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cncpilled · 26 days ago

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Rotten Apples ❦.ׂ

chapter three: prove me wrong

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3 link

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18+ MINORS DNI

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: you go out with caleb but things turn south.

word count: 8.1k words

warnings: extreme loathing, kinda funny, sad at the end, a good mix of everything! a hint of foreplay! mentions of death! not proofread!

author's note: hi all! this is a bit on the longer side so i apologize! part four is most definitely in the works, though! i hope you enjoy the chapter! i hope i got everyone who asked to be tagged! please yell at me if i forgot you!

taglist <3 : @kebarney , @pinkismyfavcolor , @romils , @erisnxxi , @rik0shii , @reni502 , @spacehopper27 , @llamabois , @likesvader , @pandoras-rabbit , @princessfruit , @lukassafespace , @jexizia , @etsuniiru , @tinnyrabbit , @orianakira , @xiaorixx , @beomluvrr , @sanzy4 , @vickykazuya , @blcknebula , @sleepydang , @flamedancer13 , @gojosbedwarmer , @silmeria-lafleur , @ikiru-wa , @animecrazy76 , @fealy , @jexizia

Seven o’clock is approaching fast and you have yet to find anything to wear. Your closet has been emptied, clothes scattered across the vinyl flooring of your apartment. Dresses, pants, and blouses fill in the blank spaces of the floor. You tip toe around the messily laid out outfits, sending pictures to your closest friend for her opinion,

It doesn’t really surprise you when she video calls you, laughing at how seriously you’re taking this dinner.

“Are you trying to impress him?” Your friend snorts. You prop your phone against a book on the counter. “I thought you didn’t like him?”

“I don’t,” your response is immediate and snappy, “I would like to have a nice dinner, though.”

“How do you know you’re actually going out to dinner? What if he’s there to kill you, you know, like some serial killer type shit.”

“He is our beloved Colonel, after all. I can’t pass up the opportunity he’s handing to me.”

“An opportunity to what? Find another military sugar daddy that wants you on his arm? Bitch, please,” Your friend rolls her eyes and shakes her head when you hold a red dress to your body. “I don’t think you should go. My expertise tells me that this is a bad idea.”

“Your expertise?” You throw your head back and laugh. “Your expertise from what? All of the true crime documentaries you’ve watched?”

“Yes, actually,” she proudly states, a ‘fuck you’ smile spreading across her face.

“I’m going,” a fake smile spreads across your face when you glance at yourself in the mirror. “It’s a free meal. I’m not going to pass it up!”

“You’re making a major mistake! You should go in sweatpants. Put in no effort whatsoever. He’s the guy you’ve been trying to forget, right?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, glancing at her face on the phone screen, “he’s kind of hard to forget, though. He’s—”

“A dreamboat? Got you a single butterfly toy when you were kids? Has the prettiest eyes? This is going to end up horribly and you know it. I’m not going to stop you…just don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart.” Your friend hangs up after that.

You stare at yourself in the mirror, eyes focused on the dress that you hold up in front of yourself. It slips out of your sight and your eyes drop down to the baggy sweatpants you have on.

They haven’t been washed in a couple days and there’s a stain from the takeout you ordered the other day when your favorite show had its season premiere.

Sweatpants, you roll your eyes with a chuckle, he’d hate that.

A slow smile spreads across your face. Maybe you will be in sweatpants and the shirt you sleep in when he shows up. You never agreed to the dinner, after all. What could Caleb possibly be expecting from you?

It’s not like this dinner is going to solve all of your problems. It’s not going to wash away the sins he’s committed against you nor will it bring you much solace even if things go well.

A black dress catches your attention from the corner of your eye. The hanger finds itself between your fingers. you slowly lift it into the air, silently examining it, before holding the dress against your body. Your steps are slow and meticulous. They’re almost hesitant to see what it looks like on you.

Your hands trail across the soft fabric of the dress. It has a box neckline, cutting low on your chest, with long sleeves, and a skirt that stops just halfway down your thigh. You squint at the dress, familiarity tingling in the back of your mind.

It couldn’t be…no…right?

The dress falls to the floor. It pools at your feet, your body shuddering. You grasp the spot over your heart, feeling the beats speed up. A faint ringing buzzes in your ears. You didn’t expect to see the black garment in your closet.

Did your mother pack it without you knowing? She was horrendously overbearing while you packed your room up. The move from Linkon to Skyhaven was brutal on her. She had almost convinced your father to follow you so she can have the peace of mind knowing that you know somebody there. Thankfully, he talked her down, but it didn’t make her maternal instincts go away.

Out of all the things she helped pack for you: did she have to pack that dress?

Grumbling obscenities under your breath, you cleaned your apartment, wasting time.

You simply weren’t going to go. Your friend was right, all this is going to do is bring back bad memories and ruin your night. With the floors now cleared and free from your disastrous attempt at fashion, you flop onto the couch, kicking your feet up onto the coffee table. The television switches on, the laughs from Skyhaven’s news anchors filling the silence of your apartment. You roll your eyes and click to the next channel. A reality show pops up with older white woman screaming at each other.

It’s trash but it works.

You grab your phone and the screen lights up. Just as fate has it, a notification pings, the banner floating at the top of the screen. You don’t recognize the number and shrug it off, swiping it away. You move to a familiar app and begin to play the game.

It only feels like a few minutes, when in actuality it’s been an hour, when there’s a knock at the door. The sound floats in the air before it comes again, much more demanding this time. You turn around, looking over the edge of the couch you have sunken into, and raise an eyebrow.

An uncomfortable silence fills the air. The knocks don’t continue nor can you hear anyone, like your landlord, calling your name. There are no alarms and no sound of chaos from the hallway.

Huh. Weird.

You turn back to your game, groaning when your tiny character falls off the platform and into the lasers below. You chuck your phone into the other side of the couch, head rolling back and over the arm rest. You stare at the door, laughing to yourself.

That would be so fucking crazy if that were Caleb at the door. How would he even know where to find you? You definitely didn’t tell him where you live nor did you confirm this dinner he invited you on.

Life is weird though. Dead men come back to life and they suddenly pay attention to you. What’s even crazier is that the dead man wants to see you tonight.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Your body jumps from the couch, the sudden sound scaring you back to life. You land on your feet, sharp pain shooting through your ankles. You gasp and collapse back onto the couch, loudly whining.

You hear your name through the door followed by continuous knocking. Quickly making your way to the door, you swing up open and quickly dodge a balled fist that misses the door.

“Woah!” Caleb’s voice causes you to groan. “I almost got you there! Sorry about that!”

Your eyes narrow at him and that damn charming smile of his. You lean against the doorframe, pulling the door to your side to block the view of your messy apartment. Caleb’s a head taller than you, though, so your efforts are in vain as he cranes his chin up, looking inside.

“How did you find my apartment? How the fuck do you know where I live?” You ask, completely baffled by his presence.

“I may or may not have abused my power when you didn’t answer my texts,” he says it so casually that even you think that what he did was okay. You blink for a couple seconds, comprehending what he just said, when your eyes get caught on his outfit.

He wears black dress pants matched with a white dress shirt. He sports a black jacket over his arms and shoulders with no tie hanging around his neck. unconsciously, your eyes drift to the collar of his shirt. You expect to see a certain silver necklace around his neck, one that you’ve seen in countless social media photos.

It isn’t around his neck.

Hope strikes your heart, causing it to skip a beat. Your cheeks heat up.

You hate how easy it is for you to like him again. Is the bar that low that him opting not to wear a necklace has you wanting to go to dinner with him?

Fortify your mental walls, dammit! Do not give in to the temptation that is Caleb!

“I love the sweatpants look. Very classy. But you should probably change, our reservation is in thirty minutes,” his purple eyes scan the small sliver of your apartment.

It’s actually a lot different than from what he initially imagined. The couch is in the middle of the room with the television pushed up against the wall. Behind the couch is a small table with two chairs. He assumes that the kitchen is to the right of it because your bedroom is to the left. The walls are somewhat bare. Only a few pictures and decor hang from them.

At least your place feels alive and lived in compared to his.

You raise an eyebrow. He mimics you with a chuckle. You purse your lips and Caleb has to mentally tell himself to not close the distance and kiss you.

“A reservation?” He nods in response to your question. “I can’t. My heater broke I’m…waiting for maintenance to come by and fix it.”

“I can fix it,” his reply is immediate.

“No, it’s fine, really—”

“It’ll take me five minutes! You can get dressed while I fix it,” he speaks over you so casually as if this were everyday banter between you two.

It’s like that with his pipsqueak, but never you.

Caleb pushes some of his weight onto the door but you push back. He stops and looks down at down, brows furrowed.

Why won’t you let me help you? He thinks to himself.

Caleb rests a hand on the door, palm flat and fingers stretched out. He leans down and inspects your face.

You wear a large frown which is matched with a deadly glare, one that he isn’t particularly fond of since your years together in high school. Your eyes keep moving away from his, looking everywhere but at him, and he frowns.

“You’re lying to me,” Caleb states. His posture straightens, arms crossed over his chest. You match his posture, throwing him a dirty look.

“No I’m not.”

“Yes. Yes you are,” he leans down to your eye level. You get a closer look at his eyes, noticing that the gold you saw before is actually more of a bronze. Perhaps he’s never been a golden boy this whole time. Your hardened expression falters. “Go get changed. I’ll wait inside for you.”

Caleb takes a step towards you, the door creaking open. Your hand smacks against his chest, right on top of his heart. His heart thumps inside his chest. Your fingers involuntary curl into his chest, pushing him back. Your eyes remain trained on the top button of his shirt.

“No,” you say, finally looking up into his big eyes. “Stay…right here.” You swipe your foot in a line in front of your apartment door. He watches then looks back up at you. “Don’t cross this line. I’ll be right back.”

You slam the door in his face and quickly lock it. Caleb stands out in the hallway. He blinks at the door, unsure of what just happened, and turns around to face the hallway.

Progress. That’s what this is. It’s progress. Progress towards you two reigniting the spark of friendship. The Colonel hopes it turns into something more. He needs it to be more than slammed doors and tense moments in interrogation rooms and apartment hallways.

Caleb watches as people pass by in the hallway. He can’t hear you inside, most likely deep inside your bedroom getting changed.

Getting ready for him.

The thought of you getting all dolled up for him gets Caleb excited. His smile grows with every passing second. A few men walk by and Caleb makes for sure to glare at them, arms crossed, chest puffed out, asserting dominance over them.

He sighed when the last one disappeared into the elevator. The faint click of the door’s lock catches his attention and he takes a single step back, watching as you slowly open the door.

His heart pounds in his chest, ears and cheeks growing warm from the sight of you.

You look absolutely stunning in the black dress you wear. He likes how the sleeves cover your arms yet it leaves your upper chest exposed. It’s like you’re teasing him, luring him in for more. Your hair is pulled back and out of your face. Your face isn’t beaten, instead opting for a more natural and casual look, and you shrug your long purse strap over your shoulder. You’re much taller, too, and his eyes fall onto a simple pair of heels. Looking back up, Caleb smiles.

You are the image of perfection.

His eyes barely skim over the top of your head now. Maybe his neck won’t hurt as much looking down at you.

“You look…amazing.” Caleb can barely get his compliment out, fumbling over his words and growing feelings towards you. His heart swells at your small smile and nod. You turn, keys jingling in your hand. You take a second to breathe. The warmth in your cheeks irritates you.

You hate how your body constantly betrays you when he’s around. It’s a curse, not a blessing.

“Ready?” His voice quips once you turn around from locking your apartment door. You hesitantly nod, forcing a smile onto your face, but it falls once he extends his hand to you.

You stare at his fingers, which have a few scars wrapped around his skin, before looking back up at him. Caleb’s smile is so hopeful. The corners of his eyes slightly crinkle. You sigh, stepping around him, his fingers brushing against your arm.

Caleb watches as you walk down the hallway, your jacket draped over your arm, purse bouncing against your side. He releases a disappointed sigh, fingers curling back into his palm. He forces his feet to chase after you, watching as you press the elevator button.

The Colonel attaches himself to your side, making sure to keep a respectable yet close distance. It’s silent. The faint dings from the elevator grow louder. The doors slide open and you step inside, Caleb following suit.

The metal box slowly lowers. Caleb’s eyes remain on you, utterly captivated by the sight. You look forward, opting for the buffed metal door.

Caleb would be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous of the door.

“Where are you taking us?” You break the awkward silence of the elevator. You glance at him and your eyes meet. You slowly bat your eyelashes at him, sighing.

Please prove me wrong, you internally plead, inner voice desperate, please prove that you aren’t the same boy I knew in high school.

Before he can respond, the elevator slide open. An obnoxiously large group stands on the other side. They wear bright pink cowboy hats and sashes, their eyes half-lidded.

Oh shit. It’s a bachelorette party. That’ll be fun to listen to tonight.

They wave hi, which you and Caleb return. As they slowly pile into the elevator, their voices grow loud, causing your ears to ring.

Caleb slides in front of you, gently pushing you against the back wall. His forearm rests against your head, the man trapping you in your spot. You look around him.

The elevator is completely packed. The inhabitants push together, morphing into one big blob. Your eyes dart to Caleb’s torso, noticing that there’s a few inches of space between you.

Your breath hitches in your throat. You look up, his face hovering in front of yours.

Your lips barely graze over each other. He’s slightly hunched over, face slightly grimacing from the bachelorette party bumping into him, stepping on his feet.

You hold back a laugh, covering your mouth. Caleb turns his attention back to you, a half-amused grin tugging the corner of his lips up.

“You’re laughing? At a time like this?” Caleb whispers into your ear, leaning in. The strands of his hair tickle your forehead. He leans in closer, lips grazing against your ear. “C’mon now…cut me some slack. I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

His breath is hot on your ear. Shivers run down your spine, the tingles making themselves at home in your stomach. Frozen in place, your eyes move to his shoulder.

A small speck catches your eye. Inside the small elevator, you push your arm against the pressure from the other people. Caleb’s gaze follows your hand. You breathe in sync with him, both watching as you pluck a single eyelash from his cheek, right below his eye.

Your fingertips graze against his skin, leaving electric shocks in their wake, and scoop the small eyelash from his skin. You inspect the eyelash with close eyes. Your gaze flits to his, his purple eyes staring not at your eyes but your lips.

“Make a wish,” your whisper fills the tension between your bodies. His bottom lip quivers. You gnaw at the inside of your cheek, feeling them heat up.

Caleb tilts his head down. He slowly slows at the eyelash on your finger, the hair disappearing, your eyes meeting once again.

My wish is you.

His breath is cool against your skin. It brings you no relief. Instead, your body inches closer to him, burning under his gaze of desire.

The two of you don’t even realize that the elevator is now empty. There is no bachelorette party cornering you. There is no reason for you two to be so close.

You hate to admit it but you don’t want to move. Caleb doesn’t either. He can’t get enough of your perfume, the way your touch was so light and careful against his face, almost as if you were scared to get even closer to him.

Do you feel it?

Do you feel the center of gravity that is pulling us together?

You clear your throat and dip under his arm. The further you get from him, the easier it is to breathe. You don’t even look at him from over your shoulder, scurrying out of the small enclosure.

Caleb hangs behind. His fingers curl against the elevator wall, eyes closed. He grimaces, harshly biting down on his lower lip. Your perfume lingers in the air. The warmth of your affection tickling his skin. He lets out a haggard breath, his back slowly straightening. He fixes his jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles of his shirt, and exits the elevator, finding you outside.

You stand alone and off to the side, just hidden enough for people not to notice you but visible enough for Caleb to immediately find you. Just as the purse strap slips off your shoulder, Caleb collects it in his hand. He slips the jacket from your arms as well and eases your hand through the first sleeve, helping aim your next arm through the second.

“Thank you,” you breathe out, your breath visible in the cold night air. He nods, clearing his throat. “I think you were interrupted before.”

“Was I?” Caleb’s eyes flutter, looking down at you. You chuckle and raise an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah, I was, wasn’t I?” You nod. “A colleague recommended the restaurant to me. I thought you may like it.”

“Oh?” His intention takes you by surprise.

He actually…thought of you? Wow. You didn’t know he could do that.

You don’t give it much thought, though. It’s probably due to her not being here.

“C’mon, let’s go.”

The outside of the restaurant takes you by surprise. The outside is made up of dark metal with grooves in it that imitates wood, which is a stark contrast to the rest of the Skyhaven’s white metallic look. A long window surrounds the perimeter. It’s a thin line and doesn’t take up much of the wall space. A faint, golden glow seeps into the glass.

Caleb’s long strides keep with your pace. He walks close to you, your purse acting as a boundary between your hips. You glance inside the restaurant’s window, seeing couples and semi-large parties inside the main dining room.

The Colonel opens up the business’ door, smiling down at you as you step inside, quietly thanking him.

The atmosphere is warm, the chilled air tingling away from your skin. You feel a pair of hands on your shoulders, shrugging your jacket off of your body. You watch him with an intense gaze.

His shoulders are so broad. You swear you can watch as his muscles tense then relax under the fabric as she hands over your jackets to an employee. Caleb turns to you, nodding as the hostess walks away. You swallow whatever spit you have in your mouth. You tell your feet to move, goosebumps forming across your skin when you feel his touch on the low of your back.

Caleb sticks close behind you, fingers grazing up and down your body. His eyes stare at the exposed skin of your neck, eyes drifting up to the side of your face. He smirks, watching as your lips part with a gasp, his fingers inching their way around your side. He’s unable to get a full grip of your side, though, when the hostess places menus on the table before you.

You step to your chair but Caleb is too quick for you, dragging it out. You roll your eyes at him and sit, the man pushing the chair in to meet your body. He sits at the spot in front of you, the table circular and on the smaller side, with a lit candle in the center of the table.

Taking a glance around the restaurant, you notice that you and Caleb are more towards the back. It’s like you’re hidden away so nobody can see you. Couples at other tables lean in, smiles adorned on their faces over the candle light, the dim lighting of the restaurant casting shadows over their faces.

The scenery and atmosphere is…strangely romantic.

“You look great in that dress,” Caleb’s voice brings your eyes back onto his. They drop to his arms, where his white sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. Your breath gets caught in your throat. You tear your gaze away and settle back onto his eyes.

“Thanks. I haven’t worn it for a year,” you respond with a shrug.

“Yeah?” He leans forward, his smile growing, “when was the last time you wore it?”

“Your funeral.”

Oh. Well. You know…I don’t know how to respond to that, Caleb thinks to himself. He purses his lips, brows knitted together, eyes narrowed from unease.

You stare at him with your arms crossed over your chest. You raise an eyebrow at his sour reaction. He was the one who died and magically came back to life with no explanation.

He sits up in his chair, resting his hands in his lap as his piercing violet eyes tear into yours. You shift in your seat, crossing one leg over the other as he comes up with the proper words to respond.

A waiter approaches the table, their face just barely illuminated from the light. He wears all black clothing and his smile is a little too friendly, his eyes dragging across your bare chest. You suck in a breath and glance at Caleb, who glares at the waiter.

“Good evening. May I start you two off with a bottle of wine or an appetizer?” The waiter asks, looking at you, not even a second to stare at Caleb. You simper at his gaze, only feeling slightly uncomfortable, as you take the wine list from his hands.

“He’s paying, so we’ll make it an expensive bottle,” you muse with a quiet chuckle. Caleb’s eyes break from the waiter and land on you. Goosebumps litter your skin as you pretend not to notice the intensity radiating from his body. “We’ll do this one,” you point out a name on the list to the waiter.

He dips down and his putrid cologne tinges your nostrils. You lean away, wincing from how his scent burns the inside of your nose. His lips curl into a toothy grin.

“Great choice. I’ll have it out for you in a few moments.” He walks away and you watch him. You relax into your seat when he vanishes from your eye line, turning back to Caleb.

“Could you get even closer to him?” Caleb’s raspy voice cuts through the low lighting. You raise an eyebrow, confused by his sudden possessiveness towards you.

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Caleb,” you roll your eyes and lean forward, dress grazing against the table, “you’ve only been in my life for twenty four hours. You don’t get to have a say on who gets close to me.”

“Don’t I?” He matches your lean, his purple eyes glowing from the candlelight. “I was in your life for a good amount—”

“Emphasis on was,” you interrupt him. He swipes his tongue over his teeth, shaking his head ever so slightly at you.

You know you’re teetering on a very, very line and fragile line with Caleb. A small amount of payback won’t kill the man. He did lead you on for that good amount of time he was in your life for so if it’s any consolation for you, it’s deserved.

“Let’s have a nice dinner,” you sigh. His darkened expression softens, his eyebrows relaxing. Catching a glimpse of his fists, you see them relax as well, his knuckles no longer white. “However, I do think you owe me an explanation about your so-called ‘death.’” You pause, looking to the side, before rushing to get the words out, “and I don’t want to talk about her either. I…I don’t particularly have fond memories of the three of us since things ended badly. I hope you can understand that.”

Caleb’s eyes slightly widen. A part of him knew that this was coming. He had been distracted all day, sitting at his desk, ignoring all of his duties as Colonel. He went through every memory that he could remember, ones that weren’t influenced by the chip in his body, and came to realization that towards the end, you weren’t there.

In the memories that you were in, you were in the background while she took center stage. It made Caleb feel like a fool, truly. He agonized over it. Just to know that he could have caused you so much pain and emotional turmoil ripped his heart apart. He plans on repaying and making up for it until his final breath.

Even in death, Caleb will find ways to make you feel important, that you matter.

“I promise,” he breathes out, eyes never leaving yours, “to not bring her up. Consider her banished from our relationship.”

You lean into the back of the chair, putting your full weight into it. You stare at him, wondering if what he said can be trusted. You sigh and nod, forcing a small smile onto your face. He beams at you and nods, sighing from relief.

The side of your heel glides against his leg. He sucks in a breath and you bat your eyelashes at him. You take your bottom lip between your two teeth, knowing that it will drive him absolutely crazy. The Colonel shifts in his seat, his eyes taking all the liberties he wants.

His demeanor has shifted so many times within the last minute. He went from happy, to sorrowful, then his anger took over, and now the look on his face tells you that he’s feeling some form of lust. Adrenaline runs through your veins because you simply don’t know what Caleb you’re going to get next.

He licks his lips when you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. You turn your attention to the dining room, looking upon the other couples and groups that mingle inside. A soft chuckle shakes your body.

The waiter comes back with a bottle of white wine and two glasses in hand. He sets the glasses in front of the two of you, but neither dare to break their gaze.

Caleb’s eyebrow slightly perks up and you tilt your head to the side, a sly smirk forming on your face.

The wine is poured, the pale yellow alcohol sitting pretty inside the glass. You make the first move. The glass is cool in your hand and you swirl the wine around, bringing the glass to your glossy lips.

The first sip of the Pinot Blanc has an exceptional fresh taste to it, complimenting the dryness to the wine. The aroma is fruity with hints of apple, Caleb’s favorite, and a side taste of citrus.

You glance at the waiter, who hovers at the small table. Caleb clears his throat, glaring at the man. The waiter doesn’t pay attention to Caleb, his eyes staying on you.

“The wine is delicious, thank you,” you set the glass down, fingers resting on the base of the glass. He nods but stays in his spot. Caleb’s fists ball on top of the white cloth. He opens his mouth to speak but you’re quick to tap his knee with the tip of your high heel. You roll your eyes and take a deep breath, leaning towards the waiter. “As you can see, I’m here with him and not you. So, if you could please give us some privacy, that would be nice.”

Caleb watches you in awe. Your dominance is refreshing and is something he hasn’t experienced with her in a long time. She typically gave up after five minutes but you? You are fiery. You know what you want and you also know how to tell people to fuck off in ways he never knew how.

Has he finally met his match? Can you be the one to meet his fiery passion and loyalty?

“You can leave this here,” you reach out to the waiter, tapping the label on the wine bottle.

The waiter obeys, scrambling away. Caleb watches it as if he’s at a magic show, completely enthralled with the display you’re putting on for him.

This is a completely different side of you, one that he’s never seen before but desperately wants to get to know. If Caleb didn’t know any better, he would think that you also want to indulge in the sweetness of your blossoming love.

“Try the wine,” you grab your glass, emptying the contents into your mouth before refilling it. Caleb watches with an amused smile, tasting the wine as you said to do, and pauses. It’s…it’s delectable. It hits all of the flavor notes he’s been dying to taste in a good wine.

And you were the one who managed to find it.

“Hey,” he leans forward, capturing your attention. “Can we…start over? You know…a fresh start for us?”

Your eyes read humor and your smile is divine. You think about his proposal for a moment, tearing your gaze away, opting to look at the menu.

You know that he’s eagerly waiting for a response. Knowing Caleb, he’s impatient to know the result of your calculations. He watches you, focused on the way your foot taps against his shin and how your eyes scan the menu as if there’s anything remotely interesting on there.

Caleb is right there and he knows that he is way more interesting than the variety of food options the restaurant has to offer.

“What do you say?” He pesters. Your eyes shoot to his. Chills run down his spine.

“New life, new you, right?” You muse. Caleb can’t help but laugh, turning his head away from you.

Have you always been this funny? Your humor knows no bounds, truly. While some people would have groaned at your words, Caleb couldn’t help but see the lightheartedness behind them.

He knows that his death must have taken a large, emotional toll on you. It’s never easy losing someone you were once close to. Perhaps your humor is your way of dealing with uncomfortable and awkward situations. He can’t fault you for it. He too has been known to make light of many uncomfortable scenarios, such as failing his psych evaluation at the DAA.

