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@cursedfell
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━━━ RUN and hide, the keeper of darkness wakes The knife, the LIGHT is fading HEAR him wake, the many-faced one is here The knife, the light of RUIN ━━━
[ ⏾ ⋆.˚ -͟͟͞ ᯓ ★ ] # D A W N C H A S E D ━━━━━━ PHAINON ⌞███████⌝ of HONKAI STAR RAIL. Independent && selective but crossover and oc friendly !! Trigger warnings may apply [ … violent situations, trauma, but NO nsfw content … ] Ignited by ALICIA && EST. 07.10.2025. This blog is NOT spoiler free. ━ ABSOLUTELY NO DRAMA !!!
Always decide for yourself who someone is. Make you own choices. That is all I ask.
licks u
slobs on you.
❛ please. make me feel good. no one else can like you. ❜ - liam to sherly
to cast off a mask, something must be taken in the process.
"woof woof" from Sherlock ♥️
william pauses mid-sip of his tea.
he had meant it as a tease. a passing remark, soft and indulgent, slipped beneath the edge of a smirk. “go on, then. bark for me.” the kind of thing he says when sherlock is too smug for his own good. when he wants to watch that brilliant mind stutter for a second under the weight of something unexpected.
but then—“woof woof.”
william blinks once.
then again.
he sets his teacup down with deliberate precision, porcelain kissing saucer. the silence that follows stretches, velvet-thick and simmering, until his gaze lifts—sharp and unreadable—to where sherlock lounges, so casual in posture, yet too obviously pleased with himself. there's the smallest twitch at the corner of william’s mouth. not quite a smile. not yet.
“you really are quite shameless,” he murmurs, voice smooth, like something honeyed and laced with arsenic. he rises from his chair slowly, each movement fluid and unhurried. calculated. “or maybe just obedient. i haven’t decided which suits you more.”

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brushes the dust off of here.
Two words in and he's already shrinking back while simultaneously offering both hands up as a sign of surrender. Ideally to placate the intense bite of each sentence and question afterwards. It doesn't work, though — it never does, but habits are difficult to eradicate completely.
"But the alternative's not any better," he protests, ever so gently despite the clamminess starting to break out on each palm. "Pretending to be okay... Pretending to not be okay... The result's the same, isn't it? The curse was taken care of, promise." And, well, it never sat right with him to sulk and give light to the more harsh emotions. He's no longer in a position to be so lacksidasical with appearances. There are underclassmen to help guide, set an example to best get them through such an unforgiving lifestyle without breaking their spirit first.
Besides, it's not like they have that ever bright midnight sun to fill in that abundant optimism anymore. He's gone now, and they're all still trying to recover from the crater left behind.
Yuta does as he's told. Doesn't he always when it comes to her? The bag's lowered. Does nothing more than to breathe through the nose, and hold still as she takes inventory of all the surface damage. He doesn't tell her how it had been worse. How it was necessary to utilize RCT twice during combat. An unnerving thought to have given his caliber, certainly. He doesn't tell her to make matters worse. To make her feel worse. It's just as he said — everything turned out fine.
"Sorry." Isn't he always for one reason or another? "Have you, um, eaten yet?"
maki doesn’t say anything at first. she just stands there, eyes locked on yuta, the way he’s holding that stupid bag of frozen peas against his face. he looks ridiculous, but worse than that, he looks... broken. beaten. like he doesn’t know how to stop. she can’t stand it. the way he shrinks back every time she tries to get too close, like he doesn’t want her to see him like this. like he doesn’t want anyone to see him at all.
she takes a breath, sharp, like she’s holding back something she can’t quite put into words. she wants to shake him, to yell at him, but she doesn’t. she can’t. her chest tightens, the words she’s trying to say clogging up her throat. "stop acting like you don’t need anyone," she spits, her voice edged with frustration, but something softer beneath it. it’s not just anger—no, it’s more than that. it’s fear. it’s her heart pounding with this gnawing, deep-down feeling that she won’t let herself name. she doesn’t know how to fix him when he won’t let her in. it doesn’t feel right, the way he keeps pushing people away.
her.
she clenches her fists, her gaze dropping to the ground for a second before she forces herself to look at him again. she’s so damn tired of this. tired of watching him get hurt, tired of him acting like it’s fine when it clearly isn’t. “i’m not gonna pretend it’s fine when it’s not," she mutters, quieter this time, like she’s afraid he’ll hear too much in her voice if she says it any louder. the weight of everything presses on her chest, but she doesn’t know how to show it. she can’t give him all the words she wants to say. there’s too much to it, too much tangled up in everything. so she grabs his arm, pulls him up before he can protest, and forces him to lean against her.
