost pulling him back down with how quickly you grab onto his wrist. And you’re wearing a pleading look when he turns to ask what’s wrong.

“I was just kidding.. I was joking.” You say quietly, like you’re ashamed of your words — it was only a harmless prank, yet you’re left grabbing onto your lovers sleeve in the hopes he won’t leave you.

You had never expected it to back fire quite like this, but there’s a warm sort of relief that washes over when the next expression Sunday sends you is adorable. He smiles despite how upset he seemed a moment ago, and seeing that in itself makes you slump back down into your pillows as you send him a pout. Like this wasn’t all your own doing.

He sits himself back down on the bed, and this time you do roll yourself a little closer like you’ve been wanting to— until you feel his palm rest back against your shoulder again and he still squeezes. His wings return to their usual relaxed flutter as he offers you a chuckle, and you’re glad he’s atleast being a good sport about it as he taps his fingers on your skin.

“Hm, then might I assume you wouldn’t mind me coming a little closer afterall, my angel?”

౿ DR RATIO

You’re finishing your nightly routine as you reside in the bathroom, though were you to look to your right you’d be able to see where Ratio is waiting for you in bed already. He seems to be quite comfortable, his chiselled physique shirtless and tempting — which in a way makes you want to rush yourself back to him but… there’s a teasing part of you that wants to try out something before you do.

It’s more of a curious affinity than anything else. Though you can only hope it doesn’t backfire, the genius in your bed right now wasn’t particularly one for pranks. So you can only hope that he lets you sleep in bed again with him afterwards,

You try not to think about it too much, trying not to lose your already dwindling courage. But you have to settle your nerves with a swallow as you take your first step into the bedroom, and almost immediately Ratio puts down the book he was reading to give you his full attention.

Except instead of climbing into your side of the bed and up against his chest like he expects, you rest at the bottom of it as you give him a carefully neutral blink.

“I think I’m going to sleep on the couch tonight.” You say suddenly, and you half expect Ratio to laugh at you, maybe snort and call you an idiot for even suggesting as much. But instead — he offers you a gentle response, in a tone that makes it seem like he’s being careful as he watches you.

“Oh? Something troubling you?” His words ask quietly, there’s no hint of annoyance or impatience in his tone, but you hear the way the sheets rustle as he pushes himself to sit up a little straighter.

“No, nothing.” You have to answer quickly before you lose your courage again. It’s hard enough to keep eye contact when Ratio’s before you in this half-nude state, so you end up turning to gaze at something unknown in the corner of the room instead. He mirrors that look as he tries to figure out what’s going on, but when he finds nothing of interest in that direction— he turns his attention back to you.

“Then what ever is the matter?” He asks again, another low question and you have to swallow to respond to this one.

“I don’t want to sleep there tonight. I’ll sleep somewhere else.” You shrug, feigning disinterest but it’s almost immediately that it earns you a sigh. The sheets rustle again as Ratio reaches up a hand to itch at his brow, and it almost appears like he’s trying to smooth out the frown on his features before he looks at you again.

“Don’t be so ridiculous. Come here, won’t you? I’ve made your pillow as you like it.” His hand urges your attention to the pillow on your side and you take note of the way he must’ve fluffed it up. It makes it look particularly comfortable by his side, so you have to tear your gaze away with a tilt of your again before your self control snaps like a flimsy string.

You just opt to shrug instead, and that’s when Ratio really seems to be at his wits end as you watch him pull back the comforter over him from your peripheral vision. It doesn’t take him long to push himself to full height before he’s approaching you, and despite the way you know it’s a bit late for games — he doesn’t raise his voice or yell as he comes to rest opposite you.

Instead, he reaches up to guide your attention back to him, tilting your head forward with one finger and forcing your eyes to meet his as he gives you a neutral, curious look. It’s like he’s trying to examine you hard enough to peek into your mind, though only for a moment before he ultimately gives up and decides to question you instead.

Though Ratio finds himself signing again before he speaks, there’s no hint of irritation to it as he watches your face. “No matter the hour, if something is troubling you — I would much rather we discuss it sooner rather than later, so we may come to a resolution together. Would you not agree that is the most rational course?” He punctuates his sentence with a soft graze of his finger across your cheek before it rests back by his side.

And you decide to hold his gaze this time when you answer, “Nothings wrong, I just don’t want to sleep there.”

“Very well then.” Ratio mutters to you before he turns to make his way back to the bed, and part of you wilts a little at the idea of him giving up so easily, accepting that he’ll be sleeping alone tonight instead of by your side like he normally is.

But before you can find yourself feeling sorry for yourself (which would be a product of your own doing), you watch as the genius instead begins to gather up his belongings. He takes your pillow, a blanket and then his book from the bedside table, and by your next blink — he’s making his way over to you again to give you another hard to read look.

Ratio sighs when you don’t say anything, you only rest infront of him to gape— mouth opening and closing as you try to ask what he’s doing, unable to find your words suddenly. So he speaks instead, “Go on, feel free to show me the way. I do hope to actually get some rest tonight, so if you would be so kind.” And he notions towards the door with his hand as he holds your things, urging you to take a step you never even planned to take in the first place.

“W-what? What’re you doing?” You finally manage, yet it’s far too late for you to back out now. You’re already walking out of the room as he follows behind you.

Ratio scoffs, “What does it look like I’m doing? You didn’t think I was going to actually let you sleep alone, did you?” And then he offers you another sigh when his words are met with silence, as if he’s offended you would even believe he’d ever let you do as such. “How ridiculous. If you wish not to sleep in the bed, then we can sleep elsewhere. Your decision.”

It only takes a few steps before you come to rest in the doorway to the living room, the only place you could think of now that your prank has gotten a little out of hand. But you can’t handle the embarrassment of taking it back now, especially not when your lover is walking over to the couch to begin setting it up.

Ratio fluffs your pillow again before resting it down, followed by his book on the coffee table and then the comforter as he positions it comfortably on top of the cushions. And then he looks at you, beckoning you over with a mere blink before he’s guiding you in first — then following you underneath as you get comfortable. “Well, we’re here now. So I hope you don’t mind a little company.”

It’s quite silly the way it’s played out you think, but you can’t help but still find yourself comfortable as Ratio presses himself up into your side. He even makes sure to rest his arm over the back of the couch behind you, should you opt to snuggle yourself into his side — and it’s an invitation you accept quite eagerly.

He seems quite pleased with that when you press yourself up against his chest, and he lets his lips rest against the top of your head as he murmurs. “Just do tell me next time should you wish to move before I get myself comfortable. Though, I must admit — it has become increasingly more difficult to do so in your absence.” Then he lets his arm fall to rest flat against your back next as he smoothes it across your spine soothingly, like a wordless lullaby as he traces his fingertips against your skin.

“Anyway, do try to get some rest. This was your location of choice afterall, was it not?” You can feel your eyes closing at the movement of Ratio’s hand, so you can only nod at his question before thinking about how you’ll probably keep this little prank to yourself for the rest of your life.

But then he takes another careful breath before he offers you a soft kiss against your head, “I do hope you will rest better for it”

౿ MOZE

You don’t know what urges you to prank Moze like this, maybe it’s knowing his good nature or imagining the adorable, oblivious reaction he would have to your request. But you decide to do it anyway as you rest in your bedroom now — nuzzling yourself deep into the comfortable hug of your comforter as your lover readies himself to get in beside you.

His steps are silent as he approaches the bed, followed by the tilt of the mattress as he pulls back the comforter to slide in beside you. It’s an almost fluid movement, and he offers you a gentle sort of look from where you’re nuzzled into the pillows before he rests on his own.

“You look quite comfortable.” Moze mumbles beneath his breath as he reaches out to cup your cheeks, trailing his thumb along the skin there before you’re leaning into the touch. Sure you’re going to prank him, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy this little moment for a bit longer before you do.

Your next blink is slower than the last and he takes another breath before he speaks again, “Are you falling asleep?” Asking softly as he inches himself a little closer, and it’s almost immediately that you feel his body heat begin to consume you.

It takes everything in your body to mutter out your words before you end up slinking into a very comfortable deep sleep. “No, I don’t think I want to sleep here.” You lie, almost terribly so but Moze doesn’t seem to question it anyway as he offers you a curious look.

“You’re not comfortable?” He doesn’t mean to frown, but he’s looking at you so intently it just seems to naturally rest on his handsome features. Part of you wants to kiss out the crease in his brow but you opt not to, choosing to turn away instead so you can keep some semblance of control on your will power.

His hand retreats from your features as you do, and you press yourself up against your pillow as if to make up for the loss. Though it’s not quite as warm, “No, not really! I just don’t want to sleep next to you.” Your words muffle slightly as you speak and Moze meets them with silence for a moment before you feel him shift again.

“I see..” It’s a quiet sort of response, one that makes you consider turning back round to face him. But then the weight of the mattress leaves again as he mutters out a “That’s fine.” and you turn to check over your shoulder to see him retreating from beneath the comforter again. You can’t even deny the way it makes something in your heart sink, to the point where you almost reach out for him.

But then Moze seems to just perch himself on the edge of the bed instead, and he doesn’t say much else except an accepting. “I’ll just sleep here then.”

That’s what really urges you to turn back around to face him again, more curiously than anything and he’s already watching you when you do. “Hm? Why there?” You ask, resting your hands beneath your head on your pillow as you watch him sit upright with his feet on the floor.

But Moze’s expressions remains neutral, not even a hint of annoyance at his predicament now. Like you haven’t just kicked him out of bed. “So I can keep watch. Don’t worry, I won’t leave you.” Even his words remain comforting and reassuring.

In a way that makes your brows furrow as you pout. “But that won’t be comfortable.”

“As a Shadow Guard I’ve dealt with far worse than this.” His response is quick, and though it was unlikely given who Moze was — part of you hoped he would beg to sleep next to you. So now you’re just left pouting up at him in the hopes he’ll come back.

You sigh, and you feel his hand reach out to smooth along your cheek again “Now sleep.” he pinches at your chin, and the warmth of his touch makes your lashes flutter. “Aren’t you comfortable now?”

“Not really.” You never knew it was possible to regret a prank as much as you do now. But part of you gets your hopes up when Moze leans over you a bit with your response, though he doesn’t climb back underneath the covers unfortunately. Instead, he makes a show of tucking them into your sides, trapping the warmth in as his fingers linger on your silhouette for a moment longer.

You already miss him when pulls away again, “How about now?” He asks again, and it’s so adorable that it almost makes you jump out of bed and on top of him. The expression he’s wearing is enough to have you throwing your self control to the wind with your next breath.

“I changed my mind, can you sleep with me?” You speak softly, like you’re trying to convince him but Moze only looks at you.

“I thought you weren’t comfortable.” He states quite fairly given what you said only a few minutes ago, but he doesn’t seem to argue much when you shrug and mumble out your next response.

“I was when you were here.” That’s when he gets moving, and it’s quite quickly that you find yourself surrounded by Moze’s warmth once more as he pushes himself back beneath the comforter. And this time, you don’t hesitate to press yourself up against his chest — a movement that he welcomes almost instantly as he wraps his arms around you to hug you close.

“It’s easier to keep you safe from up close.” You feel his lips press against your temple as he gives you a gentle kiss, and his hands smooth against your skin as he exhales against you after. You can almost feel the way he relaxes with how closely he holds you, he seems to be quite comfortable himself. “So you can sleep now that I’ve got you.”

౿ BLADE

Blade wasn’t much of a sleeper, he normally teetered on the edge of being asleep and awake, but he still liked the act of resting in bed next to you. Even just your presence alone served as a form of relaxant and having you as close as you are now — makes him actually feel somewhat comfortable as you rest with your cheek against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist to keep you close.

But maybe that’s what makes you feel bad about the sort of prank you’re about to pull. It’s not meant to be bad spirited — but you’re just curious to how he would react were you to say you didn’t want to sleep by his side tonight.

You find even the idea of Blade’s reaction to be quite hard to imagine as you rest facing up at him now, your finger is twirling around a piece of his longer hair and he’s looking down to watch you quite intently as you lose yourself in thought. He can tell you’re considering something — it’s obvious as he reaches his hand up to cover your own.

And he gives it a squeeze as a wordless call for your attention before he’s resting them both on his chest, “Something the matter?” He asks earnestly— in that same ragged, low tone of voice that he always used and you don’t think you’ll ever tire of the sound.

But when Blade is met with silence for the first few moments, he continues. “You’re tense.”

The opportunity for your prank to commence has been presented infront of you, but when you feel a long stroke of his hand along the length of your arm— it makes you shudder. Your self control almost fumbles for a moment before you quickly respond, almost struggling to lift your gaze up to meet his.

“I don’t want to sleep here.” With you— is what you mean to say, it’s the whole point of the prank but there’s something about the tender tone of Blade’s voice that makes your sentence waver at the last second.

Especially when it’s purring along your hairline a moment later as he opts to pull you a little closer, curling his arm around you until you’re almost pulled into the crook of his neck. “And why is that?”

Another low drawl makes you shudder, eyes fluttering as Blade presses you up against him and even despite your response, it’s quite obvious that you’re lying with how relaxed your voice sounds. “I’m just not very comfortable.”

But still he hums like he’s acknowledging you anyway, and he leaves you in your comfortable position for a few moments longer before he’s groaning out a stiff, “I see.” And with his next breath, he’s moving you almost too easily— pushing you up onto his chest with only the strength of the arm that wraps around you.

And as much as the sudden movement makes you shriek as you try to balance yourself on top of Blade’s body, he doesn’t seem too bothered at all when he reaches out to steady you himself.

“Then is this better?” He asks casually as you rest on top of him now, though you’re still there gaping like a fish with how quickly he’s just moved you — it’s like your brain is still trying to catch up to your new found position. But he doesn’t look phased by it at all… clearly unaware about how easily he seems to have foiled your sorry excuse of a prank.

Part of you had already forgotten about it, “Maybe a little bit.” You opt to shrug, a little defeated. But you still rest your chin down on his chest to give him a look that seems like exactly the opposite when you snuggle into him again. You almost relax enough to fall asleep actually, until Blade decides to ultimately respond after a few moments of silence.

“Well then, would you prefer if I leave afterall?” His question makes you splutter,

“I didn’t ask you to leave.” You only thought about it actually— but only as a prank, though you admit that your reaction to him bringing it up makes you look as guilty as ever. Part of you almost considers the idea that maybe Blade could read minds, but before you can fall down that rabbit hole he speaks again.

“Is that so? I must’ve misunderstood then.” His drawl sounds again and by his next breath, both of his hands are on your hips, smoothing beneath the fabric of your t shirt before they’re reaching up to trace the length of your spine. Even if he’d found you out, you can barely find the energy to argue your innocence with how suddenly sleepy you feel now.

You’re really doing nothing to fight your case when you can barely fight sleep.

Though Blade would argue that you do seem more than comfortable now as he watches your eyes flutter and close with every stroke of his fingertips. Until he feels your breathing slow from where your chest is pressed against his and he sighs,

“Then I’ll stay with you afterall.”

౿ JING YUAN

Part of you doesn’t want to prank Jing Yuan, mostly for your own sake — the man had a peculiar way of turning everything back on you and somehow making you feel like you were the one being pranked everytime you tried. But you’re not going to let that stop you from trying anyway, even if only for a slight opportunity at getting back at him.

Afterall, he teases you so much already… it’s only fair that you retaliate.

So you bide your time and you wait, until you watch Jing Yuan groan as he drops down onto the mattress by your side and it’s almost immediately that he presses himself up against you— until you’re chest to chest. He always slept much like this, with you right up against him and as much as your body finds it hard to not just melt into him and relax — you try to keep yourself tense and awake.

So you press both of your hands up against his chest and you push until you’re far away enough to look up at him. But he’s still holding you tight despite that.

“I’m gonna sleep somewhere else tonight, I think.” You watch Jing Yuan’s expression as you tell him but there’s no frown on his features, no look of confusion or curiosity. Instead, he just tilts his head down at you and appears just as handsomely lax as always when he speaks.

“Oh? Is that right, my dear?” His tone is honey-like and you hate the way it makes your fingers almost twitch where they rest against his chest — almost sinking into the plush muscle. He holds your gaze there, “Something troubling you?”

And you have to reply quickly, before your self control wavers— so you try to turn your head away from him to ensure he doesn’t make sure of that. “No, I just don’t feel like sleeping here with you anymore.”

Your lips pout as you sound out your words, and you do your best to put some space between you and the General in bed as you do — but he seems to have no trouble wrapping his arms around you to pull you right back. It’s almost too easy as he deliberately tilts his head down to meet your line of sight, humming like he’s considering your words— you know he’s not.

But then you feel Jing Yuan’s hands rest over your hips, smoothing along the surface and you feel your body almost curl into him as he works at you. It’s like he’s smoothing any discomfort right out of you as he sends you a lazy smile.