“Thank you,” he releases a sigh he didn’t even know he was holding in. You shake your head, his interest piqued.

“Don’t thank me just yet,” you bring the glass to your lips, licking them, “consider this dinner as your trial run.”

“Noted,” Caleb responds, eyes trained on your lips, wondering when he’s get a chance to taste the flavor of your lip gloss.

The dinner runs smooth, smoother than you or him could have ever anticipated. Your glasses never went empty and after a bottle or two, you could feel your tipsy giggles taking over your body as Caleb watched you with the biggest smile on his face.

Whenever you covered your face from embarrassment, he always made sure to peel them off so he can look upon your gorgeous face. He loves the way your cheeks turn a light pink color, an effect the alcohol has on you, and how your entire demeanor changes. You become light, airy.

Caleb basks in your delightful chuckles and you can’t help but feel closer to him every time he told you one of his stories from inside the Deepspace Tunnel.

The best part of it is that whenever you shared stories from your translator job, he didn’t make you feel insignificant or insufficient compared to him. Sure, you weren’t in a direct line of danger like he is. You don’t fight Wanderers nor do you patrol the Deepspace Tunnel like it’s nothing.

Your average Tuesday consists of translating, and sometimes even decrypting, secret messages and speeches that the Farspace Fleet intercept. To you, it’s a boring old desk job. To Caleb, you are one of the most integral parts of his job. Without you, his job would be much more difficult and he would be in shambles.

He always knew you were smart but your skills as a translator and linguist are truly impressive. He may be able to able to fly some of the most difficult planes and spaceships, but he’ll never be able to fully understand how to comprehend a different language.

It feels like there were no walls between you two. No angst for you to cling to and a time for Caleb to finally, and quite regrettably, get to know who you are after all these years.

To him, you’ve changed so much. You’ve broken free from your shell, one that him and her put you in, and have grown into a woman who is utterly captivating, someone who can control the room with a simple look and a voice that he never wants to stop listening to.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you breathe between quiet chuckles. You lean forward, a genuine smile on your face. “You’re telling me that you and your squad were scared of a creaking noise?”

“Yes,” Caleb leans in, slowly reaching out for your hand. His large hand lays on top of your tiny one and he is surprised that you don’t immediately pull away from him. The tips of his fingers trace the top of your hand, leaving random swirls and letters into your soft skin. His sight lowered to your hands.

It feels domestic to him, something that he never thought or imagined he would have with you. But here you are, allowing it to happen as you breathlessly laugh at his moment of stupidity while on patrol.

He loves it. He loves—

“Caleb?! Where have you been?! I’ve been worried sick!”

His fingers stop, eyes shooting up to you. Your posture shifts. Your back is as straight as a board, eyes dissociated from the world.

You have become an entirely different person when her voice shrilled form behind you.

You can’t bring yourself to turn and look at her. You listen for her footsteps, hearing them approach before stopping behind you.

“You forgot your necklace at home! I was worried that something happened to you. Who are you with?” She circles the table settling the space to the side of the table. Your hand retracts from his and Caleb can’t help but stare at the tears that brim in your eyes. You look to the spot around his neck, one where the necklace that dangles from her hand should be hanging.

“I left a note for you—” Caleb begins.

“Is that who I think it is?” She says in a hushed tone to him, staring you with a look that says back off.

Your eyes stagger to meet his. His lips part, staring at you like he’s just been caught red handed.

Of course. It was so easy to see what this is.

You tilt your chin up, finally looking up at her. She’s all dolled up, makeup absolutely flawless, elevating her natural beauty. She wears a simple blue bow in her dark hair, which travels just below her shoulders. Her outfit is pretty too, nothing that you can pull off anyways, and she radiates I’m better than you energy.

Your stomach turns on itself. You stare at the wine glasses, ears ringing, wondering why the fuck you had to drink so much. It’s because you felt comfortable with him, yes, but you should have known something like this would happen.

You’re nine years old. She feels left out so you give her a present to open. You hate sharing your birthday.

You’re twelve and sitting alone while they get ice cream together. You’re filled with disappointment when they forgot to get you something.

You’re fifteen years old again. The sting of rejection and embarrassment cuts into your skin at the sight of her when he says he can’t go to the dance.

You’re sixteen years old and watching as they leave your game, hand in hand, not even bothering to say goodbye.

You feel your inner child die. Caleb the Knight has finally slain the monstrous and rotten dragon that has done nothing but ask for love.

“How have you been? It’s been forever since I’ve seen you!” She beams at you.

“I’ve been fine,” you fake a smile but are unable to keep a cheery charade as your smile immediately falters, the corner of your lip twitching. Your nostrils tingle. Your throat throbs from holding back tears.

“You should have waited for me back at the apartment,” Caleb’s face never turns away from yours. A quiet gasp falls from your lips.

At the apartment? Are you sleeping with her? Are you two dating? Have I been made a fool again?

Questions flood into your mind. You’re unable to stop them, not that you want to anyways, as the realization of what’s happening weighs down on your shoulders.

This is the unmistakable feeling of dread.

You stare at him, tears threatening to fall from your eyes, as your hands grip onto the skirt of your dress for dear life. Your nails dig into the palms of your hand through the fabric, stinging your skin.

“I’ve been waiting! I didn’t know you were meeting up with someone,” she turns to you and looks at the plate in front of you. “Is that salmon? I love salmon!”

Suddenly, you hate salmon.

Thinking rashly and acting off of pure instinct, you stand from your chair. The table clatters, silverware clanging into each other, when the top of your thighs hit the table.

“Shit,” you curse under your breath, glass of wine tipping over, splashing onto her. It shatters on impact when it falls to the ground. Embarrassment crashes through your body like a tsunami, ears turning a bright red color from the heat you feel in your head.

“Are you okay?” Caleb jumps to your side, grabbing your arm with kindness and sincerity. You rip your lib away from him, shaking your head.

“I’m fine,” your voice shakes. You look at her, who watches with a dropped jaw. “It was…so nice seeing you again.” You push the painful words out, your throat tightening around itself. Nausea sweeps your body and you grab your purse from the back of your chair, throwing the skinny strap over your shoulder. Without thinking, you turn away from the duo, who are so clearly made for each other, and rush through the restaurant.

You accidentally bump into a hostess who leads a couple to their table. You gasp and drop to the floor, helping her up, choking out apologies to her. You hear Caleb call your name from behind, trying to keep up with you, but refuse to turn around.

You simply can’t! You can’t see the look on his face, the one every man has when he realizes that he was caught being a two timing scumbag.

This is just like high school. This is just like the failed homecoming dance when you cried yourself to sleep. This is just like the time Caleb ditched your game because she wanted to go home and watch a movie instead.

Hot tears streak down your face. You wipe your eyes, the fabric around your hands soon becoming soaked from the salty tears. You rush to the door, everyone’s eyes on you. The employee in the coat closet stares at you with bewildered eyes. You ignore him, leaving your jacket behind, as you burst into the ice cold night air.

There’s no rain but you really hoped there would be. You’d be able to escape into the night, going unnoticed as you ran to your apartment. It’s be cinematic, yes, but in all the worst ways possible. It would have been your punishment for being so fucking stupid.

How could you have thought that this would have gone well? Did you really think that Caleb, out of all people, could actually fucking care about you? He’s a man! He could care less about your feelings! As long as he ends the night in bed next to her, he’d be fine.

It wouldn’t matter if you cried yourself to sleep that night. It wouldn’t matter if you deleted and blocked his number. It wouldn’t matter if you ended up getting hit by a car, falling into a deep coma that you’d never wake from.

The only thing that matters is that Caleb is in love with her. Not you.

Your vision is blurred. Your mascara streaks down your cheeks. The street is busy, filled with cars from the night traffic. They whizz by at top notch speeds, your dress skirt getting caught in the air. You hold your hand out, trying to hail a taxi.

“Taxi!” You yell in a pained cry. Your legs wobble. Your arms ache. Your body feels as if it’s shutting down on itself from the grief you’ve just gone through.

Caleb breaks through the restaurant door. He scans the area, chest rapidly rising and falling, and his eyes land on you, who sways back and forth right next to the curb. His heart sinks into his stomach and he leaps towards you, hand outstretched.

You feel your body tense, going still. A tear stops halfway down your cheek. Your eyes dart around, looking for someone to help you. Your name shoots from Caleb’s mouth and you let out a cry, closing your eyes.

“Leave me alone!” You sob. His evol releases you but you’re immediately pulled into his chest. His arms trap you against him, body trembling from sadness and anger, his palms flattening against your hips. “Let me go, Caleb.”

“No. Let’s talk about this,” his chin rests on your shoulder, hunched over. He presses his nose into the side of your neck, his breath only making your body hotter than it needs to be. “Let me explain, please!”

“No! You don’t — Caleb!” You throw your shoulders backward. He stumbles back but takes you with him. His arms remain frigid. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“Caleb, I swear on my life that if you don’t let me go, you’ll never see me again.” Your words push through gritted teeth. Caleb stares at you, knowing that’s not true, that wherever you go, he’ll follow like a lost dog. He humors the sentiment, though, and slowly relaxes his grip.

You turn around and shove him away from you. Red eyes, ruined makeup, and a heart that has officially rotted, you stare at him. He tries to come close to you but you shove him away, using every bit of strength you can muster. He takes a step back, a sigh escaping his lips.

“I swear, it’s not what it—”

“What it what? Looks like?!” You yell at him.

People turn their heads and watch. They whisper amongst themselves, pointing and bringing their cameras out to record incase the encounter goes south. Cars honk and sirens blare in the distance.

“Please,” his voice cracks, a hand extending towards you, “this is all one big misunderstanding!”

“What could be misunderstood, Caleb? The fact that she came looking for you? Or the fact you brought me to a place that men take their mistresses to?” You turn away but he uses his evol to turn you back around. You let out a frustrated yell. He holds his hands up, shaking his head.

“Hey, hey, let’s try to calm down—”

“Calm down?!” Your screech interrupts him. You point to the restaurant behind you two. “Caleb! You made me your mistress! She literally showed up looking for you! She brought that stupid fucking necklace and asked why you weren’t home!”

“Please—”

“Shut up! Shut up!” You turn around, holding your face in your hands. Your breaths are deep, heavy, as your lungs burn from the inside, the lack of oxygen causing your body to ache. You hunch over, hand over your chest, fingers digging into your chest.

Maybe it’s the wine clouding your judgement, maybe it’s the walls you built from the constant years of betrayal and lackluster friendships, but you just want to disappear.

Anywhere but here would be better. Hell, even a date with George would have been better than this.

Caleb is quick to circle you. He drops to his knee in front of you, trying to get a look at your face, to try and have a conversation. He brushes hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

“I’m so stupid,” your words are just above a whisper. Caleb shakes his head, fighting back tears of his own.

“No. No you aren’t. Don’t say that,” the words tumble from his mouth.

“Yes, I am. I thought I could trust you. I thought that things changed—”

“They did change! She’s just here on a mission and needed a place to stay, that’s all—”

“I don’t care. I don’t care,” you shake your head, lifting your head up. You take a deep breath.

You look at the chaotic street. Cars drive by and honk at each other. They don’t stop for anyone. All of the anger and sadness you once felt slips from your body. Your mind and body go numb.

“I don’t want to see you again.”

Your words shake Caleb to his core. He stands, looking down at you.

“No! No, please don’t do this to me—”

“I can’t trust you. You’ve made me look like an idiot.”

“Let me make it up top you!”

“I want nothing to do with you. Or her. I deserve better than this. Than you.”

“Please don’t say that.”

“You haven’t changed. She’s always going to come between us.”

“That’s not true! I have changed!”

“You’ve broken my heart, Caleb.”

Caleb grabs hold of your shoulders. He cranes his head down so he’s at eye level with you. You stare into nothing, unable to stop the tears that roll down your cheeks. He stares into your eyes, his devotion and his everything.

That’s you. But you can’t see it.

“Caleb?” Her voice carries to the two of you. “Where are you? Let’s go home!”

You can’t help but laugh. Hysteria takes over your body. You finally come out from your dissociation, looking into Caleb’s violent and bronze eyes.

“You better hurry up or she’ll leave you too.” You shrug his hands off of your shoulders, stepping around him. You whistle and a taxi immediately pulls to the curb. You get in, the last part of your beating heart turning into outright decay, your core nothing but rotten scraps of the girl you’ve left behind.

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cncpilled · 27 days ago

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"his nurse" WHDHSHSH oh wow this hurts so good

Zayne x CrushingNurse!Reader | Part Five

Where has your smile gone? ANGST PT.2

Part One • Part Two • Part Three • Part Four

Love and Deepspace Masterlist

I | Zayne drops his voice a little lower than necessary while standing beside you knowing it will usually make you nervous, murmuring, “You’ve stopped stuttering. I almost miss it.” Your heart skips a beat but you keep your face neutral, “I practiced.”, you reply before walking away.

II | Zayne purposely asks you to help with something simple, things he could easily do himself. He knew it made you nervous, he could always feel the ice around his heart melt everytime he saw your hands shake as you tried to help. What he loved even more was teasing you about it. “Hands shaking today?” he asks lightly- carefully. You don’t even smile. “Not at all." He frowns.

III | “Your notes are unusually thorough, much more than usual. Am I making you nervous again?”

“No.”

He pauses. He pauses in that way that would always make you squirm, eye darting everywhere but his way, fingers twisting in the cloth of your scrubs.Now, you don’t even blush.

IV | During rounds, he lingers at your side a beat too long- long enough that you’d normally turn tomato-red and trip over your words. Now, you just shift away and keep taking notes. He stares at you. Silent.

V | You haven't brought him coffee today, nor did you yesterday - or the day before that actually. A routine you had been stuck to for months, suddenly halted. Zayne tried to recall the few days before you started acting so distant, had he done something? Said something? Where has your smile gone? Zayne thought, just as he saw you walk past his office- cup of coffee in hand.

VI | He bumps your shoulder very lightly while reaching for a chart. “Careful,” he says dryly, “wouldn't want our nurse to fall and get hurt." You reply, “There are things that cause a lot more pain than just a fall." He stops mid-motion, like what?

VII | He starts standing closer when reviewing reports with you—close enough that your elbow brushes his. You used to flinch. Now you don’t even react. You shift your chair away and don't even look his way.

VIII | “Nurse." Zayne calls out one day, "Could I speak to you for a moment?" You hesitated for a moment before taking a step forward before halting again at the faint sound of giggles. "I'm busy, Doctor." “Yeah." Zayne mutters, eyes locked on you, "You seem to be a lot these days.” You could barely keep your bottom lip from trembling, responding with a simple, "Yeah." before you walked away.

IX | Zayne starts correcting your minor errors in a purposely sharp voice, just enough to gurantuee a reaction from you - at least it used to. You only say, “Thanks for pointing it out." and fix it. It feels too calm. Too clinical. Nothing like his nurse.

X | He tries to joke during a lull between patients: “Still not a slightest hint of a smile. Should I be worried?” You just reply, “Probably not,” without even looking up. Zayne’s smile falters just slightly.

XI | He casually mentions, “You haven’t tripped over the IV cart all week.” You respond, “I learned how to walk.” There’s no laughter in your voice. It doesn’t sit right with him at all.

XII | He walks up behind you while you’re writing and says your name. A few weeks ago that would’ve made you jump and stammer. Now, you turn slowly, blink, and wait.

“…Yes, Doctor?”

It irritates him- if only you knew how much.

XV | He's done, he can't take it anymore. He corners you one day, just as you're about to leavs, quietly and not so casually this time, “Did I… do something?”

You give him a polite smile. “Of course not.”

"Then why? Why have you been acting like this? Who hurt you?" He fires one question after another.

You feel the tears pool in your eyes but you don't say a word. Not one. You just push those tears back and smile sadly, breaking the doctor's heart into a millions of pieces and walk past him and out of the door.

This is a bit of a filler part but it is needed to fill the gap between the last part and the next one ( a lot of drama will go down )

Taglist : @sylusgirlie7 @jeonjenny @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @draftbeerbibi @weebinator01 @satorustorm @asilaydead @ninaandtuna @gremlinartstudio @keyiswatching @dreamlesssleepsaga @eurynam @amerti @neobitch127 @m30wk1ttycat @yuurisfavblog @dysphxriaii @zainaaryam @floofycookie @beesin03 @thatpersonnamedrook @chiikasevennn @ollie-the-fae @dramaticalsachan @babylilxc @minsified @destinysrequiem @xsammijoanneex @hirostrvw @pepperushia @starllight613 @seris-the-amious @moonlight-inthe-sea @luvvhue @gojosballsack69

If I have missed anyone, please let me know! I'll make sure to add you for the next parts♡

#nanasrecos #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace #lads x reader #lads x you #lads zayne #zayne x you #zayne fluff #zayne love and deepspace #zayne x reader #l&ds zayne

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cncpilled · 30 days ago

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thank god for angst/comfort 🙏

「Where the Wind Left Us」 Caleb

↳ He died in the war- or so you thought. Years later, he returns with no memory of you, and you're forced to face the man who once loved you like forever... now looking at you like a stranger.

Caleb had once been a fighter pilot, sharp, brave and deeply in love. Before the war, before duty stole him away, he was yours. Have a love rooted in hope, built during quiet moments in the chaos of wartime. But when the war escalated and he was called to serve, to protect the country and to protect you.

You had written to him. Countless letters. Words filled with devotion, with trembling wishes for his safety. For his return. With each letter, you tried to remind him that he was still loved, that you are still here, waiting for him. But the war ended, and he never came back.

You stood among crowds of reuniting lovers, heart clenched, eyes scanning every face that was not his. In your fist, a handkerchief crumpled tight with tears. They handed you a uniform. A final gesture. They said his plane had been shot down over enemy lines. No body. No wreckage. No closure. He had been declared missing in action and then, eventually, dead.

Years had passed. Then decade. Still, you remained alone. Something inside you had died the same day he did. If not in body, then in memory. You could not bring yourself to move on. His absence was a shadow you had lived beside. And then-

"Ouch!" A small voice snapped you out of the daze. You looked down to find a young boy who had fallen in front of you. Without thinking twice about it, you knelt beside him, concern pushing through the numbness. "Are you alright, sweetheart?" You asked. But when the your eyes met, something inside you cracked. A ghost of the past but this time, his eyes resemble somebody else. Someone long lost. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t look away. It was like seeing a ghost, not of the boy, but of someone you once knew better than yourself.

Later, you found yourself seated in a familiar little ice cream parlor. One that hadn't changed much over the years. Once, it had been the setting of the happiest date of your life. And now, across from you, sat the boy with his apple-flavored treat. "Are you sure you're okay?" You asked. "Yes! I'm a big boy now. Not even a scratch can make me cry!" He beamed. And that smile, that smile nearly identical to another's from so long ago. "Say, kid" You asked gently "Where are your parents?" "Oh!" He paused mid lick, then looked up like he'd just remembered. "Probably looking for me! We just got back here because this is my father's hometown!"

It was almost cruel, how easily your heart twisted. Once upon a time, there was a love story. A foreign soldier lost in a strange land, memory fractured by war. And a medical nurse who found him, pieced him together. They met. They bonded. They fell in love, not knowing that time and fate had other plans. And now, you are left with nothing but the ruin of a fairytale that was never meant to last.

"Oh, it's Dad." the child mumbled as he looked out the window. And there he was. Caleb. Alive. Whole. Smiling that same hesitant smile. Though now touched with worry as he spotted his son. So you look away and turn around. "I need to go" You whispered almost to yourself. In the end the child pout, the same way he once does causing you to chuckle despite the pain, despite the heartbreak. Despite the realization that the two of you were in fact, never meant to be together. But it was alright.

"I'm afraid I'm quite running late for my errands young man." You smile fondly at him. "But-" He was cut off by the sound of his father calling him from the distance. "Well then, goodbye." You stand up, bidding your goodbye to the young child. "Wai- wait! What's your name?" You thought for a moment and look back slightly at the child. "No one, just a ghost from the past." You whispered along the wind. You never look back. And by the time Caleb reach the child's side, you were already long gone.

♡

It's been a while since you've clean up your lawn. Its been a while since you have done such a thing ever since the revelation that your former lover. The one you thought was dead for the past few years was in fact, alive and breathing. And has a son, a family. It took you a while to pick yourself up from pieces. For years, you mourned for him, loved him in silence. Lit up a candle for a man declared dead with no body to bury. But then, like a cruel twist of fate, he appeared. Alive. Well. And with a child.

You tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. That too much time had passed. That you both moved on even though you never truly had. And that he was someone else's now. That he had a family, and your part in his story was long over. But it wasn’t grief you were feeling now, it was betrayal. Not because he had lived. Not because he ha didn't tell you. Because he had come back into your world as if you were a stranger, not the person who once waited for his letters like they were lifelines. Not the person who loved him enough to mourn him twice.

You clenched your jaw, yanking a weed from the dirt with more force than necessary. Why were you so broken over this? He hadn't done anything wrong. No one had. And yet, deep in your chest, a sharp ache remained. You would’ve preferred he stayed dead. It was easier than this.

"Hello!" You pause, something that you tried not to show too much as you turn to face a familiar child. "Hello sweetheart." You tried to smile, really. The child did nothing wrong. Hell, no one did anything wrong. At the same time it really hurts you to be around this child as time went on. "Are you lost sweetheart?" You ask, setting aside your things to talk to the child properly. You haven't seen the boy in days, and now that he was standing right in front of you, it was clear that what happened wasn't a dream. It was true, he was back and you don't know it that was for better or for worse. "Are you okay?" The boy asked catching you off guard. "Of.. course. I'm okay sweetheart. But! but more importantly, Why are you alone again? where are your parents?"

Starting to get pissed off. The Caleb you knew was responsible, a man with taste. You knew who ever we has with right now would be a perfect good match for. But come on! Who lives their child alone?! This isn't the first time this happened, this child also happened to be away from this parents the first time you've seen him. Why are people so irresponsible with their children? Doesn't he love children? He never told you that of course, but you knew he always wanted one and you knew he would be a good dad. So where in the world is he right now-

"My paren-" "Pipsqueak! you little-!!" He pause, you watch him. You watch him watch you, your eyes slowly meeting half way. You did not want to see him. You were doing everything in your power not to see him.

These days, you moved differently. You rarely left your house and even if you did you took side streets, crossed early at lights, pretended not to notice the ache in your chest when someone said his name like it wasn’t a ghost curled inside it. He was back in town, for good, you knew that. But you aren't expecting to see him again, not now. Probably not ever.

The way he was looking at you. The way it send shiver down your spine. He doesn’t know, you reminded yourself. He doesn’t remember you. He’s not looking at you because he knows you. You told yourself, trying your best to stay calm as he kept looking at you. Why was he even looking at you? He came to pick his son right? Right!

"You" You spoke, sharper than you meant, "Really need to learn how to watch your kid." You did not know where did you get that, words just came out of your mouth before you knew it. Caleb blinked like he wasn’t expecting you to speak first. Or maybe he just wasn’t expecting you. But then he stared at you again, this time, really stared.

The way you tried not to notice how his gaze lingered. The way it clung to your face like it recognized something but couldn’t quite name it. How it made your heart squeeze and your chest ache with things you’d buried long ago. You hate how he still looked at you like that. Like you were something soft in a world gone harsh.

"I- yeah" He replied, finally. "I didn’t know he snuck out again. He’s been doing that a lot lately." "Well, maybe he’s trying to get attention" You snapped, folding your arms. Where did that sassiness came from? "You know, since you're busy with your wife... or whatever." You tried to sound nonchalant, you really do.

But you saw it the moment the words left your mouth, the way something flickered in his expression. Confusion. A little hurt. "My what?" "Your wife.” You repeated, biting down the bitterness. "Look Mister, you've got a family. I get it. But maybe someone should be making sure your son doesn't keep ending up on strangers' lawns."

The way he looked at you like you just accused him of murder. The he said carefully "I don’t have a wife." You thought your ears were playing tricks at you. "I'm not married” He added, frowning. "It’s just me and this little guy over here." You opened your mouth then closed it before opening it again. "I saw you, at the ice cream parlor. You look like family." "We're not" He said simply, eyes softening. "Not like that." You look away. This isn't how you wanted this to go. You weren't even supposed to be talking to him.

Just when you felt like running away. The boy tugged at your sleeve. "Can we still go to the park?" The park? when did the two of you started talking about a park? You glanced down at the boy, then back at Caleb who was still staring at you. Like you were something fragile and familiar. Someone strange all at once. You cleared your throat. "Look, I don’t know what this is. But this little guy right here shouldn’t be wandering off." You smile gently at the boy, gently prying off his hand of your shirt "Next time it might not be someone nice who finds him."

Imagine just when you were about to turn around and walk away for real. "You’re right" Caleb said, voice steady. "You're completely right." What is this guy playing? "So maybe you should help me keep an eye on him. Just for today. Park trip?"

You hesitated. This man, this stranger who still managed to look at you like you were everything, was asking you to walk beside him again. Even if he didn’t remember. Even if it shattered you. Just then, his son grabbed both your hands and squeezed. "Please? I can hold on both of you this time!" You sighed, you could almost feel a headache forming. "I swear" Caleb spoke quietly. "I’m not trying to make this harder for you." He added. "I just... something about you feels like I’ve known you forever." You didn't answer.

