꧁🌸🩰 You Do Your Way Now Let Me Do Mine🩰🌸꧂

✧ Clock Time: 11:30 PM – 12:45 AM

✧ Slang/Terminology: Clap-trap (Nonsense), Toffs (Wealthy aristocrats), Skiddoo (Leave quickly), Gallows-bird(Shady character), Bessemer (Strong/steely, referencing steel mills), Stowaway (Illegal passenger).

[11:30 AM — Cabin G-24]

The darkness inside Cabin G-24 did not bring peace; it brought walls that seemed to shrink with every groan of the steel hull.

(Y/N) lay flat on her back, her eyes wide and tracking the faint, watery moonlight that filtered through the thick glass of the small porthole. The room was heavy with the sounds of sleep. Maeve was currently snoring with the force of a steam locomotive, her unruly brown curls twitching with every raspy intake of air. Across the tiny cabin, Bridget and Mina were dead to the world, though Bridget’s face remained twisted into a bitter frown even in sleep, as if she were dreaming of new ways to cast the stank eye.

But it wasn’t the noise keeping (Y/N) awake. It was her stomach.

The roast beef, the thick brown bread, and the heavy potatoes she had practically inhaled during dinner were now waging war against her body. Combined with the slow, deep pitch of the Titanic as it cut into the open swells of the Atlantic, she felt a distinct, cold sweat breaking out across her forehead. Seasick. A commoner’s affliction, perhaps, but intensified by a nervous system that had been stretched to its absolute limit since she stepped onto the docks of Southampton.

She remembered reading a White Star Line pamphlet back at the boarding office—a boastful piece of literature detailing how the First and Second Class accommodations featured vast, wood-paneled libraries on the upper decks, stocked with the finest classical literature and anatomical references.

The upper decks. A world completely prohibited to her. The iron gates separating Steerage from the Toffs were locked tight at sunset, a legal and social barrier meant to keep the underbelly of the ship from contaminating the pristine hallways of the wealthy. She hadn’t gone out to explore the ship during the day like Maeve and Elsa; she had no map in her mind, only her intuition and the stark memory of the inspectors who looked at her like a thief.

"But if I stay here, I will be sick", she thought, the sour taste of anxiety rising in her throat. "I need air. I need space. I need to read until my brain forgets the movement of the water."

As her hand hovered over the heavy iron latch of the cabin door, a soft, high-pitched voice scratched through the darkness.

"(Y/N)...?"

She froze, her breath catching in her throat. She turned her head slowly. In the middle bunk, Elsa was sitting up, her blue eyes wide with childlike terror, her pale fingers clutching her handmade burlap doll so tightly the stitching looked ready to snap. The young Dutch girl was trembling, her chest heaving with the silent panic of someone who believed every creak of the ship’s rivets was the preamble to a watery grave.

"...(Y/N)?" Elsa whispered, her accent thick, her English fractured into a hesitant, childlike fragment. "...Where... where go? Is... water?"

(Y/N) stepped backward, kneeling beside Elsa’s bunk. She reached out, gently rubbing her own forehead with an awkward, self-conscious gesture before soothingly placing a hand over Elsa’s small knuckles.

"Shh," (Y/N) whispered, her voice barely an exhalation. "Go back to sleep, Elsa. I'm just... I'm going to the washroom. My stomach is... it’s not agreeing with the British beef. The laboratory down the corridor. I will be back soon, and I will be entirely safe. I promise." She leaned closer, her eyes darting toward the curtained bunk where Madame Mei-Lin slept. "Most importantly... please do not tell or wake up "Mother." It's good to let Mama Lin sleep. You know how she gets if she thinks we're wandering."

Elsa looked at (Y/N)’s medical books, then at the night shawl. She didn't speak English well—hardly at all—but she understood the language of secrecy. She nodded once, a slow, solemn tilt of her head, and pulled the rag doll over her mouth to seal her promise.

(Y/N) put a finger to her lips as she slipped through the door, closing it until the latch clicked home with a soft snap.

The main corridor of Steerage was a long, white-painted throat of steel, lit only by occasional gas lamps enclosed in heavy glass spheres. She walked with her back pressed against the iron plates, her intuition guiding her toward the center of the ship. When she reached the large framed deck plan near the structural bulkhead, she stopped in a panic. But (Y/N) possessed the sharp, analytical brain of a medical student. She then closed her eyes, utilizing her intuition, spatial awareness, and a bit of mental mathematics to calculate the distance between the structural companionways. Her eyes traced the intricate lines of the blueprint. Through a quick calculation of the companionways and elevator shafts, she mapped a route through the auxiliary crew staircases—places where the stewards rarely patrolled at midnight.

Ten minutes later, she stood before the barrier.

It was a heavy, black wrought-iron gate, its bars ending in sharp, ornamental pikes, separating the Third-Class aft staircase from the Second-Class landing. A massive brass padlock hung from the center chain like a silent threat.

"Damn it!" she hissed under her breath.

(Y/N) looked behind her. The hallway was empty, save for the distant, metallic clang of a fireman’s shovel far below in the boiler rooms.

She was small. Petite. Her frame was slender, a byproduct of missing meals in favor of studying. She looked at her hands—long, delicate fingers, baby-soft skin, and bones that were strangely flexible. She was double-jointed, a trait she had discovered as a child when she used to twist her arms out of the grip of schoolyard bullies who tried to bully-rag her for her dark skin. The rude, prejudicial biases of Bridget and Mina from earlier flashed through her mind. They thought she was nothing. They thought she was clumsy, out of place, an anomaly.

"Let’s see if Bridget’s 'monkey' comments hold any truth to my flexibility," she muttered with a dry, bitter dash of dark comedic relief.

She turned her shoulder sideways, flattening her chest against the iron bars. Her long, double-jointed collarbones shifted with a faint, internal pop as she exhaled every square inch of air from her lungs. Slipping her slender arms through the narrow three-inch gap between the ornamental scrolls, she reached around the back of the gate. Her small, baby-soft fingers (unmarred by heavy labor due to her years of intense academic study) groped for the internal latch mechanism of the emergency override bolt.

Her fingertips scraped against grease and cold iron. She twisted her wrist at an impossible, double-jointed angle, her ballet-trained core holding her entire body perfectly rigid against the metal to prevent a single rattle.

Just a little further... match the angle...

Click.

The internal deadbolt slid back. (Y/N) pulled her arms back through the gap, gasping for air as her lungs re-inflated. "Who knew getting bullied as a girl and having long ballet arms would finally pay off on the grandest ship in the world?" She pushed the gate open just wide enough to slip her small frame through, then pulled it shut behind her, ensuring the lock looked undisturbed from the outside.

"Long arms, small hands, and childhood trauma," she whispered to herself, a small, triumphant smile breaking through her anxiety as she stepped onto the deep, plush green carpet of the upper decks. "A marvelous medical combination."

She was inside the world of the Toffs. The air here instantly changed and even smelled better—of lemon oil, expensive tobacco, and old paper.

[12:00 AM — The Palatial Suite, B-Deck]

While (Y/N) was picking locks in the dark, Michael Jackson was fighting for his life against his own mind.

In the master bedroom of the grand suite, the air-conditioned breeze was cool, but Michael’s silk sheets were drenched in sweat. His head thrashed against the down pillow, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscles in his cheeks stood out like wires.

In his dream, the world was exploding in a blinding, terrifying wall of white heat. The roar was deafening—not the sound of the ocean, but the sound of fire, screaming metal, and the smell of burning chemicals. He was on a stage, but the stage was turning into an oven. Hands—thousands of clawing, faceless hands—were reaching through the smoke, ripping at his clothes, tearing at his skin, screaming his name over and over until his ears bled. "Monsieur Michael! Lord Michael! Show us the patches! Show us the monster!" He tried to run, but his legs were trapped in heavy, wet clay. He looked down at his hands, and the skin was melting away, changing from brown to white, peeling back to reveal nothing but empty, hollow bone. "You belong to us!" a booming voice roared from the clouds—a voice that sounded terrifyingly like Joseph's. "You have no face! You have no soul!"

"No!"

Michael sat up with a violent gasp, his eyes flying open as he nearly pitched forward off the edge of the massive mahogany bed. His chest heaved, his hand flying to his throat, feeling the rapid, chaotic hammering of his heart against his ribs. His brow was wet, the dark, damp curls of his Dangerous era hair clinging to his forehead and cheeks.

He sat there for a full minute, trembling in the dark, waiting for the phantom roar of the crowd to fade. The only sound in the room was the heavy, rhythmic breathing of Bill Bray. Michael looked through the open double doors into the grand sitting room. Bill had fallen asleep on the long Louis XIV settee, his massive frame draped in a wool blanket, his arms crossed over his chest.

Michael let out a soft, genuine chuckle. Even the iron guard needs to sleep, he thought, feeling a wave of deep affection for the man who spent every waking hour protecting his shadow.

Michael swung his legs out of bed. He walked to the private promenade door, stepping out into the cold midnight air. The moonlight was a brilliant, silver road cut across the black glass of the Atlantic, mirroring the deep, infinite sky above. It was beautiful, but it was lonely. The walls of the suite felt like a velvet-lined coffin. He knew he couldn't go back to sleep; the nightmare was still hovering at the edges of his consciousness, waiting for him to close his eyes.

Then he remembered his mother whispering to him earlier about the First-Class library connected to the Aft Grand Staircase. She had mentioned it was stocked with rare editions of European poetry and classic literature.

Books don't ask questions, Michael thought. Books don't stare at my skin.

He turned back into the room, determined not to wake Bill. He knew that if he vanished without a trace, it would cause absolute hell and chaos the moment Bill woke up. He grabbed a long, black velvet traveling robe that doubled as a heavy coat, pulling the collar high up around his neck. He reached for his signature dark fedora, shoving it low over his brow. Finally, his eyes fell on a large square of black silk fabric on the vanity. He picked it up, wrapping it loosely around the lower half of his face like a traveler shielding himself from a desert sandstorm.

He picked up a silver fountain pen from the desk and scribbled a quick note on a scrap of White Star stationery:

Bill — Couldn't sleep. Gone to find something to read in the library. Don't worry. I have my disguise. I am safe. — M

He placed the note on the mantle next to his porcelain Peter Pan figurine. Then, he gathered up his long, dark traveling robe (A heavy silk piece that billowed to his ankles) and grabbed his black fedora. To ensure absolute privacy, he took a square of dark silk cloth and wrapped it loosely around the lower half of his face, leaving only his large, expressive eyes visible.