“Well, I can’t be expected to sleep without you by my side now, can I?” It’s a teasing purr of his voice and he deliberately closes the space you’d made between you both as he pulls you back in. Until you’re close enough now that you can hear every syllable almost vibrate through your skin. “What a cruel fate that would be.”

The strength that you were using to push him back previously seems to falter, and you hate the way you can hear Jing Yuan chuckle at that. The smooth sound almost motivates you to kick him right off of the bed, if you had the strength to you actually might.

But instead you just give him a particularly cross look, and opt to continue with what you believe seems like a losing battle already.

“You heard me.” You mutter beneath your breath, just as Jing Yuan smears a little kiss along your cheek and you grumble to yourself as you try to push him away again. Except he doesn’t budge this time as his hand smooths up to hold your waist next, and he pushes himself up to lean over you a bit.

His new position urges you to roll over onto your back and you’re aware at how disadvantageous this position is for you. Especially when you’ve got him looking down at you like you’re his dinner. But his grip on your waist is quite tight that you don’t think you’d be able to break away if you even tried, which leaves you completely at Jing Yuan’s mercy when he leans down to pepper you in kisses.

“Would you like me to do something to make you more comfortable, my dear?” He asks slowly, dragging out every letter between long presses of his lips— from your cheeks to your temple, to your chin. And as much as you hate the way your prank has turned out, you can’t say you don’t love it either.

The General seems to pick up on that too when his fingertips tease beneath your shirt to squeeze at your bare skin, “No ask is ever too great when it is for you.” And the touch alongside Jing Yuan’s low tone makes you shudder.

“You are insufferable, do you know that?” You huff, because he truly was — part of you wants to ask if he knew it was a prank and was playing with you all this time. But the other part doesn’t want to accept the possibility that maybe you just bend to his will this easily, so you just allow yourself to be bathed in his kisses and the pets of his palm.

A truly unspeakable punishment.

But you hear Jing Yuan really laugh at your little outburst, in that cruelly-smooth type tone before he’s giving you a quick kiss against your lips next. “And your pranks are far too obvious, my dear.” Before he hugs you close this time and you just let yourself melt into his chest, albeit offering him a stubborn little huff knowing you’ve been found out.

Again.

Though he must admit, he finds your acts of defiance to be quite amusing. “You’ll have to try a lot harder than that next time, you know I rest much more soundly having you beside me. It’s not a luxury I would give up so easily.”

star divider by @saradika-graphics

i.

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.

★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞

★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?

★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.

It didn’t always feel that way.

When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.

For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.

But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.

You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.

And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.

The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”

Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.

You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.

It was 10:18 PM.

You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.

You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.

Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.

“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.

You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.

But tonight… you couldn’t.

It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.

“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.

Nothing.

You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”

That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”

He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.

“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”

He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.

The room went still.

He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”

Not working?

Not working?

“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”

He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”

“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”

“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”

“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”

“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”

He was probably right.

“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.

“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”

“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.

You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?

Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”

He froze.

“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.

But you didn’t.

“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.

Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?

YOU

|  Guys we’re going out tn.

When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.

You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.

Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.

The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.

You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?

“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.

You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."

You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.

No, a year ago, your life changed.

So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.

Dante.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.

You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.

But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.

Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.

You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.

Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.

Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.

His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”

A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?

A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”

Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.

He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?

He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.

“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”

You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”

And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.

You were done.

That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.

You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.

But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.

You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.

Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.

But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.

Kill me, you thought.

That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.

Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.

You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.

The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.

The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.

Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.

Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.

Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.

Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.

You glanced down.

There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.

The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.

“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.

You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?

All you could do was crack the window open.

“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”

“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.

But he was. 

“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”

“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”

“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”

Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”

What the fuck is going on?

In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”

Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”

“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”

“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”

“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”

“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”

“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”

A pregnant pause.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”

Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?

Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”

You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.

“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”

Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.

No. Stop that.

Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”

He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”

You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”

That hit its mark.

His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.

“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”

“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”

He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…

You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.

Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.

And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.

“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.

“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”

“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”

“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”

Oh my god.

You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”

He laughed. “You remembered.”

You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”

Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”

You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.

“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.

“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.

“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”

Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”

You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”

And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.

You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”

He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.

“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”

You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”

You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.

There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.

You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.

“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”

You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…

You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.

Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.

And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.

You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.

One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation. 

What? You needed it.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.

God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.

You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.

Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.

You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.

It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.

Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.

“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”

You pulled the door open.

Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.

“Hey, princess,” he said.

There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.

You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”

“Did you?” You answered.

“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”

You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”

You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”

“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.

Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”

He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.

Then he stepped in behind you.

Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”

His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.

“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?

You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.

“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”

His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.

“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”

And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

God, I missed this.

You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.

You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.

But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.

You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.

“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.

“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

There it was.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.

But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

And then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.

I could treat you so much better.

Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.

You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.

And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.

Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.

"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"

It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.

“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.

You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.

You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?

You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.

“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

Babe.

The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.

But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.

You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.

The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.

You couldn’t help it.

You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.

His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”

He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.

“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”

“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”

There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.

“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”

He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”

“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”

His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.

You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.

You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real. 

You were leaving him.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”

But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.

Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it. 

But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.

I could treat you better. 

I’ve always been in love with you.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.

So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.

YOU: I need you.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.

a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok

I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

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wanna join the taglist? | pretty ; chapter index

PHAINON ࣪ ִֶָ ⋆ . call my name

as overly formal and unnecessary as it sounds, the amphoreus' hero has always been lord phainon to you. while it comes with great honour and respect, much like how it applies to your master; lady aglaea, it feels like there's a barrier between you and him, and he doesn't really like that, considering that he'd like to know you better, closer.

so naturally, he revels in making you drop the honourary title, and the best way to make you do so (based on his countless personal experiments of trial-and-error, which he very much enjoyed) is to catch you off guard. shock you enough to make you forget all about the formality, enough to make you see him not as just amphoreus' hero, but as phainon himself.

one of the times that happened was when you found a lost little girl in the wood. so you asked around the village nearby if she's familiar. you were starting to get some leads when you stumbled upon an elderly man who commented, "my, what lovely family you three look".

"no, we're not-".

"well, thank you so much, good sir. unfortunately, they're not family members. we're actually looking for this child's parents. although i'd like to note that i do look forward to starting a family with this woman".

"phainon!".

of course, that's just one method of making you fall into his plan. there's trill in guessing how you'll react. the blush that never fail to paint your face rosy red always manage to make him fall deeper for you. but nothing made him completely weak than you calling his name consciously out of your own choice.

not even mydei's hardest punch to his gut could do as much damage as you do in this situation.

he was looking at the moon one night all alone when you appeared beside him. "someone seems busy with his thought. would he be so generous to share?", a teasing tone laced your words, making him chuckled. you always seem to know how to calm his nerve when it's going wild.

"just.. thinking about the battle to come. do you think we'll make it this time?". from the hill you're standing on, the ruins around the perimeter glowed under the moonlight. the destruction they faced was unmistakable. from the way he sympathetically shifted his gaze upon them, you guessed that perhaps it's from his previous battle, one that you didn't embark together with, one that he failed.

without warning, you took his hand in yours, caressing circles on the scars on it, a gentle smile gracing your lips. "of course we will, because you have me by your side", you announced pridefully, so full of confidence that it felt contagious on him. "and you by mine, phainon".

you voice was so low, as if a whisper of a mother soothing her crying child, or a girl confessing to her lover of her affection. but he heard you loud and clear.

although, he felt like he needed you to repeat that again because his system was in a mess from you saying his name that he didn't get to savour it to its fullest.

"no, that only come once".

safe to say that he spent the rest of the night begging that you call his name like you just did. but where's the fun in a challenge if you just give him what he wants?

⊹₊ author's note ₊⊹

this is kinda silly, but someone implied that phainon isn't as innocent as what we originally thought he would be did something to my brain chemistry. and you know what? good for him. this man needs some fun before he d***

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐇𝐒𝐑 𝐌𝐄𝐍 .ᐟ

first meetings are always the spark to a flame.

ᯓ 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 .ᐟ argenti, sunday, boothill, blade, aventurine + jing yuan x fem!reader (separate), feat. march, dan heng, himeko, kafka, madam yukong.

ᯓ 𝐜𝐰 .ᐟ alcohol consumption, mentions of blood/violence, SFW, boy did i have some fun with sunday's one, blade's one is ass but moving on, this took me way too long to write, 6.3k words 💀, idk if this has been done before (probably), rbs are appreciated!! <3

ᯓ ARGENTI .ᐟ

𝐎𝐇 𝐁𝐎𝐘. Never in your life had you been so flustered over a mere compliment—but, really, no one could blame you. Having such a man of unparalleled beauty himself flatter you with flowery words and praises? Not only that, but with the most sincere, earnest expression on his face while he said such things? Falling in love had never been so easy.

“This rose, one possessing such quiet, enrapturing beauty itself, falls pathetically short in comparison to you, my lady,” the knight had remarked silkily, all while presenting said ‘pathetic’ rose to you confidently. He was stooped into a gentlemanly bow, one of his gauntleted hands placed over his armoured chest, those sparkling green eyes of his intense and filled with true candour. “It is like starlight follows your every step, so dazzling and captivating—a sight no person in their right mind would be able to banish from their thoughts.”

“I…” You hadn’t the slightest clue what to say. To be bombarded with such ornate compliments (on a normal day, you’d consider them painfully cheesy) and gazed at with two earnest jade eyes—well. It left you utterly speechless. With only a trembling hand responding to him and reaching out to accept the flower, you flicked a frantic glance in Himeko's direction. But she looked on in great amusement, hiding her giggles behind an elegant hand. This knight should be showering her with compliments here! Himeko’s the gorgeous one! Awkward, baffled silence from your fellow Express members suffocated the atmosphere. Your cheeks were burning. “My goodness, I…I’ve never received such high praise from someone as handsome as yourself before.” Or anyone, for that matter. 

“You have not?” Once you had taken the rose, the knight of beauty, named Argenti, straightened and peered down at you with such a genuinely astonished stare, as if the concept of no one ever having complimented you was completely foreign and bizarre to him. “I do believe that is the most outlandish thing I’ve heard for a very long time. Such a lovely young woman such as yourself, one who I quake at even having the honour of being in the presence of, has never received her due praise? What has this universe come to?”

“I, uh, have no idea.” You twirled the rose gently in your fingers, noting its thornless stem. It smelled very nice, and it was evident the man before you took great care of his (seemingly endless) supply of flowers. “But, thank you very much, Sir Argenti. you have made my day.”

In fact, you wanted to cry from embarrassment and joy at the knight’s abrupt onslaught of lauds for you. You didn’t think yourself worthy. 

And then he did something most unexpected. He took your hand in his large, gauntleted one ever so gently, as if it were a soft, fragile petal of a rose, and placed a gentlemanly kiss to the top of it. You could hear March gasp in shock, and the sound of a phone camera going off. Oh, they’re going to tease me about this for a long, long time. Argenti parted his lips from the top of your hand, but he did not straighten, remaining hovered over it while gazing up at you with two intense green eyes. “Truly, I tell you, it makes my heart soar to know I have, but—will you grant me the honour of keeping me company during my stay?”

“I—I’m sorry?”

Argenti finally stood straight again, but he brought your hand up higher so he could place another peck to the top of it, if need be. “I shall, regrettably, remain aboard this extraordinary train only temporarily. However, if you were to allow me the privilege to befriend you throughout my brief visit here, I would be utterly overjoyed.”

Tongue-tied, you sneaked a glance in March’s direction, and she caught your eye, immediately flailing around and frantically gesturing for you to say yes. Dan Heng stood at her side, his usually aloof, blank expression now showing a rare expression of bewilderment at Argenti’s antics and flowery words toward you, and he nodded along with March. 

Pressing your lips together anxiously, you finally managed a nod. “Sir Argenti, I believe it would, in fact, be my honour to keep you company amid your stop here.”

Happiness brightened the Knight of Beauty’s previously tentative expression, and he pressed another soft kiss to the top of your hand, closing his eyes. “Words could never efficiently suffice to convey the bliss I feel at your affirmation. My lady, how eternally honoured I am to have met you throughout the vast, endless cosmos, where such a beautiful soul as yourself is so hard to come by.”

ᯓ SUNDAY .ᐟ

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐑 of a man was one you either got off on the right foot with, or you didn’t. There was simply no in between. In contrast, his angel of a sister was much easier to befriend, considering her naturally sweet temperament, but her brother…well, to say the least, you could not stand the man upon your first introduction to him.

It was at a rather illustrious event, one you could only attend because of your own family’s status. The invitations were sent to your father three months ago, all the way from penacony and into your own homeworld, one lightyears from the planet of festivities. Your father thought this a great opportunity to speak personally about business with the renowned Mr. Sunday—a man with the slyness of a fox and the stillness of a snake.

Yes, his handsome features and suave manner were truly appealing, but that didn’t take away your simmering urge to splash your glass of SoulGlad all over that exorbitant off-white three-piece lapel suit of his. And, oh, yes, he was so polite and charming and refined, but the way he looked at you made your cheeks heat and blood boil.

Golden eyes with the softness of a rock. Utterly unreadable, unpredictable. But you tolerated him, because relations between the head of the Oak Family and your father took priority well over your own inimical sentiments for the man. Also, his sister Robin, the famed and beautiful singer all across the cosmos, had become a quick friend of yours. The vast difference in personality between the sibling duo was baffling.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Sunday had pleasantly greeted, smoothly taking your gloved hand and placing a gentlemanly, polite, and brief kiss to the top of it. “Miss [Name].”

“No, the honour is all mine.” At first, you thought him nice enough, rather taken with the way he so facilely, amiably kissed your hand. You’d always liked the more traditional men, and Mr. Sunday was the embodiment of one—with his tall frame and courteous demeanour. That impression, however, did not last long.

The more the man talked, the more you disliked him. His voice was soothing and silky and full of the right amount of polite detachment fitting for a businessman of his calibre. His lips seemed to be permanently turned up at the corners, into some kind of semblance of a smile you couldn’t quite place. Almost a smirk, not quite. Something about it put you off, and drew you in. Perhaps that was the point.

“…This is not a realm for the infirm,” he was saying to your father, his champagne glass held loosely in long, attractive fingers. Ones sure to not have a single callus on them—for, you sardonically, softly scoffed into your own glass, this man was the very type to spill blood by proxy, never dirtying his own, smooth hands.

Maybe you were jumping to conclusions and making unfair judgements about this man—but, well, you just couldn’t shake the feeling that there was much more to the Head of the Oak Family than what first met the eye. Something off-putting.

“How do you mean?” Your father replied, taking a sip of his SoulGlad.

“I mean, natural selection is one to take precedence and make the choices for us, no?” You acted uninterested in the conversation as you looked away and pretended to watch the performing orchestra with rapt interest. “The law of the jungle puts each person to the test, and that all depends on your own determination, potential and, most of all, aptitude. Life is an obstacle course. It all boils down to one’s capabilities.”

“Survival of the fittest, you mean?” your father clarified, squinting at the Head of the Family, before he nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes, I quite agree. Adaptation, such a morbidly wonderful concept. It is how individuals like you and I clawed our ways to the top, if it meant our loved ones lived the lives they deserve.” And then he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, giving you a fatherly squeeze, smiling down at you. “I’ve no qualms about getting some dirt under my fingernails if it means my beloved daughter is comfortable for the rest of her life.”

“Father, you’re making it sound like you’re secretly an underground crime boss.” You jokingly arched a brow, masking your deep discomfort with the present topic of the conversation. You could feel Mr. Sunday’s golden hues boring into the side of your face intently. “You shouldn’t say such things. I think you’re both talking nonsense.”

“Ah, so you have been listening,” quipped Mr. Sunday, inclining his head toward you, gazing at you through his greyish-blue bangs and long lashes. “You do not agree with the survival of the fittest?”

“Oh, now, I do not consider myself to be a holy person, Mr. Sunday,” you elucidated, straightening your posture. “I hold no lofty ideals. But I do believe in fairness.” Ironic, as all I’ve been doing this evening is judging you. But, somehow, you felt that your judgments were not inaccurate. “I believe that for society to flourish as it should peacefully, this ‘survival of the fittest’ archetype should be discarded. Instead of using the weak as leverage for ‘getting to the top’, the ‘fittest’ should do their best to extend a hand to those clinging to the precipice for dear life, instead of letting them fall—or, even worse—kicking them to their metaphorical death. Do you understand my meaning?” 

“Your words hold merit,” the Oak Family head acknowledged, staring at you from over the rim of his champagne flute. “You seem to cling tightly to your morality.”

“You do not?” You were beginning to enjoy twisting his words and testing him. Let’s see how long it’ll take until he trips up. “The holy and righteous Head of the Family cares not for principles?”

“That is not what I said at all.” Sunday seemed equally amused. “I pride myself in my integrity. That is something…you and I appear to have in common.”

“Hm.” You gazed back, unintimidated. You really did not like this man. Yes, you were attracted to him—but what man or woman wasn’t? His allure was merely one of the many tricks up his sleeve he effortlessly, unhesitatingly utilised to his advantage. 