“let’s go get food,” she says, trying to keep it simple, trying to keep the sharpness out of her tone. she’s not sure if it’s for him or for her at this point. she just knows she needs to do something. she can’t fix this, but she can do something.
“salted cabbage with sesame oil,” she adds, almost absently, like it’s just a small detail, but it’s the one thing she knows will make him feel better, even if it’s just for a little while. “your favorite.” she doesn’t look at him as she leads him toward the kitchen, her hand still lightly gripping his arm, her heart still racing. she’s afraid. so afraid that he’s going to keep pushing her away, that he’s going to keep carrying all of this on his own when she can’t even help him carry it. but she’s here.
and she won’t leave him.
Daichi isn't sure if he should insulted or what. Because Daichi knows how to adapt to certain situations! He does! And he's going to prove it right now!
Seeing the grade 3 curse, Daichi mutters to himself while flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders, "Okay Daichi...you got this. You're a sorcerer who serves the Dark Phoenix. You're the wielder of its dark flames that wrecks havoc upon the cursed and the wicked to bring balance to the world. You can do this! You do this every day." He told himself. Eito chirps with a small flap of wings.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. No need to tell me twice, Eito." Daichi tells him. "I got this."
After giving himself a pep talk, the grade 3 curse is baring its fangs at him, swishing its whip-tail back and forth. The flame sorcerer goes to pull out his weapon. A sword. But it isn't really a sword even though it looks like one. This one is the kind of sword you can buy from Akiharabra. it is so fantastical, it's unbelievable. It's a sword that is from a tokusatsu show. A show that Daichi watches as a little child while holding a red action figure, cheering the heroes on when fighting monsters that harm humanity inside the TV on a Saturday morning.
"Extension Techinque...Flame Blossom." Daichi cast his chant, channeling his cursed energy into his sword. Then 'blade' begins to set ablaze with bright orange flames.
Crouching low, the cursed spirit then pounces towards the flame sorcerer. Daichi lets out a yell and swings the sword in a horizontal arc, unleashing flames from it. The curse howls as it gets inflicted with burns from the flames and jumps back. The teen charges in, going onto the offensive.
He's going to show that he knows what he's doing!
megumi watches daichi’s display with a cool, appraising gaze, his arms loosely crossed over his chest. the theatrics are, admittedly, a bit much—the pep talk, the ridiculous sword that looks like it belongs in a kid’s tv show, the dramatic chant. it’s all so daichi, so in-your-face and unapologetic, that it borders on absurd. still, megumi finds himself unable to fully dismiss it. daichi’s energy might be chaotic, but it’s not aimless. there’s an undercurrent of intent in his movements, a surprising clarity beneath all the bluster.
the flame blossoms that erupt from the sword catch megumi’s eye, their brightness contrasting sharply with the darkened battlefield. his gaze flickers to the curse, now scorched and retreating, and he notes the precision of daichi’s strikes. it’s not just luck or blind aggression—there’s thought behind the way daichi moves, even if it’s buried under layers of showmanship.
megumi shifts his weight slightly, glancing briefly at eito, who flutters excitedly above daichi’s head. the shikigami’s enthusiasm mirrors its master’s, and for a moment, megumi feels a faint, begrudging sense of amusement. daichi’s approach is nothing like his own, but there’s no denying its effectiveness.
“not bad,” he says finally, his tone even but carrying a subtle edge of acknowledgment. it’s about as close to a compliment as megumi ever gets. his eyes flick back to the curse, watching as it recoils, its movements more cautious now. “but don’t lose focus. the second you get caught up in the moment is the second it takes advantage.”
he doesn’t say it outright, but there’s a hint of approval in the way he steps back, giving daichi space to continue. he’ll intervene if necessary—he always does—but for now, he lets the other sorcerer take the lead, curious to see just how far daichi’s flames can carry him.
What warm respite there is in this moment will be lost, an all too fleeting flicker in the darkening haze. Whether the ring bearer or his ring knows that, is all one and the same. A numbness is returning to the hobbit's slight extremities, soon to crawl along them towards the light within and snuff it out, lest it grow too bright and influential. Something in the Ring fears Sam and the hope he inspires -- and while Frodo knows the fear isn't his, he feels it just the same, and it saps the joy out of the moment he wishes he could relish.
