Pitfighter!vi Knew It Was Bad To Be Indulging In Something Like A Whorehouse, Yet, She Found Herself

wanna be yours — vi (league of legends) !

⟢ synopsis. in the gritty underbelly of zaun, you find yourself entangled in the life of a new pit fighter: vi, a hardened fighter who wears her pain like armour. as a medic working in the fighting pit, you are tasked with patching up her wounds after matches, and you realize that while you can heal vi’s injuries, you can’t mend the broken pieces of her heart that belong to someone else.

⟢ contains. afab!reader, arcane!vi, feminine characteristics, angst, lesbians, lots and lots of longing, kinda enemies to lovers (but worse), nsfw, fingering, 17+ kinda explicit.

⟢ word count. 15.2k+

⟢ authors note. i spent the last few weeks working on this fic and i am really happy with how it turned out!! eek!! happy reading!! <3 :)

You’ve grown used to the sight of blood.

It streaks across the tiled floor in dark smears, trails on the edge of your workbench, and stains the tattered cloths shoved into the waste bin. The scent of copper lingers in the air, mingling with the faint tang of disinfectant.

You’ve made it work, though. You have to.

Your bench is lined with the tools: sutures, gauze, tape, and a half-empty bottle of antiseptic you’ve been meaning to replace. You keep it organized, and meticulous because chaos out there demands control in here. The pit fighters appreciate it, and you, in their own way. There’s always a pep in their step when they leave your little corner, heading to the bar with fresh bandages and a story to tell.

Some linger longer than they need to, chatting while you clean up. The regulars know your rhythm—when to crack a joke to ease the tension or when to stay quiet and let you focus. The brawlers come to trust you, and trust is hard to come by lately.

Maybe it was because you weren’t trying to punch the lights out of their eyes.

The room itself is far from perfect. Cramped, poorly lit, and barely adequate, it feels more like a storage closet someone forgot to clear out than a proper medical station. You’ve done what you can to make it your own. A few paintings hang crookedly on the walls—cheap prints, but bright enough to cut through the gloom. Candles flicker in the corners of your desk, casting a soft glow that doesn’t do much for the lighting but makes the space feel warmer, more welcoming.

The pit fighters notice. They never say much about it, but you catch the way they relax when they sit down, their shoulders loosening just slightly as the room wraps them in its quiet. It’s your small rebellion against the harshness of Zaun, a reminder that even here, there’s room for gentleness.

Sometimes they repay that gentleness in their own way—a drink after a fight, a nod of thanks, or a protective presence when the streets get dangerous, walking you home. You’ve been here long enough to know that loyalty is rare in Zaun, but somehow, you’ve earned it.

The fighting arena roars with life, the crowd’s cheers rumbling through the walls like distant thunder. Tonight’s fights have been loud—louder than usual. People running around with their coloured tickets based on who they were betting on. You glance at the clock.

There’s been a buzz all week about a newcomer, someone fresh and untested.

Vi, they call her.

Scrappy and wild, with a chip on her shoulder and fists to match. The kind of fighter who comes in all swagger and leaves in pieces.

You haven’t met her yet, but the bookies’ chatter alone has you bracing yourself. First fights are always the worst—too much pride, not enough sense.

The door rattles, hard enough to make the jars on your shelf tremble and you can hear muffled shouting from the other side.

It slams open, rattling on its hinges, but you don’t look up right away. Your focus is on threading a needle carefully through the gash along the side of Ryker’s jaw—a nasty wound from an earlier fight. Ryker’s been coming here for years, but never with complaints. He’s one of the good ones, fighting not just for himself but for his daughter, scraping by on the cash these matches earn him. He sits hunched over, still radiating the heat of adrenaline.

“Don’t fucking shove me,” a voice grumbles from the doorway. “Fuck off, Loris!”

Your attention shifts to the two figures stumbling into the room. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with a face like he’s eaten rocks for breakfast—could easily pass for one of the fighters. But it’s the girl he’s dragging by the arm that catches your eye.

She’s all jagged lines and sharp edges, her messy, dark pink hair sticking up in uneven tufts. Blood drips lazily from her nose, smudging against the back of her hand when she wipes at it, and her scowl is carved so deep it feels like her only expression.

“I don’t need a medic,” the girl—Vi, you hear the man mutter—snaps, yanking her arm free. “I need a drink.”

“Protocol,” He replies flatly, giving her a shove that nearly sends her sprawling.

Vi catches herself with a stumble, shooting him a glare before surveying the room with obvious disdain. Her gaze lands on you, and her lip curls faintly. “This it? Cozy,” she mutters, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

You ignore her, focusing on the final stitch on Ryker’s jaw. “You can take a seat,” you say evenly, nodding toward the empty couch by the far wall.

“No thanks,” Vi shoots back, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. She leans against the wall instead, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Too proud to sit down, blue belly?” Ryker mutters, casting a sharp glance from his seat. His voice is low, edged with a warning. “Or has the guilt of hunting your own finally caught up with you?”

“Ryker,” you say softly, your tone a quiet scold. The last thing you need is a fight breaking out here.

But his words make you look at Vi more closely. Her features are familiar, in a vague, nagging way. It clicks as you take in the hard set of her shoulders, the stubborn way she holds herself, and the bruises already blooming across her cheekbone. A new batch of enforcers had swept through Zaun a few weeks back, leaving havoc and clouds of Grey in their wake. They’d brought their brutality, painted their violence into the walls of the city, and then disappeared like ghosts, leaving Zaun more broken than before.

That’s how it usually went with them.

However, you had never heard of someone from the undercity becoming an Enforcer before.

Vi scoffs, slurring her words just slightly. “I don’t know—d’you wanna find out?”

You pause, needle halfway through a stitch, tension coiling tight in the air. “Don’t,” you warn softly, already sensing where this is headed.

Ryker shifts forward on the bench, his battered knuckles flexing. “You wanna go another round?”

Vi pushes off the wall, stepping closer. “You wanna lose again?” she challenges, her voice low and sharp.

“That’s enough,” you snap, moving quickly to step between them. Loris mirrors your movement, his larger frame serving as an immovable barrier.

“Sit. Down,” Loris growls at Vi, his glare enough to make her hesitate. With a huff, she leans back against the wall again, though her fists remain clenched in her jacket pockets.

You shake your head and turn back to Ryker, finishing the last stitch with practiced ease. “You’re done,” you tell him, rummaging through your cabinet and handing him a small bottle of pain meds. “Keep it clean, change the bandage twice a day, and stay out of trouble—for your sake and your daughter’s.”

Ryker stands slowly, still throwing a glare Vi’s way. But his expression softens when he looks at you. “Thanks,” when he says your name, his voice is warmer than before. “You’re too good for this place.”

You offer him a faint smile. “Take care, Ryker.”

He leaves, brushing past Vi with a grunt, and the room feels quieter—tense but quieter. You turn your attention to the newcomer, who’s leaning against the wall, her posture relaxed but her eyes sharp, tracking your every movement.

“Alright,” you say, already washing your hands and gathering fresh supplies. “Your turn.”

Vi doesn’t move from the wall. “I’m fine,” she insists, “patch up the ones who actually need it.”

Your gaze flicks over her—the bloody nose that’s started to run again, the gash seeping through her sleeve, and the raw swelling on her knuckles. “Sit,” you say, your voice firm.

She doesn’t budge.

You meet her gaze, letting the silence stretch uncomfortably long, a quiet standoff neither of you seems willing to break. Your fingers tap once against the counter, but your glare doesn’t waver. You won’t repeat yourself.

Loris, the man who dragged her in, steps forward with a roll of his eyes, giving her a nudge with his elbow. “Sit down, Vi.”

She winces at the pressure on her back, her bravado faltering for just a split second. With a low grumble, she finally drops onto the bench, slouching with exaggerated indifference, her arms crossing tight over her chest.

You grab a clipboard and step closer. She watches you like you’re some kind of nuisance.

“Name?” you ask, clicking your pen.

“Vi,” she mutters, her eyes fixed on the far wall.

“Vi what?”

“Just Vi.”

You suppress a sigh. “What’s your full name?”

“I said, just Vi.”

There’s an edge to her tone, enough to make you glance up. Her jaw is set, her expression daring you to press the issue. You don’t. Instead, you scrawl it down and move on. “Fine. Age?”

“Old enough to fight.”

Your pen stills mid-note, the corners of your mouth tightening as you resist the urge to roll your eyes. “Of course, you are,” you say dryly, setting the clipboard aside with a little more force than necessary. “Alright, let’s start with the obvious,” you say, gesturing at her face. “Your nose is bleeding. Tilt your head back.”

Vi’s brow arches like you’ve just said something funny. “I said, I’m fine.”

“And I said, tilt your head back,” you reply, your voice steady but no less firm.

Her gaze sharpens, a flicker of defiance lighting in her eyes, but she tilts her head back with a dramatic huff. “Happy?”

You ignore her tone, stepping closer to inspect the injury. The faint scent of sweat and iron lingers between you, and for a moment, you notice the heat of her skin where your gloved fingers gently tilt her chin.

“Doesn’t feel broken,” you mutter, reaching for a clean cloth to dab away the blood. She flinches as the fabric touches her skin, her muscles twitching under your fingers. “Relax,” you say softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters.

Your hand falters, just briefly. There’s a weight to her words, a sharpness you weren’t expecting, but you push past it. “Well, I mean it,” you reply quietly.

Her silence stretches as you work, less hostile but no less charged. The closer you look, the more details you notice: the faint scars lining her skin, the inked letters etched into her cheekbone, the edge of a tattoo just barely visible beneath her collar, and the faint shine of her silver nose ring.

“Jacket off,” you say, gesturing to the gash on her arm.

Her gaze snaps to yours, wary and sharp. “Why?”

You give her a flat look. “Because I can’t stitch it through fabric.”

For a second, she doesn’t move, her body tensing as if bracing for something. Then, with a muttered curse, she shrugs out of her jacket, tossing it onto the bench beside her.

Her arms are a mess—old fighting hand wraps soaked with blood and dirt wrapped tightly around her forearms. You offer to replace them, but she cuts you off. “I’ll do it myself.”

You let it go, focusing instead on cleaning the fresh wound. Her muscles tense every time you touch her, but she doesn’t flinch again. “You can relax, you know,” you say, trying to sound light. “I’m just trying to help.”

Vi lets out a bitter snort. “You’re not the first to say that.”

You pause, but you don’t press. She’s lashing out on you. That’s the most you can make of it.

The silence stretches again as you stitch the wound, her eyes watching you closely, unreadable. When you finally glance up, your movements stilling, she shrugs.

“What?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

“Nothing,” she says, leaning back.

You hold her gaze for a beat longer before shaking your head and returning to your work, wrapping the freshly stitched wound with clean bandages. She stays quiet, watching until the silence becomes heavy again.

Then, without warning, she speaks, her voice quieter but cutting. “You know, you’re wasting your time on these people. Half of them wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire.”

The words hit like a punch, sharper than anything she’s said before. You freeze mid-motion, your fingers hovering over the bandage as you process her bluntness. Slowly, deliberately, you resume wrapping her arm, tucking the end of the bandage into place with more care than you think she deserves at that moment.

“Good thing I don’t do this for their gratitude,” you reply evenly, though the edge in your voice betrays a flicker of irritation. You’re trying not to let it get to you.

She’s new. Clearly, she’s fighting off some kind of pent-up frustration. She must have anger issues or something. You wonder how many hits Ryker got on her before she knocked him out.

Her chuckle is low and humourless, more of a scoff than anything else. “Right.”

You hope he got a solid six or seven punches in.

You step back, peeling off your gloves with a deliberate snap. There’s a moment where you consider saying something more, but you swallow the impulse. Professionalism, you remind yourself.

“You’re all set,” you say curtly, gathering up the soiled supplies. “I’d suggest taking tomorrow off. You know, to let the wound heal before you go back out there.”

Vi grabs her jacket, standing in a single fluid motion. She doesn’t look at you when she replies, her tone casual but dismissive. “I’ll live.”

You wish Ryker had broken her nose.

You shake your head, already turning back to tidy your workstation, unwilling to watch her saunter out.

Loris, standing by the door, offers you a small, almost apologetic smile. “Thanks,” he says, his voice warmer than hers ever was.

You manage a smile back, but it’s shallow, worn. The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone in the cramped room. The exasperation settles in like a weight, not heavy but persistent.

For a moment, you stand there in silence, staring at the supplies on your counter. You shake your head again, this time at yourself.

What the fuck is her problem?

You know you shouldn’t be surprised when Vi stumbles into the medic room again the very next day. The fights at Antis’s brawling ring are infamous for their relentless schedule, especially on weekends when the bets come pouring in before sundown. It’s barely dusk now, but the underground buzz is already unmistakable—the muffled cheers and jeers vibrating through the walls.

Vi comes alone this time—or at least she leaves Loris waiting outside the door. You catch a brief glimpse of him through the crack in the door, leaning against the wall with a drink at his lips, shaking his head like this is just another day for him.

The door slams shut as Vi shoulders her way in, her boots heavy against the floor. She’s holding one hand against her face, blood dripping sluggishly through her fingers and trailing down her arm.

You have to bite back a smile at the sight.

She’s ditched her jacket, and the sleeveless collared top she’s wearing looks like it’s seen more fights than she has—worn thin, patched up in places, and stained with a lifetime of blood and sweat. Her hand wraps are shredded and still filthy, hanging loosely around her forearms. The gash on her arm has reopened, the stitches torn apart as if they were never there to begin with.

You take all of this in within seconds, and something tightens in your chest—a mix of frustration and satisfaction. “You can’t fight back-to-back nights,” you say, your voice sharper than intended as you grab your gloves and a fresh set of supplies.

Vi grunts, brushing past you to sit on the bench. “I can do what I want,” she snaps, her words muffled by her hand still pressed to her face. Her defiance is unshaken, but the tremble in her shoulders gives her away. She’s hurting.

Now you start to feel bad. But just a little bit.

You’ve seen this before—new fighters crashing into the medic room with the same mix of bruised pride and bloodied skin. They fight like there’s no tomorrow, each punch is thrown carrying something more than just adrenaline. Some fight for money, some for escape, and others just because they don’t know how to stop. There’s always a reason. You can’t help but wonder what—or who—Vi is fighting for.

With a quiet exhale, you turn to the counter and grab your supplies. The clatter of tools fills the silence as you steel yourself for the inevitable pushback. “Let me guess,” you say, glancing over your shoulder at her. “Antis needed someone to keep the bets high, and you couldn’t say no.”

Vi drops her hand from her face, and for the first time, you see the full extent of the damage. A deep bruise blooms across the bridge of her nose, nearly swollen shut in one eye, while blood smears across her mouth and drips down her jaw.

She glares at you through the mess, her voice sharp. “It’s none of your business.”

“No,” you admit, stepping closer and gesturing for her to tilt her head back. “But I’m the one who has to patch you up. So humour me.”

She scoffs but tilts her head back, letting you inspect the damage. Up close, the bruise looks worse—angry and dark, already spreading across her pale skin. Her nose isn’t broken (unfortunately), but it’s close, and the blood smeared across her upper lip makes her look like it’s been bitten off. You grab a clean cloth and start wiping the blood away. Your movements are brisk but careful, and she winces slightly as you press the cloth to her skin. Still, she doesn’t pull away, just sits there stiff and unyielding.

“You’re going to tear open the stitches every time you fight like this,” you mutter, reaching for the antiseptic. “You’ve gotta take it easy. I know how these guys fight out there—”

“I don’t need your pity,” she cuts in, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not pity,” you reply, keeping your tone even. “Just words of advice.”

“I don’t need that either,” she snaps, her jaw tightening as you dab antiseptic on the wound. “Just patch me up so I can go. I’m only here because Antis won’t clear me for my pay otherwise.”

“Yeah, it’s protocol,” you say, capping the bottle and setting it down beside you.

“It’s stupid.”

“It was my idea.”

Her head jerks slightly, her eyes flicking toward you for a beat. There’s something almost vulnerable in her expression before she quickly looks away. She doesn’t answer right away, her gaze fixed firmly on the far wall. When she finally speaks, her voice is quieter, almost bitter. “...Still stupid.”

You smile faintly as you reach for fresh bandages. “Yeah, well, stupid or not, it’s keeping people alive. Even stubborn ones like you.”

Stubborn is definitely a nicer word than what you really want to say.

She doesn’t respond, and the silence stretches between you as you unwrap the old bandage around her arm. Her fingers twitch against her thigh, like she’s itching to leave, but she stays seated, her posture rigid. You can’t tell if it’s pride or exhaustion keeping her there—or maybe both.

For the rest of the session, Vi is quieter than usual. Her sharp retorts are replaced by a heavy silence that seems to weigh down the air in the room. Outside, the muffled roars of the crowd echo through the thin walls.

As you work to clean and re-stitch her arm, you glance at her every so often, noting the way her jaw tightens and her fingers tap restlessly against her thigh. It’s like she’s bracing for a blow that might never come, her body constantly coiled, ready to spring.

You take a step back, pulling off your gloves with a snap. “You’re good to go,” you say, your voice softer now. “But you need rest.”

She snorts, grabbing her jacket off the bench without looking at you. “Can’t rest. I’m on a winning streak.”

You arch a brow. “You’ve only been here two days. I wouldn’t count that as a streak.”

“Don’t really care what you think.”

“You should. You’re sleep-deprived, by the way. Your eyes barely focus. Get more sleep. And you need to drink more water.”

Vi huffs a dry, sarcastic laugh, “Sure, doc. Whatever you say.”

You want to argue, but she’s already out the door, leaving behind only the faint scent of iron and the lingering weight of words left unsaid. Loris nods at you through the open door as she stalks past him, his gaze flicking back to you briefly.

The door swings shut behind them, leaving you alone with the distant hum of the crowd and the bloodstained bench. For a long moment, you just stand there, staring at the scraps of torn bandages scattered on the floor, the mess she left behind.

It’s not long after that you learn her name is Violet.

The knowledge of it nearly makes you laugh.

Violets. You’ve never actually seen them, but a friend of yours, a painter, once gifted you a piece featuring soft, delicate purple blooms. It hangs over your bedside table, a rare touch of beauty in an otherwise bleak city. You like to imagine those flowers are violets, though you’re not entirely sure. Flowers aren’t exactly a common sight in Zaun.

The irony of her name strikes you every time you think about it. Violet. There’s nothing soft or delicate about her—not the way she fights, nor the way she speaks to you.

She didn’t tell you her name herself, of course. That would require her to speak more than three sentences in your direction, which feels like an impossible feat. No, funnily enough, it was Loris who let it slip, though you suspect he knew exactly what he was doing. It wasn’t much of a ‘slip’ rather than straight-up telling you her name.

It happened a night at a bar near your work. You’d gone with some friends, seeking a much-needed reprieve. The bartender, a friend of yours, had slipped you a couple of free drinks, and in a haze of warmth and exhaustion, you noticed Loris at the bar. He looked out of place, all gruffness and silence amid the lively chatter, so you invited him to join your table.

Several drinks in, your curiosity got the better of you. You leaned closer to him, your voice barely cutting through the music and chatter as you asked him about his pink-haired friend.

Loris wasn’t much of a talker, you realized. He’d spur out a few words or two, maybe a grunt or nod.

Loris made a face, his usual stoic front slipping just enough to reveal a flicker of amusement. He leaned in, his breath heavy with the scent of cheap beer, and gave a rare grin. “Sleeping,” he said simply, before adding, almost as an afterthought, “Her name’s Violet, by the way.”

Violet. You didn’t expect that, and it must’ve shown on your face because Loris chuckled softly.

It doesn’t take long for her name to start climbing the ranks at Antis’s. Fighters and spectators alike talk about her with equal parts fear and admiration. “Antis’s money-maker,” they call her, and it’s not hard to see why. When word spread about the unbeatable pink-haired girl, business began booming. Crowds flooded in, the promise of blood and spectacle drawing them like moths to a flame.

At first, she was just another new fighter, opening matches against scrappy, overconfident rookies. But that changed quickly. Within weeks, she was headlining brawls, her name alone enough to pack the stands. She didn’t just win—she dominated, often taking on two, three, even four opponents in a single night. And you? You kept count. You had to.

She tore through supplies faster than you could restock them. Bandages, antiseptics, meds—all of it consumed at an alarming rate. You’ve patched her up more times than you can count. But what stands out most isn’t just the state of her after a fight—it’s what she leaves behind.

Her opponents don’t come to you for minor injuries. No, they stumble in half-broken, their faces smashed and unrecognizable. Each night growing worse for wear. She fights with a ruthlessness you’ve rarely seen, a fury that feels almost personal. You can’t help but wonder what drives her. Is she trying to make a point?

She’s changing, turning into something the crowd craves. Her old, worn clothes have been replaced—black jeans, already ripped at the knees, and a sleeveless black tank that clings to her frame. She’s losing pieces of herself, or maybe just hiding them.

You still can't believe that there's a girl named Violet out there beating the shit out of people for money.

One day, you accidentally walk into her in Antis’s office. You’re here to drop off some invoices for medical supplies, your mind preoccupied with balancing the clinic’s dwindling stock against the rising demand. But when you open the door, you find Vi and Antis inside, deep in conversation.

Antis looks up first, his sharp eyes narrowing at your intrusion. “You’re early,” he grunts, though there’s no real annoyance in his tone. If anything, he seems amused. “Perfect timing. We were just talking about her look. What do you think?”

Vi shifts uncomfortably, her arms crossed over her chest. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her expression unreadable. You glance between them, caught off guard. “Her… look?”

Antis gestures to Vi with a sweep of his hand, his grin wolfish. “Yeah. Gotta sell the whole package, y’know? The crowd loves her, but they’ll eat up a good aesthetic, too. We’re thinking something that screams ‘unbeatable.’ Right, Vi?”

Vi’s jaw tightens, and for a brief moment, you think she might snap at Antis. But she doesn’t. Instead, her gaze flicks to you, like she’s waiting for something—your reaction, maybe, though you can’t figure out why it matters.

You clear your throat, hoping your voice doesn’t betray you. “She doesn’t need to change anything. She’s already pretty... unforgettable.”

Antis’s booming laugh fills the room, but you barely hear it. Your focus is locked on her. Something flickers in her eyes—a fleeting softness, vulnerability, gratitude, maybe?—before she schools her expression and looks away. You tell yourself it’s nothing, just a trick of the dim light.

A few days later, she shows up in the medic room again. But this time, it's different—she’s not limping in, not dripping with sweat or covered in bruises. She’s just there, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a casual air that catches you off guard. Her knuckles brush the doorframe absentmindedly as if she’s unsure whether to knock or let herself in.

“Do you need something?” you ask, glancing up from where you’re restocking the shelves. “Are you hurt?”

She shrugs, pushing off the door and stepping inside. “No, just… it’s quiet in here.”

Your brows knit together. Quiet?

She didn’t seem like the kind of person to seek out quiet, especially not in a place like this. “You came all the way here because it’s quiet?”

“Yeah,” she says simply, her tone flat, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. She grabs the chair from your desk, spins it around, and sits backward on it, resting her arms over the backrest. “Problem?”

“No... it’s just…” You trail off, unsure how to articulate the strangeness of it. Instead, you turn back to organizing supplies, aware of her eyes on you. “Never mind.”

These visits became more frequent whenever she didn’t fight. And she even stays back for a bit after you patch her up. Sometimes she speaks, but more often than not, she doesn’t—simply sitting in that chair, letting the distant noise of the arena, the cheers and shouts, fade into the background. She’ll stare at the walls or absentmindedly tap her fingers against the chair’s edge, lost in thought, but there’s a serenity about her, an unfamiliar stillness that you start to recognize.

She never tells you what brings her in—if something is weighing on her mind or if it’s just a need to escape the chaos. And you don’t ask. Instead, you begin to anticipate her visits, a strange comfort taking root in the space between you.

The conversations are sparse, but you begin to notice the small things: the way her body relaxes when she settles into the old couch, the weight lifting from her shoulders as she stretches out, the way she’ll let herself drift off into a light sleep. It’s almost like you’re giving her a moment of rest she didn’t know she needed.

Vi strides in, her steps heavier than usual, and tosses a small, overstuffed bag of coins onto your desk. You recognize it immediately—one of the payout sacks Antis gives to the fighters, filled with their share of the betting pool. This one looks heavier than most, jingling with an unmistakable weight as it lands right on top of your paperwork. You pause, your pen hovering midair, and stare at it.

Her grin spreads as she catches the look on your face—wide-eyed and mildly incredulous. “Don’t worry, it’s not for you,” she teases, her tone light and mocking.

You roll your eyes, setting the pen down with an exaggerated sigh. “This from your fight last night?”

Vi nods, her grin twisting into something sharper, a little more wicked. “Some of my best work,” she replies, her voice carrying the faintest edge of pride.

You tilt your head, raising an eyebrow as your gaze sharpens on her face. “I don’t know,” you counter dryly. “He broke your nose, and the whole side of your face is swollen. Doesn’t sound like your best to me.”

Standing up, you step closer, brows knitting together in concern as you get a better look at the mess of bruises she’s sporting. Without thinking, your hands lift, reaching toward her face to assess the damage.

Vi flinches. It’s quick, almost imperceptible, but enough to make you hesitate. Your hands hover in the air, faltering. “Sorry,” you murmur, your voice soft.

She coughs awkwardly, shifting her weight. “No, uh—no. It’s fine,” she says, a little too fast.

This time, when you move again, she doesn’t flinch. She lets you gently brush your fingers over the swollen, splotchy skin along her cheekbone and jaw, and you feel the heat radiating off the inflamed area. Your touch is careful, clinical, but you can’t help wincing at the sight. “You’re kidding yourself if you call this your best work, Vi” you mutter. “Did you even ice this like I told you?”