It was unfortunate that your father jumped to use the chemistry between you both as a great business tactic. “Well, then, I shall leave you both to this conversation. Such a riveting one, yes, but I fear my informant is seeking my attention. Enjoy yourselves!”

And just like that, your own shelter from the beloved Mr. Sunday was gone. Silence befell you both momentarily, before the Family head extended a hand to you, flashing a bewitching smile, so full of knives. “Now, Miss [Name]…shall we dance?”

ᯓ BOOTHILL .ᐟ

“𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 these shady parts are ideal for such a lovely young lady as yerself, darlin’.”

You didn’t look up from your whiskey glass. “Because I’m not safe from vagabonds like you?"

A raspy chuckle followed. “Hoho, a sharp tongue you have. Yeah, I’d say you ain’t far off the mark there, treasure.” The scrape of a stool being drawn out filled the silence, and the man you still hadn’t looked at took a seat next to you. “But, ya haven’t got anything to worry about around me, sugar. I ain’t one of them shirtbags.”

Shirtbags? “That’s what those…shirtbags all say.” Should I just leave? You’d almost finished your drink, anyway. “Can’t a girl have a drink in a rundown bar late at night in peace?”

“Sure she can,” was the answer. “You still ain’t safe, though. Look out for yerself.”

“What’s it to you?” You finally glanced over at the man, and his appearance immediately took you aback. Cowboy hat tipped down low over his eyes, only the slope of a nose and a shapely, smirking mouth visible. Long, grey hair split into two flowing over back with black undersides. And…metal arms. A metal-plated torso. A holster with untold ammo and a gun secured on his right hip. He had cool, dark skin-tight trousers on with spurred roper boots on his feet. You couldn’t see his eyes, but it was easy to tell he was awfully attractive. 

The unknown man tilted his head slightly, revealing his only visible eye to you. His right one was fully covered by his hair. It was curious—that eye had a red pupil, with four white lines rimming it, making it appear like a target lock symbol. You blinked at him, and he grinned. This guy’s full of surprises. His teeth were sharp, jagged, like a shark’s. “Oh, sweetheart, it ain’t nothin’ to me, you’re right. But what’s wrong with extending some friendly concern for a sad-looking young woman on her third glass of whiskey?” “How did you—” You narrowed your eyes at him. “Have you been watching me this entire time? And sad-looking? You wanna start a fight?” You brushed your coat to the side, revealing your own gun. He glanced down at it in immense amusement. “If you’re just here to cause trouble, then you can piss o—”

He held up both hands in surrender, still grinning. “Not here to cause trouble, sugar. Just here to chat. Nothin’ else, I swear. On my honour.”

You snorted. “Didn’t know you had any.”

“Hey.” His tone turned whiny, half-offended. “I’m basically actin’ as your bodyguard right now, honey. Keepin’ all these creeps in here miles away from ya because of my menacin’ energy.”

“Menacing?” You laughed derisively. “Ha! You’re a funny one, cowboy. Anyway, what’re the likes of you doing in these parts? This is a bar, not a saloon. Can’t play poker here, you know—at least, I don’t think so.” “Har har.” The man paused and ordered some…malt juice? You looked at him weirdly. He ignored it. “Hilarious, darlin’. I ain’t your stereotypical cowboy. I go around beatin’ them IPC fudgeheads up, not smackin’ cow rumps on a ranch.”

“An outlaw, are you? Ooh, scary.” You chuckled into your shot glass. “How big’s your bounty?”

“Why? Gonna turn me in?” He leaned his cheek on one metal hand, gazing at you with an intense eye. It felt a bit weird—strangely, that target lock symbol in his eye made you feel like he’d set you in his sights. “Good luck with that one, sweetheart. People’ve been tryin’ for years.”

“Who said I was gonna turn you in?” You arched a brow at him. “I don’t care about you and your so-called bounty. You sound pretty full of yourself, cowboy.”

“When you’re a pro at evading the IPC for years on end, who wouldn’t get a little bit of a big head?”

“Pride always comes before the fall.” You took a sip of whiskey. “Biggest mistake you could possibly make is underestimating your enemy.”

“Heck, sounds like yer givin’ me some advice on how to continue runnin’ away from them IPC hooligans!” he guffawed. “Sounds like you’re already well on your merry way to becomin’ a scummy crim like me, eh, darlin’? Oho, now that’s funny.”

“What’s wrong with extending some friendly concern for a scruffy-looking cyborg?” you echoed his previous words sardonically.

“Alright, you got me there,” he conceded amusedly. There was a moment of silence, and then he held out a hand for you to shake. “Name’s Boothill. What’s yours, sugar?”

You looked at his hand, and then at him. Then you took his hand and shook it firmly. “[Name]. Nice to meet a fellow outlaw.”

ᯓ BLADE .ᐟ

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐘 sharp edge of a sword was hovering just over your jugular vein, more than ready to slice it open at any given opportunity. It was barely touching your skin, a ghost of a scrape, and you remained completely, absolutely still. 

The blade was of a deep, dark crimson, with golden spider cracks adorning it, giving the sword a serrated, broken appearance. It was visibly well-wielded, and mended many times over.

Just like the man who was holding it to your throat.

Bandages covered his left hand, and one was wrapped around his upper right forearm, on his coat’s sleeve. Strange. Another was wound around his upper right thigh, also on clothing, not on his skin. His hair was shaggy, unkempt, brushing over his eyes so thickly, his left one was barely visible. But his one visible eye…it held an intensity you hadn’t come across before—one so piercing, so penetrating, it became a physical and mental battle to hold it.

The man was handsome, very handsome, and his face was full of youth. But the way his brow was knotted so harshly, lips drawn out into a severe line, and how his uncovered eye speared through you gave you the unshakable sense that this man had seen, done, and lived many things, and many lifetimes.

“I know who you are,” were his first words to you. A deep, gruff, cold voice, so menacing. The man’s whole ambiance screamed menace. He would kill you without a second thought, resolutely, and you’d just become yet another victim he never stopped to understand, to care about.

“You do?” You were nervous; that sword of his was held so steadily, there was not a detectable tremor in his grip at all. The man’s entire form was utterly motionless, like a predator lying in patient, still wait. And the killing blow could come at any time, and you would never have possibly anticipated it. “…I don’t recall meeting you before.” “Then why are you here?” There was the crackle of leather squeezing together, and you watched as his only gloved hand curled around the blade’s hilt just that bit more. That red eye narrowed. It was flecked with searing gold, you noticed. “You do not belong here. I should kill you.”

You slowly lifted a hand, not making any sudden movements, but his eyes did not move from yours for even a fraction of a second. Tapping the back of it against the sword’s edge, you ever so slowly eased it away from your neck. You were amazed he let you. “Sir, I have no idea who you are, but did you think I was going to let a stranger bleed out in some empty alleyway at one in the morning?”

“You should mind your own business,” he spat, but he deemed you harmless enough to stay his sword fully. It dissipated into stardust, and your eyes bugged out at the sight. The man tried to take two steps back, but he stumbled, slumping against the brick wall behind him. You rushed to catch him, but a large, firm hand grabbed your shoulder and held you away from him. “Don’t.”

“Mister, you are bleeding. Severely.” From your observations of his (very obvious) mannerisms and appearance, you could only surmise that this man was some kind of soldier or thug, either or. He knew how to wield a sword masterfully, and this kind of incident evidently wasn’t new to him.

“And I will be fine.” A flash of red in the dark was all that told you he’d flicked a glare in your direction as he slid down the wall, sitting on the cold stone ground. “Leave this place.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You would just be making it more difficult for me. Leave. Before I have to make you leave myself.”

You knelt down in front of him. He was panting heavily, a hand on his middle. Rivulets of blood oozed between his fingers, streaming out and down through the gaps of his knuckles. “What’s your name?” “That is…none of your concern,” he puffed, that permanent frown on his face deepening. Sweat glistened on his brow. “There’s no need for me to tell yo—” “I’m asking so I can call a friend of yours, genius. Or an associate, if you’re involved with underground stuff like that.” You began to reach for his hip, feeling around for a phone. “Because you, clearly, don’t have the energy to—”

His free hand snatched yours away, grip tight and almost bruising. “Leave. Just leave.”

You stared at him, lips pursed. “I need to calm down. Whatever secret it is you’re desperately trying to keep from me is none of my concern. I’m not interested in that. What I am interested in is getting you help. Let me contact whoever your partner in all this is.”

His wide chest heaved, his breathing laboured, before he finally broke gazes with you and released your wrist. “Fine. Make it quick. And then you go, understood?” “Perfectly.” You waited for him to extract his phone from his pocket and unlock it, handing it to you. Then his hand slumped down. Damn, even doing just that took everything in him. You were growing increasingly concerned. This man is dying. I need to hurry.

The first name to pop up in his contacts was someone called ‘Kafka’. Hitting the call button, you put it on speaker and held it out to him. He waved it away, rasping, “you do the talking.”

Four rings went by before the other end clicked and a crooning, sultry female voice filtered through the phone. “Ooh, what a pleasant surprise, Bladie. You never call first~”

You glanced up at the so-called ‘Bladie’, who fixed you with a glare that screamed, I dare you to ask. I dare you. Biting back your laughter, you cleared your throat and carefully began, “Uh, good evening, ma’am. I’m here with your friend…Bladie.”

There was silence on the other end for a beat before the woman broke into chuckles. “Haha! You called him Bladie! Oh, you don’t have much longer to live, missy. If he’s incapacitated right now, you’re very lucky.”

You sneaked a glance at the man before you and saw that she wasn’t exaggerating. His glower was murderous, even more so than before. Your stomach dropped at the sight. “…Haha. Sorry about that. And yes, he is incapacitated right now. Very injured, in fact. He’s losing a lot of blood, ma’am.”

“Oh, don’t be so formal!” This ‘Kafka’ talked as if the present incident was just another Tuesday for her. What do these two get up to? You weren’t sure if you even wanted to know. “Just call me Kafka, sweetie. I’m on my way right now, Bladie. What’s your name, honey?”

You gave her your name. Kafka hummed. “Mm, yes, well, darling, I would advise you to leave, please. You’ve been a great help, and I hate to scare you off, but Bladie here has a few problems only I can attend to. Your leaving is only for your own good.”

“Why?” Curiosity killed the cat.

“Don’t ask questions. Just leave,” the man growled, and he seemed to be getting nastier and nastier by the second. “Do as she says. Go.”

“I’m almost there, Blade,” Kafka said through the phone, and that’s when you knew she’d used his actual name. Blade. It suited him. Very well. The faint sound of heels clicking in the background on the line told you the woman was hurrying over to you and Blade. “Hang in there, alright? Just a little longer.”

“Miss Kafka, I think I should stay here—”

“Honey, Blade here is mara-struck,” she interrupted you, her voice still so lilting and flirtatious, but it held a firmer note. “If he goes wild, you’ll be the first to go.”

“What do I keep telling you?” Blade panted, and that’s when you understood the golden gleam in his eyes. “Go. How long until it gets through your thick skull? When you’re dead? Just lea—”

“Bladie, don’t be so harsh.” Kafka had her previous playful tone again, one this man obviously hated. “She’s probably terribly shocked right now—aren’t you, honey?” “…Yeah…” You were. Utterly shellshocked. I need to get out of here. This man was much more dangerous than you initially anticipated. “I’ll…I’ll go.”

“Good idea,” Kafka purred, and then two sets of heels began to echo behind you. “Here we are.”

The call ended, and the woman emerged from the shadows. Voluptuous, graceful and just exuding danger, the tall lady approached you both with quick, but casual, calculated steps, and Blade looked visibly relieved at her appearance. Kafka smiled down at you, but it wasn’t a real smile. Just an automatic reaction, you guessed. You immediately handed her Blade’s phone. Her smile widened. “Thank you, sweetie. Run along now.”

“Of—of course.” You hurried to your feet. Glancing worriedly down at Blade, he kept his head slumped as Kafka knelt beside him in the place you just were. Her perfume hit you like a truck, and you suddenly thought this woman was very cool. Really cool. But lethal. “I…yeah. Take care.”

“Oh, we will.” Kafka didn’t look up again, and was feeling Blade’s pulse. “Have a lovely rest of your night, honey. You got lucky.”

You’d already guessed as much. “Haha. Goodbye.”

Turning to hurry out of the alleyway, you were stopped by the woman calling out for you one last time. She had a long, elegant finger pressed to her lips, and she winked at you. “Just a little reminder, sweetie, to not say a word of this to anyone, alright?” “…Alright.”

Kafka’s intense gaze wasn’t half as friendly as her smile. “Good girl. Keep quiet, and we’ll be back with a reward for you in no time.” Intimidated, you backed up. “Oh—there’s…really no need, ma’am.”

She clicked her tongue, turning back to the now-unconscious man before her and continuing with whatever she was doing on him, chuckling rather darkly. “Oh, but there is. See you soon, sweetie.”

ᯓ AVENTURINE .ᐟ

“𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐀 few tricks up your sleeve, have you?”

You threw the dice down on the roulette wheel, leaning back in your chair and watching it spin about freely. Taking a sip of your cocktail, you smiled at the golden-haired man to your left over the rim of it. “You’re asking me that question? You’ve got untold ones hidden up in all nooks and crannies of that expensive peacock coat of yours.”

Aventurine leaned his cheek against his fist, elbow propped on his chair’s armrest. A pair of the most striking, beautiful eyes you’d ever seen gazed at you through rose-tinted shades. “Why, aren’t you observant. This little gambling session really has been such a ball. I haven’t come across someone as skilled as yourself in a long time.”

“Thank you kindly,” you sarcastically said, setting your beverage down with a soft clink. You glanced at the mountain of chips gathered neatly right in front of the man. Equal to yours. Now, you were both locked in a one-on-one gambling session where you fought for each other’s chips. Maybe a bit unorthodox—usually there’d be many more players. But the less there were, the more intense it was. “I dare say, this is one intense first meeting, don’t you agree?”

“Most certainly.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “Now, shall we make a small, personal bet of our own?”

“A personal bet?” you repeated, tilting your head at him. “I would never have guessed you made such things.”

“Only when necessary.”

“Oh, I see—you’re doing this because you’re losing. Pitifully.” You twirled a chip around between your fingers. “Alright. What’s this bet you’d like to make?”

“I bet that if you lose the next five chips, you answer a question of mine. If I lose the next five chips, I’ll score you a little rendezvous with the lovely Miss Jade.”

“Only five chips?” you queried warily, lifting a brow. “And how did you know I wish to speak with Jade? Oh, what am I saying. You IPC thugs always have tabs on something.”

“You wound me. Let’s hop to it, shall we?” Aventurine threw in his dice. “I bet on a twenty-three. Five gold chips.”

“Five-thousand credits, hm?” He was going for the kill. You smiled to yourself. “Alright. I bet on twelve. Five black chips.”

“You play cheap,” he mused, intently watching the dice spin around. “Not much of an investor, are you?”

“Knowing you and your tactics, I would be more likely to take a greater loss than you,” you explained, no qualms about handing it to his innate gambling skills and apt intuition. You couldn’t fathom how he did it and where he got his accuracy from. “Five hundred credits isn’t too much of a loss for me.”

“Two selected numbers out of thirty-eight in total.” Aventurine relaxed into his chair. The dice began to slow. “What are the chances?"

“It all depends.” You watched as the dice spun away from the ‘twelve’ notch over and over. You were getting a bit jittery. You had a feeling that this question of his was worth far more to you than the five hundred measly credits you put on the table. “For all we know, it could land in neither of our betted numbers.”

“Oh, so true.” This man was so sly, so conniving. It set off alarms in your head. The corners of his shapely lips turned up, and he grinned devilishly at you. “Let’s see where it lands.”

The dice spun and spun and spun, getting slower and slower—before, finally, it rolled to a gradual stop, tumbling into a notch. 

Your fingers twitched. You wanted to wring the handsome, cunning man’s neck. The dice had landed so excruciatingly calmly into the twenty-third notch.

As expected, I suppose. This man never took any losses. You weren’t too worried about pushing the five black chips his way. You were more worried about what question you would have to answer.

“Five-hundred credits. So worthwhile.” Aventurine gladly accepted them. “Now, let’s see…here is my question. Don’t look so perturbed. It’s nothing, really.” “Is that so?” You crossed your arms over your chest, swinging a leg over your other, lightly kicking your heeled foot in an attempt to remain calm. “Pray tell, what do you ask?”

“I ask that you make a little deal with me.” 

You arched a brow. Another one? “Another bet? I think I’ve had quite enough of those for one day.”

“Oh, no, it’s not a bet, honey. The deal is this: pose as my girlfriend for a while, and I’ll compensate you thoroughly.”

“That’s nice. What’s in it for me?”

“Status. Renown. Wealth. Reputation.” He held up four fingers, then a gold chip suddenly appeared out from between them and he flipped it in the air casually. “And, of course, safety. Maybe a little nice dinner with the elegant Senior Manager of the IPC Strategic Investment Department. You can’t go wrong with this.”