Don't speak of it, Sam, he wishes to utter, but his throat is tight. Ghastly claws close around the Ring on his chest and pull, yanking it, trying to sink it beneath his ribs to deter encroachment. There's only a thief now, an enemy, donning Sam's visage, hungry for his Ring, plotting to claim it. No -- Frodo closes his eyes from the terrible sight. His friend's words may yet drive the darkness away, if he listens with his utmost.
The Ring grows so cold that it burns, and around his ankles licks a frigid mist. His body is like a cocoon that his spirit wishes to slip out of, the unhealing wound on his chest like a promise of freedom -- but how could he listen to Sam's golden voice then, or feel his lips upon his skin? Burning as they are, he'd rather cinder away in their warmth than succumb to the chill.
If only Sam knew how soon the darkness would claim him without his company, without his terrible determination to stay by Frodo's side. It is its own torture, like another stab of a Morgul-knife, to drag someone so far into despair while discovering how lovely they are along the way.
Sam is a blurry shape, surrounded by the land's strange and foreign colors, but soon enough his features sharpen. His touches linger upon Frodo's skin as a painfully scalding trail, yet the sensation is pleasant compared to the agony of the Ring. Not that it matters, not that a dull gray won't soon replace them both.
" Sam, " Frodo says, aching and distant, " there is only pain for me. Your words are fair, but their warmth doesn't reach me. Your touch-- " and the hobbit swallows, skin prickling. He hesitates, the words like fire in the back of his throat. They'll surely singe his tongue. " I yearn for it, but it burns me. "
He takes an unwilling, dutiful step away. " I haven't the strength to tell you to leave my side, even though I yearn to spare you. However this ends, it must end well for you, Sam. I'll never forgive myself for all that I've put you through, all the kindness that I cannot return -- but that would be something like it, Sam, to know you'll get to heal and feel such happiness that I can't give you. "
His features harden then. It's so easy, to reject the warmth. " And do not hope for more, Sam, for my sake. Don't let me hurt you more than I already do. "
sam stands rooted where he is, his hand still outstretched from where frodo’s retreat has left it hovering in the empty air. for a moment, he says nothing, the only sound the soft rustle of the unseen world around them. but the quiet does not linger long in samwise gamgee’s heart, for love will not be stilled by despair, no matter how dark the hour.
“mr. frodo,” he says softly, his voice a low tremor, as though he speaks to something fragile and sacred, “you’ll forgive me for saying so, but that’s not for you to decide.”
he takes a step forward, slow and deliberate, his brow furrowed, his gaze steady on frodo’s face. there is no anger there, no frustration—only a fierce and steadfast love, as constant as the earth beneath their feet. the shadow that clings to frodo’s form, the ring’s cruel weight upon him, might daunt any lesser heart. but sam is made of sterner stuff, though his stature is small and his hands are rough.
“you speak of sparing me, mr. frodo,” he continues, his voice thick and trembling now with an emotion he cannot contain. “but you don’t see it, do you? there’s no sparing in leaving you to face this alone. there’s no kindness in pushing me away, not when every step i take beside you is the only thing i know i ought to do.” his hand moves again, not to grasp or to hold but simply to reach out, palm open, a quiet offering. his fingers are calloused from years of tending gardens, of planting seeds and coaxing life from the soil, but there is no roughness in his gesture. there is only gentleness, the unshakable faith of a hobbit whose heart is too large for his small frame.
“it may burn, frodo,” he says, and his voice softens further, taking on the cadence of the shire’s rolling hills, of sunlit mornings and gentle rains. “it may hurt something fierce, and i can’t take that away from you. but i’ll not stand by and let it steal you from me. if you must carry this weight, then let me bear what i can, even if it’s just the part of keeping you steady.”
he dares to step closer, his hand hovering near frodo’s arm but not daring to touch unless invited. his brown eyes, so full of worry and care, search frodo’s face as though trying to see past the shadows, to find the friend he knows still lingers there. “and as for hope, well,” sam says, a faint, wry smile tugging at his lips despite the ache in his heart, “that’s not something you can tell me to give up, mr. frodo. hope’s stubborn, like me. and it’s mine to keep or lose, so you’ll just have to make your peace with that.”
he lets the words hang between them, like the pause before a storm breaks. his love for frodo is not the loud, roaring sort—it is quiet and enduring, as unyielding as the stones of the shire. he does not waver, even as he waits, his hand still outstretched, for frodo to decide whether to grasp it or let it fall away.