Instead you turn to his son who was looking at you with hopeful eyes. Oh those puppy eyes, who could ever say no to them? "Give me a minute darling, I'll clean this up in a bit." "Oh. Oh! I could help!" You laugh, ignoring the way his stare linger. With your heart pounding, trying not to fall apart as the man who once promised to come back to you followed behind. With no idea he already had.

♡

It began in fragments. A shared walk beneath rusted leaves. A passing smile from across the yard. A quiet lunch in the sun, where the child spoke the most and the two adults sat guarded, orbiting each other in silence.

For you, it was cautious. Your heart, once cracked open by his absence, had been stitched closed over years of grief. And now that he stood right before your eyes, not a memory, but a living echo. With his laugh the same, his presence still magnetic. But his eyes were new. Unknowing. Which honestly made it worse. You didn’t know how to touch a ghost who didn’t remember haunting you.

He was gentler now. Or perhaps he always had been, had you simply forgotten how it felt. He watched you like you were something steady, something quiet. Like he was trying to place you in a dream he couldn’t quite recall. And you tried not to look too long. Not to stare when he leaned back on his hands, when he ran a palm through his hair the way he used to when deep in thought. You tried not to remember how his touch had once been a promise. Now, it was unfamiliar. Unwritten. A beginning that mocked the ending you had survived.

For Caleb, it was instinct.

The pull towards you was natural, like a rhythm he already knew. He could not understand why but it lingered in his chest every time you were near. Like a compass buried deep inside him had found true north. There was something in the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t watching. Like you were mourning while he breathed. Like he had hurt you without meaning to. Like he had once been your world, and now you didn’t even know how to stand close without burning.

You were kind, but careful. Present, but slightly too still. He noticed the way you never leaned in too far. The way your hands stayed folded, as though holding yourself together. And yet, somehow, you two kept finding each other. A cup of tea offered without words. A shared glance when the little guy laughed too loudly. The comfortable silence of two people who knew how to sit with something unspoken.

For you, it was terrifying. To feel the old ache inching back slow, quiet and cruel. To fall for him again, when he had no idea you were simply picking up where he had left you broken.

For him, it felt inevitable. Like he was falling toward something he couldn’t name. Something familiar. Something that felt like home. Even if he didn’t know why.

♡

Caleb hadn't meant to visit.

He was just dropping off for his son's hat. Left behind again after your impromptu park trip. But when you opened the door and offered a gentle, "Come in for a minute." He stepped inside, telling himself it was polite. Just polite. And then he saw it.

First, the jacket. Hanging by the coat rack. Old, military-issued, a bit scuffed. Familiar. Too familiar. Then the model planes. Dusty but lovingly displayed on a shelf, and one of them, one specific fighter jet had a scratch on the left wing. And then the mug. Sitting quietly by the window, like a ghost of a morning ritual. Chipped. Faded. Still readable, Return With Honor. He stared at it like it had slapped him.

His chest tightened. His brain did math. You said you lived alone. That you never married. Yet this place didn’t feel like yours alone. It was layered with someone else's presence. And Caleb, who, despite his calm exterior, had an ego thoroughly capable of jealousy, was not immune.

"Nice place." He said, eyes still glued to the jacket. Boyfriend? No. You said you aren't seeing anyone. But maybe someone from the past? Someone important, judging by the shrine level energy in the room. "Thanks." You replied, walking toward the kitchen. "It's quiet. Suits me." "Yeah. You into aviation or something?" By his question, you paused. "A little." He nodded like that explained everything, but the knot in his chest was winding tighter.

"Those models." He said, referring to the planes. "They're vintage... Collectibles?" "They were someone else's." He felt an ache. "Someone close?" He asked and your silence was enough. Caleb cleared his throat. "Boyfriend?" "What's it to you?" You almost glare at him but ended with a sigh. "Nothing." He said too quickly. "Just curious. Not judging or anything. Totally healthy to you know... keep stuff from a boyfriend." He almost cringe at his own words. Nonetheless he tried to play it cool. "Even years later. It's fine."

"Wasn't a boyfriend." "Oh." He looked relieved then paused. "Husband?" You didn't respond. His jaw clenched. "Okay. Cool. So just- was it serious?" It was entertaining, really. To see him acting like this. Still, "Very." He exhaled slowly, pretending it didn't bother him. Pretending the idea of some air force Romeo haunting your house via jacket and coffee mug didn't sit like a boulder in his gut. "Is he… still around?" He asked.

You turned slightly, enough for him to see the flicker of something in your eyes. Not anger. Not sadness. Something older. But then you blink and it disappears. "No." You said simply, too nonchalant. "He died. Years ago. During the war." Caleb blinked. "Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to-" "It's alright."

Caleb, in all his complicated grief and confused feelings, nodded gently and then exhaled the kind of breath no normal person should ever exhale after hearing about someone's dead lover.

Relief. An actual, horrible, shameful relief. "So... you never moved on?" Why does he even asked this questions? "I tried." You said, sighing. Looking back, you never truly get over him. Even before this, you carry him with you. "Didn’t stick."

He looked away, heart weirdly heavy. And relieved. Which was so wrong. He barely even knew you. "I'm not saying I was jealous." He muttered under his breath. Clearly wasn't very jealous. "But I just think it's a little unfair that a dead guy still has better closet space than me." You pause, looked at him and then choked on a laugh. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing. I mean. I didn’t say that." He tried to recover but found himself already walking toward the jacket. "That tear in the shoulder? Looks like something from field duty. Enemy fire?" There was a moment of silence before your voice was heard. "Crash." Ah. Damn. He looked back at you. "Did they recover him?" You shook your head, mind replaying the day you received his uniform. "No. The plane was downed over enemy territory. No body. Just..."

Caleb swallowed, then turned back to the jacket. His fingers brushed the edge of the inner collar. And there, faint but stitched in, was a name. Caleb. His own name.

He blinked. Huh. "That's weird." He whispered to himself. "What is?" "Nothing." He let go quickly, stepping back like the jacket burned him. "Just thought it looked familiar." "You probably knew someone like him." You said, looking at the jacket. "You were a pilot too, weren't you?" He nodded slowly.

The silence that followed was thick with something he couldn’t name. Finally, you turned to him, brows raising. "You okay?" "Yeah. I'm fine. Just..." He looked back at the shelf of planes. "Trying to figure out if I'm feeling haunted or just wildly insecure." You gave him a long look. "Don't worry. You're not the first man to get jealous of a ghost."

♡

It didn’t hit all at once.

Just a flicker. Later that evening, after he returned home and set down his keys. Caleb sat in silence for a long while. Hands resting on his knees, his mind somewhere far behind him. His son asleep upstairs. The house was quiet. But his heart wasn’t.

He couldn't stop thinking about the jacket. The way it had felt under his fingers. The fraying of the collar. The weight of it. Familiar, like a favorite song he hadn't heard in years. And then… the name.

Caleb

His name. Same spelling. Same placement he would have asked for, had it ever been his. And that particular kind of patch stitching, he knew it. Not in theory, not from others but he remembered doing it. Sewing that rip in the field. Threading it clumsily, cursing the cold, using his teeth to pull the knot tight.

The memory was sharp. Real. Immediate. He jolted. For a split second, the sound of wind filled his ears. Rotors. Heat. A hands pressing against his chest. A medic’s voice shouting. The taste of blood. The voice- the voice. Laughing. Crying. Then it was gone. He stared at the floor, breath unsteady, as something ancient and half buried inside him cracked open. He didn’t know the name. Not yet.

But suddenly, he knew the jacket. He had loved someone once. And he had left them behind.

♡

It had been a while since Caleb last visited. Life had a way of stepping in, work, obligations and the silent ache between two people who used to know each other like breath and now barely touched the surface. He hadn't come by in days, and though you told yourself it was a relief, the echo of absence sat heavily in the corners of the house.

Still, his little boy came. He had a way of showing up with grass in his hair and stories far too big for his age. That afternoon, he sat cross-legged in your living room, babbling about paper airplanes and how he could totally build one that flew to the moon if he wanted. And you listened, smiling through the heaviness.

Then, in the soft lull of conversation, you asked a question that had lingered for too long. "Your dad... what's he like?" When you asked that, the boy shrugged like it wasn't complicated. "He’s kind. And quiet sometimes." He giggle. "He forgets things. But he always remembers the important stuff."

You hesitated before asking, you don't want to get hurt. "Was it always just the two of you?" The boy tilted his head. "No. My real parents died. In the war. Dad, Caleb, was their friend. He says he owes them everything."

The world tilted just slightly beneath you. He wasn’t his son. Not by blood. Caleb had taken the boy in. Raised him. Loved him. Not because he had to. But because it was the right thing to do.

You watch the little boy rummaged through his small backpack and pulled out something you hadn’t seen in years, a small box, worn at the edges. "He gave me this." He said, opening it like it was no big deal. Inside sat a ring. Their ring. The one pair Caleb had with him the night before he left for the war. The one you thought had been lost with him forever. You breath caught.

"He said it was for someone important." He added gently. "That he didn't remember who, not really. But he knew it was meant for someone. That he'd given it to them before everything." The air went silent with something unspoken. "He said that's why we came back here." The child said simply. "Because father- my first dad, told him he had left something important in this town. Someone.”

The ring sat there between them, heavy with memory.

You did not reach for it. Not yet. Because hope was a dangerous thing. And love, especially a love that once had died, was terrifying when it tried to live again. You turned your head, blinking quickly, steadying yourself. You could feel it, fate pulling at the thread. Winding them back toward something unfinished. Caleb didn’t remember you. But somehow, his heart still did.

And yours? Still afraid. But still beating for the same man.

♡

It came to him like a storm. No warning. No slow unraveling. Just a breath, then the world tilted.

He was standing by your the porch, hand raised to knock on your door when his eyes flicked to the side window. There, through the curtain, he saw you. Front facing him and staring at the ring.

That ring.

The one he had carried through fire and blood and years of unknowing. The one he couldn't part with even when his memories scattered like ash in the wind. The ring he had told himself it was a symbol of something lost, of someone important.

And in that moment, it wasn't just important. It was you.

He staggered back a step, unsteady.

The noise of bombs, of roaring engines, your voice flooded in. Your hands on his uniform, trembling the day before he left. The taste of your kiss. The promise he made with that ring pressed between your and his palms. The letters. The laughter. The ache of missing you so badly that it bled into his bones.

The crash. The fire. Your name screaming on his throat. Your face, framed in smoke, reaching for him as everything fell apart. He remembered it all.

The weight of your head on his chest after long shifts at the field. The curve of your smile when you handed him that ridiculous mug. The way you looked up at him like he was something worth returning for.

He remembered loving you. And the unbearable grief in your eyes every time you met now soft and guarded. Like you were terrified to reach for what had already died once.

His breath came out broken. You didn’t know he remembered. Not yet. But standing there, staring at the one who had waited for a ghost, who still wore that love like an old scar, Caleb realized something. He did not just fallen in love with you again. He never stopped. And now, he finally remembered why.

♡

You noticed it first in his silence.

Not the awkward kind, it was the silence of someone searching for words. The kind that felt like knowing. Like he was seeing you for the first time. Or maybe remembering how he used to.

The way he looked at you had changed. Less like curiosity. More like memory.

He didn't say anything when you offered him tea in the same chipped mug, the one with the faded letters he'd once picked out himself. He just smiled. A Small, soft and took it with both hands, like it meant something. And it did.

You could feel it shifting from within, the weight of unspoken things settling into the space like dust. You did not ask if he remembered. You didn’t dare. Because what if he didn’t? Or worse, what if he did and chose to forget again? You were terrified of loving him twice only to lose him all over again.

He sat across from you, watching you with the same steady calm that used to unravel you within seconds. Like you were a place he had once called home. And now, was again. And still, you held back. Because time had turned your love into something cautious. Because you had built your life around the absence of him, and now, with his presence sitting in your kitchen again, it felt like you were grieving in reverse.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out the ring box, not dramatic, not rehearsed, just... instinct. He held it between them without opening it. And you stared. Your heart cracked. "Why are you carrying that?" You asked, voice barely above whisper. He did not answer at first. Instead, he looked at you like someone who had finally, finally found what he had spent years trying to remember. Then he quietly said. "Because I remember who it belonged to now."

You breath hitched. You did not cry. You wanted to but there were no tears left. Just silence, fear, and the tender ache of almost believing him. "You don't have to say anything." You finally spoke. "You don't owe me that." You added. "I do." He replied. Quiet and steady. "I left you once." There was a pause. "Not because I wanted to, but because the world forced me to." He looked at you. "I won't leave you again."

And you looked away, blinking rapidly. "But what if you forget again?" Fear. "What if I lose you twice?" You don't know if you would be able to handle that again. He exhaled. A breath full of pain and love and all the words he never got to say the first time. "Then I'll come back again." He said, eyes looking for yours. "And again. And again. Because it’s you. It’s always been you. Even without my memories, I found you." You finally looked at him. And in his eyes, you saw him.

Your Caleb.

Not just the man he used to be. Not just the man war tried to erase but the one who had always, in every version of himself, loved you. And in that moment, you don't need the ring. You don't need the memories. You don't need the promises made in uniforms or letters. You just needed this The quiet truth between them. The forgiveness in your heart. And the love that had never really left.

You did not kiss. Not yet. There was no sweeping declaration. No grand reuniting. Just the ring resting between you two. Two hands meeting across the table. And a slow, steady heartbeat that finally, finally felt like home.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

Letter Never Sent

My dearest love,

If this letter reaches you, then I’ve made it back, whole, in one piece, and still yours. And if I haven’t… then let this be something that stayed behind, even when I couldn’t.

There’s something I wanted to ask before I left, but the moment kept slipping away. I was too busy memorizing your smile.

So here it is, written plainly and tucked into these folds of paper like a promise:

Will you marry me?

I don’t ask for forever. Just ust for the chance to return to you. I’ll chase every sky, every mile, every storm, if it means finding my way back.

No matter where the wind takes me… I know where it will leave me.

With you.

Always,

Caleb

#nanasrecos #lads x reader #live laugh love lads #lads imagine #lads fanfic #lads x you #lads x y/n #lads ff #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader

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cncpilled · 1 month ago

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every sentence this fic has makes me fall further and further in love this is so good omg

The Contract of Stone (Yandere Zhongli x Reader)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

When you first meet Zhongli, it feels like coincidence—a quiet moment at Wangshu Inn, a polite exchange, a stranger with amber eyes too ancient to forget. But it’s not coincidence. It’s the beginning of something much older, much deeper, and far more unshakable than love.

Zhongli doesn't chase. He doesn’t beg. With impeccable manners and the solemn grace of stone, he simply becomes part of your life—one soft gesture, one remembered detail at a time. You never question the way he always seems to be there, never wonder how the world begins to fold neatly around your needs.

But you should.

Because behind every respectful glance lies a vow. Beneath every shared moment is a ritual. And in the depths of Liyue, beneath the mountain and the sea, your name has already been carved into eternity.

You are not trapped.

You are cherished.

And Zhongli has no intention of ever letting you go.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Up next: Yandere Zhongli Headcanon, Yandere Gorou Headcanon

To find my main masterlist, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The first time you bumped into Zhongli, the air hung thick and heavy with incense.

It kind of drifted around the big room at Wangshu Inn, getting in your face. It smelled like tree sap and sandalwood, but also something deeper – like old dirt and rocks after a rain.

You could hear the river outside humming away, mixed with the groan of the wooden floor under your feet. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, making the wood glow all warm. It felt really peaceful, like you should whisper and take deep breaths.

You were just there to drop off a scroll, nothing special. A delivery job. Normal stuff. There was no reason this day should change anything.

But there he was. Sitting by the window, all chill but proper, like he’d been around forever. His robe is made of deep browns and muted golds, trimmed with subtle elegance. Next to him was a cup of tea, untouched, steam curling up.

He didn’t seem to see you at first, too busy with some old writing on the table, touching the symbols like they were precious. But the second you walked in, he looked up. His eyes were amber. Not like fire, not like being cozy. More like something preserved. Something eternal. Like he’d been waiting – not for a delivery, not for any reason. Just for you.

“Thank you,” he says, accepting the scroll with both hands, his voice resonating like a bell struck once at dusk—deep, low, echoing with the weight of centuries.

You nod politely. There’s nothing more to say. Nothing else to do. You turn to leave. But you feel it—his gaze doesn’t follow you.

It anchors you. Not possessive. Not expectant. Just there. Unmoving. Watching with a patience that stirs something dormant in your chest. You tell yourself it’s nothing. That he was merely being polite. That his gaze wasn’t unusual—wasn’t personal.

But later, as you ride the ferry across Dihua Marsh, you keep thinking about it. About him. About how a stranger’s eyes could feel so ancient, so heavy with quiet understanding. The ferry rocks gently beneath you, but something else unsettles you much more: the strange feeling that you’ve just become part of something older than yourself.

That night, you dream of stone corridors. Of unfamiliar symbols glowing faintly along cavern walls. Of golden light pulsing like a heartbeat through darkness. You sense the tremble of tectonic memory, the sound of your name spoken in a voice too old to name.

You don’t remember the details, just the weight of something vast, something ancient brushing against your soul. When you wake, the dream clings to your skin like morning dew. And you are not the same. You attribute it to exhaustion. Coincidence. Maybe you’ve been working too much, too long, in too many old archives filled with forgotten myths.

Perhaps your mind is conjuring shapes from fog and memory. But you return to Wangshu Inn a week later, and he’s not there. You hadn’t realized you were expecting him until you scan the dining hall twice.

You leave quickly, pretending it’s the tea that doesn’t suit your taste. But the image of him—amber-eyed, composed, as still and solemn as carved stone—refuses to fade. And far beneath the ground, something old has already begun to shift.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A week later, Liyue greets you with sunshine and market noise. You’re helping a friend sort through old temple scrolls tucked inside a dusty annex in the upper terraces. It’s tedious work—marking notes, logging fragments, cataloging wax-sealed records that haven’t seen daylight in years.

The sun is nearly at its peak when you step outside to stretch. The harbor below sparkles, golden and slow. You shield your eyes with one hand.

“You seem far from the market today.” The voice gently draws you back.

You turn, squinting in the light. He’s there. Zhongli stands a few feet away, his hands neatly folded behind his back. His robes rustle faintly in the breeze, the deep colors catching the light in subtle ways—bronze, sepia, hints of vermilion. His expression is calm, as if he merely paused mid-thought to greet you.

“It’s been a while,” you say, blinking.

He inclines his head. “Liyue is a city of intersections. One simply needs patience to find the right crossing.”

It’s a strange way to phrase it, but elegant. You smile, and he smiles back. You tell him about the scrolls. He listens with such genuine interest that you linger longer than intended. The light shifts. The shadows stretch. Still, the conversation flows as if you’ve spoken like this your whole life.

You don’t realize until you return to your work that the quiet ache in your chest—the one that began at Wangshu Inn—has softened. He had been a stranger. And now, in some way, he is not. You start seeing him again. And again.

At first, it’s infrequent—coincidental, you tell yourself. But then it becomes routine. He’s outside the tea house when you arrive to meet a friend. He’s browsing a scroll vendor’s wares the same morning you run errands near Yujing Terrace. He’s seated on a stone bench by the pier, reading quietly as lanterns are lit for evening festivals.

Never intrusive. Never inappropriate. Always showing up at the right time. You greet him each time—a small nod, a polite smile. Sometimes a short conversation, always pleasant, always insightful.

And always, he remembers.

He remembers the tea you prefer. The poem you misquoted and laughed about. The scar on your finger from when you dropped a ceramic lid three weeks ago. He speaks of these things not as curiosities but as truths—stones firmly set into the foundation of who you are. When you tease him about it once—“You’ve got quite the memory, Zhongli”—he only smiles.

“Liyue has always prized memory,” he says. “To forget is to dishonor history.”

It’s poetic. Noble. And it explains everything. So you don’t question why he’s always nearby. Why he seems to appear when you need company, when you’re tired, when the world feels a little too loud. You start to expect it.

You feel something like comfort when you spot him nearby, walking with that quiet grace, hands tucked behind his back, eyes never demanding, only present. You never notice his obsession because it is wrapped in the language of history. Of civility. Of perfect self-control. It never feels strange. Only inevitable.

And so you let him closer.

Not because you’re forced, but because it feels right.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Zhongli slides into your life--deliberate and gentle, like a song you start humming without realizing it. He's not pushy. He just...becomes a part of things, like the air you breathe, or that one comfortable chair you always sit in. He never forces his way in. Instead, he becomes part of your surroundings, your schedule, your breath.

It starts with gestures so subtle that you don’t notice they’ve become habits. A cup of tea, always brewed to your liking, appears at your table when you’re too distracted to notice who brought it. A book you mentioned in passing is placed on your doorstep, its leather spine still warm from sunlight. You thank the innkeeper, the neighbor, the courier. No one ever confesses. But deep down, you already know.

It’s him.

Zhongli doesn’t win you over with flowers or grand declarations. His affection is rooted in ritual. Everything he does follows an ancient rhythm—refined, sacred, impossible to decipher unless you grasp the weight of tradition. The way he pours tea is a rite. The way he places a book in your hands is a vow. The way he stands beside you, hands folded neatly behind his back, is not casual. It is respectful.

He never says that the tea he brews for you is the same blend used in ancient wedding rituals. He never explains that the poem he quotes casually was once recited to seal soul-binding oaths between lovers. He never mentions that accepting his gifts—these seemingly innocent tokens—means something much deeper in Liyue custom.

And because he never tells you, you never know.

You never see the trap.

Days become easy and predictable. Zhongli shows up again and again. Not so often that it's weird, but just when you could use some company.

Overwhelmed at work? He's there with tea to calm you down. Want to watch the festival? He’s ready when you are. You never ask him outright, but it's like he knows what you need. He's always listening.

He picks up on things you don't even realize you're saying: quiet comments, small sighs, a lingering look at something in a window. He locks them away in his head, remembering it all.

The first time you invite him inside feels natural. It's a cold day, beginning to rain. He asked to walk you home, and you said yes. You don’t think he’ll stay, but he does. He does not touch anything without your permission. But his eyes—those ancient, ageless eyes—observe every detail: the arrangement of your books, the tea set you prefer, the loose seam in your curtain, the smell of your soap.

“You’ve made this place your own,” he says, and you smile at the compliment.

But in his mind, the sentence continues: "And now, it belongs to us both."

He sits in your home like it’s a shrine, and for a while, you forget he’s even there. His presence is so calm, so composed, that it doesn’t interrupt your space—it reshapes it. When he leaves, hours later, after a polite farewell and a promise to return a book you lent him, the silence he leaves behind is heavy. Not empty. Just… different.

Your home feels changed. The corners feel watched. The stillness feels full. You tell yourself it’s just the warmth of good company, the echo of a shared evening.

But in the hills beyond the harbor, beneath a starlit sky, Zhongli kneels before an unmarked stone altar older than the harbor itself.

He writes your name into the dust. He lights incense made of sacred resin and salt. He speaks your name aloud once, then lets the silence absorb it.

He does not need your permission.

The rites are not for you.

They are for the contract he believes has already been signed.

You do not know this, of course. You continue with your life, pleasantly unaware of how the earth hums in agreement beneath your feet. You do not feel the ley lines stir. You do not hear the distant echo of your name whispered in the caverns below Mt. Tianheng.

But he does.

Zhongli watches you with quiet devotion, never stepping too far. Never speaking out of turn. He never crosses the invisible line you keep between acquaintance and something more.

He doesn’t have to.

Because you keep inviting him closer—with your kindness, your trust, every smile, every story, every casual touch lingering a moment longer than necessary.

And in his mind, these are not accidents. They are affirmations.

To love you is to serve. To serve you is to protect. To protect you is to bind your existence to his.

And he will do it without breaking a single rule.

You don’t feel it when the world begins to shift around you. When merchants offer you better prices. When the path to your door is always cleared, even in heavy snow. When people greet you with a quiet respect you never asked for.

Zhongli says nothing. But he is always near.

The mountain has moved.

And you are already standing atop it, whether you realize it or not.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It begins with a smile not meant for him.

You’re speaking to a visiting merchant from Fontaine. They’re charismatic, a little clumsy, but quick with their jokes and full of stories from far-off lands. Their accent is strange to your ear, but charming. You laugh once—just once—but it’s a sound bright and unguarded, the kind of laugh Zhongli has never seen in person. Only heard echoed faintly in the steam of shared tea, or in memories that aren’t his to hold.

He sees it from across the square.

He does not interrupt. He does not make himself known. He merely watches, his arms folded neatly behind his back, posture as still and regal as ever. To any passerby, he is just another observer, standing in thought among the crowd.

But something in the air shifts.

The wind stills. The chatter around him softens. Even the sound of the harbor seems to dull, as if the world holds its breath. Zhongli says nothing. His gaze does not harden. He does not glare or frown. But the force that stirs behind his eyes—unseen, immense—presses into the space between you and the merchant like the weight of stone.

You never notice.

Later that evening, Zhongli is beside you once more, his steps quiet and measured as you walk through Yujing Terrace. He speaks softly of seasonal traditions and the hidden meanings behind regional dishes. His voice is warm. Measured. His presence familiar and calm.

When you mention the merchant, he nods thoughtfully.

“Newcomers seldom linger long in Liyue,” he says, not unkindly. “The harbor is kind, but… it does not always welcome everyone.”

You think nothing of it.

Two days later, the merchant vanishes.