“Truly?” You weren’t buying it. “It will be contractual?”

“Absolutely.” Aventurine’s crooning voice was grating on your nerves. But he was tempting. So tempting. “And it’ll be our little secret. I’ll swear not to pull anything unsavoury.”

You considered it. You needed the money. Reputation and status was also an enticing offer. But you needed time to think.

“Shall we meet up and discuss this elsewhere some other time?” You pulled out your phone, extending it toward him. “Put in your contact details. I’ll text you when I’ve thought it through.” “Wise of you.” Aventurine accepted the gadget and tapped away at it accordingly. “Take your time. I look forward to working with you.”

He got up and left, only the strong scent of his expensive cologne left in his wake. You noticed he never took your five-hundred credits, and left his five-thousand behind.

ᯓ JING YUAN .ᐟ

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐈𝐃𝐍'𝐓 expect the Arbiter General to be the one to rescue you from three mara-struck soldiers.

It’s not like you were helpless. You could fight; you had the Combat Type of Wind and Path of Erudition at hand. You were no weakling—you, ranked a Sergeant Major in the Sky-Faring Commission, had had your fair share of battles in the past.

But you’d never crossed paths with The Divine Foresight. Seeing his tall, powerful frame and flowing hair in passing as he strolled around the Sky-Faring Commission’s headquarters was as much as you knew of him personally. And that was nothing at all.

“Are you alright, miss?” He held a hand out to you to help you up, and you hesitantly accepted it. This is so embarrassing. Me, a Sergeant Major, needing help from the General himself? Can one get any more incompetent? You decided then it would be a good idea to keep your identity and rank private. You didn’t need the Arbiter-General walking away from this thinking you were incapable of even defending yourself from the most common of opponents.

“I’m fine, sir.” You brushed yourself off once you were on your feet again. You covertly tugged your badge signifying your rank out of sight. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Not at all.” General Jing Yuan smiled at you indolently. For someone who just wiped out three mara-crazed former Cloud Knights, he looked pretty sleepy. “Allow me to accompany you back to the Sky-Faring Commission.” “I—I’m sorry?” Surely he hadn’t worked you out that quick. Neither could he have recognised you from the Commission either. You weren’t remarkable like that, and neither of you had ever interacted. “I don’t—I mean, I, uh…”

“Is something wrong?” He tilted his head at you. “Are you not Sergeant Major [Name]? Madame Yukong speaks highly of you.”

“I was not aware you knew of me, General.” That whole hiding of your badge was useless, then. You fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve. “I am ashamed. To think you, of all people, would have had to be the one to save a well-trained soldier as I from three mere mara-struck knights.”

“Ashamed? No, don’t be. You were ambushed, no? Then, it is not your fault.” “Thank you.” You bowed your head respectfully. “But, there is no need for you to escort me back to the Commission. I do believe I will be quite alright on my own.” “Oh, I was heading to the Commission anyway.” General Jing Yuan inclined his head toward you. He’s very tall. His hair was longer than you thought, too. “So, why not keep each other company on our trip to the same place? I’ve been meaning to speak with you for a while now, also.” “You have?” You met his hooded golden gaze in surprise. “About what, may I ask?” “Your skill with the mechanics of a Starskiff is commendable.” He began walking, and you fell into step beside him. The Arbiter-General’s voice was low, silky, and deep. No wonder women went crazy over this man. “It reminds me of an old friend I once had, long ago. I could use your expertise—of course, only if you are willing to agree, that is.”

“What is it you need assistance with?” Never in your wildest dreams could you have imagined the famed, formidable General Jing Yuan ever complimenting you for skills most in the Sky-Faring Commission had. 

“Fifteen Starskiffs were crashed in a heated battle northwest of Scalegorge Waterscape,” he explained. “It will keep you awfully busy for a little while, but the compensation for your hard work will be great.”

Pursing your lips, you debated your answer. “…General Jing Yuan, sir, I must remind you that I am a Sergeant Major, not a repairwoman. I am the one who sends out the Starskiffs to be crashed, not the one who fixes them.” “Ah, I see. Of course. It seems I overlooked that one small factor.” It didn’t take both of you long until you arrived at the Sky-Faring Commission’s headquarters. “I am sorry, but I will have to assign this task either way. It’s really quite urgent. And Madam Yukong recommended you.”

“I really don’t—”

“Would a promotion from Sergeant Major to Colonel do?”

It was like he slapped you with the way you reeled back in shock, rendered utterly speechless. “Pro-promotion, sir?” you sputtered, inarticulate. “I—that’s—I don’t think…”

The Arbiter-General tilted his head coyly as if he were just discussing the weather, not your (huge) promotion from Major to Colonel. “But, I do. I think that would suffice. Are you convinced?” “I…” Getting there, that’s for sure. Our first meeting ever, and he’s promoting me? You weren’t quite sure of your impression of the man. Wonder? Astonishment? You were torn between both.

Before you could answer, Jing Yuan pushed open the Commission’s doors and entered. Madam Yukong caught sight of you both and rushed over. “General! Oh, [Name], you’re here too. Jing Yuan, did you tell—” “I certainly did.” His full mouth curled up into a playful smile. He glanced down at you, and you quickly looked away. “However, it is all up to Sergeant Major [Name] here. Yet, I do think the offer I made her is too good to refuse.”

“Too good to be true,” you softly corrected. “General, I fail to see why my fixing of fifteen crashed Starskiffs warrants a promotion of such a degree. It would hardly be anything noteworthy…” “Quite the opposite.” The General outstretched a hand and patted your shoulder. He smiled indolently again, so casual. “Think it over, Sergeant. I look forward to working with you.”

With that, the Arbiter-General turned and headed away, over to attend to something else regarding Qingying, one of Madam Yukong’s colleagues.

You turned to her in bewilderment. “Is he serious?”

The older woman smiled in a way that made you think she was in on some joke you hadn’t a clue about. It was a knowing smile, and she shot a look in the General’s direction. Then she looked at you again, eyes twinkling. “Very serious.”

all rights reserved © kisstrela 2024. do not copy, repost, redistribute, translate, plagiarise or modify my work(s) in any way on any platform. thank you.

just thinking about argenti who has so much love to give to the whole universe, who is on a neverending journey of spreading the beauty across the cosmos faithfully, unwaveringly; argenti, who is never capable of receiving that kind of love back. because he cannot stop. because he cannot stray from the path of the aeon that hasn't answered to his prayers even once in his lifetime. because if he dares devote himself to anyone other than idrila, that person is going to have to wait for him all alone, thousands of light years away. lol

warnings for dark themes, angst, argenti backstory references so he’s insane and weird, and argenti literally murdering you, i guess.

i have this in my inbox as well. i liked the link, so now you WILL hear my thoughts.

i had so many thoughts for this prompt initially, but i just couldn’t string it into anything that was actually coherent.

somebody actually came into my inbox and said the interpretation of argenti’s story is wrong and i’m wrong and he didn’t actually kill his friends and SHUT UP i do what i want, and it’s just that: an interpretation. i like putting tragedy into my characters. it’s like adding salt to a bland meal.

anyway.

the worst part about this prompt, and yours, is in his inability to stop his pursuit of finding idrila, he meets you, and he does fall in love despite his promise to venture the stars alone on his journey.

argenti finds falling in love is beautiful at first. you’re supportive, even if he leaves you for extended voyages. he always brings back trinkets, gifts, leaves you one thousand messages a day that read more like love letters than normal texts, and the love he showers you in is endless.

you don’t doubt him for a second.

and then, things change. you tell him it’s difficult to love a person that’s gone for so long.

argenti does truly feel sorry, and he pities you, but this is who he is.

and you’re hurt. his devotion to idrila aside, you tell him that he’s crossed galaxies to find an aeon that does not care for him, nor the other fellow knights of beauty. they are not emanators bestowed with idrila’s power, nor has idrila been sighted by anyone for eons.

to you, it feels like he’s pining for someone else. you are in love with his undying loyalty, and his unshakeable faith. but, it hurts to be away from him for so long while he chases after a being well above you.

argenti cannot stray from the path he wanders. he insists he will do better, but when you thank him, and apologise because you feel selfish, he can’t help but notice your nails have grown to the size of curled claws.

the relationship grows worse from there. he slowly sees less of you, and more of something else. an otherworldly creature that morphs to the shape of you to keep him trapped here and away from his endeavours.

he finds himself growing to learn that the person, you, whom he’s loved with all his heart, was never a person, but a monster wearing your skin.

you break the relationship off some time later.

he finds himself relieved. not because you’re leaving—his heart shatters, actually—but because he knows, somewhere deep down in his stomach, if you stay any longer, he’ll hurt you.

argenti apologises, but you find he cannot look you in the eyes. so, you part ways. maybe you go back home, maybe you set up somewhere else by yourself. it hurts because you felt he was everything you’d ever wanted, and he was, but you know it’s better this way.

in the ideas i was writing for this prompt, i imagined you set up in belobog and work in that floral shop—i cannot remember if it has a name.

it’s been months, and you grow okay with yourself again, and everything is fine. you make bouquets, trim the stems of flowers as will, tend to the pots outside the shop, and all is well.

maybe argenti comes to the shop. he doesn’t know you work here, and he’s only come in because he’s stopped on belobog for his ship needs a repair and the red roses growing outside the window catch his eye. they’re just barely blooming, and spring looms just around the corner.

he doesn’t even realise the shop is open because it looks dark through the glass.

curiously, he opens the door to the shop, and the bell above the door tolls. a cute little shop, and bright colours encircle the walls. daisies, frangipanis, dahlias, petunias, he knows them all from your incessant ramblings when you would walk through gardens together, and he would hold onto every word.

you bound from the back room after hearing the bell, and you both just freeze up. you’re in shock he’s here—but why wouldn’t he be here? he travels planet to planet in search of his aeon—and he only sees something grotesque, and ugly, and a mockery of you. this isn’t you. it’s a mimicry. blasphemy of righteousness, of pure beauty, of one of idrila’s very creations they pulled from their gentle heart and offered to him so graciously.

he knows deep down he’s wrong. he knows, he knows, he trusts himself he knows, but he can’t win over his twitching fingers.

you greet him softly, gently pushing the work in progress bouquet and the garden pliers to the side of the front desk. there’s a multitude of thorns on the bench, and the roses in the bouquet, not yet bloomed, are picked free of their thorns.

there’s only one in the bouquet, one red shimmering rose, that has fully opened its petals.

“haven’t seen you in a while,” you say to him. there’s a hint of that customer service-y tone; because he’s not your lover anymore. “how are you?”

argenti swallows. “just the same.” he turns to the flowers on the wall. “you have a beautiful shop.”

“thanks.” you glance down at the bouquet on the bench. “did the roses outside catch your eye?”

you hear him laugh merrily. “you know me too well.” his fingers graze along the petals of a large assortment of pink amaryllis hanging over a plantar pot. he cannot look at you. he cannot, he cannot, he cannot–

“hey.”

and there’s that tone that twists his stomach. he wants to look, he wants to see you, you, and not that hideous beast that resides beneath your skin.

he feels you stop just beside him. he dares to glance.

amidst your claws and the veiny lines of your once soft and delicate hands that he always would press his lips to the back of, was a single red rose that you twirled between your fingers.

you hand it to him gently. “this one’s special.” when argenti did not move to take it, you tuck it securely behind his ear, indulging in how soft his hair was along your skin. “it’s stayed alive for a lot longer than i thought. it’s been around for about two years now, give or take.” you step back. “it reminded of you.”

and it did. undying strength, and despite all odds of belobog’s weather being unfit for roses, as all of the others had wilted over time, this particular one had stayed.

“i know things didnt end well, but…” you glance out the window. “but, you’re always welcome back here.” and, you still love him. you omit that part. “i’m sorry for whatever happened, or if i wasn’t good enough, or if there was somebody else–”

even now, he laughs. it’s weak. “there was nobody else.”

you nod once. “well. still. i’m sorry.”

argenti knew it had been all his fault, but you, ever gracious and kind as you were, felt burden on your shoulders.

his hand draws back from the amaryllis to graze over the rose behind his ear. the petals were fresh, a light smell of dewdrops in the morning on this cold planet.

he wishes now, he never turned to look at you. he wished he had just spun on his heel and left the shop, and never returned to you. you didn’t deserve this; you had always been so kind, so careful, so gentle with him.

but he did turn, because he had fooled himself into thinking it was truly you standing there, and not some masked fool, or a hideous shapeshifter that was showing its true colours. he sees those claws again, and pulled aged skin that reminds him of trees as old as time, horrible teeth, twisted limbs that crack and bend—

to make matters worse, you notice his distress, and as you always did when you were together, you pull him gently towards you and wrap your arms around him.

argenti, mistakenly, returns the warm embrace, and unbeknownst to you, one of his hands brushes against the garden shears you’d left on the desk next to the bouquet.

he thinks against it for a moment when he hears you apologise for what he had done wrong, and bury your face in the plated shoulder of his silver armour.

despite how he holds the writhing creature in his arms, he knows it’s you. and it is you, but he doesn’t see you, nor does he see any semblance of you left when he turns his head to stare out of the window. he catches a reflection of the creature twitching.

he murmurs an apology as well.

and then, he drives the shears into a particular spot in your spine. you gasp, and you become dead weight in his arms as the feeling of your legs fall away.

cold snaps up your chest and you cry out in pain. it’s just pain, and pain, and pain as hot blood dribbles from your neck.

and then there’s nothing. there’s no feeling. you can’t even breathe. your arms and legs feel as though they’ve just disappeared, and just as he hoped, you don’t feel his spear drive directly through your chest.

he kills you then, as quickly as he can, because as the monster cries and screams, he still knows it’s you in his arms, and he wouldn’t live with himself if you suffered in your final moments.

he sees you, finally, when he lays you down gently on the floor. he tries his best to clean you of the tear stains, and the blood smears that had crept around the front of your neck. you’re still beautiful, even in death, but he finds it impossible to leave the rose you’d gifted him.

so, he takes it—and that rose probably becomes the rose he carries in all his little animations in game. he traverses with guilt, and it’s probably a little wink nudge nudge to you when he says he owes his next battle to ‘a solitary rose.’

Jealousy, Jealousy with Sylus

Plot: Reader becomes jealous of Sylus and MC's closeness, distancing herself and seeking comfort in another LI. Sylus notices her growing distance and takes action. Based on this request. Pairing: Sylus x Non MC reader Content Warning: Insecurities, injuries, mention of blood, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort Note: Reader is not the MC of the game. I think I got quite carried away writing this because I am a sucker for angst.

The faint hum of the air condition echoed through the Onychinus base, its opulent, luxurious atmosphere doing little to distract from the knot twisting in your stomach. You stood across from Luke and Kieran, their crow masks tilted slightly as if to gauge your reaction.

"Boss isn't here today," Luke said casually, his hands tucked into his pockets. "He’s in Linkon, Boss man’s got other things to handle."

Kieran, his mask tilted slightly to the side, gave a confused grunt. "But I thought he was meeting with her...?"

Luke raised a brow, correcting him. "No, no, he was meeting with Miss Hunter."

Miss Hunter.

The words hit you like a sledgehammer, even though they shouldn’t have. You were a hunter too, an informant who had been feeding Sylus critical intel on the association’s movements for two years now. But she was different. Special.

Captain Jenna’s star pupil, with her rare Anhaunsen-class Resonance Evol, was someone Sylus had spent weeks trying to connect with, both literally and emotionally. You weren’t blind to the necessity of it; resonating with her was crucial for his goals, ones he hadn’t entirely shared with you but that you trusted him to pursue.

Trusted him. Loved him.

You forced a tight smile. "Thanks for the update. I'll let you two get back to it."

Luke and Kieran exchanged a glance, but you were already walking away, the echo of your boots swallowed by the hum of the base.

The ride back to Linkon was supposed to clear your mind. It didn’t.

The cool wind whipped against your face, but all it did was sting the tears pooling in your eyes. The road stretched endlessly ahead, yet the pressure in your chest only grew. Sylus hadn’t seen you in two months. Two months of unanswered calls and messages reduced to half-hearted responses when they came at all.

You understood why he was focused on her. She was crucial to his plans. She was everything you weren’t: poised, pretty, powerful, and, most importantly, someone he needed.

But understanding didn’t make it hurt any less.

The world blurred around you as your thoughts spiraled. You had always known your place in Sylus’ life. You were the informant, the quiet insider who helped him stay two steps ahead of the hunters. Somewhere along the way, though, you had fallen for him. For the man who wasn’t as cold and calculated as others believed. It had been two long years since you started working with Sylus. Two years filled with secrecy, lies, and hidden truths. But over those years, you'd found yourself tangled in emotions for him that you couldn’t shake. Sylus, with his cold authority, his dangerous smile, his complex nature… He was all you could think about. He wasn’t as dismissive as people thought. He had a way of looking at you when no one was watching—a fleeting softness that you cherished, even if you couldn’t be certain if it was real.