Her eyes roll so hard you’re almost worried she’ll sprain something. She grabs your wrist—not roughly, but enough to lower your hand—and shrugs. “You should’ve seen the other guy.”

You give her a deadpan look. “I did.”

Her smirk returns, a little more genuine now, though she doesn’t say anything. Instead, she sits on the edge of your desk and starts digging absently through the bag of coins, her fingers brushing over the shiny hexes and cogs. She doesn’t pull anything out, just lets her hand linger there.

“I brought you food,” she says suddenly, her voice casual.

You blink, momentarily thrown. “Food?”

She lifts a greasy paper bag into your line of sight, and you realize you hadn’t even noticed it when she walked in. “Yeah, you know. The stuff you eat when you’re hungry.”

“Okay, asshole,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth quirks up despite yourself.

She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “Got it for Loris and I, but he’s, uh… busy. Doing... someone else.” Her tone is flat, like she couldn’t care less, but there’s a flicker of something there—an edge of amusement, maybe. “So, more for us.”

You watch her for a second. You like to think that you can see right through her sometimes, that you can read her, but as usual, she’s an enigma. There’s something in the way she said us that makes your chest feel a little lighter, but you don’t let it show. “Thanks,” you say simply.

“Well, don’t get used to it,” she shoots back. There is kindness she tries to hide, though it’s written all over her expression.

She settles onto the old medical bench, pulling out boxes of food from the bag. You wince internally at the sight, thinking about the number of people who’ve bled, puked, and worse on that very bench. Just hours ago, Vi had been sitting there herself, nose snapped out of place, grinning through bloody teeth and swollen lips and teary eyes. Now, she’s perched there like it’s nothing, tearing into her meal with that same reckless ease she carries into every fight.

“Is this where I’m supposed to remind you how unsanitary this is?”

She shrugs mid-bite, unbothered.

You don’t bother arguing. Instead, you take the box she pushes toward you and settle in. The two of you eat in silence.

The days begin to blur into one another as Vi’s visits grow more casual. At first, you barely tolerated her—a pit fighter like so many others, bruised and bloody and reckless, shuffling into your medic room with the same bravado they all wore like armour. But somewhere along the way, you start to realize you actually don’t hate her company.

And as Vi continues her rise with pit fighting, you realize you also like to take care of her afterwards, even if it is your job or not. Each fight ends quicker than the last, her victories coming faster and fiercer. With every knockout, her confidence blooms—bold, intoxicating.

You’ve always been able to tell why people fight. Some thrive on the violence, seeking it out like a drug, their eyes lit with a manic fire that never seems to dim. Others do it out of desperation: to keep a roof overhead, food on the table, some semblance of stability in their lives.

At first, you were certain Vi belonged in the first category. The way she took punches, how she barely flinched when you patched her up—she didn’t just endure the pain. She absorbed it. Relished it. She wore her scars like trophies, and it almost seemed like she was chasing something more with every bruise and break.

But then you started noticing other things. How her clothes, once old and frayed, began to look newer. The leather jacket she bought just last week, the new earrings glinting against her skin, the sturdy boots she’s traded her worn ones for. Loris mentioned she moved out of his apartment recently and got her own place, though most of her money seemed to go toward booze.

You realize that fighting for Vi isn’t just about survival or enjoyment. It’s an outlet—a way to lose herself in the chaos and the violence, to drown out whatever it is she doesn’t want to face.

One night, you do something you’ve never done before: you buy a ticket to one of her fights. You’ve seen enough carnage in the medic’s room to last a lifetime, but something about Vi pulls you in, like gravity. The crowd is as raucous as ever—cheers, boos, the metallic clang of Antis’s bell marking the start and end of each match. You don’t join in the noise. You just watch, feeling out of place among the spectators who are here for the bloodlust.

And then Vi steps into the ring.

It’s the first time you’ve seen her fight, and it’s nothing like you imagined. You’d seen the aftermath—the blood, the bruises, the broken bones—but witnessing her in action is something else entirely. She’s skilled, fast, brutally efficient, her punches calculated yet devastating.

The man she’s up against is nearly twice her size, but it doesn’t matter. She ducks under his swing with ease, her fist connecting with his jaw in a single, bone-crunching motion that sends him sprawling. The fight is over in less than a minute, and the crowd roars its approval.

Your eyes linger on her, unable to look away. Her back is to you, sweat gleaming on her exposed skin, highlighting the intricate tattoo that snakes across her shoulders. When she turns, she seems to know exactly where you are, her gaze locking onto yours even in the chaos of the crowd.

Your breath catches. The rise and fall of her chest, the bead of sweat tracing down her neck, the raw, undeniable power in her every movement—it’s overwhelming.

Something stirs deep inside you, hot and wanting.

You leave before her second fight starts, slipping through the crowd and into the tunnels. The line waiting for you in the medic room feels endless, yet the blur of bruised faces and bloody wounds can’t distract you. Vi’s image lingers—sweat on her skin, her breath heavy after the fight, and the way her eyes found yours in the crowd.

You never bring it up, and Vi doesn’t either.

But something changes.

That night, as you treat her wounds again, it feels different. She’s quieter than usual, her usual cocky smile missing. You notice how her eyes linger on your hands as you work, following the glide of your fingers over her skin.

Your gloves feel thinner tonight, or maybe it’s just your imagination. You’re hyperaware of every small movement—how her skin feels warm under your touch, the sharp contrast of the calluses on her knuckles against your palm when you steady her hand to examine it.

She doesn’t flinch when you press a damp cloth to the gash on her temple. Normally, she’d tease you, mutter something about your bedside manner, or complain about the sting even though the both of you know she can take it. Instead, she just watches you, her gaze unwavering.

It’s almost unbearable.

Sweat, blood, and alcohol. That is what she smells like. Thick and hanging on your tongue like smog.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you finally say, your voice softer than you intended.

Vi’s lips quirk, but it’s a faint ghost of her usual grin. “Just tired, I guess.”

It’s a lie, and you both know it.

You focus on cleaning the cut, trying to steady your hand. But her closeness throws you off. She’s sitting on the edge of the cot, her knees brushing against your thighs whenever she shifts. The room feels smaller.

“Almost done,” you murmur, though it feels like you’re saying it more to yourself than her.

Vi tilts her head slightly, giving you better access, and the movement draws your attention to the curve of her jaw. There’s a bead of sweat lingering there, catching the dim light, and you have to force yourself to look away.

“Take your time,” she says.

Your fingers pause for just a second before you continue cleaning the wound. Her words hang in the air, charged and heavy, and you wonder if she knows how they’ve started to affect you. You reach for the bandages, your hands brushing against her skin again. Her breath hitches—just barely—but it’s enough for you to notice.

“There,” you say, pulling back slightly. “Done.”

But your hands linger for a moment too long, your fingers still ghosting over her cheek. You’re not sure if it’s you or her that doesn’t pull away first.

Vi’s eyes are on you again, darker now, and the air between you crackles with something unspoken. You don’t know if it’s the proximity, the adrenaline still lingering from her fight, or the way her lips part slightly like she’s about to say something—but you can’t take it anymore.

“I should clean up,” you say abruptly, turning away to gather the used bandages and cloths.

For a moment, she doesn’t move, and you think she might say something to stop you. But then you hear the rustle of her leather jacket as she stands, the creak of the cot as her weight leaves it.

“Thanks,” she says.

You glance over your shoulder, just in time to see her slip through the door. She doesn’t look back.

Her visits dwindle after that night. Fewer and fewer until she stops coming altogether. She starts fighting nights back to back, ignoring protocol and refusing to see you after each one.

You try to shake it off.

To ignore it until you can't.

And then you visit her one day.

It’s not in the medic room or the fighting ring. It’s at her door, and it’s jarring, her address scribbled on a small piece of paper that Loris gave you.

You can’t tell if Antis is pushing Vi to fight more or if Vi willingly puts herself through it every day. She is always in rotation, more so than any other fighter. It’s gotten to the point where people are betting on how long Vi could remain undefeated.

You hate how you immediately perk up when her door opens.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, her voice low and guarded.

Her hair is black, dripping wet and staining her pale shoulders with inky streaks. The change startles you, but what’s more disarming is the sight of her like this—stripped-down, raw. Bandages are wrapped haphazardly around her chest, serving as an impromptu shirt. Her arms, usually hidden beneath gauze and gloves, are bare, revealing the countless scars that crisscross her skin. You can kind of see where her tattoos start and end. You think they’re beautiful.

You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Why are you here? For some reason, you hadn’t thought much about it before knocking. Now, standing here in her doorway, it feels like a mistake.

You’re not really friends.

“Uh,” you stammer, fumbling for an answer. Your gaze keeps straying to her hair, the stark black making it look longer, heavier. The pigment stains her hairline, dripping in uneven streaks along her temple. You notice how the damp strands cling to her neck, how the water pools in the hollow of her collarbone. It feels intrusive to look, but you can’t help it.

She’s staring at you, her shock quickly shifting to irritation. “You gonna stand there all day, or what?”

“I—your hair,” you blurt out. “It’s… different.”

She scoffs, brushing past you as if you’re not worth the effort of a proper reply. The door swings open wider, an unspoken invitation—or maybe just a lack of concern if you follow. You hesitate, then step inside.

Her apartment is small and dim, almost claustrophobic. The air is stale and thick with a faint tang of alcohol. The small bed in the corner is unmade, the sheets rumpled and half-pushed onto the floor. A punching bag hangs in the center of the room, its surface worn and cracked from overuse. There’s a stack of clothes shoved into the corner, and a few empty bottles litter the floor near the bed.

But it’s the quiet that hits you the hardest. It’s so different from the loud, chaotic energy she carries at the ring or the silence in the medic room. Here, everything feels muted, almost sad.

“You dye it yourself?” you ask, trying to fill the awkward silence as she settles onto the edge of the bed.

She glances at you, the bottle in her hand tipping slightly. “Yeah.”

“Antis didn’t make you do it?”

Vi snorts a small, humourless sound. “No. He suggested green.”

You try to picture her with green hair and fail. “Why black?”

“Needed a change,” she says simply, taking a swig from the bottle. The way she winces as she swallows tells you it’s not her first drink tonight. “Why are you here?”

The bluntness of the question knocks you off balance. For a moment, you forget. Then the weight of the box in your hands reminds you. “Oh, uh, I brought you some new hand wrappings. I saw them at the store and thought you could use them since yours are... shit. Yours are shit.”

Her eyes snap up to yours, something unreadable flickering in them before she looks away. “Thanks.”

“It’s no problem,” you reply, though your voice feels stiff and awkward. You shift your weight, unsure whether to stay or leave. Her gaze returns to you, steady but unreadable, and you feel the strange urge to say something—something meaningful.

“You... you okay, Vi?” you ask softly, not even sure why the words come out. You immediately want to take it back.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

You look at her, really look at her. Not in the way you do at work, but right now, as a friend(?), guest(?) in her space. The dark circles under her eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the way she grips the bottle of cheap beer as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She looks… tired. Beaten down, in a way you’ve never seen before.

“I don’t know,” you admit, your voice quieter now, careful. “I guess you just… you haven’t come by in a while. It looks like you need a good patch up again, no? Don’t worry, I won’t charge.”

The words sound too casual, too light like you’re trying to make a joke—and you are, but you can see the way her face stiffens after you say it. The faint bruises on her face, the bandages on her arms and hands, they’re a clear sign of how badly she’s been pushing herself—she’s been taking supplies from you without checking in, and you’ve noticed. You know she hasn’t gotten her pay yet. You haven’t had the chance to clear her for it since she stopped coming by after fights. It’s a faint sore spot between you both, an unspoken thing she won’t acknowledge, but you know she’s not getting the care she needs.

For a moment, her face hardens, and you wonder if you’ve crossed a line, if she’s going to snap at you. Instead, she just stares at you, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowing like she’s trying to figure out what your angle is.

You feel her gaze like a weight pressing down on you, making your skin itch.

Then, she exhales slowly, the tension in her posture easing just a fraction.

“I’m fine,” she says finally, though the words lack conviction. She shifts, setting the bottle down on the floor. “You done?”

You’re about to say something else—maybe ask again, maybe push for more—but then you realize it’s not your place. You step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. “Yeah.”

You place the box of hand wraps on the counter, but your hands feel clumsy as you do. You want to say something more, something comforting, but the words stick in your throat. “Good luck tonight, Vi.”

She doesn’t respond right away. You turn to leave, your feet dragging slightly, unsure if you should even be leaving at all. It feels like there’s something more to say.

Just as you reach the door, her voice stops you. It’s softer than you expect, quieter, almost hesitant.

“Thanks.”

As you walk down the hallway, the ache in your chest lingers, a nebulous knot of worry, pity, and something else you can’t quite pin down. It tightens with each step, and you wonder, not for the first time, what weight Vi carries with her—and why it feels like it’s starting to settle on you too.

You shake it off, reminding yourself that you're not working this weekend. A rare luxury. Vi doesn’t need to know, and honestly, you doubt she’d even care. If anything, she’d probably be glad to be rid of you for a few more days.

That’s what you tell yourself.

The next time you’re sitting in your cramped little medical room, fussing over how some of the things on your desk are now out of place, the door creaks open just a sliver. You pause, mid-motion, and glance at the shadow shifting on the other side. When whoever it is spots you, the door swings wide with an almost violent energy, smacking against the wall behind it.

“Hey,” Vi stumbles inside, the loud thud of her boots and the echoing cheers from the fighting pit outside spilling into the room with her.

You stand abruptly, the chair scraping back against the floor as you take her in. “Vi?”

It takes you a second to recognize her. The black hair throws you off again, though the pink is already creeping back into the ends, the dye washing out like it’s given up trying to keep up with her. Paint smears her face—thick streaks running from her eyes down to her chin like some warped battle mask. She’s gripping a large bottle in one hand, cradling it as if it’s precious, her knuckles stained red.

Her smirk is crooked, her words slurred. “Won’t believe it,” she drawls, letting herself fall unceremoniously onto the old, battered couch in the corner. The springs squeak loudly in protest, and she almost knocks over one of your carefully hung paintings. “Hey.”

You frown, stepping closer. “Are you drunk?”

Her smirk widens, playful and defiant. “No.”

“No?”

“I just won,” she says, like that explains everything. “Again. Beat that big guy—metal jaw. You know the one. Knocked it clean off.”

She’s grinning like she just told a funny joke, but you don’t laugh. Fighters don’t go into the pit drunk, at least not that you’ve ever seen. They also don’t win, which is why Antis is strict about that; drunk fighters are bad fighters, and bad don’t bring in any money—he’ll kick anyone out who even smells like shimmer, let alone someone stumbling around with a bottle of booze.

You move closer cautiously, studying her.

She sits up straighter as you approach, her hair falling messily across her face. You catch a glint of her blue eyes through the strands—sharp, even with the haze of alcohol dulling the rest of her. Her gaze flickers down to her bloodied knuckles, and so does yours—red seeps through the white of her hand wraps, staining them in uneven patches.

She murmurs something, but it’s too soft to catch.

“What?”

“You weren’t here.”

Her words surprise you.

“Yeah,” you say, unsure how else to respond.

“Four days.”

“I know.”

“Why not?”

You hesitate, caught between wanting to downplay your absence and knowing she’ll see through it. “I’ve been busy. I have a life outside this place, you know that, right?”

“Right,” she mutters, though there’s something bitter in the way she says it.

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her fingers gripping the bottle loosely. She stares ahead, her face unreadable, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly quiet despite the muffled roar of the crowd outside. You’re counting the seconds until someone from the pit shows up looking worse for wear, but she just sits there, unmoving.

Finally, she speaks. “Loris and I are going out for drinks at the bar next door.”

“More of them?”

She scoffs, but there’s a faint smile playing on her lips. “Fuck off. I was gonna invite you.”

“You want me there?”

“Sure,” she shrugs, leaning back against the couch. “Since you and Loris are so close.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a plastic bag and filling it with ice. “Oh, yeah. Best friends. I thought you knew.”

She grins at that, her expression lazy but amused as you press the makeshift ice pack to her cheek. She winces, hissing under her breath, but doesn’t pull away. The familiarity of the moment settles between you, a rhythm you hadn’t realized you missed. You didn’t know how much you liked being around her, with all her flaws and quirks, until it was gone.

When she stands to leave, there’s a lightness to her movements. She pauses at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.

“But you’re coming, right?” she asks, her voice softer, less guarded.

You nod, tugging absently at the rings on your fingers. “Yeah. I’ll stop by after I finish up here.”

Her smile catches you off guard. It’s not the smirk or grin you’re used to—it’s warmer, something you’ve never seen before. “Good.”

And then she’s gone, leaving you alone in the stillness of the room. The ache in your chest hasn’t gone away, but it feels different now, lighter somehow, settling into the pit of your stomach like a flutter of butterflies.

You can’t wipe the smile off your face even if you tried.

Your night stretches on, each task blending into the next. Stitches to pull, bruises to ice, concussions to monitor. This is your rhythm—calm, focused, efficient. You don’t dwell on the blood staining your gloves or the bruised faces looking back at you. Usually, there’s a detachment, a quiet understanding between you and the fighters. You help them, and they leave.

But tonight feels different. The weight of the work presses a little heavier, the hours crawling by as the thought of Vi’s smile keeps replaying in your head. You remind yourself to focus, to get through the line of battered fighters who rely on you, but every second drags, making your usual rhythm feel offbeat.

It’s not just Vi’s smile—it’s the invitation, her softer tone, the way she paused at the door like your answer mattered more than usual. You don’t let yourself overthink it, but you do catch yourself checking the time more often than you’d like.

When the last fighter leaves, mumbling a tired thank-you, you exhale in relief. The medic room is quiet now, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. You pack your supplies, stuffing gloves, gauze, and a few stray pins into your cabinets. The bathroom across the hall catches your eye as you pass, and for once, you pause.

The bathroom is dimly lit, the bulb above buzzing faintly as it flickers. The mirror is cracked in one corner, the surface smudged and grimy, but it still reflects more of you than you’re ready to see. Your sleeves are stained, and your hands are scrubbed raw but not clean enough. The uneven greenish light only makes you look worse, casting harsh shadows on your face.

You roll your sleeves up and run water into the sink, trying to scrub the splotches from your clothes. The water’s cold and your hands ache from the effort, but it feels worth it—like a small chance to put your best self forward. You straighten your shirt, brush off your jacket, and fix your hair as best as you can.

It’s not enough.

It’ll never be enough for a bar full of fighters, let alone for her. You think about going home to change, but it’s already late, and the idea of missing her is ridiculously unbearable.

Clutching your jacket tightly, you step into the downpour outside. The rain pelts against your skin, soaking through your boots as you jog the few steps to the bar. The hum of voices reaches you before the neon glow of the sign above the door does.

Inside, the place is alive.

Most of the crowd from the arena spills into the corners of the bar, still riding the high of the night’s fights. Tables are crammed with victorious fighters and their friends and sponsors, their voices rising above the heavy bassline of a song playing in the background. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, beer, and the faint tang of spilled liquor.

The dim lighting casts a warm, golden hue over the room, softening the rough edges of the crowd. People laugh, shout, and toast to victories. Some are already slumped over the bar, lost in exhaustion or celebration.

Your eyes scan the room, searching for her. Instead, you spot Loris first—his brick-like frame standing out even among the chaos. He’s leaning casually against the bar, arms crossed, but his face lights up when he sees you.

He waves you over, and you weave through the crowd, dodging dancing bodies and familiar faces who call out greetings as you pass. Your heart beats faster, a mix of nerves and anticipation, as you approach.

“You made it,” Loris says, his grin wide and genuine.

You huff, brushing a damp strand of hair out of your face, but you can’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Hi.”

Loris gives you a nod, his usual gruffness softened just a bit for you. He calls the bartender over, jerking his chin toward you to signal it’s your turn to order.

You glance at the menu briefly, though you already know what you want. After placing your order, the two of you settle into a quiet rhythm. Loris doesn’t seem like the type to fill silence for the sake of it, and you don’t mind. There’s a strange comfort in his presence.

You find yourself scanning the crowd without thinking, your eyes searching for pink hair at first, a flash of brightness that would stand out even in a place like this. Then you remember her hair is black now. Your eyes adjust, searching instead for the sleek leather of her jacket or the familiar glint of its spikes catching the dim, shifting light.

The bartender sets your drink down in front of you with a solid thud, breaking your focus. Your heart skips a beat, and you reach for the glass more out of reflex than thirst. The cool edge of it presses against your palm, grounding you.

“Happy you’re here.”

Loris’s voice cuts through the noise, low but steady. You look up at him, caught off guard. His eyes remain fixed on his drink, but there’s a weight to his words that makes your chest tighten.

“Maybe it’ll keep Vi from doing something stupid,” he adds after a beat, his tone rough but not unkind.

Your eyebrows knit together as you bring your glass to your lips. The liquor burns on the way down, but it’s nothing compared to the unease settling in your stomach. “What do you mean?”

Loris hesitates, his fingers drumming against the counter as he considers his words. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter, almost reluctant. “She gets into fights sometimes.”

Your stomach sinks further. “Here?”

“Only happened twice,” he says quickly like it’s supposed to make you feel better.

“Oh.” You set your drink down, your fingers lingering on the glass. “Why?”

Loris exhales through his nose, his shoulders shifting as if the question itself is a burden. “Dunno. She won’t talk about it.”

You blink, caught off guard. “She doesn’t seem…” You trail off, unsure how to finish that sentence.

“Like a drunk?” he finishes for you. “She’s good at hiding it, most of the time. But she’s been drinking more. Gets worse when she’s stressed.”

You bite your lip, your fingers tightening around your glass. “Stressed about what? Fighting?”

He shakes his head, never answering. “She’s stubborn as shit, you know that. But something’s been eating at her, and I don’t think she knows how to deal with it.”

The words hang between you as the clamour of the bar continues around you. You glance down at your drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light, and take another sip. It doesn’t burn as much this time, but it doesn’t settle the knot in your stomach, either.

“I can keep an eye on her,” you say quietly, more to yourself than Loris. “She’s not supposed to be in the pit intoxicated anyway.”

He nods, a faint hint of gratitude flickering in his eyes. “She’s lucky to have you.”

The comment catches you off guard, and you look at him sharply, but he’s already turning back to his drink. You swallow, your cheeks warming for reasons that have nothing to do with the alcohol.

You look away.

And then you spot her.

Vi pushes her way through the crowd, a storm parting the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Her scowl deepens as she brushes off someone’s outstretched hand, her movements sharp, purposeful. The smudged paint on her cheeks—likely streaked from the rain—gives her the appearance of someone worn down by more than just the weather. Faint lines trace across her face like tears.

Your eyes trail to her arms, bare and flexing slightly as she adjusts the leather jacket slung over her shoulder. The spikes catch the dim, flashing lights of the bar, their edges softened by the haze of the room. In her other hand, she grips a glass of something amber and strong.

Your heart jumps, and you realize you’ve been staring when her gaze lifts to you. For a moment, she pauses in her tracks and just looks at you, her eyes scanning your face as if confirming you’re really here. Then, she grins—a slow, crooked thing that tugs at her lips and sends your pulse hammering in your chest.

The smile is lazy but unmistakably pleased.

She changes course, heading straight for you.

She doesn’t look drunk—not like before—but the memory of her swaying slightly in your medic room comes rushing back. You don’t miss the way her drink is already nearly empty, or how smoothly she downs the last of it before setting the glass on the bar with a clink.

When she reaches you, the faint scent of rain and leather clings to her, mingling with the sharper tang of alcohol.

“Hey,” Vi says, your name rolling off her tongue in that low, slightly rough voice of hers, and she leans against the counter next to you.

“Hey,” you grin, trying to keep your voice light even as your pulse races and Loris laughs at you. “You seem surprised to see me.”

“Not surprised,” she replies quickly, her eyes flicking to yours and then away, her smirk faltering for just a second. “Just… glad.”

The simplicity of her words sends your thoughts scattering, but before you can respond, she tilts her head toward your glass. “What’re you drinking?”

You lift it slightly, letting the dim light catch the remaining liquid. Vi eyes it for a moment, nodding in approval. “Good choice. Finish it.”

You blink, “What?”

She nudges your elbow lightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Come on. You’re here to have fun, right? Finish your drink, and I’ll show you what that looks like.”

Her tone is playful, almost teasing, but there’s an edge of sincerity beneath it. You hesitate, then take a longer sip, her expectant gaze making it impossible not to comply. The drink burns a little less this time, and when you place the empty glass down, she’s already holding out her hand.

“Come with me,” she says, and it’s not really a question.

Her fingers are warm when they curl around yours, her grip firm and steady as she leads you toward the heart of the bar. The crowd thickens as you move closer to the dance floor, the music pounding louder with every step. The bass thrums through the floor, climbing up your legs and settling in your chest, and the swirl of bodies around you becomes a blur of movement and heat.

Vi doesn’t let go of your hand, even as she turns back to glance at you, a faint smile pulling at her lips. For the first time in a while, there’s a lightness in her expression, a spark of something you’ve missed seeing.

Her usual confidence is there, but it’s softened, almost shy. You follow her lead, feeling awkward at first, but her laugh—low and husky—eases some of your nerves.

The two of you move together amidst the shifting pulse of the dance floor, the heat of the crowd wrapping around you like a living thing. You’re acutely aware of every brush of her fingers against yours, the subtle way her body angles toward you as if she’s drawn to your orbit.

You’re staring at her, looking at the few freckles on her cheeks you can still see under the smudged paint, at the pink ends of her dark hair, at the way her leather jacket has found itself back on her shoulders, muscular arms hiding inside the sleeves.

You think you’re a little obsessed with her.

The question forms on your lips before you can stop it. “Why did you stop coming by?”

