#tsundere reader

City life had gotten unbearable. The constant bills and dead-end job. The hustle and bustle of the environment. Traffic and construction. It had all just become far too much. It was suffocating and oppressive. You clearly needed a change.

And what better place for a bunny hybrid like you to live than in a nice forest. You saved up your money and sold many of your possessions to buy a nice burrow under a great oak tree.

It was everything you had hoped for. The burrow was the size of a small house. A bedroom, bathroom, living room, and small kitchen. Outside, there were plenty of wooded areas for you to forage, and clear spots near the burrow entrance allowed you to grow crops. Lettuce and carrots were a must.

One sunny day, after you had finished unpacking the last of your boxes, you decided you should explore the edges of your property. You hummed to yourself as you went along, putting any food you found in a basket. You had amassed a sizable amount of dandelion greens.

Suddenly, your ears perked up, and your nose wiggled. Something was off... you felt like you were in mortal peril...

You heard a snarl and bolted. You could hear footsteps giving chase behind you, but you didn't dare look. In no time, your pursuer caught up to you and pushed you to the forest floor. You tried to crawl away, but he flipped you over on your back, giving you a view of him for the first time.

A growling wolf man.

He leered down at you with cold eyes of steel, the blue-grey fur on his ears and tail bristling. He was much larger than you were, fairly chubby but also very muscular. His scent was that of an alpha.

“Think you can just wander into my territory and get away from me, creampuff!? No, I gotta teach you a lesson!”

Tears streamed from your eyes as you stared at his bared fangs. You were sure he had gone feral and was going to rip you to shreds. You futilely stammered out some pleas and protests. He rolled his eyes and pinned you down, putting you into a bit of a chokehold as he rubbed your head into his underarm. He continued this until you thoroughly reeked of his scent and then got off of you with a grunt and left.

“There, now you know my scent, I’m Lupin, and this is my territory, don’t come near it again!”

“I-I’m…” You muttered your name to him as he walked away, though you didn’t know why you bothered.

He hadn’t been trying to do anything sexual to you. You were an omega, but he told himself that he wasn’t interested. He was above all that and valued his solitude above all else. But as he left, he had to conceal a massive boner. That night thoughts of hunting you down and marking you all over with his smell haunted him. He had no choice but to masturbate to the thought.

The incident had a similar effect on you. You started producing quite a bit of slick. Once he had shown he had no interest in harming you, his scent became erotically stimulating, and it clung to you heavily. Of course you knew that it was not a sexually charged act and that he had only marked you because you had violated his property, but you couldn’t help jerking your cock and slipping your fingers into your slick lubed hole while thinking of him hunting, marking, and fucking you.

You just couldn’t stay away. You did for a few days, but you couldn’t resist your fantasies. So inevitably, you found yourself “accidentally” out of the bounds of your property line.

It didn’t take long for Lupin to descend upon you. He hadn’t been far, and he could detect your omega pheromones easily. It surely wasn’t because he had been brooding near the shared border of your properties in hopes that you would come by again.

You zipped away, and once more, he gave chase. This time, you knew who was there and didn’t have the same type of fear and were much more clear-headed. Your evasive skills were better as a result. The both of you enjoyed the hunt immensely. The thrill of catching and dominating you spurred him on while the rush of resistance and submission drove you.

This time, when he caught you, he made a big show of acting frustrated and annoyed at the very notion that you would dare to invade his space a SECOND time. Clearly, he had not properly put you in your place.

Feeling a bit more resistant than you did during the first encounter, you just huffed and turned away from him.

“Stubborn fucker.”

Then he did the same as he had done the first time but finished by removing his shirt and scenting it by rubbing it all over his sweaty body before forcing you to wear it. It was far too large and looked rather comical on you and steeped you in his scent even more thoroughly than you already had been.

You blushed and looked away, trying to seem undaunted as he pointed and laughed at the sight while trying not to make it apparent that seeing you in his clothing while wearing his scent wasn’t the hottest thing he had ever encountered.

He quickly left, leaving you to deal with the growing pool of slick that was soaking your pants. The wolf-man only waited until he was out of sight before he whipped out his cock and started fervently jerking off. Similarly, you didn’t make it home either before you had to pleasure yourself.

It quickly became a favorite game for both of you. You'd enter his domain and act like it wasn't on purpose, and he'd chase you away and act super annoyed when he finally caught and marked you. You'd hurl insults at him and tell him he stank, and he'd call you an idiot with no common sense.

And when the other was out of sight, you'd each fervently tend to your arousal.

Though one time when you went seeking to get scent marked, he was curiously absent. He had gone to a little marketplace where all the nearby forest dwellers gathered to trade and purchase wares. No one had told you about it yet. Lupin had a stall where he peddled foraged items and wood carvings he made.

As you ventured deeper and deeper into his land, you made sure to make a lot of noise, even resorting to straight-up shouting insults. You were about to give up and turn back when you stumbled upon his house.

It didn't appear that anyone was home, though, so you were still going to leave... right after you walked around outside a bit so he would know you had been there. Just to annoy him.

While you walked around a bit, you noticed a captivating smell. His smell. Though not very fresh, it still made you leak a bit of slick. It was wafting from an open window. You knew you should have just ignored it and that what you were doing was a massive violation, but like a moth to a flame, you climbed right in anyway.

Your sensitive nose found the source of his scent immediately, a dirty close hamper with some recently worn boxers on top. So you did what any omega bunny close to heat would do... you grabbed his boxers and put the crotch to your nose and inhaled deeply before shedding your clothes and wiggling into his warm covers.

They smelled of him too.

You continued to huff his under garment as you began to wank your cock desperately, his scent sending you fully into heat a bit earlier than expected. You alternated between slipping fingers into your naturally lubed hole and playing with your cock, but nothing satisfied you.

The self pleasure session must have lasted over an hour by the time it was interrupted by Lupin opening his room to the sight of you entirely debauched, your cum on your belly, slick pooling on his sheets, and his underwear in your hand. You stopped immediately when he entered and stated at him wide-eyed in an expression of fear mingled with surprise.

After a long silence, the wolf man finally spoke up, "What the fuck do you think you're doing you gross little weirdo!??"

The room was filled with the smell of your lust charged omega pheromones, he feigned a look of abhorrence while hoping his rapidly hardening cock didn't make a noticeable bulge in his pants.

You were blushing with embarrassment and a bit out of it due to your heat, but you managed to collect yourself.

"I was coming over to bug your grumpy ass when I went into heat... and well... even your disgusting smell will do when I'm desperate..."

The two of you traded insults, and he got slowly closer as the two of you did so.

"Your musk is really inadeq-"

He stuffed your face in his armpit before pulling away and getting into the bed with you. Your mind was fuzzy as your heat and a direct dose of his alpha pheromones claimed your senses.

"I don't... want your smelly dick in me... but it'll help my heat, so..."

You turned away, blushing even more deeply than previously as you spread your legs for him.

"Well, I don't want to either... but whatever gets you to stop being so needy and out of my bed..."

Your hole was so lubed and well prepped by your own fingers that he slid in every inch of his thick cock into you effortlessly. You shuddered as he entered you, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as he nibbled at your neck while he fucked you.

"Heh, such a needy slut. You take me pretty well, though."

You scoffed half-heartedly at the comment.

Lupin flung your legs over his shoulders and forced you into a mating press before pounding into you in earnest. You, at least in the moment, abandon all pretense of not wanting it. As does he.

A loud moan escapes you as you cum hard, he isn't far behind and instinctively bites your neck as he knots you. The two of you lay panting a moment before he started grinding his knot back and forth within you. You went several more rounds, until you both were sore and barely conscious. The two of you found yourselves passed out within one another’s embrace.

You both awoke the net morning roughly at the same time. Each of you hardening your expression when you remembered you’re supposed to hate each other.

“Fuck, I can’t believe I let you put that gross knot in me!”

Hey! Don’t act like the victim here you fucking freak, you came into my house and got your slick and pheromones everywhere! It clouded my brain. Fuck look at the mess you made!”

You scrambled out of the covers to get your clothes on as he did the same before hopping out of the bed, your little cotton tail wagging in annoyance.

“Well what the fuck ever, I have to go!”

“Yeah, yeah, don’t let the door hit you on your way out…”

You made for the door as he asked under his breath, “Same time next month…?”

You had already shut the door behind you by the time you had registered what he had asked. You opened the door briefly to give your response.

“Yes please.”

ঌ

You noticed that Chuuya didn’t really “bundle up” in the winter months, and he sweats a little too much in the summer. You also noticed, whenever standing beside him when receiving orders for a co-op assignment, the absolute heat radiating off of his body. Sometimes you’d break out into a small sweat yourself by being near him for too long, the steam seeping off of him practically visible like a car hood in the middle of the hottest summer day. And yet he is wearing a suit, with a suit jacket around his shoulders, gloves, and a hat constantly when working. His office remains at a freezing cold temperature, no matter what time of year it is, and he doesn’t seem to mind riding his motorcycle around. Regardless of if snow is on the ground.

He is definitely hot in every sense of the word and boy did you hate it.

Keeping your distance was, on most days, simple enough, considering Chuuya assists in steering clear of you of his own accord. You love and despise it, caught between reminding yourself that you two are coworkers in a mafia and wishing he’d take a little more initiative on proving your suspicions right that he likes you too. Meetings are professional, though he gets a bit hot-headed at times when he’s too readily dismissed by your father or others – you hardly speaking at all, considering you don’t believe your input is of any actual importance. Your rise to an executive position was born of nepotism, it being granted to you due to a sudden missing member a few years ago. You weren’t even in the mafia at the time, why on Earth Mori subjected you to the position, let alone you accepting, is only known to him. Therefore, your verbal contributions were kept below bare minimum, only bothering to say something when addressed, just out of respect.

You both are assigned missions with one another frequently, mostly because your father knows you’re capable of only so much – you lack interrogation skills, so there was no sense in learning anything from Kouyou; you lack stealth, training to become an assassin an immediate bust; but you have enough combat and weapon knowledge that it’d be a waste to send you out to be a secretary. So, off with Chuuya you went. He was fine on them for the most part, him giving the orders, and you following along because what other choice do you have – his plans could use a little extra thought behind them, but it all works out in the end, not much room for complaints in that regard.

However, when you first started, and were placed on a mission with him, you thought he was pompous and pretentious. He blabbed to you about his car and motorcycle, both you had little interest in, but you weren’t exactly talking and those were easy subjects for him to discuss with anyone. He talked about wine and where the best restaurants are that served his favorites, the topic launching completely over your head, making him sigh at your infuriating silence. He had to give up on conversation, stuffing his gloved hands in his pockets, and quietly cursing Mori for sending you two off on a mission that required copious amounts of walking in the summer.

“You’re gonna die of heat stroke if you don’t shed some layers,” you mentioned in passing, catching a few drops of sweat sliding down the side of his face.

“No kiddin'?” He muttered in response, trying not to sound too irritated that that was the first thing to come out of your mouth.

“Just a suggestion,” you rolled your eyes, growing warmer as well in your suit that you aren’t sure why your father insists on everyone wearing, barely any exceptions for weather conditions being less than desirable for formal attire, and you’d rather strip down to a t-shirt and shorts.

The mission was standard: cornered your target, Chuuya and you asked enough questions to get the information that was needed, and you were about to set them free when he stopped you. You had lifted your eyebrow, staring at him in silence, wondering why neither of you were going anywhere.

“You need to finish ‘em off,” he murmured, subtly gesturing to the person still cowering on the ground. You continued to stare at him, blinking once, then your eyes slowly slid to the target, your mind trying to comprehend what it was he was telling you to do.

“Excuse me?” Your tone was flat, redirecting your gaze back to his blue and brown, watching his brows raise in curious surprise. He had the guy held down to the ground with his ability, not entirely concerned with him trying to run off, but he did feel as though he was wasting too much time on thinking about how you have zero understanding of what the inner workings of the mafia actually are while being appointed an executive position with him.

“Nothin’. I’ll take care of it,” he motioned you to head off to the side, sighing inwardly before pulling out his handgun. You watched from where you stood, a few rounds going off that caused you to flinch, picking at your fingers while you waited for him to come back to your side.

“Do we have to kill everyone we talk to?” You asked, the question coming out more childish than you intended, and he just stared at you in another bout of long silence, eyeing you up and down, then shook his head.

“Only the ones he tells us to,” he answered, his usually gruff voice coming out a little softer. “Not sure how I’d do if I had to kill every single person I came in contact with.” He jerked his head to the side, mumbling a ‘let’s go’, and that small comment he made – most likely an inside thought he didn’t mean to voice aloud – made you see him differently. You believed him to be a brute, since that’s how a lot of other members had described him to you, including the boss. You believed he was some arrogant, stuck-up rich guy running around doing mindless missions for the mafia without much of a second thought, since that’s how everyone else explained how he worked. It wasn’t that he wanted to, it was that it just ended up being his job; simply put, he was clocking in, doing what he needed to, then clocking out.

After that day, you devoted a good week and a half focusing strictly on learning everything you could about the Port Mafia, not wanting to come off as an airhead to anyone else, especially not to him. Chuuya didn’t make fun of you for not knowing, he didn’t even bring it up again. The most he did, when he caught you in one of the classified rooms snooping through some gathered intel documents, was offered to set time aside to “tutor” you – to which you couldn’t decline given you needed help and had too many questions that asking Mori would be useless, him hounding you on how you can be his kid and not know anything about his “job”.

Much to your own surprise, Chuuya had a tremendous amount of patience with you while he helped you learn, answering your questions the best he could. He’d even pull out his phone and call another more seasoned member to find out an answer to a question you’d have if he didn’t know it himself. He’s smart, apparently excellent at math, and his jewelry knowledge knows no bounds.

“Anything else I can help with?” He asked as he helped pile up the papers you had splayed out on the table. You stood there, all this new information crammed into your brain, hand on the back of your chair, and you hesitated. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, allowing yourself this time to really look at him, since all you ever did was spare him disinterested or quick glances, barely gave him any mind, unimpressed by his attempts to wow and woo you with shiny cars or expensive wine or his high score on some machine at the arcade. None of that interested you, not much about him had interested you until that day.

His hair initially was the only thing you had known about him, able to pick him out in a crowd simply by that trait – it was a gorgeous but striking shade, well-taken care of, and identifiable, even under his hat. His two different colored eyes, something you originally thought you had tricked yourself into seeing, were always steady when he looked at you, filled with patience and a burning curiosity he couldn’t hide. The blue is bright, reminding you of the ocean surface; the brown is similar to milk chocolate, just as soft and capable of making you melt.