And now, it felt like you were losing him.

Your bike screeched to a halt near Meow’s Café. You hadn’t planned to stop, but the sight of the familiar storefront tugged at you. Perhaps a coffee and a moment to breathe would help.

The glass windows glinted under the midday sun, and your breath hitched as you looked inside.

Sylus was there. With her.

They sat at a small table, a deck of Kitty cards spread between them. He was leaning back, his smirk in full display as she laughed at something he said. It was the kind of laugh that reached her eyes, the kind of moment you had only ever dreamed of sharing with him.

You froze, your hands tightening on your helmet.

For a fleeting second, you wanted to march inside and demand answers. To ask him why he had time to play cards but couldn’t return your calls. To tell him how his absence had hollowed you out.

But you didn’t.

He looks so happy... you thought bitterly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

The truth gnawed at you. Every interaction, every ignored message, every unread notification on your phone—it was because of her. Because Sylus had more important things to do. She was the one who mattered now. She was the one who he had to resonate with, had to bond with, had to make fall for him.

And you? You were just a pawn, a tool—forgotten. And there you were. Alone. Watching through a window, the warmth of the cafe contrasting the cold, empty feeling in your stomach. He hadn’t even bothered to let you know he was back. He was with her. You couldn’t bear to watch any longer, but you couldn’t look away either. It felt like the world was spinning faster than you could catch up, and you were left stranded, dizzy, and abandoned.

Instead, you turned away, your chest tight and vision blurred. The world felt suffocating, the weight of your unspoken feelings dragging you down as you climbed back onto your bike.

It was for the best, right?

You couldn’t keep doing this. You couldn’t keep waiting for him, couldn’t keep fooling yourself that there was something real between you two. He was busy. He had her. And you.. well, you didn’t even know why you bothered anymore.

The ride back to your apartment was a blur of taillights and muffled engine noise. The city’s glow that usually brought you some sense of comfort felt glaring and alien tonight. By the time you made it inside, the suffocating silence of your small space was overwhelming.

For someone who prided herself on being strong and independent, you barely made it to your couch before the sobs overtook you. Hot, angry tears streamed down your face as you clutched a pillow to your chest, trying in vain to keep your cries muffled. It felt as though something within you had been ripped apart, leaving an aching, hollow void that throbbed with every thought of him.

You replayed the image of him at the café in your mind, over and over, as if some part of you wanted to punish yourself further. His smirk. Her laughter. The ease of their interaction. It contrasted so sharply with the heaviness that now weighed on your heart.

Every chime of your phone made you flinch, hope briefly sparking to life, only to be cruelly snuffed out when the screen lit up with messages from others—work updates, pointless notifications, or friends checking in. Nothing from him. Of course, there wouldn’t be.

You wiped at your face, your chest tightening as you scrolled through the last few conversations you’d had with Sylus. They were short, clipped responses. A "thanks" here, an "I’m busy" there. You’d convinced yourself for weeks that he wasn’t brushing you off, that his focus was just elsewhere. But deep down, you knew. You’d always known.

You weren’t as important to him as he was to you.

That realization settled over you like a heavy blanket, suffocating and final. And yet, you tried to convince yourself it was okay. He doesn’t owe me anything, you told yourself, though the thought only twisted the knife deeper. He’s free to choose who he spends his time with.

But it didn’t stop the tears.

The days that followed were a haze of exhaustion and numbness. You threw yourself into your work, spending long hours tracking and confronting wanderers. The physical exhaustion helped, even if just a little. At least when you were in the middle of a fight, the pain in your chest was drowned out by the adrenaline coursing through your veins.

Still, the nights were the worst. Alone in your apartment, the quiet crept in like a suffocating fog. You tried to distract yourself—reading, cleaning, even organizing old mission reports. Anything to keep your mind from drifting back to him. But it was impossible.

Each time you saw his name in your contacts, you hesitated. Your thumb hovered over the call button more times than you cared to admit, but the fear of hearing his indifferent voice stopped you every time. What would you even say? That you missed him? That you wanted to see him? That you’d fallen for him, even though you knew it would never be mutual?

No. You couldn’t do that to yourself.

You worked harder, pushed yourself further. Every wanderer you fought became a stand-in for your frustrations, your insecurities. You told yourself that if you could just stay busy enough, the ache would go away. But no matter how many missions you completed or how many late nights you spent staring at your phone, the weight in your chest never fully lifted.

By the end of the week, you were exhausted—physically and emotionally. But you were surviving. Barely. The bell above the door jingled softly as you pushed into the chocolatier’s shop, the rich scent of cocoa and vanilla wrapping around you like a warm embrace. The day had been grueling—hours of chasing leads, a narrow escape from a particularly aggressive wanderer, and not a single bite of food since morning. Your stomach growled in protest, a sharp reminder that you’d been running on fumes for too long.

Rows of meticulously crafted chocolates gleamed beneath the glass counter, their perfect swirls and shimmering finishes almost too beautiful to eat. Almost. You leaned forward slightly, scanning the display, your reflection ghosting over the pristine surface.

Dark chocolate truffles. Raspberry ganache. Caramel hazelnut clusters. The options were overwhelming, and your indecision felt heavier than it should’ve. Your chest still ached from the lingering emotions you’d been suppressing all week. The quiet joy of the shop felt alien, like stepping into a world you no longer belonged to.

Just pick something and go, you thought, your fingers tightening on the strap of your bag. But the choices seemed endless, each one whispering promises of sweetness you weren’t sure you deserved.

"If you’re struggling," a soft, measured voice spoke behind you, "the pistachio crème chocolate is an excellent choice."

Startled, you turned, your gaze falling on a man standing a few steps away. Tall and lean, he exuded an understated confidence that was both intimidating and captivating. Dark hair fell in against his forehead, and sharp hazel-green eyes, softened by gold flecks peered at you from behind thin-framed glasses. His white doctor’s coat was open, revealing a simple black shirt beneath, and he held a small paper bag in one hand.

You blinked, caught off guard by both his suggestion and his presence. "Oh, uh… thank you," you stammered, trying not to sound as flustered as you felt. "I’ll… I’ll try that."

The shopkeeper nodded and carefully packed your selection as you stole another glance at the stranger. There was an air of calm authority about him, a quiet assurance that made you feel oddly exposed, like he could see straight through you.

He waited patiently as the shopkeeper handed you your bag, but just as you were about to leave, his voice cut through the quiet again—this time, more direct. "Chocolates shouldn’t be your first meal of the day."

The statement was delivered without malice, his tone stoic and matter-of-fact, yet it hit like a stone to the chest. Your lips parted in shock, the question forming before you could stop it: How does he know? But before you could say anything, he was already moving toward the door. The bells jingled softly as it closed behind him, leaving you standing frozen in place. The stranger’s words lingered, intertwining with the rest of your messy emotions. Your fingers clenched the small bag of chocolates as you tried to process the brief encounter.

A soft gleam on the floor caught your attention, breaking your spiraling thoughts. A wallet, its sleek leather worn but well-kept, lay just inches from where the man had stood. You knelt and picked it up, your heart thudding as you opened it to check for identification.

The name embossed on his hospital ID was like a jolt: Dr. Zayne. Your eyes widened. Doctor Zayne? The name was familiar—a renowned surgeon whose skills and precision were legendary, often described as a miracle worker. You’d imagined someone older, more weathered, not… this.

For a moment, you stared at the ID, piecing together the puzzle of the composed, enigmatic man who had called you out so effortlessly. You tried the number listed on a card tucked into his wallet, but it rang unanswered, the sterile monotone only adding to your frustration.

"Of course, he wouldn’t answer," you muttered under your breath, chewing your lip as you debated your next move. The idea of keeping his wallet overnight felt wrong, and leaving it here in the shop seemed equally careless.

That left one option.

The hospital loomed ahead as you approached, its towering structure illuminated against the evening sky. Anxiety gnawed at your insides, twisting with every step you took through the sterile white halls. You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge—maybe it was the overwhelming sense of inadequacy that had been haunting you lately, or maybe it was the lingering impression of Zayne’s knowing gaze.

At the reception desk, you hesitated, gripping the wallet tightly as you cleared your throat. "Hi, um, I’m here to return something for Dr. Zayne. He… accidentally dropped this."

The receptionist barely looked up, taking the wallet with a polite but indifferent smile. "Dr. Zayne isn’t in right now. I’ll make sure he gets this when he’s back."

"Oh," You nodded, murmuring a quick thanks before retreating back toward the exit. You thought nothing of this interaction as you left. You did what you thought was right and left the hospital back towards your apartment.

The days blurred together in a haze of work and routine. You buried yourself in assignments from the Hunter’s Association, throwing yourself into dangerous missions with a single-minded intensity. Anything to keep your mind occupied.

Sylus messaged you once during that time, his tone professional as he asked for updates regarding a lead he was tracking. You’d responded quickly, sticking strictly to business. No pleasantries, no banter—just the information he needed. He didn’t press, didn’t call you out for your uncharacteristic coldness. Maybe he didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and chose not to say anything.

That night, you jogged through the dimly lit streets, your breath fogging in the cool air as you tried to exorcise the restless energy gnawing at you. The rhythmic slap of your sneakers against the pavement was grounding, steady. Jogging had always been your go-to, a way to clear your head and silence the endless stream of "what-ifs" and "if-onlys" that plagued your mind.

You shook your head, annoyed at yourself. There was no point in dwelling. Sylus wasn’t the kind of person to give you what you wanted, and even if he did, could you trust it? Could you trust him?

But no amount of movement could completely shake Sylus from your thoughts.

His voice, his presence—it clung to you, even now.

Why didn’t he ask how I’ve been? Why didn’t I?

The sound of skidding tires yanked you out of your spiraling thoughts.

“Look out!”

Before you could process the warning, a cyclist veered wildly toward you, their momentum too strong to stop. There wasn’t even time to brace yourself. The impact hit like a freight train, and suddenly, you were on the ground, tangled with the bike and its rider. Pain blossomed sharp and hot in your knees as the asphalt scraped them raw.

For a moment, you just lay there, stunned. The world tilted unsteadily, the city lights smearing together like a watercolor painting.

“Hey, you okay?” The cyclist’s voice snapped you back. They were scrambling off you, helmet slightly askew but otherwise unscathed. You shook your head to clear it, wincing as you sat up. You pushed yourself up, shaking the dizziness from your head, and checked on the cyclist who had crashed into you. They were already scrambling to their feet, looking slightly dazed but otherwise unharmed, their helmet and guards having done their job.

“I’m fine,” you managed, even as your knees throbbed in protest. “Are you?”

“Yeah, thanks to the gear,” they said, pulling off their helmet to inspect a small crack along its surface. “Guess it did its job.”

Relief washed over you. “Good. Let me just—”

“Wait.” A different voice cut in, firm but calm. You stood there, still trying to regain your bearings when a figure appeared beside you, moving with a grace that immediately caught your attention. Your heart skipped a beat when you saw who it was. Dr. Zayne. The same man who had crossed your path in the chocolatier's shop just days ago. His sharp eyes locked onto yours, and for a split second, everything else seemed to vanish. His expression shifted from mild surprise to something more concerned as he took in your state.

Without saying a word, he immediately began assessing you, his gaze narrowing at the blood now staining your knees. You winced, feeling the sting of the cuts that had begun to bloom with a fiery intensity, but you were determined not to show it. You were used to pain—used to the sharp discomfort that came with being a hunter. You didn’t need help. You could handle this on your own. You’d always been able to.

But Dr. Zayne wasn’t having any of it.

His voice, low and steady, broke through the haze of your thoughts. "You’re bleeding. Those need first aid," he said firmly, his frown deepening as he glanced at your scraped knees. "Sit. Wait here. I’ll be back in a minute."

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him you were fine, but the words caught in your throat. He wasn’t asking. His tone, though gentle, was authoritative—demanding in its own quiet way. There was something about the way he carried himself, that calm, unflinching presence, that made it impossible to argue.

"I’m fine, I am a hunter." you managed to say, your voice rougher than you intended. "I can handle it at home. Really." You tried to force a reassuring smile

“Is this a hunter thing?” he interrupted, one brow arching skeptically. “Are all of you this stubborn about basic care, or is it just you?”

The words should have been biting, but his tone was almost... patient. Like he was accustomed to dealing with difficult people.

You flushed, suddenly hyper-aware of the sting in your knees and the heat of his gaze. “I’m not being stubborn,” you muttered. “I just don’t want to bother anyone over something so small.”

“Small injuries have a way of turning into bigger problems,” he said, folding his arms. “And I’m not bothered. As a doctor, I’m asking you to wait here. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Without waiting for your protest, he turned and strode off, leaving you no room to argue.

You sat stiffly on the bench, gripping the edge as the minutes dragged on. The ache in your knees was nothing compared to the gnawing discomfort blooming in your chest. Anxiety clawed at you, whispering insidious doubts.

He’s wasting his time on you.He probably thinks you’re pathetic and weak.Why couldn’t you have just gotten up and left?

Your fingers curled into fists, the tension radiating through your body.

The sound of footsteps interrupted your spiraling thoughts, and Dr. Zayne was back, carrying a small first aid kit. He knelt in front of you without a word, his hands steady as he cleaned the cuts on your knees. The gentle pressure of his fingers as he worked felt almost surreal. His silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was just… calm. You found yourself drawn to it, to the quiet that seemed to settle around him.

"You’re lucky," he said, glancing up at you as he bandaged your knees. "That could’ve been a lot worse."

You nodded, the words caught in your throat. There were so many things you wanted to say, things you wanted to ask him, but you didn’t know where to start. So you remained silent, watching as he finished his work, his hands moving with the practiced precision of someone who had seen too many injuries to count.

When he was done, he straightened up and met your gaze. "You should be more careful," he said softly, his voice a little lighter than before, though there was still a note of concern underlying his words. "Next time, don’t run so late at night. You never know what could happen."

You forced a tight smile, the words feeling like they were coming from someone else. "I’ll keep that in mind," you said, your voice quieter now.

Dr. Zayne took a step back after finishing the bandages, his sharp gaze softening ever so slightly as he packed the first aid kit. You glanced at him, your mouth opening to thank him, but before you could get the words out, he said, almost in unison, “Thank you.”

Both of you froze, the simultaneous expressions of gratitude hanging awkwardly in the air. A surprised laugh slipped out of you, breaking the tension.

“You first,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You swallowed, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. “I was just going to say thank you for… you know, helping with this.” You gestured vaguely toward your knees, the bandages clinging to your skin. “You didn’t have to.”

The moment stretched between you, awkward yet somehow comforting. Zayne gave a small, almost amused smile at the simultaneous gratitude, but his gaze softened when it landed on you, his concern still present.

"Thank you for returning my wallet," he said, his tone steady but with a hint of appreciation.

His words caught you off guard. “Oh, right! That. It wasn’t a big deal, really.” You fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve, avoiding his gaze. “I found it at the chocolatier shop. I figured it was better to bring it to the hospital than leave it lying around.”

He nodded thoughtfully, his eyes lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “I appreciate it. Not many people would go out of their way like that.”

You tried not to let his kindness throw you off, but it wasn’t easy. There was something about Zayne that made you feel... small in a way you didn’t like to feel. He was kind, yes, but that kindness made you wonder if you were deserving of it. Why should you be the one he cared about?

But before you could dwell on that any further, his voice cut through your swirling thoughts.

"Have you eaten today?" His tone was light, but there was an edge of sincerity beneath it, one that made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with hunger. It reminded you of that conversation in the shop, of how he had so effortlessly read through your tiredness.

The sheepish look that crossed your face must’ve been obvious, because Zayne sighed, the sound so deep that it almost felt like a reprimand. He pinched the bridge of his nose in a gesture that was both familiar and surprisingly endearing.

“You’ve got to take care of yourself,” he said, his voice almost too gentle for the weight of his words. “It’s not healthy to go without food, especially if you’re going to keep running around like you hunters do.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him it wasn’t a big deal, but Zayne didn’t give you the chance.

"There’s a diner close by. It’s the least I can do to thank you for returning my wallet."

You shook your head instinctively, trying to backpedal. "It’s really not necessary," you said, but Zayne wasn’t having any of it. His eyes were firm, and there was an undeniable warmth behind them that almost made you feel guilty for refusing.

"Yes, it is," he replied, his tone steady but with a hint of finality. "Now, come on.”

You hesitated for a moment, the unease building in your chest like a brick wall, but the thought of Zayne’s calm, commanding presence made it impossible to say no. So, with a quiet sigh, you relented.

"I’ll pay," you muttered as he led the way, the words almost reflexive. You always felt like you had to pay your way—like it was your responsibility to do so, especially with someone who had helped you, even in the smallest of ways. You were used to standing on your own two feet.

Zayne only gave you a side glance, his lips quirking up in the barest of smiles. "No, you won’t. It’s my thank you, remember?"