He crept out of his bedroom, tiptoeing past his parents' connecting door with the absolute precision of a thief in the night. Once he cleared the main door of the suite, he stepped into the massive, empty First-Class hallway.

For the first time since he had set foot in England months ago, he was completely alone. No managers. No father. No press.

A sudden, childish impulse took hold of his limbs. Michael broke into a silent, joyous sprint down the corridor. His long coat billowed behind him like the wings of a crow as he ran, leaping over the brass deck seams, his feet executing a flawless, silent mid-air spin before he caught himself against the mahogany paneling near the staircase landing. He giggled behind his silk mask, his chest warming with the pure, unadulterated joy of a boy who had finally escaped the nursery.

The corridor stretched out for what felt like miles, completely deserted and silent. A sudden, playful urge hit him (A burst of youthful energy he hadn't felt since he was a boy running around their old home before the fame took over). Michael checked both ways, grinned behind his silk mask, and began to run down the long, carpeted hallway, his robes trailing behind him like a shadow as he leaped playfully over the intricate floral patterns on the floor.

[12:15 AM — The First-Class Library Saloon]

When (Y/N) stepped through the glass-paneled double doors of the library, her breath caught in her throat.

The library was a breathtaking cathedral of mahogany, gold leaf, and knowledge. Tall, arched book-presses rose two stories high, connected by an elegant wrought-iron spiral staircase that led to the Second-Class reading room above. The only light came from small, green-shaded electric lamps on the writing desks, casting long, emerald shadows across the leather chairs.

(Y/N) was lost. She had accumulated a small mountain of texts on a corner table: a volume on maritime law, a collection of poetry by Lord Byron, and three separate medical journals she had found in the Second-Class repository. She had been shifting books from shelf to shelf, her mind so focused on distracting herself from her nausea that she hadn't noticed the mess she was making.

On the other side of the double-sided mahogany bookcase, Michael was doing the exact same thing. He was looking for something—anything really—to quiet his thoughts. He had pulled down a text on French history, a book of American short stories, and was now reaching for a specific, leather-bound volume of poetry that sat on the middle shelf.

At the exact same index, from the other side of the dark wood divider, (Y/N)’s hand reached into the gap.

Their fingers brushed. (Y/N)’s bare, brown fingers clamped down on the spine of the book (A rare first edition of Percy Bysshe Shelley’s collected works) at the precise moment Michael’s white-gloved hand wrapped around the top edge.

Both of them flinched, their heads snapping up.

In the dim, amber shadow of the bookcase, they stood less than a foot apart. Because of the midnight hour and their respective disguises, they couldn't see each other's full faces. (Y/N) could only see a pair of large, incredibly dark, and soulful eyes staring at her from beneath the brim of a fedora, the lower half of the stranger's face completely hidden by black silk. Michael could see a pair of sharp, brilliant, and fiercely intelligent eyes framed by rich, mahogany skin, her nightgown hidden beneath a simple woolen shawl.

Michael’s breath hitched behind his mask. It’s her, his mind whispered, his chest tightening as he recognized the fierce woman from the waterline—the one who had stared up at the sky with that unforgettable expression of defiance. Up close, without the distance of the decks between them, she looked even more striking. He noticed the small stack of medical textbooks on the nearby table, the heavy titles on anatomy contrasting sharply with the delicate woolen shawl around her shoulders.

(Y/N)’s defenses instantly went white-hot. Her body tensed, her heart slamming against her ribs with the terrifying realization that she had been caught in First Class by a man who looked like an aristocrat—or worse, a wealthy Toff who would have her thrown into the ship’s brig before she could explain herself. She pulled her hand back from the book as if the leather had burned her, her spine straightening into a hostile, cautious posture born of pure survival instinct.

"Forgive me, Monsieur," she said, her voice sharp, cold, and dripping with defensive formality. "I did not mean to trespass on your territory, but I didn't think anyone was here." I will take my leave."

"No....wait," Michael said softly.

The sound of his voice traveled through the quiet library like velvet rubbing against silk. It was a high, gentle, and remarkably melodic cadence, completely devoid of the harsh, arrogant edge (Y/N) had come to expect from the wealthy men on the upper decks. "Don't... don't apologize. You don't have to go. It's my fault. I was... I wasn't looking."

(Y/N) backed up an inch, her eyes narrowing as she looked at his long black robe and the silk mask covering his face. "I am well aware of the rules of this ship, sir. Third-class passengers are not permitted above the lower landings. If you intend to call the Master-at-Arms, do it quickly. I will not be bully-ragged into a scene."

Michael let out a soft, breathless sound behind his mask—a sound that was unmistakably a gentle chuckle. "Why would I call the guards?" he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. "How could I possibly report someone for being in the library... if I can't even see anyone here? As far as I'm concerned, the room is completely empty."

(Y/N) froze, her intellectual authority momentarily derailed by the sheer absurdity of his statement. She stared at him, her mind working through the logic. He’s protecting me?!!....... She had never in her life heard a first-class passenger speak so casually, let alone offer protection to a woman of color under the cover of night. The sheer lack of prejudice in his soft tone was more shocking than if he had pulled a pistol on her.

"You speak very strangely for a man of your station," she murmured, her hand softening on the railing. "The men of your deck usually prefer to shout or call for the police."

"I've had enough of men shouting to last me a lifetime," Michael whispered, his eyes drifting down to the anatomy book on her table. "You're... you're studying the nervous system?"

"I am going to be a doctor," she said, her chin lifting. She braced herself for the inevitable laughter, the sneer she had received from the health inspector.

But it didn't come.

Michael’s eyes lit up with a brilliant, genuine wonder. "A doctor? That's... that's beautiful. To heal people... to know how the heart works, how the nerves send signals to the brain. That’s like... it’s like choreography, isn't it? A perfect design."

(Y/N)’s mouth opened slightly. She looked at him, truly looked at him. "You... you don't think it's an absurdity? A colored woman with a scalpel?"

"I think the world is absurd," Michael said softly, his voice cracking slightly as he thought of his own painted face. "Not you. Never you."

Michael’s eyes shone with deep admiration. "The nerves don't lie," he agreed softly, repeating the phrase in his mind. "They're predictable. Unlike the people on this ship. The Toffs out there... they spend all day talking about nonsense. Just white noise and clap-trap. But here... it’s quiet. You can actually hear yourself think."

(Y/N) literally froze and raised an eyebrow at Michael.

Who is he? She wondered. Why is he hiding his face?

She didn't realize that while they were standing in the shadows of the walnut shelves, the world outside their bubble was beginning to close in.

[12:15 AM — The Corridor Outside the Library]

Down the long, carpeted corridor of Aft B-Deck, two night watchmen were walking with heavy leather boots, their electric flashlights cutting wide beams across the mahogany walls.

"I'm telling you, Arthur, the gate at the Third-Class landing was unbolted from the inside," the older guard muttered, his voice carrying through the quiet air. "We've got a stowaway or some petty thief wandering around the First-Class salons. Keep your eyes peeled for any colored folk or dock-rats out of place."

At the same time, dodging into the shadow of a large decorative palm tree near the Grand Staircase, Bill Bray was moving like a panther in a tuxedo. Beside him were Jackie and Marlon, both of them looking disheveled, their collars unbuttoned as they hurried to keep up with the massive bodyguard.

"If Joseph wakes up and finds out Mike went missing on the first night, he'll have our hides," Jackie hissed, his hand over his forehead. "Bill, are you sure he came this way?"

"The note said the library," Bill rumbled in a low, disciplined whisper. "He’s looking for poetry. Keep your mouths shut and find him before the ship's security does. If the press catches the 'Melancholy Prince' wandering the corridors in a mask at midnight, it'll be on the front page of every paper in New York before we even dock."

[12:30 AM — Inside the Library]

Michael reached up, his gloved fingers gently lifting the rare volume of English poetry from the shelf—the very book they had both reached for. He looked at the gold-embossed cover, then extended his arm, holding the book out toward (Y/N) with a courtly, old-world bow.

"Since we both have an appetite for words tonight... I think you should have it first," he said softly, his voice rich with a gentleman's grace. "A brilliant doctor shouldn't be kept waiting by poetry."

(Y/N) looked at the book, and suddenly, a wave of deep, historical anxiety washed over her. The reality of her skin, the memory of the health inspector digging his fingers into her arm, and the cruel whispers from the dining saloon came crashing back into her mind. Her chest tightened, and she stepped back away from his hand, her breath catching.

"No," she said, her voice rising slightly in a sudden, panicked flutter. "No, I cannot take that from you. Someone like me... a colored woman in Steerage... I have no right to touch what belongs to First Class. I don't need your charity, sir, and I certainly do not want your pity."

The words left her mouth like a volley of small stones, sharp and defensive. The moment they hung in the air, (Y/N)’s heart stopped. She realized what she had just said—and who she had said it to—a little too late. She braced herself for the stranger to turn cold, to realize her lower birth, or to insult her dignity as the others had.

A long, heavy silence stretched between them under the green lamp.

Then, out of the darkness behind the silk mask, a small, incredibly tender chuckle emerged.

"It’s not pity," Michael said, his voice dropping to a level of deep, emotional sincerity that made (Y/N)’s chest ache. He stepped closer, the soft, dim amber light of the reading lamp finally catching his face from a high angle. It illuminated only their eyes, his white-gloved hand, and the heavy velvet of his robe, keeping their full profiles lost in the shadow. "I don't pity you at all. I think you're incredible. Everyone in this world deserves a chance to read the stars, to look at beautiful things. Especially someone who works as hard as you do to heal people."

He boldly pressed the book into her hands, his gloved fingers brushing against her bare knuckles for a fleeting, electric second.

(Y/N) felt a hot, deep flush of crimson creep up her neck and into her cheeks. Her fingers wrapped around the smooth calfskin leather of the book, her eyes locked onto his dark, soulful gaze. The warmth radiating from his presence was intoxicating, completely overwhelming the cold, clinical logic of her textbooks.

"When you're finished with it," Michael added, his tone turning playful and light, as if they were lifelong friends sharing a secret in the schoolyard, "you can just bring it back to me. I'll be waiting right here."

(Y/N) let out a breathy, realistic laugh, though her heart was still hammering. "You speak as if this ship were a common park, sir. You don't even know my name, you don't know where I am staying, and I don't know why someone of your stature should even be seen talking to someone like me."