Your grip on the chair tightened, expression unwavering, a blank slate and mouth in a line. The realization hit you too hard and too fast as you continued examining him: the structure of his jaw, the slight upturn of his nose, the fact he wasn’t wearing all of his layers and the sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to reveal his toned forearms. The way he spoke to you like you were equals, despite you being completely ignorant to the organization; his knowledge and intelligence, albeit selective to numbers, blindsiding you completely; his ability to tell from a mile away the bracelet you’re wearing wasn’t sporting real diamonds, remarking that your father, head of the Port Mafia should be able to afford something more authentic to gift as a present. The small smile he gave you afterward. The heat radiating off of him that made you wonder what it’d be like sitting under a blanket with him in the winter.

You were pissed.

“No, not right now,” you finally responded after bringing yourself out of your analysis of his appearance, his being. You swallowed quickly, brushing non-existent hair from your face, then stalked off without much else other than a half-hearted ‘thank you’ thrown over your shoulder to him. He watched after you, that hard shell everyone claimed he had cracked under the pressure of your intense gaze that he didn’t understand why you looked at him the way you had in the first place. He was hoping you would have said yes, so he’d have an excuse to continue talking to you and receiving actual responses from you instead of dead-eyed or annoyed glares.

Your initial disdain for him was a mystery, something that wasn’t necessarily new to him, considering he wasn’t good with first impressions – however, he didn’t know what he had done to you. Which, in all honesty, was nothing. He tried too hard to talk to you and it was obvious. You were being picky, prematurely deeming him an over compensator merely based on the fact you wanted next to zero to do with the organization or its members, despite taking your father’s offer to join. Maybe he was just genuinely being friendly, and you were too indifferent to care about giving him a chance.

It changed after he showed that he really was just trying to help you, somehow knowing you were clueless, and that altered quite a few things in your brain. As if his gloved hands reached inside your skull and began rewiring things themselves, carefully pulling and tugging them loose to just replace elsewhere – entirely more gentle than you would have expected. With this new perspective, you have paid more attention to him, coming to the realization that he was respectful and mindful of your space, the invisible wall you placed, waiting patiently for you to let him walk through it, and it was a result of him leaving his own wall behind.

You two have hung out on a handful of occasions, typically as a group of other members to enjoy the evening out at a bar, you mostly smiling or laughing at others’ jokes or stories. He’d never sit right beside you or right in front of you, someone filling the space between or being diagonal across the table. If he wanted to keep an eye on you, he’d opt for the latter. If he got the hint you wanted to be left alone, but still wanted to be within earshot, he’d opt for the former. It was something you didn’t notice, but others did, and they tried expressing caution, gentle reminders that you are the boss’ kid. Chuuya takes them with a grain of salt, mostly because he is fairly certain he won’t get far with you.

You have gone with him alone, only the two of you, a couple of times to the arcade and to the mall. You were too enthralled with your own game to notice him hovering around you, watching you play instead of doing the playing, holding any tickets for you, and combining whatever you two earned so that you could pick whatever prize you wanted. You continued acting as if you wanted nothing more to do with him other than an easy day away from home with someone closer to your age, while simultaneously wondering why he wasn’t professing his love for you like you have suspected. You had gone home that evening, corny stuffed animal in hand, miffed beyond belief that he wasn’t groveling at your feet for a chance.

When you had gone to the mall together, you tried being a little softer, and he looked at you in shock when you weren’t glaring at him like he had done you dirty. Which, of course, irritated you to no end that he kept making small jokes and remarks here and there about how, unbeknownst to him, you have a “soft side” that he ‘wanted to see more of’. You rolled your eyes, silently vowing to never hang out alone with him outside of assigned missions.

Despite it all, you kept finding more things about Chuuya that you had grown to like, to find endearing, and enjoying his company more. Your heart leaped whenever you were told that your assignment for the day would be with the red headed executive, subtly messing with your hair as you walked into the boss’ office to switch back to a professional stance as you stood beside him to accept your direct orders. Your fingertips would retract after accidentally lingering on any of his exposed skin, taken aback by how scorching it was, sometimes wondering if he was sick with a bad fever. Your arms anxiously would wrap around his torso if he insisted on taking his motorcycle to get to your destinations. Your hands shook at your sides to a point you’d have to hide them by folding them behind your back while you listened to him hound a target or person of interest. Your pupils, unknowingly, would grow as you looked at him whenever he spoke to you.

And your face would remain neutral with every interaction. You’d dismiss him easily, brush past him as if he hadn’t just said something, remained silent unless it was evident his question required an answer, and made comments in passing about how he was “overdoing everything” and that he ‘needed to learn how to complete the mission simply without making a show of it’. Those comments and reactions were the reason he didn’t make any romantic advances, no matter how badly he wanted to. He saw the way you tucked your hands away from his line of sight, encouraging his beratement on victims and targets further so you could continue listening to him; he felt your flustered hesitancy to touch him when climbing behind him on his bike; he watched in real time your irises thin as you stared at him, the blacks of your eyes widening like a cat. He wasn’t that oblivious. He caught on quickly, but your words struck a chord with him, deterring him from going any further, worried it’d end with you outright hating him if he pushed any harder.

To put it simply: Chuuya likes you, but you’re not making it easy on him.

“Hey, wait!” Chuuya calls out to you, trying to catch up as you chase after one of the targets that got away. You were distracted by something he had said needed to be addressed with the victim, making it easy for the girl to slip out undetected. Now, you’re running after her down the crowded sidewalk in freezing temperatures and dress shoes, with your fellow executive at your heels. “Wait for me, dammit!” He huffs, pushing his legs harder to get to your side.

“Don’t act like you couldn’t completely lap a marathon runner,” you huff and puff, your chest heaving with clouds escaping your mouth after every word. Your teeth were chattering earlier, finding out that your father’s dress code did not allow much for wiggle room to wear sweaters or heavier suits for the winter. Of course, you had a mafia-approved coat on, but you were making a mental note for later to have a sit-down with Mori on his strict rules. You are nervous running like this though, already slipping and almost falling on your ass once due to how slick the sidewalks are with ice. Had Chuuya not caught you, you would have died from embarrassment.

“I could, but it’d look bad on me if I cornered a girl. Enemy or otherwise,” he chuckles, rounding the corner with you, and seeing the target racing toward the bridge over the city river. “Let’s see if we can go around and catch her off guard.” He suggests, but you roll your eyes, shaking your head.

“No time, would take us forever to wrap around if you’re insisting on not using your ability. She’d be long gone,” you push yourself further, faltering slightly when the bottom of your shoe slips again. You almost bite your tongue off when your jaw tightens at the impact, your pace quickening, and your nerves are stacking up the closer you get to the bridge. He side-eyes you, quietly acknowledging your slip, and subtly scooting closer to you.

“I think I can grab ya and hop over–”

“It’s fine,” you dismiss him for the umpteenth time, beginning to run ahead of him, ignoring your foot connecting with the bridge, eyes still on the girl that is getting further and further away. There’s too many people around for him to be hopping around like that. A few shoulders bump into yours, slowing you down from the chase. Your patience is wearing thin, almost wondering if it is better to cut your losses, take your lashings from Mori the Port Mafia boss, then your lashings from Mori your father, and let someone else handle it or try again another day to track her down a second time.

Too lost in your own head, running on steam that is hurriedly dwindling out due to the cold, and the area more crowded than you anticipated, the inevitable happens. The unavoidable: you slip on some unexpected ice at the edge of the bridge, just as you made it back to concrete. To add insult to injury, instead of offering to help you, a passerby shoulder checks you – hopefully on accident. You yelp, trying to balance yourself, the back of your foot missing the ledge completely that causes you to topple backward. Your eyes bug, biting hard on your back teeth, and wishing you had something on your person that would help you out of the situation. However, you are sin ability, and a grappling hook isn’t exactly the thing you are adding to your Christmas list.

It’s too late for you to even scream properly, getting cut off the moment your back connects with the ice below, the eerie sound of it cracking underneath you making you pause, body flat and chest heaving again in rapid succession. You stare directly up at the sky, swallowing down your fear, hearing desperate cries from bystanders for help, and the faint sound of your name echoing out in the open.

Tips and tricks you had seen online are flying around your brain, the only thing you can think of is if you go under, what to look for to get out. You hope and pray the ice is thick enough that you can army crawl your way back to safety, but you’re scared stiff, especially when cracking starts back up near your ear, and hot tears stream down the side of your face as your squeeze your eyes shut.

Chuuya didn’t see what happened, getting lost in the crowd until he decided to float up in the air and caught the tail end of you going overboard near the river. His feet were already back to the ground, getting ready to jump over the railing to get you, when he watches in what could only be described as slow motion the ice suddenly cracking open, a crater bigger than your body allowing the cold water to swallow you whole. No one is moving fast enough to help you, and he stalls for a momentary second, gripping the railing, bouncing back and forth on what to do, before throwing himself over and landing like a feather on the surface, eyes rapidly scanning for movement, your body, sign of life underneath.

“Fuck!” He whispers under his breath, trying his best to concentrate on staying as lightweight as possible while rushing to look for you. He calls out your name repeatedly, hoping you might be able to hear him, when there’s faint banging under his feet, his gaze dropping to see you barely holding your breath enough as you hit your fist on the ice. “Move!” He exclaims as loudly as he can, motioning for you to get out of the way when he stomps down through the surface with his boot. The ice shatters, the sound rippling through the air like glass falling on asphalt, your body beginning to drift away that he has to grasp at your leg to reel you back toward him.

“I got you, I got ya!” He grits, struggling to get your body to stop flailing enough to get you out of the water without getting him dragged in – despite his ability keeping him light. You can see the blinding sunlight, your head popping up from his tight grip on your shirt yanking you out of the water. Whatever had been trapped in your mouth flies out into his face, his features scrunching up as he listens to you gasp and cough, muttering a deadpanned ‘thanks’, then suddenly you’re grasping at his shoulders in a desperate attempt to stay close to someone else and avoid falling back into the river. The lingering prickling of the invisible icicle spears assaulting your skin through your clothes haven’t stopped, your teeth chattering profusely, eyes shut tightly, and your entire body is trembling.

“Thank you,” you breathe, hardly getting the words out through your shivering. They fall out past your lips over and over again, his two-toned eyes examining you, your mouth slowly fading to blue, and his brows downturn.

“C’mon, we need to get you warm,” he instructs, hoisting you up into his arms, then helping you on his back, his body heat hitting you in an instant. Your arms tighten around his neck, face hiding in his hair, and the chattering of your teeth is right beside his ear, his indicator until he gets you to safety if you’re alive.

Somehow he had gotten you to his place in record time – you unable to properly judge the distance since your eyes were closed the entire way there – running you a bath with extremely hot water, and rummaged around in his drawers for some clothes he didn’t wear much that he hoped would fit you enough to get through the evening. While it would be easy to send you off to your place, he didn’t want you to be alone, concerned the bath wouldn’t be enough, and you wouldn’t appropriately keep yourself warm after the incident.

Neither of you said anything to one another, aside from him instructing you on what to do, such as leaving your wet clothes outside the door for him to take and getting in the tub, where he left a towel, to take as long as you needed. You nodded for the most part, to show you heard him, cowering in a corner since you were not only in a new space, but dripping wet with icy river water in his space. You’ve never been here before, and you were truly not intending the first time you would be is because you’re pathetic in soaked clothes.

The bath helped, the immediate contact did feel as though you were pulled back down into the ice again for a second, the water like silk over spikes that jabbed at your legs and arms. You didn’t want to leave, but the warmth didn’t last, the steam slowly creeping itself out underneath the crack of the door, the condensation on the mirror already began fading on its own. You hugged yourself, curled in, and shivered alone until you couldn’t take it anymore.

He had left new clothes out for you where your old ones were left abandoned, tugging the sweater over your head and stuffing your feet through the heavy sweatpants. They seem to fit enough to be comfortable, but your teeth are still clashing together while your fingers shake, struggling to pull the sleeves down over your hands to hold in as much warmth as possible. You shuffle along the floor, carefully trekking down the steps, and see him sitting on the couch, a blanket at his side, head propped up on his fist, and he’s staring ahead at the television. You stop in place on the last step, hands hugging your arms, and you can feel how badly your body is shaking from the cold.

Chuuya heard you coming down the steps, his ears pricking at the sound, but he didn’t want to look in your direction too soon. He’s concerned, worried even; he wants to check to make sure your lips aren’t blue anymore and color has come back to your cheeks. He wants to wrap you up in the blanket and hug you tight, hoping his body heat will radiate onto you enough to warm you up. It’s why the air conditioning is still on. Nobody’s perfect.

“Tryin’ to freeze me out?” You mumble, remaining in place, your shoulders shuddering while a rush of cold, manufactured air runs down your spine. Fingers grip the sleeves of the sweater, the material thick but soft, warm and inviting. You have no plans on giving it back; it smells just like him: a citrus musk, reminding you of cedar and oranges, with a hint of cigarette smoke lingering from the last time he wore it. Your eyes soften when his blue and brown meet your gaze, his hand bare and visible, covering the lower half of his face.

“No, are you alright?” He asks, getting to his feet and taking a step toward you before stopping himself, hands stuffed in his pockets. You stare instead of giving an answer, seeing him in such a way that is… cozy. His hat and gloves are gone, he’s wearing a standard, old-looking t-shirt that has some noticeable holes toward the hem, and sweatpants that match yours. Everything about him in that moment is unrecognizable, to a point if you didn’t know better, you’d think this was a different person. Your eyes drop, shifting your weight around on your feet, fidgeting in your spot.

“Yeah, fine,” you mutter. “It’s… It’s really cold in here.”

“C’mere,” he extends his hand out to you, approaching you slower, as if to not startle a wild animal. His eyes stay locked on you, waiting patiently, and you flick your gaze from his to his outstretched palm. This is his home, you can’t just march around and do whatever you so please, even if you can see the couch from where you stand with a huge fluffy blanket awaiting you to crawl under. Do I need to take his hand, though?

You take one more step down, feet planted firmly to the ground, then take a few more cautious steps in his direction, his arm then ghosting around your back as a guide to the couch. Small hairs on the back of your neck stand up, goosebumps flying up your skin, and your teeth anxiously bite at your lip, plopping down on the cushion and sitting there a little helpless. His hands are already on the blanket, draping it over your shoulders to wrap securely around you, kneeling down so that his eyes can be level with yours – however, you keep averting your gaze.

“Better?” He asks, his head leaning down a bit more exaggerated so he can try to catch a glimpse of your eyes, to see how you’re doing. You nod, curling up into yourself, fingertips finding the material of the sweater again, and your mind wanders to how warm he is. How jealous you are that he isn’t shaking like a leaf in this freezing living room; if anything, he looks like he’ll break out into a sweat at any second. Your face is flaring up, seeing his collarbone peeking out from his shirt, and you realize you haven’t seen this much of his skin until today. Or you never paid enough attention. Your hand flinches, a mind of its own, to extend out and graze your fingers along his chest, just to know how it feels.