The diner wasn’t far from where you had been, a cozy, low-lit place with a soft hum of quiet conversations and the clink of silverware against plates. The familiar scent of warm food—steak, mashed potatoes, and the unmistakable aroma of fresh bread—immediately filled the air as you stepped inside. You followed Zayne to a small booth in the back, the vinyl seats creaking under your weight as you slid in.

You wanted to say something—thank you, maybe—but the words felt stuck, trapped somewhere in the pit of your stomach, along with everything else that had been piling up for weeks. Zayne didn’t seem to notice, his focus already turning to the menu as he gestured for you to pick something.

You wanted to ask him more, to understand him in the same way you understood the empty streets you ran through, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you’d just end up looking foolish. So, instead, you stared at the menu in front of you, unable to focus on the choices, as your mind churned with questions that had no answers.

Zayne ordered for both of you, his voice low as he made his choices, and when he looked at you, you caught a flicker of something—perhaps curiosity, or was it concern? It was hard to tell.

"You should eat more regularly," he said again, as though the words were a reminder he had to repeat for his own peace of mind. You nodded, letting the silence fill the space between you for a moment.

The food arrived, warm and satisfying, and you took a bite, surprised at how hungry you were despite the earlier denials. Zayne watched you for a moment, his gaze softening as you ate, but you couldn’t bring yourself to meet it. His concern, his care—it felt too much. You weren’t used to people worrying about you.

But as the meal went on, you found yourself starting to relax, the initial tension loosening from your shoulders. Zayne was easy to talk to, his calm, steady presence settling you in a way you hadn’t expected. By the end of the meal, you felt... lighter.

"Call me Zayne," he said when the check came, his voice quiet but sincere.

You blinked, a little caught off guard by the request. "Zayne?" you echoed, testing the name on your tongue.

"Yes," he replied with a small, patient smile. "It’s easier than 'Dr. Zayne,' don’t you think?"

You blinked, taken aback. “Are you sure? I mean, you’ve earned the title—”

“And I’ll still have it in the hospital,” he interrupted, amusement flickering in his eyes. “But here, it’s just Zayne.”

You nodded slowly, testing the name in your mind. It felt strange, almost too personal. But there was something grounding about it, too.

By the time dessert arrived, the knot of anxiety in your chest had loosened considerably. The warmth of the diner, the steady cadence of his voice, and the shared laughter over a poorly made joke had a way of pulling you out of your own head. For the first time in what felt like weeks, you weren’t obsessing over your failures or doubts.

As you finished your meal, Zayne pulled out his phone and slid it across the table. “Here,” he said simply. “Add your number. In case you ever need anything.”

You hesitated, the gesture feeling far more intimate than it probably was. But his expression was patient, expectant, and you found yourself entering your contact information before you could overthink it. When you handed the phone back, his lips twitched into a faint smile.

“Thanks again for returning my wallet,” he said, his tone lighter now. “And for the company.”

You felt your cheeks flush, but this time, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. “It’s not a problem,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at your lips.

As you stepped out of the diner and into the cool night air, a strange sense of calm settled over you. Zayne walked you to the corner where your paths would diverge, his presence steady and reassuring.

“Take care of yourself,” he said, his voice softer now, almost intimate.

“You too,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

The diner’s warmth lingered even as you stepped into the cool night air. For the first time in what felt like weeks, your chest didn’t feel as tight, the oppressive weight that had been bearing down on you now lifting slightly. You still felt the ache of Sylus’ absence—a hollow, gnawing sensation that seemed to creep in whenever you let your guard down, but it wasn’t as suffocating as it had been. Instead, a new sensation fluttered in its place, tentative and fragile: excitement. It was strange to feel this way, to look forward to the possibility of a friendship formed under such unlikely circumstances. Zayne’s calm demeanor, his steady presence, had surprised you.

As you walked, the sound of fluttering wings caught your attention. Instinctively, your heart skipped, your mind jumping to Mephisto. You tilted your head to the dark sky, half-expecting to see the telltale silhouette of his familiar. But it was just a cluster of pigeons, their wings catching the faint glow of the streetlights as they soared away.

Right. Of course. It was unlikely that Sylus was watching you tonight.

You exhaled, a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and forced your thoughts away from him. Zayne had offered you a rare moment of normalcy, and you weren’t about to let your memories of Sylus overshadow that.

------------------------------------------------------------------

The following weeks were a blur of activity, and before long, you found yourself stationed at an outpost on the outskirts of Linkon. A metaflux surge had disrupted the area, and the temporary makeshift hospital was bustling with injured workers, hunters, and even a few civilians caught in the chaos. The air was thick with tension, the metallic tang of metaflux faint but persistent, a reminder of the unseen dangers that lurked just beyond the safety of the encampment.

Zayne was assigned as the doctor for the outpost, and you often found yourself crossing paths with him. At first, your interactions were brief—a nod here, a shared glance there—but over time, you began to talk. It started with simple pleasantries, discussions about the metaflux readings or the influx of patients, but it wasn’t long before the conversations deepened.

You learned that Zayne had a dry sense of humor, his sharp wit often catching you off guard. He’d tease you about your stubbornness, and you’d retort with a quip about his overly serious nature. Despite his professionalism, there was a warmth to him, a quiet compassion that made him easy to trust. And though you’d never admit it, you found yourself looking forward to those moments of shared laughter, those fleeting glimpses of something lighter amidst the chaos.

But even as your friendship with Zayne grew, Sylus lingered at the edges of your thoughts, a shadow you couldn’t quite shake. The conversations you had with him were sparse and strictly work-related—updates from the Association, bits of intel you passed along to him. It felt transactional, a far cry from the intimacy you once shared. Yet, every time his name appeared on your screen, your heart still raced, betraying the fragile boundaries you’d tried to set.

One evening, a message from Sylus broke the monotony of your routine.

‘Come over tomorrow night, Darling. I have an exquisite wine I’d like you to try—procured it during a recent deal.’

The invitation was simple, almost casual. For a moment, you imagined it—the rich scent of wine filling the air, his sharp yet alluring gaze fixed on you as he poured you a glass. But reality quickly crept in, dragging you back to the present. You couldn’t go. You couldn’t risk it. Not when your heart was still so fragile, still aching in ways you didn’t want to admit.

You stared at the screen for what felt like an eternity, your fingers hovering over the keyboard as your mind raced. The truth was, you wanted to see him. But you knew better. You had to keep your distance—for your own sake, if nothing else.

‘I’m tired..'

You typed, the words feeling hollow as they formed.

'Busy day tomorrow. Maybe another time.’

You hesitated before hitting send, the weight of the message pressing down on you. When his reply came, it was as simple as his invitation.

‘Okay.’

The finality of it hit you like a brick, and for a moment, you felt like your breath had been stolen away. He didn’t push. He didn’t argue. That empty “okay” hung in the air, leaving you with the quiet realization that, once again, you had lost yourself in the haze of someone else’s world.

You tried not to read too much into it, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that he had already moved on. That he didn’t care enough to fight for your attention. Instead, it felt like you were just a passing thought, like an aftertaste that wasn’t worth savoring.

Miss Hunter. The words echoed in your mind. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing the tears to stay behind your eyelids, but they pressed hard, a sting that never seemed to fully fade. You rubbed your forehead, trying to push away the thoughts. But even as you did, you couldn’t escape the suffocating feeling in your chest—the one that always came when you were reminded of how little you meant to him. You felt foolish, but you couldn’t help it. It was like you were always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to come back, to pull you back into his orbit with that practiced charm, that voice that made you feel wanted, if only for a little while.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The dinner with Zayne had been a welcome reprieve. It had been two weeks since you last saw him, the demands of work pulling both of you in different directions. But tonight, seated across from him in a small, cozy bistro, you found solace in the familiar rhythm of your conversations. The mellow lights softened the sharp angles of his face as he recounted a mishap earlier in the week involving a particularly irritable patient.

His dry humor, paired with the subtle lift of his brow, drew a laugh from you—a genuine, light sound that felt foreign after the weight of recent days. For a while, the world outside blurred away. You weren’t Miss Hunter; you weren’t anything other than a person sharing a meal with a friend.

As the meal wound down, Zayne looked at you over the rim of his glass, his expression calm. “You’re doing better than when we first met.” he remarked softly.

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Am I?”

He nodded. His calm demeanor always had a way of grounding you, and tonight was no exception.

The meal wrapped up with the two of you trading small updates and light banter. You paid for your half of the meal, Zayne insisting it wasn’t necessary, but you’d insisted back. There was a sense of normalcy here, something you weren’t willing to let go of easily. When you parted ways outside the diner, the night air was cool and quiet. Zayne’s warm farewell echoed softly in your ears as you waved goodbye and headed back toward your apartment.

As you walked, you felt lighter somehow. The stress of the past few weeks hadn’t vanished, but Zayne’s steady presence had reminded you of something important—moments of peace still existed, even in the chaos.

The faint scent of lavender greeted you as you unlocked your apartment door, a hint of the candle you’d left burning earlier. The lights were off, and the air felt too still—unnaturally so. Your heart skipped, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. A lump formed in your throat, panic curling its fingers around your chest.

You flicked the light switch, and the sudden brightness flooded the room, revealing the figure sitting on your couch. Sylus.

You froze. Your body stiffened, caught between fight or flight.

Your yelp of surprise filled the space, your pulse racing as you clutched the doorframe for support. “What—Sylus? What are you doing here?”

He was sitting on your couch, one arm draped casually along the backrest, his other hand resting on his knee. The dim light of the room softened the sharp edges of his face, but his expression was anything but gentle. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, tracked your every movement as if he were dissecting you with just a glance.

“How—what are you doing here?” you stammered, your voice shaky as your pulse raced.

Sylus didn’t respond right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze dragging over you slowly, deliberately. His silence was louder than any words he could have spoken, and it made your skin prickle.

“Darling,” he finally murmured, his voice low and smooth, laced with something you couldn’t quite name. “You look… exhausted.”

You blinked, still standing frozen by the door. His tone was soft, almost tender, but it was the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers tapped against his knee, that betrayed his underlying tension.

“Y-yeah,” you stammered, your voice wavering as you took a cautious step forward. “It’s been a long day. What are you doing here?”

Sylus leaned back, the leather of the couch creaking faintly under his weight. “A long day,” he echoed, his lips curving into a faint smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yet you had time for dinner.”

“I…” you faltered, scrambling for a response. “It was just…”

“Just dinner,” he interrupted smoothly, his tone unreadable. “With… someone else.”

The air felt thick, charged with a tension that made your skin prickle. You opened your mouth to respond, but the words stuck in your throat. His eyes narrowed slightly, his expression still calm but his body language telling a different story. The way his fingers drummed against his knee, the slight clench of his jaw, the flicker of something dark in his gaze.

Your heart pounded, your thoughts racing. Why was he here? What did he want? And why did his presence—his very existence in your space—make your chest ache in that familiar, suffocating way?

“I didn’t think…” You stopped yourself, your voice trembling. “You didn’t say you’d be coming by. You can’t just—”

“Can’t just what?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft as he rose from the couch, his movements fluid and deliberate. “Show up to see what’s wrong?”

Your breath hitched as he closed the distance between you, his height and presence suddenly overwhelming. “Nothing’s wrong…”you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Is that so?” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, his eyes boring into yours. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like you’ve been avoiding me, Darling.”

The accusation hung in the air, sharp and unyielding.

“I’ve been busy…” you said weakly, your voice lacking conviction.

“Busy,” he repeated, his gaze flicking over you again, this time with something close to disdain. “Too busy for me, but not too busy for… him.”

Your hands fidgeted at your sides, your breath coming in shallow bursts. You wanted to move, to put distance between you, but your legs felt rooted to the spot. “I didn’t think dinner with a friend would..”

“Friend?” he interrupted, the single word slicing through your sentence. His lips curved into something that might have been a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Your heart pounded painfully against your ribs, the anxiety swirling in your chest mixing with something else—something raw and painful that you didn’t want to name. The memories of your last exchange with Sylus came flooding back—the curt messages, the unspoken finality of his “okay.” You had tried to convince yourself that it didn’t matter, that you didn’t need his validation. But standing here now, under the weight of his gaze, you felt every crack in the fragile walls you had built to keep him out.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” you said finally, the words trembling as they left your lips.

His eyes softened slightly, but the tension in his posture didn’t ease. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to say something, something important, but the moment passed as quickly as it came. Instead, he reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a gesture so gentle it felt almost foreign.

“Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you.” he said quietly, his voice carrying a hint of vulnerability that made your chest ache.

Don’t make me feel like I’m a stranger to you. The words echoed in your mind, repeating, twisting, until all you could hear was the raw edge of betrayal laced in his tone.

You let out a bitter laugh, the sound sharp and bitter, a little too loud in the quiet of your apartment. Your chest tightened, and for a moment, you felt the space around you grow smaller. You couldn’t breathe—couldn’t think. All you could feel was the heat of anger building inside of you, raw and unrefined.

“That’s rich,” you scoffed, finally managing to find your voice. “That’s really rich, coming from you of all people.”

Sylus blinked, a subtle flash of surprise crossing his face, but it quickly masked over. His lips tightened, his brow furrowed ever so slightly, but it wasn’t enough. You had to push, you couldn’t hold back now. The words were tumbling out before you could even stop them. Your breath hitched, a strangled sob lodged somewhere in the back of your throat, but you refused to let it spill. You wouldn’t let him see you break—not like this, not in front of him. You knew the truth. He knew the truth. It hurt, yes, but you weren’t the one to blame.

“You've been treating me like a stranger for months,” you continued, your voice trembling with anger you hadn't fully realized was there. “Barely responding to my messages, not answering my calls, and when I do see you, it’s like you can’t be bothered. You don’t even see me.” You felt the weight of every unreturned message, every unanswered call, every promise left in limbo. “I’ve had to hear from Luke and Kieran that you’re in Linkon. But you couldn’t even make time to see me.”

You felt the ache deep in your chest, that familiar, suffocating knot forming. He didn’t deserve your pain. Not anymore. You wouldn’t let him have that. Not this time.

You took a shaky breath, suddenly feeling raw, exposed. “You don’t have to feel obligated to check on me, Sylus,” you said, your words clipped and cutting through the thick silence between you. “You don’t have to feel pity for me. I know where I stand. I know my place in your life.”

His expression, that unreadable mask, cracked for the briefest of moments. His lips parted, his gaze flicking to your face, then back down to the floor. His jaw clenched. But his eyes… They weren’t the same as they’d been earlier. The hardness was gone, replaced by something far more dangerous, something even more intimate. The storm was gathering, but it wasn’t just in the air—no, it was inside him too.

“You know where you stand?” His voice was quieter now, but there was an edge to it, a slight tightness you hadn’t noticed before. He took a step forward, his body closing the space between you, like a wave of raw energy crashing toward you. His proximity only made your pulse race faster, but you couldn’t back down. Not now.

“I’m just an informant, right?” you bit out, every word feeling like it sliced through the night air, cutting through the tension like a blade. “You don’t have to pretend you care, Sylus. So don’t stand there with that look on your face like I’m some important thing you need to check on.”

The air between you grew heavy, thick with unsaid words and stifled tension. Every inch of your body was telling you to get away, to shut down, to stop this before it tore you apart. But your feet felt heavy, stuck in place. Sylus’s presence was like gravity, pulling you toward him.

"You think that's all you are?" he murmured, his voice dangerously low, like the calm before the thunder. The way he said it made your heart stutter in your chest. It was both a question and an accusation or a challenge.

But there was something else in his voice. Something you couldn’t quite place. His eyes were intense, too intense, and they searched yours like he was looking for the answer. The truth.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he continued, his words clipped, as though they were difficult for him to say. “But I couldn’t....couldn’t make sense of it. Of you.”

It was the first time that he seemed genuinely vulnerable, and it left you breathless and confused. You had always wondered if there was more beneath his cold exterior. You had always told yourself that he cared. But you had never dared to confront him.

His hand was close enough now to reach out, his fingers barely brushing the edge of your wrist. The air between you was still thick with everything unsaid, everything unhealed. And yet, despite the words that had been thrown between you, there was something undeniably magnetic in the tension. The ache in your chest, the rawness, the feelings of betrayal—they didn’t wash away just because you said them out loud.

God, you hated him for this.

But part of you yearned for him. That part that still felt tethered to him, despite the distance.

Sylus’s fingers hovered over your wrist, his touch like fire against your skin. For a moment, the storm between you calmed, leaving only the faintest echo of it behind. The weight of his gaze, the force of his presence—it seemed to drown out the rest of the world.

He said nothing for a moment, his lips parting as though he wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words. His eyes darkened further, not with anger now, but with something you couldn’t quite define.

You took a breath, your body suddenly feeling too small beneath his gaze. The storm was still inside. You had to move away. Your heart pounded as if it were trying to escape your chest, desperate to flee from whatever was stirring inside you. You couldn't—no, you wouldn’t—let yourself get caught up in whatever this feeling was. You were not some fool, ready to throw everything away for the temporary pull of his presence. You knew better than that. You had to.