Continued. Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee 一 @cursedfell
how interesting that between sam's features laid some sliver of an answer, something of how the artist crafts their work in their likeness, some explanation as to why the garden of bag end remained ever so difficult to wear into words. decade-long familiar features could be discovered anew, just as the garden was a little different each day. how many hours had he spent on the terrace with bilbo, finding endless poems and lyrics between the well-tended greenery?
frodo's features lit up at what first seemed like simple agreement to his harmless request, but as sam specified his intentions, frodo's brows raised, beyond amused, the wine rendering him especially weak to hilarity. a stubborn shadow lingered behind sam's words, a wariness that frodo aimed to erase into a smile, lest he too recalled what was momentarily so easy not to worry over. " oh sam, I'd hope I'm not so deep in the drinks yet as to require a ward! "
now that sam had decisively narrowed the distance between them, frodo found his own breath stiff. his palm rose to lay against sam's shoulder, as if to keep him at a distance, but it soon moved, inched inwards along the contour of his collarbones to the collar of his shirt. delicate fingers grazed over the highest button there, like marveling at the dainty leaves in bag end's garden. in a breathless moment, blue as the bywater on a clear day, frodo's gaze dipped down, to lay on the lips that always spoke with such kindness and honesty -- the valiant lips of a knight, courageous and selfless. so unlike himself, so undeserving of the despicably selfish things frodo was too weak to leave undone in the veil of night and wine.
" would you rather stay here? " he asked, voice barely above a whisper. " it's quiet and pleasant, a lovely night -- but you'd miss out on such fine wine. I wouldn't wish for something so wonderful to pass you by. "
his gaze glinted like moonlight on dark water, with reverence, but also its demand. his hand shifted from sam's collar, slowly and soundlessly, to brush along his jawline, feather light, fleeting as a breeze. " for you, sam, only the finest elven wine is fit, " he pronounced, like describing a masterful sculpture, " only the clearest night, dark as can be, so that the stars glow all the brighter. "
the tang of wine was on his words, on another insufficient attempt to make sense of this feeling. he knew only that it had grown in the garden of bag end, slowly and steadily, among the verdant glow and untold colors, among countless poems that never quite captured the garden's essence. perhaps it wasn't meant for poems or songs, but for feeling -- for savoring, for praising without trying to understand how it reached his heart.
his hand clasped sam's and he leant in very close to speak, so that the message would fill the empty terrace, where the clamor of the gathering was only a hum in the periphery: " just come with me and enjoy yourself. "
sam shifts under the weight of frodo’s gaze, the quiet night seeming to hum with an energy he cannot name. the words frodo speaks—soft as the breeze that stirs the trees of rivendell—leave sam standing still, his feet planted as firmly as roots in the good earth. yet, there’s a trembling in him, like a sapling in a strong wind, his heart full of something deeper than mere friendship, deeper than duty.
he does not flinch when frodo’s hand brushes his collar, when fingers trace lines as if searching for something hidden beneath the fabric of his shirt. sam stands steady, though the warmth in his cheeks could rival the fires of the shire on a winter’s night. frodo’s words—poetic and laden with a meaning sam cannot fully grasp—echo in his ears like the songs of elven halls.
sam’s eyes, steady and kind, meet frodo’s, and there is a weight in his gaze, as though he carries all the unspoken things between them. he feels the wine on frodo’s breath, the closeness of his hand upon his jaw, and yet it is not the touch that stirs sam most. it is frodo’s voice, earnest and full of something that feels like both longing and hesitation.
“mr. frodo,” sam says, his voice low, a steadiness in it that belies the storm in his chest. “you’ve got a way with words, as you always have. but i reckon it’s not the wine nor the stars that makes this night so fine.” he pauses, searching frodo’s face, his own plain and honest. “it’s you, sir. wherever you are, that’s where i’d rather be, drink or no drink.”
he shifts closer, his large hands rough and steady as they move to clasp frodo’s smaller one. the gesture is simple but filled with a sincerity that only sam could offer. “if it pleases you, i’ll come along. but not for the wine nor the merriment.” his voice grows softer, though his words remain as firm as stone. sam’s fingers tighten gently around frodo’s, their clasp warm and sure, though his heart beats faster than he’d care to admit. the weight of frodo’s hand in his own feels both familiar and new, like the first bloom of spring after a long, cold winter. he steps forward, pulling frodo along with him, the motion as natural as tending a garden.
his stride is steady, purposeful, but there’s a quiet urgency in the way he leads, as though each step carries them further from all the shadows and closer to some unspoken promise. sam doesn’t speak at first, the air between them thick with something unnamable, something that presses against his chest like the swell of a song not yet sung.