His brow lifts, eyeing the way your cheeks are now much redder than before, but at least you’re not blue anymore. He sighs inwardly, shifting around until he is back in his spot on the couch, two people worth of distance between you, and the blanket isn’t enough. “Are you still cold?” His eyes haven’t left you, observing, hearing your teeth clank together in your closed mouth. You bring the blanket around tighter to your body, then shake your head.

“I’m alright. You’ve… You’ve done more than enough. Thank you,” you clear your throat then shift around in your spot, attempting to lock as much of your own body heat in, but you are definitely still cold. He stares at you, knowing you’re not entirely better, a bit of guilt eating away at him for leaving the air on. He’s just too hot, but you should be a priority instead. He’s waiting to see if you’ll finally crack and ask him to hold you. Maybe you just need a slight nudge.

“You know,” he ventures, keeping his voice steady and light. “I’ve been told I’m pretty warm-bodied. I could try to help, if you–”

“It’s alright. You don’t have to subject yourself to that,” you interrupt, your head low so he can’t see your profuse blushing at the thought. “I don’t exactly like the idea of cuddling anyway.”

“It’s not cuddling, just making sure you don’t die,” he jokes, the corner of his mouth turning up.

“I’m alive right now,” your eyes roll, followed by a sneeze. Your body stills, silently hoping that was a coincidence and not a sign of getting sick.

“Uh oh,” he sings, voice dropping. “Is someone getting sick?” He teases, his fingers twitching as they rest on his thigh, instinct telling him to grab you anyhow and smothering you with his unnatural warmth.

“You are looking for any excuse to touch me,” you deadpan, biting the bullet since he never seems to do it himself. The playfulness drops, his smile easing into sincerity, watching as you peek at him from the side, the silence a little too loud for you. 

“Is that so wrong?” He whispers, mouth stretching in a wider smile when he catches your wide eye, filled with incredulity at his sudden audacity. You’ve been toying with him for months to see when he’d finally snap and this is when he decides to play along? “C’mere, lemme keep you warm.” He pats the spot beside him, his smile fading into a coy smirk, patiently waiting for you to make a decision. Your eyes are large, glancing from the empty spot to his somewhat smug expression, and you’re not sure if it makes you more mad or if you admire his confidence.

“Whatever,” you huff, scooting across the cushions until you are beside him, avoiding looking in his direction completely, when you feel the blanket open up and hands on you. The couch shifts beside and underneath you, your back against his chest, breath fanning beside your ear, and the blanket comes back forward. You keep looking ahead, blinking once, but the shivering comes to a halt when you’re closed in.

“Even better?” He chuckles, the sound winding its way into your ear canal, drifting to your brain, and wrapping around it to play over and over again on repeat. Your shoulders suddenly relax, the tension you didn’t realize you were holding onto gone and cautiously lay your head back so it’s on the crook of his neck.

“You weren’t kidding,” you mumble, lids lazily drooping at the comfort of his body heat. It’s like he placed a space heater under the blanket with you, his arms wrapping themselves around your torso, his legs trapping you in place. You can’t escape, not that you really want to. “Is this why it’s always below freezing in your office?” He hums, chest vibrating against your back, and his fingers have absentmindedly found the sleeve of your sweater. Fingertips brush your wrist, leaving behind flames on your skin with each languid, crawling stroke up and down your arm.

“I run warmer than most,” he responds, voice distant, dazed. “I save a fortune on coats.” Your mouth cracks a smile, then breathes out a small chuckle at his lame joke. His shoulders ease then, relaxing at the sound of your laughter, grinning like a champion for finally undoing your steadfast blank slate of an expression to grant him some sort of positive reaction. You subconsciously snuggle down more into his body and the blanket, lashes fluttering shut, cheek crushed into his neck and it’s scorching. For now, it’s nice to have this enveloping you, but you can’t imagine being this way all the time.

You two lay there together in comforting silence, his wandering hands stealing soft touches here and there – cautious, but still stolen. His fingertips trail under your shirt, igniting another flame on your hip, muttering under his breath how he can’t understand why you’re still so cold; they trail up the side of your neck, small bonfires placed every spot he stopped long enough to linger, watching your resting face for any reflex, a flinch or a twitch. The back of his fingers gently grazes your exposed cheek, a quiet sigh coming, your body feeling as if it is deflating, cherishing his willingness to warm you up. However, your near heartless remark from earlier has been proven correct: he was indeed looking for any excuse to touch you.

His fingers trail down under your chin, anxiousness seeping down into his bones as he runs his thumb along your bottom lip, eyes flickering when he notices your brows twitch together briefly, thoughts running circles in your head of what he could possibly be doing, too enamored with the comfort he is bringing you to care. His lids are barely closed, keeping watch of your expression as he tips your head back, both of your pulses quickening, his pounding against your ear while yours hammers at your chest. He isn’t really about to–

Like the rest of him, his lips are warm against yours, now drawing a complete blank when the only thing you can think about is how your heart might give out from his mouth stealing your breath away. Brave, since you haven’t pushed him off of you, his hand cups your neck, thumb brushing along your jaw, just to break the kiss that has you a little less than shellshocked, accidentally letting him see you – momentarily – chase after him. He hums, clearly pleased, watching your eyes flutter back open to gaze up at his, once guarded but softening as he continues looking down at you, arms pulling you impossibly closer into his chest.

“Who said you were allowed to do that?” You let out after the long pause, voice groggy from being woken by his intrusive kiss.

“I’m a thief, what do you expect from me?” He tilts his head, a cool smile gracing his features as he lowers his voice. “Plus, I did save your life. Haven’t I earned a small reward at least?” Cheeky. You sigh heavily along with a roll of your eyes, but the blush blooming on your cheeks is undeniable.

“I guess you can do it again.”

“Don’t gotta tell me twice.”

ঌ

fluffuary 2026 | masterlist | requests: closed

divider from fairytopea here on tumblr

Work was a task you’d dreaded, but you’d refuse to give up so quickly, even when Jungkook agreed to your joke of quitting, stating that you could always live off of him - an agreement the man was too quick to settle for.

Even after your boring, easy job, you acted as if it was the worst day of your life. Jungkook had bought takeout to make up for it and you were content for a while.

And now, you and Jungkook are in his bathroom, you attempting to concentrate on your task. You were dressed in nothing but a black silk robe - a gift from Jungkook - the both of you fresh out of the shower. He has a match one that he tied loosely around himself.

“Is it supposed to burn?” Jungkook asks, opening one eye to look at you. He sits on his closed toilet, you directly in front of him.

“If you ask me that one more time, Jungkook, I swear-”

“You want me to fuck you so bad, Y/N.” Jungkook closes his eyes, his hands reaching out for your waist to bring you close to him. 

You groan, squirming out of his reach. “We’re doing face masks.” you deadpan, your mind not comprehending how the man could be thinking about sex at a time like this. “Nothing about this is sexy, Kook.”

Jungkook scoffs - he begs to differ. There was never a moment Jungkook didn’t want you - but he was a man and maybe that was just the way his body reacts around you. He’d remain quiet, however, to make you any more irritated with him. Your irritation only fueled his sexual desire.

“‘Kay, done.” you lean back to admire your work on Jungkook’s face. Now the both of you matched - both sporting a cream colored face mask. “Our skins going to be so smooth when we’re done!” you squeal, and for a moment you’re excited - until you see the smile on Jungkook’s lips. “Ugh, didn’t mean to do that. Don’t think I like doing things like this with you.” you quickly scoff.

Jungkook cackles at your fraudulent change of tune. “You’re so down bad for me, Y/N.” Jungkook snatches your waist this time, bringing you closer to him. He then stands.  “Give it a few more months, baby, and you’ll finally admit it outside of sex.”

“Fuck off.” you murmur, hands pushing Jungkook back - even if you didn’t put that much force into it because you actually did like his embrace.

Jungkook brings his face closer, the need to kiss you heavy. He doesn’t get the chance to, however, a loud banging noise sounding throughout his home. His eyebrows furrow. “Someone’s at the door.” he says aloud. “Be right back.” 

You turn away from the man to clean up the mess you’ve made. As you turned on the water to clean the silicon brush, Jungkook takes it upon himself to slap your ass.

“Jung-” you swung around to snap, but Jungkook’s already out the door and down the hall, a loud trail of laughter echoing behind him.

Jungkook makes his way towards his front door, not caring about his appearance as he swings it open. 

“Oop, jump scare.” Jimin walks past him, shoving three large pizzas in his arms. “Why do you never answer your phone?”

Jungkook is dumbfounded as Hoseok and Taehyung steps in, as well, and for a moment he thinks about what he’s going to say.

However, Jungkook remembers that it’s Sunday - and Sunday’s were movie nights. He swallows the lump in his throat. 

He didn’t need Jimin knowing that you were here - not because Jimin hated you, it was quite the opposite. Jimin loved you (from afar) and your antics. He liked you and him together, stating that you made a good couple. 

Jimin knowing that you were here meant that Jungkook forgot about the weekly movie night - and then he’d have to hear Jimin’s mouth about how “pussy was worth more than the friendship” as he liked to put it.

“I was, uh, showering.” Jungkook responds, closing the door behind Hoseok. “Where’s Joon?” he questions, as if he wasn’t the one who lost track of his days. 

“Running late.” Jimin takes off his shoes and proceeds to go to the living room. “I wonder what’s new on the streaming services. Not like I’d know…” he trails off, side eyeing the younger male.

“You’ll have to get over that.” Hoseok snickers, taking his seat beside Jimin. “We all know Jungkook would find a girl that would take all his time.”

Jungkook laughs awkwardly, placing the boxes of pizza on the coffee table. 

“Ah, yes.” Taehyung sits on one of the leather chairs, a boxy smirk on his lips. “So…did Y/N teach you any new tricks?”

“Or is barking all you do?” Jimin scoffs, then proceeds to go out in full laughter, followed by Hoseok and Taehyung.

Jungkook rolls his eyes. It was bad enough he had to hear it in the groupchat. This was a moment they’ll never let him live down.

“I just want to be a fly on the wall.” Hoseok shakes his head. “Y/N has to be doing something lethal to have you bark-”

“It was a joke.” Jungkook hisses. “Pick a movie while I take this off.” he murmurs, making his way down the hall and back towards the bathroom. Jungkook opens the door and eyes you, face mask already off. “So, we have a dilemma.” he mumbles, coming towards the sink.

“I heard Jimin.” your arms are crossed. “Is he talking shit again?”

“It’s Jimin.” Jungkook scoffs. He begins to wipe the face mask off of his skin, scrubbing aggressively. “I forgot tonight was movie night.”

“Movie night?” you furrow your brows. “But I thought you said we were continuing Law & Order?”

Jungkook sighs. He turns off the water and turns towards you. “I did,” he admits. “but we have movie nights every Sunday and…” he trails off.

“And…” you shake your head, not comprehending. Jungkook grabs a small hand towel and wipes his face “...you’re saying fuck Lieutenant Olivia Benson? Because you want to watch a lame ass movie?” you cross your arms, even if you couldn’t be upset about it. You just wanted a reason to give him shit.

Jungkook licks his lips and smirks. “You’re so jealous, baby. I knew you’d-”

“Ew. Go watch your lame movie with your lame friends.” you push him away, fighting the smile stretching on your lips when you feel his hands on your wrist. “I’ll be in the room, I guess.”

Jungkook pokes his head out the bathroom door to assure no one was looking. Then, he drags you towards his room and shuts the door. “I’ll sneak you some pizza.” he murmurs. He rushes towards his closet to change into clothes.

“I…I can’t come out?” you scoff in disbelief. 

Jungkook shakes his head. “They’ve been cooking me in the groupchat and when they walked in. You walking out will only be my 13th reason.” Jungkook is dressed in under a minute, a black shirt and iron man pajama shorts. He comes towards you when he sees your wide eyed expression and wraps you in a sudden embrace, peppering your face with kisses. “I’ll let you sit on my face later.” he murmurs.

“You do that everyday.” you deadpan.

“Exactly.” Jungkook smiles. “So you’ll be okay for a few hours. I’ll try to kick them out after one movie, though.”

Again, Jungkook slaps your ass, but this time brings you in for a kiss. He’s out the door before you can say anything further. You eye his bedroom door for a moment and scoff with a shake of your head. 

“Hyung, when did you get here?” Jungkook asks when he strolls through the living room to see Namjoon. “Did you find a movie yet?”

“Got here a minute ago.” Namjoon responds.

“Haven’t been on here in so long. Forgot how to work the app.” Jimin retorts.

“Eventually you’re going to have to get over it.” Jungkook makes his way towards the kitchen to grab a plate. He then walks back towards the livingroom to gather a few slices of pizza for you. 

“Forget about the ultimate betrayal?” Jimin scoffs. “Never.”

“Where are you going?” Taehyung asks, eyeing Jungkook. 

“I’m just saving myself some pizza.” Jungkook shrugs his shoulders. “Might be hungry in the middle of the night.”

Taehyung doesn’t respond.

Jungkook makes his way down the hall and back towards his room. “Special delivery.” he scurries in to drop the plate on his bedside table. “I can’t  wait for you to sit on my face later.”

“Don’t think you getting any pussy after keeping me in this room.” you retort, not removing your eyes from the screen. 

Jungkook snorts. “We’ll see about that.” He doesn’t have time for a petty argument, because that would only turn it to him fucking you into the mattress - and now, he didn’t have time for that.

“Since when do you eat in your room?” Hoseok questions as Jungkook returns, a confused look on his face. “Since I got lazy.” Jungkook responds without a second thought, sitting next to Namjoon. “What are we watching?” Jungkook is barely able to focus on the movie. He eats a couple slices of pizza, his eyes watching the movie that his mind refuses to acknowledge. He would rather be with you watching Law & Order - he knows by now you two would be cuddling. You would rub your ass against him slightly, pretending to be occupied with the show and that would be his que to-

“You don’t look interested.”

Jungkook blinks a few times and then turns to Namjoon, the source of the voice. 

“Just thinking.” Jungkook shrugs. 

“About Y/N?”

Jungkook cracks his neck, only snorting. 

“Jimin told me you were whipped. Didn’t tell me you couldn’t go a day without thinking about her.” Namjoon teases, his dimples deepening when he smirks. 

“Are you two talking about Y/N?” Jimin crosses his arms. He’s laying against the arm of the couch, his eyes piercing at Jungkook. 

“I sense one sided beef.” Taehyung calls.

“Because of her,” Jimin starts, and Namjoon groans, having heard this rant time and time again. “I was removed from all the streaming services. Not just one - all.”

“I gave you several warnings.” Jungkook grumbles. 

Hoseok snickers. “Like what?”