Michael tilted his head, his curls shifting over his brow. "I'll find a way," he murmured, his voice softening to a whisper. "We seem to have a connection, don't you think? The universe is a very big place, but tonight, we're the only two people in this library."

Before (Y/N) could answer, the heavy double doors at the far end of the library mezzanine creaked open.

"CHECK THE LOWER AISLES, ARTHUR! I SAW A LIGHT MOVING NEAR THE WALNUT SHELVES!"

The harsh, metallic beams of electric flashlights cut through the darkness of the upper tier, reflecting wildly against the glass panels of the bookcases. The heavy stomp of leather boots began to echo down the oak staircase.

Panic struck like a lightning bolt. (Y/N)’s internal survival mechanism took over before her brain could process her emotions. She realized the danger she was in—caught in the dead of night with a wealthy First-Class gentleman, an African-descended woman in the sacred halls of the elite. Without a second thought, she dropped the poetry book onto the floor, snatched her anatomy textbook and her dark shawl, and spun on her heel.

"Wait! No, don't run!" Michael cried out, reaching for her sleeve. "Stay behind me, I can tell them—"

"No!" she hissed, tears of pure terror pricking her eyes. "You don't understand what they'll do to me!"

"Wait! Come back!" Michael cried out in a panicked whisper, reaching his hand out into the empty air. "You forgot your book! When will I see you again?"

But she was already a shadow moving through the dark. She fled down the narrow rear aisle that connected to the Second-Class landing, her soft slippers making no sound against the carpets as she vanished into the labyrinth of the ship’s interior before he could even finish his sentence.

The sound of the footsteps on the stairs grew louder, the flashlights bouncing off the walls just two aisles away. Michael stood in the center of the dark aisle, his heart pounding with a sudden, desperate sense of loss as he stared at the empty space where she had just been standing.

"Miss...?" he whispered into the dark.

Before he could turn to follow her route, a pair of massive, heavy iron hands clapped down onto his shoulders from behind, spinning him around with terrifying velocity.

Michael gasped in horror, his breath catching in his throat as his back was pinned against the hard mahogany bookshelf. He looked up, his eyes wide with a feral, breathless panic as he came face-to-face with the towering figure standing over him in the shadows.

The flashlight beam cut across his face, blinding him as a voice spoke from the darkness.

[To Be Continued in Chapter Four...]

The "Palatial Suite" on B-Deck was not a room; it was a gilded cage designed by men who worshipped mahogany and silk. As the door clicked shut behind the last of the white-gloved stewards, the silence of the room felt heavier than the roar of the crowd outside. Michael stood in the center of the Persian rug, his hands still shoved deep into the pockets of his traveling coat, clutching the porcelain Peter Pan as if it were a talisman against the very air he breathed.

"God, my stomach," Jermaine groaned, collapsing onto a Louis XIV settee. "I can feel the engines in my teeth. Are we moving? I think I’m already dying."

"You’re always dying, Jermaine," Marlon chirped, tossing his hat onto a nearby sideboard and immediately poking at a bowl of fresh fruit. "Look at this place! It’s bigger than the flat in London. Michael, look! We have a private promenade. We can walk outside and not even see the commoners."

Michael didn’t move. He was staring at his reflection in a pier glass mirror. The "Dangerous" era silhouette—the sharp shoulders of his coat, the curls cascading perfectly over his forehead, the dark aviators—it was a masterpiece of deception. Beneath the layers of greasepaint and pancake makeup, his skin felt like it was suffocating.

[Michael's POV]

People think the mask is for them. They think I hide because I’m ashamed. They don’t understand that the mask is the only thing that keeps the 'Toffs' from tearing me apart with their questions. But even here, in this 'unsinkable' palace, I feel the eyes. Except for one person. Mother secretly invited her along because she’s the only one who doesn't look at me like a medical curiosity or a meal ticket. Elizabeth. Elizabeth Taylor. She’s the 'Molly Brown' of our world, I suppose. Though we called her "The Unsinkable Liz". Born to wealth (“New Money”) but with a soul that’s spent time in the trenches. She arrived on the ship in a whirlwind of violet silk and diamonds, swearing at a porter who dropped her hatbox. She’s the only woman who can look at Joseph Jackson and tell him to 'shut his trap' without blinking. She’s been my shield since I was a boy. She knows what it’s like to be a child star, a commodity, a thing. To the rest of this ship, we are the 'Exotic Jacksons'—the French-adopted miracles of industry. To Elizabeth, I’m just Michael. And God, I need that more than I need the air in my lungs.

"Bill," Michael said softly, his voice barely a whisper.

Bill Bray, his loyal bodyguard and the only man who truly saw the person behind the performer, stepped forward. "Yes, Michael?"

"I want to go for a walk. Not the promenade. I want to see the ship."

"Not now, Mike," Bill replied, his voice firm but sympathetic. "The photographers are still haunting the corridors. The 'Gallows-birds' of the press are looking for any slip-up. Besides, your father wants you dressed for dinner by seven. Elizabeth is joining us."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the small, porcelain Peter Pan. I placed it on the marble mantle, next to the photograph of my sisters and little Randy.

I’m sorry you couldn't come, I thought, tracing Janet’s face with my thumb. It’s too dangerous for us to move all at once. Too many questions. Too many flashes.

"You’re a Jackson and you will stay in the suite, Michael!" Joe’s voice boomed as he entered from the connecting room. He walked in, looking at the room as if he owned the ship. "In this world, you’re whatever I say you are. You stay away from the railings. You stay away from the commoners. "I’ve got the stewards bringing our bags and trunks. We aren't mingling with the rabble tonight. I want you seen, but not heard and touched. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Joseph," Michael murmured, sinking into a chair and looking outside the window in silence. He was surrounded by gold, but he had never felt poorer.

The descent into the belly of the Titanic was like stepping into the throat of a great, humming beast. For (Y/N), the transition from the salt-sprayed air of the docks to the cramped, labyrinthine corridors of Steerage was jarring. The white-painted bulkheads were cold to the touch, vibrating with the distant, rhythmic thrum of the massive reciprocating engines far below.

She followed a steward down a series of steep, narrow companionways. The air here was different—heavier, smelling of fresh paint, pine soap, and the faint, underlying scent of hundreds of bodies pressed into tight quarters.

"Cabin G-24," the steward muttered, barely glancing back at her. He shoved open a heavy teak door and gestured inside before skiddoo-ing off to handle the next influx of passengers.

(Y/N) stepped inside, her valise clutched against her chest. The cabin was tiny, dominated by three sets of bunk beds. It was a far cry from the open-air dormitories of lesser ships, but the four walls felt like they were closing in.

"Oh! Look! She’s finally here!"

A girl, no older than twenty, with a mop of unruly brown curls and a thick Italian lilt, sprang from a lower bunk. This was Maeve—the 'Fabrizio' of their small group. Beside her stood a girl who looked remarkably like she’d stepped off a farm in the Netherlands; Elsa, a quiet, wide-eyed Dutch girl who spoke only fragments of English while holding a rosary and a handmade doll.

"I’m Maeve! And this is Elsa—don't mind her, she’s a bit of a Gallows-bird when she's nervous, thinks the ship’s gonna sink every time a bolt creaks!" Maeve laughed, reaching out to grab (Y/N)’s arm with an easy, unthinking familiarity that made (Y/N) stiffen.

Maeve’s eyes swept over (Y/N)’s skin, her curiosity naked and unabashed. In the early 1900s, a woman of color in the Steerage of a British liner was a rarity, a sight to be studied like a specimen. "Your skin... it’s like the polished mahogany in the Toff’s parlors. Is it true? Are you really a doctor-in-training? We heard the inspector shouting at the gates!"

Before (Y/N) could answer, two shadows fell over the doorway and nearly pushed (Y/N) to the ground as they were walking towards the other open beds without a care in the world. "HEY! That was rude!" Maeve yelled in shock, which caused the two girls to turn around and look up at them, mostly (Y/N) in shock, disbelief, and disgust.

To her left sat a girl who looked no older than seventeen, her hair a messy bird’s nest of blonde curls, struggling to lace a pair of boots that had seen better days. This was Mina, a girl from a mixed heritage background—half-German, half-Romani—who spoke in a fractured English that relied heavily on wild hand gestures. Next to her was Bridget, a sharp-tongued Irish girl with a face full of freckles and a gaze that was currently narrowed in suspicion.

"So," Bridget spoke first, her voice a sharp rasp. "They’re putting colored folk in with us now? Is the ship so full they’ve run out of corners to hide you in?"

(Y/N) felt the familiar prickle of heat at the back of her neck, but she didn't flinch. She placed her valise on the only empty bunk. "The White Star Line accepted my currency just as they did yours, miss. I suggest you take your grievances up with the Purser."

Mina let out a small, muffled giggle at (Y/N)'s remark, which earned her a smack on the arm from Bridget. Elsa, however, simply watched while holding her doll. She looked at (Y/N)’s medical books, then at her straight spine. A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Suddenly, the ship’s whistle let out a final, bone-shaking blast.

"Come on!" Maeve chirped, tugging at (Y/N)’s sleeve. "They’re casting off! We have to go to the aft deck and wave goodbye! Everyone’s doing it! We can see the Toffs on the upper decks—maybe they'll throw some coins!"

"No, Maeve, please," (Y/N) said softly, gently uncoupling the girl's fingers. "It’s too crowded!" "I... I think I’ll stay here. I need to unpack my books."

The truth was, (Y/N) could feel the eyes. Even here, among the poor and the hopeful, her skin was a target. The way the mothers pulled their children closer when she passed, the way the men muttered about "the dark omen on the ship"—it was a weight she didn't want to carry onto the deck today.

Maeve’s face fell, a pout forming. "Oh, don't be a stick-in-the-mud! It’s the Titanic! You’ll never see the likes of this again!" She grabbed Elsa’s arm as she looked back at (Y/N) with wide, panicked eyes, as she was too shy to resist, with Maeve dragging her toward the door, glancing back at (Y/N) with a look of mild irritation. "Suit yourself, then."  

The door was left wide open, leaving (Y/N) in the sudden, ringing silence of the cabin. She then looked to see Bridget and Mina give her the "stank eye" before walking out the room and smacking the door shut. (Y/N) then walked over and sat on the edge of the lower bunk, her head in her hands.

"Let them go, piccola."