“perhaps we ought to get some water in you first.”

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chigiri gets a proper kiss for his happy belated birthday. in private. from mei-chan.
the moment feels suspended, as if the world has narrowed to just the two of them. it’s quiet, save for the soft hum of his pulse in his ears, each beat quick and frantic, like a bird fluttering its wings against a cage. her words had lingered earlier, teasing and unashamed, but this—this is different. there’s no one else around, no teasing edge to her voice, just a softness that feels almost disarming. when mei leans in, chigiri’s breath catches in his throat. his heart, already racing, stumbles into an uneven rhythm, pounding so hard he feels it in every inch of him. he tries to think of something to say, anything at all, but the words stick, heavy and useless, as if his body refuses to cooperate.
her lips are soft against his lips, barely a brush, but it’s enough to set his world alight. warmth spreads from the spot like a ripple in still water, radiating out and leaving his skin tingling. it’s delicate, fleeting, but it stays with him, etched into his memory like a gentle brand. he feels caught between two forces—one that tells him to pull away, to laugh it off and pretend he doesn’t care, and another, deeper, quieter one that wants to stay in this moment just a little longer. his hands hover awkwardly at his sides, unsure of what to do, and he ducks his head slightly, hiding the red that blossoms across his cheeks like a fire he can’t contain.
it’s overwhelming, the way she makes him feel—like he’s running at full speed, the wind rushing past him, but his feet never touch the ground. her actions stir something inside him, something he doesn’t fully understand but can’t ignore. it’s not just the kiss, though that alone would be enough to leave him reeling. it’s the way she carries herself, the way her presence seems to pull him in like gravity.
he doesn’t know what to call this feeling. it’s not the same as the determination he feels on the field or the relief of victory. it’s something softer, more vulnerable—a quiet ache that settles in his chest, both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. when he finally manages to look at her, his voice is barely above a whisper, and it trembles just enough to betray him. “thank you."
the words leave his lips in a whisper, soft and barely there, but before he can second-guess himself, something inside him stirs—a boldness that catches even him by surprise. his hand moves without thought, fingers curling gently around her wrist, then sliding to her arm, the touch firm but careful, as though she might vanish if he isn’t gentle enough. his lips meet hers, hesitant at first, testing, like the first brush of rain after a long drought. but as the moment stretches, something shifts, deepening, grounding him in a way he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever. it’s soft, unsteady, and perfect in its imperfection—a spark igniting a flame he didn’t realize was there.
her scent surrounds him, light and intoxicating, and he feels her body tense under his touch before relaxing, melting into him like she belongs there. it’s overwhelming—the heat, the closeness, the way his heart feels like it might burst—but he doesn’t pull away, not yet. not until he feels the faintest, hesitant pressure of her lips responding to his, sending a jolt of something electric through him.
when he finally pulls back, his cheeks are flushed, and his breaths come shallow and quick, but he doesn’t let go of her arms. instead, he looks at her, really looks at her, his gaze searching and filled with something raw and unguarded. “sorry,” he murmurs, though the way his thumb brushes against her arm says otherwise. “i just… i couldn’t let that be it.”
his voice is quieter now, almost shy, but there’s a steadiness beneath the embarrassment, a quiet resolve that feels new and exhilarating. he doesn’t know what comes next, doesn’t know if she’ll laugh or push him away, but for once, he doesn’t care. for this moment, she’s here, and that’s enough.
holidays are tough, thanks for your patience and i apologize for being so quiet. i hope everyone enjoys their time with family or friends. ❤️
He opts for a quieter approach this year, far away from the loud, burst-into-the-room-without-warning sort of thing that's more typically his style. It might only be because he's heard whispers of Megumi's fellow classmates making plans of their own but hey, Gojo's lips are sealed, in that regard, just in case it's a surprise.
"Birthday boy," he starts in a light singsong as he knocks on his student's door, "I have something for you."
He'd worry about Megumi not even being in his room, if not for being able to see his cursed energy clear as day. Smiling when the other appears, he holds out a small to medium-sized box, plain except for the thin bow wrapped around it.