“I told him when Y/N usually watches her shows.” Jungkook shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. 

“You give her access to streaming services so she can watch True Crime.” Jimin deadpans, an unamused look on his face. “When you end up on one of those documentaries because she slipped something in your drink-”

Jungkook sighs, leaning back into the couch. “Can we watch the movie-”

“- and murdered you, Jungkook. I will be on there telling the audience that there was red flags.”

Jungkook’s phone vibrates in his lap. He unlocks it, your name popping up.

Y/N 🥰: does jimin want to fight me?

Jungkook smirks.

“When are you going to admit you like Y/N?” Jungkook asks as he responds to your text. 

“And while we’re on the topic,” Taehyung pauses the movie. “how did you get her mother’s number?”

You were only curious in the conversation outside the bedroom once you began to hear speaking. You never turn down an episode of Law & Order, and thankfully you had. You were told by Jungkook that Jimin liked you - his words now say otherwise.

You were growing bored. The pizza was already gone and Jungkook didn’t bring you anything to drink.

But the most important thing was that you were bored - and feeling petty. 

you: I miss you

You didn’t miss him - you were bored and that’s different.

You watch as Jungkook reads the text instantly and begins typing.

kookie 🍪: i miss you too 🥹😍😏

you: can’t tell

you: you’re shit talking me with your lame friends

kookie 🍪: never. I got jimin to admit that he likes you more than he admits 🤙🏻

kookie 🍪: are you hungry still?

You grunt. You couldn’t be petty with Jungkook if he was offering to feed you.

you: no

you: just bored…

You bite your lip as Jungkook types. You suddenly open the camera app and take a picture. It’s a simple picture, you smiling in the camera.

Jungkook swallows, his eyes zoning in on the picture of you. Your robe was opened slightly more and he has a peak at your breast. 

“If it wasn’t for me he’d still be in the friend zone probably leasing cars for her attention.” Jimin retorts at Taehyung. Hoseok laughs at the comment. 

kookie 🍪: you’re so beautiful ♥️

kookie 🍪: the robe is nice on you

kookie 🍪: i can buy you more if you’d like

You snicker at Jungkook’s response. The man didn’t know what to do now and his first option was to spend if it meant that you’d send him more pictures.

“I feel like I should be compensated for my hard work.” Jimin exclaims. “Who else can say they got Jungkook out of the friendzone?”

“They were fucking. Don’t think that’s just a friend zone.” Namjoon announces. “Raw at that.”

Y/N 😍: i seem to be the topic of conversation tonight

Y/N 😍: i wish you were as interested in me as your friends are 🤭

Jungkook glances up at his bickering friends for a moment before texting back.

kookie 🍪: im beginning to think i spoil you if you cant be without me for a few hours… 😌

You’re taken aback by the tone in the message. As if you needed him - you didn’t. You were just bored and feeling a little confrontational today. 

Besides, Jungkook wasn’t going to have the last word.

“I still want to be a fly on the wall.” Hoseok adds. “Whatever she’s doing that has Jungkook worshiping the ground she walks on needs to be studied.”

“That or you’re just a pervert.” Taehyung shrugs. 

Jungkook glances down at his phone and coughs. Eyes turn to him suddenly and Jungkook stands. “I-I’m not feeling…my stomach hurts.” he makes his way down the hall and goes to open his bedroom door.

You giggle when you hear the bedroom door twist.

You’ve locked it before sending Jungkook the picture. You were already naked, mind as well use it to your advantage.

kookie 🍪: oh

kookie: open the door

you: enjoy your movie night

You hear the door knob shuffle once more. 

kookie 🍪: open the door

kookie 🍪: stop ignoring me baby

kookie 🍪: i can always break the door down

kookie 🍪 : then they’ll know you’re here

kookie 🍪: and hoseok already wants to be a fly on the wall

kookie 🍪: and i have no intentions of stopping once i have you on my tongue

You flung the door open with wide eyes. “Are you-”

Jungkook pushes you inside, closing the door behind him. “Just sit on my face.” he grumbles, hands pushing you backwards.

It doesn’t take long for your robe to be discarded on the ground. He takes in your naked sight and sighs with a shake of his head. “So needy.” he murmurs, laying down on his bed. “You missed me, huh? And it hasn’t even been a full movie length.”

“Did not.” you reject, pussy already in his face.

Jungkook clenches both of your legs. “Is that why you’re already wet?” his tongue licks your clit and hums. “It’s okay to admit you missed me, baby.”

Jungkook doesn’t give you a chance to respond, he’s already diving head first into your. He suckles and slurps loudly, his hands keeping you in place. This time, he doesn’t care if you preferred him to now watch - he does anyways. His eyes are intense on watching you be pleasured by him - the cute needy moans, the fucked out look on your face. He wanted to experience it all.

“Your friends are gonna know you’re gone.” you whimper as Jungkook laps his tongue slowly between your folds. 

Jungkook leans back only slightly. “Do you want me to stop?” he questions.

You shake your head, and that’s all the convincing Jungkook needs. His right palm slapped your thigh. “Then I won’t. Now just ride my face until you cum.”

Fuck Jeon Jungkook and his excessive need to make you cum.

However, you do as you’re told. Your hips buckle against his tongue, your head falling back - mainly to avoid Jungkook’s gaze. It was his favorite part, he once told you, to watch you cum. 

Jungkook’s tongue feels amazing - and it’s the same tongue. It shouldn’t feel better than the last time, but somehow it does. Maybe it’s the way his hands rub along your thighs as you ride along his tongue - or maybe it’s the way he grips your breast and pinch your nipples that are an added bonus. 

Jungkook’s hands never stayed in one spot. They’re soon cupping your ass to encourage you to grind against him harder - how he never suffocates is beyond you.

“O-Oh, fuck.” Jungkook hears you hiss and he squeezes your ass even harder. His own breathing increases as he watches you - he can do this for as long as you wanted. You were so beautiful when you were aroused and cumming - it’s a sight he has engraved in his mind.

“I know you’re about to cum.” Jungkook says muffledly. His head bops back and forth, in rhythm with your grinding. He also knows how you enjoy the way he touches you, your ass being your favorite part. He probably will never know why girls enjoyed pain mixed with pleasure, but he was nothing but a man made to pleasure you.

So, Jungkook slaps your ass encouragingly, making sure to give it a good grip after each slap.

You needed to know what it was about Jungkook - and his tongue, fingers or cock - that has you cumming so harshly on his tongue like he wants you to; and even then he refuses to stop until you’re twitching.

Jungkook doesn’t allow you to fall back like you want to, his hands grasp your twitching form and assures that you’re placed on the bed.

Licking his lips, Jungkook smirks. “My pretty girl.” he says, kissing your forehead. “I’m going to continue my movie night, okay? Then I’m going to come back here and you’re going to sit on my face again.”

You nod your head lazily, not having it in you to argue. 

“I knew you were so down bad for me, baby.” Jungkook teases. He places the blanket over your naked body. “One day, I won’t need to fuck it out of you for you to admit.”

“Fuck you.” you hiss when Jungkook is half-way out the door.

“Trust me. I will.” Jungkook chuckles, closing the door behind him, leaving you in a state of arousal and anticipation.

Fuck Jeon Jungkook and his good dick, fingers, tongue and heart.

Series Masterlist

You built your walls the way castles were built—slowly, deliberately, with mortar made of clipped sentences and stone quarried from every disappointment you'd ever catalogued in the quiet museum of your chest.

It was not cruelty. You wanted that understood, even if no one was listening closely enough to understand it.

It was preservation.

And Lilia Vanrouge—who had lived long enough to watch forests become kingdoms and kingdoms become footnotes—recognized the architecture immediately.

He'd built similar walls himself, once.

Centuries ago. In a life that tasted like iron and smelled like dying wisteria.

The first time he truly saw you—not the passing glance across the dining hall of Ramshackle Dorm, not the half-acknowledgment when Crowley shoved yet another impossible task toward your already-overflowing plate—but truly saw you, it was raining.

It was always raining in your most unguarded moments, you'd later realize. As though the sky itself conspired to soften what you refused to soften on your own.

You were standing beneath the rotting eaves outside the kitchen door, arms crossed, watching the downpour with an expression that most would read as irritation but that Lilia read as something far more translucent.

Longing.

You wanted to stand in the rain. You just didn't want anyone to see you want it.

"Falling water suits you," he said from the window above, his voice carrying the particular lilting warmth that made half of NRC's student body simultaneously flustered and unnerved. "It makes your scowl look almost poetic."

You didn't startle. You were too well-trained for that. But your shoulders migrated north by a fraction of an inch, and your jaw set with the precision of a closed vault door.

"I'm not scowling. I'm observing."

"Ah." He rested his chin on his folded arms, the window frame casting cruciform shadows across his face. "My mistake. You observe the way a general surveys a battlefield. With great personal offense."

"I don't have personal offense with the rain."

"No. You have personal offense with the fact that you want to stand in it and you've decided that wanting things is a vulnerability you can't afford." He said it simply. Gently. The way one might comment on the color of the sky. As though he hadn't just reached through your ribs and plucked something.

The rain hammered between you.

Your throat did something complicated.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you said, and turned on your heel, and walked inside with the rigid posture of someone who had not just been seen in a way that made them feel like stained glass—beautiful specifically because of the cracks, and devastating specifically because someone was standing close enough to notice the light coming through.

Lilia watched you go.

He smiled.

But it was the kind of smile that had grief folded inside it, like a letter pressed into a book for so long that the words had pressed ghost-versions of themselves onto the facing page.

He recognized you.

Not who you were—what you were.

Someone who had decided, at some point, that love was a door that only opened out, and that if you let anyone in, they would take more than they left behind.

He could have told you that the opposite was also true.

But Lilia Vanrouge had learned, in seven hundred years of living, that some truths had to be earned.

And you were not the type to let anyone earn anything without making them bleed for it first.

ii. the siege

He began the way one begins any siege: not with force, but with persistence so mild it barely registered as an attack at all.

A cup of tea appearing beside your elbow when you studied in the library. Not placed for you—never with the theatrical generosity that would let you reject it on principle. Just… there. As though it had grown there naturally, like a mushroom in damp soil. Chamomile. The specific blend you reached for on the shelf but never bought for yourself because it felt like an indulgence you hadn't earned.

You didn't drink it.

You wanted to drink it. The steam curled upward in gentle, beckoning spirals, and your fingers twitched with the particular ache of someone denying themselves a small mercy.

But drinking it would mean acknowledging it. And acknowledging it would mean acknowledging him. And acknowledging him would mean—

"You know," you said aloud, to no one, staring at the cup with the fury of a general facing an undefeatable enemy, "this is ridiculous."

The tea sat there, steam curling like a question mark.

You drank it.

It was perfect. Of course it was. Because Lilia Vanrouge did nothing by half-measure, and if he was going to wage a quiet war on your defenses, he would do it with the precision of someone who had actually waged war, and who understood that the most effective siege was the one that made the besieged want to open the gates.

He found you in the courtyard three days later, attempting to repair a broken bench with a hammer and a expression that suggested the bench had personally insulted your lineage.

"Trouble?"

"No."

"The bench seems to disagree."

"I don't recall asking the bench." You drove a nail with more force than necessary. The wood groaned in protest. "Or you."

Lilia tilted his head, that ever-present amusement playing at the corners of his mouth like sunlight through leaves—dappled, shifting, capable of casting warmth or shadow depending on the angle. "You didn't ask. And yet here I am. Funny how that works."

"I have a term for people who show up uninvited."

"I'm certain you do." He crouched beside you, and the proximity made your hammer-hand stutter mid-swing, which you covered by pretending you'd meant to pause. "But I've found that most of the things worth having in this life arrive without an invitation. Sunsets. Rain. The realization that you matter to someone."

Your nail bent at an ugly angle.

"You can't just say things like that," you muttered, yanking the ruined nail out with a sound like a small, frustrated murder.

"Like what?"

"Like—" You gestured vaguely with the hammer. A dangerous gesture. "—that. Those. Words. Arranged in that order."

He laughed. Not the performative, mischievous laugh he wore like a costume in the hallways of NRC. Something lower. Softer. A laugh that had weight to it, as though it had been carried a long distance through a long life before arriving here, in this courtyard, for you.

"I've been arranging words for seven centuries," he said. "I've gotten rather good at it."

"I've noticed," you said, and then realized you'd admitted to noticing, and the blush that followed was the kind that started at your collarbones and marched north with military efficiency.

You stood. Abruptly. The bench wobbled dangerously.

"I have to go."

"Do you?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Anywhere that isn't here."

You left.

Lilia stayed crouched by the half-repaired bench, and if anyone had been watching closely—and no one was, because Lilia made sure of that—they would have seen him press his palm flat against the wood grain and close his eyes for a moment that lasted exactly one breath longer than comfort allowed.

He was not laughing anymore.

Because he remembered—intimately, viscerally, in the way that old wounds remember the exact temperature of the blade that made them—what it felt like to build a wall so high you forgot there was a world on the other side.

And he was beginning to suspect that your wall was not built to keep him out.

It was built to keep you in.

Safe. Alone. Unhurt.

The cruelest kind of prison was the one you constructed with your own hands and then called protection.

iii. the crack

It happened on a Tuesday.

Unremarkable by calendar standards. Catastrophic by the standards of your carefully maintained architecture.

You'd had a day. Not a bad day—you were too proud and too practiced to allow bad days to accumulate into anything recognizable. But a day of small erosions. A comment from a professor that landed too close to an old insecurity. A letter from home that said everything by saying nothing at all. The particular loneliness of being in a room full of people who spoke a language you understood but could not, for the life of you, speak back.

You found yourself on the roof of Ramshackle at midnight, sitting on the edge with your legs dangling, because there was something about verticality that made horizontal problems feel smaller. The night sky over Twisted Wonderland was not your sky. It would never be your sky. The constellations were wrong, the moon hung at the wrong angle, and every time you looked up you were reminded that you were somewhere else, and that somewhere else was not home, and home was—

Home was complicated.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes until you saw colors.

You did not cry. You did not cry. Crying was a luxury reserved for people who hadn't already spent their entire emotional budget on maintaining the structural integrity of their own walls.

"There you are."

You didn't jump. But your heart did something aerobically inadvisable.

Lilia landed on the rooftop with the gravity-defying grace that reminded you, viscerally, that he was not human. That the playful grandmother energy he projected was a choice, a costume worn over something ancient and sharp and not entirely safe.

He didn't sit next to you. He sat a careful three feet away—close enough to be present, far enough to not be a threat—and leaned back on his palms, tilting his face toward the wrong constellations.

"Grim was looking for you. Something about a tuna sandwich and betrayal."

"Tell him I'm dead."