Your voice is soft, barely carrying over the music, but it’s enough. Her gaze sharpens as she hears you, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face.

“I like taking care of you, Vi.”

For a moment, she freezes. Then, almost imperceptibly, she steps closer. Her hand slides to your waist, the calluses on her fingers warm against the thin fabric of your clothes. She doesn’t answer—not with words. Instead, she tilts her head slightly, her thumb brushing against your jaw, coaxing you to look at her.

Her eyes search yours, hesitating just long enough for you to realize what’s about to happen. Her breath, warm and faintly tinged with alcohol, fans across your lips, and a shiver runs down your spine.

And then she kisses you.

It’s quick at first, almost testing the waters—a soft brush of her lips against yours that leaves your breath caught somewhere between your heart and throat.

You pull away from her, face burning, when you notice her eyes are still closed, only to flutter open questioningly. Bright, piercing blue meets yours, and for a moment, you see panic flare in her expression.

“Fuck,” she mutters, running a hand through her rain-damp hair. “Fuck, I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” The word comes out instinctively, you cannot get rid of that stupid smile on your face. “No, don’t apologize.”

Your fingers find their way to the lapels of her jacket. Her face scrunches up, caught somewhere between hope and disbelief, but you’re not looking at her eyes anymore. You’re focused on her lips, on the faint scar cutting across the corner of her mouth.

You tug her closer.

You kiss her back.

She exhales sharply against your lips, the sound half a gasp, half a groan, as her hands come up to cradle your face and the nape of your neck. It’s as if something inside her has snapped, all her restraint slipping away as she pours herself into you.

The world around you dissolves—the music, the crowd, the cacophony of Zaun’s nightlife fading into a muted hum. It’s just her, her warmth and her touch, her breath mingling with yours as she holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring her to the moment.

Her lips move against yours with a fervour that borders on desperation, her hands mapping out the curve of your waist, the small of your back, your hips, and your ass with her eyes closed. She’s eager to have you close, to feel you.

You respond in kind, your hands sliding up her abs, your fingers tangling in her hair, tugging slightly as her groan vibrates against your mouth.

The sound she emits makes your head spin. Vi’s warmth is all-consuming. A tangle of heat and want that leaves you both breathless by the time she finally pulls back, her forehead resting against yours.

“I need to—” she starts, her voice hoarse and trembling. She glances around, as if suddenly aware of where you are. “Let’s go somewhere. Outside.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, her hand finding yours again as she guides you through the crowd. You barely register the shift in the air until you’re stepping into the rain-soaked streets of Zaun.

The alley she leads you into is dimly lit, the flicker of a neon sign casting faint, wavering light against the wet pavement. The rain is light but steady, cool droplets clinging to your skin as she turns to you, her chest rising and falling like she’s been running.

Her gaze is intense, unwavering, as she steps closer, crowding you against the brick wall. “You’re making me crazy,” she murmurs, her voice low and rough. Her hand cups your jaw, her thumb tracing a slow, deliberate path along your cheekbone.

“I could say the same,” you admit.

And then she’s kissing you again, this time with a fervour that leaves no room for hesitation.

It’s embarrassing how fast you tangle together after this, melding together into a pathetic heap out on the sidewalk for god and everyone in this podunk city to see. This time, you note with a ticklish glee settling in your stomach, your lips moving in tandem. They slit against each other with ease.

The rain seeps into your clothes, cold against your skin, but Vi’s touch is fire. Her hands are everywhere, rough and sure as they explore your body, pulling you closer, as if afraid you’ll slip away.

You thread your fingers through her hair, pulling her to you, matching her passion with your own softness. She groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and you take the opportunity to deepen the kiss, your tongue brushing against hers in a slow, deliberate caress.

Her grip tightens on your hips, fingers digging into damp fabric as she presses you harder against the wall. The rain patters around you, mingling with the sound of your ragged breaths, the occasional distant noise of the bar fading into irrelevance. She parts your thighs with one of her own and places a steadying hand right next to your face. She takes you in, wholly and completely and you let her. 

The rain beats down relentlessly, plastering your clothes to your skin, but you barely notice it. Not when Vi is kissing you like this—like she’s trying to consume you like she’s been starving for this. Her body is warm, her lips are hot, insistent, and messy against yours, her teeth occasionally graze your lower lip in a way that sends shocks through your entire body.

Breathy moans expel from your mouth in tandem with curses as her leg creates delicious friction against the lace of your underwear. 

“Vi,” you manage, though it comes out as more of a broken whine, breathless and desperate.

Her name on your lips pulls a moan from her, low and guttural, and the sound is enough to make your knees weaken. You think you might collapse if she weren’t holding you so tightly.

Your head spins. You feel like you’re dissolving, every nerve alight as you lose yourself in her touch. Your lungs burn, screaming for air, but you can’t pull away. You don’t want to. Instead, you cling to her, fingers tugging in her hair.

It’s overwhelming—her heat, her strength, her desperation. She’s chaos and want, all Violet and nothing else, and you’re caught in her pull, like a leaf tossed about in a gale. It terrifies you, the way she consumes your thoughts, your senses. It feels like being set aflame, every kiss, every touch fanning the fire until you’re sure you’ll burn to ashes.

Her hands slide lower, shoving into the back pockets of your pants, and she grips you firmly, guiding your hips to rock against her. The movement is deliberate, slow at first, but the friction makes you whimper, a sound that seems to drive her further. Vi pulls you closer, dragging your body against hers in a way that makes you shudder.

Your breaths come in sharp, uneven gasps, each one punctuated by her low moans. You don’t think you’ve ever felt like this—untethered, your body moving on instinct as you grind down against her leg. Her hold on you tightens, fingers digging into you, her strength reminds you of all the noses she’s broken, all the wounds you had to tend to because of her. The thought makes you dizzy, makes you crave her more.

Vi’s hips roll up into you, meeting your movements with a messy rhythm that leaves you trembling. The heat pooling in your stomach builds steadily, like a fire that refuses to be sated, even under the torrent of rain.

You let your hands wander, sliding up the hard planes of her stomach, your fingers tracing the ridges of muscle through her soaked bandages. You’re struck by how solid she feels, how strong, and it makes your chest tighten with something you can’t quite name. When your palm presses lower, cupping her over her pants, she keens—a quiet, needy sound that has you aching to hear it again.

Oh, you want her to do that again, you’re going to make her do that again.

Her grip on your hips becomes almost bruising, her breath coming faster as she sighs into your mouth. “Fuck,” she mutters, the word a rough exhale that sends a shiver down your spine. And then, barely audible, she mumbles, “Cait.”

You falter, the word barely registering over the storm and your own pounding heartbeat. It’s unfamiliar and foreign, and it sticks in your mind like a splinter.

Her lips are on yours again, insistent and wild, her teeth catching your bottom lip as her hands slide up under your shirt. Her fingertips are warm despite the rain, leaving trails of fire along your skin as she pushes the wet fabric higher. You shudder under her touch, goosebumps rising in her wake, your body arching instinctively toward her.

Your mind is a tangle of emotions and half-formed thoughts. You’re hyper-aware of everything—of the rain soaking through your clothes, the way her breath mingles with yours, the quiet groans she can’t seem to hold back.

She moves with purpose, her lips finding the sensitive skin along your jaw, then lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. Each touch sends a fresh wave of heat through you, making it harder to think, to breathe.

Your fingers are clumsily slipping into her underwear and then you’re there, fingers brushing right against her clit—she’s so wet that your fingers brush right through her folds, gliding like silk.

“Vi,” you whisper again.

Her answering hum vibrates against your skin, and she pulls back just enough to meet your gaze. Her eyes are half-lidded, the blue of them dark and turbulent, like the sea during a storm.

You lean in, pressing your lips to the sensitive spot just below her jaw. It’s a place you know well, one you’ve touched countless times in the dim light of your medic’s room, dabbing at bruises and wiping away blood. Each time, she’d jerk away ever so slightly. Now, you press your lips there with the same precision, but the sense is wholly different.

She shifts beneath your touch, her breath hitching as your mouth moves deliberately along her neck. The breathy moans she leaves by your ear fuel you, spurring you on as you focus on the rhythm of her breathing, the way her body responds to you.

“Good,” she mutters, her voice rough and uneven. “Fuck, feels so good.”

Her hand moves beneath your shirt, her palm rough and calloused against the softness of your skin, digging under your bra. She cups your breast, her thumb brushing over your nipple, and the sensation sends a jolt through you, sharp and electric. Her other hand tangles in your hair, tugging just hard enough to make your scalp tingle.

It aches, but you’re smiling, even as the rain continues to pour, soaking through your clothes and plastering your hair to your face. You sneak a glance at her, and the sight nearly undoes you. Her eyes are squeezed shut, her dark lashes clumped together with rain and dark, smudged makeup against pale, bruised skin. Her lips are parted, searching for something—your lips, your skin, something to kiss.

You don’t make her wait. She bites at your neck, teeth grazing your skin, and you gasp, your hand instinctively moving to her hair. You tug, and the sound she makes—a guttural, desperate moan—sends heat pooling low in your stomach.

She mutters your name, her voice soft yet filled with a hunger that shakes you to your core. There’s a plea disguised in her tone, a silent plea to give her everything, to let her take all you have to offer.

And you will. You’ll give her everything. Your time, your care, your thoughts and prayers, every piece of yourself. Your leg, an arm, the air you breathe, and the food you make. You’d give her your heart, too, if only she’d take it.

Her body trembles against yours, her chest heaving as her breath comes in sharp, shallow bursts. You can’t tell if it’s from the cold rain seeping into your bones or from the way your fingers move against her. You trace light circles over her clit, teasing, testing, and the way she reacts—hips jerking, her hands clutching at you desperately—you think she wants your warmth, and you hope that is what she chases after.

When you slip a finger inside, she gasps, her voice breaking into soft, fractured sounds that make your chest ache. It takes a few tries, careful adjustments to find the spot that makes her fall apart, but when you do, it’s like a floodgate opens. Her moans grow louder, more desperate, her body tensing beneath your touch as she winds tighter, tighter—

“Cait…” The same name from before slips from her lips like a whisper at first, so faint you almost miss it.

Then she says it again, her voice catching on the syllable, and your world tilts.

“Cait… Cait…” she chants, the name tumbling from her lips in fervent prayer, each utterance cutting through the haze that had clouded your mind.

It tastes bitter. Bitter like the alcohol still lingering on her breath. Bitter like the realization sinking into your chest.

You freeze, suddenly sober.

Your hands falter, and Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first, still panting, still trembling, her forehead pressed against yours. The furrow in her brow deepens when you pull back, untangling yourself from her arms.

“What—? Why’d you stop?” Her voice is hoarse and confused, the desperation still thick in her tone.

“Who’s Cait?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them.

“What?”

Vi blinks, her face a mask of confusion before her expression shifts. Guilt flashes in her eyes—raw and unguarded. It’s a look you’ve seen before, maybe once or twice.

“You keep calling me ‘Cait.’” You can’t meet her gaze as you say it. Your chest tightens, your throat burns, and suddenly, the space between the two of you feels suffocating.

You reach for her hand still under your shirt, running your thumb over her split knuckles. It’s a gesture that feels too tender now, and you pull her hand away from you, stepping aside to put distance between your bodies.

“I don’t know…” Your voice cracks as you say it, your mind grasping for anything to make sense of this moment.

“Shit. Shit.” Vi curses under her breath, running a hand through her wet hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—Cait’s just… someone I used to know, alright?”

The rain pours harder, the chill sinking into your bones as you cross your arms tightly against your chest. You glance down the alley, to where the streetlights cast faint glows on the wet pavement. Anywhere but her face.

“Um… I think I need to go,” you mumble.

“You just got here.” Her voice is low and unsure, and it makes you stutter for a moment. She takes a step toward you, one hand lifting as though to touch you, but she freezes mid-motion, her fingers curling into a fist.

“I know.” You force the words out. “But it’s been a long day.” You take a step back, and then another.

“Please.” Her voice cracks on the word. “Don’t leave.”

You pause, your breath hitching at the desperation in her tone. It tugs at something in your chest, something that still wants to turn around, to reach for her and say everything is fine. But it’s not fine. Not anymore.

“Vi…” Her name feels raw on your tongue. “You’re drunk. I shouldn’t have… I’m sorry.”

“No.” She cuts you off, the panic in her voice sharp enough to pierce through the rain. “No, don’t say that. I’m not drunk—”

“You are.”

Her words are rushed, and frantic, like she’s trying to convince herself as much as you. You shake your head, stepping back again, the cold of the brick wall scraping against your palm as you steady yourself.

“You’re clearly not in the right state of mind right now,” you say, your tone firmer this time. It feels like a lie, like a mask you’re slipping on to hide the crack forming in your resolve. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Just… rest easy. You fight early tomorrow.”

She exhales sharply, a sound halfway between a sob and a growl, her hands clenching at her sides. “Fuck. Fuck!” The frustration explodes out of her as her fist slams into the brick wall beside her, the dull thud reverberating in the air.

The sound makes you flinch, your shoulders stiffening as you start walking away. Her voice chases after you, raw and broken, but you can’t bring yourself to turn back.

Your lips burn where her mouth had been, a phantom heat that refuses to fade despite the freezing rain. You wipe your hands against the damp fabric of your pants, but the scent of her lingers—smoke, leather, and something wholly hers. It clings to you like a ghost.

The sunlight catches you off guard the next morning. It filters in through the grimy window of the medic room, cutting golden beams through the usual haze of smog. The light feels almost intrusive, prying into the shadows you’ve grown accustomed to.

You glance at the old clock on the wall, your eyes heavy from lack of sleep. Last night replays in your mind like a broken record—Vi’s voice, raw and regretful, the taste of her still lingering on your lips, and that name, Cait, slipping like a shard of glass between your ribs.

Outside, the faint hum of Zaun waking up filters through the walls. Fighters pass by the door, their voices carrying muffled excitement or hushed murmurs about Vi’s loss.

“She’s never been this off her game,” someone says as they pass. “Wonder what’s eating her.”

You tighten your grip on the bandage roll in your hand, trying to ignore the way your stomach clenches.

The sunlight persists, illuminating every imperfection in the room—the cracks in the walls, the scuff marks on the floor, the faint stains on the counter. It’s the first time you’ve seen this much light down here, and yet it only seems to highlight everything you want to forget.

You try to focus on your work, lining up supplies that don’t need organizing, folding bandages that don’t need folding. You think about how Vi’s presence, chaotic as it was, had somehow made this job bearable. Her grins, her dry wit, the way she sat in that chair like it was her throne—it had all made this dim room feel a little less oppressive.

But today, the chair stays empty.

Word of her loss had swept through the Pit hours ago. Even the ones who bet against her—out of spite or fear—seemed shocked. You’d caught snippets of conversations, whispers about how Vi had gone down hard, how her opponent’s hit had landed with a sickening crack that echoed through the arena.

Ryker confirmed the details when he came in, his voice low as he described the sound her body made hitting the floor. The image had stuck with you, sharp and unrelenting, as you waited.

You expected her to show up the way she always did—bleeding but defiant, swaggering in with that cocky grin, already downplaying her injuries. But as the hours stretched into evening, the worry settled deeper.

Maybe she’d gone straight to the bar again, skipping protocol out of spite. You wanted to believe it, even if it wasn’t fair. If anyone had the right to be upset, it should be you.

You paced the cramped room, the sound of your boots scraping against the floor the only thing keeping you grounded. You told yourself you didn’t care—it wasn’t your job to chase after fighters who wouldn’t take care of themselves. But deep down, it stung.

The thought of her turning back to old habits—of her brushing you aside like you never mattered—settled in your chest like a bruise you couldn’t rub out.

And then the door creaks open.

Vi steps inside, her silhouette framed by the soft, golden light spilling through the window behind her. She hesitates in the doorway, a shadow of her usual self. Her confident swagger is gone, replaced by a tired, battered figure. The black paint streaked across her shoulders has smeared into her skin, blending with dried blood and sweat. Her leather jacket hangs heavily from her hands, and her makeshift top is damp, torn in places, and caked with dirt.

Her face tells the rest of the story. A swollen eye, a nose bent at an angle that makes you wince just looking at it, and a constellation of bruises across her cheekbone and jaw. Blood has dried in crusty patches along her hairline and temples, merging with the remnants of the black paint she hadn’t bothered to wash off.

She lingers there, gripping the edges of the doorframe like she’s bracing herself for rejection. You’re about to speak when her gaze finds yours, cutting through the silence like a knife.

“Hey,” she says, her voice scratchy and low.

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, willing your tone to stay steady. “Took you long enough,” you say lightly, turning toward the counter to grab the salve and bandages.

When you glance back, the ghost of a smirk flickers on her lips, but it vanishes just as quickly. She steps further inside, lowering herself into the chair with a muted groan. There’s no quip this time, no offhand joke. She just sits there, shoulders sagging, staring at her bloodied hands like they belong to someone else.

You pull on your gloves, the snap of latex breaking the silence. “What happened?”

Her shrug is stiff, “Guess I wasn’t fast enough.”

There’s an edge to her voice, sharp and bitter. It’s self-directed, steeped in frustration, and it takes you by surprise. You soak a cloth in antiseptic and step closer, gently dabbing at a jagged cut above her eyebrow. She flinches but doesn’t pull away.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” you ask, your tone soft but firm.

Her jaw tightens, and her hands curl into fists on her lap. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

You pause mid-motion, your hand hovering just above her skin. Her words feel like a slap, and you’re not sure if the sting comes from the accusation. “I still like to take care of you,” you say quietly.

Vi scoffs, the sound is humourless and tired. “That’s your job.”

“Yeah, but,” you counter, meeting her gaze head-on. “I like doing it.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy and unspoken between you. Her shoulders tense as she processes your words, her eyes darting away like she can’t bear to look at you.

You try to focus on cleaning her wounds, “You should’ve come earlier. You shouldn’t do this to yourself.”

“Why not? Seems to be what I’m good at.”

Her words strike a chord, a pang of hurt and anger swirling in your chest. You step back, giving her space as you set the cloth down. The sunlight streaming through the window catches on her hair, painting her in a halo of gold. She looks almost ethereal, and it breaks your heart, because you know she doesn’t see it.

“Vi…” You hesitate, unsure of what to say.

She looks up then, her eye searching your face. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I don’t get it. I’m a jerk, right? Always have been to fucking everyone, even Loris and my sister and I... I mean, I’ve been a dick to you since day one. Why don’t you just… let me fuck myself up?”

“I’ve thought about it,” you admit, a hint of teasing laced in your voice. “But then I’d be a pretty shitty medic, wouldn’t I?”

Her lips twitch upward again, but it doesn’t quite stick. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice so quiet you almost miss it. “For everything.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak.

“I didn’t mean to…” She trails off, her gaze dropping to the floor. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The sincerity in her voice twists the knife deeper, but it doesn’t change the truth. “It’s okay,” you manage.

“No, it’s not.” She finally looks at you, her blue eyes clouded with something you couldn’t quite place. Regret? Shame? “I… You deserve better than that. Better than me.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut. You swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. “You’re being dramatic. I’m fine, really.”

Vi shook her head, leaning back against the chair. “You’re not. You’re just too good to say it.”

Her eyes flick up to meet yours, and for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped spinning. You can see the pain in her expression, the regret and the sorrow, but there’s something else, too—a longing that mirrors your own.

But it’s not enough.

You step back, and the distance between you feels like miles. “You should rest. I gotta fix your nose.”

Vi nods, leaning back in the chair. The sunlight catches on her bruises, highlighting every mark, every scar. She looks like a warrior, battle-worn and beautiful, and you know you’ll never forget this image of her.

As you work in silence, you can’t help but wonder what it would’ve been like if things were different—if whoever Cait was didn’t haunt her, if she could see you the way you see her.

But deep down, you know the answer.

She’ll never be yours.

But you’ll always be hers.

When you finish, Vi hesitates for a moment longer than you expect, her movements slow and deliberate, as though she doesn’t know where to go next or what to do. She stands, and the way her shoulders rise, like she’s summoning what’s left of her strength, makes your heart ache.

“Thanks,” she says.

“Of course. It’s what I’m here for.”

As the words leave you, they feel hollow. You want to reach for more, to say something else, to make her understand. You want to scream, to tell her that you could be enough for her if she’d just let you. You could make her believe that she’s worth more than the pain she’s carrying. But instead, all you do is smile. It’s soft, strained, and bittersweet.

She doesn’t meet your eye as she turns toward the door. You watch her move, each step deliberate, like she’s carrying an invisible weight. For a fleeting moment, it’s as if she’s pulling the room with her, dragging everything back into the shadows.

And then, she’s gone.

The door clicks softly behind her, leaving the room eerily silent. You sit back in your chair, the quiet pressing in around you like a heavy fog. The warmth from the light seems to linger, but it doesn’t reach you anymore.

You sit back in your chair, staring at the empty space. The room feels colder and quieter, and you realize that, no matter how much you wish otherwise, she’ll always carry pieces of someone else with her.

Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal Brokeback Mountain (2005) dir. Ang Lee

Forgot to take my cleratin today /ref

Shadow probably thinks he’s dying lmao

What Do I Do?

Summary: Caitlyn called you…but you weren’t supposed to hear that.

Warnings: toxic situation relationship, alludes to smut (minors fuck off or you will get blocked), don’t know if there’s others. Modern!au, we don’t do that crybaby shit over here

Notes: I wrote this all in one sitting while drinking so if there’s any mistakes or anything, don’t talk about it

WC: 1.0k

You were at home, lounging on the couch with your favorite show playing on the TV. It was a Sunday evening, the sun was just about to set and you had no classes for the day and decided to spend the rare day by yourself.

Realistically, you would rather have one other person with you but she hadn’t responded to you at all since early morning.

Unfortunately, that was pretty common for Caitlyn; she had her phone on either DND or was just busy altogether. It did get on your nerves a lot of the time but Caitlyn always took your mind off of it whenever you two were together; she always gave you her full attention and you never doubted anything when you were with her.

The only thing that irked you about the taller girl was her lack of wanting to further the relationship. Whenever you tried to broach the topic of finally becoming exclusive after almost seven months, Caitlyn brushed you off or completely changed the conversation. Most times it did lead to arguments that led the both of you staying silent for almost a week until she ended up coming back like nothing happened.

You’ll have to force her to have that conversation one day so the weird grey area you were in would finally clear up.

It was only a few minutes later when your phone rang.

Cait 💜

You couldn’t help but smile at the contact name and eagerly answered.

”Hey, Cait. I was just thinking about you—what’s up?”

She didn’t respond.

“Caitlyn? Hello?”

There was a slight rustling sound on the other end. You stayed quiet incase you could hear anything.

After a few seconds of silence, you finally heard a soft voice.

“Fuck…”

You paused, making sure you heard correctly. If you were right, then Caitlyn was enjoying her own solitude in a different way and wanted to tease you into coming over.

But…something seemed off.

You continued to listen, seeing if anything else could be heard. And soon enough, something else came through.

At first, it was Caitlyn. “Oh, f-fuck. Don’t stop.”

Then the next noise made your blood run cold.

“Yeah, feels good doesn't it, cupcake? You gonna cum for me?”

“No fucking way,” you muttered to yourself. The light blanket that was laying on top of you was suddenly thrown off of you as you raced for the closest pair of shoes you could find.

She wouldn’t—Caitlyn wouldn’t do that to you. That wasn’t like her, was it? You weren’t sure if you believed those words, as much as you wanted to. But on the whole drive there, that was the only thing going through your mind.

You soon found yourself standing outside of her door, the spare key that was hidden inside of her outside plant in hand as you hesitated. Your heart was thudding to the point where you were sure it could be heard from other people. You weren’t sure what was waiting for you on the other side of the door but you couldn’t wait a moment longer.

The door carefully swung open; the living room was clear but there was noise that could be heard from down the hall, towards Caitlyn’s room. Your steps were quiet as you walked closer to the cracked open door.

There was a girl with pink hair laying halfway on top of Caitlyn, who was eagerly pulling her closer, giving her almost desperate kisses. Caitlyn, however, seemed to be enjoying it, thanks to the hefty moans that were coming from her. It was the sounds of the door opening further that gained their attention.

Immediately Caitlyn pushed the other girl off of her, resulting in her tumbling to the floor. A head full of pink jumped up while Caitlyn could only look at you with wide eyes.

“Hi?” The girl said, confusion heavy in her voice. “Are you Caitlyn’s roommate? Sorry, we were being too loud?”

She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest that the only thing that was covered of her was the lower half of her body by a pair of boxers. Yet still, your main focus was Caitlyn, whose eyes were quickly flickering between the both of you.

”Roommate, Caitlyn?” You hissed. “Are you serious?”

”So, no to the roommate then?”

”We’re together! So, no. I’m not her roommate.”

She could only blink at you. “I’m…sorry? What?”

“Y/N, what are you doing here?” Was the only thing Caitlyn could say at the moment.

You waved your phone at her, showing the call log you received from her not even an hour ago.

”I wasted seven months on you, Caitlyn.” Your voice was tighter, either from anger or sorrow, you couldn’t tell which one. “Almost an entire year, you were—what, with other people?!”

”Person, one, her,” Caitlyn corrected, reaching for her silk robe that wasn’t far from her. “I’m allowed to see other people seeing how we’re not together.”

”Exclusive or not, loyalty just means shit to you, right?”

You could see Caitlyn roll her eyes. “I don’t owe you loyalty. You’re being overly dramatic on technicalities.”

“Technicalities? What—“

“Wait, wait. You have a girlfriend?” You then remembered the third party that was still in the room; she seemed to have snapped out of the stupor she was in. “What the fuck, Cait—you said you were single!”