"Made by yours truly!" Holding it out to him, he wears a big grin full of pride, the softer warmth he has for the boy hidden in his eyes behind the blindfold.
Inside the box is a birthday cake in Megumi's favorite flavor, large enough to share with a couple friends but still small enough to have it all for himself if he so wanted. And Gojo did indeed bake it himself, made evident by the small cartoonish faces of Megumi, his Divine Dogs, and of course Gojo himself, drawn on it in icing.
megumi stares at the cake longer than he means to, his fingers lingering on the edge of the box. the cartoonish icing figures are almost unbearably goofy, a blatant reminder of gojo’s inability to take anything seriously—or so it seems. but beneath the layers of absurdity, there’s a deliberate care to it, an awareness of megumi’s preferences that feels... pointed. unwelcome, almost, in its accuracy. his favorite flavor, the divine dogs, even the ridiculous caricature of himself—it all points to someone who’s been paying attention.
a quiet, unfamiliar warmth stirs in his chest, as though the knot of resentment and begrudging respect he’s held for gojo has loosened, just slightly. it’s frustrating, how something so small can spark emotions he doesn’t have the tools to deal with. gojo has always been a strange mix of chaos and stability in his life—a mentor who simultaneously infuriates and grounds him, an older brother figure whose presence is as aggravating as it is oddly reassuring. and, unfortunately, the closest thing to a father he’s had since his real one disappeared.
he cuts the cake slowly, each slice deliberate, as if the action can steady the swirl of feelings threatening to overwhelm him. the gratitude bubbles up, unsteady and difficult to contain, like a foreign language he doesn’t know how to speak. what does one say to someone like gojo? someone who barges into your life uninvited, makes himself impossible to ignore, and somehow worms his way into the spaces you swore no one could touch?
“you really have too much time on your hands,” he mutters when he finally manages words, but even he can hear the faint crack in his usual stoic tone. the insult lacks its usual venom, and he hates that gojo will notice. of course he’ll notice. he always does.
megumi hands satoru his piece of cake without meeting his eyes, his movements stiff and deliberate, like a soldier following orders. he sits on the edge of his bed with his own plate, the faint warmth in his chest refusing to fade. the first bite is sweeter than he expected, and it lingers on his tongue, soft and surprisingly good.
“it’s not bad,” he says, quieter this time, and even he can hear the layers of meaning beneath those three simple words. it’s not bad—because you made it. it’s not bad—because you care, even if you’re insufferable about it. it’s not bad—because, somehow, against my better judgment, i’m glad you’re here. what's left unsaid.
Smooshes his cheeks together before placing a small forehead kiss to his temple, "Little one, would you like to share cake? No birthday is complete without indulgence" // mamaguro u3u
megumi stands still, rooted in the warmth of her touch, her hands gentle against his face as if he’s something fragile, something worth holding carefully. her kiss on his temple lingers, like the aftertaste of honey, sweet and unexpected. his breath catches in his chest, his mind caught between the instinct to pull away and the quiet, aching want to stay here forever.
there’s a softness to her presence, a lightness that feels like a memory, one he’s been chasing without realizing. he’s spent so much time convincing himself he doesn’t need things like this—tenderness, open affection—but now that it’s here, he doesn’t know how to hold it. it fills the hollow spaces inside him, the ones he’s buried under layers of stoicism and distance. it feels too much, too full, yet somehow not enough, as though he could drown in it and still crave more.
she calls him “little one,” and the words unravel him. it’s not the name itself, but the way it carries so much weight—love, protection, the kind of care he’s always convinced himself he could live without. his throat tightens, his eyes sting faintly, and he wonders if he’ll ever be able to answer her without betraying the vulnerability pressing at the edges of his composure. they seem to carve a hollow in his chest, filling it with something so painfully tender it’s almost too much. he wants to pull away, to retreat to the safety of stoicism, but he doesn’t. instead, he stays rooted, letting her affection settle over him like a blanket he didn’t realize he needed.
when she speaks of cake, it’s such a simple offer, yet it feels monumental. it’s not just the dessert—it’s the way she invites him into this fleeting moment, free of expectation, just them and the quiet celebration of his existence. the faintest smile pulls at his lips, and he dips his head, hiding the fragile curve of his expression behind his dark bangs. he leans in, barely a movement, just enough for his forehead to brush against her shoulder, his temple resting against her like a quiet surrender. he lets her warmth steady him, lets himself feel something other than the constant weight of responsibility and the cold ache of loss.