No farewell. No explanation. Their stall sits abandoned, a few crates hastily stacked. Their room at the inn is found empty at dawn, the bed unslept in. The innkeeper shrugs. Travelers come and go. It’s not unusual, they say.

But something nags at you.

Zhongli never mentions it again. When you bring it up in passing, he merely lifts his teacup, brows gently furrowed.

“What a shame,” he murmurs. “The world is… unpredictable.”

Then he changes the subject.

You never dwell on it for long.

But something starts to feel… smaller. As if the edges of your life are gently being trimmed. People you once saw often now visit less. Letters from friends are lost. Appointments are quietly rescheduled. Paths that used to take you past the docks now reroute through quiet stone alleys—and Zhongli always seems to be there.

Not intruding. Not imposing. Just present.

Liyue begins to feel narrower, more curated. But in a comforting way. Familiar shops. Familiar voices. Familiar hands offering you the same books, the same herbs, the same delicate trinkets that Zhongli once explained in passing.

And always Zhongli, walking beside you. Speaking with careful reverence. Offering his presence as easily as the air you breathe.

He never raises his voice. Never makes demands. Never tells you not to speak to others.

He never has to.

Because the world around you begins to move differently. Like a river redirected by unseen hands. You don’t realize how much your life has begun to flow through the carved channels of Zhongli’s quiet will.

Your landlord offers a renewal without asking. Vendors give you discounts before you open your mouth. Invitations to events seem to multiply, but always with Zhongli listed as a guest—sometimes even the host. The more time passes, the more seamless it becomes. The city knows you. The city serves you. The city sees you as Zhongli does: important.

You never question it. Why would you? Liyue has always been a place of structure, of contracts and order. If the city now bends gently around your needs, it must simply be fortune.

Zhongli remains as he always is: poised, attentive, respectful.

But the look in his eyes, when they linger too long on your face, when your hand brushes his in passing, is not merely friendly. There is something sacred in the way he watches you—as if your very presence is a ceremony.

You never see the depth of it.

You never notice the quiet rituals he performs in your name. You never see the carved stones buried in gardens beneath fallen leaves, marked with your initials. You never hear the prayers spoken in languages dead for thousands of years. You never notice how people who cause you distress simply stop appearing in your life.

Not because he punishes them.

But because the land remembers.

And Zhongli, ever the steward of the earth, ensures that memory is honored.

You walk beside him as though the choice is yours.

And in a way, it is.

Because he never makes you stay.

He simply builds the world around you so carefully, so lovingly, so completely, that the idea of leaving never enters your mind.

There is no chain. No cage. No lock.

Only a path paved in smooth stone, lined with lanterns, always leading back to him.

And you follow it.

Gladly.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Zhongli is not a man who needs to chase. He does not grasp, does not plead, does not coerce. His love is too ancient, too refined for such base tactics. And so, as the days stretch into weeks and the weeks into months, he allows the illusion of choice to wrap around you like silk.

You think you stay by his side because you want to. And in a way, that’s true. Nothing he’s done has ever crossed a line. No boundary has been shattered. No demand has been made.

And yet.

You see him almost every day now. Not because you arranged it that way, but because his presence has simply woven itself into your life like thread through cloth. He’s the one who walks you home from the archive. He’s the one who sits beside you during lectures and evening performances. He’s the one who knows the names of your favorite street vendors, the festivals that matter to you, the rhythm of your life so intimately it feels like he belongs there.

And he does.

He never oversteps. When your friends ask if you and Zhongli are… involved, you laugh. You shake your head. He’s just kind, you say. Gentle. Someone you feel safe with.

But it’s more than that.

He listens to you the way no one else does. When you speak, he hears more than your words. He hears the thoughts beneath them, the silence between them. He responds with perfect timing, with wisdom that settles into your bones. He makes the chaos of the world feel quiet.

And slowly, almost imperceptibly, you start to depend on that peace. You seek him out when you’re tired. When the city feels too loud. When your thoughts are tangled. You don’t notice how often you reach for him until he’s already there, waiting with a calm gaze and hands that never tremble.

He never rushes you. He never assumes.

But he is always there.

The stability he offers is intoxicating. A pillar in the rushing current of life. You don’t see it as control. You see it as care.

You don’t see the way the world bends to keep him near.

When your favorite spot at the tea house is always open. When the ferryman delays just long enough for you to catch the boat he’s already on. When the elder at the archive suddenly requests joint assistance for translations, with Zhongli as your paired scholar. You laugh at the coincidences. You say fate is strange.

But the world of contracts is never built on coincidence.

And Liyue’s oldest contract is already written in stone.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

One afternoon, you fall ill.

Nothing serious. A passing fever. But Zhongli arrives before your neighbors. Before your healer. He steps into your home with the ease of water meeting its riverbed. You don’t question how he knew. You’re too tired to wonder.

He brews medicine without asking where you keep your ingredients. He cools your brow with a cloth dipped in chrysanthemum water. He hums an old lullaby you’ve never heard but somehow recognize. His presence fills the room without weight, like a temple filled with incense.

When you wake the next morning, he’s seated by your side, reading a scroll. He smiles when you stir.

“I apologize if my presence disturbed your rest.”

You shake your head. “It’s… comforting.”

You mean it.

You never ask why he stayed the night. You never wonder how he prepared remedies from herbs you didn’t own. You don’t ask why your landlord didn’t object, why your healer never came.

The answers wouldn’t occur to you.

Because you feel safe.

Because Zhongli has never hurt you.

Because his manners are impeccable.

And so you trust him.

Your world becomes very small, very gently. Not in a way that isolates—but in a way that solidifies. Like sediment settling into stone. And in that stone, Zhongli writes a future he never questions.

You belong here. With him. Among stone and memory.

And you are content.

But Zhongli never forgets the fragility of mortals.

And so, he prepares for what even you have not yet imagined.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

It happens on a quiet evening—the kind that settles over Liyue like velvet. The sun has dipped beneath the mountains, painting the harbor in dusky golds and purples. Lanterns sway gently in the wind, and you’re walking beside Zhongli without a destination, your path lit only by the hush of familiarity.

You ask him, offhandedly, if he ever gets lonely.

The question isn't weighted. It's light. Casual. Born of a shared silence that has become your language. But the way Zhongli pauses, the way he watches the horizon as if reading something carved into the sky—it makes your breath catch.

"I was, once," he says.

You turn to look at him, but he’s not watching you. He’s watching the water. The sway of lanterns drifting outward into the distance, their flickering lights echoing stars.

"But not anymore?" you ask, voice soft.

He doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it’s not with words.

He reaches for your hand.

His touch is gentle. No urgency. No pressure. Just the warmth of skin, the steady pulse of his heartbeat beneath fingers refined by centuries. You don’t pull away. You never have. You don’t realize how natural this has become—how easily his presence wraps around you like stone softened by time.

"You are here," he says finally, and in those three words, you hear the full weight of everything he has never spoken aloud.

Zhongli does not need to say that he has built his world around you.

He doesn’t tell you that the earth itself has shifted to keep you near.

He doesn’t reveal that your name has been written into stone tablets buried beneath Mt. Tianheng—your face immortalized in carvings no one else will ever see. That he kneels before them nightly, fingers brushing stone, whispering your name as if it’s a sacred text.

He doesn’t tell you that the reason you feel at peace is because he has removed every ripple, every tremor, every possibility of change from your life.

He doesn’t need to.

Because you are smiling. Because you are here.

Because to him, this moment is fulfillment.

You never notice the weight of his devotion—not truly. Not how it presses down like bedrock, anchoring your every step. You never notice the prayers he speaks into silence, or the way he traces protective sigils into the walls of your home while you sleep. You never see the offerings he leaves at unmarked shrines in your name.

To you, he is dependable.

To him, you are divine.

You speak of future travels—distant lands, new scholars to meet, new books to find. Zhongli listens, his eyes half-lidded. He nods. Smiles. Encourages your dreams. He even offers recommendations. But in his mind, none of these paths truly diverge. They all circle back to Liyue.

To him.

Because wherever you go, the land beneath your feet will answer to him.

You do not run.

Why would you?

There is no fear. No pressure. Just tranquility—carefully maintained, endlessly curated. A life so serene you forget chaos ever existed.

You are not trapped.

You are treasured.

And Zhongli, ever the gentleman, ever the god, ever the silent keeper of all things sacred, has vowed that nothing will ever disturb this peace.

Not fate.

Not time.

Not even death.

For if you grow old, he will revere every wrinkle like a scripture. If you fall ill, he will summon herbs known only to the oldest mountains. If you die—

No.

You will not.

He will preserve you.

Through memory, through stone, through rites known only to the Adepti. He will speak to your spirit beneath the earth and bind your name to the stars. You will live on in quiet corners, in carved lanterns, in the stories whispered in temples long after your body is dust.

And he will wait.

As stone waits for pressure to become diamond.

Because in Zhongli’s mind, you are not a fleeting mortal.

You are eternal.

And the contract is fulfilled.

#nanasrecos #dark romance #zhongli x reader #yandere zhongli #yandere morax #yandere genshin imagines #yandere genshin x reader #yandere

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cncpilled · 1 month ago

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holy wow this is so good im throwing up crying

Imagine being Sylus' non-mc significant other. part3

Imagine as Sylus stood outside your door longer than he should have. The air was thick with the weight of everything unsaid. He had rehearsed a hundred apologies, but none of it felt right. None could undo what was already done.

Imagine when you opened the door, you did not look surprised. Just tired. He offered a small greeting as you stepped aside without a word and he walked in like someone returning to a memory. The apartment looked the same, but the air was different.

Imagine the way it smelled of something else, something he wasn't familiar with. Like someone had been trying to scrub away memories but couldn't reach the ones buried too deep. So he watched you as you sat down on the edge of the couch like it was the only place that didn't still echo his presence.

"You're not here to explain." Your voice calm but distant. "No." He said sitting across you. "I think you already know everything." Then there was a pause. The kind that used to mean safety, now it just felt like holding breath before a storm that never came.

"I should have told you." He added. "The mission. MC. Everything." You nod, eyes never meeting his. "But you didn't." "No." He whispered. "Because I didn't want to lose you." "But you did anyway." That silence returned. Heavy, but not angry. Just resigned.

"You know what the worst part is?” You spoke after a moment of silence. "It is that I would've understood." You close your eyes and clasp your hands together. "I've always tried to understand you, Sylus." You sound so soft yet tired. "I know." His voice sounds almost like a whisper. "I didn't need perfect." You said. "I just needed the truth. Even if it hurt. Even if it scared me."

Imagine the way Sylus sat across you. Elbows on his knees, his hands clenched. "I thought I was protecting you." He pause. "That the less you knew, the safer you were. That if I could just hold everything together for a little longer." Silence, a long deep silence. Then his voice soften but not in the way that it send butterflies to your stomach but in a way that breaks your heart. "I'd come back and you'd never have to carry any of it."

Imagine your smile was small and sad. "But I was carrying it. Every day. I was carrying the silence. The confusion. The nights you didn't come home. The days you smelled like someone else. I carried it all without knowing what it meant." He looked at you, eyes red-rimmed but dry. "I didn't love her." "I know." You said. "But that wasn't the point, was it?" "No."

Imagine as the two of you sat in the stillness for a while. Neither knowing how to move forward but there was a strange peace in the honesty between the two of you were now like pulling back the curtain and realizing the storm has passed, even when the damage is still there.

Imagine then you looked at him. Like really looked at him. And he looked older. Or maybe, just wearier. His eyes, once unreadable, now looked hollowed out by guilt.

"I loved you" You finally said. "I still do." There was a moment of silence. "But I think we started building something in the wrong season. You were still surviving, and I was hoping you'd learn how to stay." At your words, his throat tightened. "With you, I wanted to. I tried to."

"But love that hides behind missions and silence?" You said, voice gentler now. "It doesn't get to last. Not unless it's willing to stand in the light." He nod slowly. "I see that now. I see everything I didn't before. Everything I asked you to carry without knowing."

Imagine the way you lean back slightly, staring at the wall, not in anger but in reflection. "You weren't the villain. Not to me. Not ever. But you made me feel like I wasn't enough to be chosen outright. And I can not go back to that."

Imagine, he reach across the coffee table, fingers brushing upon yours. And you didn’t pull away. But you didn’t lean in either. You just met him halfway, hands touching like two people who knew how much it hurt to let go.

"I don’t want to lose you." He said quietly. "You already did." You answered, not cruelly. Just honestly. "But that doesn't mean we're finished. Maybe we're just…" Taking a break. Trying to find a better version of ourselves. "Maybe the version of us wasn't built to last. But that doesn't mean we can't try again someday. When we're different. When we've healed."

Imagine the way he exhaled shakily before nodding. "Then I'll come back." Those red eyes were staring at you intensely. "When I'm someone who deserves the kind of love you gave me so freely."

Imagine just then you stood up slowly in which he followed. This time the door felt heavier than before. "Take care of yourself." You said, reaching for the knob. "You too." He replied. "And thank you. For loving me when I don't know how to be loved."

Imagine you opened the door, letting the cool air of the hallway in. But then you turn to face him one last time. "Promise me one thing." You said. "Promise me that when you do come back. If you come back. You come back as someone who doesn't make me question whether I'm first."

Imagine he did not speak. He just nodded. Once and firm. Like a promise in silence. Then he stepped into the hallway and you closed the door behind him.

Imagine he stood there for a while. Not out of regret, but cherishing it. Because sometimes, the bravest thing two people can do is stop fighting to hold on and start learning how to let go. So they can meet again, not as what they were, but as who they've become.

Imagine, inside you lean your forehead against the door, breathing in deep. Because love wasn't gone. It was just choosing to heal, for once, before trying again.

[ⓒdark-night-hero] 2025°

: i kept dying mid round and barely manages to edit the whole thing after I stopped playing because wtf where did my aim in valo go.

#nanasrecos #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x you #love and deepspace x reader #lads sylus #lads #lads x reader #lads imagine

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cncpilled · 1 month ago

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my king gojo getting humbled in every paragraph im cryinf

MISS POSSESSIVE ⋆˚꩜｡五条悟, 鹿紫雲 (GOJO & KASHIMO)

PLOT 𐙚 Gojo’s been acting weird ever since he got unsealed: distant, smug, and just a little too rude about the fact you’ve been spending all your time with Hajime Kashimo. So when he catches you training together and things start heating up…well, you’re about to find out that territorial jujutsu sorcerers make very mean lovers.

FEATURING. Gojo Satoru x Reader x Hajime Kashimo

CW 𐙚 afab!reader, 3sûm, eiffél tower, orál (m), orál (f), dp, jealousy, semi-public séx, bulgés, gettin' pûssydrunk, implied yaoi for those who have the eyes to see, MDNI, post Culling Games, PETTY GOJO, mánhandling, inappropriate uses of jujutsu, possessive séx

WC 𐙚 8.1k

NOTE 𐙚 she's back and she's predictable... (req from @wetwhisper)

The air in the training room is far too thick and syrupy for your tired lungs. The temperature is warm, rising from shared body heat and gulping breaths. It's the kind of atmosphere that sticks to your skin, and makes your hairline damp, your limbs humming from overuse.

You're crouched low on the soft black mats, your strained thighs aching in the soft, linen pants you traded your navy staff robes for. One palm flattened against the ground as you attempt to dodge Kashimo's next hit.

The God of Lightning is as fast as his epithet, enjoying himself far too much, but you've come to learn that Hajime Kashimo is just naturally like that.

Nothing makes that man happier than bruised knuckles, and the sweet ring of victory bells.

"How can it be that you are this tired already?" Kashimo's panting and lurching forward, teal hair plastered to his brow. His sharp, jewel-toned cyan eyes are the exact same shade, and the effect is beautiful in the most disconcerting way.

"You wish." You lunge, twisting in a way that strains a solid third of your body, but Kashimo catches your wrist mid-strike, flipping you with a thud against the cushioned mat. His warm grip is firm, but never bruising.

Always precise, and always hungry.

The sorcerer lands above you, sun-kissed chest heaving, only wearing the ivory bandages wrapped around his torso, and dark martial pants slung low over his toned hips.

You forcefully tear your eyes away from the ripple of his carved abdomen as he cackles at the joy of his own victory. Again.

The next breath you draw is shallow, and you gnaw absently at the inside of your cheek as his knee presses between your thighs, "Dirty move."

"We must all play to win," Kashimo's cyan eyes are half-lidded, and you get the vague sensation that he's all the more pleased with your position pinned under him.

"You're ridiculous."

"Perhaps," Kashimo's pink lips quirk upwards, but he's tilting his head down to brush his mouth just barely against the curve of your jaw, "However, if my actions present an opportunity like this, I would be a fool not to indulge myself."

The training room's door might be closed, but this is still a public space, and you know that you should roll to your side, and shove him off.

But a lecherous demon inside you demands that you should tug your fingers through mussed teal strands, and pull him closer.

Surely, there's enough time for Kashimo to prove he can put his money where his mouth is.

Or rather, he can put his mouth right on your —

Bang!

Your body jerks upright instinctively as the heavy door slams open.

Gojo Satoru. Lacking a shirt, glistening and very much uninvited.

His snowy white hair is messier than usual, as though he's rolled out of bed and forgotten to fix it. But you wager he's been training nearby, judging by the white pants that hug his hips, low and lazy, covering a trail of thin, ivory hair that dusts his groin.

Ugh, the slope of his collarbone to the sharp ridges of his torso is frankly criminal. But his blindfold hangs loose around his neck, and his expression is...unreadable.

You'd wager a month locked inside the bounds of the Prison Realm wasn't exactly a picnic for Gojo, but still, does that really justify him treating you like week-old leftovers ever since he was unsealed?

Your best friend of years, now looking at you as though you personally hand-delivered the keys to his misery.

"Oh. It's you," Gojo intones, blue-eyes rolling skywards at the sight of Kashimo, dulcet voice flat and disdainful, as though offering a greeting offends him.

You think Gojo regards Kashimo the same way that someone may regard a raccoon digging through their trash, vaguely horrified and mostly inconvenienced.

Not that Kashimo notices, or cares. If anything, he always seems amused by Gojo's simmering, unadulterated loathing. Delighted, even.

Yeah, you've yet to figure out why Hajime Kashimo is the way that he is.

You remember a recent memory, perhaps a mere fortnight ago, when Kashimo insisted that the two of you train at the ungodly hour past midnight. So, you had untangled yourself out of soft sheets and trailed behind him down the dim hallway to the final training room.

But Kashimo had barely pushed the slow door open when a violent flash of red came screaming right past your shoulder. Hot, pressurised, and so close it nearly parted the roots of your hair from your scalp.

It had been a Reversal: Red. Casual as a breeze, as powerful as a packed weapon. Just coincidentally brushing past you, and aimed a little too close to Kashimo's face.

But he hadn't flinched, merely angled his staff with mechanical precision, deflecting the attack as though it was a light-hearted routine.

The blast of cursed energy had shattered against the far wall with a sizzle, leaving behind a smouldering scorch mark and the faint scent of fried ozone.

And Gojo? That smug bastard, that grown-ass man, had been inside, rolling his shoulders back as though he were plastered on a calendar shoot. Bare-chested, slow, gleaming with sweat. Thick arms stretched high as though he knew your eyes fell on him.

But when he dropped his hands, his blue eyes cut to you, sparkling with faux innocence, "My bad," your best friend had drawled, voice smooth and laced with the sugar that he was so fond of chewing, "Didn't see you there, man."

Kashimo had grunted at the time, entirely unmoved as he stepped past Gojo without so much an accusatory glance, "It happens."

Apparently, that pissed Gojo off more than a direct insult ever could.

You had watched it all unfold in real time, the petty twitch in Gojo's eyes, the way his jaw clenched as Kashimo breezed past, the medieval sorcerer already distracted and marvelling at the smoking crater in the wall like a museum exhibit.

And then, Gojo had turned that midnight-blue glare on you. As if you had personally redirected the blast. As if it was your fault that Kashimo hadn't been obliterated into magical dust. The sheer audacity.

And yet, you remember that exact moment your brain chose to focus on other matters. Like noticing the more...physical changes in your best friend.

It wasn't really a secret that Gojo had always been built like a demigod on vacation, but now? His time away had resulted in a thicker, sharper frame. All honed muscle and veined forearms, and a lean waist sculpted by aggressive training and solitude.

His training pants had been hanging low on his hips, loose and teasing, just barely clinging to the faint trail of white hair disappearing down his pelvis.

You had snapped your gaze to the far side of the room, pretending that you were admiring the chair where his dark top had been peeled off and discarded.

That petty, duplicitous bitch. He was definitely doing this on purpose.

But Kashimo had already moved on. Entirely unbothered and unperturbed by his near-death experience.

Not because he missed the way you practically gulped when Gojo stretched, but because he's too busy running curious, bandaged fingers alongside the crack in the wall, a neat floor-to-ceiling scar carved courtesy of Gojo's tantrums.

"An excellent technique, I have not seen a hit like that in centuries." Kashimo had whistled low, genuinely impressed. It had been enough for Gojo to throw the two of you a look of sheer disgust, his fingers snagging into his discarded shirt to yank it up, and stalk out of the room.

That brings you to the present. Gojo's still in the doorway, backlit by the warm training hall lights, white hair deliciously damp and tousled. His voice is flat and clipped, eyes like glass and tone like sandpaper as he nods, "Hey."

You blink, a scowl already defensively crossing your features. A pause stretches between the two of you, heavier and far more awkward than it's ever been, as you finally mutter, "...Hi?"

It comes out as more of a question than a greeting. Embarrassing.

Kashimo doesn't move from where he's perched above you, one leg stretched out lazily, and the other bent at the knee, still slotted between your thighs. He has yet to speak, doesn't need to, but a lean arm slips around your shoulders in that casual, infuriatingly confident way.

Not possessive, just visible. Just enough for Gojo to notice, with no Six Eyes necessary. Your best friend's lips are pressed into a thin line, as though he's grinding his teeth on gravel.

"Didn't know the room was booked," Gojo mutters, stepping inside anyway, and shutting the door behind him with an unnecessary click. His arms are crossed over his chest, the muscles in his forearms bunching, "My bad. Didn't mean to crash your little date night."

You return his unimpressed look, correcting him, "Training."

Gojo hums, the sound is dry and unimpressed, "Sure."

You sigh, gently pushing Kashimo's arm off, and sitting up on your knees. You're certain that sweat clings to your skin, your top is damp and clingy, and hair must be stuck to your cheek.

"What?" You say, flicking your gaze up at him, watching how the warm light reflects the smooth, peach-tone of his cheeks, "Miss me or something?"

It's a teasing comment, like it always has been, but there's a carefulness underneath that disguises hope. The hope for a smirk, the sing-song voice, the snarky comeback that you've been privy to for over a decade.

But Gojo doesn't smile at you, for his eyes are narrowed, and something devastatingly sharp flickers beneath his impossibly long lashes. Rather, he's scoffing, tipping his head, "You wish."

You tilt your chin to mirror him, "Do I?" You look Gojo over, slow and deliberate, from his sweat-damp hair down to the way his pants hang low enough to piss off any patron saints of modesty, "Because you came all this way to interrupt us. And you know these rooms have training schedules right. One even the first years can read. So..."

Your gaze lingers on the sculpted lines of his abdominals, "What? Fresh out of clean uniforms?"

Gojo's arms tense tighter across his broad chest, wide shoulders flaring, "Are you really grillin' me about laundry right now?"

"No," You glance at Kashimo, who doesn't even bother hiding the amused curl shaping his lips, "No. I'm not, I'm – whatever."

Your sentence breaks off, and you realise there's a hot flush of irritation licking at your chest. You just wish that Gojo would just spit out whatever evil demon is bothering him, or either fuck right off.

Kashimo snorts softly, the sound low in his throat, but he doesn't speak. His expression simmers, not mocking, just entertained. Maybe even fascinated.

Gojo says nothing, watching you. Staring, and you do your best not to shiver at the weight of those bright jewel-blue eyes. His step forward stills you, pulse quickening under your skin like the warning crackle before lightning hits.

But the real lightning beside you doesn't seem as concerned.

Kashimo tracks Gojo's approach with the cool interest of a haughty cat watching another enter its territory, not threatened in the least, but ready. He shifts slightly, elbow resting on his knee, and his toned frame draped in lazy tension.

"He's a good sparring partner for you now?" Gojo says, voice as low and smooth as a knife laid flat on the edge of a table, tipped to fall.

You shrug, deliberately loose and saccharine, "He's good, keeps me nimble."

Gojo's sky-blue eyes dip, skimming over your form as though he's committing you to memory. You can see his gaze linger on the strip of skin above your waistband, the sweat slicking your collarbones, "I thought sparring included more of a fight, and less...touching."

"Jealousy? Seriously, Satoru, that's what this is?"

Gojo scowls at you, sharp canines peeking out from glossy lips as he sneers, "Not of him." His reply is immediate, flat as paper and twice as sharp, "I just don't want you gettin' sloppy."

From behind you, Kashimo snickers, the kind that makes heat lick your spine, "She's not sloppy." Teal hair clouds the peripherals of your vision as his hair tickles your cheek, and his fingers drag lazily down your lower back, "She's quite lethal. And very flexible, trust me."

You should have whacked Kashimo upside the head.

Because, bless his heart, truly, but you didn't fancy Gojo deciding to rev up the old Hollow Purple again to try and smite the Edo-period sorcerer.