A hand rested on (Y/N)’s shoulder as she looked up. "I am Madame Mei-Lin, but you can call me Mama Lin." It was Mama Lin, the fourth member of their cabin. She was an older woman of Chinese descent who had spent thirty years in London and spoke English with a rhythmic, steady grace. She was the "mother-figure" of the group, a woman who had seen enough of the world to know when a soul was bruised.

"They are young. They think the world is a party," Mama Lin cooed, brushing a stray lock of hair from (Y/N)’s forehead. She spoke to her with the gentle cadence one would use for a feverish child. "We go outside and play later, when the sun goes down and the Toffs are busy drinking their wine. For now, we rest. You are a doctor, yes? Doctors need their strength."

(Y/N) let out a small, involuntary giggle. Her own mother had passed years ago, and the world had been cold ever since. So it was rare to be nurtured. In the hospital wards where she trained, she had to be iron. She had to be twice as fast and ten times as smart as the men. To be treated like a "sick child" by Mama Lin was both aggravating and profoundly sweet.

"I am not a child, Mama Lin," (Y/N) teased, though she leaned into the woman’s touch.

"On this ship, we are all children of the sea," Mama Lin replied, her eyes turning serious. "And the sea does not care about the color of a person’s skin. Only the weight of their heart."

By seven o'clock, the Third-Class dining saloon was a roar of noise.

(Y/N) walked in, her medical book tucked under her arm. She had changed into a simple but clean dress, her hair pinned back neatly. As soon as she crossed the threshold, the room went silent.

It was a cold, dead silence that started at the nearest table and rippled back to the kitchens. Mothers paused with spoons halfway to their children’s mouths. Men lowered their mugs of ale. The "colored woman" had arrived.

(Y/N) felt the weight of their stares—hostile, suspicious, or merely shocked. She kept her chin up, walking gracefully toward a large, open table. As she pulled out a chair, the three people sitting at the far end immediately stood up, grabbing their plates and moving to another table without a word.

She sat down, the silence stretching uncomfortably. She could hear the whispers now. 

"Is she a servant?"  "Look at her clothes... too fine for a maid." "I heard she’s a Gallows-bird, escaped from a London asylum."

(Y/N) didn't flinch. She opened her textbook—Gray’s Anatomy—and propped it up against a water carafe. When the steward brought her plate, she began to eat. The meal was simple: a hearty vegetable soup, large thin slices of roast beef, thick brown bread, and roasted potatoes. To the shock of those watching, (Y/N) had an appetite like a dockworker. She ate with a focused, multitasking precision—reading a paragraph on the nervous system, then taking a large, unladylike bite of bread.

"(Y/N)! THERE SHE IS! OUR OWN LITTLE DOCTOR!"

The silence was shattered by a high-pitched shriek. Maeve came charging across the dining room, her arms waving wildly. She was dragging Elsa behind her, and an older Italian couple and their three children, who had apparently been "adopted" by Maeve during the afternoon, were following close in their wake was.

"Look! We find her! We find the Doctor!" Maeve shouted, sliding onto the bench next to (Y/N) with enough force to make the table shake.

Mama Lin appeared behind them, tapping her fan against Maeve’s head. "Quiet, you songbird! This is a dining room, not a goat pasture!" She looked around the room, her eyes narrowed at the people who were still staring. She spoke loudly in Cantonese, her voice sharp and mocking, before switching to English. "It is a tragedy, truly. So many people on this ship, and yet so few have seen a beautiful, intelligent woman before. They stare because they are confused by such brilliance."

Across from them, a young Irishman named Tommy Ryan sat down, grinning. He was a Gallows-bird if (Y/N) ever saw one—hat tilted low, eyes mischievous. "Don't mind the sheep, darling. They’re just afraid your brain is bigger than theirs. Pass the bread, would ya? I’m starving enough to eat the hull."

(Y/N) felt the tension in her shoulders melt. As the table filled with this ragtag family of Italians, Irishmen, Dutch, and Mama Lin, the rest of the room began to return to their own business, though the whispers remained.

To everyone's shock, (Y/N) began to eat. And eat. And eat. For a woman of her slight stature, she had a bottomless pit of an appetite—a side effect of a metabolism fueled by nervous energy and years of skipping meals to study. She managed to read her anatomy book while systematically dismantling a large portion of roast beef, two potatoes, and three slices of bread.

"Mother of Mary," Tommy whispered, watching her. "Where do you put it all? Do you have a second stomach in those books?"

(Y/N) blushed, a rare giggle escaping her. "Studying is hungry work, Mr. Ryan."

(Y/N) felt a flush of embarrassment as she realized that she was nearly finished with her large bowl of food while still reading. "I... I have a large appetite when I study," (Y/N) murmured.

While she ate, she caught snippets of the gossip floating from the other tables.

"Did you hear? There’s a Prince on board. A French-African Lord in First Class." "I heard they’re richer than the Astors. Imagine that. A colored family in the Palatial Suite."

(Y/N) snorted softly into her soup. A "colored Prince"? In 1912? It was a fairy tale told by people who wanted to believe the world was changing faster than it actually was. She didn't believe it for a second. Rich people were white, and people like her were invisible. That was the law of the world.

While (Y/N) was fighting for a place at the table, Michael was being presented like a prize stallion.

The First-Class dining saloon was a cathedral of crystal and silver. The Jacksons had their own table, positioned perfectly so that every Toff in the room could catch a glimpse of them without being close enough to touch.

Michael sat rigidly, his "Dangerous" era curls shimmering under the electric lights. He was dressed in a black tuxedo with a silver-threaded vest, his hands gloved in thin, white silk. Beside him sat Elizabeth Taylor, radiant in diamonds, chatting animatedly to Katherine to distract from the cold stares of the other aristocrats.

The menu was a daunting list of French delicacies: Consommé Olga, Poached Salmon with Mousseline Sauce, Filet Mignons Lili.

Michael stared at his plate. He was notoriously picky, his stomach often turning at the rich, heavy sauces of high-society cooking. He poked at a piece of salmon, his anxiety making his throat close up. He could feel the eyes of every young debutante in the room. Some were swooning, whispering about his "exotic" beauty, while one or two actually fainted from the sheer heat of the room and the excitement of seeing the "French Prince" speak.

"Marlon, stop it," Michael whispered as his brother tried to steal a grape from his plate.

"You aren't eating it, Mike! It’s a waste of a good grape," Marlon grinned, his eyes dancing.

Joe Jackson leaned across the table, his voice a low growl. "Eat, Michael. People are watching. Smile at the Vanderbilt girl. She’s been staring at you for ten minutes."

"I’m not hungry, Joseph," Michael said, his voice straining.

Katherine, ever the protector, caught the eye of Bill Bray, who was standing like a statue behind Michael’s chair. With a subtle nod, Katherine signaled the waiter. Within minutes, Michael’s plate of complex French cuisine was whisked away and replaced with a simple plate of roasted chicken and plain rice, prepared by their personal chef in the galley.

"There, baby," Katherine whispered, patting his hand. "Eat your dinner."

Elizabeth Taylor leaned in, her violet eyes sparkling. "Ignore them, Michael. They’re all bored out of their minds. They want you to be a character in their novels. Just be you."

"I don't know who 'me' is anymore, Elizabeth," Michael replied, his voice lost in the swell of the orchestra playing a Strauss waltz.

As the night deepened, the Titanic surged into the open Atlantic. The vibrations in Steerage were more pronounced, a rhythmic thrum that lulled many into a fitful sleep. (Y/N) lay in her bunk, listening to the soft breathing of Elsa, the loud snoring of Maeve, and the distant sound of an accordion being played in the General Room.

She thought about the gossip she’d overheard at dinner. The "French Prince" in First Class. A Black man, rich as Croesus, traveling with a family of titans.

"A gilded ghost," she whispered to herself. She didn't believe the French story for a second. No one got that rich without a struggle, and no Black man in 1912 walked with that much grace without having a few scars. She wondered what he looked like. Did he have the same fire in his eyes that she felt in her heart? Or was he truly just a puppet for the Toffs?

On the upper deck, Michael stood on his private promenade, the wind whipping his hair into a frenzy. He looked down at the dark water, the foam glowing white against the black sea.

He thought of the woman he’d seen earlier—the one with the medical book and the mahogany skin. She haunted him more than the photographers or the debutantes. She looked like she knew a secret he was dying to learn: how to stand in the storm and not break.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper. It was a poem he had started to write about the stars.

"The sky is a ceiling of diamonds and coal, But the sea is the mirror of a lonely soul..."

He looked at the horizon, where the stars met the water in a line so perfect it looked like a seam in the universe.

"Who are you?" he whispered into the wind, thinking of the girl in the shadows.

Three decks apart. Two worlds divided by gold and steel. But as the Titanic moved further into the deep, the stars above were the only things they both could see. And the stars, unlike the people on the ship, didn't care about the color of the hands that reached for them.

✧ Date: April 10, 1912

✧ Slang/Terminology: Steerage (Third Class), Gallows-bird (A person who looks like they’ll be hanged/shady), Toffs (Rich peple/Socialites), Bully-rag (To intimidate), Skiddoo (To leave quickly).

The air in Southampton was a thick, suffocating soup—a cloying mixture of coal smoke from the towering funnels, the expensive, floral perfumes of the Toffs arriving in their motorcars, and the sharp, briny scent of the English Channel. Standing before the R.M.S. Titanic, (Y/N) felt like an ant staring up at a mountain of cold steel and hot rivets. To the rest of the world, this was the "Ship of Dreams," a miracle of modern engineering. But to her, as she clutched the single valise containing her entire life, it was a floating fortress of uncertainty.

She adjusted the worn leather strap of her bag, her knuckles turning a stark white. Inside, the heavy, comforting weight of her medical textbooks pressed against her side. They were her shield. They were her ticket to a life that didn't involve scrubbing the grime from white marble floors or tending to the spoiled children of the aristocracy. In the Americas, she would be a healer. Here, she was just another body to be counted.

"Back of the line, girl! Don't you try to skiddoo past! Move it!"

A police officer’s heavy wooden baton shoved against her shoulder with enough force to bruise, abruptly forcing her out of the queue. (Y/N) didn't stumble. She planted her heels into the soot-covered cobblestone, her dark eyes flashing with a fire that had been stoked by years of surviving the rigid, suffocating layers of the British class system.

"I have my ticket and my papers, sir," she said, her voice steady and resonant despite the frantic thrum of her heart against her ribs.