”Because I am!” She yelled. Cait then turned to you. “We are not together. I don’t know how many times I have to keep telling you this. We’re nothing!”

You sucked in a harsh breath, refusing to tell the tears that were collecting fall. “You’re right, Caitlyn. We’re not together. We are nothing, and we will continue to be that. Go fuck yourself.”

Caitlyn looked surprised at your words. Out of anything, that was the last thing she suspected from you. As you moved to leave her apartment, you could hear her trying to grab your attention once more before Vi intercepted to yell out her own words.

The strong facade lasted until you got into your car. You just settled down into your seat when the tears finally started falling.

cold nights

husband!arlecchino x wife!reader wlw sfw angst

tw : angst, slight comfort, arle makes reader cry, reader is sad, arle doesnt know what to do, arle is bad at comforting but shes doing her best :(

sorry for being gone for ages, not proofread

arlecchino being a fatui harbinger meant that she would often always come home late after you, her 'dear' wife, had fell asleep. she prioritised work over everything and forget the plans you two would make. she often ends up neglecting you, it had been a while since she actually gave you affection, physically, or any words of affirmation.

more recently, arlecchino had been more distant than ever, you two barely talked or even saw each other. especially since she was always in and out the house and taking on unusual working hours. you knew her work was stressful. you understood that, but she would never take your advice to take breaks. you would usually bicker over these subjects over and over again, constantly.

even when today was your 2 year anniversary, today was no different to any other.

you woke up in the morning, alone as usual. the light rain hitting against the window reflected your state of mind. as your hold on the covers tighten, you just silently really hoped she had stayed in bed for just a while longer. not soon later, you got out of bed, the living room was cold since the heater was broken. you'd have to make a mental note to get it repaired.

knowing it was your 2 year anniversary, you had gone out and spent time to buy her a pretty silver ring and an beautiful boquet of flowers. her favourite of course, lumidouce bells. you had spent the whole day waiting for her to come home from work. you laid out your gifts for her on a table in your shared room, excited for her to come home. perhaps she was going to surprise you by pretending to forget.

but the hours passed.. seconds felt like hours.. before you knew it, it was already midnight, you were still waiting.

an gnawing feeling of disappointment and doubt was clawing at your heart. you had already cried a few times today. suddenly, you receive messages from childe. you were rather close with him. apparently, she had been seen around one of the new recruits around zapolyarny palace alot more recently. he thought it was only right to tell you.

you felt like tearing up all again. thoughts of arlecchino forgetting your 2 year anniversary and having an affair plagued your mind. you start doubting yourself as you look in the mirror. all you see are your puffy eyes and tearstained cheeks, glossy from the moonlight casted upon your shared bedroom.

you take a good look at yourself, wondering if you were ever even good enough for the infamous, unfeeling harbinger. you no longer felt like you were even relevant to her anymore.

arlecchino had already entered your home and walked into your shared room. you didnt even notice her presence especially since you so distraught. the second she walked in arlecchino noticed the gift box and bouquet of flowers.

it wasn't until she noticed then, the realisation had actually set in that it was your anniversary today. the intoxicating smell of lumidouse bells filled the air. she felt her heart heavy with guilt. her chest tighten slightly.

she saw you looking at yourself in the mirror, not noticing her. quietly she walks behind you. as she gets closer to you, she sees your teary eyes. she already knew this was all her fault. she felt remose drown out all her feelings, but she didn't show it, of course.

being too lost in your own thoughts, you didnt notice her until her arms wrapped around your waist. you was hit by the smell of her cologne. you flinched a little after being pulled out of your thoughts. you only just remembered you looked like a mess right now.

"my apologies, my dear.." she whispered lowly to you into your ear as she looks at you through the mirror.

arlecchino was warm. a warmth you hadn't felt for a while. you missed the days where she would cuddle up with you in bed, showering you with words of affirmation and just.. talk again. the thought of it made you tear up once more.

you lowered your head, pulling away from her. arlecchinos eyes narrowed with an hint of sadness. she was pained. you didn't want to be mad at her, but you both knew sorry wouldn't suffice.

"you always forget.." you whispered out. you really hoped your voice wasnt too hoarse for her to notice.

she took your hand, gently pulling you in once more. her eyes peered into yours. she could see the disappointment on your face, the puffy red eyes and your tear stained cheeks up close. she ran a hand through your hair, her gaze narrowing. she really wanted to fix things between you two, but she didn't know how to.

"i really am sorry... i got caught up in work-" she mused before getting cut off by you pulling away again from her touch. her hand that was running through your hair fell by her side immediately again. you denied her touch, she felt something stab her heart in a way she hasn't felt before. she didn't like it.

you didnt want to be angry at her. you was just disappointed that she had forgot about your anniversary. such an important date.. the day you two got married.. she had forgotten like she did all the dates you two would of planned and even adjusted to her schedule. you turned away from her.

"you say that all the time..." you replied quietly after a long pause. your voice was shaky despite how much you tried to stabilise it. you felt your throat closing up. that feeling of despair was bubbling in your stomach. you faced the balcony, away from her with your head hung low. you felt your eyes blur from the tears pooling in your eyes. you were a mess.

guilt consumed arlecchino as she watched you turn away from her, your words like a sharp dagger to her heart. she stepped closer towards you. her blackened hands firmly holding your shoulders in hopes of being able to get her words across to you.

"i mean it. please, look at me." she asked you with an subtle sigh of exhaustion.

you shook your head. you felt tears run down your cheek. you tighten your grip your clothes as your let our a breath you didn't know you was holding. arlecchino's lips pushed together subtly. she wanted to say so much, but she was never good at expressing herself. she didn't want people to know she was weak. especially not to you, she was your husband after all.

"childe told me that you have been around this new recruit for the past few weeks.. are they better than me? is that why you always come home late now?" you murmur, quietly with your voice cracking at the end.

your emotions were running wild all over the place. you were unable to control your feelings of anger and disappointment in her right now. arlecchino's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. her front cracking ever so slightly. you couldn't tell but from the inside she was getting panicky. she knows who your talking about.

unfortunately for arlecchino, she just had to work with this stupid new recruit who wouldn't get off her ass no matter how many times she had told her to. she quickly shook her head after being pulled out her thoughts.

"no. that's not it at all. i promise you." she paused, taking a moment to say the right words.

"yes, i have been working a lot more lately, but its not what you think dear." she felt her heart sink deeper the conversation dragged on.

she really hoped you didn't get the wrong idea. she should of known better. she should of just gotten rid of that shameless recruit when she didn't obey her commands to leave her alone.

your teeth gritted together at her words. it was so stupid. you felt like she was just feeding you lies just for the sake of it. you took a shaky breath.

"don't lie to me! you remembered their birthday yesterday and not our anniversary!" you raised your voice at her in anger as you turned to face her.

you could hear how held back your voice was. you didnt want to shout at her. your teary gaze met her stoic ones.

arlecchino stood there speechless, the realization sinking in. she saw the angered look on your face. she never saw it often and she hated it. her eyebrows furrowed slightly, she had indeed remembered that fatui recruit's birthday but not your anniversary. it was only because the recruit kept nagging arlecchino about it.

she shouldn't of listened to anything an pathetic, low life of an fatui recruit said. seeing you in such pain made her heart ache with guilt. she took a step closer, her expression filled with remorse.

"my dear, i'm so sorry. i didn't mean to forget. i've just been so busy with work. please believe me, it's not about her-"

"i'm sure it is all about her! i know you were out late with her having dinner on her birthday! am i just a backup to you? is that all i am to you!?" you cry out. you felt your chest tighten.

arlecchino's heart clenched at your words. she was practically dragged into having dinner with her, but she had no romantic interest in the recruit. her eyes narrowed in subtle remorse and guilt.

"no, no, no. dear, your not a backup. not at all. your my priority, you know that already.."

she reached out, firmly holding your shoulders before you pushed her hands off you. she was getting more worried now, she didn't know what to do in moments like these.

"dont touch me!" you sobbed out, your voice hoarse.

"if you want to remember everything related to her and nothing about us, then fine! i dont want to see you right now!" you shouted at her. leaving the room, shutting the door with an small bang.

arlecchino took a few steps to go after you before stoping immediately. she nodded with an sigh as she processed your words. she wanted to reach out, to explain, but she knew she had hurt you deeply.

she knew she had did wrong. arlecchino was angry at herself for letting things get this bad. more sadness that she had caused you so much pain. arlecchino knew you preferred time alone to calm down. she knew it was only right to not see each other for now. she had to think of how to make everything all better. she could hear her head berating herself with insults and comments on how bad of an husband she is to you.

time ticked by slowly for arlecchino. the guilt and worry gnawed at her insides as she waited for you to come upstairs. she knew you needed time to cool down, but the silence was deafening. she replayed the argument in her head over and over, regretting every careless mistake she had made. her eyes drifted to the gifts you got her, a fresh bouquet of her favourite flowers and a pretty ring. she gently slide the ring onto her finger.

fuck you had even remembered her ring size.

arlecchino had taken you for granted, neglecting your needs and your relationship. she couldn't believe she let things get this bad. after two long, agonising hours, she couldn't bear it any longer. she walked out of your shared room and slowly made her way downstairs.

arlecchino quietly opened the living room door. she let out a shaky breath, feeling the coldness of the room. her eyes widened slightly as she saw you asleep on the couch, clutching the plushie she had gifted you not long ago in your arms. the room was dark, and she could see the gleam of fresh tears on your cheeks in the moonlight. the sight of you, alone and sleeping in the cold room broke her heart.

once again, she felt guilt rush to her heart, she knew that the heater was broken. arlecchino silently cursed herself for not being able to sustain you with the comfort and warmth you deserved.

arlecchino carefully walked closer to you, her footsteps almost inaudible. her eyebrows furrowed at the sight of your shivering form and the tears rolling down your cheeks, even in your sleep. she could only imagine that your dreams were plagued by negative thoughts, likely centered around her and the argument you two earlier tonight. the despair consumed at her heart, knowing she was responsible for your tears.

gently, she knelt down beside the couch. her hand instinctively reached out to wipe the tears from your cheek, her touch feather-light. she let out a shaky breath, it really was cold here. it was only then she had realised it had been weeks since she had been this close to you. the realization of her neglect only fueled her guilt. she gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face, her fingers lingering on your skin longer than they should of. she felt warmth bubble within her after being away from you for a while.

she really had to make up for everything, tenfold.

arlecchino thought it was only right to start showing she did care. she was never good with her words, just her actions. carefully, she lifted you into her arms. she carried you out of the cold room. her narrowed eyes softened slightly as she looked at your tear-stained face, still asleep from exhaustion.

quietly, she stepped into your shared bedroom and gently laid you down on the soft, warm bed. ensuring not to awake you from your sleep. as she tucked you under the warm covers, her heart swelled with love and guilt. arlecchino wanted to sleep with you. hug you and whisper sweet things into your ears. make it all up to you and take your pain away.

but not just yet. she knew she had no right to be near you just yet, especially not after all the pain she has caused you the past weeks. she had to respect you and give you space, for now. she thought it was only right if she got a taste of her own medicine. to atone to her mistakes.

she left the warm shared bedroom, closing the door with a soft click. arlecchino stood in the hallway for a moment, looking at the closed bedroom door. she took a deep breath, readying herself for the cold night ahead. she slowly walked down the stairs and settled back onto the cold couch in the living room.

she felt sick for leaving you alone so often. the couch was uncomfortable and cold, but she knew the night tonight was not as cold as the nights you had to endure without her.

she would take the week off for you. she will make sure to shower you with love and apologise to you. she will make sure to make up for forgetting the anniversary.

she may not always be the most expressive, but she wants to make sure you know she cares. you were the only spark in her life and she never wanted you to blow out.

she silently promised to show you the love and care you deserved, starting from this moment forward.

tbh i only thought of this bc my radiator was broken 😭

THIS MEANS WAR II

Dick Grayson x Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 4.8k synopsis: Gotham’s youngest neuroscience lecturer never planned to get tangled up with two of its most eligible bachelors. Both are determined to win her over—without revealing they know each other… or that they’re vigilantes. But when the Joker takes an interest in her, things get a whole lot more complicated. a/n: I did not expect the amount of love the first chapter got in such a short amount of time, thank you to everyone who took the time to read, reblog and like the story! warnings: sexual innuendos, milo, tooth rotting fluff

GOTHAM UNIVERSITY 

You definitely regretted drinking the moment you dragged yourself into the university the next morning. Every step toward the lecture hall felt like an uphill battle against the thumping in your skull and the dull ache behind your eyes—a painful souvenir from the night before with Milo and Anthony.

But the headache wasn’t the only thing off.

As you strolled through the halls, something felt… strange. Eyes followed you. Smiles lingered longer than usual—both from staff and students alike. A few even nodded in greeting, like you were a celebrity instead of a perpetually tired lecturer with a coffee addiction and zero patience for idiocy before 10 a.m.

“Y/N!” a voice called.

You turned to see one of the biology professors leaning against the doorframe of his lecture hall, his eyes scanning you with a little too much interest. “Can I just say—you look good today.”

You blinked, confused. “Uh. Thank you?” you replied, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze. You gave a stiff nod and turned away, hurrying to your own classroom. What the hell was that about?

You hadn’t even dressed up. Just your usual—black slacks, a long-sleeved blouse tucked in neatly, sensible shoes. Your hair was pulled back into a taut bun, and despite your best efforts with concealer, the dark circles under your eyes were still winning the war. You looked worse than usual, if anything. Hungover. Sleep-deprived. Mildly irritated at the world.

And yet…

Your students were acting odd too. Whispering. Staring. One of them winked as he passed by your desk. You blinked at him, uncertain whether you were still drunk or hallucinating from lack of sleep.

The questions today were unusually… stupid. Even for a Thursday.

And then, at the end of class, one of your students—one who had never said more than five words to you before—lingered near your desk.

“Listen,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just gotta say, I am totally down… if you are, Doctor.”

You stared blankly. “Down? Are you catching something?”

His cheeks flushed red. “No—I meant, um—uh, if you’re looking to, like, go on a date—uh, never mind!” He turned on his heel and all but ran from the room, babbling something incoherent.

But you heard it. Just one word.

Dating site.

Your stomach dropped.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, heart skipping a beat as you snatched up your phone and hurried into the hallway, dialing Milo’s number with shaky fingers.

He answered on the third ring, voice groggy. “Hello?”

“What the fuck did you do, Milo?” you hissed into the phone.

There was a pause, then an easy drawl. “Well hello to you too.”

“Milo!”

“Relax,” he said. “I’m doing the Lord’s work. That pussy is growing cobwebs down there and you know it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Please—please do not tell me you did what I think you did.”

“Alright,” Milo said breezily. “I won’t tell you.”

Then the line went dead.

You let out a strangled sound of protest, halfway between a scream and a groan. Before you could redial, your phone vibrated. A message.

One link.

You clicked it—and froze.

“Oh my god.”

There it was. Your face. Your full name. And a profile on some godforsaken dating app with a bio you definitely hadn’t written.

Name: Y/N

Age: Mid-twenties

Occupation: Lecturer

Orientation: Bi-curious

About Me: Former gymnast. Skilled in oral communication. Open-minded, flexible, and always up for a challenge.

Looking for: Something serious… or seriously fun ;)

“Oh my god.” You felt your soul leave your body.

You called Milo again, barely waiting for him to pick up before snapping, “What the hell is wrong with you?! Bi-curious? Gymnastics? Skilled in oral communication?!”

“What?” he replied, completely unfazed. “I didn’t lie. You were a gymnast. And your current job is lecturer. You do communicate. Orally. Often.”

“Bi-curious?” you exclaimed, staring at the profile in horror. “I'm not sure that's even an official orientation!”

“It means you’re flexible, babe,” Milo said, absolutely unbothered. “And hey—you never know, it might be a woman who saves that pussy.”

You gaped at your phone. “Milo—”

“Then we can be one of those powerfully gay couples,” he went on dreamily, “with their iconic gay best friend. Four of us. Taking over brunch. Matching vacation fits. It’s giving legacy.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This isn’t a Hallmark Pride Month special.”

“Not yet. But give it time.”

“I’m going to kill you,” you growled. “I’m going to end you, slowly.”

“How about thank you?”

You dragged a hand down your face. “You just made everyone I work with—and every guy in my lecture hall—think I’m down to be their naughty professor fantasy!”

“Okay, first of all,” he said, “you teach university, not high school. They’re all consenting adults. Secondly, that’s just good branding. It means you’re open to role play.”

You inhaled slowly. “I’m not sleeping with one of my students.”you snapped. “That’s not just unethical—it’s gross! Have you ever read a university policy?”

“yes, yes, heard it all before, I don’t need to read policy.” he sighed dramatically. “Look, I’m just trying to help you find your future husband—or at the very least, get laid. You’ve been walking around like a haunted Victorian widow.”

“I don’t think my future husband is going to take me seriously when you’ve basically made me sound like a bisexual stripper with a PhD,” you groaned, scrubbing a hand down your face. Your eyes dropped to the profile again—specifically to the picture of you clinging to a pole at Milo and Anthony’s joint bachelor party. You were laughing, clearly drunk, mid-spin.

He had made that the cover photo.

“Milo, I swear to God—”

But then you absently tapped the notifications.

New matches: 7

You scrolled… paused.

And there it was.

A face that made your breath catch.

Messy black hair. Stupidly handsome. Jaw carved by angels—or the devil, you weren’t sure. Those bright, glacier-blue eyes that had no business looking so damn good in a dating profile.

Your mouth went dry.

“Well,” you muttered faintly, “speaking of Dicks…”

“Ooh, I know that tone,” Milo crooned through the phone. “Girl, if you don’t swipe right on him—”

You bit your lip, torn between common sense and sheer thirst. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t what? That man looks like he bench-presses women for sport.” Milo stated, clearly having pulled up your profile from wherever he was lounging. “If you don’t swipe, I will do it for you. Right the fuck now. Don’t forget—I have admin privileges.”

You hesitated. Your thumb hovered.

Your eyes flicked to his profile again.

Dick Grayson.

He really was unfairly attractive. Possibly the hottest man you’d ever seen.

“…Fine!” you huffed. “I’ll go on one date. One. Only because this man looks like he could make me forget my own name.”

“That’s my girl!” Milo whooped like a proud pageant mom. “Thank me later—preferably while holding one of his babies.”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “I’m hanging up now.”

“Oh, and don’t forget—lingerie. And swallow, don’t—”

You hung up at that part, shaking your head—but you were grinning.

God help you.

DICK'S APARTMENT

Dick sighed, dragging a hand down his face. It had been almost ten hours since he and Jason made the discovery—and still, radio silence. No updates, no leads. Just a whole lot of waiting.

He’d given Jason the “don’t get too obsessed” speech, but the truth was, he was just as bad. Maybe worse. Their entire family had a toxic relationship with the word rest, especially when the Joker was involved. That clown had left more scars on them than anyone cared to admit.

Finally, unable to sit still, Dick pulled out his phone and hit call.

“Babs,” he said the moment she picked up, “any news on the case?”

Barbara sighed. “Nothing. Mancini was right about one thing—this guy who stole Joker’s formula? He’s a ghost. Even the Joker’s gone quiet. Bruce and Tim are still digging.”

“Great,” Dick muttered, jaw clenched.

“I know it sucks sitting around,” Barbara said gently. “But we still don’t have confirmation Mancini was telling the truth. You know that.”

“I know.” He rubbed at the tension building at the back of his neck.

There was a beat of silence before she asked, “Hey… when was the last time you actually went out?”

“I go out all the time,” he said defensively.

“Coming home to see your brothers doesn’t count. Neither does hanging out with the team. And don’t even try bringing up Wally.”

He huffed. “I wasn’t—”

“Yes, you were,” she cut in, amused. “But seriously, Dick. When was the last time you did something for you? Had fun. Met someone.”

He exhaled slowly. “There’s no time for that. You know how this life works. It’s not exactly relationship-friendly.”

Barbara didn’t argue. It was the truth—and the reason they’d broken up in the first place. They might always be best friends, always care for each other, but the vigilante life was relentless. Demanding. Even with all their shared understanding, it hadn’t been enough to keep them together.

So Dick kept it casual. One night, rarely ever two. Just enough to feel human. Never enough to drag some poor unsuspecting person into his shit.

“But it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try,” Barbara said, voice soft but firm. “You don’t always have to be Nightwing. Or the responsible older brother. You’re allowed to just be Dick sometimes.”

He let out a low groan. “At this rate, I am going to end up like Bruce.”

“Exactly,” she sighed. “And that is not a compliment.”

“Take that back.” He barked a short laugh, though it lacked bite. “If I end up like Bruce, put me down.”

“Only if you do something about it.”

“I want to. I do. But I can’t.” His voice dipped lower, more tired than he meant it to sound. “There’s just… no time for that stuff.”

“Well, now you’ve got some,” Barbara said, and he didn’t need to see her face to hear the grin curling in her voice.

Dick froze. Suspicion creeping in. “…Babs. What did you do?”

“Well, with the others still working to verify Mancini’s story and both Gotham and Blüdhaven being surprisingly quiet for once,” Barbara said lightly, “you, my friend, are officially off-duty.”

Dick raised an eyebrow. “And that means… what exactly?”

“It means,” she continued with that too sweet tone, “you’re free to go out.”

He frowned. “Go out?” He could sense there was more. “Barbara, what did you do?”

“Oh, nothing too scandalous,” she replied airily. “Just… made you a dating profile.”

“You what?!” he barked, half standing from his chair.

“A very tasteful one,” she added quickly, clearly anticipating his outrage. “No shirtless gym selfies, no cheesy pick-up lines. I even used that photo of you from the Wayne Foundation gala last year—black suit, hair slicked back, looking all suave and charming.”

“Barbara,” he growled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Relax! You look great. And I may or may not have… already swiped on someone for you.”

He rubbed at his temples, already feeling the headache forming. “Are you serious right now?”

“You said it yourself. There’s no time. So I’m helping speed along the process. Now you’ve got a reason to go out and be you. Besides, she’s very cute. And smart. You’ll like her.”

Dick groaned. “Babs, this is not—this isn’t—God.” He dropped his head into his hand. “You can’t just sign me up for this stuff.”

“I can and I did. You’re welcome.” 

“I’m beaming with gratitude,” Dick muttered dryly. “Look just cancel the stupid profile.”

“You can’t back out now,” she sing-songed. “It’s already confirmed. Six o’clock. At that bar you like—Brick & Ember.”

Dick let out a slow breath, already resigning himself to the inevitable. He wasn’t the type to ghost someone. Even if the date went south, he’d at least be polite. End things gently. No use in being a dick to some poor girl dragged into Barbara’s scheme.

“Well,” he muttered, “at least you picked a good place.”

“Actually,” Barbara said with a grin in her voice, “she suggested it.”

That made him pause. “…Oh.”

So she had good taste too.

“I haven’t even seen her profile.” He weakly argued.

“Well, maybe you should check your notifications.” Her tone dipped into that singsong territory that meant he had absolutely no escape.

Against his better judgment, Dick pulled his phone away and opened the app she’d clearly installed behind his back. There it was.

One new match.

He clicked it.

And then blinked.

Barbara smirked, already knowing. “Told you she’s cute.”

Dick stared at the profile, brows lifting slightly. She was cute. Striking, actually. Hair loose and open, a sharp jawline softened by a crooked smile in one picture, and in another—God, was she… dancing on a pole?

“What the hell is this photo?”

Barbara’s voice rang in his ear, smug and satisfied. “Told you. Thank me later.”

Before he could respond, the line clicked dead.

Dick sighed, but his eyes drifted back to your photo. His thumb hovered over your name. You were definitely his type. And for the first time in a long while, he actually curious to see how the night might go.

BRICK & EMBER

It was nearly six when Dick grabbed his jacket, heading for the door—only for his phone to buzz in his pocket. He checked the caller ID and sighed.

Jason.

He answered anyway. “What’s up, Little Wing?”

“Any updates?” Jason asked without preamble.

“None so far,” Dick replied, trying to keep his voice even. “I called Babs this morning. She promised to keep me posted.”

“How can you be so calm?” Jason snapped, frustration bleeding through the line. “The Joker is out there, and if what Mancini said is true, we cannot let him get his hands on that formula.”

Dick let out a slow breath. “I’m not as calm as you think, Jay. But until Bruce and Tim dig up something concrete, running around blind isn’t going to help.”

Jason wasn’t convinced. “We don’t have to sit on our asses. We could be out there now. Start shaking the tree. You know how this works. Someone always knows something—you just need to find the right branches to snap.”

“Give it one more day,” Dick said, his voice firm. “If Bruce and Tim don’t find anything by then, we’ll start digging too.”

The last thing he needed was Jason storming off on his own. Not with the Joker possibly in the wind. That wound was still raw—for Jason, for all of them. 

“Besides,” Dick added, “I can’t tonight.”

Jason paused. “Why not?”

“I have a date.”

There was a beat of silence.

“A date?” Jason said flatly. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Dick sighed, already regretting saying anything.

“There’s a chemical weapon on the loose, and the Clown Prince of Batshit is out there hunting God knows what—and you’re going out for tapas?”

“It’s not tapas—”

“You are the reason Bruce has high blood pressure,” Jason muttered darkly.

“First of all, that’s because of you and Damian,” Dick shot back. “And second—look, it’s one date. And if you want to point fingers, blame Barbara. She’s the one who signed me up for the damn dating site.”

Jason let out a short, incredulous snort. “Of course she did. That woman’s probably had a spreadsheet tracking your love life since college.”

“I wouldn’t be shocked if she wired me with a mic just to coach me through the date.”

Jason huffed—something between a laugh and a groan. “So who is it this time? Some socialite with a podcast? A yoga instructor with three divorces?”

Dick grinned. “Actually? She’s a doctor.”