"Shall I arrange a funeral? I know a wonderful florist in the Scalding Sands who does excellent arrangements for the tragically dramatic."

Despite everything—despite the letter, despite the comment, despite the wrong sky and the accumulated weight of being a person who refused to need anyone—your mouth twitched. Just barely. A seismic event disguised as a facial expression.

"You're not funny."

"I'm hilarious. You're simply too committed to misery to laugh."

"I'm not miserable. I'm—"

"Situated on a rooftop at midnight, alone, pressing your hands into your eyes hard enough to leave bruises." His voice was still light, but there was something underneath it now. Something that felt like the bottom of a lake—cold, still, and deeper than it appeared. "If that's not misery, it's at least its close personal friend."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

"I don't need your pity," you said, and your voice came out smaller than you wanted it to. Which made you angry. Which made your voice sharper. "I don't need anyone's pity. I'm fine. I've always been fine. I'll continue to be fine. That's the whole— that's the point."

"The point of what?"

"Of—" You made a frustrated sound, somewhere between a laugh and a wound. "Of handling it. Of not being the kind of person who falls apart because some professor said something careless and a letter from home feels like a bomb with the fuse already lit and I miss—"

You stopped.

The wall shuddered.

Lilia did not move. Did not push. Did not fill the silence with his usual effervescence. He simply sat there, a steady presence in the dark, and let the silence be what it needed to be—which was not empty, but held.

"You miss what?" he asked, quietly. Gently. Like handling something made of glass. Or like handling something made of thorns—carefully, because the thorns were all that was holding it together.

You stared at the wrong stars.

"I don't know," you whispered, and the admission cost you something you couldn't afford to spend. "I don't know what I miss. I just know there's a hole, and I've been pretending it isn't there, and most days I'm fine, but tonight—"

Your voice cracked.

A single, traitorous tear escaped down your cheek with the audacity of a prisoner making a break for it while the guards were distracted.

You swiped at it with a violence that was really desperation.

"Don't—" you started.

"I won't," he said.

And he didn't.

He didn't reach for you. Didn't offer comfort in the way that people offered comfort—loudly, performatively, in ways that required you to receive it publicly and thus acknowledge your own vulnerability. He just sat there, three feet away, wrong constellations reflected in his red eyes, and let you fall apart in the dark without making it a spectacle.

It was, without question, the kindest thing anyone had ever done for you.

And you hated it.

You hated it because kindness that didn't demand anything in return was the most dangerous kind. It was the kind that slipped through the cracks in your wall like water through stone, and water, you knew, could bring down anything if given enough time.

You sat on that roof and you let the tears fall—quietly, furiously, in the way of someone who was angry at their own eyes for betraying them—and Lilia Vanrouge sat three feet away and watched the sky with the patience of someone who had once kept a vigil beside a dying queen and knew that some moments were not about fixing but about witnessing.

When it was over—when the tears had exhausted themselves and you were left hollow and trembling and furious at your own trembling—you spoke without looking at him.

"If you tell anyone about this, I will find a way to end you, ancient fae or not."

"Your secret is safe with me." A pause. Then, softer: "It's always been safe with me."

You stood. Brushed off your uniform. Straightened your spine with the determination of someone rebuilding a demolished wall brick by brick, starting now.

"Goodnight, Lilia."

"Goodnight."

You made it to the rooftop door before his voice caught you again—not because it was loud, but because it was the kind of quiet that travels through bone rather than air.

"For what it's worth," he said, still not looking at you, still gazing at those wrong, beautiful, impossible stars, "the hole doesn't go away. I know. I've been carrying mine for seven hundred years."

Your hand froze on the door handle.

"But it does," he said, "eventually, become a place where light can enter. If you let it."

You didn't turn around.

You couldn't.

Because if you turned around, he would see your face, and your face was doing something it hadn't done in years—it was believing someone.

You went inside.

You did not sleep.

You lay in your bed at Ramshackle.

==================================================(Version 2)

What Blooms In Defiance

The Art of Not Wanting

i. the inconvenient truth of dark hair

You told yourself it was the light.

The way the late afternoon sun caught the edge of his hair as he leaned against the doorway of the classroom, that was all it was. A trick of architecture and atmosphere. Nothing more. The fact that your pulse did something shameful and erratic behind your ribs was purely physiological—a fight-or-flight response to being startled, because he had appeared out of nowhere again, and any reasonable person's heart would seize under such circumstances.

"You're staring," Lilia said, without looking at you.

"I'm glaring," you corrected, because the alternative was unbearable. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" He turned then, and the smile he wore was the kind that had probably undone kingdoms. Not the bright, performative one he wore for the first-years—the one that said look at me, I'm harmless, I'm eccentric, I'm just a funny old man in a young body. No. This one was quieter. Smaller. A secret kept between the two of you, even though you hadn't agreed to keep any secrets with him.

Especially because you hadn't agreed to keep any secrets with him.

"There's a monumental difference," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you deserved. "Glaring implies hostility. Staring implies—" You stopped yourself before you could say fascination or longing or any other traitorous word that had been lodging itself in your throat like a fishbone lately. "—implies a lack of manners."

"And you have an abundance of those, I'm sure." He said it like he believed it. Like he'd watched you hold doors for people who didn't thank you. Like he'd noticed the way you straightened the collar of a first-year's uniform when you thought no one was looking. Like he'd been paying attention, which was worse than anything else he could have done, because attention from Lilia Vanrouge was not a casual thing.

It was a precision instrument.

It was a weapon you weren't armored against.

"Go bother someone else," you said, gathering your things with more force than necessary. A pencil rolled off the desk. You did not pick it up. You would not give him the satisfaction of watching you bend.

He picked it up instead.

He turned it over in his fingers—just a boring yellow pencil, nothing special—and you would have thought nothing of it, except that he looked at it the way he looked at everything. Like it mattered. Like the small, unremarkable things people discarded were the very things he found worth holding.

"You dropped this," he said.

"I know. Keep it."

"I intend to."

He slipped it into his pocket, and something in your chest cracked like a window hit by a winter stone—not shattered, but fractured, with a delicate web of damage you could hide but not repair.

You walked out of the classroom without looking back.

You always walked out without looking back.

You were becoming very good at it.

ii. a history of fortified walls (and the general who besieged them)

The thing about Lilia Vanrouge that no one seemed to understand— the thing that made him so insufferably, unreasonably dangerous—was that he was patient.

Not passive. Never passive. There was a difference there too, though most people were too dazzled by the performance to see it. Lilia was patient the way a river was patient with a stone. Not kind. Not cruel. Simply inevitable. He would wear you down not with force but with time, and time was the one thing he had more of than anyone.

You knew this.

You had studied him—carefully, from a distance, the way one studies a predator in the field, with binoculars and a healthy respect for the distance between you. You knew his habits. You knew he took his tea at four, that he haunted the kitchen at midnight to commit atrocities against cuisine, that he watched the first-years with an expression that flickered between amusement and something ancient and unnameable. You knew he had been a general. You knew he had fought in a war that had shaped the very land beneath your feet.

You knew, in the abstract way that one knows historical facts, that he had lost people.

What you did not know—what you refused to examine too closely—was why that knowledge made your throat tighten when you heard him laugh in the next room, bright and sharp as a bell, as if joy were something he had to choose every single day.

"Your observations are becoming less subtle," he told you one evening, appearing beside you on the bench outside the dormitory. The moon was a thin, suspicious sliver. The air smelled like impending rain. You had thought you were alone.

"I don't observe you." The lie was so automatic it barely required your participation. "I have better things to do than track your movements."

"Do you?" He tilted his head, and the moonlight did something terrible to his cheekbones. "I've noticed you don't spend your evenings with anyone else."

"Maybe I like being alone."

"No," he said, with a gentleness that felt like a blade slipping between ribs. "You don't. You've just learned to prefer it over the alternative."

The alternative.

Being seen. Being known. Being left.

You stood up so fast the bench scraped against the stone. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know you stayed up all night last week to finish a potion assignment that wasn't due for a month, because you needed a distraction." He didn't stand. He stayed exactly where he was, looking up at you with those eyes that had seen centuries and still somehow found you worth looking at. "I know you argue with your textbooks when you think no one is listening—not because you disagree with the material, but because you're testing it. Proving it wrong would be easier than trusting it."

"Stop."

"I know you keep a journal and you write in a language you invented yourself so that no one could ever read it, even if they found it." His voice dropped, not softer but closer, like a hand reaching through the dark. "I know that the first word you wrote in that journal, on the very first page, was why."

The rain began then, soft and indifferent, as if the sky had decided to weep on a completely unrelated matter.

You were not crying.

You would never cry in front of Lilia Vanrouge.

"You're a monster," you said, and you meant it in every possible sense of the word—ancient and terrible and impossible to escape.

He smiled, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen on a human or fae face, and that was the moment you understood the true cruelty of Lilia Vanrouge: he did not pursue you despite knowing these things. He pursued you because of them.

"I've been called worse," he said, "by people I loved far more than you."

It should have been an insult.

It felt like a door opening.

iii. the culinary warfare that was not really about food

You found him in the kitchen at 1:47 AM.

This was not unusual. What was unusual was that you had come to the kitchen intentionally, which meant you had either lost your mind or surrendered to something you didn't have a name for yet. You were hoping it was madness. Madness was treatable. Madness could be blamed on stress or sleep deprivation or the peculiar atmospheric pressures of a school built on a nexus of magical energy.

The other thing—the thing with no name—was not treatable.

The other thing was Lilia stirring a pot of something that smelled like a crime scene and hummed a melody you didn't recognize but that made your chest ache anyway, because it sounded like a lullaby for someone who no longer needed to be lulled.

"Is that supposed to be soup?" you asked from the doorway.

"It is soup."

"It's hostile is what it is."

He laughed, and you hated—genuinely, sincerely hated—the way the sound moved through you like warm water, loosening things that had been clenched tight for years.

"Would you like to try it?"

"I would rather swallow broken glass."

"That can be arranged." He lifted the spoon toward you with an expression of pure, delighted mischief, and you took a step back, and he took a step forward, and suddenly the kitchen felt very small and the distance between you felt very negotiable.

"I'm not eating that," you said.

"I didn't ask you to eat it. I asked if you'd like to try it. There's a difference."

"You and your differences."

"You think about them a lot, don't you? Differences. Boundaries. The space between things." He set the spoon down. He set the mischief down too, and what was underneath it was so raw and so present that you forgot to breathe. "I've been alive for a very long time, and I've learned that most of the walls people build aren't to keep others out. They're maps. They show you exactly where it hurts."

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"Saying things that make me want to hit you."

"I know." He said it like a confession. Like something shameful. Like the fact that you wanted to hit him was proof of something he treasured and grieved in equal measure. "That's why I keep doing it. You're very beautiful when you're furious."

Your face burned.

Not blushed. Burned. As if someone had pressed a hot iron to your cheekbones, and the heat spread down your neck and across your collarbones and you wanted to die, actually. You wanted to sink into the kitchen floor and become one with the tile grout.

"I'm leaving."

"The soup—"

"Is a war crime and should be tried at an international tribunal. Goodnight, Lilia."

You turned on your heel. You made it three steps.

"You came to the kitchen at nearly two in the morning," he said to your back, quiet as a heartbeat. "Not because you were hungry. Because you knew I'd be here."

You stopped walking.

You did not turn around.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut, and you could feel it vibrating, and you knew—you knew—that if you turned around, something irrevocable would happen. Some last防线 would crumble. Some door you'd locked and thrown away the key to would ease open, and you would be standing on the threshold of something you'd spent your whole life running from.

You walked out of the kitchen.

But for the first time, the walking felt like running.

iv. an interlude in which you consider the weight of centuries

You could not sleep.

This was not new. Insomnia and you were old, intimate enemies—familiar as a married couple, hostile as a divorced one. What was new was the reason.

Usually, your sleeplessness was a formless thing. A free-floating anxiety with no anchor, a hum of unease that you couldn't name and couldn't cure. But tonight it had a face. And hair the color of endless night. And a voice that kept saying why in the language you'd invented, as if he'd cracked the code without even trying.

You pressed your face into your pillow and screamed, muffled and undignified.

Why him?

Of all the people in this school—the brilliant ones, the beautiful ones, the ones who didn't carry the weight of centuries in their spines like a second skeleton—why did it have to be the ancient war general who cooked like a supervillain and smiled like he knew every secret you'd ever had?

You thought about the things you knew of his past. Pieced together from overheard conversations and library books and the occasional, devastating slip of Malleus's tongue when the young dragon spoke of his guardian with a tenderness that suggested Lilia had been the only constant in a life full of loss.

He had outlived everyone he'd ever fought beside.

He had held dying friends in his arms and watched the light leave their eyes and then—then—he had gotten up the next morning and made breakfast for a child who had lost his parents, because that is what Lilia Vanrouge did. He carried his grief like a river carries the dead leaves of autumn—quietly, continuously, without ever stopping to demand recognition for the weight.

And you—what were you? A student with a sharp tongue and a tendency to build walls? A  person—who had been hurt, yes, but not in the way he had been hurt. Not in the way that leaves scars measured in centuries. Your wounds were ordinary. Common. The kind that everyone had and no one talked about, and you had built your personality around the conviction that if you never let anyone close enough, you would never have to explain the architecture of your damage.

Lilia had looked at your walls and seen maps.

You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling and felt something shift inside you, tectonic and slow, like a continent drifting toward an inevitable collision.

You were not afraid of Lilia.

You were afraid of what he would find when the walls came down.

You were afraid that he would look at the ordinary, common, unremarkable wreckage of your heart and find it not worth the effort of navigating.

You were afraid that he would stay anyway, and that would be worse, because then you would owe him something you didn't know how to give.

Why.

The first word in your journal. The question you'd been asking since before you could remember. Not why me or why this but just—why. Why anything. Why the effort of it. Why the architecture of getting up every morning and performing the rituals of being alive when the being alive part felt so fundamentally unconvincing.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Sleep did not come.

But something else did—a quiet, terrifying awareness that you were no longer running from Lilia Vanrouge.

You were running toward him, and pretending, even to yourself, that it was the other way around.

v. in which the siege engine reveals itself to be a seed

It happened on a Tuesday.

Unremarkable. Forgettable. The kind of day that history books skip over, the kind that exists only as filler between the moments that matter. Which, you supposed, was exactly the point. Lilia had always understood that the most important things happen in the spaces between.

You were in the library. Alone, or so you thought, because you had chosen the most obscure corner on the most remote floor, surrounded by books on magical theory so dense they could double as blunt weapons. You were not studying. You were hiding. There was a difference, though you had long since stopped pretending it was a meaningful one.

He didn't announce himself. He never did. He simply materialized in the chair across from you, as if the universe had always intended for him to be there and was only now correcting an oversight.