Every instinct screamed at you to retreat, to put some distance between you and the mess of emotions bubbling under your skin. His sharp gaze was enough to make your knees tremble, and it took everything in you not to look back, not to let him see the quiet devastation that flickered inside you.

“You need to leave… Sylus.” You whispered. You staggered back a few steps, your breathing shallow, desperate. Your feet felt like lead, yet you forced yourself to walk away. You turned your back to him, willing your legs to move, hoping to escape before you got sucked into whatever dark vortex of feelings he was drawing you into.

He didn’t move. Instead, you heard the familiar click of his boots against the floor as he took a single, deliberate step forward. “Why?” His voice, low and curious, sent a shiver down your spine. It was almost too intimate, as if he were searching for a piece of you, trying to understand what you couldn’t explain.

You didn’t want to look at him. Didn’t want to see the quiet confusion on his face—the faint flicker of disappointment that stung like salt in an open wound. You couldn’t let him see your weakness, couldn’t let him know how badly it hurt to be around him, how badly it hurt not to be around him.

“Is it so you can run back to your precious ‘friend’?” The words dripped with something unspoken, something that made your stomach twist.

You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t. Not when his voice—that voice, the one that threaded through the air like silk—was digging into your mind like this. The word echoed in your ears, almost mocking you, and you felt something fragile snap inside you. The weight of the years you’d spent keeping distance, of guarding your heart against him, against whatever he made you feel, started to unravel. But you couldn’t let it.

You took another step away from him. One more step, you told yourself. Just one more. You didn’t need this.

Dark tendrils wrapped around you as you move, pulling you back. He was using his evol to pull you back. You didn’t need him pulling you in again. But then it came. That touch. He pulled you to him, forceful yet intimate, and your breath caught in your throat. You were too close. Too close to the edge of losing yourself, of falling into his presence.

His hands...no, his fingers—snaked around your waist before you even knew what was happening. You gasped, body going stiff in surprise, but his grip tightened, pulling you back into him. You tried to keep moving, tried to pull away, but it was useless. His hold was ironclad, his presence consuming. His grip tightened slightly, but there was an almost comforting pressure there, a subtle reminder that despite the dispute between you, there was something undeniable between the two of you.

“Why are you running?” His voice was a whisper against your ear, the words smooth like silk, but there was something jagged beneath them—something urgent, raw.

You struggled to hold yourself together, but the more you fought it, the more it pulled—this unbearable need to lean into him, to give in to the chaos that his proximity stirred in you. You knew you shouldn’t, but everything in you wanted to. You felt the ache of wanting something you couldn't have, the sting of the distance you had put between you and the thing that was somehow both poison and relief.

His hands tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over your ribs in a movement that sent a jolt through your entire system. The words you wanted to say, the reasons you needed to get away from him, all felt so small and pointless now. How could you possibly explain this? This tension, this pull? How could you say that being near him felt like the most excruciating thing in the world, but also the only thing that made you feel alive?

“You’re not just an informant to me,” he breathed, his words slipping under your skin, curling into the tight spaces of your chest. “I didn’t realize I was hurting you this much. That you’d want to distance yourself from me...” His tone softened at the end, but it only made everything worse. The tenderness in his voice—his tenderness—was like a dagger in your side, making the blood in your veins freeze. You wanted to say something, anything, but all you could hear was the deafening rush of your own heartbeat. You tried to stay composed, but the words were caught in your throat, and your body was still pressed so tightly against his, your breath shallow, your pulse thudding painfully against your ribs.

Why was this so hard? Why couldn’t you just say it—say that you couldn’t let him get close again? That you couldn’t survive another wound, another aching, empty feeling in your chest because of him? But the way his hands tightened, the warmth of his body against yours, made everything you were feeling a little too real.

You could feel his heartbeat against your back, the rhythm in sync with your own, and the pull of him was growing stronger. You could feel your anxiety bubbling up, the gnawing fear at the pit of your stomach. Was this just him toying with you? Was he trying to pull you into his world of darkness and manipulation? Or did he really care?

Your head was spinning. The emotions warred within you—anger, confusion, guilt, and something else. Something that made your heart race faster and your thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind.

“Let me go,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm that raged around you.

But you didn’t pull away. You didn’t push him off.

Sylus' grip on you tightened, his arm like a steel band around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. His chest rises and falls against your back as his breath brushes against your ear, warm and heavy. It’s as if he’s afraid, like if he lets go for even a second, he’ll lose you forever. You can feel the tension radiating from him, but also something softer, something desperate.

“No, Darling,” he murmurs, his voice low and thick with emotion, his tone possessive, as though the very idea of you slipping away shatters him. “You’re not going anywhere and neither am I.”

"You’re going to stay," He pulls you even closer, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he speaks again, quieter this time, but laced with something raw and vulnerable. "...and you’re going to listen to me. I won’t let you walk away from this."

You can hear the flicker of something beneath his words—regret. And then, his lips ghost over the sensitive skin of your neck, lingering just a little longer than necessary. He slowly spins you around, to face him. His voice softens, almost apologetic. “I know I was a dick. I know I didn’t respond to you, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t know how to handle it… handle us. It confused me, and instead of facing it, I pushed you away.” His breath catches slightly, and you feel his chest tighten against your back.

His hand moves to cup your cheek, tilting your face slightly toward him, his thumb brushing over your skin as though it’s a promise, an apology. The weight of his gaze is intense, but there’s also something tender there, something that wants to pull you back in, closer. “I know you’re still hurting, darling. I see it. And I... I’ll spend a lifetime making up for it, because that’s what I want. A lifetime. With you. Not as some informant or some... thing, but as my beloved. You. By my side. Always.”

He pauses, letting his words hang in the air between you. His voice drops, the quiet sorrow of his confession sending a twinge of guilt through you. "I don’t have the right to ask this of you, I know," Sylus continues, his voice thick with emotion. "But seeing you push me away… It’s harder than I ever thought it would be. Harder than I want to admit." He presses his forehead lightly against your temple, his breath shaky. "I’ve never needed someone the way I need you, and I didn’t know how to tell you that. But I do. I need you."

You can feel him tense slightly, the shift in his demeanor telling you that his thoughts have turned darker. His voice lowers, the jealousy evident in the way he speaks, though it’s wrapped in a softness that almost makes it harder to bear.

"And Dr. Zayne... I can’t stand the thought of him being so close to you," Sylus adds, his voice low and thick with a possessiveness that unsettles you in its intensity. "It kills me, you know? Watching him with you, hearing you laugh like that with him, as if I don’t even exist." His arm tightens again, almost painfully, as if he needs to remind you, remind both of you, where you truly belong. "I know I have no claim on you... but... I can't help but feel like there’s a part of you that wants him in a way that... I can't compete with." His voice hardens, jealousy dripping from every word. "It eats at me, knowing he has a part of you that I’m fighting for."

"Sylus..." Your voice cracked slightly as you repeated his name, your breath hitching, caught in the tension between you. His name felt heavy on your tongue, like it was both a question and an answer. You had never said it so quietly, so vulnerably. The memories of earlier came rushing back—him with her, that delicate smile he gave her, the way she leaned into him just a little too comfortably. It had burned in your chest, the jealousy creeping in with a venomous ache.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, too fast to gather, too painful to hide. "I felt the same... when I saw you with her," you confessed, swallowing thickly. "I felt so... so useless, Sylus. When I saw you with her, it felt like... like she was everything you needed. Better than me. And that... it broke me, Sylus. I felt like I wasn’t enough, like I wasn’t... worth it.”

The words stung, bitter and unrelenting, but the weight of them was finally lifted as you let them spill out. You felt exposed, naked in your insecurity, but somehow, it was all you could do to stand there and wait for him to respond. You could feel the weight of it, of how small you’d felt in that moment, how unworthy you had become in your own eyes. The self-doubt gnawed at your insides, each thought of her with him twisting like a knife in your gut.

Sylus’s expression softened, his features melting into a tender sadness, as though he were seeing you for the first time, truly seeing you. His hand reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, as if afraid to shatter the fragile space between you. His touch was a gentle comfort, his fingers brushing against your cheek, his voice a low whisper, "Darling, you're none of that... none of it, I swear."

You shook your head, feeling the tears threatening, but you couldn’t let them fall, not yet. His words were kind, but the ache in your chest was still there, an unhealed wound.

He continued, his voice steady but thick with something deeper. "I didn’t know you felt that way... about her, in the same way I feel about Zayne." His gaze met yours, and for the first time tonight, it wasn’t uncertain. It was so gentle, so soft, tender. "But you need to know, you're it for me, Darling…" he murmured, his fingers curling around yours, grounding you in the quiet storm of your emotions. "Yes, I want help from her, but..." He paused, as if weighing his words carefully, "...I need you more." His words were a balm to the wounds that had festered within you, but the tenderness in his eyes was what finally reached you. His hand slid down to your shoulder, his thumb grazing the skin there. His warmth surrounded you, and you let yourself sink into the comfort of his words. The jealousy, the insecurity that had burned so fiercely in you when you saw him with her, melted in the face of the tenderness he was offering now.

You swallowed, trying to steady yourself as your heart raced, the intensity of the moment almost overwhelming. “Zayne… Zayne’s just a friend,” you said, your voice fragile but firm, “someone who helped me... helped me see past the stuff in my head. After everything, I just... needed someone to remind me that I’m not broken.”

Sylus's eyes softened even more, the depth of his gaze sending shivers down your spine. He nodded slowly, his expression filled with understanding. The tension between you didn’t disappear entirely, but it was now laced with something more tender. More real.

“You’re not broken, Darling.” he repeated, and there was a quiet strength in his voice, something that made you believe him more than you ever had before. “You’re everything I’ve ever needed... and more.”

"I... I’m sorry," you whispered, a lump in your throat as you looked up at him. "I never wanted to make you feel like I didn’t care. I just... I was afraid you’d choose her over me."

Sylus’s fingers brushed against the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, his forehead pressing gently against yours. "You never have to apologize for that, Darling." he murmured, his voice warm, his breath mingling with yours. “It was my fault and I accept that.”

The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of your breathing, as Sylus stood before you, his face drawn with intensity. The flickering light from the lamp cast soft shadows across his features, but his gaze... his gaze was sharp, focused entirely on you.

"I love you, Darling" he said, his words lingering in the air as though they were the first time he had allowed himself to say them out loud. "I’m in love with you," he confessed, his voice steady despite the raw emotion that tinged it. "I’ve been in love with you for a while now, and I’ve tried to deny it. Tried to hide it from you and myself, but I can’t anymore. I won’t. I love you, and I need you to know that."

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught in your throat. Everything in you froze, then splintered. The confession, so pure, so vulnerable, hit you with a force you hadn’t been prepared for. You stood there, unable to move, a mix of surprise and relief flooding your chest.

He loves you. Sylus. The one you had longed for, yearned, and hoped for in silence. Your heart stuttered in your chest, the world around you growing impossibly still.

"I…" you whispered, voice trembling, and you had to stop, had to steady yourself before the words could spill from your lips. "I’ve love you too," you said, your voice barely more than a breath, but it carried all the weight of everything you had kept inside. "I’ve loved you, and I never told you because I was afraid. Afraid that I was asking too much. Afraid of the rejection. Afraid that I wasn’t enough."

Sylus’s expression softened, his lips curling into a frown as he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His hands reached for you, but not in the way you had feared or expected. They were gentle, his touch a plea for understanding. "Oh, darling," he whispered, shaking his head slowly. "I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you ever felt like you needed to hide it from me."

He reached up, brushing his thumb along your cheek, and you flinched slightly, your emotions suddenly overwhelming you, raw and untamed. "We’re both idiots," he continued, his voice almost tender with the weight of the admission. "We’ve been skirting around each other, afraid of saying the one thing we both needed to say."

Your laugh came out soft, almost fragile, the tension in your chest breaking for the first time since Sylus had walked into your home. It was a quiet sound, but it was the first time you’d laughed all night, the first time you’d allowed yourself to feel something other than fear or uncertainty in the past few weeks with him involved. But that laugh didn’t last long. As soon as it came, the tears followed, the ones you had been holding back for so long, finally slipping free. The dam you had built up crumbled, and before you could stop them, hot tears streamed down your face. before you could even reach up to brush them away, his hand was there, steady and warm against your cheek.

"Don’t," you whispered, your voice thick with the ache you could no longer hide. "Please, don’t look at me like this. I’m—"

"Stop," Sylus interrupted softly, his hand holding yours gently, his gaze unwavering. "Don’t hide from me. I want to see all of you… everything you’ve been hiding. I know you think I don’t see it, but I do." His eyes locked onto yours with such intensity that you couldn’t look away. "I see it when you think I’m not watching. I see the way you pull back, the way you hide the parts of you that you think I can’t handle. But I am looking. I’ve always been looking. And I don’t want you to hide anymore. Not from me. And I’m here and I want all of you."

His words were a medicine to the parts of you that had been bruised, the parts that had feared being exposed, vulnerable. But in his eyes, there was only love. No judgment. No pity. Just... love. And it was enough. It was more than enough.

The tears that had slipped down your face slowed, but they didn’t stop. You didn’t try to wipe them away this time, allowing yourself to be seen for the first time in ages. The sobs that followed were soft but trembled with relief, with something finally breaking open inside of you.

Sylus’s arms were around you in an instant, pulling you close, holding you in the kind of embrace that made you feel as though you could finally breathe, as though the weight of everything you had been carrying could finally be set down.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, almost broken. "I’ve been so scared, Sylus. Scared of this, of being cast away... of losing you."

"You’ll never lose me, Darling." he murmured, his voice firm and unwavering as he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

You tilted your head back slightly, your face still damp with the remnants of the tears that had fallen, and through your wet lashes, you searched his face. Sylus held you close, his arms wrapped around you in a way that made you feel safe, even as the doubts lingered in your heart. You wanted to believe him, but the fear, the uncertainty, was still there, buried deep beneath the surface.

He must have seen it in your eyes, the way you still hesitated, the uncertainty you couldn't quite shake. Sylus made a half-frustrated sound in the back of his throat, his hands tightening around you for a split second, before they slid up to cradle your face. His thumb brushed against your cheek again, a tender, pleading touch, before he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a sudden, urgent kiss.

The kiss was unlike any other. It wasn’t slow, it wasn’t soft. It was intense, filled with desperation, as though he needed you to understand just how deeply he felt for you, just how much you meant to him. His hands cupped your face, holding you as if you were the only thing that mattered in that moment, as if the world had stopped turning just for you. His lips pressed against yours with a kind of fire, but it wasn’t angry, no. It was passionate, desperate in its own way, like he wanted you to feel how important you were to him, how much you had been wanted, loved.

Your hands trembled as they reached up, gripping the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer, wanting to bridge the distance between you, as though the kiss itself could erase every lingering doubt in your heart. Your breath hitched when you felt his pulse quicken under your touch, his heartbeat matching the frantic pace of your own. Each breath you took seemed to echo in the stillness of the room, mingling with the heat of his kiss, our lips moving together with a quiet urgency, the world beyond the two of you fading into a distant blur. You felt everything—every brush of his fingers, every subtle shift of his body against yours, the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palms, how his breath felt against your lips as if he couldn’t get close enough to you.

Your chests rose and fell together, the world spinning around you. You could feel the heat of him, the urgency that still lingered in his touch, the way he kept you close, almost as if he were afraid to let go.

Breathing became an afterthought, both of you gasping for air when the kiss broke, but neither of you pulled far enough away to lose the connection. Sylus’s forehead rested against yours, his breath hot against your lips as he whispered, voice still heavy with emotion. “Every day, from henceforth, I will work to make sure you never feel the need to doubt yourself. Not in my life. Not with me." His words, slow and deliberate, sank deep into your heart like a promise he would keep.

The intensity of the moment hung between you both, the room still, save for the soft sound of your breathing as you both slowly came back to reality. But in his eyes, you saw nothing but certainty—certainty that you were enough. That you always had been.

His hand found yours again, fingers weaving with yours, and he gave it a gentle squeeze, as if the simple touch was a quiet reassurance.

"You are everything to me," he murmured, his voice steady now, grounding you as much as his embrace. "And I’ll make sure you never forget that.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, absorbing his words, his warmth, his certainty. In his arms, you could feel the truth of his promise, somewhere deep inside, the doubts began to fade.

For the first time in a long time, you believed him. And when he kissed you again, this time softer, it was like the beginning of something new.

AN: reblogs, feedback and opinions are appreciated!

game au: voicelines

notes: fluff, paralive game au, no content warnings, kinda brainrot

who else remembers when they lied to us about a paralive game? anyway here's some theoretical lines the characters would have about their significant other

༄ kanata yatonokami:

⁀➷ about their lover:

“ha? the fuck does that have to do with you? 

… did they say something about me?”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

“nayuta and i didn’t have shit growing up as kids, and they were always annoying about it. dropping by snacks, workin’ extra shifts to help us out - not like i asked for anything. i hate owing people though, so - … oi. get that damn smile off your face. they’re the one that wouldn’t leave me alone.”