Jason paused. “…Huh. You’re actually going out with someone smart and normal?”

“She teaches at Gotham U.”

“Damn. That’s hot.”

Dick chuckled. “See? You do support me.”

“I didn’t say I supported you,” Jason snapped. “I said she’s hot. Big difference.”

“Mhm,” Dick hummed, smug.

There was a pause. The silence sat for a beat, a little more relaxed now.

Then Jason muttered, “Just… keep your comm on, alright? I’ll be your back up if she turns out to be a psycho.”

Dick laughed under his breath. “Thanks, but I think I can handle dinner with a woman who isn’t actively trying to kill me.”

A beat.

“…Though in Gotham, that might be asking too much.”

Jason chuckled, low and dry. “Exactly. You attract chaos, Grayson. Don’t act surprised if she pulls out a flamethrower over appetizers.”

“If she does, I’ll send you a selfie.”

“Better yet, send me her number.”

“Jay.” Dick said, laughing now.

Jason snorted something that sounded dangerously close to affection before hanging up.

Dick glanced at the time and cursed under his breath. Jason’s call had eaten through his buffer. Grabbing his jacket, he headed out in a rush, weaving through the evening crowd with practiced ease.

He was nearly at the bar when doubt started creeping in.

She sounded perfect. Too perfect. Jason might’ve been joking, but… what if she was a psycho? Or a catfish? Or worse—some bored cougar using decade-old filters and a killer photo angle?

God, if she turned out to be fifty and looking for a sugar baby, Jason would never let him live it down.

The closer he got, the more cautious his steps became. A part of him braced for the worst. There had to be a catch. There always was.

He exhaled and pushed the door open.

Warm light spilled out from within—amber glow, clinking glasses, low laughter threading through ambient music. His blue eyes swept the room, scanning past faces and tables, until they landed on you.

And just like that, the world stopped.

You weren’t a catfish. You weren’t a cougar. You weren’t fifty.

If anything, you were even more stunning in person—hair pulled back just enough to frame your face, posture relaxed but unmistakably poised, fingers curled around a glass you hadn’t touched in a while.

And as if you could feel him watching, you turned.

Your gaze met his. And then you smiled.

It hit him like a punch to the gut—warm, radiant, unexpected.

Yep.

There had to be a catch.

Because no one looked that good—not without hiding something.

He was five minutes late, and you were already beginning to regret letting Milo talk you into this ridiculous scheme. He could’ve been using fake pictures. He could’ve been an old man. Or a serial killer. Or, knowing your luck, both.

If your murder ended up on the evening news, you were going to haunt Milo’s ass for the rest of his damned life.

You were just about to talk yourself out of it—stand up, make a graceful exit, maybe fake a stomach bug—when the bar’s front door chimed open.

Instinctively, you turned.

And there he was.

Relief swept through you like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Not a catfish. Not a creepy older man. Not a serial killer—probably. No, he looked exactly like his profile.

Actually… better.

You slid out of your seat as he approached.

He was taller than his profile made him seem—broad-shouldered in a fitted navy button-down, black jeans, and that kind of easy, confident walk that made it obvious he belonged anywhere he stepped. His dark hair was tousled just enough to look good without trying, and when his eyes met yours, he smiled.

Dimples. Of course he had dimples.

“You must be Y/N,” he said, voice warm, edged with something rougher—like he laughed often, but didn’t sleep enough.

You nodded, sliding your phone into your purse. “And you’re not secretly a 65-year-old retiree named Gerald. So we’re off to a good start.”

He grinned, quick and genuine. “Only on weekends.”

That earned a laugh from you—real, despite yourself. The bartender arrived, sliding two drinks across the bar, and you thanked him as you both began walking to take your seats.

“I was starting to think you weren’t going to show,” you said, tilting your glass toward him, teasing just enough to cover the fact that you’d almost bolted five minutes earlier.

“Traffic was a nightmare,” he replied smoothly, pulling out your chair before settling into his. “Also had to convince my brother I wasn’t walking straight into a potential kidnapping.”

You raised a brow, amused. “Protective, is he?”

He smirked. “Let’s just say he’s got trust issues. I think he genuinely expected you to be an arms dealer with a basement full of body bags.”

You sipped your drink. “So… not far off.”

That pulled a laugh from him.

You grinned. “Well, good to know I wasn’t the only one worried about that… wait—” you narrowed your eyes, leaning forward as if reconsidering, “you’re not a kidnapper, are you?”

He leaned back, one brow arched, eyes sparkling with amusement. “That depends. How do you feel about being lured into vans with puppies and free Wi-Fi?”

You snorted into your drink. “Honestly? That’s a tempting offer after the day I’ve had.”

“Noted,” he said with a mock-serious nod. “Next time, I’ll bring a golden retriever and a mobile hotspot.”

You shook your head, laughing. “You joke, but if you’d been five more minutes late, I was one panic spiral away from texting my best friend to start emotionally drafting my eulogy. He’s the reason I even have that damned profile, if we’re being fully transparent.”

“Well,” he said, lifting his glass slightly, “in the spirit of honesty—same. My best friend is also the reason I had a profile.”

You grinned. “Look at that. We already have more in common than I thought.”

“Mutual best friend peer pressure,” he said dryly. “Truly the bedrock of all great romances.”

You clinked your glass against his, smiling into the rim. “Still. I’m glad he pushed me. Even if I was convinced you were going to ghost me or try to sell me a timeshare.”

Dick smirked. “Oh, I considered it. But then I saw your profile and figured a neuroscientist would be smart enough to spot the pyramid scheme.”

“Smart enough, maybe,” you replied, eyes narrowing playfully. “But I stayed, didn’t I?”

His lips twitched. “Touché.”

He leaned forward just a little, forearms resting on the table, that easy charm sharpening slightly into curiosity. “So… how’s it going so far? On a scale from ‘tragic mistake’ to ‘might not fake an emergency text.’”

You made a show of considering it. “Hmm… somewhere between ‘free food is free food’ and ‘I might actually want to see how this ends.’”

He laughed, low and genuine. “I’ll take it. That’s progress.”

A beat passed. Not awkward. Just…Comfortable.

He leaned in slightly, the teasing softening in his voice. “You seem like someone who doesn’t usually do this kind of thing.”

Your smile faded just a touch, replaced by something quieter. “I don’t. Not really.”

“No horror date stories, then?”

Oh, I have one,” you said, arching a brow. “Three years of one.”

That surprised a laugh out of him, though the look in his eyes shifted—warm, attentive. “Oof. Long-term horror.”

“Yep,” you said, popping the ‘p’ lightly. “But it taught me a lot. Like how to spot a red flag… and never trust a man named Jake.”

Dick laughed, eyes glinting. “Jake, huh? Should I be worried?”

You narrowed your gaze playfully. “Not unless you’re hiding bleached hair and have an ego the size of Wayne Tower under that charm.”

He grinned. “Good news—definitely not blonde. And the ego?” He leaned in just a little, voice dipping playfully. “Mostly under control. Depends on the lighting.”

You laughed. “Ah, so it swells at golden hour. Noted.”

“Only if someone’s complimenting my jawline.”

“Oh, God,” you groaned, but you were smiling. “I walked into this, didn’t I?”

He raised his glass again, eyes glinting. “And now you can’t walk out. Social contract and all.”

You sipped your drink, still grinning. “You’re more charming than I expected.”

“Most people expect broody or boring,” he said with a shrug. “So I like to keep ‘mildly delightful’ in my back pocket.”

“Mildly delightful,” you echoed, amused. “That’s your official rating now.”

“I’ll take it,” he said with mock pride. “Could be worse. So…” He tilted his head, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Tell me—what makes a brilliant, sharp, slightly intimidating neuroscientist swipe right on a guy with two pictures and a suspiciously short bio?”

You smiled, but this time it carried a note of honesty beneath the humor. “Because he didn’t try too hard. No gym selfies. No weird filters. And his first message actually had punctuation. That’s rare, you know.”

“High standards.”

“I work with brains,” you said simply. “I tried settling once. Never again.”

He gave a small nod, his smile thoughtful now. “A woman who knows what she wants—I respect that.”

It was your turn to tilt your head, curiosity glinting behind your grin. “Alright—your turn. What made you agree to this date? Because I saw the profile Milo made for me and—look, it was a disaster. For the record, I do not make a habit of dancing on poles. That was one time. At his bachelor party. Too many drinks. I got dared.”

He laughed, full and unguarded, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re telling me that wasn’t a career aspiration?”

“Shocking, I know,” you said dryly. “My dreams of becoming a neuroscientist-pole-dancer hybrid never quite took off.”

“Well, that’s disappointing.” He leaned in a little, expression mock-serious. “I was really banking on a lap dance over dessert.”

You nearly choked on your drink, snorting. “That's implying i stay long enough for dessert.”

“Then I guess I better make the main course memorable to convince you,” He smirked, leaning back just slightly, before the humor in his expression giving way to something softer. “But for the record?” A pause. “It was your eyes.”

That made you blink. “My eyes?”

He shrugged, but there was something sincere in his voice now. “Your eyes stood out. They were open. Genuine. Not guarded or jaded like most people in this city. That kind of thing’s basically extinct in Gotham.”

You blinked.

And okay, maybe the wine was hitting, or maybe it was the way he said it—casual but genuine—but your heart did something.

“Don’t ruin it now,” you said lightly, recovering with a smile. “That was dangerously close to poetic.”

“I have layers,” he said, lifting his glass in a lazy half-toast.

“Clearly.”

He smiled again—slower this time. Less of a flirt, more of a study. “I like people who don’t bullshit. You strike me as someone who cuts through it.”

You tapped your glass against the table lightly. “Only when I’m not too busy overanalyzing everything within a five-mile radius.”

“Perfect,” he said, finishing the last of his drink. “You overanalyze. I underreact. Balance.”

You raised your glass. “A healthy relationship dynamic if I’ve ever heard one.”

Dick was utterly smitten by the end of the night.

You were everything he wanted—and nothing he’d expected.

He’d known you were brilliant going in—your profile, however chaotic, couldn’t hide that—but what caught him off guard was everything else. The dry wit. The unapologetic honesty. The way you didn’t flinch from teasing him, even when he gave as good as he got.

You weren’t trying to impress him. You weren’t putting on a act like some of the socialites he’d went out with. You were just you—sharp, bold, genuine—and it was the most refreshing thing he’d felt in a long, long time.

Which was why, when the check had been paid and the last of the drinks were gone, he found himself reluctant to leave. Not literally dragging his feet—but close.

“I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed myself this much without having to dodge bullets,” he said as you both stepped out into the cool Gotham night.

You grinned, tugging your coat tighter. “Gotham’s highest standard for a good evening.”

He glanced at you, that crooked smile creeping in again. “I mean it. This was… really nice.”

You gave a softer smile this time. “Yeah. It was.”

A small beat of silence passed—once again not awkward, just content.

Then he cleared his throat. “So… I don’t usually say this on first dates—”

You smirked. “That sounds promising.”

“—but I want to see you again.”

You arched a brow. “That’s not scandalous, Dick.”

“I just mean—” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck, “usually I don’t care if there’s a second date. With you, I do.”

Your smile widened, but your voice stayed light. “Well, lucky for you… I don’t usually give second chances.”

He blinked, caught somewhere between amused and confused.

You took your phone out, holding it up between you. “But I’m willing to make an exception.”

He chuckled, pulling his own phone from his pocket and handing it over without hesitation. “You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?”

You tilted your head. “Only if you’re lucky.”

Phones were exchanged, numbers saved. As he handed yours back, his fingers brushed yours—just briefly—but the moment lingered.

“I’ll text you,” he said, voice a shade lower now.

You hesitated just a second, like you were weighing something—then stepped forward.

Leaning up onto your toes, your lips brushed the edge of his jaw, featherlight.

You pulled back, biting your lip as if trying to hold back a smile.

“I hope you do,” you murmured.

← Previous Chapter ✯ Next Chapter →

an imperial command a knight!choso fic

pairing ⸺ knight/warrior!choso x princess!reader

summary ⸺ you, the princess of the nation, and choso, the son of your father's most trusted general, have been inseperable since birth. but after many deem it inappropriate for him to be so close to you, the distance between you and him only deepens after he leaves for war. when he comes back older and a more handsome, bigger version of the choso of your childhood, you both grapple with love, duty, and test the bounds of propierty.

warnings ⸺ smut, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, fem!reader, reader has a vagina, classism? not really, reader may seem pushy at times, not edited, very sweet love confession, happy ending, fingering, breast worship, virgin reader, mutual loss of virginity, mentions of sexism and archaic beliefs about virginity, pathetic choso, soft dom choso, p i v sex, gentle choso :(, me being really horny about his HAPPY TRAIL

a/n it's something about a hot decorated warrior that crumbles at the thought of you...

general masterlist

You and Choso had been inseparable since birth.

As the princess of the realm and the son of the general—your father’s most trusted advisor and sworn brother—it seemed ordained by fate itself that you should become steadfast companions. And companions you were; as babes, you darted through the royal gardens, frolicked in the halls of the palace, and devised schemes to escape the ever-watchful eyes of your tutors. Only the constraints of your education would separate you. You were confined to lessons in the classical tongues, the harp, and courtly diplomacy, while Choso immersed himself in the arts of the sword, the strategies of war, and the unyielding discipline of a soldier.

“Choso!” you squealed, your laughter ringing through the royal gardens as you fled from an imagined dragon. You ran toward him, your skirts billowing behind you, and found him poised and ready. His knees were bent, his gaze unwavering, and his small wooden sword clutched tightly in his hands. He glared past you at the phantom threat with the solemnity of a true knight.

“I will save you, Your Highness!” he roared and lunged, hacking away at the demon passionately. You cheered him on, giggling at his act.

“You’ve done it!” you cheered, clapping your hands in delight. But then your eyes widened in feigned terror. “Look, another one approaches!”

Choso spun around at your warning, his attention diverted just as you had planned. Seizing the moment, you imagined the dreadful beast closing in on his unguarded back.

“Watch out!” you exclaimed, grabbing a fallen branch to defend him. With a bold leap, you placed yourself between Choso and the imagined peril, brandishing your twig as though it were a knight’s blade.

“I’ve got you!” you declared, laughing as you swung your newfound weapon, the pair of you lost in the unrestrained joy of childhood.

Of course, while the king, your father, appreciated you so closely acquainted with his general’s son, your mother did not seem to think it wise that you become estranged from the daughters of nobles; after all, you would need to forge relationships early on to strengthen your future court. This led to many a playdates being interrupted.

“You didn’t need to save me!” Choso whined, pouting while crossing his arms. 

However, you held out a pudgy hand, patting his hair as if to soothe him. “It’s okay, Choso. If you ever need saving, I’ll always be there—” “YOUR HIGHNESS!” You heard footsteps running towards where the both of you were sitting idly. When parrying the imaginary monster’s attacks, you had tumbled on top of Choso, your dress and limbs entangled with his and both of your hair unruly. Hearing your governess’ voice led you to pout, for you were sure to earn a scolding for fooling around with Choso rather than practicing the violin for the nth time. Alas, you couldn’t escape her—as well as Choso’s nannies, who had appeared—and you both looked sheepishly at their horrified faces.  

Frowning, Choso’s nanny stomped towards the both of you, untangling you both impatiently and, once you were both standing, giving Choso a light smack on his head while bowing towards you. “Your Highness, I apologize, but the both of you mustn’t do such things anymore. You both are far past the age that this is appropriate.”

“What?” You pouted, disappointed in having to back to your room, confined to practice your violin with those dreadful, boring tunes. “What isn’t appropriate about this? We’re just playing—”

“Your Highness,” your governess began, her strained smile barely masking her displeasure. “It is not fitting for a princess to engage in such… undignified behavior. You must remember your station. A young lady of your rank is expected to conduct herself with grace and decorum at all times.”

Choso’s nanny, now tidying his tousled hair with brisk, efficient motions, added in a sharper tone, “And you, young master, should remember your place. You are not her equal but her servant’s son. Such familiarity is unbecoming.”

At her words, Choso’s face turned pale, his gaze dropping to the ground. His hands clenched into small fists at his sides, but he said nothing, his lips pressed tightly together. You could see the effort it took him to remain still, his shoulders stiff with tension.

“Choso?” you called softly, tilting your head to catch his eye. 

However, he did not look up, though his voice came, quiet and steady. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I… I won’t do it again.”

Your brows furrowed, your chest tightening at the sight of his downcast expression. “What are you apologizing for?” you demanded, your voice sharper than you intended. “You’ve done nothing wrong! We were only playing.”

“Your Highness!” your governess interjected, her tone scandalized. “Such defiance is unbecoming. You must understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” you snapped, cutting her off. “I understand that I don’t care for these rules. Choso is my friend, and I decide what is and isn’t proper!”

Choso’s nanny inhaled sharply, but he quickly stepped forward, shaking his head fervently. “Please, Your Highness,” he murmured, his voice almost a whisper. “Don’t… don’t say such things for me. I’ll… I’ll do as I’m told. I promise.”

“Choso!” you exclaim, betrayed as the sting of his words settling in your chest. His gaze still refused to meet yours, fixed instead on the ground between you.

Your governess, sensing her victory, straightened. “Your Highness, you must return to your chambers immediately. Your music tutor is waiting. And as for you, Master Choso, your training will resume at once. I trust there will be no further disruptions.”

Neither of you spoke as the governess and the nanny ushered you away in opposite directions, their sharp voices ringing in your ears. Yet, as you glanced over your shoulder, you caught one last fleeting glimpse of Choso, his hesitant gaze finally meeting yours for the briefest of moments. It held a quiet resolve that only deepened your frustration.

“Wait and see,” you muttered under your breath as you were dragged back toward your chambers. “I’ll change this someday.”

That was the last time he ever spoke your name aloud; now, you were only Your Highness and The Royal Princess. It irritated you to no end; you were his friend, not his superior. But he insisted, falling deeper and deeper into the depths of social proprietary and hierarchy his nannies and parents were no doubt pressuring him into. You could only take what you had; if he was refusing your affection, he would at least not refuse royal commands of rendezvous.

Years had gracefully unfolded since that day, and now, as teenagers, your clandestine meetings in the royal gardens had blossomed into cherished rituals beneath the cloak of night. The gardens, adorned with that glowed under the moon's gentle gaze, became the sanctuary where you and Choso could momentarily escape the rigid expectations of courtly life.

As you approached the secluded alcove near the ancient marble fountain, your heart fluttered with a mixture of anticipation and nervous excitement. 

And there he was.

Choso waited beneath the willow tree, his dark eyes darting between the swaying branches and the dimly lit path beyond. The shadows stretched long in the garden, and the faint sound of patrolling guards put a furrow in his brow. He shifted on his feet, arms crossed tightly as though bracing himself for some reprimand.

When you finally appeared, dressed in your lighter night robes, he let out a small breath of relief. “Your Highness, you shouldn’t—”

“Can you stop that?” You whine, brushing him off and making a move to sit in the swing right by the tree. You lightly swing your feet, establishing a gentle rhythm while you grin mischievously at him, meeting your lighthearted eyes with his furrowed, slightly worried ones. “Don’t be such a spoilsport, Choso. No one’s going to catch us.”

He can only shake his head, for after years of friendship had led him to know one universal truth: if there was one thing, it was that your mind, once resolute, could not be changed. “I don’t know how you keep wanting to risk them discovering this.” Then, he sighs, lamenting weakly, “and why I have to dragged into this.”

You flash him an innocent smile, about to give a cocky response about how you’re the princess and it’s not like Choso doesn’t want this…right? but both of you pause, deadly still, when you hear the undeniable clinks of armor.

Patrolling guards.

Choso’s head snapped toward the sound, his body going rigid. It kind of dazes you, in a way, how his curriculum as a warrior leads him to be so alert. It’s also this moment that you realize how grown you both are becoming; it feels as if you’re stuck as a dainty princess, while he’s steadily growing taller and bigger, a smaller picture of his formidable father.

“Someone’s coming,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the rustling leaves.

You froze, exchanging a wide-eyed glance with him before instinctively ducking behind the grand marble fountain. The cold stone pressed against your back as the guards’ footsteps grew louder, accompanied by the bobbing light of their lanterns.

“Who’s there?” one of them called out, his voice sharp and commanding.

Choso shifted beside you, his breath quick and shallow. Your hand brushed against his arm in reassurance, but it did little to ease the tension radiating off him. The guards’ lanterns swept methodically across the gardens, their shadows flickering on the trees.

“Stay still,” Choso mouthed, his dark eyes fixed on the approaching light.

The guards drew closer, their boots crunching against the gravel path. You could feel your pulse hammering in your ears, each second dragging on unbearably.

Then, a faint rustle to your left—a squirrel darting across the underbrush. The guards turned toward the noise, their lanterns swinging wide.

“Must’ve been an animal,” one muttered, though he sounded unconvinced.

“Keep looking,” the other replied gruffly. “The king’s orders were clear—no one’s to linger in the gardens after dark.”

The pair continued past, their voices fading as they moved toward the far side of the grounds.

You let out a shaky breath, but before you could fully relax, Choso grabbed your hand, pulling you to your feet. “We need to go deeper,” he said urgently, his voice low.

Without waiting for your agreement, he led you away from the fountain, weaving through the hedges and into the denser parts of the forest. The shadows thickened as the soft glow of the garden lanterns disappeared behind you. Branches brushed against your arms, and the earthy scent of moss and damp leaves filled the air as you ran.

“Choso!” you whispered breathlessly, struggling to keep up with his longer strides. “They’re gone!”

“Not far enough,” he replied, glancing back at you. “We can’t risk them doubling back.”

The forest grew darker the deeper you went, the canopy above blocking out most of the moonlight. Finally, when the sound of your own breathing seemed louder than anything else, Choso slowed to a halt beneath a towering oak.

“We should be safe here,” he murmured, releasing your hand.

You both sank to the ground, the soft carpet of moss cushioning your fall. For a moment, neither of you spoke, too winded to do anything but sit there, catching your breath. Then, a stifled giggle bubbled out of you, unable to contain the absurdity of the chase.

Choso shot you a warning look, but his resolve cracked when you pressed your hands over your mouth, failing to muffle your laughter. A small laugh escaped him in turn, and soon you were both doubled over, trying in vain to quiet yourselves.

“Shhh!” Choso whispered, though he was grinning. “You’ll get us caught.”

“You’re the loud one,” you whispered back, nudging him playfully.

Soon, the laughter slowly subsided, leaving only the sound of rustling leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. Choso leaned back against the tree, his expression softening as he glanced up at the canopy. His eyes caught on something above, and he pointed. “Look—fruit.”

Following his gaze, you spotted the cluster of small, round pomengrenates hanging from a low branch. Choso stood, brushing dirt from his trousers, and reached up to pluck one. He examined it briefly before biting into it, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

“Are you just going to eat that without offering me one?” you asked, crossing your arms.

He smirked, holding another pomengrenate aloft. “You want it?”

“Obviously.”

But instead of handing it over, Choso lifted it above his head, his smirk widening. “Come and get it.” You stood up, moving closer to him to make a motion to grab the fruit. Alas, the effort was not fruitful. 

“Choso!” you hissed, glaring at him as he kept the fruit just out of reach. You try many things: you grab his shoulder, tickle him on his stomach, and arms. However, it all is in vain.

“You’re the one who wants it,” he said, his head peering down at you in amusement.

You stood, determination written all over your face. “Fine. If you think I can’t—”

You leapt, swatting at his hand, but he easily moved the fruit higher, his height giving him the upper hand.

“You’re insufferable!” you said, laughing despite yourself as you tried again, this time jumping with more force. Still, you missed.

“Perhaps you should’ve been born taller,” he teased, a mischievous glint in his eye.

“Or perhaps you should stop being such a—” Before you could finish, he lowered the fruit suddenly, pressing it into your hand.

“There,” he said, smirking. “Satisfied?”

You took a triumphant bite, your glare softening into a grin. “For now.”

Settling back down, you both shared the fruit in companionable silence, the earlier tension of the night dissipating in the quiet forest. Yet, as you sat side by side, something about the way his gaze lingered on you—or perhaps the warmth blooming in your chest—made you wonder if these late-night meetings were becoming something more.

And then, years later, he left for war. Choso left for the battlefield, summoned to serve alongside his father as the general’s son. 

The morning he departed was etched into your memory with painful clarity. The air was crisp, the kind that stung your lungs when you breathed too deeply, and the courtyard was alive with the sounds of preparation. Soldiers moved with purpose, their boots striking against the cobblestones in rhythmic determination. Horses snorted and pawed at the ground, their breaths rising like smoke in the cold air.

You stood at the edge of it all, your hands clasped tightly in front of you, trying to keep your expression composed. This was no place for a princess to display her feelings, no matter how tightly they knotted in her chest. Your father was nearby, speaking with the general in low, serious tones, his gaze sweeping over the troops with pride. Your mother was absent, as always, too preoccupied with courtly matters to concern herself with the departure of soldiers—even one who had once been your constant companion.

When Choso emerged from the crowd, his figure clad in the red, utilitarian uniform of a soldier, it was as though the rest of the scene blurred. The boy who had once darted through the gardens with you, his hair wild and his hands dirtied by mischief, now looked every inch the man his father had raised him to be. His hair was tied back, his face set in an unreadable mask of calm, and he carried himself with a solemnity that felt foreign.

He always did make you feel like a child. While you were still delaying acceptance of your fate as the princes—future queen—-he had grown into a man, fated to be a war general. 

He approached slowly, each step deliberate. When he stopped before you, he did not smile. Instead, he bowed low, his dark eyes briefly meeting yours. “Your Highness—”

But you had enough of that godforsaken title. “Why must you leave?” You cried, your voice breaking as Choso stood before you in the courtyard.

