𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕟𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 // Akaza x reader (+18)

Chapter 37 | Humanity 🍈

"I shouldn't have..." he starts, voice low, almost growled. But he doesn't finish the sentence. Doesn't move away either.

"I didn't stop you," you say. Barely a whisper. But the truth of it hangs there.

For a moment, nothing moves. Even the fire seems to still. You hear the crackle of the logs behind you like it's somewhere far away—another world.

Your hand tightens near your sword. Not because you feel threatened. Because you don't know what the hell you're becoming right now.

"You kissed me like you meant it," you say, eyes not leaving his.

His mouth twitches—just a flicker, like pain trying to hide in a smirk but failing. "I did."

He says it like an admission of guilt. Like he's offering you a weapon.

"That's the problem."

You don't flinch. Not this time.

"Do you regret it?" you ask.

His eyes narrow, not in malice—just sharp, like he's making sure you mean it. That you can take what comes next.

"No," he says, and there's no hesitation.

The silence that follows is... different. Not tense. Not waiting to explode.

Just full. Like the space between two people holding weapons—but not pointing them anymore.

The wind shifts. The tree beyond the edge of the fire doesn't move again.

Still, neither of you drop your guard. Not fully. That's not who you are. Not who he is.

You study him—finally letting yourself see him, past the reputation, the rank, the blood.

His hair falls loose around his face—pink, wild, still dusted with ash from a fight that should've ended differently. His frame is powerful, corded with demonic strength, but it holds tension like a martial artist—not a brute. He moves like someone trained, not twisted. Every inch of him is combat and control. And in that control... there's grief.

"Hakuji," you say, testing the name again. Feeling how it cuts differently now.

His eyes close, just for a second. Like he's bracing for something.

"I haven't heard it from anyone who wasn't trying to kill me," he mutters.

Your hand moves without thought. You reach out, brush your fingers against his. They're warm. Too warm. The kind of warmth that shouldn't belong to someone like him.

He tenses. Just a breath. Then—he lets you.

You don't know what you're doing. None of this makes sense.

"I don't know what this means," you admit.

His eyes meet yours again. Calm. Brutal. Honest.

"Neither do I," he says.

But his fingers curl around yours—not possessive. Not soft. Just there. Like something real, in a world that keeps tearing reality apart.

"I was supposed to hate you," you say.

His jaw flexes. "You still can."

"I don't."

His eyes sharpen. "That'll get you killed."

You shrug, barely. "Everything in this world will. Might as well let something matter first."

The words come out too fast, but you don't take them back. You can't.

Your next breath feels heavier. Not with fear. With cost.

"You kissed me like you remembered how to be human."

He looks down, at your joined hands. Then back up. His voice is low. Grounded. Like a vow, but broken.

"You made me remember."

Something inside you twists, but it's not regret. It's something colder. Deeper. Like standing at the edge of something you can't walk back from.

You should say something final. Something to push this back into the box it came from.

But you don't.

Because when you look at him, really look, you see a boy who trained until his bones cracked. A boy who begged the world to spare the people he loved. A boy who buried his name beneath a graveyard of fists and blood and still—still—wanted something worth protecting.

He leans forward again, slow, but not unsure. This isn't another kiss.

He presses his forehead to yours. Not soft. Not gentle.

Solid.

You don't move.

You don't breathe.

You just stay there, firelight flickering across two people who shouldn't exist in the same story—and yet do.

The moment shatteres like thin glass.

One second, Akaza's forehead rests against yours. The next, his entire body goes rigid.

Not like tension.

Like command.

You feel it before he says a word, in the silence that hollows the space between his breaths. His fingers twitch in yours. His eyes unfocus, distant—not lost, but dragged elsewhere by invisible chains.

Akaza grunts. His grip slackens. You don't let go. Not yet.

Then his gaze snaps back to yours. Cold fury simmers behind it.

"He's calling me," Akaza mutters. His voice is low and ragged, like each word is dragged over coals. "Muzan."

You swallow. It's the only thing you can do against the pressure that's suddenly coiling in your throat like smoke.

A million questions claw inside your ribs: What does he want? Can you resist? Will I see you again? What will he demand? Does he know of this? Where is he?

None of them make it out.

You only nod, jaw clenched.

Akaza looks like he wants to say something else. A warning. A promise. Maybe even a lie.

But he doesn't.

Instead, he just stares at you like he's memorizing your face. Like he's trying to hold it against the weight of what's coming. Against the orders crawling beneath his skin.

Then, without another word, his body blurs at the edges—like fire drawing back into embers—and he's gone.

The mountain is empty without him. Somehow colder. Like the bushes themselves recoil in the silence he leaves behind.

You remain kneeling by the fire until it dies, the ashes graying like the sky before dawn.