You looked up from your book—a book you had not read a single word of in the past forty minutes—and found him watching you with an expression you couldn't categorize. It wasn't the teasing smile. It wasn't the quiet sadness. It was something else. Something careful. Something that looked almost like—

Fear.

Lilia Vanrouge looked afraid.

The recognition hit you like a physical force, because in all your observations, in all your careful study from a distance, you had never once seen him look afraid. You had seen him amused and tender and weary and fierce and grief-stricken in that hidden way of his, but never afraid, and the fact that he looked afraid now, sitting across from you in a forgotten corner of a library on an unremarkable Tuesday, made your hands go cold.

"Lilia." You said his name without meaning to. It fell out of you, unguarded, and the sound of it in your own voice terrified you almost as much as the look on his face.

He heard it too. The difference. The absence of armor.

"I need to tell you something," he said, "and I need you to not run away while I'm telling you."

"I don't run away."

"You do. You're very fast at it. It's impressive, actually. I've seen you do it in the space between one heartbeat and the next." He folded his hands on the table. His fingers were still. Not fidgeting, not drumming, not performing any of the restless little gestures that usually characterized him. The stillness was wrong. The stillness was what made your chest hurt. "I'm going to say something, and you're going to say something cruel, because that's what you do when someone gets too close. And I need you to know—" His voice faltered. Actually faltered, like a candle flame in a draft, and the fragility of it was so staggering that you felt your own breath catch in sympathy. "I need you to know that I will survive it. Whatever you say. I've survived worse. But I need you to also know that it will hurt, and I'm telling you this anyway, because—"

He stopped.

He looked down at his hands.

"I have lived for a very long time," he said, so quietly you had to lean forward to hear. "And in all that time, I have never once met someone who made me want to explain myself. I have never met someone whose anger I wanted to earn honestly, whose walls I wanted to respect rather than dismantle, whose no I wanted to treat as sacred rather than as an obstacle."

Your throat was closing.

"I don't want to take your walls down," he said. "I want you to open the door. Not for me. For you. Because you deserve to be on the other side of them."

The library was silent. The books were silent. The dust motes hung suspended in the lamplight like frozen stars, and the whole world had drawn a breath and was holding it, waiting to see what you would do with the gift you'd just been given—not a declaration of love, not a demand, not a trap, but a doorway, offered without expectation, held open by hands that trembled slightly under the weight of centuries of loss and the terrible, reckless courage of hoping anyway.

You opened your mouth.

"I don't—" Your voice cracked. You swallowed. Tried again. "I don't know how."

The words came out so small. So unlike you. So stripped of every defense mechanism you'd spent years constructing that you barely recognized them as your own.

Lilia's eyes softened into something that was not pity—never pity—but a recognition so profound it bordered on reverence.

"I know," he said. "That's why I'm not asking you to do it alone."

Something broke open in your chest. Not dramatically, not like a dam bursting, but like a bud unfurling in slow motion—petal by petal, inch by inch, a process that could not be rushed or forced or pretended. You felt your eyes sting, and for the first time in longer than you could remember, you did not fight it.

A single tear fell onto the open book in front of you. It hit the page with an audible softness, blurring a line of text until the words became unreadable.

Lilia reached across the table.

He did not take your hand. He simply placed his beside yours, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his skin without the obligation of touching it. An offering. A proximity. A choice.

You looked at his hand—pale, long-fingered, a general's hand that had wielded swords and stirred terrible soup and cradled the faces of the dying and now rested, palm-up, on a library table on a Tuesday, waiting for you.

You turned your hand over.

Your fingers touched his.

The contact was so slight it barely qualified as a touch at all—just the merest brush of skin against skin, a whisper of warmth, a question asked in a language older than words.

Lilia's fingers curled gently around yours.

You did not pull away.

The ceiling did not collapse. The world did not end. Your walls did not crumble in a single, cinematic avalanche. They simply—shifted. The way tectonic plates shift: imperceptibly, over time, with a deep and rumbling certainty that changes everything even though you can't see it happening.

You sat in the library on a Tuesday and held hands with Lilia Vanrouge, and it was not a victory and it was not a surrender.

It was a beginning.

vi. the slow and terrible business of being known

After the Tuesday—which you did not call the Tuesday in your head, because that would imply it was special, and you were not yet ready to admit that—things did not change.

That was a lie.

Things changed constantly, in increments so small they were almost invisible, like the movement of an hour hand. You did not suddenly become soft. You did not suddenly become kind. You were still sharp-edged and difficult and prone to saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and Lilia was still infuriating in that particular way of his where he saw through every one of your defenses as if they were made of glass.

But there were moments.

Small ones. Secret ones. The kind that would mean nothing to an observer and everything to you.

He left a cup of tea outside your door one morning—proper tea, not the nightmare sludge he usually concocted, which meant he had either made it himself with unusual care or coerced someone else into making it, and either way the implication made your face heat. There was no note. There was no signature. Just a cup of tea, still warm, placed with a precision that suggested he had stood there for several minutes deciding on the exact right spot.

You drank it.

You did not thank him.

He knew you drank it because the cup was gone when he came to collect it, and the smile he wore when he retrieved the empty cup from where you'd left it—balanced carefully on the threshold, neither inside nor outside, a liminal placement that said I accept this but don't you dare make a thing of it—that smile was so radiant that Silver, who happened to be passing by, stopped and asked if his father was feeling well.

"I'm feeling wonderful," Lilia said, and meant it.

Another moment: you were in the courtyard, reading, and he sat down beside you without asking, and you didn't move away. This was unprecedented. This was historical. This was the kind of seismic shift that registered on instruments you didn't know existed.

He didn't speak. He simply sat, and read his own book, and the silence between you was not the charged, combative silence of before but something easier. Something that breathed. Something that existed not as a weapon but as a shared space, a room with two chairs and a window and nothing that needed to be filled.

After twenty minutes, you shifted—just slightly, just a few inches—and your shoulder touched his.

You did not move away.

Neither did he.

The contact remained for the rest of the afternoon, a point of warmth that anchored you to something you couldn't name, and when you finally stood up to leave, you said, without looking at him, "Your tea was acceptable."

"I'll strive for good next time," he said, and the laughter in his voice was not at your expense but at the absurdity and the wonder of it—of you, of this, of the fact that after centuries of living, a single word of grudging approval could make him feel like he'd conquered something vast.

vii. a lesson in the grammar of grief

He told you about the war on a Thursday.

Not the whole war—just a piece. A fragment. A single shard of a stained-glass window that had once depicted something magnificent and whole. He told you about a friend—a soldier under his command—who had carried a pocket watch that played a melody when you opened it. A silly, impractical thing to bring to a battlefield. The friend had said it was to remind him that time was passing, that every second was a small music, that even in the worst places, beauty could be wound up and released.

The friend had died on a hillside that no longer had a name.

Lilia had kept the watch.

He still had it.

He didn't show it to you. He simply told you it existed, and the telling was such an act of trust—such a naked, unguarded offering of a wound he had carried for longer than your entire lineage—that you forgot every defense mechanism you'd ever learned.

"That's—" You stopped. Started again. "That's a terrible story. Why would you tell me that?"

"Because you asked."

"I didn't ask anything."

"You asked why." He looked at you, and his eyes were the color of something that didn't have a name—not quite crimson, not quite red, but somewhere in the catastrophic space between. "The first word in your journal. You've been asking it since before I met you. And I wanted you to know that I've been asking it too. For much longer than you."

Why.

The question hung between you like smoke.

"I don't have an answer," he said. "I've looked for one for seven hundred years. I haven't found it. But I've found—" He paused, and you watched him search for the word, watched him rifle through a vocabulary that spanned centuries and multiple languages, and what he settled on was so simple it broke something in you. "—moments. Small ones. That make the question feel less urgent."

You thought about the cup of tea on your threshold. The shoulder against yours in the courtyard. The hand on the library table, palm-up, waiting.

"Like what?" you asked, and your voice was so quiet it barely existed.

"Like this," he said. "Sitting with you. Being someone you don't push away."

The grief in that sentence was immense. Not performed, not displayed for effect, but simply present, the way gravity is present—constant, invisible, inescapable. He had spent centuries being left behind, being the one who survived, being the one who stood at the graves of everyone he'd ever loved, and here he was, telling you that not being pushed away by a difficult, prickly, thoroughly inconvenient person who drank his terrible tea and held his hand in a library was a moment that made the question of why feel less urgent.

You did something you had never done.

You reached for him.

Your hand found his wrist—his wrist, not his hand, because wrists were practical and hands were intimate and you were not ready for intimacy, you were barely ready for proximity—and you held on. Not tightly. Not desperately. Just held on, as if he were something that might drift away if you didn't anchor him.

He looked down at your fingers on his wrist.

His breath caught.

You watched it catch. You watched the rise and fall of his chest stutter like a skipped heartbeat, and the realization that you could affect him—that this ancient, untouchable, devastating creature could be undone by something as small as your hand on his wrist—was so powerful that it terrified you more than any darkness you'd ever faced.

"Don't—" You didn't know how to finish the sentence. Don't leave. Don't die. Don't be a story I have to read about in a history book. Don't become another reason I ask why.

He understood anyway.

He always understood.

"I'm here," he said. "For now. For as long as I can be."

It wasn't a promise. It wasn't forever. It was something better—something honest, something fragile, something that acknowledged the impermanence of all things and chose to exist anyway.

You held his wrist in a courtyard on a Thursday, and somewhere in the space between your bodies, a question began, very slowly, to transform into something that was not quite an answer but was no longer just a question either.

viii. the disaster of almost saying it

Three weeks after the Tuesday—which you now, privately, in the sanctuary of your own mind, called the Tuesday, because you had run out of lies to tell yourself—you nearly told Lilia Vanrouge that you loved him.

The word had been rising in you like water in a flooding basement—inexorable, relentless, seeping through every crack in your foundation. You had felt it building for days. It was in the way you looked for him in crowded rooms. In the way you caught yourself smiling at the thought of his laugh. In the way you had begun to write his name in the margins of your journal, in your invented language, as if even the alphabet you'd created to keep people out had been infiltrated by him.

You were sitting on the roof of the dormitory at midnight. You did not know how he'd gotten there—you had climbed through a window and crossed a perilous stretch of slate tiles to reach the highest point, specifically because it was inaccessible—but there he was, legs dangling over the edge, looking up at the stars as if they were old friends he was catching up with.

"How," you said.

"The same way I do everything." He patted the tiles beside him. "With flair."

"I hate you."

"You don't." He said it without arrogance. Without smugness. He said it the way one states the weather—clearly, simply, without room for argument, because the sky is blue and water is wet and you did not hate Lilia Vanrouge. "Sit down. You're going to fall."

"I'm not going to—"

Your foot slipped on a loose tile.

You didn't fall—you caught yourself, barely, with a graceless lurch that sent a shower of broken tile fragments skittering over the edge—but for one horrible, suspended moment, the ground was very far away and the air was very empty and your stomach dropped through the floor of the universe.

A hand closed around your arm.

Lilia had moved—actually moved, with a speed that reminded you, violently, that he was not a person but a fae, not a student but a warrior, not a funny old man in a young body but something ancient and powerful and capable of catching you mid-fall without seeming to exert himself at all.

He pulled you to safety. Not roughly, not gently, but with a precision that suggested he had calculated the exact amount of force required to bring you to solid ground without injuring you or dislocating your shoulder.

You ended up on your knees on the rooftop, gasping, his hand still on your arm, and he was crouched in front of you, and his face was very close, and his expression was—

Terrified.

Not of the height. Not of the fall. Of losing you.

The realization hit you with the force of the ground you'd almost hit: Lilia Vanrouge, who had survived wars and famines and the deaths of everyone he'd ever loved, was afraid of losing you. You—a difficult, contrary, thoroughly unremarkable person who couldn't even accept a cup of tea without making it into a power struggle.

"Lilia—"

"Don't." His voice was rough. Stripped of its usual music. "Don't do that again."

"I didn't mean to—"

"I know. That's what makes it—" He stopped. Closed his eyes. His hand was still on your arm, and you could feel his fingers trembling—actually trembling—and the tremor traveled through your skin and into your bones and settled somewhere in the vicinity of your heart, where it lodged like an arrow. "That's what makes it frightening. The things we don't mean to do. The things we can't control."

He opened his eyes.

They were very close. Too close. Close enough that you could see the faint lines at the corners—signs of smiling, of frowning, of seven hundred years of making expressions that meant things. Close enough that you could see your own reflection in them, small and upside-down and seen.

"I lo—"

You stopped.

The word was right there. Right at the edge of your tongue, ripe and terrible and ready to fall. Three syllables. Eight letters. The shortest sentence in any language and the most dangerous one you'd ever almost spoken.

You didn't say it.

Instead, you did something braver.

You kissed him.

It was not a good kiss. It was clumsy and desperate and tasted like the tea he'd made you that morning—good tea, because he'd been practicing, because he'd been trying to get it right, because of course he had—and your nose bumped his and your teeth clicked against his and it was, by any technical standard, a disaster.

But Lilia made a sound against your mouth. A small, broken, grateful sound, as if you had handed him something he'd stopped believing existed, and his hand moved from your arm to the back of your neck, and he kissed you back with a gentleness that made your eyes sting, because he was holding you like you were the pocket watch—like you were a small music, like you were beauty wound up and released, like you were a reason to believe that time passing was not the same as things ending.

When you pulled apart, you were both breathing hard, and the stars were very bright, and the broken tiles were still skittering over the edge into the dark.

"You—" You couldn't finish. You didn't have words. Your invented language had no word for this. No language did. This was the thing that existed before language, the thing that language had been invented to try and fail to capture.

"I know," Lilia said, and his thumb traced a slow arc across the back of your neck, and you shivered, and he smiled—not the performative smile, not the sad smile, not the teasing smile, but a new one, one you'd never seen before, one that was only for you, one that said I see you and I am not afraid of what I see.

"You still haven't said it," he murmured.

"I don't know how."

"I know." He pressed his forehead to yours. His breath was warm against your lips. "I can wait. I've gotten very good at waiting."

"That's not—" You swallowed. "That's not fair. You can't just—be patient at me. I don't know what to do with patience. I know how to fight. I know how to run. I don't know what to do with someone who just waits."

"Then learn." So simple. So impossibly simple. "I'll teach you. I have time."

"You won't." The words came out before you could stop them, and the grief in them—your grief, your grief, the grief of a person who had just realized that she loved someone who might outlive her by centuries—was so raw that it startled you both. "You have too much time, Lilia. And I don't have enough."

The silence that followed was the loudest thing you'd ever heard.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, and his expression was the most unguarded you'd ever seen it—every mask removed, every performance abandoned, and what was underneath was not the ancient general or the mischievous fae or the loving guardian but simply Lilia, a person who was afraid and hopeful and heartbroken and brave all at once, in the exact proportions that made up every person who had ever loved something they couldn't keep.