The image of the steeled soldier crumbled as his eyes softened in fondness and melancholy. “You know I must.”

You shook your head fervently, as if to vehemently deny what was undeniably the truth. “You know that’s not true.” And it wasn’t, for it would only take an imperial command of yours to bar him from ever entering the battlefield.

But it was his dream; you saw the way he looked at his father. To deny Choso the sword and the glory he was destined for was to chain him down, and you knew that. So instead, you shook off the idea, then blurted, “You’ll write to me, won’t you?”

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with expectation. He hesitated, a flicker of something—guilt, perhaps—crossing his face before it smoothed back into neutrality. “If time allows.”

That was all he offered. No promises. No reassurances. Just a vague, distant answer that left your heart sinking.

Outraged, and a bit petulant, you exclaimed. “What do you mean if time allows? Will you be so busy that you won’t have time? Are you not at least going to grant me some peace of mi—what is that?”

In the corner of your eye, you see something in his hand catch the sunlight, and glimmer. He hesitates, his hand clenching before inevitably opening his palm. A timid, “For you, Your Highness.”

An instinctual don’t call me that dies out in your throat as he shows you what he was hiding. In it he uncovers a small, delicate object—a pin shaped like a blooming flower, its petals carved with meticulous detail and painted in hues of white and gold.

You stared at it, your hands trembling as you took it from him. “What is this for?”

“It’s a symbol,” he explained, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “Of where I’ll always be, even if I’m not here. Keep it with you, and you’ll know that... that I’ll do everything I can to return.”

“Oh, Choso.” Your bottom lip trembled as tears welled in your eyes, threatening to spill over. Your fingers closed around the pin, the intricate craftsmanship biting into your palm. Somehow, the weight of it felt heavier than it should’ve been. “I don’t want a pin, Choso,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I want you to stay.”

His expression softened, and for a moment, it seemed like he might reach out to you. But then he stilled, the rigidity in his posture a clear reminder of the boundaries he refused to cross.

Even so, you didn’t want to seem ungrateful. The gift, despite your pain, was beautiful, and its meaning wasn’t lost on you. You sniffled, brushing a tear from your cheek with a trembling hand. “But it is beautiful, regardless,” you murmured, holding it up to the light. The golden edges of the petals gleamed softly, like sunlight captured in metal. “Put it in my hair?”

Choso blinked, caught off guard by the request. His gaze flickered between you and the pin, uncertainty etched into his features. “Your Highness, I—”

“Please,” you interrupted gently, tilting your head slightly toward him. “Just this once.”

He hesitated for a long moment, his fingers flexing at his sides as though he were battling some internal conflict. Finally, with a barely audible sigh, he reached out and took the pin from your hand.

You held your breath as he stepped closer, his presence steady and grounding despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. His hand brushed against your hair and your neck as he carefully gathered a small section, his touch warm and deliberate. You could feel the calluses on his fingertips, earned from countless hours of swordsmanship, yet his movements were painstakingly gentle.

“There,” he said softly, stepping back to examine his work. His gaze lingered on you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, his formal mask cracked ever so slightly. There was something in his eyes—something raw and unspoken—that made your chest tighten.

You reached up instinctively, your fingers brushing against the cool metal of the pin now nestled securely in your hair. “How does it look?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light, though the lump in your throat made it difficult.

Choso’s lips parted, but no words came. He swallowed hard, his gaze darting away as if he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer. “It’s beautiful,” he finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The horn sounded again, louder this time, breaking the fragile moment between you. Choso stepped back, the walls of propriety rising between you once more.

“Thank you,” you managed, your voice steady despite the ache in your chest.

He bowed deeply, avoiding your eyes. “Goodbye, Your Highness.”

And then he was gone, leaving you alone with the faint scent of earth and steel, the pin in your hair a bittersweet reminder of the distance that now separated you.

For weeks after, you found yourself restless, wandering the garden paths where you had once talked and laughed together. You scribbled letter after letter, pouring out questions and updates, recounting bits of palace gossip and even sending sketches of the places you’d been. But no reply ever came.

At first, you tried to excuse it—surely, he was too busy, too occupied with the rigors of war to respond. Still, you kept writing, sending your letters to the front lines with the faint hope that one day, you’d receive one in return.

“Any news of the general’s son?” you would ask your father over dinner, feigning casual interest.

“He’s doing well,” your father would reply, distractedly cutting into his meal. “His tactics in the northern campaign have earned him commendation. A fine young soldier.”

You pressed further, ignoring the disapproving look your mother shot you. “And... is he safe?”

Your father raised a brow but indulged you. “Of course. The reports say he’s advancing quickly through the ranks. A promotion to captain is already under consideration.”

Your chest swelled with pride at the thought, but it was quickly eclipsed by frustration. If he was receiving such accolades, surely he could find the time to write a simple letter?

“Why do you trouble your father with such questions?” your mother chided later, her tone clipped. “The general’s son is serving the nation. You should focus on more important matters, like preparing for your duties.”

But your concern for Choso only grew. Whenever news from the front lines arrived, you would listen intently, hoping to hear his name mentioned. When you did, it brought a fleeting sense of relief, but it never lasted long.

The silence from him felt heavier with each passing month. You couldn’t understand it—how could someone who had once been your closest companion, who had sworn to always protect you, sever that bond so easily?

And yet, you never stopped writing. Each letter was folded with care, sealed with your personal wax stamp, and sent off with the same unwavering hope. Even if he didn’t reply, even if you didn’t understand why, you couldn’t bring yourself to stop.

The city was alive with celebration, a symphony of cheers, music, and the occasional crackle of fireworks that lit up the night sky. The soldiers had finally come home after a long winded war, and you just couldn’t miss out on the excitement. After Choso’s departure, you had grown. Before you were a gangly teenager, but now you were a young woman. With this came you forming your own opinion, independent of our parents, and had developed a habit of frequently sneaking out of the palace.

You couldn’t bear to stay confined to the palace, not when the air was thick with excitement and the news of the army’s triumphant return had set the entire city alight. The soldiers, clad in polished armor that gleamed even in the dim light, strode through the streets in small groups while the people cheered on the sidelines. They carried themselves with the confidence of men who had seen battle and emerged victorious.

Young ladies lingered at the edges of the crowd, their eyes alight with hope as they watched the soldiers pass. Some called out to them, their voices playful and lilting, while others merely smiled shyly, clutching kerchiefs or flowers they clearly longed to offer. The soldiers, for the most part, maintained a stoic demeanor, though a few exchanged grins or nodded in acknowledgment, their faces betraying a mix of pride and exhaustion.

Children darted between legs, waving tiny flags and shouting in delight, while their parents looked on with a mix of relief and gratitude. The scent of roasted chestnuts and spiced wine wafted through the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of the soldiers’ armor. It was a night of unity, of celebration, where the lines between commoner and noble blurred in the shared joy of victory.

Draped in a simple cloak to conceal your identity, you slipped past the guards at the palace gates, your heart pounding with both exhilaration and trepidation. The anonymity of the cloak felt liberating as you merged with the crowd, the world suddenly vast and unguarded in a way it never was within the palace walls.

Laughter surrounded you, the contagious energy of the revelry lifting your spirits as you wandered farther from the familiar confines of royal life. You paused to admire a street performer juggling flaming torches, your cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. But before you could move on, a sudden gust snatched the handkerchief tucked into your cloak.

You gasped, your fingers grasping for it, but the delicate fabric was already airborne, dancing above the heads of the crowd. You watched helplessly as it soared higher, carried by the playful wind. Instinctively, you gave chase, weaving through the throng of revelers as your heart raced with the thrill of pursuit.

The handkerchief drifted out of sight, disappearing beyond the swell of people. Your steps faltered, and you stood on tiptoe, scanning the crowd in vain. It was only then that a firm hand shot up above the sea of heads, catching the fluttering fabric mid-air. The sight of your handkerchief, caught in a strong, gloved grip, sent a jolt through you.

Your gaze traveled upward, and there he stood—a figure that was at once familiar and startlingly different. His broad shoulders and proud stance were unmistakable even before he turned, his dark eyes locking with yours.

“Your Highness?” His voice was deep, steady, and entirely too familiar. Then, his eyes went to your hair—you, still wearing the hairpin he gave you that day—and they filled with a conflicted, longing sort of expression.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you froze. He looked so much…bigger. He always had muscles due to his frequent physical lessons, but he was so much taller now, his face a lot more sculpted. Before you could interpret what the lurching in your heart meant, he took a step towards you. But before he could take another step toward you, you turned and ran instinctively, the sound of his voice chasing you as surely as his footsteps.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK! If Choso knew you had sneaked out, he would send you right back, citing useless things about duty and protecting you. While your traitorous heart started beating faster as soon as you saw him—different, but still undeniably Choso—you knew your liberty was at an end if he sent you home and informed your parents of what you did.

You bolted as fast as you could, your cloak billowing behind you as you darted into a narrow alley. Footsteps echoed against the cobblestones, heavy and deliberate, chasing you down. You reached the end of the alley and stopped, your chest heaving, unsure whether to keep running or face him.

“Your Highness,” the voice came again, closer this time.

You spun around, and there he was. Choso. But he wasn’t the boy you remembered—he was a man now. Broad shoulders filled out his uniform, the insignia of his rank glinting on his chest. His hair was tied back, revealing a face hardened by battle and time. Yet his eyes, dark and intense, still held the same quiet depth you’d known as children.

He dropped to one knee, his hand over his heart. “Your Highness.”

You gaped at his display. Since when did he start kneeling? “What are you doing?”

His voice came out, devoid of the warmth you had once known. “It’s protocol, Your Highness.” His head remained bowed, his knee pressed to the uneven cobblestones, the hand holding your handkerchief resting against his heart.

But you were in denial, scrambling to pull him up by his arms. It was futile; he was way stronger than you, and at your touch, he jumped back, as if stung. Wounded, you urged him. “Get up,” you stepped closer, “Choso, it’s me. You don’t need to—”

“I must, Your Highness.” His tone was calm but resolute, his gaze fixed on the ground. “Unless you are issuing an imperial command, I have no choice but to honor the rules set forth by your station.”

You stared at him, your chest tightening. “An imperial command?” The words tasted bitter on your tongue. You didn’t want commands; you wanted familiarity, the easy camaraderie you once shared.

“Yes, Your Highness.” He finally lifted his gaze to meet yours, his dark eyes steady and unreadable. “If you do not wish me to kneel, then say it as such. Otherwise…” He lowered his head again. “This is my place.”

“Your place?” You felt a flicker of anger rise in your chest. “Choso, your place is by my side, as it always has been! Don’t—don’t treat me like some distant monarch.”

His shoulders tensed, and you thought you caught a flash of something—guilt, perhaps?—in the way his fingers tightened around the handkerchief. But still, he didn’t move.

Frustrated, you stepped even closer, your voice rising despite your efforts to remain calm. “Get up,” you said, reaching out and tugging at his arm. “I said, get up!”

“I cannot,” he said softly, the words cutting through your frustration like a blade. “Not unless you order it as my superior.”

You stared at him, a mix of hurt and disbelief swirling in your chest. “Fine,” you said, your voice trembling. “If that’s what it takes, then I command you—get up, Choso. I command you to stand!”

For a moment, the tension lingered in the air, thick and suffocating. Slowly, reluctantly, he rose to his feet, towering over you with a presence that felt both familiar and foreign.

But as you looked up at him, your frustration only grew. “This isn’t you,” you said, your voice softer now, tinged with sadness. “You’re treating me like I’m just your princess, like I’m someone you barely know. Do you even know how much it hurt when you never wrote back to me? I kept sending letter after letter, but it was like you didn’t care. Like you forgot about me.”

Choso’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. “It wasn’t my place to respond, Your Highness.”

It was that damn phrase. “Your place?” you echoed, now even more bitterly. “You were my friend, Choso. My closest friend. Now you stand here, calling me Your Highness like I’m a stranger, like we never ran through the gardens or talked under the stars. I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

For a moment, his expression softened, but it was fleeting. He straightened, his demeanor distant once more. “It’s dangerous for you to be here,” he said quietly. “I need to call for a carriage to take you back to the palace.”

Your heart sunk to your derriere. If Choso did indeed send you back, your parents would undeniably discover that you’ve been sneaking out. “No!” you snapped, stepping forward. “You can’t. If my parents find out I was here, they’ll—”

“They’ll ensure your safety,” he interrupted, his voice steady but firm. “And that’s what matters.”

You stared at him, now anger bubbling in your chest. “So you’ll just hand me over like I’m some burden to be dealt with? What about you?” Then, in a strong fit, you bursted out. “Are you going to stay here and fool around with girls while I’m locked away in the palace?”

His eyes widened briefly at your accusation, a flicker of surprise breaking through his stoic mask. But then his expression hardened, and he took a step back. “That’s not fair,” he said quietly.

“Fair?” you shot back, your voice trembling. “What’s fair about any of this, Choso? You’re not even trying to fight for us—for the friendship we used to have.”

He hesitated, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “It’s not that simple,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then make it simple!” you demanded, your heart aching with every word. “Stop pushing me away. Stop acting like I don’t matter to you anymore.”

For a moment, you thought he might say something—something real, something that would bridge the growing chasm between you. But instead, he turned away, his voice steady and distant as he said, “Wait here. I’ll call for the carriage.”

You watched him walk away, the ache in your chest spreading until it felt like it would consume you entirely. The handkerchief in your hand trembled as you clenched your fingers around it, your anger and sadness swirling into a storm of emotion.

And yet, even as he disappeared into the bustling streets, a part of you refused to believe this was the end. You couldn’t let it be.

Ever since his return to the palace, Choso has been ignoring you.

It’s not that you were spending every hour and every minute with him before, when he was just your childhood friend. However, you would meet everyday, whether it to be sneak off into the gardens at night, or meet for lunch or dinner. Even a request of yours could’ve secured a visit to town, the both of you going to town to eat pastries and street food while accompanied by a chaperone. Of course, that was due to your incessant pleas to your disapproving mother, but you could score an occasional playdate outside the palace every month or so.

But it feels…different. And he feels different.

You oft find yourself daydreaming about him, older and a decorated soldier. And before you can catch yourself, you find your cheeks heated and your heart set aflutter. It’s a bit mind-boggling, really. Ever since Choso left, none of the future dukes and lords had ever caught your attention, even at balls. Their gentle, weak disposition didn’t compare to your Choso, you always thought. Back then, you had always thought of it as pride for your best friend, but now…..

Musing aside, you’re tired of this distance Choso has created between you. So you choose to seek him out.

The castle courtyard was alive with the sharp clang of swords and the rhythmic stomp of boots on hard-packed dirt. You leaned over the balustrade of the upper terrace, concealed behind a stone pillar, watching the soldiers below. It wasn’t the sparring or the strategy that captivated you—it was Choso.

The sun bore down on him as he moved with precision and power, his blade a silver blur as he sparred with one of the veteran knights. His whole torso is bare; damp with sweat, the sun shines against the cords and cords of muscle that then lead to a string of hair that trails into his trousers. The muscles in his arms ripple with every swing and parry. You bite your lip, feeling a warmth creep up your cheeks that you stubbornly attributed to the summer heat.

He had changed so much. Gone was the boy who had laughed with you under the willow tree and run with you through the gardens. In his place was a man who carried the weight of war on his broad shoulders, his every movement deliberate, his expression unreadable. And yet, despite the distance he put between you, you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

When the sparring session ended, Choso handed his sword to a squire and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. You straightened as he turned, half-expecting him to glance up and spot you. But he didn’t. Instead, he spoke briefly to the knight, his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. You couldn’t keep hiding and watching from afar. You had to speak to him, to demand answers for why he had been avoiding you since the day in the alley.

Quickly, you made your way down to the courtyard, your pulse racing as you rehearsed what you would say. But when you reached the training grounds, Choso was already heading toward the barracks.

“Choso!” you called out, your voice echoing across the courtyard.

He froze mid-step, his shoulders tensing before he turned slowly to face you. His expression was neutral, guarded, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—something he quickly masked.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing his head. “What brings you here?”

You frowned, frustrated by the formality in his tone. “I wanted to speak with you,” you said, stepping closer. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He shook his head, his dark hair falling into his eyes. “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy with training and my duties.”

“That’s a lie,” you said, crossing your arms. “You always find a reason to leave whenever I try to approach you. You didn’t even look at me after the alley—”

“Your Highness,” he interrupted, his voice firm but not unkind. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s not proper for you to be seen in the training grounds.”

“Proper?” you repeated, anger flaring in your chest. “Since when do you care about what’s proper? You didn’t care when we were sneaking out or when we were running through the gardens—”

“That was different,” he said, his tone softer now. “We were children. Things aren’t the same anymore.”

“Why not?” you demanded, your voice trembling. “Why are you pushing me away?”

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the soldiers milling about in the distance. “I’m not pushing you away,” he said finally. “I’m doing what’s best for you.”

“What’s best for me?” You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “How can ignoring me and avoiding me be what’s best for me?”

Choso didn’t answer. Instead, he bowed his head again, his hands clenched at his sides. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I need to return to my duties.”

And before you could stop him, he turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the courtyard, your heart aching with every step he took.

You paced the length of your chambers, clutching the skirts of your dress. It’s been two times that Choso dismissed since his arrival. Did he abhor you so?

It was as if an invisible wall had been erected between you, the builder of it Choso for some mysterious reason. Proprietary aside, it would be okay for the occasional chat, would it not? After all, he was still a noble in his own regard, and a conversation or two wouldn’t be frowned upon. So why was he ignoring you entirely?

You couldn’t take it anymore. If he wouldn’t come to you, then you would ensure he had no choice but to stay by your side. If he truly detests it, you will let him go, no matter how painful it would be and how ardently you would mourn your friendship. But you needed to know.

Resolved, you marched to your parents’ audience chamber, where they were seated in quiet discussion. Your father looked up first, his brows furrowing slightly at your abrupt entrance. “What is it, my dear? You seem troubled.”

Your mother glanced at you as well, seated right next to the king, her sharp gaze assessing. “Has something happened?”

You straightened your shoulders, facing them both, willing your voice to remain steady. “Father, Mother, I have a request.”

Your father tilted his head, curious. “Go on.”

You hesitated for only a moment before speaking. “I would like Choso to be assigned as my personal guard.”

The queen blinked, her lips pressing into a thin line, and questioned, “Choso?”

“Yes,” you said quickly to prevent your mother from getting a word in. “He’s proven himself in battle, hasn’t he? He’s been promoted several times for his skill and loyalty. Who better to protect me?”

Your father leaned back in his chair, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “It’s true he’s risen quickly through the ranks. He’s a fine soldier.”

“And he’s someone I trust,” you added, stepping closer. “He’s been by my side since we were children. I feel safer with him than with anyone else. With me growing into adulthood, there would be no one better to be by my side.”

Your mother’s gaze sharpened. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with his recent return to the palace, would it?”

You met her eyes, refusing to back down. “It has everything to do with the fact that I need someone I can rely on. Someone who knows me.”

Your father exchanged a look with your mother, his expression unreadable. Finally, he nodded. “Very well. I will speak to the general about the arrangement.” Then, a little wryly, he adds, “Although, I did hear that it was him that reported you when you were sneaking out in public. Perhaps it would be a fine match.” At that, your mother visibly bristled at the memory of hearing that you were out, unguarded.

At the king’s words, relief washed over you, but it was quickly tempered by your mother’s stern voice. “This is highly unusual, you know. A princess requesting a specific guard. People will talk.”

Inwardly, you rolled your eyes, but showing sass to your mother would mean that she would argue further.  Instead, you went and showed her your pride. “Let them,” you said, lifting your chin. “I don’t care what they say.”

Your father chuckled softly, knowing you would say something of the sort. “Spoken like a true princess.”

“Thank you,” you said, bowing your head. “Both of you, Father and Mother.”

As you left the chamber, your heart raced with a mix of excitement and nervousness. This was your chance—your chance to bring Choso back into your life. Whatever walls he had built between you, you were determined to tear them down.

The water was warm, steam curling gently around you as you leaned back in the large marble tub. The golden light of the setting sun streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting vibrant patterns across the tiled floor. It was one of the few moments you had to yourself, free from the watchful eyes of attendants and the endless constraints of royal duty. You closed your eyes, sinking deeper into the water, allowing yourself to relax—until the door to your bathing chamber slammed open.

“Your Highness, why did you—” At first, Choso raised his voice slightly, storming in. Then, he stopped right in his tracks as he noticed you, and your face, your neck and then the rest of your body engorged in soapy, steamy water. Blushing furiously, he turned, scrambling for the door. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to—”

He was rigid as he stormed toward the exit, and you couldn’t help but stifle a giggle at the sight. “Choso, wait,” you called, your voice laced with amusement. He stopped abruptly, halting awkwardly in his tracks. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm for your new title,” you teased, “I’d prefer if you didn’t barge into the bathing chamber. Let us count ourselves lucky that you had not seen… more.”

It was nearly impossible not to laugh now. Even the back of his neck was flushed a deep crimson, and it struck you as absurdly endearing. The aloof and stoic soldier who had spent weeks ignoring you had crumbled into a shy boy at the mere sight of you in a tub. You supposed it made sense—he’d likely not had much interaction with women, what with his rigid dedication to the army. Still, his reaction felt... exaggerated.

Choso let out a shaky exhale, his voice strained when he finally spoke. “I apologize,” he said, his tone clipped as though to mask his discomfort. “But I must ask—why did you instate me as your guard?”

The answer was simple, and you played absentmindedly with a soap bubble as you replied, “Because there is no one I trust more than you.”

For a moment, the room was silent save for the faint dripping of water. Then, Choso spoke, his voice low and almost pained. “Why must you do this to me? Why must you torment me so?”

What?

His words pierced through the lighthearted atmosphere, leaving you stunned. A pang of hurt welled in your chest at the sharpness of his tone. “Does it torment you to be in my company?” you asked, laughing scornfully to hide the sting.

When he didn’t answer, the silence was louder than any words could have been.

“If it torments you,” you continued bitterly, “then so be it. You have already had my one liberty stripped away. Mother and Father have doubled the surveillance on me, all thanks to you.” The memory of your recent restrictions only added fuel to the fire of your frustration. “Is this not fair? An eye for an eye, then. Perhaps your torment will teach you to stop pretending you know what’s best for me.”

Still brimming with anger, you lifted your chin and gestured to the door. “You may leave now.”

For a moment, he stood there, the weight of his presence filling the room. Then, with a stiff nod, he turned to the door. “Your Highness,” he murmured, his voice cold and formal.

And then, he was gone.

You really do abhor dinner parties.

There’s much wrong with them, and if you had to, you could do a systematic rundown of every single grievance. The first and foremost was the absurd inability to properly enjoy the food. The chefs’ hard work deserved to be indulged in, not nibbled delicately with those ridiculous little spoons. And then there was the matter of breathing, which you could barely manage with your waist cinched so tightly and your bodice forcing your chest up like some cruel display. Sitting down practically demanded you forgo the simple luxury of air.

But the worst part? Having to entertain men.

“And I have acquired double the profits of Lord Gojo,” Lord Naoya declared, puffing his chest like a rooster preening in the henhouse. His voice boomed with self-importance, his words spilling out in a showy, rehearsed cadence.

You couldn’t help yourself—you smiled. And while it appeared to him as admiration, it was born of pure amusement. The man clearly thought you were too dim to know better, but you were well-versed in state finances. Lord Naoya’s exaggerated claims were as transparent as glass.

On your right, Choso sat silently, his role as your personal guard justifying his unusually close position. He had been quiet all evening, his eyes scanning the room more than his plate.

“And surely, a woman as lovely as yourself would agree that business acumen is the truest mark of a man’s value,” Naoya continued, leaning closer to you with a smirk you found utterly punchable.

You giggled, not at his words, but at the sheer absurdity of them. You bit your lip to stifle a laugh, but your amusement couldn’t be fully hidden.

When you finally turned to glance at Choso, however, your mirth faltered. He wasn’t looking at Naoya anymore—his dark eyes were locked on you, his brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line.

He looked very upset.

You blinked, confused, before glancing back at Naoya, who was still prattling on, utterly oblivious. Was Choso… angry at you?

It didn’t make sense. After you had initiated him as your guard, he’d been resigned after that confrontation in your bathing chambers. Ever since, you’d seen him stoic, protective, and even exasperated, but this—this was different. The weight of his gaze lingered on you like a reprimand, and it unsettled you in ways you couldn’t quite explain.

“Your Highness, I trust you’d agree,” Naoya pressed, oblivious to the charged air.

“Agree?” you echoed, snapping back to attention. You hadn’t been listening, too distracted by Choso’s silent brooding. “Oh, of course,” you said vaguely, waving your hand with a polite smile. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Naoya looked pleased with himself, but you barely noticed. Your focus shifted back to Choso, who had turned his head forward, his jaw tight. You leaned closer to him, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “Is something the matter?”

He didn’t look at you, his tone curt. “Nothing, Your Highness.”

Your stomach twisted at the formality. The night had already been exhausting enough, and now Choso was acting like you’d personally offended him.

“Choso,” you pressed, your voice softer now, “if I’ve done something to upset you—”

“It’s not my place to say,” he interrupted, finally looking at you. His gaze was sharp, cutting through your defenses. “But if I may offer counsel, I’d suggest not wasting your smiles on men like him.”

You blinked, taken aback. His words weren’t loud, but they struck with the force of a hammer.

“What does that mean?” you whispered, your amusement long gone, replaced by confusion—and something else you couldn’t quite name.

“It means,” Choso said, his voice low, “that he’s not worth it.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with implication.

Before you could respond, the clinking of glasses drew everyone’s attention, and you were forced to look away as a toast was made. But even as the room filled with polite applause and laughter, your thoughts were consumed by Choso’s quiet but pointed remarks.