The health inspector, a man whose skin looked like parchment and whose mustache was permanently yellowed by cheap tobacco, didn't even deign to glance at her documents. He reached out with a calloused hand, grabbing her chin roughly and forcing her head back. "Open up," he barked, poking at her teeth as if he were inspecting a horse at a common market. He twisted her head from side to side, his breath smelling of stale ale and bile.

"Eyes are clear. No lice. Hands?" He flipped her palms over, sneering at the lack of callouses. "Soft. What are you then? A lady’s maid who stole her mistress's jewelry? Or did some Gallows-bird pay your way for a little... 'entertainment' in the Steerage bunks?"

The men around him, a gaggle of low-level dock workers and petty officials, guffawed. Their side-eyeing glances dripped with the filth of their implications, looking her up and down as if she were a piece of meat rather than a human soul. (Y/N) pulled her arm back with a sharp jerk, her spine straightening until she felt taller than the inspector himself.

"I am a student of medicine, sir. I am going to New York to complete my residency at a teaching hospital," she stated with sharpen intellectual authority.

The laughter stopped, replaced by a deadly, cold silence that felt heavier than the ship's anchor. The inspector’s face turned a dangerous shade of purple, his eyes bulging. To him, her ambition was a personal insult—a breach of the natural order. He lunged forward, his fingers digging into the meat of her arm like iron talons, attempting to bully-rag her into submission.

"Don't you get smart with me, girl. A 'doctor'? People like you don't even belong in the infirmary as a corpse, let alone on this ship!" You're nothing but a—"

CLATTER.

A sudden commotion at the First Class gangway drew everyone's attention to the habor. A stack of designer steamer trunks had toppled from a porter’s trolley, spilling silk ties and silver brushes across the dock. In the center of the chaos stood a tall, slender figure draped in a dark fedora and a long, expertly tailored traveling coat that billowed like a cape.

"Monsieur Michael! Over here! Is it true the Jackson family is moving their entire fortune to the Americas?" "Lord Michael, give us a smile for the London Times!" "Is it a French heiress you're looking for in New York, or is the 'Melancholy Prince' staying single?"

Photographers swarmed, their magnesium flash powder exploding in blinding white puffs that mimicked a battlefield. In the distraction, a senior White Star Line official, terrified of a public scandal while the most famous family in the world was boarding, hissed at the health inspector.

"Let her through, you dim-witted fool! We don't need a bloody riot or a bottleneck scandal while the Jacksons are in eye-shot! Just get her on the boat and out of sight. Consider it her lucky day."

The inspector spat on the ground near (Y/N)'s boots, his eyes promising a future grudge. He shoved her toward the dark, cramped entrance of the Third Class. "Get on the boat before I change my mind and toss you in the harbor. A 'doctor'... Lord help America if they're letting your lot handle a scalpel."

(Y/N) didn't look back. She clutched her valise to her chest and stepped into the humid, echoing maw of the ship. Her heart was heavy with a bitter realization: the "great unknown" wasn't just the three thousand miles of ocean ahead—it was the world's stubborn refusal to see her as human.

Meanwhile, several hundred feet above her, a very different kind of prison was being occupied.

The Jackson family moved like an invading royal court through a sea of exploding flashbulbs and screaming newsboys. "TITANIC SETS SAIL! THE UNSINKABLE ERA BEGINS!" they shouted, waving papers with headlines about the "Melancholy Prince of the Palatial Suite." Jermaine was already complaining about the sway of the ship, his hand over his stomach, while Jackie and Marlon were busy tipping their hats to every socialite in a three-mile radius.

"Look at that one, Mike," Marlon nudged his brother, pointing toward a woman in a massive silk hat. "New York is going to be a playground."

But Michael wasn't looking at the women. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses, his pale skin—the result of a condition the papers called "reclusive French ancestry"—glistening under the morning sun. He felt the familiar, suffocating itch of the heavy makeup he’d applied to keep the patches of his vitiligo hidden. He felt like a ghost haunting his own body.

He reached into his coat pocket, his fingers brushing against the cold porcelain of a small Peter Pan figurine and the frayed edges of a black-and-white photograph. It was a picture of Latoya, Rebbie, Randy, and Janet. His heart ached. They were back in London, waiting for the "all clear" to join the family once Joe had established their new empire in the States. To Michael, the Titanic didn't feel like a ship; it felt like a giant wall separating him from the people he loved most.

"I want to see the engine rooms," Michael whispered, his voice soft, melodic, and weary. "And the gym... and perhaps the library. I heard they have a first-edition collection. Maybe we could go down, slip away and—"

"You'll do no such thing," Joe Jackson’s voice cut through the air like a whip. He turned, his eyes narrowing to sharp slits as he caught Michael’s hand lingering in his pocket. "What have you got there? That childish toy again? Look at me when I'm speaking. You're a man now, Michael. A Jackson. You are the face of this family's future, not some 'soft' child playing in the nursery. You stay in the suite until dinner. We have appearances to maintain."

Michael flinched, his head bowing. The photographers captured the moment—the "Melancholy Prince" looking down in thought—but they didn't see the way his fingers trembled.

"Joseph, leave the boy be," Katherine intervened, her voice a calm balm over the tension. She stepped close to Michael, her silk gloved hand resting gently on his forearm. She leaned in, her breath smelling of peppermint and lavender as she whispered in his ear. "Don't mind him, Joseph's just anxious about the crossing. Your siblings will be safe, Michael. I’ve packed your books, your poems... even the dolls and toys you like. They're all tucked away in the trunks. No one will see."

Michael looked at his mother, a small, grateful smile ghosting his lips. "I just... I feel like something is shifting, Mother. Like the world is getting bigger and smaller at the same time."

"It's just the sea, baby," she whispered.

As the massive whistles of the Titanic roared, shaking the very bones of everyone on board, Michael looked over the railing. Far below, near the waterline, he caught a glimpse of a woman with skin the color of rich mahogany, looking up at the sky with a look of such fierce determination it took his breath away.

She was a world away from his velvet-lined cabin, yet as the ship began to pull away from the dock, Michael felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the depths of the ship.

One week. They had one week to reach New York.

But as the shoreline of England faded into the mist, the "Ship of Dreams" began its journey toward a destiny that would bridge the gap between the gold-plated ceilings of the First Class and the salt-stained dreams of the Third.

(Y/N) and Michael were on the same path now. And the Atlantic was a very, very big place to be alone.

🍷The Explanations & The Eternal Night Celebrations 🎆

鬼舞辻無惨 (Muzan Kibutsuji) 👑:

Muzan views Christmas as a pathetic display of human sentimentality and finds the concept of Santa "Naughty or Nice" list very insulting because he is the only judge that matters. However, he appreciates the aesthetics of "High Society." He explains it to you as "A day where humans celebrate a savior who doesn't exist." He takes you to a high-end Western hotel 🏨 in Tokyo. He decides to "grace" you with a gifts simply to prove he is more generous than any human. —imported chocolates 🍫 , silk scarves 🧣 , and French perfumes. He demands perfection; if the orchestra🎻 plays a single note out of tune during your dinner, he looks ready to dismantle them but getting a soft suprising kiss 💋 on the cheek from (Y/N) soften the blow or saves their lives. After dinner, they had served a traditional British fruitcake. He takes one bite, finds the texture "offensive," and spends ten minutes lecturing the chef on the molecular failure of preserved fruit. He tells (Y/N), "If you ever offer me something this dense again, I will consider it an assassination attempt." He gives you a diamond necklace that costs more than the hotel, just to prove he's superior to "Saint Nick."

黒死牟 (Kokushibo) 🌑:

Since he was from the Sengoku Era (400 years ago, Winter ❄️ was more for survival and not celebration); he was deeply confused by the concept of "Santa Claus" coming down a chimney and a "Christmas Tree"🎄. He considers it a security breach. He literally spends the night staring at the fireplace with his sword drawn while standing guard over your room, six eyes scanning for this "Santa." However, seeing you excited, he attempts to court you with the discipline of a samurai🗡️. He explains the holiday as a "winter discipline." He spends the evening silently sitting with you, watching the snow fall on the Infinity Castle's warped balconies. His gift is a handcrafted lacquer box, inside which is a preserved winter camellia 💮 as well as a traditional kimono 👘 patterned with winter camellias, but he’s added a Western-style fur stole he saw a socialite wearing. He is deadly serious about the "Mistletoe" tradition he overheard Dōuma whispering about, but he gets the plant wrong and accidentally hangs a sprig of dried seaweed 🎍over the door, standing beneath it with all six eyes fixed on you, waiting for "the ritual" to begin.

ドゥーマ(Dōuma) 🪭:

He is the one who discovered "Eggnog" and brought it to the Infinity Castle. Dōuma loves the "Joy" 😊 of Christmas because it’s so easy to fake. He tells his cult followers that Santa is a benevolent deity he’s friends with. Being a demon, the alcohol 🍷 doesn't affect him like a human, but he acts drunk just for the attention; basically, he’s the "Drunk" 🥴 of the party. He forces the cult followers to dress as reindeer 🦌 and sing carols outside your window at 3:00 AM. He wears a red hat and insists on singing "Western Carols" that he doesn't know the lyrics to, turning them into upbeat songs about his cult. He corners you under a massive clump of mistletoe he stole from a 💐flower shop, pouting when you tell him that demons don't get presents from Santa. "But (Y/N)! I’ve been so good! I haven't eaten a single follower all week!"

アカザ (Akaza) ❄️:

He hates the "softness" of the holiday but wants you to be happy. He explains that "Santa" must be a formidable warrior 👊 to visit every house in one night "If he wants to give gifts, he should fight for the right to do so!" He takes you to the highest peak of a mountain 🏔️ to see the "First Sunrise" of the New Year early. His gifts are random but thoughtful: a heavy, warm haori, a basket of winter peaches 🍑 , a pair of sturdy, warm boots 👢 , and a promise: "I will crush anyone who tries to put you on a 'Naughty' list." He finds the idea of "Coal" 🪨 as a punishment hilarious—he’d rather just fight the offender. He’s the most realistic; he knows he’s a demon, so he simply says, "I can't give you a 'holy' night, but I can kill anything that tries to ruin your sleep."😴 He thinks Dōuma’s coal joke is pathetic and offers to punch Dōuma into next year.