"Then we make the time we have count," he said. "That's all we can do. That's all anyone can do." A pause. His voice dropped to something barely above a whisper. "I've lost people who had centuries ahead of them. Time is not the thing that keeps us safe. Love is the thing that makes the time matter."

You stared at him.

You stared at him, and you thought about all the years he had carried, all the loss he had survived, all the moments he had collected like precious stones in the pocket of a coat that was far too old and far too worn, and you thought about the fact that he had chosen to add you to that collection—not as a grief-to-be, not as a future wound, but as a moment, small and current and alive, a small music in the middle of a battlefield.

"Okay," you said.

"Okay?"

"Okay. I'll learn." You said it like a declaration of war. Like a treaty. Like the most terrifying and the most necessary thing you'd ever said. "But I'm going to be bad at it."

"I know."

"I'm going to be terrible at it. I'm going to push you away and say cruel things and build walls and then get mad at you for not climbing them."

"I know."

"And you're going to have to—" Your voice wavered. "You're going to have to keep waiting. Even when I give you no reason to."

"I will." No hesitation. No conditions. Just I will, as simple and as absolute as gravity.

You kissed him again.

This time it was better. Slower. Less desperate and more deliberate, as if you were learning a new language and the kiss was your first sentence—clumsy but clear, imperfect but true. His hand stayed on the back of your neck. Your hand found the front of his shirt and gripped the fabric like an anchor, and the wind moved across the rooftop and the stars watched and the broken tiles fell and fell and fell into the dark, and none of it mattered because you were kissing Lilia Vanrouge on a rooftop at midnight, and the word you couldn't say was everywhere—in the press of your lips, in the grip of your fingers, in the ragged breathing between kisses—and he heard it even though you didn't speak it, because Lilia Vanrouge had spent seven hundred years learning to listen for the things people couldn't say.

ix. an epilogue, of sorts

Months later—months in which you learned to say thank you for the tea and stay when you wanted to run and I'm scared when the walls started rebuilding themselves—you opened your journal to the first page.

Why.

The word sat there, small and solitary, the way you had written it all that time ago, before Lilia, before the Tuesday, before the rooftop and the broken tiles and the kiss that had been a sentence in a language you were still learning.

You picked up your pen.

Beneath the why, in your invented language—in a code that no one else could read—you wrote a second word. Then a third. Then a fourth. A sentence. A paragraph. A page. Another page.

You wrote about pink hair in late afternoon light. About soup that smelled like a crime and tea that tasted like trying. About a hand on a library table, palm-up, waiting. About the sound he made when you kissed him—small, broken, grateful. About the terror of being known and the greater terror of remaining unknown. About grief, his and yours, and the way it didn't cancel each other out but stacked, creating a shared height from which you could both see further than you could alone.

You wrote about the fact that you still didn't have an answer to why.

But you were beginning to think that the question itself was the answer. That the asking was the point. That the very fact that you could sit in a library or on a rooftop or in a kitchen at 1:47 AM and feel something—pain, longing, fear, joy, all of it, all at once, a cacophony that was indistinguishable from being alive—was the closest thing to a reason you were ever going to get.

You closed the journal.

You went to find him.

He was in the kitchen, as he often was, stirring something that smelled marginally less catastrophic than usual. He looked up when you entered, and the smile he gave you was the one that was only for you—the new one, the real one, the one that was still learning how to exist.

"I made tea," he said.

"I can see that."

"It's good this time. I've been practicing."

"I know you have." You crossed the kitchen. You took the cup from his hand. You set it on the counter. And then—because you were learning, slowly, imperfectly, with all the stumbling grace of a newborn thing—you took his face in your hands and kissed him, soft and sure, the way you'd been practicing too.

When you pulled back, his eyes were bright.

"I love you," you said.

The words came out quiet. Matter-of-fact. As if you were telling him the time or the weather or any other simple, obvious, irrefutable truth. No drama. No grand gesture. Just three syllables, spoken in a kitchen that smelled like slightly-burnt tea, to a fae who had waited seven hundred years to hear something that sounded like that—like a door opening, like a wall coming down, like a small music in the middle of a battlefield.

Lilia Vanrouge looked at you as if you had handed him the world.

"I know," he said, and smiled, and meant it, and the word why—that ancient, relentless, unanswerable word—did not disappear, but it softened, the way a question softens when it stops demanding an answer and starts becoming a prayer.

You hated him… Or that is what you told yourself each time you saw Giyu Tomioka's stupid, handsome face. You couldn't stand how cool and collected he was, but so emotionless, like a dead fish.

Hell, you're sure you would enjoy fish's company over his any day.

Thankfully, you had friends like Sanemi and Obanai who, in one way or another, felt the same way you felt towards the Water Hashira.

"Tch, so, you don't know who I bumped into today!" You hissed, but before the Wind or Serpent Hashira could reply, you exclaimed, "Fucking Tomioka!"

"No way," Sanemi rolled his eyes, and you scowled, "He was all 'Thank you for your assistance' and bullshit like that!"

"What did you do?" Obanai asked, and you ground your teeth together, "I helped him carry some old grandma's shopping bags into her home!"

"How is that bad?"

"The grandma had the guts to call us a 'Sweet kids and cute couple'!" You frowned as you tapped your finger against your leg, a small sign that you were restless.

"Oh my God, you're absolutely right," The Wind Hashira grunted, and you half expected him to be sarcastic, but then he continued, "I hate when that happens. Like, people expect us to be friends, and I'm like, what the Hell!?"

The Serpent Hashira nodded quietly as he and his snake friend Kaburamaru observed you two.

"Yeah, like, he is so unaware of even the easiest things!" You tapped your finger harder, "He can't take the clue when I tell him to take better care of himself! Or how he looks like a walking dead when he hasn't gotten enough sleep, and God help me, I feel like he intentionally misses multiple meals during the day just to piss me off!"

The two men glanced at each other and then at you, "That's what bothers you?"

"I mean, yeah!" You grabbed your hands and squeezed them together, "Sometimes I want to grab him and squeeze the ever living shit out of him!"

"Isn't that… Cute aggression?" Obanai asked, and you frowned, "A what now?"

"It means that despite all bullshit, you like him," Sanemi said, and you blinked as you registered your friends' words and then, all of a sudden, your face went red like an apple.

"Tch, w- what the Hell!?" You hissed, "I don't even like the guy!"

"Then why are you blush-?" The Serpent Hashira was about to ask, but you quickly cut him off, "It's hot in here, okay!?"

"It's not even-!"

"Ugh, then, let's pretend I like him!" You growled, "What is there in him? Yeah, he is a good guy who barely takes care of himself, leaving that to me because God help if Demon kills him because he has no energy to fight with!"

Your companions shared quick glances, but stayed quiet otherwise.

"So do I like him? No, because he makes me constantly worry over him and it's so fucking draining and-!" You were saying that when you noticed that Sanemi and Obanai looked up from you, and you frowned as you followed their gazes and turned to see the Water Hashira himself standing behind you.

You blushed in shock and horror. How much had he just heard?

"What the Hell, Tomioka!?" You frowned, "Don't you know it's rude to eavesdrop on other people's conversations!?"

"I'm aware." He nodded, "But I couldn't help but hear what you said…"

Oh God, you felt like your head would explode and your heart jump out of your chest.

"I'm sorry if I made you worry with my actions…" Giyu frowned lightly, "It was never my intention."

"I- I-!" You stuttered as you scowled, "It's not like I care!"

"I understand," He nodded, and you growled as you got up from your chair and turned to jab your finger into Water Hashira's chest.

"Like Hell you do!" You hissed like Kaburamaru, "You go and do stupid things because you don't care if you live or die! Well, surprise, I care!"

"Didn't she just say she doesn't care?" Obanai whispered to Sanemi, who grunted, and you quickly shot them a glare over your shoulder, "Shut up!"

"You… Care? Of me?" Giyu tilted his head slightly, and you groaned how cute he looked when he did that.

"I don't want you to die!" You said as you crossed your arms, "The idea of you dying makes me feel bad, and I don't like it!"

"I see…" The Water Hashira nodded, "Then… I haven't eaten yet today."

How was that surprising?

"Would you like to join me if I pay?"

"I-!" Your face flushed again, but this time you found yourself speechless.

"Oh my God, just get the fuck out of here and go get something to eat!" Sanemi snapped, and you flinched as you turned and glared at your friend.

"We are going, but not because you told us to!" You said as you grabbed Giyu's hand and pulled him so he had no choice but to follow you.

"Where are we going?" He asked, and you replied, "To this place I like. They have good ramen with nice portions and low prices."

Giyu blinked, but followed you either way, and soon the two of you were in this small ramen stall. It looked a little shabby, but the smell coming from there was absolutely mouthwatering.

As soon as you and Giyu sat down, the owner slash cook turned and grinned when he saw you, "Hello, young Lady! Your usual with extra meat?"

"Make it two." You said, and the man nodded as he set to work. You and Giyu were quiet as you observed the process of ramen being prepared for you. Your meals were done quickly, and the cook placed huge bowls of meaty ramen.

"Here ya go! One for you and one for your boyfriend!"

"He is not-!"

"Thank you," Giyu nodded as he picked up chopsticks and a spoon to help him enjoy the delicious broth.

You glared at him for interrupting you, but your stomach hurt when you saw the delicious ramen before you, so you copied your colleague and grabbed yourself some utensils and started eating.

You ate in silence, but neither one of you minded, as you were too busy to enjoy the delicious meal before you.

Finally, you were done and thanked the cook for the delicious meal. You moved to pick up your wallet, but before you could do that, Giyu took out some cash and handed it to the cook.

"Is this enough to cover our meals?" He asked, and the cook nodded as he took the money, "Perfect in fact!"

"I could have paid…" You grumbled, but he just hummed quietly, "I promised to pay for our meals."

That he did. The two of you walked for a minute or two, and you were honestly clueless about where you were going and if you even had a destination or something close to that.

"I'm sorry I worry you." Giyu suddenly said, and your eyes widened as you took in his words.

"I don't want to worry others…" He continued, "That's why I keep my distance… But you're always near me, and I can't help myself then."

"I…" You didn't know what to say, but he did, "I'll try to stay out of your business from this moment onwards so I won't worry you anymore."

"Idiot," You grunted, "As if that will put my mind at ease."

"I'm sorry," Giyu apologized, "I just…"

"I guess the fault is in me too…" You frowned, "I get angry because I worry, and when I worry, I get scared, and when I get scared, I get angry, and the cycle repeats itself…"

"You're a very emotional person." He noted, and you blushed as you glared at him, "Yeah!? Why is it such a bad thing to have emotions!?"

"I never said they were bad." Giyu said, "I rather like how much you have."

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. Was he complimenting you? Did he mean something more?

You blushed as you lowered your eyes, finding the ground beneath you interesting.

"…You really think so?" You finally asked, and Giyu nodded, "When have I lied?"

Never.

"Okay, so, what does this all mean then?" You asked as you raised your head to look at him, "This, you and me?"

"Hmm…" The man hummed quietly as he thought about it, "Well… I think we could be friends?"

"Just friends?"

"We can be more if you want?" He suggested, and your face burned as you got ready to reject him and his stupid ideas-!

…But you hated that choice of yours more than his suggestion.

"Okay, we can be more than friends!" You crossed your arms, "So you better start taking better care of yourself, so I won't have to worry!"

"I will."

"I mean it! I swear, you're making my hair go white!" You cried out, and Giyu nodded… And gave you a small smile, "You'd look good with white hair."

"Are you saying my real color doesn't suit me!?"

"I think you would look good no matter what." He confessed, and Gods, your face felt like it might explode yet again.

The life of a Holy Dog from their birth is well defined. They must serve their country and play the part they've been assigned.

The sunlight shines brightly through the curtains of your window.

There was not a single day in your childhood that wasn’t subjected to the relentless forge of discipline. Every skill you've learned— honed to perfection. From the delicate crafts of diplomacy to the brutal precision of combat, not a single weakness was spared. Born to stand among them, possessing strength, beauty, and loyalty— there was no other choice than to embody excellence in every thought, every breath, and every strike you made or will make. Anything less would've been, frankly, unacceptable.

Kokekokkooo!

The rooster is especially loud. It must be morning.

You lay on your futon, staring up at the wooden ceiling of your canopy bed, with a blank expression. Just as the morning sky is starless, your mind is going horrendously rampant with mindless things.

Ah, I need to get up now, but I don't want to eat breakfast with that guy. Not because my heart keeps pounding when I’m near him or anything like that. I don’t even like him like that. But I have to, because if I don't, he'll report me to the Elders. Not that I care that much but I think I need to care because my life and reputation is on the line. For the sake of the Holy Dogs. But then I've already skipped dinner last night so that’s already ruined. And I need to eat, but I absolutely do not want to have breakfast with that guy-

But above all of that, there is one thing for certain, and that is that you will absolutely not leave your bedchamber today. For anything.

“Lady Kamisato? Permission to come in?”

You slowly but surely sit up, letting the blanket fall from your chest to your lap. You pivot your head like a haunted doll towards the door of your bedchamber. “Come in,” you command.

A maid with neatly tucked blue hair underneath a maid's headdress comes in, holding a tray of morning tea.

Your Lady-in-Waiting.

Also known as your Sister-in-Law.

“L-lady Kamisato, are you alright?” she nearly shrieks, placing down the tray on a nearby table to kneel near you, hands shaky as they reach for you.

The shock of yesterday’s revelation and last night's lack of sleep must be showcased on your face, probably in the form of dreadful dark circles under your eyes and dry lips. You give her the weakest smile you can muster with your tired doll-face while your mind is blaring her actual identity front row and center. “I am. I simply… didn't get enough sleep last night, that's all. But thank you for worrying about me.”

“I… I see. But of course! That's what girl friends do!”

Your eyes go wide.

She catches herself and taps her fingers together bashfully. “My sincerest apologies. I know we're only Lady and Lady-in-Waiting, but even so, I… I do care about you. Like a girl friend would… My apologies, I’ve overstepped myself!”

I think another high-ranking wife wouldn't take these words from a Lady-in-Waiting kindly, even from a Sister-in-Law in disguise, you think blankly, as you adore her cute personality, despite her lies.

“You can call me (Y/n), if you'd like?” you offer.

She looks up, sparkles in her eyes. “Really?”

You nod. “And I shall call you Ayami. Is that okay?”

“Yes! W-well, shall I help you get ready for the day, (Y-Y/n)?” she asks giddily, gathering the tray. “Call it a feeling but I think today’s breakfast with Lord Kamisato will be quite special, since I hear he has something planned.”