in her presence, there’s no room for the sharp edges of his usual self. all that exists is her, and him, and the quiet happiness blooming in his chest, fragile and new, like sunlight breaking through the canopy of an old, shadowed forest. she’s here, and that’s enough. the offer of cake feels like more than just dessert. it feels like an invitation to exist in this moment with her, without walls or the weight of everything else he carries. the faintest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, even as his head dips slightly to avoid her gaze. he doesn’t trust himself to look at her fully, not with his heart this bare.
finally, he lifts his gaze to meet hers, his lips twitching into the faintest semblance of a smile. “yeah... okay. but just a small piece.”
"Fushiguro-sama! Hey!" Daichi/Kisho is running towards Megumi as he has a gift in his hand but ends up slipping and falling on top of it. Daichi gasps as he can't believe it. "Shit!" Crap, crap, crap! The present is ruined but inside, it's alright, right!? He turns around with his back facing the shadow sorcerer, fixing the present quickly and hoping it wasn't ruined. He got two in one. A small wolf keychain and a utility knife He wasn't sure what to get Megumi as he was really trying too hard to find a gift. So he finds a gift that can be helpful for his missions and everyday usage with the addition of a sliver wolf head keychain as a nice gesture of their friendship.
"Alright, it's fixed. A little bent but fixed!" Daichi whispers to himself in the box. He managed to compose himself quickly in those few minutes before getting back up and handing the gift over to Megumi with a bow of his head. "Here you go! Happy Birthday, Fushiguro!"
megumi watches the scene unfold with a stoic expression, though his eyes follow every clumsy movement daichi makes. there’s a flicker of something—amusement, maybe, or exasperation—that doesn’t quite reach his face but lingers somewhere in the set of his shoulders. he steps forward and reaches out a steady hand as daichi stumbles and falls to the ground. his fingers catch daichi’s elbow, firm but not rough, keeping him from fully sprawling out. there’s a slight crease in megumi’s brow, the faintest sign of concern peeking through his otherwise calm expression.
“you’re going to break your neck one of these days,” he mutters, his voice low and dry, but there’s no real bite to his words. they’re closer to an exasperated kind of care—an almost imperceptible softness in the way he helps daichi upright again.
once daichi starts fumbling with the gift, megumi doesn’t let go immediately, keeping his grip steady until he’s sure daichi has his balance. then he pulls back, shoving his hands into his jacket pockets like he hadn’t just stepped in. he watches as daichi frantically fixes the present, tilting his head slightly but saying nothing, waiting for him to finish. when the gift is finally handed over, megumi takes it without a word, his gaze flicking over daichi briefly before focusing on the package. he opens it carefully, as if the small effort of daichi’s clumsy repair work deserves not to be undone too quickly.
the wolf keychain catches his attention first, and his hand freezes mid-air. it’s small, but the detail strikes him in a way that feels oddly personal—like daichi had noticed more about him than he thought anyone did. he turns the keychain over in his fingers, the faintest hint of something soft flickering across his face.
“... thanks,” he says quietly, his tone a little awkward but genuine. megumi doesn’t look up as he speaks, his focus lingering on the silver wolf for just a moment longer before he pockets it alongside the utility knife.
his hand brushes over the pocket briefly, as if reassuring himself the keychain is there, before glancing back at daichi. “try not to kill yourself next time you try giving someone a present,” he adds, his tone flat but lighter than usual. still, there’s an almost imperceptible lift at the corner of his mouth—a subtle, fleeting echo of gratitude and fondness.

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𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 & 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬
independent, highly selective, private . oc driven & canon enthusiastic ( fandoms include 𝙅𝙐𝙅𝙐𝙏𝙎𝙐 𝙆𝘼𝙄𝙎𝙀𝙉, 𝙊𝙉𝙀 𝙋𝙄𝙀𝘾𝙀, 𝘽𝙐𝙇𝙇𝙀𝙏 𝙏𝙍𝘼𝙄𝙉, 𝘿𝙄𝙎𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙊𝙍𝙀𝘿, 𝘿𝙐𝙉𝙂𝙀𝙊𝙉 𝙈𝙀𝙎𝙃𝙄, 𝙃𝘼𝘿𝙀𝙎 & 𝙅𝙊𝙃𝙉 𝙒𝙄𝘾𝙆 ) — dragged by goose
happy birthday, blessing.