妲己＆牛太郎 (Daki & Gyutaro) 🎀🔪:

Daki loves the fashion; Gyutaro hates the waste. Daki spends the day demanding you tell her she’s prettier than a Christmas angel 😇 . She demands the most beautiful "Kurisumasu" kimono in Yoshiwara. She explains the holiday as a day where she should be worshipped. If Daki gets "coal," she will burn the entire district down. Gyutaro would just wheeze and say, "Coal is for the poor, and we aren't poor anymore, are we, (Y/N)?"   She spends the day dragging you through the snow-covered streets to show off. She treats Christmas like a photoshoot in the Yoshiwara district. She treats (Y/N) like a favorite doll 🎎, dressing you in layers of expensive fur. Gyutaro stays in the shadows, grumbling about how "all these happy couples need to be cursed" plus how "lucky" 🍀 people are to get gifts. Still, he secretly brings you a bag of high-quality roasted chestnuts and premium wagyu beef 🥩 that he snatched from a street vendor. Daki tries to sing a "carol," but it sounds more like a threat. but he’s the one who scoured the city to find you a tin of imported French chocolates 🍫 , handing them to you with a raspy, "Don't let Daki eat them all, or I'll have to kill her."

ナキメ (Nakime) 👁️:

She doesn't speak much, but she uses the Infinity Castle to create the ultimate Christmas surprise. She doesn't want a gift; she just wants you to sit near her instrument 🪕 while she plays. Nakime provides the "Atmosphere" as she changes the rooms of the Infinity Castle to look like a snowy forest 🌳 just for you. She creates a beautiful, infinite room filled with floating lanterns 🏮 and falling "snow" (shredded silk) just for you to rest in. She plays a soft, festive melody on her biwa, the rhythm matching the beating of your heart ❤️ . She plays a haunting, rhythmic melody on her biwa that sounds suspiciously like a minor-key version of "Jingle Bells"🔔 and the most peaceful "Silent Night". She is the one who keeps Dōuma from falling into the bottomless pits while he's drunk on eggnog.

半天狗と玉光 (Hantengu & Gyokko) 🏺😰: 

Gyokko tries to make "Christmas Art" which is just a vase stuffed with frozen fish heads 🐠 and pine needles 🪡 . He calls it "The Birth of the Winter God."You have to pretend to like it.  Hantengu just hides under the table, terrified that "Krampus" is a real demon 😈 coming to punish him specifically for his "sins." Hantengu’s "Joy" 😊 clone is the only one enjoying himself, while the others cower in the corner, terrified that Santa 🎅 is a demon hunter coming down the chimney to behead them eventhough (Y/N) kept explaining to them. They are the reason you can't have nice things.

継国縁壱 (Yoriichi Tsugikuni) ☀️:

He doesn't understand Christmas as a concept, but he understands the "Winter Solstice."❄️ He remembers seeing early Christian missionaries and equates the holiday with the simple warmth of a hearth. He finds a parallel between the "Star of Bethlehem" ✨and the Breath of the Sun. He explains it as a day of hope—something he feels he has lost but sees reflected in you. He takes you to a quiet shrine covered in snow. He approaches Christmas with a quiet, heartbreaking curiosity even though he doesn't have much to give, so he gives you a small, dried flower 🌷 he kept pressed in a book as well as a small, handmade flute 🪈 . He doesn't understand the "Western" traditions, but he understands the feeling of "Peace on Earth." When you mention the mistletoe tradition and kiss him softly, he blushes 😳 a deep, sunset red and looks away, his hand ghosting over his sword hilt in shy nervousness. He tells you of a winter centuries ago when he simply sat with his wife, Uta, and watched the frost form. "I do not need a holiday to be grateful for your warmth, (Y/N)," he whispers. The realism of his grief mixed with his love for you makes the moment feel incredibly fragile and precious. He spends the day teaching you how to make traditional New Year’s decorations 🎋(Kadomatsu) while explaining that the end of the year is a time to let go of old sorrows.

A Special Comment from the Christmas Party 🍾

"I asked Akaza for a present and he gave me a black rock. I told him it was coal because I was 'naughty,' and he got so confused he started a fight with a nearby boulder. I found Douma is currently face-down in a bowl of spiked eggnog and Kokushibo is nearly choking on some fruitcake. "Does anyone know if Muzan-sama accepts returns on 'immortal blood' vials? It doesn't go with my outfit." When I jokingly told Muzan that he's on the "naughty list," he didn't laugh. He leans in, eyes glowing plum-red, and whispers, "I don't receive coal, (Y/N). I turn the world into ash if it doesn't give me what I want. You are the only gift I’ve chosen to keep." — A very tired and confused (Y/N).

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

❓ A Question for the Reader ❓

If you had to spend New Year's Eve trapped in the Infinity Castle, which Upper Moon would you trust to be the most "civilized" at a dinner party as well as bring you a cup of eggnog without "accidentally" putting something suspicious in it?

煉獄 杏寿郎 (Rengoku Kyojuro) 🔥:

Rengoku is 100% on board with the "Spirit of Giving." He decides he is the "Santa" of the Corps. He doesn't have a sleigh , so he just carries a massive sack of sweet potatoes 🍠 on his back and runs at full speed between estates. He spends the morning shouting "MERRY CHRISTMAS!" at every passing Kakushi as well as shouting "Umai!" at every seasonal dish you prepare, "A holiday for joy! A holiday for feasting! (Y/N), let us eat until the sun rises!" But I think he had taken things too seriously, especially when he accidentally set the "Christmas Tree"🎄 on fire while trying to light the candles with his breathing technique. He puts it out instantly, but the tree is now a charred stick. He just laughs and says it looks "distinctive!" even though you had to spend ten minutes chasing him with a bucket of water 💦 while he laughs heartily, completely oblivious to the danger.

冨岡 義勇 (Giyu Tomioka) 🌊:

Giyu listens to your explanation of Christmas with a focused, slightly confused 😐 stare, and let's just say he was mostly confused about the idea of a "Secret Santa." He heard that "giving coal" is a punishment for bad people, so he spends the entire week being extra polite to you because he’s terrified you’ll give him a bag of charcoal. But in his mind, he also thought it was a day where you have to eat a specific cake 🍰 , or you’ll be cursed ("He's very stoic"). So he buys a massive Western-style sponge cake and tries to eat the entire thing in one sitting because he thinks it’s "proper etiquette”. You have to stop him before he makes himself sick 🤢. He looks at you, cream and strawberries 🍓 on his face, and whispers, "D-Did I do good? Is the ritual complete?"

宇髄 天元 (Tengen Uzui) ✨:

Tengens's Christmas is, predictably, the most flamboyant thing you've ever seen.  He had to train his Muscle Mice 🐁 to bring you jewelry and a custom-made cloak lined with the softest fur imaginable. He hires a team of people to string actual gemstones 💎 on a tree and insists on "Christmas Fireworks." "Standard Christmas? (Y/N) That's So Boring! We’re making this the flashiest night in Taisho history!" He insists on it also being called the "Flamboyant Festival of the Winter God." Even after explaining to him multiple times, Tengen ended up getting the wrong concept of a "Christmas Sleigh. 🛷 " Lacking reindeer 🦌, he harnesses a happy Tanjiro, an excited Inosuke, and a very confused Zenitsu to a wooden cart and tries to launch them off a small hill while he throws glitter ✨ at you. After the inevitable crash, he treats your "scandalous" lack of a mistletoe by simply hoisting you onto his shoulder and declaring that wherever he stands is a zone for kissing.

時透 無一郎 (Muichiro Tokito) ☁️:

Muichiro literally forgot it was Christmas five minutes after you told him, but he remembered that you were happy about something. He spends the day following you around like a quiet, curious kitten 🐈‍⬛ . "What was the fat man’s name again? Santa? 🎅 Does he have hair like the clouds too? Why does he have a beard?" He gets confused about the "Stocking" tradition and puts his own damp socks on the fireplace mantle. When you tell him that’s not quite it, he just tilts his head and asks, "Then whose socks are they?" On Christmas morning, he forgot to bring a gift, so he just handed you a very smooth, cold rock 🪨 he found three minutes ago. "I thought it looked like you," he says. You aren't sure if it's an insult or a compliment.

不死川 実弥 (Sanemi Shinazugawa) 🌪️:

Sanemi claims this Western Christmas holiday is a "waste of time," but then you find him in the kitchen at 3:00 AM covered in flour and aggressively smashing ginger 🫚 to make cookies 🍪 because he heard you liked them.  "WHAT?!!. It’s for the... Christ-thing. Whatever." They were burnt and shaped like jagged rocks, but when he shoves them at you the next morning, his face is a violent shade of pink. "Just eat them and shut up!," he snaps, though he lingers nearby to make sure you actually enjoy them. When you found him outside and tried to thank him, he started a snowball fight to hide his blushing 😳 face, accidentally knocking Genya into a frozen 🥶 pond.

伊黒 小芭内 (Iguro Obanai) 🐍:

Obanai is very skeptical of any holiday that involves "peace on earth" 🕊️when demons are still roaming. Not to mention the "Santa" story, where he spends the evening debunking the physics of a man coming down a chimney. "The soot would ruin the silk, (Y/N). It's illogical." However, he gets Kaburamaru to wear a tiny red ribbon and even tries to teach Kaburamaru (his snake) 🐍 to hold a sprig of mistletoe over your head. The snake keeps getting distracted and trying to eat the berries 🫐 instead. Eventually, Obanai just stands over you (unless you are taller than him), looking incredibly grumpy while blushing, and holds the mistletoe himself. He refuses to look at you, but he hands you a box of handmade wagashi shaped like tiny Christmas trees 🎄 . "Don't tell Sanemi I did this," he growls.

胡蝶 しのぶ (Shinobu Kocho) 🦋:

Shinobu finds the "Western holiday" a charming experiment and uses the Butterfly Mansion to host a small tea party 🍵. She’s very refined about it, decorating the table with winter ❄️ camellias & poinsettias. "Ara ara, (Y/N)-san, if you want a kiss 😘 under the mistletoe, you needn't use a tradition as an excuse. Just ask." which made you also drop your tea cup while blushing. She had even convinced the younger girls to tell Giyu that "Santa" only visits people who smile. She watches with a terrifyingly sweet grin as Giyu tries to force a "festive smile" 😊 at you, which looks more like a painful grimace. For her Secret Santa gift, she gives you a small vial of "festive" perfume she mixed herself, smelling of winter plums and sugar.