When you glanced back at him, his focus was elsewhere, his expression carefully neutral. Yet something about the tension in his shoulders told you that the conversation wasn’t over—not really.

And for the rest of the evening, Naoya’s words became nothing more than background noise, drowned out by the quiet storm brewing in Choso’s eyes.

The air in your chambers was warm, the faint crackle of the fireplace soothing you as your maid finished tugging the laces of your nightgown into place. The fabric was delicate, thin enough to feel the cool evening breeze against your skin despite the room's warmth. With a bow, the maid excused herself, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

Ever since that dinner party with Naoya, Choso had been more distant than ever. Before, it had seemed that he had warmed up to the task of being your guard; whenever you walked through the garden, you eventually warmed him enough that the both of you could converse during the stroll. Of course, it hadn’t returned to what it was like before, but it was still progress. However, now it seemed that all he had to offer was curt responses and avoidant stares. 

The change grated on you, more than you cared to admit. You weren’t naïve; you knew something had shifted that night. The way he had looked at you, the way his words had cut—it all lingered, a splinter in your chest that you couldn’t pull free.

Still, tonight was meant to be routine, a brief reprieve from the emotional turmoil. You always ended your evenings with a massage, a small luxury that helped soothe the tension from the day. Summoning Choso to your chambers, you intended for him to call for the maid who usually performed the task.

When he arrived, his expression was as stony as ever. “You called for me, Your Highness?”

“Yes, Choso,” you said, smoothing your hands over the hem of your nightgown. You lazed back on your chaise lounge, head against pillow as you looked at him. “I need the maid for my massage. Could you fetch her?”

He hesitated. “The maids have retired for the night. Shall I summon someone from the servants’ quarters?”

You frowned. The thought of disturbing anyone at this hour felt excessive. Then, your gaze drifted to Choso, his broad shoulders rigid, his hands clasped behind his back in his usual formal stance. An idea struck you, and you spoke before fully thinking it through.

“Then you’ll do it.”

His dark eyes snapped to yours, wide with disbelief. “Your Highness, I—”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence but unable to fully hide the mischief in your smile. “Oh, come now, Choso. You’re stronger than any maid. Surely, your hands would be better suited for the task.”

For a moment, he simply stared at you as though you’d just declared the sky was green. His lips parted, but no words came out, his gaze darting nervously around the room before settling back on you. “I don’t think that’s… appropriate,” he said carefully, his voice low and strained.

You leaned back slightly, arching a brow. “And why not? It’s just a massage. Surely, as my personal guard, it’s your duty to ensure my comfort, no?”

“Your Highness—”

“Choso,” you interrupted, your tone softening as you leaned forward slightly, letting your hair cascade over one shoulder. “You’ve sworn an oath to protect me. Are you really going to deny me such a simple request? Besides,” you added with a teasing smile, “I trust you. Who better to take care of me?”

His jaw tightened, and he looked away, his shoulders visibly tensing. It was rare to see him so uncharacteristically flustered, and you found it almost endearing. Still, you could see the war waging behind his eyes—the struggle between his rigid sense of propriety and his inability to deny you.

“Choso,” you said again, gentler this time, “it’s just us here. No one else needs to know. Please?”

The word seemed to undo him. After a long, weighted pause, he exhaled sharply, his hands clenching at his sides before he gave a stiff nod. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

You smiled in satisfaction and shifted, lying down on the chaise lounge with your head resting on your folded arms. The thin fabric of your nightgown clung to your back and shoulders, leaving little to the imagination, but you paid it no mind. Choso, however, hesitated, his gaze flickering over you before he finally moved to kneel beside you, his movements almost painfully hesitant.

You settled onto the chaise lounge, lying on your stomach and pulling your hair over one shoulder to expose the curve of your neck. The thin fabric of your nightgown clung to your body, leaving little to the imagination, but you paid no mind to it. Choso, however, lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his dark eyes flickering over the exposed skin before quickly darting away.

The tension in the room was palpable, and though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel his hesitation. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, until finally, he knelt beside you, his movements stiff and deliberate. His hands hovered just above your shoulders for a moment, as if he were debating whether to go through with it, before he finally made contact.

The first press of his palms was firm, his calloused hands warm against your skin. He worked in silence, but his touch was tentative, almost reluctant, as though every movement was a battle against himself. His fingers found the knots in your shoulders, but his grip tightened slightly as you let out a soft sigh of relief.

“You’re good at this,” you murmured, your voice languid. “I should’ve asked you sooner.”

Choso didn’t respond, but his hands stilled for the briefest moment, his jaw tightening. He resumed a beat later, his touch growing more confident as his fingers moved lower, kneading along the length of your spine. Yet, there was something almost possessive in the way he worked, his hands lingering at the curve of your back, brushing the edges of your nightgown with an intimacy that felt deliberate, even if unspoken.

Heat pooled in your belly, but the mood shifted when Choso spoke, his voice low and edged with something that made your breath catch.

“Do you let all your guards do this to you?”

Your eyes snapped open, the sharpness of his tone cutting through the haze. You turned your head to look at him, frowning. “What?”

He straightened, pulling his hands away, anger visible on his face. “Do you let all your guards touch you like this, or am I just the special fool?”

The accusation in his voice stung. You sat up on the chaise lounge, clutching the fabric of your nightgown to your chest. “What are you implying?”

“I’m implying,” he said, his eyes dark and filled with something unnameable, “that you smiled at Naoya like he was the only man in the room. That you entertained his nonsense—his lies—like you actually enjoyed it.”

A sharp laugh escaped you, incredulous and hurt. “You think I was flirting with Naoya? That I would ever entertain a fool like him?”

“You did tonight,” Choso shot back, his jaw clenched tightly. “You smiled and laughed at him, as if he deserved it. As if you weren’t above him. The you I knew wouldn’t have entertained someone like Naoya for a second. It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.”

That cut deeper than it should have. Your breath hitched, and frustration welled in your chest, bursting free before you could stop it.

“You don’t know me anymore?” you echoed, your voice trembling with emotion. “Well, Choso, I don’t know you either! You’re the one who left me without a word. You’re the one who never answered my letters, who pushed me away for no reason. You didn’t answer them for years, Choso. For years! How can you stand there and talk about me changing when you’ve done everything you could to shut me out?”

He flinched, as if your words struck a nerve. His gaze fell to the floor, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I didn’t answer because I thought it was better that way,” he said quietly. “Because I knew… whatever this was—whatever we were—it couldn’t last. I didn’t want to make it harder for you.”

Your heart cracked at his words, tears threatening to spill over. “You didn’t want to make it harder for me?” you repeated, your voice rising. “You made it unbearable, Choso! You didn’t just leave me, you abandoned me. Without explanation, without closure. You were my friend, my closest ally, and you just… disappeared!”

“I was avoiding the inevitable,” he said, his tone low and bitter. “I was saving us both from something that could never be.”

“And why not?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Why couldn’t we have stayed friends? Why couldn’t you have stayed as someone I trusted, someone I could rely on?”

Choso let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, his head bowing as his hands rose to rub at his temples. When he looked back at you, his eyes burned with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“You think I just want to be your ally?” Choso’s voice cracked, his tone harsh and trembling, a storm barely contained within him. He stepped closer, his shadow stretching toward you in the dim light. His dark eyes blazed, raw and unguarded, piercing straight through you.

“Do you think I want to spend the rest of my life standing at your side, pretending it doesn’t destroy me every time you smile at another man?” he continued, his voice rising with emotion. “Do you think I want to be some nameless figure in your life, someone who exists only to bow, to nod, to follow orders while the rest of the world gets to bask in your warmth?”

Your breath hitched as he took another step, the space between you shrinking.

“I don’t want to be your ally, your friend, or some loyal servant,” he said, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “I want you. I have always wanted you.”

His confession struck you like lightning, setting every nerve ablaze. You could see the anguish etched into his features, the way his hands shook as if he was struggling to hold himself back.

“I want to touch you without wondering if it’s inappropriate,” he went on, his words tumbling out, unrestrained. “I want to kiss you without the weight of the crown between us. I want to wake up beside you every morning, knowing you’re mine—truly mine—and not just some unattainable dream I’ve been foolish enough to carry.”

“Choso…” you whispered, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

“I want to tear apart every damned rule, every line drawn between us,” he continued, his voice thick with frustration and desire. “I want the world to see that you’re mine—not Naoya’s, not some prince’s, not anyone else’s. Mine.”

He let out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair, his composure unraveling further. “But that’s not what the world allows, is it?” he said, his tone laced with venom. “Because I’m not a prince or a duke or anyone worthy of you. I’m just a man—a soldier. And the world says I can’t have you.”

His chest heaved with the force of his confession, and his eyes—God, his eyes—burned with a pain so deep it was almost unbearable to witness.

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding as his words sank in. “You could have had me,” you said, your voice trembling, tears stinging your eyes. “If you’d just stayed, if you’d let me in instead of shutting me out. We could have figured this out together, Choso. I would have fought for you.”

His expression faltered, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his anger. “And what would you have me do?” he asked hoarsely. “Stand beside you while everyone whispers that I’m unworthy? Watch as suitors line up for your hand, knowing I can’t stop them because it’s my duty to protect you, not love you?”

“I don’t care what the world says!” you burst out, stepping closer, your voice rising with desperation. “I don’t care about duty or station or rules. All I ever wanted was you, Choso. You, as my friend, my ally, my—”

“Your what?” he interrupted, his voice low and rough. “Say it. Say what I’ve been longing to hear and dreading all at once.”

Your breath hitched, tears streaming down your face as you met his gaze. “My everything,” you whispered.

For a moment, the tension between you hung thick and electric, the weight of years of unspoken words pressing down on you both. Then Choso stepped back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his jaw tight.

“That’s why I stayed away,” he said quietly, his voice breaking. “Because I knew if I didn’t, I’d lose myself in you completely. And I wouldn’t be able to let you go. This is why I must stay away.” 

For a moment, he lingered there, his hand flexing at his side as if fighting some invisible force. His gaze dropped, and when he finally turned away, it was slow, deliberate, each step a struggle. He didn’t look back as he crossed the threshold, the heavy sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the silence.

The silence in your room was suffocating. Curtains drawn tightly, the dim flicker of a single candle cast wavering shadows on the stone walls. Plates of untouched food sat on a tray near the door, abandoned by the maids you had dismissed hours ago. The only sound was the faint rustle of your gown as you shifted on the edge of your bed, your arms wrapped around yourself as if trying to hold your broken pieces together.

A soft knock broke the stillness, tentative and almost hesitant. You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to see anyone, let alone speak. Whoever it was would surely leave if you didn’t respond.

But the door creaked open.

Your heart twisted. “I told you all to leave me be,” you said hoarsely, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

“I’m not one of your maids,” came a quiet reply from a voice that was all-too-familiar.

Your head snapped up, breath catching in your throat as Choso stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind him. His dark eyes, always so steady and unreadable, now held an uncharacteristic uncertainty.

“Get out,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended, though the hurt behind it was impossible to mask. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I know,” he murmured, taking a hesitant step forward. He held something in his hands—a small stack of parchment, edges worn and yellowed. “But I have something to say to you.”

You frowned, your gaze darting to the papers he carried. “What is that?”

“Letters,” Choso said, his voice thick with emotion. He swallowed hard before continuing, “The ones I wrote to you but never sent.”

You stiffened, your heart lurching painfully in your chest. “Why are you showing me this now?”

“Because I should have given them to you a long time ago,” he said simply. “And because I need you to know… what I couldn’t say before. But what I feel I must say now, for I am done with pretending I am not a selfish, selfish man.”

He stepped closer, setting the letters on the bed beside you. For a moment, he hesitated, then knelt before you, his hands resting on his thighs as he looked up at you with a mixture of guilt and determination, as if he had made a decision. And you fight desperately to not yourself believe that, perhaps, he has changed his mind, that he will finally take you in the way you desire.

But you steel your heart as you cautiously look at him. 

“Read them,” he said quietly. “Please.”

Your fingers trembled as you reached for the stack, the paper cool and rough beneath your touch. The first letter was dated years ago, the ink slightly smudged, as if his hand had lingered too long on the words.

My dearest friend,

I’ve written and torn up this letter a dozen times. How do I explain the ache I feel every night I march under foreign stars? How do I explain that even on the battlefield, amidst the chaos, my mind drifts to you? I think of our secret meetings in the garden, the way you’d laugh as you dared me to meet you in the willow tree every night. Do you remember that night we barely escaped the guards? Your laughter, your gown splayed across the forest floor. I dream of those nights—of you leaning close to steal the fruit in my palm, staring up at me, the world disappearing, and wishing I could ask for more. For you close to me not under the pretense of stealing the pomegranate in my hand, but for something more.

Your voice broke as you read, tears pooling in your eyes. Choso remained silent, his head bowed, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides.

You moved to the next letter.

The scent of jasmine haunted me on the journey here. Every step of the way, I remembered you crouched beneath the trellis, daring me to pluck the flowers despite the gardener’s wrath. When I handed you the bouquet, your smile made me feel invincible, as though I could conquer kingdoms just to see it again. I wished then that I could have told you the truth—that every reckless moment we shared was a reprieve from the weight of duty. I wanted to kiss you in the moonlight, to tell you that you were more than a dream to me. I tried to, in part, with the hairpin I gave you, one that amplified your gentle beauty even more than I thought possible. But how could I ruin what little time we had?

“Choso,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Why didn’t you send these?”

“I was a coward,” he admitted, his voice barely audible. “I thought… I thought it was kinder to stay away. To bury how I felt. But it wasn’t kinder, was it?”

You shook your head, unable to speak as you continued reading, each letter peeling away the walls you’d built to protect yourself from the pain of his absence.

When you reached the last letter, your breath hitched.

If I were braver, I’d tell you this to your face: I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time we ran barefoot through the gardens, laughing until we couldn’t breathe. I’ve loved you since you bandaged my hand after my sparring lessons, scolding me and treating me gently as if I weren’t a warrior, as if my rough, damaged hands were worth your care. I love you with a desperation that terrifies me, that kept me awake in camp as I replayed your smile over and over. If I lose you now, it will be my own doing. But still, I love you.

Your tears fell freely now, soaking the parchment. Choso rose slowly, his hands lifting as if to touch you but stopping just shy of your skin.

“Say something,” he pleaded, his voice raw.

Instead, you surged forward, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him down to meet you. Your lips found his in a kiss that was fierce and unrestrained, pouring every ounce of longing, anger, and love into the connection.

Choso froze for a heartbeat before melting into you. The kiss deepened, his lips moving against yours with a hunger that matched your own.

His hands moved to grasp your waist, as if afraid you might vanish. Before they could touch you, he paused as if doubting his ability to be able to touch you. To your frustration, the heat of his almost-contact pulled away. “Your Highness—”

“Choso,” you pleaded, grasping his hands in yours and placing them on their rightful place: your body. You dragged his hands down your torso, helping him explore your curves sensually, intimately as he squeezed his brows together, eyes shut, conveying his inner turmoil. His resolve almost cracked as you begged him, “Take me. Please.”

With agitation, he withdrew his hands from your grasp, painfully clenching them by his sides as he groaned. “Your Highness, you’re playing with fire. I mustn’t. Your body is of a thousand gold, and I would never dare to touch you with my hands—”

But you interrupted him by snorting. “If it is of a thousand gold, or whatever archaic term the royal legends have invented, then you are a thousand gold richer.” You gently took his face in your arms, kissing his forehead. “I am yours, and if you believe that anyone will have my heart after you, then you are most grievously mistaken.” 

He still looked at you, both kneeling on your bed, with a conflicted expression. You gave him a reassuring look before pressing another gentle kiss to his lips. Then, you teased him softly. “Will you not fight for my hand? Will you truly let me be promised to another man after this?”

His eyes darkened in a possessive manner, as he joined his lips against yourself furiously. “I would never,” he punctuated his interruptions with a searing kiss. “let anyone have you after this.”

With tender hands that heavily contrasted his desperation, he slipped the shoulder of your dress, dragging the hem down and down until your breasts were bare to the air. “So, so beautiful,” he whispered before enclosing your nubs in his mouth, kissing them both tenderly.

You could only but gasp, victim to his ministrations as he sneaked another hand up your legs, gently caressing your thighs until he met your core. He groaned, louder than ever, when he was met with the bare heat, wet with your desire and arousal all for him. With painstaking gentleness, he eased a finger in, drinking in your moans and sounds of pleasure. 

He couldn’t help but smile at the small scream that escaped you when he curled his fingers up. It seemed he had found the place that pleasured you most, one that you had stayed unbeknownst to. And he definitely couldn’t stop himself from torturing and repeatedly hitting against it with the way squeals of his name left your mouth whenever he did so.

Before you knew it, an unknown feeling washed over you as Choso kept continuing his touches, one that seemed like worship with how he was looking for your reactions, for your pleasure. A gush of slick escaped you, and Choso kissed your breasts one final time before drawing out his finger.

You peered down at him, flushed, as his eyes stayed trained on you while he slowly drew his finger inside his mouth, seeming to savor your taste. At last, he pulled it away from his mouth and asked, voice hoarse, “how are you feeling?”

You laugh bashfully and look away, blushing. “You know you don’t need to ask that. But,” and you pause, looking at him through your lashes, “you know I want more.”

The flush that was only apparent on his cheeks spread to his entire face and neck and he whines as he buries his face in your breasts once more, now to evade eye contact. “Don’t say things like that. It makes holding back even more arduous.”

You stroke his hair, smiling softly. “Would you have any qualms about taking my…maidenhood if you were my husband.”

His answer is immediate. “Absolutely not.”

“So you want to…make love with me?” You heat up at your own words, nervously looking at him in fear of his rejection.

He pauses, but then slowly nods. “Well, yes, but—”

“Then we shall put archaic traditions aside. Choso,” and you look at him mischievously as he squints at you, “I command you to make love to me.”

The reaction is immediate. As if animated again, he pins you down against your mattress, eyes feral as he takes your lips with his once more. With both hands, a riiiip echoes across the room as he entirely tears your shift in his bare hands. Mind you, it was not weak material, and you lay dumbfounded as he strips his shirt off.

You don’t even have time to admire his bare torso, muscled as you knew it would be. Your eyes automatically trail down to the string of hair that leads down to his v-line as he rids himself of his trousers. 

What gets uncovered makes you pray for your life, and you gasp, eyes wide. “How is that even supposed to go inside—”

He says your name, reassuringly, as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. “I will take the utmost care of you. I promise.” He lines his length with your entrance, and, with another kiss, he pushes in gently.

When his member first breaches you, you gasp, dizzied by the fullness. Then, as he slowly bottoms out, you whine while impaled on his cock. “More.”

Basking in the euphoria of your clenching heat around him, at your request, he curses. He pulls out his length—slowly, gently—and then slams back in, and you squeal, whispering a breathless utter of his name once more. 

He continues making love to you, the sounds of his devotion echoing across the room. When you both climax, it is down with a prayer of the other’s name, as a promise. That you are both each other’s, and no qualms about proprietary and status could any longer apprehend either of you.

When the both of you settle down, him having gently cleaned you with a cloth, he collapses next to you in bed, bare arms engulfing you and pulling you closer. As you both lie there, skin to skin, you giggle at your own thoughts.

At the sound, Choso perks up, looking at you in soft amusement. “What’s the matter, my love?”

Ignoring the way your heart fluttered at the nickname, you replied, “I daresay you will be the strongest prince consort in the history of our kingdom.”

The mention of the weak nobles that had ascended the throne in centuries past makes him snicker smugly. “I would agree,” he muses, amused like you. “They would not have been as tall as me, or as strong, or as good in bed—-”

“Choso!” you squealed, grabbing a pillow and smacking him with it.

Grinning like a devil, he dodged with ease, catching your wrist and pulling you down onto the bed. Before you could protest, he wrestled himself on top of you, pinning your arms above your head and smothering you in kisses.

After his barrage was over, he turned solemn once more. “I’m serious,” he murmured, his tone softer, more sincere. His dark eyes searched yours, and his voice dropped to a near whisper. “I’ll protect you, stand beside you, love you until my last breath. You’re my queen in every way that matters. And no matter what, I’ll never leave your side again.”

Your breath hitched, his words settling deep in your chest. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you smiled, warmth flooding your heart. “And I’ll hold you to that, my love.”

He leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was equal parts promise and devotion. It wasn’t hurried or frenzied, but slow, a tangible declaration of everything you both had endured to reach this moment. Here, in the quiet of your chamber, with his weight grounding you and his lips marking you as his, you found the only place you wanted to be—by his side, now and always.

general masterlist

a/n AHH HI POOKIES!! I HOPE YOU GUYS LIKED MY FIRST CHOSO FIC?? let me know if i do him justice this was written with my pussy and me having a specific hyperfixation :3 anyways i really enjoyed writing this and i hope you guys did too :')

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots ;3

Trial By Combat - 4

Requested By: No One. Original Work.

CW: Post-SAGAU Imposter AU, Mentions of killing a divine being, kidnapping, drugging, manipulating people

Summary: Your health takes a turn for the better.

Note: 4.0 Archon Quest Spoilers.

Part One Part Two Part Three

It was only under exceptional circumstances that the harbingers would return to the homeland. If one of them managed to obtain a gnosis and further the Tsaritsa’s plan, a celebration was in order. Yet even then, it would be miracle for all to appear .

However when one of Tartaglia’s subordinates returned holding the newest edition from the Steambird, the Tsaritsa ordered all of them to return Snezhnaya.

The deafening silence filled the hall, encasing the walls with anticipation. As the pages were passed to the last harbinger, they were suddenly slammed onto the table before fluttering gracefully onto the floor.

“Focalors proves time and time again that she is not worthy of being an Archon.” Arlecchino spits. “I will go there and rip that gnosis out of her dead body.”

“Wait just a second.” Tsaritsa calls out. “Before we act, we must find out if their Grace is still alive. This paper gave no details of their condition.”

“Her Majesty is right. If their Grace is still alive we need to prioritize bringing them here.” Pulcinella adds.

Arlecchino scoffs, “I can do both. I’ll get the gnosis, kill Focalors, and get Their Grace.”

“That’s a bit ambitious. Don’t you think?” Pantalone questions, his voice as sweet as honey.

Alrecchino digs her nails into her palm. “This isn’t the time to pick a fight when Their Grace could be dying in the so-called Nation of Justice.”

“I agree.” The Tsaritsa begins, “Alrecchino will go to Fontaine but the Gnosis and Focalors are not the priority. Getting the Creator back to Snezhnaya is the only thing that matters.”

“—and if Their Grace is dead? What shall we do then?”

Everyone turns to stare at The Doctor. Although none of them wanted to think about the worst case scenario, it was still something that needed to be addressed.

“Then Focalors will beg for a quick death.”

-

When you woke up, you were greeted by more Melusines. They stood resolute in your room, as if they were guarding you. While the Melusine in front of you held a tray with food on it, it was plated beautifully. It was fixed with great care and it’s easy to tell a lot of attention was put into making it perfect.

“Did Neuvillette send you all again?” Are the first words to leave your lips once you sit up in the bed.

Blathine, who stood the closest to you, nods. “Monsieur told us to watch over you.”

She slides the tray carefully onto your lap being careful to not let anything fall. You look down at the tray licking your lips, you didn’t even realize how hungry you were until food was right in front of you.

“Thank you.” You smile picking up a piece of the sliced bulle fruit putting it in your mouth. It was sweet and refreshing, you craved more, desperately famished.

As you eat, you can’t help but notice how the Melusines get closer and surround your bed their eyes on you. You hesitate for a moment, dropping the piece of fruit back onto the plate as you wipe your mouth.

Their eyes followed every move you made, it was clear that the species was interested in humans but this felt like something else. Like how a child would act with their parent.

“I thought Melusines were responsible for guarding Fontaine?”

These five Melusines were apart of the Marechaussee Phantom, the blue uniforms and hats made it obvious.

“Monsieur Neuvillette increased the number of Gardes and Gardemeks around Fontaine so that we can prioritize your safety.” Menthe explains.

“My safety?

“Lady Furina and Monsieur Neuvillette prioritize you over everything. Everyone does.”

You want to scoff at their words, if you really were as valued as they say you wouldn’t be in this hospital bed right now.

“Your Grace…?”

You look up noticing a woman in a white coat standing by the door. Her blonde hair was pulled into a low bun and her red lips stretched into a welcoming smile.

“I’ve been assigned as your personal nurse and I’m here to change your bandages,” she explains. “Are you finished eating?”

You look down at the tray and the half eaten food on it. You still felt a bit hungry but having all these eyes on you made it difficult to eat. You push the tray away slightly as you nod at the woman.

The woman takes a step to enter the room but the Melusines were quick to approach as they checked her and her bag for anything suspicious.

The nurse places her bag at the foot of the bed opening it. Inside were multiple different medical supplies, bandages, and gloves. She grabs a pair of the gloves sliding them onto her slender fingers.

“How have you been feeling Your Grace? Any pain in your abdomen?” She asks.

“No. No pain.” You reply shifting slightly.

She looks over at you giving you another smile, “don’t worry Your Grace I’ll be quick. We just don’t want your wounds to get infected.”

You lay down on your back as the nurse slowly lifts your shirt to reveal the golden stained bandages wrapped around your torso. Carefully, she begins to unravel them making sure not to cause you any pain or discomfort.

Once the bandages were fully removed, you notice her eyebrows furrow. She bites her lip slightly as her eyes dart all across your exposed skin.

“Is something wrong?” You ask feeling a sense of dread creep up your spine.

“I— Your Grace.” She stammers, “Your wounds, they’re already healing.”