megumi stands frozen, the words hanging in the air like smoke he can’t escape from. blessing. it’s his name, the one his father gave him—a name he never asked for. never wanted. it’s like a mark, something he can’t wash off, something that follows him like a shadow he can’t outrun. he feels something twist in his chest—an ache, a flicker of warmth, and a distant yearning that he’s never let himself acknowledge. blessing. he doesn’t know if it’s a cruel joke or a genuine sentiment. the truth of it is somewhere in between, and megumi doesn’t know if he’s ready to face it.
he doesn’t want to feel it. doesn't want to feel anything in response to toji. after all, what’s there to feel? his father was never there, never stayed long enough to teach him what it meant to be loved, what it meant to be his son. megumi can still hear the silence after toji’s footsteps, still remember the way he left, disappearing into the world like it didn’t matter that he’d torn a hole in megumi’s chest when he did. blessing... it’s a cruel thing, isn’t it? to say something that sounds like it should mean something good, something whole, but really, it’s just a reminder of everything megumi’s father didn’t do, everything he couldn’t be. it’s a hollow thing that doesn’t belong to him, not really.
but there’s something else too. something fragile, buried deep, like a sliver of hope trying to press through the cracks. megumi hates it. hates the way his chest aches with it. a part of him—just a small part, a part he doesn’t even want to acknowledge—wants to be seen by toji. wants to be loved, wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, there’s something there beneath all the years of abandonment and distance. but he can’t admit it, not even to himself. the words happy birthday, blessing linger, and megumi swallows hard. they make him want to run, to bury himself in the silence of his thoughts. his hands are shaking, his fists clenched so tight he feels his nails digging into his palms. the feeling swells inside him, a storm of confusion and bitterness and something too soft—something too painful to let himself feel.
toji stands before him, a figure from his past who’s never quite been father, never quite been anything. the years between them are filled with ghosts—memories too painful to examine, too raw to touch. megumi has spent his life hiding behind walls, behind armor, convinced that distance was the answer. but now, here, in the quiet weight of this moment, he feels exposed. the silence stretches, thick and suffocating. megumi's fingers curl into his palms, and he’s suddenly aware of the beating of his heart, rapid and chaotic, in a way he’s never felt before. there’s something inside him that screams to say more, to demand an answer, to ask why, why he’s here now, offering something as fragile as a birthday wish.
but he doesn’t ask. he can’t. his words are stuck, caught in his throat, tangled in the mess of his feelings. he wants to reach for something, some thread of connection, but it’s too elusive. his chest feels tight, like he can’t breathe properly, like the weight of his father’s presence is too much for him to bear.
blessing. he’s never been able to decide if he feels cursed by his father or if it’s something he’s always secretly craved—this small, fleeting acknowledgment.
“thanks,” when he speaks, it's soft and hollow, barely a whisper between them. it feels almost like a lie, like a thin veneer to cover the trembling of his heart. his voice cracks slightly, and he hates it. hates the vulnerability that spills out, the way his emotions betray him. the sting of it. the longing. he doesn’t know what to do with it. doesn’t know what to do with blessing. it’s there, hanging between them like a thread, fragile and delicate, and megumi can’t look away. his body betrays him before his mind can catch up. before he can stop it, his feet move, the distance between him and toji shrinking in a way that feels almost impossible. it’s instinct, a brief, rare moment of allowing himself this. this thing he’s never let himself want.
without thinking, he leans in—just slightly, his forehead pressing gently against toji’s chest. it’s not a hug. it’s not anything grand. but it’s enough. enough to feel the steady rhythm of his father’s heartbeat, enough to feel the warmth of him, even if it doesn’t last long. the sound of it, the solidness of his presence, fills the space between them. he allows himself this one thing, this moment. it’s a quiet surrender, a moment of tenderness he’s never known how to ask for. he doesn’t look up, doesn’t meet toji’s gaze. he doesn’t need to. he’s not asking for anything more than this. just the weight of his father’s chest, the small brush of affection that he’s never been able to give, never been able to receive.
it’s brief, fleeting. a touch that feels like it could vanish just as quickly as it came. but for the first time in a long time, megumi allows himself to feel it. just this once. then, as quickly as it came, he pulls away. the moment breaks, and the walls go back up, locking away everything he doesn’t know how to hold. his hand brushes the back of his neck, and he steps back, swallowing the strange lump in his throat.
“gojo is going to be bringing cake by.” a pause. “…you're welcome to have some, if you stay.”