甘露寺 蜜璃 (Mistsuri Kanroji) ❤️:

Now Mitsuri is in her absolute element. She is crying tears of joy within five minutes of listening because the "Meaning of Christmas" is just too beautiful for her heart to handle. She bakes enough green tea and strawberry cakes to feed a small village to which she asks everyone to help her give out to nearby villages. She wears a festive pink haori plus makes (Y/N) a "Christmas Kimono" 👘 that is bright red and green. During dinnertime, she eats an entire roasted turkey 🍗 by herself in under ten minutes, then blushes furiously when she realizes you were watching and tries to bake a Western-style "Christmas Log" cake 🎂 . But sadly, she underestimates her own strength and, while whisking the batter, accidentally breaks the bowl and sprays the entire kitchen (and Iguro) with cake mix. She’s devastated until you start laughing and turn it into a food fight. She ends the night hugging you so tightly you can barely breathe, sobbing 😭 about how "Love is the greatest gift of all!"💕

悲鳴嶼 行冥 (Gyomei Himejima) 📿:

Gyomei finds the holiday deeply spiritual. He spends the day praying 🙏 for the peace of all children and the safety of the Corps. He also has a hidden hobby that he started because of the winter season. During the gift exchange 🎁, he then reveals how he has spent the last month knitting 🧶 . He presents you with a giant, thick, heavy blanket (large enough for five people) that he knitted with his own hands. It’s the warmest thing you’ve ever felt. He stands over the group like a protective mountain 🏔️ , tears streaming down his face as he watches everyone laugh. "Namu Amida Butsu... to see such joy in a dark world is the only gift I require." P.S. He is the only one who manages to keep the peace when Inosuke and Sanemi start a "festive" brawl over the last piece of cake.

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

Special Comment from the Corps ✉️

"To the person reading this... please tell Rengoku-san that 'Santa' is not a demon, and he can stop standing on the roof with his sword drawn and burning trees. Master Tengen must pay for all of the fireworks displays, injuries to the cadets, and workers. Also, someone please help Giyu, he has eaten too much cake and cannot move." — A very tired Kakushi. 😓

❓ A Question for the Reader ❓

If you had to choose one Hashira to help you decorate the estate, who would you pick? (Choose carefully: one might burn the house down with 'spirit,' and the other might cover it in 24-karat gold!)

The Hashira: The "Righteous" Manipulators ⚔️

🔥 Kyojuro Rengoku: He doesn't use lies or tricks; he uses exhaustion. He will "recruit" your partner for endless, grueling missions or "training" sessions. He’ll keep them away for weeks, ensuring they return too tired to speak to you. Meanwhile, Kyojuro is always there with a warm meal and a bright smile, whispering, "It's a shame they prioritize duty over your heart, (Y/N). I would never leave you waiting in the cold." while making your partner look cowardly or incompetent by comparison.

🌊 Giyu Tomioka: Giyu is a quiet and isolating ghost as he acts as the "silent concerned friend." He doesn't say much, but he leaves "accidental" evidence behind—making it look like (Y/N)’s partner is being unfaithful or speaking ill of (Y/N) behind his back. He uses his authority tointercept your partner’s letters and simply... lose them, making it seem like they’ve stopped writing. When you’re at your lowest, he’ll appear like a silent shadow. He won't say your partner is bad; he’ll simply say, "Some people are just not meant to stay. I am still here, aren't I?"

✨Tengen Uzui: He plays the social master assassin. He uses his mice and his wives to gather every tiny secret or flaw your partner has and "accidentally" lets them slip in front of you. A stray lipstick stain on your partner's collar (placed there by Tengen), a forged receipt from a brothel—he makes your partner look "un-flamboyant" and unfaithful. He wants you to believe that only a man of his stature can provide the loyalty you deserve. Tengen wants your partner to look unflashy, incompetent, and dull compared to his brilliance. He’ll make sure your partner feels so insecure that they eventually break up with you out of shame.

🌪️ Sanemi Shinazugawa: Well we already know that he is the most aggressive. He won't sabotage the relationship behind your back; he’ll do it to your partner’s face. He will always pick fights with your partner, intimidating them until they are too terrified to show up to dates. He’ll tell you, "That coward didn't have the guts to face me; do you really think he has the guts to love you?" But if they try to defend themselves, he’ll make sure you see their anger, while he plays the "concerned friend" protecting you from a "loose cannon." He creates a vacuum of fear around you that only he is "brave" enough to cross.

🐍 Obanai Iguro: The Serpent Hashira is the master of poison—(Well the verbal kind). He uses Kaburamaru to spy and watch your partner’s every move. Iguro drips poisonous doubts into (Y/N)’s ear daily: "Did he really stay late for work? Is he bored of you?" "Are you sure he's telling you everything? or Snakes know when someone is hiding a venomous heart." He twists every innocent action into something sinister until (Y/N) can't even look at his partner without suspicion. He wants you to feel like the only person you can trust is the man with the bandages who "never lies" to you.

📿Gyomei Himejima: The most subtle and terrifying. He uses his spiritual authority to "sense" a dark aura around your partner. He will weep for you, telling you he "prays for your safety" because your lover's soul feels "corrupt." Because he is so respected, you’d never suspect he’s lying to keep you for himself. He doesn't ruin the relationship; he makes you feel like the relationship is a sin you need to be saved from.

The Upper Moons: The "Cruel" Manipulators 🌙

❄️ Akaza: He targets your partner's spirit as he views them to be "weak" and therefore a hindrance to your potential. He won't kill them— (unless you're looking).....that's too easy. He will systematically break their spirit especially as he'll show up in the middle of the night to tell your partner exactly how he could kill them in a second not to mention challenging them to feats they can't achieve, making your suitor so terrified of being near you that they flee the city without a word, leaving you thinking they abandoned you.

🪭Douma: Well the demon without emotions would play it like a game. He invites your partner to his "cult" and makes them disappear into the "paradise" of his stomach. Then, he’ll show up at your door with a fake letter from your partner saying they found "enlightenment" and don't need you anymore. He'll offer you a handkerchief and an empty smile as he watches your heart break, waiting for you to fall into his arms with his cold, unfeeling embrace.

🌑 Kokushibo: He uses his centuries of wisdom to make your partner look like a bumbling child. He ensures your partner loses their job, their home, and their reputation through "anonymous" business failures. He wants you to see that a mortal man is a flickering candle, while he is the eternal night. Everyone knows that his mere presence and the threat of his blade are enough to make any human suitor flee in terror, leaving you wondering why everyone you love "abandons" you.

The Masterminds: The King & The Sun 👑

🩸 Muzan Kibutsuji: To Muzan, he would need to be in absolute control. He doesn't just sabotage; he replaces. He will kill your partner, then use his shapeshifting or his minions to ruin your partner’s life—bankrupting them, framing them for crimes, or simply making them "cold & cruel." He will then step in as the "savior" who solves all your problems, effectively buying your gratitude and your life. Once you are single and crying, Muzan appears in a human guise. He offers you a hand and a life of eternal luxury. "Humans are such fragile, fickle things, (Y/N). Why settle for a heart that can break or wither, when you could have mine?"

☀️ Yoriichi Tsugikuni: This is the most "realistic" heartbreak. He doesn't mean to be a yandere, but his sheer perfection is the sabotage and even that is "gentle" but firm. He is always there, always perfect, always stronger. He makes your partner feel so inadequate just by existing near them that your partner eventually leaves you out of pure shame. Yoriichi will then sadly take your hand, "apologizing" that they weren't strong enough to stay.

The Final Twist 🕯️

As (Y/N) is sitting by the fire, mourning the end of their relationship, they are contemplating whether they are the ones with the problem or wondering why everything in love life is going wrong. They then feel a hand on their shoulder—it's one of them (Either the Hashira or Demon). As they offer you a drink, a smile, a promise of forever, you then end up crying your eyes out about how you believe that your former partner was a liar, a fraud, a coward, or a cheat. But as (Y/N) turns to the "helpful" Hashira or Demon, they then lay their head on their shoulder softly. (Y/N) felt safe. But what they didn't realize was that they're really a bird in a cage, and their so-called "ex/friend" is the one who locked the door and threw away the key.

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

❓ A Question for the Reader ❓

If you found out that your "loyal" Hashira/Demon's friend was the reason your last relationship ended, would you confront them, or would you be too scared of losing their protection to say anything?

🥀 The Mastermind’s Shadow 👤

They didn't use violence; they used inconvenience. They intercepted letters, "accidentally" spilled tea on expensive gifts, whispered rumors to (Y/N) about the suitor's "true intentions," and made every romantic gesture look like a calculated lie or a clumsy mess. By the time the "Marriage Talk" happens, (Y/N) is exhausted and disillusioned. It wasn't just bad luck. Whether it was a "chance" demon attack during a quiet dinner, a "lost" letter of confession, or a planted rumor of infidelity, someone was pulling the strings. By the time these powerful men finally pinned you down to ask for your hand, you didn't see protectors or legends—you saw a circus of instability.

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

The Hashira: You Are Too Unstable ⚔️

🔥Rengoku Kyojuro: The sabotager replaced his heartfelt gift with a pile of insulting notes. When Kyojuro tried to take (Y/N) to a fancy dinner, the reservation was "canceled" by a mysterious stranger.

The Rejection: "(Y/N), please! Let us try once—" "(Y/N) cuts him off. "Kyojuro, your life is a whirlwind of noise and broken promises. I need a partner, not a loud tragedy. You aren't marriage material."

The Reaction: His signature smile doesn't just falter; it vanishes. He stands frozen, the heat of his spirit turning into a cold, hollow ache in his chest. For the first time, the "flame" looks extinguished. He bows deeply, his voice trembling as he says, "I see... I have failed to be the man you deserve."

🌊Giyu Tomioka: Letters were stolen on both sides. (Y/N) thought Giyu was ignoring him while Giyu thought (Y/N) was disgusted by him, leading Giyu to act cold and distant during their meetings.

The Rejection: "We can't even communicate, Giyu. I shouldn't have to pull words out of you like teeth. This isn't a relationship; it’s a chore. Y-You aren't ready for a life with someone else."

The Reaction: He doesn't argue. He doesn't say a word. He simply bows his head, his eyes clouding over as he accepts that he is "unworthy" once again.

✨Tengen Uzui: The sabotager planted evidence that made it look like Tengen was scouting for a "fourth wife" rather than a husband, playing on (Y/N)’s insecurities while making Tengen's flamboyance seem shallow and disrespectful.