She touches what was left of your injury with her gloved hand. The gash was already almost closed and there was no more blood leaking from it. The wound looked more like a large scratch rather than something that could’ve killed you.

“Healing!?” You reply, “Already?”

“It’s fascinating…” she breathes out, “I never seen anything like it.”

The nurse begins to notice your discomfort, she clears her throat as she bows slightly to you. “I apologize for my behavior Your Grace. That was very unbecoming of me.”

She grabs the fresh bandages from her box and quickly wraps your abdomen back up.

“I do not believe you need these bandages anymore.” She says as she secures the bandages with medical tape. “however I will wrap them just as a precaution.”

Once she back away and pulls off her gloves you pull down your shirt and sit back up in the bed.

The nurse closes her bag and picking it up to put back in her shoulder. “Although you are healing much more quickly than expected, you should still drink plenty of water and get some rest.”

“I will inform Monsieur Neuvillette of your condition. I think by daybreak tomorrow you should be able to leave this bed.”

It was relieving to hear that you would be able to leave this bed soon. Being cooped up in the same room for days at a time was mentally draining. Especially when the only ones who visited you (excluding the Melusines) all groveled at your feet for an apology.

“Enjoy the rest of your day Your Grace,” she bows again, “I hope that you will be able to enjoy everything Fontaine has to offer you soon.”

She turns and walks towards the door, her heels clicking as she walks.

As her footsteps fade, the room grows silent again. You pull the blankets off your body standing from the bed. The Melusines watched your movements before Blathine speaks up.

“Did you have somewhere to go?” She asks tilting her head slightly. “We have been instructed to follow you.”

“I want to speak to Neuvillette.” You reply stretching your sore limbs, suddenly not feeling anymore pain in your abdomen.

“Monsieur Neuvillette?” She repeats, “Shall I bring Lady Furina as well? She’d love to talk to you.”

You shake your head quickly, “No. I only want Neuvillette.”

Blathine nods as she skips towards the exit of your room.

“Very well, I will return with the Iudex immediately.”

-

For the first time ever, the Northland Bank was closed and no outside personnel were allowed to enter. In fact, no one apart of the Fatui had been seen in the past twelve hours.

Except for Lyney and Lynette.

The magical duo who are loved by everyone in Fontaine, or at least they were before people found out they were from the House of Hearth. Although their name had been cleared from that case, no one would trust anyone associated with the Fatui.

That didn't stop them from entertaining the people around Fontaine with their latest tricks.

Even after Father returned from Snezhnaya the night before.

Alrecchino's visits were always sporadic, the children understood, she was a Harbinger. However this time it felt even more unexpected. The children had never seen her look so angry in their lives but she would never take her anger out on the children. There was one person in particular that she wanted to lash out on, but she has to focus on what’s important.

Lyney and Lynette were the ones pulled aside by Alrecchino, the task she had for them now was bigger than finding out the true nature of the Oritrace.

Yet the twins knew that a second chance will not be an option this time.

-

Getting into the hospital where you were being held would be impossible, that much was true. The level of security around that building alone was enough to rival any trial that had ever been held in Fontaine. No one would be getting into that building unless cleared by the ludex or the Archon themselves.

There was only one person that wasn’t a notable figure in Fontaine that was able to enter that building. The nurse who went through so many clearances and was lucky enough to provide the Creator with any medical assistance they needed.

When she had stepped out the building, the nurse was immediately surrounded by reporters from the Steambird who wanted to know anything about the Creators current condition.

“Could you tell us anything about how the Creators doing?”

“Are they healing? Have they woken up?”

“Will we be able to see them soon?”

“I apologize,” the nurse begins as she glances around at the crowd. “I cannot give any information on Their Grace at the moment.”

The reporters visibly deflate at the news, or rather the lack of news. She pushes her way through the crowd to head towards to Palais Mermonia. The streets of Fontaine were empty, most people were too focused on The Creator to be bothered with anything else.

“Excuse me, Miss?” A voice calls out.

The nurse stops walking and turns around to see who called out to her.

It was the twins, two faces anyone in Fontaine would recognize.

Her face brightens slightly, “Lyney and Lynette! I love your magic shows!”

Lyney gives her a sly smile as he takes a few more steps to be closer to the woman, his sister follows but doesn’t say anything.

“I’m glad you’re a fan!” He exclaims, “My sister and I have been working on our latest trick for our newest show. Would you mind if we showed it to you?”

The nurse hesitates, “Actually I don’t think I can—“

“It’s just one trick!” Lyney interjects, “It won’t take too much time, I promise.”

“Alright fine.” She concedes, “I can only stay five minutes though. I have somewhere important to be.”

The twins exchange glances while nodding.

“Very well! Prepared to be amazed!” Lyney exclaims.

Lyney and all of his siblings knew how awful that Fatui was. The group has done unimaginable things and ruined many people’s lives. However, the children also knew that the Harbingers has their own aspirations that had nothing to do with the group.

Arlechinno only had the best intentions for her homeland Fontaine and the Creator, that is one thing Lyney knew for sure. So if getting the Creator out of Fontaine was the best option, then he would feel no remorse for what he had to do.

The trick was simple, something Lyney wouldn’t use during one of his shows just because it’s not entertaining enough. Yet he isn’t here to entertain this woman, all they have to do is keep her distracted long enough so Father’s plan can work.

Lyney pulls off his hat and bows to the nurse who only laughed and clapped.

“That was amazing as always! I cannot wait to see it in your next show!”

His smile fades as he fixes his posture placing his hat back on his head. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I’ll be sure to reserve you a special seat in the front.”

Her laughter soon died down as she stares at the twins. Their warm welcoming nature was devoured by something more malicious. The nurse subconsciously takes a step back, the hand that held onto her medical bag began to tremble. Lyney’s face was devoid of emotion and Lynette’s gaze seemed to be focused behind the woman.

However, she had no time to turn around. Two large hands grip firmly onto her shoulders.

“You’re coming with us.”

The nurse’s eyes widen as the two Fatui Skirmishers forcefully pull her back towards the direction of the Northland Bank. She glances back at the twins who only watch silently as she is dragged away.

“What do you want?! Please don’t hurt me!” She cries.

In almost a blink of an eye, the woman was gone. With no witnesses or trace of her presence, the twins didn’t have to worry about being put on trial again.

Lyney sighs as he looks down at the pavement.

His sister places her hand on his shoulder, “Our job still isn’t finished. We still have to deal with the traveler. They cannot intervene.”

Lyney nods at her words as he readjusts his top hat, “You’re right. Let’s go.”

-

“You wished to see me Your Grace?”

Neuvillette stood by your doorway as he bowed respectfully to you. He spoke in a soft tone and he refused to meet your gaze.

“Yes. There’s something I needed to talk to you about.” You reply.

As he enters your room, the Melusines exit the room quietly leaving the two of you alone. Neuvillette stands by the window facing you. “How can I help you your Grace?”

“I’m sure the nurse has already told you, but my wounds are healing.” You say.

His eyebrows furrow as he brings his gloved hand up to his mouth, “No she hasn’t told me anything yet, but maybe she’s already waiting at Palais Mermonia.”

Neuvillette smiles, “but I’m glad to hear that you are feeling better. I will discuss your condition more with the nurse so I can make the preparations for you to leave the hospital. I want you to be as comfortable as possible in Fontaine.”

“There’s no need for that.”

His eyes widen momentarily but his expression doesn’t change, “What do you mean? If you don’t mind me asking.”

You look down at your lap as you fiddle with your fingers. Although he was trying everything in his power to make you feel comfortable, you still felt uneasy around the man. The last time you actually had an conversation with him, he considered you a criminal.

“I want to leave Fontaine.”

An awkward silence settles around the two of you as you wait for him to respond to your statement.

“I see…” Neuvillette begins, “…Is there a nation in particular you’d like to travel to?”

You ponder his question for a moment, you never really thought about where you’d go after you left the Nation of Hydro. It didn’t matter, you just wanted to get out of here.

“Sumeru.” You reply. “That is the closest nation, right?”

Neuvillette nods, “It is Your Grace, but to get to Sumeru city you’ll have to pass through the desert.”

“That’s fine I just—“ you pause, you didn’t want to say anything that he might take offense to.

“I can make the preparations for you to leave as early as possible. I will reach out to the Dendro Archon to make her aware of your arrival.”

“Is there anything I can say to make you change your mind?” Neuvillette asks quietly.

You look away from his gaze, “No. I don’t think you can.”

Neuvillette nods as he lets out a breath, “I see… was there anything else you’d like to discuss Your Grace?”

You shake your head, “No I’d rather just be alone right now. Could you send the Melusines away too?”

You could tell by the look he gave you he wanted to refuse your request but he doesn’t. He gives bows again as he begins walking back to the door.

“Oh Neuvillette!” You suddenly call out.

He turns to face you again, “Yes Your Grace?”

“Thank you for the flowers by the way.” You say sheepishly, “they’re beautiful.”

You see his pale cheek grow red slightly as he quickly turns away from you. “I’m glad you liked them. I’ll be sure to bring you more.”

You couldn’t help but smile at his embarrassed reaction.

“Your Grace,” Neuvillette says after clearing his throat, “I brought you another gift. I’d be honored if you’d accept it.”

You fix your posture, interested in what this gift could be. “What is it?”

He gestures for Blathine to enter to room, she was holding a nicely decorated vase in between her tiny hands as she holds it out to Neuvillette. He smiles down at her as he grabs it with one hand, using the other to pat her head lightly.

Neuvillette walks over to your bedside with the vase in hand, “It’s water Your Grace. Some of the best water you can find in all of Teyvat. I collected it specially for you.”

He places the vase next to the bouquet of flowers.

“Thank you Neuvillette,” you reply, “I’ll be sure to enjoy it.”

As you accept his gift you notice that his mood seemed to lift, almost like you never told him you wanted to leave Fontaine in the first place. Neuvillette gives you one last bow as he heads back to the exit.

“I will return personally to check on you in the morning Your Grace.”

Neuvillette and the Melusines leave without another word. Just like before, you were left alone with your own thoughts. You could only hope that Sumeru was better than Fontaine, but Nahida was the God of Wisdom so surely she wouldn’t accuse you of anything without evidence?

You let out a sigh as you relax back into the bed glancing out the window. The sky already had a orange hue signifying that the sun would be setting soon. You didn’t even realize how fast the day had passed, spending all your time in this room.

“…Your Grace..” A soft voice calls out.

You glance over at the door, it was a nurse, but not the one you had earlier today. Under the white coat she wore an unusual outfit, wouldn’t it even be comfortable working in an thing like that?

She seemed to notice your gaze on her appearance. “I apologize for my clothing Your Grace, but the matter was important.”

You stare at her a guarded look on your face, “where’s the other nurse? She was the one assigned to me by Neuvillette.”

She nods, “You’re right Your Grace, but there had been a complication with your injury and I was tasked to bring you medicine.”

You raise a brow, “The other nurse said I was healing? How could that change so quickly.”

The mysterious woman enters your room fully, her footsteps as silent as ever. You could hardly see her face as the light began to slowly drain from the sky.

“After checking your old bandages we are worried that an infection is already growing within your body. I brought a serum to stop it before it gets worse.”

Your eyes widen as your hand rests on your torso. An infection? Just when you thought you would be able to leave this nation, you could be stuck here even longer.

“Will this medicine heal me quickly?”

“Of course Your Grace. Your health is our up most priority.” She replies quickly.

She walks to your bedside pulling out a small bottle from her coat pocket. The liquid within it was clear as she holds it out to you.

“Here, you have to drink it all.”

You grab the bottle from her fingers taking out to cork as you smell it. The medicine had no scent. Slowly, you bring it up to your lips letting the medicine spill into your mouth as you drink it in one go.

The woman smiles as she takes the empty bottle from your hands. “Wonderful Your Grace. You’ll be feeling the effects very soon.”

Your head suddenly felt heavy as if the world was spinning around you. What the hell did you just take?You look up at the woman and she just had a small smile on her lips not saying anything else.

You felt uncoordinated as you reach over to the vase Neuvillette had gifted you to take a drink of water. Maybe some water would help wash this feeling away.

The vase slips from your weak grip crashing onto the ground, the glass shatters as the water splashes everywhere. The overwhelming feeling to close your eyes was growing stronger as you take one last glance at the woman, but this time you see someone standing behind her.

This woman had white hair with raven streaks, her eyes were black with and her pupils were X-shaped.

“Don’t worry Your Eminence,” the new woman says, her voice soft and graceful, “I will take care of you from now on..”

You couldn’t fight the feeling anymore, your eyelids close as you rest limply in the bed.

“Lady Harbinger. It’s done.”

The Knave enters the room fully stepping over the shards of glass the was scattered across the room. She kneels down in front of you bringing her hand up to cup your face.

“Tell the others to prepare the ship. We are leaving Fontaine immediately.” She whispers as if you’d wake up if she spoke too loudly.

“And what about Their Grace? Are we taking them back to the Zapolyarny Palace?”

“No.” Arlechinno replies curtly, “I have other plans for Their Grace.

-

-

© avocad1s 2023

Note: omg this took so long to get out! But I hope everyone is enjoying 4.1 update! I haven’t started it yet since I wanted to finish this first but to all Neuvillette wanters (me) you will win the 50/50 <3!!

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STRESS RELIEF | KAZUHA

IN WHICH: you're a picture perfect student who does nothing but study. he's a slacker who never misses a smoke sesh, but this time, you're invited.

contents- usage of marijuana

(not proofread)

the white haired boy always came late to class with nothing but a joint tucked inbetween his ear, or, some days if he's feeling extra studious, he'd replace it with a pencil. his bandaged hands were always empty, and fiddled with his red lighter under his desk in order to keep himself entertained as lecture continued.

so it was a great shock to you when after various amounts of awkward eye contact, he finally spoke to you, making an unexpected request.

"will you help me study?"

you were a straight A student, always the first one to finish tests, constantly studying in lab, and you never missed a day of class. maybe you were too good of a student and it caused you to lack friends, as your attention was always in the dimly lit screen of your laptop, hurrying to finish up an essay way before it's due date.

however, after some convincing, well more like, constant pestering from kazuha, you finally agreed.

you'd help him study at his place tonight.

that's what you agreed to anyway.

but what you didn't agree to was the high amount of awkward tension that arose between the two of you as he sat close to you, almost hovering over you as he "read" from your textbook.

"it's really not that difficult to understand. maybe let's revise it once more." you suggested, as you slowly scooted away from him.

he slightly threw his head down and let out an amused smirk at your rejection. "god, you read shit like this 24/7 while sober? i commend you." kazuha said, leaning his arm against the table as he turned his body to face you.

"well in what state am i supposed to study in? because it's certainly not drunk nor high." you sighed as you erased his math work, handing him the paper in order to redo it. "you got number 5 & 8 wrong."

he ignored your attempt at changing the topic. "you're always so caught up with your study, do you ever let loose?"

you stayed silent for a bit. you really haven't ever "let loose", you've never had time for it. but to you, it was a little lame, so you decided to lie. "yeah."

"liar."

"i'm not lying."

kazuha let out a small chuckle at your persistence. "so, you wouldn't mind rolling up right now then?"

"rolling up? uh, like, a joint?" you questioned, slightly raising your brow in suspicion.

"yeah. a joint. believe it or not, it'll help us focus a bit more. maybe i'll finally get question 5 right."

you were a bit taken aback by how casually he suggested smoking. it's not like you had anything against it but it just wasn't...you.

so you had no idea how you ended up actually considering it. i mean, exams were approaching, so you've been doing nothing but slaving yourself in the library, and as much as you hated to admit it. you were stressed beyond belief, and somehow, kazuha noticed this as well.

--maybe that's why you both ended up taking long drags of the blunt he'd rolled. with you coughing almost every time you pulled.

kazuha was nothing but amused right now. he wasn't expecting you to actually agree, and it was almost weird to him to see you like this. "so, how are you feeling?" he asked, ashing the blunt on the table before he took another pull.

"i feel okay, i guess." you lied once again. you were definitely feeling the effects of the weed. your mind that was once only filled with anxiety and stress of the next due date of your assignments was now at peace, and you were definitely more aware of your surroundings.

and you couldn't help but notice just how attractive this slacker was.

the red streak on his bangs contrasted his platinum white hair that was tied into a messy half up half down updo, but enhanced his deep red eyes that looked down at the blunt placed inbetween his lips as he relit it.

he finally spoke again as he was able to relight the blunt, taking a long pull and blowing it almost directly in your face. "wanna feel even better?" his voice was low, as sultry as the corners of his mouth curved into a mischievous smirk.

"like, how?"

kazuha placed his free hand on your thigh, slowly running it further up to your inner thigh as he leaned himself close to you, his marijuana scented breath tickling your neck as he spoke.

"allow me to help you relieve some stress."

kazuha looked back at you, his usual softly hued red eyes now burnt with lust as he watched you, awaiting your response.

you were silent for a while, as the blunt burned slowly in his fingers, the smoke seemed to be the only thing that moved as everything else seemed perfectly still.

kazuha took another pull of the blunt that had significantly shortened in size. but this time, he didn't inhale it fully, he kept it in his mouth, moving the smoke side to side before he grabbed your chin, pulling your face only centimeters away from his.

he slightly opened his mouth, the smoke now more dense as it lingered within. you were slightly confused as you copied his movements, hesitantly opening yours as well.

kazuhas lips grazed against yours as he blew the smoke into your mouth, this caught you off guard, but you inhaled it nevertheless.

he didn't move his face away from yours as you inhaled the smoke. instead, his lips met yours, kissing you deeply. the taste of mint mixed with the marijuana that lingered on his tongue intoxicated you, causing you to return the kiss.

you slightly opened your mouth, allowing his soft tongue to enter, intertwining with yours as the kiss deepened and became more erotic. he pressed his body against yours further, pushing you down onto the couch.

kazuha was laying now on top of you, his hand still gripping your thigh as he slowly moved it up and down in a sensual manner. whilst his other hand still holding the blunt that was still lit.

your soft moan of pleasure and the way you interlocked your fingers into the back of his head, gripping a handful of his hair, pushing his lips deeper into yours seemed to be his turning point as he put out the blunt by pressing his against the table, refusing to break the kiss.

"you've ever been kissed like this?" his lips grazing against yours as he spoke.

"...no."

he seemed to have liked this answer as you felt his cold fingers tease your skin when he slipped his hand under your shirt and under your bra, kissing you once more, biting and sucking your tongue every time it entered his mouth.

the tension between you two was only rising as the kiss became more intimate. your body which rose in temperature was fully pressed against his, and you could feel him harden against you.

kazuha bit your bottom lip as he pulled away from the kiss, his hand still caressing your thigh in a suggestive manner.

you took a deep breath as you looked at him, and the awkwardness that was once there was now replaced by high sexual tension that pervaded throughout the room.

"i'll take you up on that offer." you finally answered.

drunk walk home - mitski (part 3)

❤︎ life in fontaine truly is a dream come true.

❤︎ (male!reader throughout the entire series!)

❤︎ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 (here!)

❤︎ a/n: IM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! IVE BEEN SO BUSY 😭 i’m so sorry if this is ass compared to the other parts but i’m hoping you’ll enjoy nonetheless

❤︎ tag list - @wanderchive @wanderer-baizhu-simp @gimmealamp @mis-disaster @remi-appalance @lucianidealz @sleepdeprivedpotato @unemiart @heejinsong @kiiyoooo @sweett-heartzz @camryn-ciel67 @aruaruru @danika-redgrave124 @ravencalamity @snowcatlove @bunbunboysworld @kaoyamamegami @aphxdea @faesfaggotboyfriend @avatsufaust @danika-redgrave124 @red1sg0n3 @idolautism @sleepndacloud @squishyboo @ally674 @totallynotanagent

i’m SO SORRY to those who’s tags didn’t work i’ll do my best to find your comment and remind you that part three is here! <3

life in fontaine was quite different to what you had expected, however you surmised that it was due to the fact that you spent most of your days around… interesting… characters.

on one hand, you had some clingy little magician hanging off your arm and treating you as if he was your big brother wherever you went, which only reminded you of a certain redhead back in the day.

on another hand, you had a classy lady who wore a gorgous gold dress and was possibly one of the most glammed up people you’ve ever seen, who insists on dragging you around with her, taking you to all sorts of little shops and cafés. when questioned why she does this, she only smiles, saying how you seemed lonely and needed a friendly face that wasn’t bursting you eardrums with enthusiasm constantly.

having an absent female role throughout your childhood, you slowly began to cling to navia. from the moment you requested the both of you go on a little snack date, she was your official big sister!

with all these eccentric people in your life with seemingly no limit on their social battery, you find yourself overly exhausted almost every evening.

this all changed when a humble and shy diver boy quite literally tripped into your story.

❤︎

after about a month of living within the walls of fontaine, you soon come to realise you never formally introduced yourself to lyney’s younger brother, who was absent the first time you ever met the twins.

from what you could recall, freminet was a reserved yet somewhat stoic character. from what lynette had separately told you, he was easily flustered and a bit difficult to talk to. for awhile, you just accepted the fact you might not ever even meet the boy as you had never ACTUALLY seen him out and about.

until the day you decided you’d explore the waters.

like many people in fontaine, you too were curious and mesmerised about the beauty of the sea. the shimmering blue waves blended into the prismatic pinks of the seabed. an assortment of colours could be seen from the top of the ocean and you just had to know what lay beneath the surface.

so, like every normal people would do, you grabbed some overglamified water-gear (NOT diving gear), and hopped straight into the ocean. you were a fairly strong swimmer so you had no issues going under, you weren’t planning on diving deep into water ravines and ocean monuments after all.

looking at all the ocean had to offer you, your eyes glimmered in an almsot spellbound way. the ocean was hypnotic, an almsot angelic tune could be deciphered as you swam further.

going down a little, you see something almost glowing? just beneath the sand. as you go to pick it up, you then realise it wasn’t an object, but a flower. you then recalled what lyney had told you about certain flowers of fontaine.

a little giddy, you go to pick one for yourself before someone else appears in your vision. a boy wearing a diving helmet moves directly upwards from where you were, also in shock in the fact that somebody else was present.

the flower was sitting off the edge of a ravine, and so a body coming flying from the depths of it was quite a sight to behold.

the two of you stare at eachother, before you begin your ascend to the air, needing to get some air.

you notice the figure swimming up next to you, and decide it’s worth it to learn who this mysterious diver truly is. divers aren’t uncommon in fontaine for obvious reasons, so when you make it on land you didn’t expect the one to take off the helmet to be the youngest brother of the magicians.

“hello, my name is freminet”. he speaks, almost robotically. still a bit startled, you go to speak.

“nice to meet you freminet, my name is (y/n), it’s a pleasure to meet you”.

silence.

“so, um.. do you like the ocean?” the boy asks, a small blush coating his pale cheeks.

“that was the first time i’ve ever touched the waters of fontaine”. you reply rather formally, going back into rich boy mode.

“oh! cool..” he plays with his fingers.

more silence.

you two suck at talking.

❤︎

from that moment forward (after the very awkward first meeting), freminet was attached to your hip. he followed you around everywhere, and his company didn’t seem to bother you whatsoever. you were one of the first people, who wasn’t one of his siblings, to tolerate his inability to hold a decent conversation, and freminet cherished that part of you,

on the other hand, you liked how freminet didn’t make you feel as though you needed to talk with him constantly to keep the newly formed friendship in tow. the two of you could sit on a bench for hours, barley conversate, however the atmosphere never differed from comfortable.

in a way, you were each others peace.

❤︎

hello again (y/n)! are you here to once more whisk my little brother away on a little date?” lyney asks, winking as he spoke. it wasn’t often you came to collect the boy if you had something to do, and vise versa if freminet wanted some company while he worked.

you only rolled your eyes at the blonde, flicking his forehead (to which he winced slightly) before making yourself at home. by this point your migration to fontaine was close to hitting the 4 month mark, and in that time the trio of the hearth became almsot family to you.

that also means waltzing into each others homes unannounced 😃.

i’m not joking by the way, once you came home to lynette stuffing her face with a cake you bought earlier that day with lyney knocked out on your lounge. and you know what you did? ate the rest of the cake with lynette (you twos secret till this day) and marketed all over lyneys face before taking a nap yourselves.

anyways, you made yourself at home before asking lynette where freminet was. she smiled to herself knowingly before directing you to the boys bedroom.

as you entered, a truly charming scene before you unfolded itself.

freminet was fast asleep on his bed, pers sitting on his nightstand. freminet had a book cuddled into his chest, his little snores filled the room.

smiling to yourself, you go to collect the book from his grasp, worried the edges might hurt him in his sleep, before something truly taken out of a romance novel happened.

instead, freminet grabbed your sleeve and yanked you down towards him. you always knew he was a clingy sleeper, having shared a DOUBLE BED with him beforehand, however freminet had a SINGLE BED.

in schock, you look at his peaceful face that was still dead asleep, before giggling to yourself.

you successfully take the book from his grasp and put it on the floor. then you look up to the ceiling. the artwork of sea creatures and hanging bubbles from his roof was truly a mesmerising sight, his entire bedroom being themed off the ocean. everything about him drawer you in more and more.

you failed to realise that the ‘more and more’ was now directly next to you, clinging onto your chest. for the 100th time this day, you heart skipped a beat as the diver cuddled himself next to you.

‘fuck it’s you say to yourself, grabbing him gently by the waist and adjusting him so he was on your chest sideways, with you flat on your back with one arm around him.

‘you know, i think i could get used to this’. you think to yourself once more.

you didn’t know at the time, but the tune you assumed to be in your head was actually outside freminet bedroom window, being strung gently by a lyre. the figure of the person could not be seen to those passing by, but if you looked close enough..

you’d notice a jade green bard smiling to himself, an instrument of pure melodies resting upon his fingertips.