“Oh.” You snap back to reality. “Unfortunately, I must refuse,” you say, turning your head towards the window. “I do not wish to attend breakfast this morning.”

“Ehh?” She almost drops the tray. “Are you certain you’re not feeling ill?”

“I…” You turn away, unable to face her disappointment. “I simply wish to have breakfast by myself today. There are matters in my mind that I must sort out before interacting with anyone. Even my husband.”

“I see… Then, I shall have your breakfast delivered here.”

“Thank you, Ayak- Ayami.”

“Yes, La- (Y/n).”

-----🐈-----

The disguised young miss carries the tray out of your bedroom, feeling excited as she walks down various hallways. Just as the one and only esteemed housekeeper walks by, they stop, facing opposite directions.

“There is an issue,” Ayaka whispers, pinching her headdress downwards.

“With the Lady?” Thoma inquires.

“She does not wish to enjoy breakfast outside of her bedroom.”

“Did she say why?”

“She said she had things on her mind.”

“Did you try to convince her?”

“She looked ill. But I have a plan.”

“Ah. Shall I have him join her instead?”

“Good. Yes. And we shall send breakfast to her room as well.”

“Got it.”

“Mm.”

The two schemers part ways. One towards his lord and the other towards the kitchen to notify the cooks of changes.

-----🐈-----

Unlike most dogs, most cats are known for being quite finicky creatures. Buy them a whole exquisite furniture piece worth thousands of mora, and watch them run towards the plain old box that the item arrived in.

Chirp! Chirp! Chirp!

You pet a lone birb who decided to rest upon your windowsill.

You can't quite shake off the oddest feeling after your Sister-in-Law left. She sounded like she was planning something, with that glint you spotted in her eye and the way she worded things.

Whatever may be the case, after a moment or two you decided that the room was far too stuffy for your liking. Besides, if you are going to avoid your husband, you might as well see if you can sneak into the kitchen and grab yourself something to eat.

Dressed in comfortable outside attire, you balance a foot on the windowsill, hands gripping the sides of your window as you peer down to the ground.

The Kamisato house isn’t all that tall, averaging in height as with many other houses of high-ranking clans, however only an untrained fool would dare jump from the second floor.

Fortunately, you are neither a fool nor an untrained lady. And so, you jump.

Thud.

You land with your feet on the ground without kicking up any dirt or dust. Success! you think, as you pat down your body to make sure of your physical status.

Crack.

You flinch and immediately pivot your head away in the opposite direction of the person standing just a couple of meters from you. You can practically feel those scary purple eyes. Shit.

“Is there any good reason that a wife refuses to look at her husband?” your husband inquires sternly, with a hint of strained amusement.

You lick your lips, straightening your posture as you continue to look the other direction. “I can think of plenty,” your voice clips. “Not that she is obligated to say.”

“Hm. Do you not find it pitiful?” he asks, though his voice doesn’t seem somber at all. “A husband who isn’t able to see the face of his wife in the morning can only become a late sleeper. All duties delayed.”

You suck in and gently nibble on your inner cheeks. “Yet, such a husband is up and awake now before breakfast. Therefore, it seems unnecessary to burden him with pity.”

“I suppose so. A husband, who waits by his wife’s window, only to be greeted so coldly, is already much too pitiful.”

He came to see me? This early?

Ba-dump.

“Hmph. Well, since he has seen his wife now, surely he has other duties to get to?”

“That is true,” Ayato hums. “But you are mistaken. I have yet to gaze upon my dear wife’s face, for she is turned away from me.”

You sigh and turn back around begrudgingly, meeting the terrifying darkness in his eyes, coupled with an unmatching fake smile. You replace your fearful expression with your own doll-face. “T-there.” You wince from your stutter. “You have seen it. N-now, we shall part ways. You, to your duties. And I, to mine.”

He closes his eyes, as if calculating something, and then opens back up, cleared of all darkness. Sparking like clear water. “Hm, I suppose we shall.”

You hesitantly nod and then begin walking away, only to hear soft footsteps behind you, matching yours. You look behind you.

Ayato smiles at you, innocently, at the same amount of distance as earlier.

… It couldn’t be, right? You return forward and continue for a few more steps, then you turn back.

Ayato is still innocently smiling, still at the same amount of distance behind as earlier.

Ah. “You should be attending to your duties, am I wrong?” you ask.

“That, I am.”

A small gust of winds blows past.

“And what exactly are you doing right now?”

“I am keeping my wife company, as any husband’s duty is,” he answers matter-of-factly.

What kind of crap is he talking about? Is he going to follow me all day then??? “That’s the first I’m hearing of such a thing.”

He shrugs. “For any other household, perhaps it isn’t. As for the Kamisatos, it is.”

“Ah. I see.”

You return facing forward, take a few deep breaths in preparation, and then immediately break into a run.

-----

In the future, many members of the staff and a few citizens will be able to recount the day Lord Kamisato was caught chasing after his fleeing wife around the Kamisato Estate. For what reason, they may never know. But they will say that it was quite entertaining, seeing the oddly ecstatic face of the normally recluse Ayato behind the frightened and horrified expression of a normally doll-like (Y/n).

Step step step step step step step.

“Why are you running?” Ayato asks as if taking a gentle stroll, close on your tail.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” you screech, out of breath as you continue to run as fast as you can.

Over bridges in the garden, from room to room, weaving through staff— and now even across the roofs— you somehow cannot shake him off. How does a man become so persistent???

Nearly exhausted, one of your feet accidentally slips on a loose slate of the roof, leading you to topple over.

“(Y/n)!” he calls out with panic.

Of course, while this is a little higher than earlier, you know you’ll manage to land on your feet someway or another, and you do— flipping onto a lower roof and then another and then finally landing on the ground with proper form.

You then jump through an open window of a room, enter another room, zoom across the hallway, and then finally find yourself in the kitchen, where you collapse behind some sake-filled wooden barrels in the storage room.

Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump…

Your beating heart pumps blood past your ears as you inhale and exhale deeply, silently and steadily. You rest your back against one of the barrels, letting the cool air of the kitchen dissipate your sweat.

Finally… got away… stupid Ayato…

You close your eyes and opt for a much needed nap, hoping no one finds you here for a while as you restore your energy.

-----🐈-----

“I… Did you see that…?”

“I… I did…”

The esteemed housekeeper and Shirasagi Himegimi, in her usual attire, stand out in the open, dumbfounded, mouth slightly agape.

Ayato hops down the roof, missing his wife as she slipped into the darkness by mere seconds. His face inhuman with anguish, until he spots the two individuals and replaces it with his typical fake smile in a split second.

“Did you, by any chance, see my (Y/n)?” he asks, calmly.

Thoma opens his mouth to answer, only to be elbowed in the gut by the younger Kamisato. “You mean Lady Kamisato? Unfortunately, we just got here. Although, it would be wonderful if I got to finally meet my Sister-in-Law,” Ayaka beams, giggling despite a dark aura forming behind her.

Crack.

Ayato tilts his head. “We both already know-”

“That she is not ready to meet me? Or anyone else at all. Yes, I am perfectly aware, Brother.”

Crackle.

Thoma recovers with hand on his stomach and blinks, wondering if the sight of lightning really shot through the two Kamisatos.

The weather is quite pleasantly sunny and clear in this colder season, and yet the atmosphere between the two siblings seem as turbulent as the hurricane season.

“Well, if you do,” Ayato says, “Do notify me. Right away.”

“If I do,” Ayaka replies, saluting her brother as he walks away to continue in his search.

…..

Ayaka looks towards Thoma with bloodshot eyes, grabbing his shirt. “I thought you said he liked her? The relationship between them is worse than I thought. What are we going to do? He looks like he wants to kill her!? There is no doubt I love my brother, but what is the meaning of this!? Huh? HUH?”

“C-calm down, Lady Ayaka,” Thoma assures her. “That's what I meant by his… obsession. But trust that he means no harm… I think…”

Ayaka lets go and finds serenity within her being. She closes her eyes, inhales, and exhales. She opens her eyes with newfound determination, placing her hands together. “It seems that we need to take more drastic measures,” she starts off. “We'll have to send them away from the estate.”

Thoma's eyes pop out in shock. “Lady Ayaka!? But New Years is coming soon and all the work that needs to be done-”

She holds a finger up. “Then we’ll send them shortly afterwards. Perhaps to an onsen?”

“Hot springs?”

“Yes! I read in books that couples sent to an onsen end up becoming closer after their trip. Perhaps that is what they need! And besides, those two have been stuck inside this place for much too long. They haven't had any alone time at all!”

“I… I guess so?”

Ayaka makes a fist with one hand and places the other over her chest, eyes sparkling. “If my memory serves, Brother and (Y/n) didn’t have a long courtship. That must be why they must be so awkward with each other. I’m sure that’s why she decided not to join Brother this morning for breakfast.”

“Is that… so?”

“I’m sure of it!”

Thoma plays with the back of his hair, his eyes looking towards the ground. “But…”

Ayaka looks at Thoma, curious. “What?”

Thoma shakes his head, determination filling his eyes. “Nothing.” He holds out a hand. “Let's prepare for that plan of yours.”

“Yes!” Ayaka grabs his hand in the continuation of their partnership.

-----🐈-----

The moment you open your eyes, you close them.

“Hm… I once heard of the story of a sleeping beauty… does my wife wish for a similar awakening?”

“Touch me and I’ll kill you,” you groggily mumble.

Crack.

Shit. I slipped up.

“Hm. Well, I finally found you,” Ayato says. You can hear him crouching down in front of you. “Shouldn’t I get a reward?”

You take a deep breath, allowing your eyes to crack open a bit. “What time is it?”

“It’s already night time.”

You click your tongue. “So I missed all of our meals for today?”

“You haven’t missed dinner yet.”

“I see…” you send him a glare, forgoing your doll persona entirely. “As for your question earlier, unfortunately, there are no rewards for chasing your wife to exhaustion.”

He softly laughs. “Need I remind her that it was she who started the chase?”

“Need I remind him that he didn’t need to follow her at all?” you shoot back with a frown.

He reaches out towards one of your ears and allows a piece of loose hair to drape over a curved finger. “Oh… but I am obligated to, as per our marriage vows.”

You lift an eyebrow, debating whether or not you should move your head from his hand. “Will you, in peaceful times, during sickness, love this person, respect this person, comfort this person, help this person, until death, do you promise to fulfill?” you recite from memory. “Huh. I don’t recall anything about chasing them to death.”

“But you are not dead.”

You open your eyes lazily and sarcastically respond, “I’m not?”

Crack.

“Besides,” he says, returning your hair. “I need comforting.”

…..

“From me?”

“Yes.”

All of the cogs in your head does it best to turn, but no matter what, his words seem to have crammed it all up. “Whatever for?” you ask, exasperated.

“Do I need a reason?” he mutters in a low tone.

You scoff, adjusting your sitting position and letting your head hang. “You seem to be quite comfortable already. What more can I give you?”

Crack.

He drops the fake smile. “(Y/n), be honest. Do you… hate me?”

Upon hearing this strangely direct question, you immediately sit up straight, wide-eyed. “No?”

Crack.

“Then… why do you run from me?” he asks, expression so downcast you can almost see a puppy whimpering in the middle of a downpour.

You almost want to rub your eyes. Instead, you purse your lips.

How exactly did you feel about your husband, one might wonder? To think such a question would come directly from your husband in this dark, candlelit storage room, surrounded by wooden barrels full of sake. Other than your own heartbeat and the echo of empty air, there is nothing else to fill your ears.

“I don’t know,” you honestly answer.

Crack.

I honestly don’t know, man! Stop scaring me with that weird cracking sound! Where is it even coming from???

He looks away, contemplatively, then meets your eyes, then looks away again. “You had a question earlier, of what I wanted from you?”

[“Why are you running?” Ayato asks as if taking a gentle stroll, close on your tail.

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” you screech, out of breath as you continue to run as fast as you can.]

“Ah… that was…” you struggle to come up with words. “You were scaring me, so I…”

He cuts you off. “I want…”

Ba-dump.

“... to have dinner with you.”

…..

You blink. “Oh. That’s… That’s it?”

He nods, bashfully.

You keep yourself from scoffing at his strange antics. One moment he seems to want to kill you and the other he seems like the most naive man you’ve ever met. What a weirdo.

Haughtily, you poke him in the forehead. “Why don’t you ask me properly then?”

He brightens up, smiling at you genuinely while holding out a hand. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

As if answering his question in earnest, your stomach growls, shooting heat straight into your cheeks. “S-sure. About time! ” you answer begrudgingly, taking his hand.

He chuckles lightheartedly.

-----

The surprise that was meant to accompany breakfast ended up being used for dinner.

All of your favorite dishes, all perfectly cooked, are displayed like jewels in a jewelry box across the dining table. Your favorite flowers decorate the room, hanging from garlands strung across the ceiling. The wicks of candles with your favorite scents are burning softly.

So this was what I could've enjoyed this morning… you think, as you munch on your food elegantly. Then again, I wasn't ready to see him yet…

“I believe it is about time we should discuss an important matter about our marriage.”

You look up from a bowl of marinated cucumbers on the dining table like a deer caught in headlights, the tip of chopsticks frozen in your closed mouth. “Hm?”

Ayato waits for you to take the chopsticks out of your mouth. “Our marriage,” he continues, eyes and tone eerily steady. “The matter of… marital obligations.”

Have I not been doing my duty? “I see.” You put down your chopsticks and bowl of rice neatly on the table. “What about marital obligations would you like to discuss, Husband?”

Crack.

It seems with food in your stomach, you are quite bold. And you have yet again donned your doll-face.

“It is regarding the separation of our bedchambers, (Y/n),” Ayato explains, a glint in his eye.

Your mask falters for a mere second, as an odd feeling comes about. “What about it is prompting a discussion?”

“As wife and husband,” Ayato interlaces his fingers. “I think it is about time we shared a bedchamber.”

…..

You blink, swearing all of the burning embers faltered for a moment. “Pardon?”

“Did I stutter, (Y/n)?”

“No, you did not.”

“Then you heard me?”

“I did.”

“Then?” he asks, darkness building up in his eyes.

You blink. Several times in order to not run away from this room. “I am… not refusing… nor am I entirely in agreement,” you carefully respond.

He looks away, regretfully. “Ah, my apologies. I do not wish to force this upon you as I see fit. I only wish to improve our marriage.”

You mentally release a sigh of relief. “It is the same for me. I intend to follow the wishes of my husband, should it benefit our marriage.” You then lift your cup of sake, inviting him for cheers.

He smiles brightly, lifting his own cup. “I see. Then we shall henceforth share a bedchamber. To our marriage,” he says, clinking yours before downing the shot of sake.

“T-to our marriage!” you cheer after choking down your own cup.