Gojo's resulting inhale is nearly silent, nearly. But you hear it, and his jaw tics, shoulders squared, and fingers twitching.

You're getting flashbacks to Geto Suguru's dramatic antics, back in your school days when the raven-haired sorcerer would get all huffy and puff up, like a chicken about to fly the coop. The thought of the similarity would have been funny, if it hadn't also been so depressing.

"Something on your mind, Satoru?"

Gojo tilts his head, slow and deliberate, giving you that bored look. The one that precedes impulsive, poor decisions. The look that usually ends up with someone pinned to a wall, for better or worse.

"I'm just looking out for you," Gojo finally shrugs, as though he's attempting to shake the tension from his shoulders, "I heard all about his...exploits during the Culling Games. Kashimo's not exactly known for playing nice."

Kashimo hums, scraping his cyan hair up into his signature, loose knots, "She does not want nice."

"I know," Gojo's grin is blindingly dangerous, like a blade dressed in lace, "I've known her longer, right? I think I know everything she wants."

You glance between the two sorcerers, Infinity and Lightning, crackling like twin storms on the verge of colliding, and you can feel the heat in your gut bloom, sharp and molten.

Ugh, men. Honestly.

Kashimo breaks the silence, puffing air from his cheeks with the blunt edge of a bomb, as he drawls, "What, you want to hit me or kiss me? Or kiss her?"

Gojo's expression flickers, just for a second as confusion flits across his face, followed by a flush of colour painting his handsome features. White brows knitted together, as his lips rearrange into a defensive scowl.

You pinch the sorcerer beside you, "Hajime –"

Kashimo shrugs, clearly unfazed, "That is clearly what it is, is it not? His intentions have been clear to read since he walked in. What is it, irritated that we have fucked, and you were never invited?"

Gojo's opens his mouth, maw flapping open, probably to say something clever, or cutting, or catastrophically self-destructive. But nothing comes out, just cold static.

You have to hand it to Kashimo. You don't think you've seen Gojo Satoru truly speechless in over ten years. Well, unless you count that disastrous night on the train platform not so long ago, but who's fault was that really?

Kashimo leans in, ghosting the shell of your ear, "I told you so."

Your eyes snap to your best friend, and yeah. There it is, the front of his pants entirely tented, and the implication is loud and clear.

There's no misreading the watercolour blush painting his creamy cheeks as Gojo sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair, "Fuck you." Not a hint of denial in the rock-salt rasp of his voice.

"You could only wish," Kashimo snarls, all teeth and challenge, "We are still sparring. Stay and watch if you want. Or jump in, I am not that picky."

Your lungs are still burning when the match ends, and Kashimo has had his fair share of victory. The sorcerer had you pinned, once more. Sweat-drenched, gloating like a feline that had caught something squirmy.

He had leaned down, and murmured something obscene right againt your ear, voice a low purr that made your groin ache. When you had snapped at him to shut up, Kashimo had just licked the salt from your collarbone, "How fiery."

The bastard had wandered off to get water as though he hadn't left you with the urging desire to have your guts rearranged right here, right now. You're still shaking out the leftover adrenaline, hunched with your hands braced on your knees. Your pulse is doing double time in your neck when footsteps thud in your ears.

"Had your fun?" Gojo looks as though he's sucked all the juice dry from an unpleasantly sour lemon.

"Fuck's sake." You're muttering, dragging the back of your wrist against your forehead, "Why do you get off on sneaking up on people like that?"

"This is a training mat, not a door," Gojo says, deadpan.

"Satoru."

The way you say his name, soft and breathy, intimately frustrated, makes something flicker in his vibrant eyes. Something raw and reflexive, like a muscle flinch. He steps closer, you step back.

You don't mean to. It just happens, that instinctive movement, your heart doing triple-axel flips behind your ribs. Anticipation, and some dark thrill you don't fancy naming.

Gojo follows, slow and loose-limbs, like a big cat cornering something warm, and tired and tempting. His hands are in his pockets, and it's taking Olympian-level strength to not flit your gaze downwards.

"What do you want?" You're asking, doing your best to keep your tone breezy, but you don't quite succeed, "Here to give me an impromptu performance review?"

"Didn't think I needed to," Gojo scoffs, voice dipped in cool-lipped sarcasm, "You've been plenty vocal all day."

Your brows knit, "What?"

"I was nearby earlier," Gojo says smoothly, but you can see the twitch in his eyelid, lashes fluttering, "Hard not to hear when someone's moaning like that."

Your mouth opens, tongue sinking like lead. Closes, and opens again. This conversation doesn't seem to be related to sparring anymore. Not technically, not unless training included a little moment a few hours ago when Kashimo had two fingers curled inside you, streaking slick down your thighs, and you had gasped out his name in breathy cries.

Gojo's smile is slow, and sharp. Amused, but you can see the searing, red-hot tips of his ears peeking through mussed white hair, "You know, they say that Kashimo was one of the strongest sorcerers ever." Faux-modesty colouring his voice as he continues, "Well, of that era. Time has moved forward, you know."

"So?"

"So," Gojo wrinkles his nose, voice like honey poured over barbed wire, "Does he fuck you better than he fights you?"

Your back is to the training room wall, cool bricks pressing into your spine. A harsh contrast to how blisteringly hot the rest of your body feels. Your thighs twitch, and you're certain that if you pressed them together, you would feel the slick slide of your arousal pooling between your swollen folds.

"And I just didn't think you were into guys like him," Gojo murmurs, voice low and mildly unimpressed, "Loud. Cocky. I mean, that guy's a walking lightning rod with a complex."

Had you been in a more rational state of mind, you may have commented that Gojo's description was outstandingly self-aware. Instead, your pulse thuds in your ears as you arch a brow, "Didn't know you were takin' notes and watching that close."

"I'm not."

"Really? 'Cause this feels a lot like investigative journalism to me."

Gojo's eyes drop to your mouth, lingering, before flicking back up, "Does he always touch you right? You always make those sweet, little sounds like earlier this afternoon?"

Something dangerous flashes and sits right underneath your tongue, something along the lines of asking why he doesn't touch you and see if he can recreate the same melody.

"If you want to fuck her, just say it," Kashimo drawls from the doorway, sauntering back in with a water bottle in one hand, and a towel slung loose around his neck.

You freeze, feeling the low pulse of sheer want beginning to throb in between your thighs. But Gojo doesn't flinch, jaw stiff enough to grind diamonds down into dust.

Kashimo takes a long swig, shrugging handedly as one would comment on the weather, "It is tragic enough how you brood each time I touch her. We all know what is on your mind."

"I'm not –" Gojo's snapping, but the sharp, protruding tent in his pants speaks volumes for him.

"Who are you fooling?" Kashimo's teal eyes glint, teeth flashing in a lazy grin.

You glance between the two sorcerers, your best friend of years with that unreadable storm in your eyes, and Kashimo, who seems as though he's enjoying Gojo's fury a little too much. Your pulse is in your throat, your thighs tacking together, and the air around you crackles, thick enough to chew.

"Tell you what," Kashimo offers, unravelling the ivory bandages from his forearms, "Since you are so clearly aching for it," his eyes flicking to Gojo, and then you, "And she is all but waiting for one of us to finally pounce, why not have a taste?"

There's heat licking at your ribs, a molten and wicked thing that is curled low in your belly, and it's climbing. Fast. You watch distractedly as the linen wraps fall to the floor.

Your brows shoot up, "Are you –"

"I do not mind sharing," Kashimo says, and beneath his deceptively flat tone, you can sense the gears turning in his head, fuelled by the thrill and excitement, "So long as you can keep pace." Ocean-toned eyes glittering as they slide sideways.

Gojo scoffs, but you can see the dangerously red flush climbing up the back of his neck, tickling the edge of his white undercut, "You think I can't keep up with you?"

Kashimo rolls his eyes as though it's beneath him to answer, "I was not speaking to you, Six Eyes." He's tipping his head towards you, teal strands tangling, "I'm asking her."

Truthfully, you're soaked. Not metaphorically, nor subtly. You're clenching your thighs around nothing. Heartbeat pounding between your legs as if it's desperate for some friction, as heat bleeds through your clothes.

Kashimo's already beside you before you can draw another sharp breath, "Mhm. No answer?" He's humming, as though he already knows. Bandaged fingers drap down your hip, slow and teasing, before hooking into the waistband of your shorts with an easy flick of his agile wrist.

You stifle a sharp gasp as warm fingers slip through swollen, slick folds, and Kashimo snorts, "Dripping through your clothes. All this for us?"

The fabric slides past your thighs, and the cool air licks at your slick skin. It's almost cruel, how exposed you feel, heat pulsing between your legs, chest rising in shallow gasps as Gojo swallows behind you, a large hand coming to rest at your waist.

"I think it's just for me," Gojo purrs, grinding the prominent line of his cock behind you, hard through the thin fabric of his martial pants. His voice is smug, sweetened by the rasp of want, "Pretty sure she's been staring since I walked in."

Kashimo's clicking his tongue, gently mouthing a pink-blooming mark beneath your jaw, "That is because you strut about like a young peacock in the spring."

"I'm twenty-nine, you freak of nature."

"Then cease the preening, and get undressed."

"Now who wants to fuck who?"

"Okay!" You're gasping, flustered, and your voice trembles several octaves higher than usual. You're flushed from neck to navel, your pulse ricocheting through your veins like a cursed technique gone rogue, "You guys can argue later, right?"

They both pause, Gojo's raising a thin brow, amused. And Kashimo tilts his head, as though you're a puzzle he's planning to solve with his mouth.

"Sure, we can take turns," Gojo huffs, and his lips brush your shoulder. Open-mouthed, and hot. And your entire body lights up, glistening strands of arousal tacking between your folds.

Kashimo's hand slips over your chest, and he palms your breast with sheer hunger, tweaking your stiff nipple with practiced cruelty.

"F-fuck," You moan, bucking into Gojo's chest, and the white-haired man growls, a throat-deep snarl that erupts unfettered, "I wanna' touch her first."

Kashimo's responding look is smug, "She has taken me before. I suppose you can taste her first."

Your gasp turns sharp because your best friend is clearly done playing nice, and he's on his knees now, dragging your sodden panties all the way down, admiring the translucent fabric clinging to the shape of your puffy pussy folds. A long finger hooking the wet fabric aside, as his big hands grip your thighs, spreading you open with ferocious purpose.

"Pretty pussy's wet enough to drown in," Gojo murmurs, voice reverent, like he's found some holy grail between your legs, "And you've been letting the little lightning freak do this? Seriously?"

"I thought you did not care," Kashimo drawls, and he's tipping your chin up with two fingers, watching the daze flood your eyes, "And yet here you are, already kneeling."

"That's because I'm gonna' show you how it's actually done," Gojo grins against your inner thigh, pressing a kiss to the soft flesh like a searing brand.

Between Kashimo's fingers digging into your jaw, and Gojo's warm breath fanning your cunt, you can barely think, let alone string together a rational strength. You're split between the searing light of the sun, and the rumbling thunder of a storm, one sorcerer smug as though it's another victory for him, and the other watching you with unbridled devotion.

"Go on, princess," Gojo murmurs, "Say please. Beg real sweet, and I'll eat ya' until you forget his name."

"You want first so bad?" Kashimo muses, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip. His skin smells of ozone, and danger, that natural pine-scent you've come to associate with the medieval sorcerer. "Let him warn you up, little dove. We both know how partial he is to using his mouth."

"I will kill you," Gojo mutters, but there's hardly any heat in the threat, not when he's burying his face between your thighs, sending streaks of pleasure prickling through your spine.

Pink tongue licking a thick stripe over your soaked slit, slow and all for show. Then he flattens the glossy muscle over your clit, stamping you with his signature. You can already hear the tacking, sloppy sounds of Gojo quenching his thirst down there, and your knees give out instantly.

"Holy f-fucking –" You're gasping, gripping Kashimo's arm like a lifeline as your legs collapse like noodles. Wet, trembling and fucked-out. And they had barely begun.

Gojo hums smugly into your pussy, and it's obscene, all wet suction and vibrations, complete with practiced flicks of his tongue. Precision, ego and a little cruelty. He's eating you out as though he's attempting to outdo every man who's ever looked at you sideways.

"Still think I'm j-jealous?" Gojo rasps against your clit, lips slick with your shiny arousal, voice vibrating right into your core as you buck your hips against his chin.

"You are the one tongue-deep in her cunt five minutes after saying you would kill me." Kashimo's reply is dry as kindly, but you can hear the barely-grasped restraint shaking underneath, "You tell me."

You can hardly see straight. The world has narrowed down to Gojo's mouth, and Kashimo's hand, which is now stroking your cheek with infuriating calm, elegant thumb tracing your marked jaw as though he needs to ground something precious and his

The very tip of Gojo's nose bumps your clit just right, and you whine, pitchy and utterly wrecked. Hips twitching, thighs trembling as you bury your nails into Kashimo's lean arm, attempting to anchor onto something solid.

"Look at you," Kashimo murmurs, voice dripping with fond amusement, "So sensitive already. Are you going to finish just from his mouth already, little dove?"

"I – fuck, I might –"

"She will," Gojo cuts in, voice wicked and soaked with pride. He licks up into you again, tongue prodding at your pulsing entrance, slower now as he draws a long moan from your throat, "Knew I could always make her sound like t-this, easy."

You choke on a sound that's part moan, part whimper as Kashimo's gaze sharpens, "Not that easy." His breath ghosts your ear, trailing down to your pebbled nipples, "You will still scream for me, right?"

Your whole body must be trembling, caught in the tug-of-war between Gojo's talented, fuckin' mouth, and the sensation of Kashimo running his hands over your chest. You can feel that orgasm coiling low, and hot, and violent.

"You gonna' cum, pretty girl?" Gojo's teasing, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your inner thigh, while the pads of his fingers run tight circles over your swollen, sensitive bud, "Or you wanna' be edged till he starts zappin' sparks everywhere."

Kashimo's grip tightens on your chin, "Let her come."

You don't just fall, you shatter. It's fast, too fast as your thighs clamp around Gojo's head like a vice, a desperate and gasping moan that rips from your throat as an orgasm crashes into you like a tidal wave. Raw, and shuddering, and shameless.

Gojo doesn't budge, nor does he flinch. He's just grinning into it, as though there's nowhere else he would rather be but your pulsing cunt. When he finally pulls back, after pressing a sticky mwah! to your very core, his face is soaked. Mouth swollen, chin shiny with your gloss, and silver hair in a disarray. He looks as though he just crawled out of paradise, and is considering diving right back in.

"If he wasn't so impatient, I coulda' made you squirt," Gojo huffs, smug as sin, swiping a thumb over his glistening jaw like a badge of honour.

You're barely upright, more puddle than person, when Gojo gently rolls you over, standing behind you and dragging his loose pants down with a practiced tug. You can feel the hot wisp of pre-cum cool against your ass after a heavy slap of his cock makes you jolt.

You draw in a deep breath, attempting to shake the last remnants of your orgasm-dazed haze out of your head, as you peer up at Kashimo. Naked. When the hell did that happen? But judging by the creamy slick already being bumped over his shaft, he's already been more than ready.

His cock is flushed, and proud, all glorious inches curving to the right, and the expression on Kashimo's face is somewhere between reverence and predation, "She's trembling." Brushing a thump along your lower lip, "Broke her already, Six Eyes?"

"Haven't even s-started. Gonna' make her cum again," Gojo grunts, and you can feel the thick, blunt head of his cock snag against your swollen, dripping folds.

Each thick inch is slow, unrelenting as though your gummy walls are memorising vein-ridden moulds of his cock. Each small bump of his cock deeper makes you tremble, back already arching so deliciously as you bite back a loud wail.

"F-fuck, Satoru," Your voice cracks, eyes rolling as your walls stretch and mould around him. Easily the biggest you've ever taken, and he's making every inch count, getting closer to kissin' your cervix.

"Thaaat's it, baby," Gojo pants, teeth skimming your shoulder as white hair clouds the peripherals of your vision, "Gotta' l-love hearing ya' say my name like that."

But when you open your eyes, you don't quite miss the jealous twitch that thunders across Kashimo's fine features. And you know that the God of Lightning is never to be outdone. Teal lashes fluttering as he gently runs a linen-wrapped hand over your face, "Just keep your mouth open, hmm?"

The head of his cock brushing your cheek as you mewl, sharp, from Gojo's harsher thrust. You obey before you even think, lips hungrily parting to flick your tongue over the cherry-red tip.

Kashimo hisses softly, the milky muscles of his thighs twitching, "Sweet tongue," he's murmuring, pushing his cock deeper into your waiting mouth, slow and deliberate, "So eager to serve. Who would not aim to worship you?"

Your mind splinters, for what Kashimo lacks in girth, he makes up for in sheer length, and your knees dig into the soft mat. Gojo's hand is running down your spine, trailing from the nape of your neck to the heart-shaped juncture of your ass, before slamming into you with a rhythm that feels almost mean.

But Kashimo is fucking your mouth with a devastating kind of patience, as though he's savouring every hollowed, sloppy suctioned moan that you let out. It's immensely satisfying how he shivers when you press your tongue right over the long, throbbing vein that runs on the underside of his shaft.

And just like that, you're full. Every inch of you claimed, stretched wide so your slick and saliva begins to pool, stuffed in stereo. Pretty pussy and throat. You can feel your lashes fluttering, as desperate fingers dig half-moons into the muscles of Kashimo's upper thighs.

"Good, fuck – good, wet girl," Gojo groans behind you, hands bruising your hips, but every so often he's gently soothing over your spine with a warm brush, "A pretty damn' good multitasker, hmm? I'm making ya' feelin' good?"

"You are awfully loud for someone who was not even inside her five minutes ago," Kashimo mutters, voice tight with restraint, and sweat sliding down his temple as he slowly draws his gleaming, glistening cock out of your droolin' mouth. Flattening himself underneath you, so he's got the perfect view of you perched over him, right down to where the thick base of Gojo's cock is swallowed up by your folds again and again. The sorcerer hisses as he guides the spurtin' head of his cock back to your soaked, trembling cunt.

You can hear Gojo snicker behind you, and you know if you turned you would see fluttering, pretty lashes and cocky blue eyes as though he isn't currently ploughing balls-deep inside you already, "Didn't need to be," he murmurs, "Didn't take her long at a-all to cum from my mouth."

"I was there, fool."

"Then maybe, ya' shouldn't taken n-notes," Gojo purrs, lips stuttering around a broken moan as he digs his fingers further into your hips. Your upper teeth sink into your lip, half-wrecked and half-feral as Kashimo begins to slide the tip of his aching cock through the mess, teasing at your already-stretched entrance.

"Are you two gonna' fight, or a-actually fuck me?" You're snapping, voice shredded as your breath catches, attempting to breathe through the impossible fullness of Gojo hittin' all the sweet spots inside you, all while Kashimo lines up behind you again.

Gojo groans, admonished, as he tilts his hip to thrust up into you, deep and indulgent, "Not our fault you're so fuckin' addictive, baby."

"Speak for yourself, Six Eyes," Kashimo mutters, and then he pushes in, at the same time. Right next to Gojo's thick shaft pounding into you, right into your already stuffed cunt.

Your forehead, beaded with exertion, drops helplessy onto Gojo's chest as your walls stretch. The intrusion is deliciously unbearable, for both sorcerers are thick, solid and throbbing. And still, your greedy and aching body tries to take it, split right open as your sweet spots sing from the stimulation.

"Holy f-fuck –" you cry, voice cracking as your hips tremble and quiver under Gojo's large, surprisingly gentle hands, "You're both, oh my God –"

"Yes, sweet thing," Kashimo hisses, a sibilant sound that flickers past his lips, as his own hands reach up to anchor themselves in your waist, "Taking all of it s-so well."

You can feel both their cocks, sliding against each other inside you, pressed right in that too-small gummy cavity, kissin' up right against your sweet spot in the most incredible way. Gojo's exhaling a shaky laugh from behind you, smug even as his cock twitches from the extra friction, and you can feel the rough pads of his fingertips shake, "Didn't think you'd be able to us both, baby."

You rock helplessly between them, back beautifully arched, fucked-out moans spilling past kiss-stung lips as they set a steady rhythm that borders on ruthless. Kashimo's hand, elegant and tightly clenched, brushes Gojo's thigh. Barely a gaze, a blink and you'd miss it type of touch. But time hiccups, and you can feel that sudden, sizzling crackle that zips between them like lightning caught in a bottle.

The sensation ricochets through your body, shivering and kissin' along your spine. It's so much more carnal and charged, nearly unbearable. Deep sapphire-blue meets cool, ocean-cyan over your quivering, rocking shoulders, eyes locking like swords.

Kashimo leans in closer, in a way that his carved front presses against your own chest, smooth voice a dangerous purr in your ear, "He feigns disinterest. But he shivers when I touch him."

You know, and Gojo knows too, for you feel his hand tighten on your waist, just a little. There's a filthy echo of skin against skin, strands of slick sticking and unsticking as Gojo pounds into you, more determined than ever to see you fall apart for him.

Kashimo's fingers creep higher now, beautiful hands with small bruises from constant training. But they're moving intentionally now, brazen as his palm slides up your side, overlapping with Gojo's, both their hands pressed possessively to your body, steadying your stuffed form.

If you had been able to create coherent words, you would have comment on the low whine behind your ear, Gojo's muffled moan as he matches his pace to Kashimo's agile hips.

The white-haired sorcerer thrusts up into you, snapping your spine taut as a gasp is punched out of your lungs. His cock is driving into you so, so deep, brushing every sweet spot that you could only ever dream of finding.

"R-right there, Satoru!" You yelp, head falling forward against Kashimo's shoulder, that heady scent of mountain pine and something sweeter, like persimmon, enveloping you once more.

The God of Lightning answers with his own brutal snap of hips, driving forward to bury himself beside Gojo again, twin cocks filling you, stretching you wide while your arousal pools from your puffy lips, providing the slick lubrication needed. The sorcerers move together now, and yet not, not synchronised but racing, as though they're trying to outpace each other with every savage grind into your dripping cunt.

"Close, little dove? I can f-feel how tight you are, like a v-vice," Kashimo huffs, voice heady and low as a glass of smooth wine in the cold December air.

But Gojo's laughing, harsh and knowing, his muscular thighs caging you on either side, as sweat glimmers on his temple and he leaves sweet kisses on the nape of your neck, "Watch this."

A large hand slips between your thighs, and you crane your neck to peer in a haze at the soft dusting of white hair over peachy skin, and then —

Pressure. The pad of his thumb presses against your clit in slow, merciless circles. Too precise, too good that it becomes villainous. Like Gojo's already got a blueprint of your most sensitive spots memorised, and he's weaponising it.

You wail, falling further against Kashimo's sculpted chest, high and frantic gasps leaving your glossy mouth as your thighs twitch, cunt clenchin' tight around both of them.

"Fuckin' cheater," Kashimo groans, hips jolting as the soft thatch of teal curls at the base of his cock droop with the sheer amount of your arousal pooling over his hips at this angle.

"She likes it, don'tcha baby?"

"She likes me more."

"You gonna' cry 'bout it?"

"I will hit you."

"You'd hafta' pull out first."

You can't hold back a snappy, wet shriek. Not a cute gasp, but a full-body, trembling cry, and just like that, both sorcerers finally shut the hell up. Because your orgasm doesn't arrive so much as detonate. It slams you into like a special-grade, no warning nor mercy. Your thighs lock up, trembling as your cunt squeezes tight on both their cocks.

An awed choke echoes behind you as Gojo's jaw goes slack, flush crawling up his chest, "Holy s-shit, she's squeezin' me out –"

Kashimo looks equally affected, the magenta marks beneath his eyes bright as he attempts to keep his moans muffled, but he ends up panting, lips curled as he curses beneath his breath, "Beautiful, wicked thing. I may finish a-already."

"Ya' better not," Gojo growls, still fucking into you like a man possessed, the bulky, mushroom-tip of his shaft pressed right up against your cervix, "I'm not d-done yet." He's flipping you over with ease, that casual display of strength from your best friend that you had never really focused on before. His thrusts are messier now, sloppier and louder.

Gojo's groaning, low and filthy in your ear, beautiful praises barely coherent as he pounds into you, soothing the strained ache in your thighs as he runs his hands over the stung flesh, "So p-perfect, missed ya', right? M-missed everything, baby. Shoulda' done this a looong time ago."

Kashimo kneels beside you, cock still slick from glistening folds, aquamarine eyes molten. His thumb trails down your jaw once more, catching on the plush, gnawed seam of your lips, "Look at you, so lovely splayed out like this. Six Eyes must be doing a good job for that pretty cunt to still be so sensitive."

You mewl, nodding your head as you breathe deeply, attempting to clear some of the haze from your eyes, and Gojo doesn't answer, but his cock twitches inside you, heavy sack smacking against your ass and creating the most filthy mess on the mats.

"Go on, then," Kashimo murmurs, low and electric, "Fuck her full, Gojo, I'll clean her up."

The sound falling from Gojo's lip is closer to a whimper, a desperate high that he's chasing, and it's raw. You're babbling now, hips arching to meet his every thrust as your legs tremble, hands fisting on the mat. Your pussy flutters madly around him, greedy and so insatiable.

"S-Satoru," you sob, tears pricking at your lashes, drooping, Please –, please cum inside, n-need it."