The Rejection: "I'm not a trophy to be added to a collection, Tengen. I want a husband, not a flashy performance." "You already have three wives, Tengen. And apparently, a dozen more on the side. I won't be another jewel in your collection."

The Reaction: He drops his flamboyant act entirely. He looks small, his hand reaching out but stopping short. For once, the God of Festivals has nothing to say.

📿 Gyomei Himejima: The jealous party whispered that Gyomei was secretly "pitying" (Y/N) and saw him as a "poor soul to be saved" rather than an equal. They manipulated a situation to make it look like your presence was causing harm to the orphans Gyomei cares for, striking at his greatest vulnerability.

The Rejection: "I admire your soul, Gyomei, but the chaos that follows you is too heavy. I cannot be the reason you feel conflicted every day." "I don't want to be your charity project, Gyomei. I want to be a husband."

Reaction: He weeps openly, palms pressed together in prayer. He doesn't blame you; he blames the "cruel world," but He prays for your happiness eventhough the loneliness that follows is a burden even he can barely carry.

🐍 Obanai Iguro : The sabotager planted letters suggesting Obanai found (Y/N) "tainted" or "unclean" compared to his own clan's standards. They made it seem like Obanai was spying on (Y/N) and recording his every move (which, to be fair, was only half-sabotage), making his protectiveness look like toxic obsession and jealousy.

The Rejection: "If you hate my presence so much, why did you even ask? "Your jealousy is suffocating. I feel like a prisoner, not a fiancé." I won't marry a man who looks at me with such hidden disdain or doesn't trust me to breathe on my own."

The Reaction: Kaburamaru hisses defensively, but Obanai just feels sick. He is horrified. He wants to scream that he loves (Y/N) more than his own life, but his throat closes up. He lets (Y/N) go to "save" him from his own cursed self. He truly thought he was protecting you.

🌪️Sanemi Shinazugawa: The sabotager provoked Sanemi’s temper right before his dates, making him show up bloodied and snarling.

The Rejection: "I want a home, Sanemi. Not a battlefield. I can't build a future with a man who chooses violence every single day. You're a warrior, Sanemi, but you aren't a husband. I'm done."

Reaction: He wants to yell, but the look of genuine fear/exhaustion in (Y/N)’s eyes stops him. He smashes a wall in a blind rage, but once (Y/N) leaves, he collapses to his knees, sobbing silently.

The Upper Moons: The Shattered Egos 🌙

❄️ Akaza: The rival convinced (Y/N) that Akaza was only interested in (Y/N)’s physical strength, constantly arranging "accidental" sparring matches that left (Y/N) bruised and exhausted. (Y/N) believes that he wanted him to become a demon, making every romantic gesture feel like a trap.

The Rejection: "You don't love me, Akaza. You love the idea of a 'strong' partner who will live forever. I am human, and you don't respect that." "You don't want a husband, Akaza. You want a training dummy. I'm done being your project."

Reaction: He is stunned. He tries to argue, but the look of genuine fear/disappointment in (Y/N)’s eyes stops him cold. He vanishes into the shadows, punching a hole through a tree in pure self-loathing all while feeling more "weak" than he ever has.

🪭 Dōuma: The sabotager leaked Dōuma’s "cult" records to (Y/N), highlighting his lack of actual human emotion.

The Rejection: "You're a hollow shell, Dōuma. You're a beautiful mask with nothing underneath. There’s no heart in there to love me back. Why would I marry a ghost?"

The Reaction: He keeps laughing, but his eyes stay cold and confused. For the first time in centuries, he feels a sharp, irritating sting of genuine rejection.

🌑 Kokushibo: Every traditional gift he sent was replaced with something gruesome—severed hands or demonic threats.

The Rejection: "You are still living in the Sengoku era, Kokushibo. You are a relic of a bloody past, not a partner for the peaceful future."

The Reaction: He closes all six eyes as his hand tightens on his sword. He says nothing, but the air around him turns freezing, and his silent grief feels the weight of his 400 years crashing down on him all at once.

The Legends: The King & The Sun 👑

🩸 Muzan Kibutsuji: The jealous party whispered to (Y/N) that he was just using (Y/N) to find the Blue Spider Lily, a replacement for a lost memory and a mere toy that Muzan was planning to turn into a mindless demon the moment you said "I do.

The Rejection: "You don't want a husband, Muzan. You want a possession. You want a doll that can't say 'no.' I’d rather die as a human than live as your puppet." And I refuse to be owned."

Reaction: Absolute fury. The ground shakes as He wants to kill (Y/N) for the disrespect, but he realizes with horror that he’d rather have (Y/N) hating him than not have him at all but as (Y/N) walks away, Muzan realizes he can't force (Y/N) to love him—and that powerlessness is the greatest sting of all.

☀️ Yoriichi Tsugikuni: Even the Sun Breathing progenitor wasn't safe. The rival made it seem like Yoriichi was constantly comparing (Y/N) to his deceased wife, Uta.

The Rejection: "I will always be a shadow in your heart. "I cannot spend my life being a shadow of a memory, Yoriichi. I deserve to be someone’s first choice, not a consolation prize."

Reaction: He looks profoundly sad, his shoulders drooping. He offers a tragic, knowing nod. He believes (Y/N) is right. He walks into the sunset, carrying the heaviest burden of all: the truth that he failed to protect even this love.

The Final Twist 🎭

As (Y/N) walks away from these broken men, the Saboteur steps out from the shadows. They offer a hand, a warm smile, and a "I told you they weren't right for you." (Y/N) takes their hand, never knowing he just walked away from the most powerful men in the world and into the arms of the person who ruined his life.

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

❓ A Question for the Reader ❓

竈門 炭治郎 (Tanjiro Kamado) ☀️

Tanjiro approaches the concept of Christmas with the utmost sincerity and effort. He wouldn't understand all the specific customs, but he would sense the joy and importance of spending time with loved ones. His main goal would be to make everyone, especially you, feel appreciated. He would spend hours collecting the perfect kindling for a massive, crackling fire and, with Nezuko's help (in her smallest form), he'd painstakingly decorate a small pine tree 🌲 they found in the woods with paper lanterns, woven straw ornaments, and bright red berries. For you, he would present a hand-carved wooden hairpin or a set of warm, soft mittens 🧤 he bartered for, his smile so bright it could melt the surrounding snow. He'd make sure everyone got a warm cup of his mother's stew recipe 🥘 and simply sit next to you by the fire, breathing in your comforting scent and realizing this is what peace feels like.

我妻 善逸 (Zenitsu Agatsuma) ⚡️:

Zenitsu would initially be a bundle of nerves about the whole event. He'd worry endlessly about getting you the right gift, spending a week's worth of wages on small, shiny trinkets, only to discard them for fear they weren't good enough. On Christmas day, he'd be the one who suggests they all sing together, dragging his biwa 🪕out, though he'd primarily stick to covering you with blankets and offering you the largest piece of cake 🍰 he could find. When he finally gets a moment alone with you, he'd be a blushing mess, giving you a tiny, wrapped bell or ribbon he believes matches your eyes. He'd then cling to your arm, whispering a heartfelt "Thank you for being here, I really like hearing your voice laugh," his heart 💗 thrumming a quick, happy rhythm you can clearly hear.

嘴平 伊之助 (Inosuke Hashibira) 🐗:

Inosuke would treat Christmas as a strange, but ultimately fun contest. The moment he sees the decorations, he'd be determined to fight the pine tree ("It's mocking me!!!") and attempt to eat the brightly colored glass ornaments, thinking they're crystallized sweets. His gift to you would be wildly impractical—a massive, slightly frozen fish 🐟 he caught in a nearby river, or a handful of the shiniest rocks 🪨 he could gather. However, his most sincere gesture would be letting you take his boar mask off for a few quiet moments while everyone is busy. He'd sit still for you, his soft face flushed 😳 , allowing you to lightly braid a ribbon into his dark hair, a silent sign that he trusts and values your presence more than he trusts anyone else.

竈門 禰豆子 (Nezuko Kamado) 🎀:

Though she can't speak, Nezuko's involvement in the celebration would be essential. She'd be dressed in a small, festive kimono 👘 and act as the squad's silent, adorable helper. Using her Demon Art, she'd gently warm up the house or, if it was snowing, she'd make the snow near the windows sparkle beautifully with faint embers, creating a magical glow. For you, she wouldn't need a traditional gift. Instead, she'd come up to you and, with soft, happy hums 😊, she'd pat your head and then climb into your lap or beside you, snuggling close for warmth and comfort. She'd give you the gift of unconditional affection and protectiveness, her small, gentle hands reaching up to briefly hold yours.

栗花落 カナヲ (Kanao Tsuyuri) 🌸:

Kanao, much like Tanjiro, would observe the rituals quietly, trying to understand the meaning behind the bustling activity. She wouldn't be outspoken, but she would be the one who ensures the celebration runs smoothly, silently fetching more tea 🍵 , keeping the fire tidy, and making sure everyone has enough to eat. Her gift to you would be deeply thoughtful and practical: a hand-sewn pouch 👛 filled with herbal sachets that help you sleep, or a beautiful handkerchief embroidered with your favorite flower. In a moment of quiet solitude, she'd put her coin 🪙 away and simply look at you, offering a small, genuine, and radiant smile —a gift rarer and more meaningful than any object, signifying the depth of your bond.

不死川 玄弥 (Genya Shinazugawa) 💢:

Genya would be the grumpy observer 😤 initially, standing in a corner with his arms crossed, muttering about how ridiculous all the "Western nonsense" is. But beneath his tough exterior, he'd be intensely grateful for the warmth and the company. He'd secretly enjoy the feast, eating twice as much as everyone else while pretending not to. His true Christmas spirit would show when he brings you a piece of delicious daifuku (sweet rice cake) 🥮 he somehow managed to get in the nearby town, presenting it stiffly and turning his head away as if he found it bothersome, but his ears would be slightly red. When a snowball 🌨️ fight inevitably breaks out (“thanks to Inosuke”), he’d fiercely defend you, making sure no one got a shot in, and later, he'd sit near you by the fire, finally relaxing his shoulders, grateful for the sense of belonging.

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

❓ A Question for the Reader ❓

If you could share one traditional Christmas food from you with the Kamaboko Squad, what would it be, and who do you think would be the most suspicious of it?