⁀➷ quality time:

“mhm, i’ll be by later. love you too.”

[phone clicks]

…

“geez, you ever mind your own business? you can turn in that job yourself. i promised them i’d go by their house today and they won’t quit naggin’ me about it. huh? that’s not what i fucking mean! if i didn’t like em, i wouldn’t even be dating them. they just like sitting at home and talking to me. it’s weird but… makes em’ happy, so whatever.”

⁀➷ the future:

“nayuta won’t get off my case about marriage and all that shit ; says i should hurry up and give them a ring. doesn’t he know how old we are?! ‘sides, i don’t need some asshole with a bible to tell me we’re gonna be together forever. it’s either them or nobody, and they know it.”

༄ iori suiseki:

about their lover: 

“i know it’s tempting, but that one over there ain’t one of my hostesses, so try not to stare so hard. my dearest deserves more respect than that, dont’cha think?”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

“honestly, i thought everything was over after the suiseki massacre. my family helped out a lot, but they were the one to really drag me out of my slump. it’ll be hard as hell for me to ever repay em’ for that, but ‘m still tryin’ to this day.

speaking of, can ya run out and grab em’ for me? it’s been an hour since i’ve seen em, and i’m goin’ through withdrawals.”

⁀➷ safety:

“i’d like to think we’re pretty guarded these days, but i can never be too sure, yanno? honestly, in an ideal world i could just keep em’ in the house forever to make sure nothing can even come close to harming them. hm? is my face that scary?”

⁀➷ the future:

“oi, c’mere for a sec? i want your opinion. the band on this ring is nice, but the diamond cut on here is much more suited to their taste. ahaha, pick up yer jaw! ‘m not proposing anytime soon. just weighin’ out my options for now. i got too many things goin’ on to give em’ the real life they deserve, but one day i’ll be able to make em’ mine forever.”

༄ shion kaida:

⁀➷ about their lover: 

“hmm? sorry to disappoint, but i’m not really doing stuff like that anymore. my angel might kill me if they catch wind of this, so you can go find someone else to please you, right?”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

“i can’t blame you for wanting to come back - everyone always does. they were the first time i was the one to go back, though. so cold hearted towards me, i couldn’t help but want to see them crack. ah, but i wouldn’t advise you to try the same with them. i’m not a fan of sharing.”

⁀➷ bad habits:

“it’s hard not to fall into old ways, if i’m being honest. they’re understanding enough, given the… unique circumstances of my situation, but have enough of a backbone to put me in my place. 

though, just between us, i do it on purpose sometimes. seeing their angry face gets me all sorts of riled up. i’m falling in love at quite the unhealthy pace, fufu.”

⁀➷ the future:

“stability isn’t exactly my thing - i’m sure you’re not surprised. the two of us haven’t talked about that sort of thing yet, so i’m avoiding it as long as i can. i’d hate to see their disappointment when i tell them marriage isn’t in the cards for me.

… is what i’d like to believe, but they’re so cute i just might find myself caving into their charms. maybe they’re the manipulator between us after all.”

༄ ryu natsume:

⁀➷ about their lover:

“yaho~! have you seen my alien commander? last i saw they were UP IN SPAAAACCCCEEEE - oh! there they are! WAHAHA, ATTACK TIME!”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

"hm hm hmmmm - aha! that cloud looks like my rice ball! one time they shot me with a HUUUGGGEEE love beam and GAH! i was their slave for the next ten million years! ryu-kun doesn’t mind though - we can rule the whole world together.”

⁀➷ haunting thoughts:

“ryu-kun doesn’t want to be around anyone right now. they’re the only one who can make the monsters go away - but i don’t want them to see me the way i am. i like them so much… it really hurts.”

⁀➷ the future:

“d’you think they’d get mad if i wear a cat suit to our wedding? of course we’re getting married! everyone in japan is invited! we’ll have lots of cheese and takoyaki, shiki-kun will be the maid of honor, and we’ll be carried down the aisle with pigeons!”

༄ toma hikage:

⁀➷ about their lover:

“hey, hey! which selfie is cuter? i like their hair in this one, oh - their smile is so bright here! but they’re irresistible when they’re annoyed at me! and then this is one where they’re sleeping, but this one’s filter is pretty, and this one -”

⁀➷ fleeting memories:

“long before visty was even a thing, they were always by my side. honestly, i doubt i would’ve become an idol without their encouragement. even with that horrible old face of mine, they always talked about how beautiful i was. haaa, i miss them so much! i need to call them right now!”

⁀➷ overbearing fans:

“maybe saying i’m everyone’s idol was a bad idea, haha. they get kinda jealous sometimes when we’re approached too often, but if i’m being real with you, it’s so hot! the way they call me theirs and grip my hand… totally heart pounding!”

⁀➷ the future:

“i hate to think about the day when visty isn’t a group anymore, but the idea of living a normal life with them is kinda nice, you know? waking up late, going grocery shopping, picking up the kids from school, family vacations. not anytime soon, obvs, but i can’t imagine ever wanting it with anyone else.”

[slaps roof of ASL] I can put so many different faces on these bad boys.

I fucking love drawing these whores in different situations

━━ scritchy scratchy .

❀ ˎˊ- prompt: about their less human traits and what it's like to pet them ❀ ˎˊ- characters: jiaoqiu, dan feng, sunday ❀ ˎˊ- warnings: none ❀ ˎˊ- a/n: this is so self indulgent GOODBYE 🙈🙈🙈 i just want to. pet them. majorly inspired by the neuron activation i had when i saw jiaoqiu's tail. also this is my therapy/break writing bc LORD THIS ONESHOT IS SAPPING MY BRAINCELLS. long hcs incoming. like really long. except for like dan feng maybe. im sorry i got carried away LMAO yapping is my specialty. also uhm. ignore the title. i literally could not come up with anything else if theres one thing im bad at. its titles ❀ ˎˊ- taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja, @xphantasmagoriax, @rainswept, @lucensei, @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @iceunhie (bc jiaoqiu is here)

Jiaoqiu's ears aren't that particularly sensitive, to be honest. He doesn't mind allowing close friends or family to touch them, and, truth be told, he finds your fascination with them amusing.

The fur on his ears is relatively short, with the real fluff being on the inside rather than on the outside. That isn't to say that you should reach for those tuffs of fluffier fur; it's rather uncomfortable and you'll be heading towards a fan to the face and a temporary revoking of ear privileges. It isn't much of a loss though, because despite the shorter fur, Jiaoqiu's ears are still soft and pleasant to touch.

Now, you didn't know this until you came by it by accident, but Jiaoqiu has a ticklish(?) spot at the base of his ears that instantly placates him, as embarrassing as it is. If you reach your fingers and scratch at where there's a little more firmness at the base, Jiaoqiu's silver tongue is suddenly quiet and he can't stop himself from keening into the touch. If you look closely enough, you'll see his fingers or his shoes tapping, speeding up the longer you scratch. It's one of his biggest weaknesses, no doubt, which is why he'll get whiny if you scratch it for too long in public, lightly smacking your hand away with a flush on his cheeks as he scrapes together what's left of his dignity. His pout is just adorable though, with slightly puffed cheeks behind that fan of his and an agitated tail, but for his sake, it's best if you keep it in private.

Because in private, Jiaoqiu is the exact opposite. Once doors are closed and prying eyes are no more, he's all too eager to get your hands on him. Of course, Jiaoqiu wouldn't be Jiaoqiu if he didn't beat around the bush and try to nudge you into petting him in his own way.

He starts after dinner, when you're lounging in the living room or cuddling in bed, unwinding just before you go to rest. His hand will start to creep to hold yours as he leans against you, before wordlessly lifting it and bringing it to his ears. At the same time, his tail will drape over both of your laps. Not a word is spoken during this, because his pride can't take it, but you know him well enough to follow suit.

Once your hands are looped around his head and at that sweet spot at the base of his ears, Jiaoqiu practically melts into you. Maybe once or twice a brief murmur of content may slip past his lips, but other than that, he's pretty much set for the night. A few minutes will pass, and you'll look back to him again, only to realize that your beloved healer has already fallen asleep, a smile on his lips.

Also, one last thing because I didn't know where to put it. But Jiaoqiu's tail is warm - incredibly warm, and he'll let you snuggle and cuddle it during the colder months of the Yaoqing. It honestly feels like you're hugging a cloud with just how fluffy it is. Like the base of his ears, it's a no-go for in public, but once you're in the comfort of your home, feel free to hug and ruffle it as much as you like. Just be careful if it wagging suddenly and smacking your hand in the process. And don't mess it up too much, because then you're going to be the one who has to brush it out (you don't mind though, and honestly neither does Jiaoqiu).

Being Dan Feng's significant other can mean a lot of things, but there's one aspect that for sure comes with the package - that being, he drags you around via his tail a lot. That thing will wrap around you like a vine, tugging you to his side in crowded areas and even when in places where he doesn't need to keep you close, his tail will still be resting around your waist or arm, protective and honestly kind of possessive.

Coupled with the fact that he can apparently desummon and summon his tail at will, this makes his choice to cling onto you - no matter how subtle it may be - intentional. His friends from the High Cloud Quintet have definitely pointed this out numerous time, but each time he waves them off with a huff and a "my personal life is none of your business". He says, as he does it in public.

Dan Feng's tail is cold - unnaturally so. It's smooth and actually kind of squishy, and it feels like river water. This is especially useful in the hotter months, where it serves as a welcomed escape from the heat. Knowing this, Dan Feng takes advantage of the temperatures by using it as an excuse to cling onto you even more. Whenever he gets questioned about it, he just shrugs and says that he's saving you from a potential heatstroke.

Now, neither Dan Feng's tail nor his horns are sensitive. They're just like any part of his body - in fact, Dan Feng's horns are less receptive to touch; he can barely feel that you're touching them, and he describes it akin to static - kind of tingly, a little ticklish, but overall ignorable.

He does like it when you play with the small tuff at the end of his tail though, a pleased hum escaping him whenever you toy with it and his tail squeezes you a little tighter. Sometimes, when he feels a little needy or lonely and wants cuddles, he'll tickle your face with this tuff of fur(? even he doesn't know what it is, honestly) before wrapping it around your arm and dragging you to wherever he needs you.

Dan Feng personally doesn't really understand what your fascination is with his horns, but it's certainly not unwelcome. If anything, he welcomes it a little too much, smugness tugging at his lips every time you ask to touch them. Sometime he'll hold it over your head, dangling it like a treat, but in the end he'll give in, because he loves the smiles on your face when allowed to indulge in what is, in his eyes, a silly thing (he would never allow anyone else to touch him so brazenly, so know this and be grateful, knowing that this is a privilege allotted to just you).

If Sunday trusts you enough to let you touch his wings, congratulations. Be honored. Because this man has trust issue after trust issue and has so many walls that Qlipoth would be jealous.

Halovians in general don't let many touch their wings, as that right is reserved to family for the primary set of wings, and to lovers for the secondary set at their nape. The reason for this is simple - Halovian wings are delicate, frail, and sensitive; one wrong move and they could be crushed without remorse. You have to treat them like glass, because they basically are glass - beautiful, yet frail.

Coupled with the fact that their secondary pair of wings is so close to their face, it's a rather intimate act to touch them. Sunday himself, inexperienced in the ways of intimacy, had to close his eyes when you first pet them, unable to handle such close proximity (this man has kissed you before).

Sunday's secondary pair of wings are particularly well-taken of, since they're, as said before, right next to his face and seen a lot due to his public image. Now, it's a common headcanon of mine that Sunday expresses himself a lot via his wings, with them fluttering when he's happy, flaring up when he's threatened, and puffing up when he's startled. I personally think that most of the time, his wings are relatively stagnant since he has that persona he has to keep up all the time, but at the same time, he's usually unprepared for those times he does feel genuine joy that his wings just start fluttering without him noticing.

This is how you found out he liked you, by the way. His wings wouldn't stop fluttering around you until you pointed them out, and instead of giving you a straight answer he just changed the subject, to which you had to ask Robin (she was ecstatic that Sunday actually had finally made a friend outside of work and found someone he liked enough to this point).

Now, let's actually talk about petting the wings themselves. Again, they're very sensitive, which is why they are a private thing only. If you did it in public, Sunday would not be happy and would probably ignore you for a day. So hold it in. I know it's hard. You can do it.

Don't worry though, because the rewards are definitely worth it. Once Sunday has given you the go-ahead to touch his wings, you're met with a very rare sight - which is Sunday with his guard completely down. His eyes are always closed when you tend to his wings, as if he's asleep. The only indicators you have that he isn't is the flush of his cheeks, the occasional breath of laughter when you rub against certain spots, and the rumbling in his chest that comes after a few minutes of petting. Yes. Sunday purrs. Birds can purr, and so can Sunday. Look it up, it's adorable.

You're not allowed to touch his halo, purely because it's almost painful to do so - although the correct term would be overstimulating. Sunday's halo is crucial to how he perceives the world around him, and such it's always receiving signals and sending them to his brain. Touching it is akin to poking his eyes, and while it usually isn't too bad, it's jarring and disorienting enough where it's a no-no.

The same can't be said for his primary set of wings - that being the larger, darker set that lies under his coat. He doesn't use nor stretch these nearly as much as his secondary set, which is why they're also more frail. You'll have to help him stretch them out from time to time, and just the wingspan enough is impressive. Sometimes, on the once-in-a-blue-moon chance that he has them out, he'll use them as your shield, covering you from the sunlight or the rain when you go outside.

There's a spot at the base of his primary wings, just in-between where the two sprout from his back, that is particularly sensitive. When you were in the middle of helping him to stretch his wings, your fingers had accidentally brushed against it, which had yanked a very uncharacteristic yelp from him. He still gets embarrassed when you mention it, but he's now grown used to the feeling of your hand against his back. Now, the most you'll get out of him is a shuddered sigh, and a faint shivering of his wings, which tells you all you need to know.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

I get that tbh so let me give you this:

Drunk and clingy Chuuya who won't let anyone touch him besides his beloved <3

oh drunk clingy chuuya my roman empire ( while writing this I realised gradually that i was not at all prepared to write this evening. oops. ) (( it's fine the post won't get far I think ))

it's just a port mafia party, some celebratory banquet for completing a rather large tradeoff mission. of course chuuya is the one that cracks open the fanciest bottle. the one with a few too many digits and zeros for any normal person to glance twice at. but he's always been an extravagant guy, and the more expensive it tastes the better quality it is. that's what he thinks, anyway.

he doesn't particularly bother trying to limit the glasses he intakes, why should he? koyo was staying sober, so was hirotsu, enough people that he'd be perfectly fine if anything severe happened. might as well enjoy the night as it lasts.

It's when his vision starts to blur that the first problem arises. his movements are more staggered as he struggles to keep his balance - and he lets out an almost embarassingly high pitched whine of frustration to avoid when koyo reaches out a hand to try and help stabilise him.

chuuyas knees hit the ground, a few heads turn, but its nothing too interesting. the executive had been known for not bring able to handle his alcohol too well, after all. It's when koyo leans down to help him up, and her hand is slapped away - that more people have their eyes on the scene before them.

after all, nobody who'd responded to her with violence was treated kindly in the past.

but she knows different. chuuya wouldn't do that to her - the 15 year old she spent nights trying to teach basic table manners wouldn't hit her with aggression in mind. so it had to be something else.

she let's out a gentle sigh as she calls your cell. if anyone had noticed how chuuya has a painful softspot for you, it was her. if anyone could help with a situation like this, it'd be you.

the conversation doesn't last long. a simple polite request for you to come pick him up, to see if he'll let you pick him up. and when you arrive, he obviously sees you before you spot him, a slurred whiny call of your name cutting through the crowd. one that'd have a sober chuuya breaking brick walls with his skull to forget about it.

you move over to him, listening to his unintelligible blabbers as he clings to your leg. the gentle sobs as he nuzzles into the fabric of the trousers you'd lazily thrown on. the whimpers of "I missed you s'much.." "where were you?.." "my pretty thing.."

it takes a moment to get him onto his feet again, feeling his full weight lean into you as you do so. you call a thanks to koyo, hearing her gentle giggle as you lug your boyfriend out of the party. a response of "good luck with him!" rings past the music on the speakers.

getting him home was an effort. dragging him into bed with his entire damn weight on you should've got you an olympics medal. but seeing his hazy eyes search for you, a blubber of your name as he spots you. and those gloved hands reaching like you're the only thing he'll ever need in life. it's hard to stay mad.

you settle beside him in bed, letting him wrap around you like a koala. chosing to not comment on the smell of his breath as he whispers love to you for the simplest things. he's always been sweet to you like that.

you feel the way his hands still as he drifts to sleep. from idly fiddling with your clothes to completely stone on your side. listening to the way his breathing relaxes. he felt so safe around you. it'd always been you. that's how he liked it.