That does it, for his name on your tongue breaks the strongest sorcerer of the modern day. Gojo moans loud and unabashed, ruined as his hips jerk, burying himself deep and spillin' inside you. Thick, and hot and endless, flooding every divot and sticky nook within you. Your pussy pulses around his shaft, every girthy vein to milk each drop of his creamy seed as though it was made for him.

Kashimo doesn't waste a second, the long, sheer length of his flushed cock slipping past your lips, snagging on your cheek and leaving a faint smear as your moan vibrates around him, "Fuck, little dove," he snarls, teal hair falling over his face as he shakes his head, "You sing with your tongue."

You hollow your cheeks, and that's enough to undo the greatest sorcerer of the Edo period. Kashimo loses it, spilling into your mouth, translucent seed like hot salt on your tongue, and his voice cracks as he shudders above you. You're swallowing what you can, and the rest trickles down your chin, sticky and so obscene.

One sorcerer's release leaks out of the swollen, glossy folds of your cunt in lazy drips, trickling down your thighs. And the other's coats your tongue like a second sin. It's a mess, a masterpiece and a miracle.

You're flat on your back now, dazed and twitching, held together by the warm and shuddering weight of two powerful jujutsu sorcerers. Gojo collapses beside you first, chest heaving with a strawberry flush, face pressed to your neck. His hand stays tangled in yours like a lifeline, as though he needs to be touching you.

But Kashimo leans over, dragging his thumb across your bottom lip where his release still glistens, "You made quite the mess," he murmurs, sea-glass eyes ringed by impossibly long lashes.

You huff, and let out a wet giggle, though it's still quite the exertion for your spent body, "You liked it."

Kashimo pauses, and then in a rare, velvet-soft voice, he laughs, fond, and presses a kiss to your mouth as though he's sealing a sacred pact, "I did, little dove."

Gojo's head lifts, white hair plastered to his forehead, blue-eyes heavy with bliss and almost boyish affection. He reaches for your face, and you lean into your best friend's touch, his warm and unhurried fingers that brush a damp strand of hair behind your ear with the kind of tenderness that makes your chest sting.

"You still with us, baby?" Gojo's voice is gravel-laced velvet, playful and hoarse, "Or did we both finally fuck the soul outta' you?"

From the other side, Kashimo grunts, brushing damp strands of ocean-toned hair from his forehead, his voice dry as old parchment, "Oh, so now it is both."

You blink at up them, barely. Your lashes are stuck together, lips slick and bitten-red, and there's a pleasant glow settling between your thighs, though the ache is just as delicious, "Yeah, yeah, Satoru. I'm with you."

Silence settles over the training room like the aftershock of an afternoon storm, heavy, drowsy and gold-lit. You're still impaled on the memory of them, of everything. Their touch lingers in fingerprints across your skin, heavy seed still tacking between your legs. Gojo's bulky thigh is nudged across yours, pressed against Kashimo's, and oddly enough, neither of them seem particularly inclined to move.

"So...," Kashimo lies flat on his back, turquoise eyes locked on the ceiling in a heavy contemplation of the cosmos.

Gojo hums from where he's lazily tracing a finger along the slope of your hip, strands of mussed white hair falling over his forehead, "Hmm?"

"Wouldst thou partake again?"

Gojo turns his head, squinting up at Kashimo, almost as if he's incredulously offended, "Did you seriously just say 'wouldst thou'? Do you remember the dinosaurs?"

"I remember many beast, but your face is far more unpleasant than any I had encountered," Kashimo snaps coolly, before turning his attention back to you, a sculpted hand resting absently on your head, "Little dove?"

Their gazes flick towards you, sprawled out, cheeks pink and glowing, lips parted around breaths that still echo like whimpers. Ruined, radiant and definitely not done.

Gojo leans in closer, brushing a tender kiss to your temple, reverent and sweet, "Baby," he murmurs, and the name sounds so natural falling from his honeyed tongue, "You up for round two?"

"Or three," Kashimo adds helpfully, sitting up so you can admire the faintest streaks of jagged lightning over his smooth, rippling back, "I wish to see him dethroned. Spectacularly."

"Oh my god," Gojo groans, "You're obsessed with me. You wish you could dethrone me."

You shift, stretch slow and syrupy, winching at the ache in your thighs, that kind of soreness that feels like worship, "You boys gonna' kiss each other this time?"

A beat of silence, before predictably and gloriously, all chaos breaks loose in an echoing din.

"I'm not kissin' that Pikachu," Gojo snaps, but that sudden flush sits beautifully high on his sculpted, milky cheekbones.

"Do not call me names I do not understand. And you had your tongue in her half an hour ago, and now you are defensive?" Kashimo retorts, scandalised as his fangs peek from his pink mouth.

"I'm a tag-teamer, man, you just don't get it –"

"Is that an admittance of guilt?"

You sigh, closing your eyes, and you would be lying if there wasn't a faint smile ghosting your lips as you take what little rest you can get before you plan to make them both eat their braggadocio.

#nanasrecos #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo satoru smut #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #hajime kashimo #jjk smut

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cncpilled · 1 month ago

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BYEE KILIG NA KILIG AKO

are there any filipino LADS fans that could write a one shot where MC mutters something at Sylus in their native language only for him to turn around and speak in the most fluent way possible that he can understand what youre saying

random idea that popped up cuz that “mano po” gesture from Lost Oasis never left my mind 🥹

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cncpilled · 1 month ago

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angst galore hell yeah!!!!

Love and Deepspace Non-Mc Fic Recommendations

Sylus

☆ Angel of Her Own Making - by bwennie (link here)

☆ Mister Dragon, Let Me Love You - by clairewritesfanfics (link here)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Sylus - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Sylus with non!mc reader - by yukithestar (one, two, three, four)

☆ enough - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ away (loosely part 2 of enough) - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ wilted promises - by shaiyasstuff (one, two, finale)

☆ delayed beginnings - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel, epilogue, bonus)

☆ The Great (Unnecessary) Divorce Incident - by mangooes (link here)

☆ The Winner Takes it All - by misshuntereevee (one, two)

☆ one in the head, two in the chest - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ hurst so good - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ The Sin & The Sinner - by saintobio (link here)

☆ Calm and Serenity - by blueivyy99 (masterlist)

☆ Impartial Hearts - by ladsonlads (link here)

☆ A Blooming Predicament - by subliminalwish (link here)

☆ merry christmas, mr. sylus - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ merry christmas, mr. sylus (aftermath) - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ sylus x non mc reader - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Sylus - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ BY NAME, ON PAPER - by ryusjwks (link here)

☆ OUT OF BOUNDS - by novthirty - (masterlist)

☆ unspoken - by vellihor (link here)

☆ second best - by comatosebunny09 (link here)

☆ Ikigai - by lighting-and-shadow (link here)

Zayne

☆ Nocturne of Twilight - by chuluoyi (part one)

☆ Dawn's First Light - by chuluoyi (part two)

☆ pit-a-pat - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Zayne - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Heart of Glass - by szarina (masterlist)

☆ My Wedding Vow Is To Divorce You - by kira-loves0905 (link here)

☆ Claiming Something That's Not Yours - by authorssmc (link here)

☆ evermore - by shaiyasstuff (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Zayne - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ You Will Never Be Her - by mischivousvoid (link here)

☆ Imagine being Zayne's non-mc significant other - by dark-night-hero (link here, part two)

Caleb

☆ Rotten Apples - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ mine - by captivating-flavors (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Keeper - by saintobio (link here)

☆ The Colonel's Saint - by saintobio (part two)

☆ The Terminator's Curse (spinoff of The Colonel Series) - by saintobio (link here)

☆ weightless paradise - by huxhsz (masterlist)

☆ back to friends - by hxlxnaaa (link here)

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Caleb - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Caleb - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ even when there was rain, sunshine came - by yuansie (masterlist)

☆ seven years - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ eighth year (part two of seven years) - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ a decade (part three of seven years) - by cosmoszyn (link here)

☆ LETTERS UNSENT - by orphicmeliora (link here)

☆ Backburner - by a-casxandra (link here, part two, part three)

☆ Imagine being Caleb's non-mc significant other - by dark-night-hero (link here, part two)

Xavier

☆ glass half full - by shaiyasstuff (drabble)

☆ 3:07 a.m. - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)

☆ we can't be friends - by kitimeq (link here)

☆ Duty's Cruel Embrace - rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Xavier - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ Realizing Something You Shouldn't Have - by authorssmc (link here)

☆ Imagine being Xavier's non-mc significant other - by dark-night-hero (link here, part two)

Rafayel

☆ Heartbreak Anniversary with Rafayel - by mephisto-reporting (link here)

☆ Ocean Memories - by yuansie (masterlist)

☆ fate - by shaiyasstuff (one-shot, sequel)

☆ Loathe To Paint You - by rcvcgers (masterlist)

☆ You Were Meant For The Ocean - by sapphirexsolarium (link here)

☆ Lonely Birthday - Rafayel - by i-messed-up-big-time (link here)

☆ You're losing Me - by a-casxandra (link here, part two, part three)

☆ Imagine being Rafayel's non-mc significant other - by dark-night-hero (link here, part two)

Multi

☆ to you - by calebsluvr (link here)

☆ Bitter - by whosashan (part one)

☆ Sour - by whosashan (part two)

◇ There's probably a lot of non-mc fics out there that i haven't seen BUT these are the ones that I'm currently reading/already read!

◇ To the authors mentioned THANK YOU FOR YOUR AMAZING WRITING/WORKS AND I LOVE YA'LL 🙈💗

◇ All links are up to date / will be updated!

◇ This list will be updated as well!

Last Edited June 12, 2025 07:06 pm

♥ dividers used is made by enchanthings ♥

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cncpilled · 1 month ago

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Unnatural Affinity Masterlist

Isekai!Reader x Love and Deepspace

Unfinished! I don’t know how long this will be as of now <3

Inspired by @ixloom819 ‘s post on an isekai’d reader where the affinity levels with the love interests carry over!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

Part 8

Part 9

Part 10

Part 11

Part 12

Part 13

Part 14

Part 15

current tag list: @animegamerfox @ixloom819 @magennta09 @an-ever-angry-bi @corvid007 @vigtore @ph1lo-s0ph1a @ameili @babyx91 @sadsaidthesadthing @bidisasterforevermore @liz9898 @iconoclastoc @elegantdeerlady @lifumi @auraficial @plzdonutpercieveme @dolledbunnytail @junebuggz @mangooes @anatherone @skulzooka @yuhuahuaaa @nm4565natty @feikyuu @lunia-likes-pomegranet @xfangirl-trashx @glitterykingdomangel @eialovescats @mimiu3usoft @alyssac9 @000rpheus @novaisbebita @coffeedragonhobbyist @udejoenrlddo @lanxianschoenheit @paper--angel @xyzbeloved @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @myheartfollower @nightmarewasteland @feralwolfkat @junni-berry @chiikasevennn @lethalasylum @loudpiratepirate @sweetnightowl @rafaissance @white-wolves-and-golden-sunrises @iunse @asilaydead

tag list continues in comments because i hit the max :(

If you want to be added to the taglist, make sure you have your settings so that you can be mentioned in posts!

art taken from pinterest <3

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cncpilled · 1 month ago

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CHILLS literally chills holy wow my bruce wayne is a protector through nd through!!! love my man and i love this fic even more

Batfam Masterlist

The sunlight that usually poured in warm through the kitchen windows felt sterile now. Cold. Almost cruel. You had been up since the wee hours, Dick and Tim had been in a late night fight. Coming home at almost three am, bleeding and bruised.

Both finally tucked in bed just as the sun rose.

Your nerves were already frayed.

You stood barefoot in front of the marble island, wearing one of Bruce’s soft black T-shirts, your phone in hand, your thumb hovering over the screen.

Every notification buzzed like a wasp sting.

Hundreds of messages.

Dozens of missed calls.

Your group chats.

Your friends.

Work associates.

The League.

The Avengers.

Everyone.

Jason stormed in first, phone pressed to his ear. “I’m calling Oracle, no, she’s already on it, she’s pulling down what she can.”

“WHAT. HAPPENED.” Stephanie burst into the kitchen next, barefoot and wild-eyed in Bruce’s hoodie, holding her phone out. “It’s everywhere, like literally everywhere.”

Damian was the last, stormy-eyed and silent as he moved to stand near you, protective even though he wasn’t sure what was coming.

Bruce hadn’t come up yet. He was still in the cave.

Your phone buzzed again. Your thumb moved without thought, opening the social media app, and there it was.

"Exclusive footage reveals Billionaire Bruce Wayne’s perfect wife sneaking around with Gotham’s own vigilante. A betrayal not even Batman could prevent…"

The headline burned. But the video… the video was worse.

Someone had clipped it just right. Not the whole moment. Not your fear. Not Batman fighting off your attacker. Not your limp body as he held you safe. Just,

“To Bruce?”

Batman pausing. Nodding once.

The Batmobile’s door closing as he tucked you inside.

The comments were brutal.

“Y’all she said it like she had a man at home and one at work 😭”

“She’s got a whole ass billionaire and is out here in alleyways with a cape freak??”

“Gotham’s First Lady? More like Gotham’s Side Chick.”

You didn’t even realize your breath had hitched.

Not until your lungs refused to fill.

The phone slipped from your hands and hit the floor with a clatter, but no one heard it over the chaos. Over Jason yelling into his comms. Over Steph shouting into the void. Over Damian saying something, he was pulling at your wrist.

But all you could hear was your heartbeat in your ears.

Fast. Too fast.

Your chest tightened.

Your hands trembled.

The floor wasn’t flat anymore, it tilted like a sinking ship.

“I, ” you gasped. “I can’t, ”

Jason looked over first. His voice dropped. “Mom?”

Your knees buckled.

Damian caught you before you hit the floor, but your eyes were wide and glassy, your mouth working soundlessly.

“Move!” Jason barked, clearing the space. He lifted you up and set you on the stool, bracing your shoulders while Damian held your hand, grounding you. “Deep breaths, ma. In. Out. Look at me.”

Steph shoved open the fridge, frantically grabbing a cold bottle of water and wondering where Alfred was when she needed him,

“I can’t, ” you whispered, clutching your chest. “They think, they think I cheated on him.”

“They don’t matter, ” Damian growled, but his voice was thick, hurt layered beneath his fury.

The moment shattered with the sound of hard, clicking steps coming down the hall.

Bruce.

He was in his favorite all black suit.

And he looked like a storm bottled in flesh.

He said nothing at first, just strode over and dropped to his knees in front of you. Hands cupped your face gently, but his eyes were wild.

You barely choked out his name.

“I know, ” he whispered, voice rough. “I know, baby. Look at me.”

You did.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

Behind him, the entire kitchen was frozen.

Jason was pale, shaking with rage.

Stephanie was furiously reporting comments.

Tim had come down, having woken from the yelling, and was reading everything.

Alfred appeared in the doorway, grim and tight-lipped.

And Damian stood tall, unreadable, but quietly moving closer to his mother as if to shield her with his whole body.

Bruce’s voice softened even more. “I’m going to fix this. I promise you.”

Your hands gripping the lapels of his jacket. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“You’re my wife, ” he said simply, eyes burning. “I will always defend you.”

The press room at Wayne Tower had never been this full. Reporters buzzed, cameras clicked, and every major outlet was livestreaming. Bruce Wayne hadn’t held a public conference in over a year, he preferred statements, carefully curated appearances. But today?

Today, he stepped up to the podium like a man ready to burn the world down.

He was dressed sharply, dark. No tie. No smile. Just cold fire in his eyes. Behind him, the towering Wayne Enterprises logo gleamed. And beside it, in red lettering on a black screen: "Enough."

The moment the room quieted, Bruce leaned forward into the microphone.

"You’ve all forgotten who I am."

He let the silence breathe, his voice quiet but electric. "Somewhere in the noise of headlines and clickbait, you forgot that the Wayne name built half of this city. You forgot that my family, my biological family, poured everything into Gotham long before any of you had a job or a platform."

He straightened. “And now, you think you can take someone I love, drag her through the mud, cut pieces of her life and broadcast them out of context, just to sell headlines and rack up views?”

The room shifted, uneasy.

Bruce’s jaw clenched, but he kept going. “Let me make something very, very clear. If any reputable media outlet, publication, or journalist prints another sentence, posts another clip, publishes another lie, half-truth, or insinuation about my wife, you will be buried under so many lawsuits your children will spend their entire lives paying off the legal debt."

Flashes from cameras flickered, but no one dared interrupt.

He leaned closer, voice lowering. “You forget that I am not just some random rich man. I'm Bruce Wayne. And Wayne Enterprises owns pieces of almost every major news pipeline on this continent. You run your mouth again? I’ll cut funding. I’ll shut down distribution. I will make it hurt.”

Reporters started murmuring, but it was when Bruce's tone turned deadly calm that the room collectively held its breath.

“And if it continues, ” he said, voice a quiet threat, “there will be no more Batman.”

Gasps. Audible now.

“Because this?” He gestured toward the media screens behind him. “This is why he stays hidden. Why he doesn’t do interviews. Why he works from the shadows. Because of vultures like you, who twist and devour until there’s nothing left. You abuse the very people trying to save you.”

He stepped back, gaze cutting.

“And since you’ve all seen part of a video… allow me to release the full one.”

The screens flickered to a new version of the video.

Footage began to roll: Batman arriving in the alley, taking out an armed man seconds before he reached a woman in evening wear, his wife. Her terrified gasp, the fall to her knees, the panic in her eyes. Batman dropping beside her, voice soft, gentle.

“You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“He had a gun…”

“He won’t hurt you. Not ever again.”

He helped her up, kept his arm around her. They walked in silence, and only then,

“I should take you home.”

“To Bruce?”

“Yes.”

The screen faded to black.

And when Bruce Wayne turned back to the press, his eyes were burning steel.

“This is over.”

And with that, he walked off the stage, unapologetic, undefeated, and very much still in control.

He didn’t wait for the crowd to disperse. Didn’t stop for cameras or questions. Bruce was already gone before the final frame of the video cut to black, already beneath Wayne Tower in the cave, already pulling on the suit with surgical precision.

The public could say what they wanted. The media could recover. None of it mattered.

You mattered.

And the look on your face this morning, the way your hands trembled when you read the comments, the way your voice cracked asking if people really believed it,

That look would never leave his mind.

His cowl locked into place with a final hiss, and he was in motion. Not Batman, not really. Not Bruce Wayne, either.

This was something in between. Something darker.

He hit the comms button on the main console, voice sharp as a blade.

“Watchtower. Full League and Avenger presence required. Stark especially. No excuses.”

The message went out. He didn’t repeat it. He didn’t have to.

Behind him, the elevator whirred open. He didn’t look, but he knew those footsteps.

Jason. Damian. Steph. And then, Dick. Tim.

All five of them stood at the base of the platform, dressed like soldiers who hadn’t been called, but came anyway.

“We’re coming with you, ” Jason said firmly.

“You’re not going alone, ” Steph added.

“Father, ” Damian said tightly, eyes burning. “This is our fight too.”

Bruce turned. Calm, but unreadable. “This isn’t a mission. This is political. And dangerous.”

“Then it’s family business, ” Dick said simply. No hesitation. Just truth.

Bruce let out a slow breath. He should have said no. He wanted to say no. But they were right. This was their family, their name, dragged through the dirt.

He walked past them toward the secondary armory. And with a flick of his wrist, the wall opened.

Damian blinked. Steph gasped.

Inside hung two pristine suits. One was sleek and agile, red and black with gold accents, not green like his older brother. The other was sharp-lined, reinforced purple and charcoal-gray. Modern, efficient, and ready.

Bruce didn’t even turn. “I built them. For when it was time. Stephanie, yours isn't as ready as it could be.”

Steph covered her mouth, overwhelmed.

Jason clapped a hand on Damian’s shoulder. “You earned it, little bird.”

Damian stepped forward, speechless as he stared at the suit meant for him. A new Robin, his legacy. Not just Bruce’s anymore. Theirs.

“And what about me?” Jason asked, only half-teasing.

Bruce finally turned. “You’ve already been building your own.”

Jason grinned. “Red Hood. It’s gonna stick.”

Tim walked up, arms crossed, but there was no animosity in his eyes. “If we’re doing this, we do it smart. I’ve got contingency plans. Tactical dispersal. Lockouts.”

Bruce gave him a nod. “You’ll run comms. Nightwing always did.”

Tim nodded and stepped back.

Bruce stared at each of them. His children. His legacy.

Then Batman turned back toward the launch pad. His voice dropped low and commanding again.

“Suit up. If you’re coming, you listen to me, and only me, once we’re up there.”

And when the jet roared to life, leaving the cave in a streak of fire, they knew this wasn’t just about fixing a lie anymore.

This was war.

And Bruce Wayne had drawn the line in stone.

The hush that fell over the Watchtower control deck was instant the moment the Zeta Beam lit up. A low whir echoed through the chamber as the familiar outline of Gotham’s most infamous family materialized.

Batman stepped forward first , not Bruce Wayne, not the polished billionaire or the charming husband , but the Dark Knight, fully suited, aura sharp and radiating cold fury. The cape billowed behind him like storm clouds, and his jaw was clenched so tightly it looked carved from stone.

Behind him came Dick, his own updated Robin suit, his jaw equally tense. Tim followed in his Nightwing suit, fitted and battle-worn, silent but laser-focused. Then came Jason, tall, armored, Red Hood helmet in one hand, his free hand clenched in a fist. Stephanie trailed just behind, masked, but her eyes held no doubt as to why they were here.

And then Damian stepped off the platform in his newly tailored suit , the new Robin. Smaller in stature but just as lethal in presence, his shoulders squared like he belonged there.

The room wasn’t ready.

Diana raised a brow. Arthur actually blinked. J’onn’s head tilted slightly in quiet recognition of the shift in tone.

But no one said anything.

Not because they weren’t curious , but because the rage radiating off Batman was palpable. It moved like smoke, cold and thick, curling through the room and pressing against skin. The kind of anger that wasn't loud. The kind that came just before a blade was drawn.

Clark was the only one who stepped forward. He clasped Bruce’s shoulder gently, but firmly, the two friends locking eyes in the middle of the room.

“Don’t do something you’ll regret, ” Clark said softly.

Bruce didn’t speak.

Clark’s grip tightened just a fraction. “I know you're furious. You should be. But if you’re going to handle this, handle it like him.” He nodded toward Damian. “Clear. Controlled.”

Bruce’s shoulders stayed stiff… then eased by a millimeter.

Clark gave a small nod and added with a smirk, “I’ve got your back. Just… don’t kill anyone. Or at least not in here.”

That got a few chuckles from the League, nervous and strained as they were.

Bruce’s voice was a low, guttural growl. “No promises.”

And then he moved toward the center of the Watchtower… where the Avengers were about to arrive.

The air shifted the second the Avengers materialized in the beam of golden light.

They expected Batman.

They did not expect all of him.

The sight before them was jarring. Batman stood in the center of the room, flanked by a collection of figures they'd only ever heard rumors about , the rest of the League watching with unreadable expressions. It wasn’t just Batman. It was his army.

Each figure bore a symbol of him. Echoes of the Bat in every line of their suits , armor designed for speed, for stealth, for devastation. From the tall, imposing figure in a red helmet to the sleek, blue-accented man at his right, red and green accented man at his left. A grey-and-purple clad girl with bright eyes and a firm stance. A younger teen in red and black armor, posture sharp and confident.

The Avengers had never seen them before, not really. Not like this.

And for once, Tony Stark was silent.

His jaw flexed slightly, eyes flicking between each person. He knew , God, he knew , this was his fault. Even if he hadn’t hit post, he might as well have.

He didn’t miss the way Batman’s cowl shifted slightly in his direction. Didn’t miss the heat behind it.

Steve stepped forward, hands raised gently, his voice even. “We didn’t know it was going to happen. We’re all… deeply sorry for how this has spiraled. We didn’t come to escalate things. We came to make it right.”

Batman raised one gloved hand.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a command.

Steve froze mid-sentence, nodding slightly and taking a step back.

There was something terrifying in the stillness that followed.

Batman’s voice, when it came, was calm , but it rang through the Watchtower like thunder. Low. Controlled. Deadly.

“Let’s be clear.”

He took a step forward. None of the Batfamily moved , they didn’t need to. The silence and unity was threatening enough.

“You didn’t come to make it right, ” Bruce said. “You came because you know one of you is wrong. Because you saw what happened when your arrogance caught up with you. Because the moment someone I care about paid the price, you realized the leash had snapped.”

His head tilted, eyes locked on Tony. “Don’t try to apologize for him, Rogers. He made his choice.”

Tony opened his mouth, but Bruce’s voice rose just enough to cut across the space.

“Don’t. Speak.”

Another beat of silence. No one breathed.

And for the first time, the Avengers truly understood that Batman , the real one , wasn’t a myth or a lone figure in the shadows.

He was a legend with heirs.

And he was done playing nice.

Batman took another step forward, his presence consuming the space. The other Leaguers stayed quiet. Even Clark, who had always been the buffer, the voice of reason, knew this wasn’t his moment. This wasn’t about restraint. This was justice.

“For a man with so much power, ” Bruce said, voice razor-sharp, “you’ve always been dangerously careless with it. Money. Influence. Armor. Mouth.” His glare was pointed and unrelenting. “You built yourself a suit and decided it absolved you of consequences. Of accountability. But you’re not above it. You’re not untouchable. And you sure as hell aren’t innocent.”

Tony shifted but didn’t speak , not yet. He couldn’t. He knew better.

Bruce’s fists curled at his sides. “You’ve always called yourself a futurist. A man who sees the world ten steps ahead. But you didn’t see this coming, did you?” His tone dropped an octave. “You didn’t see the family you fractured. The lives you threatened. Or the reputation of a woman who never once asked anything of you , not your money, not your legacy, not even your name.”

Tony looked away, jaw clenched, annoyed that drama surrounding you has now gotten him lectured by both Bruce Wayne.. And Batman...

“And instead of owning that truth, instead of facing the mirror, you chose cowardice. You let it happen. You watched her get humiliated. You probably chuckled to yourself knowing this would happen. Because it was easier than looking in the mirror and admitting that your silence caused more damage than any enemy you’ve faced in that suit.”

“List- ” Steve tried again, but Redhood shot him a look that silenced him instantly.

Bruce’s voice quieted, but it was somehow even more chilling.

“I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours picking up the pieces of your mess. Like I always do. Because someone has to be the adult. The protector. The one who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly.”

Tony’s head finally came up to meet his in confusion, the same way the rest of the Avengers now did.

“I've fought gods, ” Bruce said, stepping closer, “I’ve held the line when the sky fell. But you? You're the one opponent I keep having to clean up after. You're chaos wrapped in privilege pretending it's heroism.”

The final words were like a sword through the air.

“So I’ll do what I always do. I’ll clean this up. Once. And. For. All.”

And with that, Bruce lifted his hands slowly and removed the cowl.

The gasp that echoed across the Watchtower was thunderous.

Because standing there, in the heart of the most secure place on Earth, was Bruce Wayne. Unmasked. Calm. Controlled. Unafraid.

The truth laid bare, for everyone.

He met Tony’s stunned gaze directly and added, voice flat:

“No more secrets. No more protection. You don’t get the benefit of my shadow anymore.”

@laetitia-prst @yunho-leeknow @g0thchick @cncpilled @justannie18

#nanasrecos #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x you #batman x reader #batmom #bruce wayne x y/n #batman

84 notes · View notes

cncpilled · 1 month ago

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this is so cute BYE literally got me twirling my hair

「 KISS ME THROUGH THE PHONE 」

OLDER!CLINGY!DAMIAN WAYNE X F!READER

★ SYNOPSIS: Unable to be apart from you for long, Damian chooses to call you while on patrol—and when that isn't enough to satiate his aching heart, he swings by your window to wish you a good night in person, and maybe a bit more.

★ TAGS: damian is 18+, suggestive content, longing/yearning, fluff, it physically hurts damian to be without you

★ A/N: inspired by 'kiss me thru the phone' by soulja boy, more longing/yearning Dami because no one can convince me that man is not a complete romantic who feels like his chest is being ripped out whenever his beloved isn't next to him 🥰

line divider by @cafekitsune

"I miss you," Damian's voice calls from the other side of the phone, tone so sincere, so loving, that you can feel it in the warmth of the moonlight spilling into your room.

Your lips curve up, eyes melting as you stare out your window like he's right there, stood at your fire escape just waiting to be let in. "You've said that five times already, Dami."

"And I'll say it five more: I miss you, Habibti."

The smile on your face grows without your permission, and your finger practically has a mind of its own when it moves to the sill of your window, tracing little hearts on the surface like some sort of lovesick schoolgirl.

He's always known how to reduce you to one.

"Isn't your dad with you? I thought he doesn't allow calls to partners on patrol."

You can practically hear the eye roll in his voice. "Tt. That man wouldn't know true love if it hit him over the head with a frying pan."

His words make you perk up, slumped over form suddenly upright with life and light and all the stars twinkling in the sky of the night as you exclaim, excitement seeping into your tone, "You watched Tangled!"

"Of course," he replies, firm but soft, like it's obvious, but without all the derision that usually comes with that. "You asked it of me."

His words are simple, but they're kind, sweet, like the candy floss he bought you on your date the other day—and just like how it's flaky strings melted on your tongue, you, too, melt on the spot.

"Dami..."

It's all you can say, his name all you've ever known, and all that you wish to know, as you stand there, under the rays of the moonlight, eyes closed and mind swarmed with the ghost of his touch.

"I miss you, Habibti."

You miss him too.

But your eyes open, crinkling further at the corners as your gaze drifts down and you whine out with all the fluster of a girl embarrassed by her man, "Dami..."

"Hm?" a smile speaks through his tone.

You kick the air. "Stop that..."

"Stop what?"

"Saying that..."

His chuckle sounds from the other side of the screen, hot enough to warm your insides.

"Saying what? That I miss you?" he asks, though you know that he knows the answer to his question, going on to then say, "Would you prefer I tell you how cold the night is without you by my side? Or how it feels like there's a hole in my chest as I jump under the starry sky?"

"Dami..."

"It's true."

"No"—you shake your head, turning away from your window with one arm crossed over your chest and a smile upturned on your lips—"I mean—I miss you too..."

The line goes quiet. Too quiet.

"Dami?"

No response.

"Damian?"

Still, nothing.

Your teeth graze your lip, biting down on it by the smallest hair as you feel your insides turn into ice, fingers readjusting themselves around your phone.

The silence is loud—

—until it isn't.

Like glass, it's shattered through by the sound of tapping, and when you turn, heart in your throat, you all but melt at the sight that greets you.

There, with one hand holding his phone up to his ear, and the other tapping its fingers against your window, is the love of your life.

Relief washes over you like a wave, drenching your form until your shoulders fall from its weight and you're left floating step-by-step towards your suited-up boyfriend.

Under the whites of his mask, his eyes hide, unreadable, but they don't need to be, you know by the fall of his shoulders and the slight smile on his face that he's just as eager to see you as you are to see him.

Splaying your hand over where his rests on the glass, you give yourself a moment to take him in, to calm the swell of your heart as you feel the way he stares at you like you're the only one in the world.

A beat passes with the two of you just staring at each other through the glass.

For a moment. All is right. All is warm. All is sound.

And then your heart cries out, and you find yourself lifting your window not a moment after.

"What are you doing here?" you ask, breathless, disbelieving.

"You said you missed me."

Then he adds, without even opening his mouth:

'So here I am.'

Your eyes crinkle for the umpteenth time, and he wastes no longer to perch himself on your windowsill and reach for your hands with his own gloved ones.

"Damian, you have to patrol."

He rolls his eyes, smile still on his lips. "The streets are safe enough in the hands of Batman alone." Then, his eyes crinkle. "I'd rather be here with you."

Warmth swells in your heart, and you almost can't help the way you lunge forward, wrenching your hands from his grip to instead, throw your arms around his neck and bury yourself in his chest, smile a little too wide against his suit.

The position is a little awkward, but it still feels right, natural, when he winds his arms around your back, and the warmth of him bleeds into your form.

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, Habibti."

Raising your head from his chest, you usher him in, and it's only then that his eyes wander, head tilting down a little in that familiar way it does when he's taking you in.

And as you take a step towards your bed, as you move to lead him further into your room, your body is abruptly halted, wrist in his grasp, before you're yanked with a firm tug straight back into his chest.

A smirk tugs at his lips.

"Habibti," he whispers, smug, like the word is a secret shared between just the two of you, his head dipping until his nose brushes your own. "Do you always wear such attire to bed?"

Your eyes widen, breath hitching in your throat as his gloved fingers start to play with the hem of your shirt.

"Perhaps you knew I wouldn't be able to resist visiting, and wore such clothing on purpose?"

His teasing runs hot and heavy on your ears, and he pulls you closer by the waist before you can even think of turning your gaze away.

"In that case, you wouldn't mind if I were to indulge, would you?"

#nanasrecos

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cncpilled · 1 month ago

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GUYS I FOUND IT!!!! i found THEE BRUCE WAYNE AND BATMAN FIC!!!! SOUND THE ALARM LET THE TOWN KNOW!!!

BatFam Masterlist

The soft hum of music played from your phone as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, carefully putting on the final touches of your makeup. Stephanie sat cross-legged on the counter, swinging her legs and occasionally passing you whatever brush or gloss you reached for.

“You nervous?” she teased, her tone light. “Or just trying to make everyone else look bad?”

You gave her a small laugh, eyes focused on your eyeliner. “It’s our anniversary. And I like making him fall in love with me all over again.”

Steph grinned. “Mission accomplished but like every day. He has been brooding like a lovesick vampire all day though.”

In the bedroom, Jason was sprawled across the foot of your bed, arms folded under his head like a pillow. Damian sat beside him with a book in his lap, pretending to read but glancing at the open closet every few seconds as your gown hung beside Bruce’s suit.

“You look... very pretty,” Damian called out stiffly, not lifting his eyes from the book. Jason smirked.

“She looks hot, Dames. Just say it.”

Damian scowled. “That’s our mother, Todd.”

Jason just chuckled, completely unbothered. “You dont have to practice complimenting someone. Just say whatever comes to your head. Thats what I do.”

From the hallway, you could hear distant voices, Dick’s laughter and Tim’s quieter voice trying to keep Bruce from pacing holes in the floor. He always got this way right before the anniversary. Not nervous about the date, never that. Nervous because this day mattered more to him than he’d ever admit. It wasn’t just a celebration. It was a reminder that you’d chosen him, again and again, despite everything.

You stepped out of the bathroom finally, smoothing your dress over your hips. It shimmered softly in the light, the deep color complimenting your skin perfectly.

Jason let out a low whistle. “Damn, Ma. B’s gonna forget how to speak.”

Damian stood immediately, his book forgotten on the bed. “You look... exceptional,” he said, then added in a rush, “Father won’t be able to focus on anything else.”

You smiled and kissed the top of his head before hugging Jason, who grinned and squeezed you tightly.

Steph slipped off the counter and dusted her hands together. “Alright. Let’s go show Daddy Bat what he’s got waiting for him.”

Tim was fixing Bruce’s cufflinks while Dick was straightening the lapels of his suit. Bruce looked as collected as ever, but his eyes kept glancing toward the stairs.

“She’s coming,” Tim said with a small smirk.

And then you appeared.

The second Bruce saw you, the entire room shifted. His breath caught, and the smallest flicker of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind he only ever saved for you.

Dick nudged Tim. “Told you. She walks in, and he forgets what planet he’s on.”

Bruce stepped forward slowly, one hand reaching out to take yours as if you were something delicate. Precious.

“You’re stunning,” he said quietly, leaning in to press a kiss to your cheek. “Every year I think I’ve seen you at your most beautiful. Every year I’m wrong.”

You smiled, touching the edge of his jaw. “And every year, you still manage to look like you stepped out of a billionaire spy movie.”

He offered his arm. “Shall we? Your chariot awaits.”

Every year, Bruce reserved the same restaurant, the five-star place where you’d had your first date. Only this time, like all the anniversaries before, he had rented out the entire rooftop.

Soft string lights. Custom menu. Champagne already chilled. The table was the same corner one you’d laughed over ten years ago. The only difference now was the deep love etched into every look and every word between you.

It was perfect.

The evening air was cool but gentle, the stars just beginning to scatter across the inky sky above. Warm string lights twinkled along the pergola that covered your candlelit table, casting a soft golden glow over the rooftop. The sound of a string quartet hummed in the background, their music weaving delicately into the hush of the city below.

Bruce hadn’t stopped watching you since you sat down. Not when the waiter pulled out your chair. Not when you reached for your champagne. Not when you laughed at the fact that he’d insisted on them recreating the exact first-date menu, down to the bread you’d both hated the first time.

“You always do this,” you said, smiling as you dabbed at the corner of your mouth with a linen napkin.

He tilted his head, eyes dark and affectionate. “Do what?”

You leaned slightly across the table. “Make the rest of the world disappear.”

Bruce’s hand reached across the table, covering yours. His touch was warm and steady, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles as he exhaled.

“You do that for me every day,” he said softly. “Even on the days I don’t deserve it.”

Your smile faltered, not because the words hurt, but because they were true. And only Bruce could admit it that way, the way that made you love him even more.

“You always deserve it,” you whispered. “Even when you’re brooding and impossible.”

He smirked slightly. “Especially when I’m brooding and impossible.”

You both laughed.

A bottle of wine was opened and poured, and the meal moved on in slow courses, truffle risotto, seared scallops, a ridiculous chocolate dessert you both pretended to dislike but devoured anyway. It was easy, too easy to forget the tension of the last few weeks. The Avengers. Tony. Damian’s growing awareness. The whispers behind closed doors.

But tonight… none of it existed.

Just you. And him.

Bruce swirled the last of his wine in his glass, looking at you over the rim. “Do you remember what you wore on our first date?”

You leaned back, eyes narrowing playfully. “You mean the boots that hurt my feet so bad I couldn’t feel my toes halfway through dinner?”

He chuckled, deep and rich. “I remember the dress. The way you kept tugging it down like you didn’t already have every eye in the room.”

You flushed. “And I remember you in that suit that probably cost more than my first car. Sitting across from me like you already knew.”

“Knew what?” he asked.

“That I was going to fall in love with you.”

He looked down, a rare moment of softness overtaking his expression.

“I didn’t know,” Bruce said. “But I hoped.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was full, thick with emotion and history and the thousand little pieces of life you’d built together.

After a long pause, you reached into your purse and slid something across the table.

Bruce’s brows furrowed as he lifted the envelope. His eyes scanned the simple handwriting, your initials curling in one corner. He opened it carefully, unfolding the paper.

Inside was a photograph.

The two of you from years ago, mid-laugh, his hand curled around your waist, your head thrown back. You’d written underneath it in looping ink:

“You’ve always been the only one I’d come back to.”

When he looked up, his eyes had gone a little glassy.

“I found it while cleaning out an old desk in your office,” you said softly. “Thought you’d want to keep it. A reminder that even when it’s hard… I’m still here.”

Bruce folded the photo with care, sliding it into his inside jacket pocket like it was something sacred.

Then he stood.

You watched him curiously as he walked over to your side of the table, holding out his hand.

You took it.

He guided you gently to your feet and pulled you into him, swaying slowly to the music drifting across the rooftop.

No one else existed.

Just his arms around your waist, your head against his chest, and the sound of his heart beating steadily, like it always did when you were close.

“You know,” he murmured against your hair, “I used to think I didn’t deserve this. You. A family.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, brushing your hand over his cheek.

“You still think that sometimes.”

Bruce didn’t deny it.

You pressed your forehead to his. “But I do. And I’ll keep reminding you. Even when you’re impossible. Even when you’re Batman.”

That made him smile.

“I love you,” he said, barely more than a breath.

And just as you were about to say it back,

A sharp buzz vibrated in his jacket pocket.

Then again. Louder this time.

His entire body tensed.

You sighed. “It’s not going to be a quiet night, is it?”

He kissed your forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, even as your eyes drifted toward the edge of the rooftop and the darkening city. “You’re Batman. That’s part of the deal.”

He looked at you with a mix of frustration and love, already moving to reach for the communicator in his inner pocket.

You turned back toward the table, grabbing your clutch and stealing one last sip of wine.

This night wasn’t over.

But you had a feeling the next part wasn’t going to be nearly as romantic.

The town car purred to a stop in the private alley behind the restaurant. Bruce stood beside the open door, his hand lingering on yours for a second longer than necessary, eyes locked with yours in the dim glow of the city lights.

“I’m going to handle this,” he said softly, the warmth from dinner already slipping beneath the weight of what was coming. “Alfred’s waiting at the house. I want you home safe.”

You tilted your head slightly, searching his face. “You could just take me with you.”

“I could,” Bruce said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, “but I won’t.”

He leaned in and kissed you, slow and grounding. Then, just as the door closed and the car started to pull away, you saw him turn, slipping into the shadows.

The Batmobile was already on its way, summoned silently through his gauntlet. He could hear its engines growling several blocks off, merging with the restless hum of Gotham.

The driver glanced at you through the mirror. “Home, ma’am?”

You nodded, settling into the seat with a soft exhale. Your hand drifted toward the window. You could still taste the wine, feel Bruce’s hands on your waist from the dance, the laugh you hadn’t had in weeks. The night had been close to perfect.

Until Gotham called.

You didn’t notice the dark figure watching your car from the rooftop.

The Batmobile screeched around the corner, stopping hard as Batman leapt in front of two officers holding down a frightened informant. Gunfire had broken out a minute earlier, no casualties, but the perp had vanished down the alley.

“This wasn’t random,” Bruce muttered into the comm as he scanned the scene. “Someone staged this… just to get my attention.”

Before he could pursue it, Oracle’s voice crackled in.

“Uh… Bruce. Something you need to hear. GCPD picked up chatter, someone hit a tech transport tonight. Not Joker, not Two-Face. Real quiet. Real clean. They left one of your encrypted comm tags behind.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “My comm tags aren’t out in circulation.”

“That’s the problem.”

Meanwhile – Your Car, Turning Down Fifth and Mercer

The driver’s voice cut through your thoughts. “Apologies, ma’am, slight detour, police have blocked the main road. Shouldn’t be more than five extra minutes.”

You nodded absently, fingers drumming on the leather seat. Bruce had a driver for each of you, they were highly trained and vetted so you trusted him without needing much attention.

It wasn’t until you turned down the next street that you noticed how quiet it was.

Too quiet.

No traffic. No people. Just the faint echo of your tires on wet pavement.

Then the car jerked to a hard stop.

Your heart stuttered.

“Ma’am, stay down,” the driver said quickly, reaching for the weapon concealed beneath the seat.

A dark shape stepped into the glow of the streetlamp ahead. Not Joker. Not anyone you recognized, but definitely armed, and definitely dangerous. Two more flanked him, circling.

“Looks like someone forgot to bring security,” one of them said, cocking his head at the window as he approached. “Pretty, rich thing like you. What’s the world coming to?”

You swallowed your fear, eyes scanning the street.

“Step out of the car. Slowly,” the man barked, tapping his weapon against the hood.

You could feel your pulse climbing, but your voice stayed steady. “You don’t want to do this.”

He laughed. “Lady, I think I do.”

Then,

A low mechanical growl echoed through the street. Tires screeching.

A streak of matte black surged from the shadows and slammed into the alley behind them, the Batmobile skidding to a halt with precise, terrifying speed.

Before any of them could react, the figure dropped from the rooftop.

Batman.

He landed between you and the men, cape flaring, eyes glowing, the sheer force of his presence knocking the breath out of them, and you.

The one with the gun stepped back, startled. “What the, ”

Batman didn’t wait.

He moved like a shadow, taking out the first with a bone-crunching strike, using his momentum to disarm the second with a twist that sent the weapon clattering across the asphalt. The third barely raised his arm before he was thrown into the side of a dumpster.

The whole thing was over in less than ten seconds.

You hadn’t even opened the car door.

Batman turned to face you, chest rising and falling, his jaw clenched tight.

You pushed the door open slowly, stepping out, heart still racing. “So much for a quiet ride home.”

He didn’t speak at first, just stared at you, scanned you from head to toe, as if checking for any hidden injury.

Then: “Are you okay?”

You nodded.

Bruce didn’t.

He stepped forward and gently cupped your face with his gloved hand. “I told you to go straight home.”

“I was,” you said, voice quiet.

His hand dropped. He turned toward the unconscious men, voice low and bitter: “They weren’t after you specifically. Not tonight. But they’re getting closer.”

You stepped closer too, voice softer now. “I’m fine. You made it in time.”

Batman didn’t respond

The thugs groaned on the pavement, unconscious and broken, scattered around the narrow alley like trash after a storm. The Batmobile’s engine idled nearby, casting a low hum through the silence. The town car’s driver, clearly shaken, stepped forward.

“I can get her home, sir.”

Bruce didn’t even turn around. “You can go.”

The man hesitated. Then he took one look at the bodies, at the towering silhouette of Gotham’s protector standing possessively in front of you, and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

The town car pulled away, tires softly rolling over damp concrete, leaving the alley dim and still except for you and the Bat.

You turned toward him slowly, heart still racing, not just from fear anymore, but from the look in his eyes.

He hadn’t stopped staring at you. Not since he fought them off. His chest was rising fast under the armor, his jaw clenched hard. There was a violence still simmering in him, leashed only barely, but none of it was aimed at you.

It was for you.

You took a step closer. “Bruce, ”

“Don’t.” His voice was deep, dark, the voice of the Bat. His gloved hand came up fast, curling around your waist and yanking you to him with unyielding strength. “Don’t say my name right now.”

You blinked, breath catching. “Okay.”

His hand slid lower, gripping your hip tightly. “Do you know what it does to me? Seeing you like that. In danger. Cornered. If I’d been one second later, ”

“But you weren’t,” you breathed, your palms sliding up the chest of his suit. “You were right on time.”

His head dropped forward until his cowl brushed your forehead. His voice was a growl now, filled with a hunger he could barely hold back. “You’re mine. Every part of you. No one touches what’s mine.”

You shivered as his hands moved, ruthless and sure, pinning your back to the cold brick wall. The alley was dark, hidden from the street, but even if it wasn’t, you weren’t sure you’d care. Not with the way he was looking at you. Like he was still mid-hunt.

“Do you know what tonight is supposed to be?” he rasped, dragging his gloved fingers down your thigh, hiking your leg up around his hip.

“Our anniversary,” you whispered.

He smirked, something dangerous and wicked. “Then let me remind you.”

You gasped as his mouth found your throat, the sharp edge of his stubble scraping over sensitive skin. He bit, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to claim. One hand braced above your head, the other still anchoring your leg to him, his body caging you against the wall.

“I should take you home,” he muttered between kisses. “You should be safe. Warm. In our bed.”

You tugged at the collar of his suit, eyes blazing. “And yet… here you are.”

He chuckled darkly, pressing his forehead to yours again, breath ragged. “You love this, don’t you?”

“You’re Batman,” you whispered. “And I’m yours.”

The kiss deepened, devouring, his mouth crashing onto yours like he hadn’t kissed you in years, like he might never get to again. There was no soft Bruce here, no warm palm on your cheek or careful whisper of your name. This was the Bat , all armor and grit and hunger barely restrained.

Your hands curled in the tactical material of his suit, desperate to feel him, to claw past the cold exterior and into the man underneath. But he didn't let you get that far , he caught your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand like it cost him nothing.

"You're shaking," he growled into your neck, breath hot. "Is it fear? Or something else?"

You gasped. "Want. I want you."

His grip tightened just a hair, enough to send a shiver straight down your spine. "Good." His voice dropped lower, gravel scraping against velvet. “Then listen closely, because I need you to understand something…”

His hand moved from your thigh, slow but heavy, dragging up over your waist, ribs, sternum, until it wrapped gently around your throat , a touch far more intimate than controlling. His thumb stroked your pulse like it belonged to him. "You are mine. You wear his rings. You kiss his cheek in public. But it’s me who watches you while you sleep. It’s me who hears the change in your breath when you dream."

"You are him," you whispered, a desperate ache in your voice. “You’re just… this side of him.”

“And you love this side, don’t you?” His words were ragged, feverish. “You love the part of me that’s brutal. Dangerous. You want to kiss the teeth.”

You didn’t answer, just whimpered softly, arching into him.

And suddenly he was moving again , lifting you like you weighed nothing, pressing you harder to the wall as his mouth trailed down your jaw. Each kiss felt like possession. His hands, big and gloved, slid under your dress like he had every right. Because he did. And yet, when his hand slid just beneath the lace at your hip, he paused.

His voice turned to gravel, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me to stop.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, breathing hard. “No thanks.”

He growled low in his throat , primal, relieved, starved , and that was the last moment of stillness.

What followed wasn’t soft. It was reverent in its own way, but it was the kind of reverence reserved for the altar of worship, not the sanctuary. He made you feel wanted, needed , owned. The slick brick wall scraped your back as he moved, your fingers leaving smudges on his armor. He groaned against your skin, low and wrecked, like having you like this was both the release and the ruin.

He didn’t speak much , not like Bruce would, murmuring sweet things in your ear. No, Batman didn’t need words. Every motion was deliberate, every touch speaking for him. When he gripped your hips and pressed his forehead to yours, your name fell from his lips like a vow , hoarse, reverent, broken.

And when it was over, when your body trembled and your breath came in gasps, he just held you. There, in the alley, with his cowl shadowing his face and the sky above bruised with city light, he kissed your temple. Softer now. Like the heat had burned through and left only the ache.

“I should take you home,” he murmured, voice thick.

You wrapped your arms around his neck again and nodded. “To Bruce?”

He paused, then nodded once, as if giving you back something fragile.

But as he carried you into the Batmobile, gently placing you in the seat, you knew the truth: whether it was Bruce or Batman, you were the center of his universe. One side of him adored you with discipline, devotion, and endless patience. The other… burned for you like a fire that would never go out.

And lucky for you , you had both.

Tony stood in front of a bank of holographic screens, a whiskey glass sweating in his hand, jaw set hard. He hadn’t meant to spy , not really. The alert had triggered when the Batmobile entered Gothams perimeter, its untraceable signal pinging just close enough to trip Stark’s experimental surveillance grid. He’d been curious. Too curious.

Now, on-screen, grainy black-and-white footage from a traffic camera angled low on a dark alley flickered. He watched as Batman stepped backward releasing you from the wall, shadowed and imposing, his cape flaring as he bent slightly, lifting you gently into his arms.

“I should take you home,” he murmured, voice thick.

You wrapped your arms around his neck again and nodded. “To Bruce?”

He paused, then nodded once, as if giving you back something fragile.

Tony’s hand tensed around the glass, the ice clinking. His expression twisted , disbelief, then offense, then something darker.

The Batmobile peeled away. The footage cut out.

The footage replayed silently on a massive screen. Tony stood in front of it, arms crossed, face unreadable.

Steve blinked at the screen. “Is that… her? With him?”

Sam rubbed a hand over his mouth. “She asked to work with both teams. This is why?”

“Jesus,” Clint muttered, slouching back in the chair. “So she’s been sleeping with Batman behind Bruce’s back?”

“No,” Wanda said sharply.

All eyes turned to her.

She stepped forward from the shadows of the room, calm but firm, her eyes just a little red around the edges from restrained power. “She’s not cheating. Not on Bruce. Not on anyone.”

Nat crossed her arms too, nodding slightly. “Tony, you saw a clip. Not the context. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Tony scoffed. “I heard it with my own ears. ‘To Bruce?’ Like she’s sneaking around behind the poor guy’s back, ”

Wanda stepped between him and the screen, her voice calm but unyielding. “She said that to Batman, Tony. You really think someone who’s lying would be that open? That honest in a moment like that?”

Tony’s jaw clenched. “You’re defending her.”

“I’m protecting someone you clearly don’t understand,” Wanda replied, her voice velvet wrapped around steel. “I’ve seen her mind. I’ve seen his. Do you know what she carries for Bruce? For all of them? Do you know how long she’s kept this secret just to protect their peace?”

“She’s lying to all of us,” Tony snapped.

“No,” Natasha said this time, quieter but harder. “She’s surviving. And she’s loving someone in a way you can’t stand, because it wasn’t you.”

Tony’s nostrils flared. For a second, the room was dead quiet.

Steve cleared his throat, brows drawn. “So... what are you saying, Wanda?”

Wanda looked at the screen once more, her gaze softening. “I’m saying Bruce and Batman aren’t two different men in her story. Just... two halves of the same one.”

Tony turned away, scoffing. “Great. So we’re all fine with that? With secrets like that being kept from us?”

“Tony,” Nat said, stepping closer to him, voice low. “You think you’re mad because she lied. But you’re mad because she chose someone else. She didn’t betray Bruce. She just didn’t choose to pine after you.”

Tony said nothing, just looked at the frozen screen of Batman cradling her , you , like something precious. Like a secret worth guarding at any cost.

He shut off the feed with a flick of his fingers. The room dimmed as he stormed out.

“I hope she knows what she’s doing,” Bucky mutters.

“She does,” Wanda whispered.

@laetitia-prst @yunho-leeknow @g0thchick Hope you guys like it.

#nanasrecos #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #batman #batmom #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x y/n

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cncpilled · 1 month ago

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GOD another world shiftingly good work from my favorite author!!!!!

God! Xavier x Nymph!Reader PART ONE.

synopsis: You are a nymph of Artemis—wild, untouched, and bound to the hush of sacred woods. But peace is a fragile thing beneath the gaze of gods. The swan came first. White as bone. Then the dreams followed—a man with kind, blue eyes and a ring that will not come off. Now the moon grows colder. The swan is gone. But he is not.

trigger warnings: obsessive tendencies, non-con, dubious consent, forced marriage, one sided enemies to lovers, pnv, oral (fem and male receiving) fingering, body worship, nipple play (fem receiving), stalking, character deaths, tit sucking, spit, nectar as lube, rimming, drugging, manipulation, gaslighting, xavier probably has a breeding kink what do i know, virgin reader, unprotected, marathons, headlock/choking, fighting ala lovers quarrels, bodily mutilation (not to reader), kidnapping. somno.

word count: 16k. total:30k special dedication: @ivohex, @ryoskuna a/n: it's actually bothering me so much that i only recently figured out the color thing and i keep telling myself that ill fix everything so it matches but its just too late for that jdsjfdf ANYWAYS this has been like...a month or more in the process? i really forgot cause of school but yeah! this is the third installment of the mythos and is very loosely based off the myth of daphne and apollo! collection! please enjoy!

The forest was a blur of motion and breathless noise.

Your bare feet slapped the mossy earth, your thighs burning with each stride as you tore through underbrush and bramble. Bark scraped your arms when you slipped past tight trees. Low branches tugged at your hair like greedy hands, and leaves whipped against your cheeks. The ram—huge, wild-eyed, and furious—charged ahead of you, its wool matted with burrs, its curled horns gleaming with damp.

The air was thick with the scent of pine and sweat. Sharp sap clung to your skin where your fingers had braced against trees for balance. You could hear it up ahead—the crashing hooves, the tearing of ferns, the grunt of a creature that had no business running like a stag.

You darted between two birch trunks, heart hammering, cloak flying behind you like a second shadow. A squirrel screeched and leapt from your path as you barreled through a nest of thorny underbrush. The thorns bit into your calves, and red welts bloomed behind you, but you didn’t stop.

The forest groaned around you with the weight of dusk—the sky bruised purple between the canopy, streaks of gold bleeding through like spilled ichor. Birds rose in frightened flocks as you sprinted past, startled into spirals of motion. Twigs snapped. Mud sucked at your soles.

You caught sight of it again—just beyond the thicket. The ram, muscles rippling beneath its coarse coat, veered toward a narrow pass between two slick rocks. Mist from a nearby stream curled around its legs, painting its movements ghostlike.

You didn’t think.

You leapt.

You launched yourself at it, tackling it just as it tried to clear a ravine. Your bodies slammed together midair—crack—horn against your shoulder, blinding pain as the world tilted. You both crashed into the rocky slope below.You tasted copper in your mouth—bit your tongue, maybe. Maybe not. Who knew anymore?

The air left your lungs in a grunt. Your back hit stone. The ram shrieked—an unholy, ripping sound—and kicked wildly, hooves gouging into your side. Pain flared. A hoof clipped your temple—your vision blurred white.

You rolled, hands wrapping around its horns, teeth bared as you snarled through your panting.

“Enough,” you hissed, your breath white in the cooling air. Climbing onto the beast, wrapping your arms around its thick neck, your fingers sunk into its matted wool. It bucked and twisted, repulsed by the thought of a being other than its own touching it.

With one hand, you drew the hunting blade from your hip and plunged it into its side. Once. Twice. Again. The ram’s body spasmed, blood spurting hot and slick across your forearms, your chest.

It collapsed with a final groan, slamming into the stones below.

“Είθε η Άρτεμις να σε φυλάει.”

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden sheen over the rolling meadow, where wildflowers bloomed in a riot of color—lavender, poppy red, buttercup yellow, and a hundred hues in between. The air was thick with the scent of jasmine and honeysuckle, sweet and dizzying. Bees hummed lazily over blossoms, and butterflies flitted like confetti tossed by the wind.

Nestled in the heart of the flower field was a sparkling lake, so clear it mirrored the sky—a flawless stretch of blue laced with the reflection of drifting clouds. Its surface shimmered like liquid crystal, disturbed only by the gentle ripples caused by laughter and movement.

Nymphs moved gracefully through the water, their laughter light and musical, like wind chimes swaying in a breeze. Some basked on smooth sun-warmed stones at the lake’s edge, their limbs glistening with droplets that caught the light like diamonds. Others braided strands of golden reeds into their hair, or floated on their backs, arms spread wide as if embracing the world.

Dragonflies zipped low over the lake’s surface, skimming across it like dancers on a glass stage. Birds sang from the trees that circled the field, and the entire glade pulsed with life—a sanctuary untouched by time or sorrow.

It was a place of peace, of endless afternoon.

You break the surface with a gasp, cool air rushing into your lungs like a kiss after too long without it. The sunlight is blinding, glinting off the lake in dazzling fragments, and for a moment, it feels like you’ve surfaced into a dream.

Water trickles down your face as you push the strands of hair from your eyes, blinking against the warmth and brightness. You lift your arms, slick and shining, and begin to wring the water from your glimmering hair. Each twist sends droplets cascading like tiny stars, catching rainbows in the light.

The soft laughter of your sisters rings in your ears, distant but familiar. One of them splashes playfully nearby, her laughter rising like a bubble. Another lies among the reeds, weaving a crown of lilies and moonflowers, humming an ancient lullaby that you remember only in fragments.

The lake embraces your hips like a cradle, and you move slowly through it, your body slicing through the silk-like water with the grace born of centuries. A dragonfly lands on your shoulder, fearless, then lifts off again with a shimmer of wings.

You breathe again—slower this time—and tilt your head toward the sky. The clouds drift lazily, unbothered. Everything smells of earth, bloom, and sunlight.

And yet… something at the edge of the lake—beyond the tall grasses, where the trees begin to thicken—feels still. Too still.

A pause in the wind. A hush in the birdsong.

You’re not alone.

A rustle in the reeds. You turn.

There, parting the tall grass with quiet elegance, a swan emerges.

Its feathers are luminous, pure white with the faintest iridescence, like moonlight caught in motion. Its neck curves like a question mark, long and regal, and its black eyes shine with something—curiosity, maybe. Or knowing.

A few of your sisters gasp in delight, their voices like bells. One claps her hands, water dripping from her fingers. Another presses her palms to her mouth, eyes wide with reverence.

“Oh!” breathes Lira, always the first to fall in love. “It’s an omen.”

“A blessing,” murmurs Selene, brushing wet hair from her brow. “No creature so lovely visits without purpose.”

The swan pauses just at the edge of the lake, one webbed foot gently stirring the shallow water. It doesn’t seem startled by your presence. In fact, it looks… expectant.

You find yourself wading closer without quite meaning to, water curling around your knees. The swan’s gaze meets yours.

You tilt your head.

The swan mimics you—perfectly. Its neck curves to match the angle of yours, slow and deliberate, as if it's studying you just as closely. A hush falls over the water, your sisters' giggles fading into silence as they watch, wide-eyed and breathless.

Then, with barely a ripple, it glides forward.

Effortless.

Silent.

The water parts around it like it was always meant to.

You feel the urge to take a step back, but your feet remain rooted. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, modestly, though modesty has never mattered much among your kind. This feels different, somehow. Not shame. Not fear. Just a strange flutter of something ancient and alert, waking inside you.

The swan’s reflection flickers on the surface—distorted, a shimmer of white and shadow. It swims closer. Close enough now that you can see the faint pink hue just beneath its beak. Close enough that the tips of its wings send little waves to kiss your thighs.

It stops just a few paces away.

And then—

It bows.

A low, graceful dip of the neck. Not like a bird.

Like a prince.

Thea, the youngest among you—barely grown from her riverbed dreams—giggles with unrestrained delight, her voice light as wind through bellflowers.

“How charming it is!” she chirps, hands clasped to her chest. “Do pet it, Y/n!”

You glance over your shoulder at her, eyebrows lifting slightly. Thea’s cheeks are flushed, and she bounces on the balls of her feet in the shallows like a girl watching her first snowfall. Always so easily enchanted.

Phaedra snorts from her perch on a mossy stone, one knee drawn up and hair dripping down her back like a sheet of obsidian. “Are we not Artemis’s huntresses?” she says, raising a brow. “We ought to spear it and wear its feathers.”

A chorus of scandalized gasps rises from your sisters. Thea places both hands over her mouth, horrified. Phaedra only grins, wicked and sun-drunk, then lies back on the stone with a satisfied sigh.

You don’t laugh. Not yet.

Because the swan hasn’t moved.

Still as moonlight on stiller water, it gazes at you—bowed, waiting. Not afraid. Not prey.

“I don’t think,” you say slowly, voice low and steady, “that it’s a normal swan.”

A pause.

Your hand hovers, the smallest tremble betraying your stillness.

And then—

Your sisters burst into laughter.

Light and sudden, like the popping of ripe berries, their joy spills out across the water, echoing off the trees and sky.

“She’s afraid of a bird,” Phaedra crows, sitting up just enough to toss a petal in your direction. “Oh, mighty Y/n, conqueror of reeds and minnows!”

Thea splashes toward you, sending up silver arcs of water. “You look as if it might cast a curse on you!” she giggles, clinging to your arm.

Another nymph snickers, “Maybe it’s a prince cursed by Hera for looking too long at another nymph’s thighs.”

"I'm not afraid of a bird—" you begin, half-defensive, half-exasperated, but the words tangle as the swan's eyes gleam with that unnerving awareness. You hesitate, then shake your head. "I just… ah, nevermind."

You sigh, turning slightly to face them. Water drips from your arms, catching sunlight in falling jewels.

"You all know how strange the times have been. Gods and their pomegranates. Aphrodite’s grievances ruining everyone's sleep cycles. Artemis protect us."

The laughter falters, just slightly.

Because you do have a point.

A hush settles like mist. Thea stops giggling. Even Phaedra shifts, shoulders tightening.

No one says her name.

But all of you think it.

The nymph who danced too close to the olive grove. Who never came back. Who was found later, mouth agape, bruises blooming around her neck like blue violets. Strangled by Eros himself—for what, none of you know. Perhaps a refusal. Perhaps nothing at all.

Gods were temperamental these days. Sharp-edged and strange.

"Maybe I should have speared it," Phaedra mutters under her breath.

The swan honks—loud and unexpected—breaking the delicate tension like a sharp, playful note in a symphony. The sound echoes across the lake, startling a few of your sisters into quiet laughter.

Then, with a soft yet insistent nudge, it butts its head gently into your palm, as if to announce its innocence. A playful gesture, almost affectionate, as if it recognizes your hesitation and seeks to reassure you.

You blink, a soft laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. The swan, still glowing faintly, seems to almost smile—or at least, that's what you imagine, as it tilts its head once more. It rubs its head against your thigh, feathers warm and impossibly soft against your damp skin.

You glance down, bemused, as it continues the slow motion—comforting, gentle, like a deer nudging a trusted hand. No divine trickery, no sudden spark of fear. Just a creature seeking touch, as any living thing might.

“Aww,” Thea coos, pressing her cheeks between her palms, utterly enchanted. “It likes you.”

“It’s probably just cold,” Phaedra says dryly, though even she’s smiling now, tension broken like morning mist. “You’ve become a swan-mother, Y/n. Congratulations.”

You roll your eyes, though your fingers find their way to the crown of its head again, stroking absentmindedly through the fine down. The swan makes a low sound, content, and presses closer with unguarded trust.

One of the other nymphs wades over, placing flowers in the water, letting them drift. “What a beautiful creature,” she murmurs. “So rare to see one this tame.”

You nod slowly, saying nothing. Because it is tame.

“Artemis would rather we eat it,” Thea murmurs with a mischievous grin, stepping carefully through the water toward you and the swan.

But the moment her toes disturb the lake near its edge, the swan lets out a sharp, indignant huff and moves—suddenly, swiftly—nestling itself firmly between your legs.

You freeze.

Thea halts mid-step, blinking.

Your sisters stare.

And your entire body flushes with a wave of mortified heat as the swan folds its wings tight and settles itself there, possessive and perfectly content, its head resting lazily against your inner thigh as if it were the most natural perch in the world.

“I—gods—” you start, scrambling for dignity, but Phaedra bursts out laughing first.

“Well,” she grins, “it seems the beast has chosen its mate.”

“Hush,” you snap, face burning, though your hands flutter awkwardly, trying not to jostle the creature. “It’s just—probably scared. Or cold.”

“Mmhmm,” Thea hums with suspicious innocence. “And it’s just coincidentally hiding in between your legs.”

You scowl at them, but your traitorous hand once again ends up smoothing its feathers, calming the swan as it sighs softly, entirely undisturbed by your growing embarrassment.

It stays there, tucked between you as if guarding its chosen shrine.

“Thea,” you say flatly, “I swear to the Fates—”

Thea’s mouth falls open, and then she lets out a delighted cackle, nearly doubling over in the water. “It’s hiding in you now!”

“It is not! It’s—!” You stammer, flustered beyond salvation.

Phaedra whistles low, biting back a grin. “Well, at least it has excellent taste.”

The swan ruffles its feathers smugly, head nestled close, as if entirely pleased with its sudden, scandalous choice.

Your sisters erupt into laughter.

You stare down at the impudent bird between your legs, considering—for a brief moment—whether Artemis would actually approve if you drowned it right then and there.

That night, beneath a canopy of stars and the hush of wind through olive branches, the forest wrapped itself around your little camp like a lullaby. Your sisters were scattered among the wildflowers and moss, curled into one another or the crooks of trees, lulled to sleep by laughter, wine, and the scent of crushed lavender.

And you—gods help you—you were not alone.

The swan had followed you. Quietly. Unfailingly.

And now, it lay beside you, impossibly warm for a creature of water and wing. Its body was curled neatly against yours, chest rising and falling in time with your own, as though it had synced itself to your heartbeat. Its head rested just above your sternum, tucked gently against you, only the thin linen of your nightgown separating its soft feathers from your bare skin.

You should’ve moved it.

Should’ve pushed it away the moment it crept into your blanket of moss and curled up like it belonged there.

But you didn’t.

You let it stay.

Maybe it was the way its weight grounded you, gentle and unobtrusive. Maybe it was the comfort it offered without asking, without speaking. Or maybe you were just tired of pushing things away.

Your hand rested idly over its back, fingers tangled in feathers softer than silk. In the faint light of the moon, the swan looked almost… ethereal. Like something born of myth and moonlight.

You sighed, low and slow.

“Ridiculous bird,” you murmured. But you didn’t mean it. Not really.

The swan stirred just once in its sleep, and nestled closer.

You closed your eyes.

And that night, you had a strange, strange dream.

The forest was gone. The lake was gone. Even the sky, even the stars—gone.

You stood barefoot in a sea of dark water that didn’t ripple, didn’t move. It reflected nothing. All around you, the world shimmered with a soft gold haze, suspended like pollen in the air. Time felt folded. Heavy. And quiet.

Then, footsteps.

Bare against nothing. Light as rain.

A man appeared—though you couldn’t say from where. The moment you noticed him, he was already near. Cloaked in warmth, not fabric. Familiar, but entirely unknown.

He was radiant, but not in the way of sun or fire. No, it was subtler. The kind of light you find in old places, long forgotten by men. The kind that remembers.

You couldn’t quite see his face, not really—not beyond the suggestion of golden skin and a silhouette that shimmered like oil on water—but you saw his eyes.

Kind.

Blue.

So blue, they looked carved from the very sky the gods had banished for you.

He tilted his head, voice slow, soft, almost drowsy. “I take it you liked the swan?”

Your throat was dry.

You tried to speak, but the words caught somewhere between dream and waking.

He smiled—barely.

That smile was enough to stir something in your chest. A flutter. A warning.

“Don’t worry,” he murmured, stepping closer, water still unbroken beneath him. “He liked you too.”

The petals in the sky turned inside out again.

He stepped closer, slow and effortless, and though he barely moved, you felt the warmth of him bloom across your skin like sunlight through clouds.

“Don’t be frightened,” he said, tilting his head slightly—exactly the way the swan had earlier that day. “I was only curious. You smelled like river mint. And loneliness.”

You blinked, heart stuttering, mouth parted to speak—but the words wouldn’t form.

He smiled again, softer this time.

“I won’t keep you,” he whispered. You felt yourself beginning to slip, the dream pulling at its seams—but before it faded entirely, he lifted a hand, as if to touch your cheek, though he never quite reached you.

His voice caught you just as the dream began to dissolve.

“And… tell the Lady of the Moon hello, please,” he murmured, eyes crinkling with a warmth that almost hurt.

There was something solemn in his tone. Not quite reverent, but familiar—like he was remembering an old friend, or a prayer long unspoken.

You turned toward him, but the dream was already fading. His outline blurred at the edges, golden light bleeding into the colorless void. The petals in the sky fluttered once more—then scattered into stars.

You woke with a start.

The dawn was just a whisper on the horizon, pale pink creeping through the leaves above. Your sisters still slept, curled and dreaming in the hush of early light.

And on your chest—

The swan.

Head nestled exactly where the man’s hand might’ve rested. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.

You looked down at it, heart pounding, the dream still warm and echoing through your ribs.

“…What are you?” you murmured.

The swan gave a soft coo in its sleep and burrowed closer.

And the sun began to rise.

The thump, thump, thump of your horse’s hooves slammed into the dirt road, a steady rhythm that echoed across the valley. Your thighs gripped the creature’s flanks, wind tangling through your hair as you urged it faster, your sisters flanking you on either side—an elegant, wild blur of limbs and laughter.

Above, the sky was full of movement. Doves and herons, startled by your presence, broke from the trees in flocks, their wings catching the sun in flashes of silver and white.

You pulled your bow from its place across your back, the wood smooth and worn beneath your fingers. With a practiced twist, you notched an arrow, aiming at a bird sweeping low over the reeds.

The others whooped as they loosed their shots—Phaedra’s arrow caught a goose clean through the breast, and Thea missed entirely, swearing colorfully as her shaft spun into the lake.

You followed the bird’s flight with your gaze, the string taut against your cheek.

And just as you were about to let go—

A flash of white caught the corner of your eye.

The swan. It had stayed at the lake.

Even as your hunting party thundered past and the arrows flew, it did not flee. It remained there—still, serene—on the mirrored surface of the water as though it belonged more to the reflection than the world itself.

And it watched you.

Not your sisters. You.

The others didn’t notice. Phaedra was boasting about her shot. Thea was complaining about mud in her boots. One of the older nymphs was laughing, teasing her, tugging playfully on her braid.

But you… You could feel it. The weight of those unseen blue eyes behind that avian face.

The swan had not followed you through the night forest. Had not curled up against you again.

Instead, it had returned to the lake. Waited.

And somehow, that felt more intimate than if it had whispered your name.

As you slowed your horse near the water’s edge, its head lifted. It gave one soft honk—nothing dramatic. No grand gesture. Just acknowledgement.

Recognition.

Like it knew your silence, too.

Your fingers twitched near your reins.

“…He stayed,” you murmured under your breath.

No one heard you.

No one but the swan.

You released your breath. Lowered your bow. The arrow rested useless in your palm.

“Y/N?” Thea called, already circling back toward you. “Why didn’t you shoot?”

You looked at the swan. It had stopped in the water, watching you. Still. Waiting.

“I missed,” you lied.

The swan blinked, as if it knew better.

Thea huffed beside you, tugging her reins to still her horse. “You? Miss? That bird was flying slow enough for a child to hit.”

You shrugged, eyes never leaving the water. “Then perhaps I’m a child today.”

Phaedra galloped past, whooping again as she chased another goose toward the trees. The rest of the hunt swept on in her wake, laughing, loosing arrows, singing Artemis’s praise to the winds.

But you… you lingered.

The swan had drifted closer to shore.

Not hurriedly. Not boldly.

Just close enough that you could see its feathers ripple with the wind—soft and moon-pale, so clean they shimmered.

And there was something almost sorrowful in the curve of its neck, the quiet tilt of its head.

You dismounted.

Your boots hit the earth with a soft thud. Thea didn’t notice you fall back. She’d already kicked her horse to follow the others, braid bouncing behind her like a banner.

Alone now, you moved toward the lake.

The swan didn’t flinch. If anything, it inched forward, webbed feet stirring gentle rings into the still water.

You crouched near the edge, the hem of your tunic brushing the reeds, and whispered, “Why did you stay?”

It blinked again, slow.

And then—for a moment—you swore it smiled. Not with a beak or feathers, but with a presence you could feel.

A warmth behind your eyes. A name nearly spoken in your chest.

You remembered the dream.

The blue eyes. The voice like sleep and stars.

“Did you… speak to me?” you asked, your voice trembling.

The swan dipped its head beneath the surface, then emerged again with a glint of something in its beak—small and golden, dripping.

It swam to the shore.

And placed it before you.

A ring.

You jolted, startled.

Thea stood behind you with her arms crossed, one brow arched high enough to reach Olympus. Her mare nosed the grass lazily beside her.

“And now you’re talking to the bird. Great. Artemis help us.”

Thea had returned, her horse clopping noisily behind her. She raised an eyebrow as she dismounted, brushing wildflower petals from her skirt and eyeing you like you'd grown antlers.

You startled—just slightly—and snatched the ring up before she could get close. It was warm, startlingly so, like it had been resting in sunlight rather than water.

You tucked it into the space between your breasts beneath your gown, heart pounding, fabric damp against your skin.

“Just thinking aloud,” you replied smoothly, rising to your feet and brushing your hands on your thighs. “Must be the fresh air.”

The swan had drifted back a little, as though satisfied, feathers puffed with pride—or amusement.

Thea narrowed her eyes, but only muttered, “If you start coupling it, I’m telling Artemis.”

You snorted. “I’m not coupling a bird, Thea.”

“Mm. That’s what Io said.”

You turned sharply at that.

But Thea had already started walking back toward the path, humming now, bow swinging lazily at her side. The breeze carried the scent of rosemary and distant rain.

You called after her, smirking, “At least the swan’s prettier than the last boy you kissed.”

Thea gasped, half-offended, half-laughing. “He was a prince, thank you very much And I was drunk-” she gasps- “Did you tell Lady Artemis?!”

You burst into laughter, nearly doubling over. “No, no! Gods, Thea—can you imagine? ‘Lady Artemis, your devout huntress once made out with a cheese-breathed prince while drunk on pomegranate wine!’”

Thea turned crimson, chasing after you with a fistful of grass like it was a dagger. “I will push you into the lake!”

You dodged, still cackling, eyes sparkling. “She’d probably smite him for the bad kissing alone.”

“Y/N!” she shrieked, but she was laughing too now—unable to help it.

Your sisters’ laughter faded as they moved on, and you lingered once more—hand pressed over your heart, over the ring.

Behind you, the swan gave one soft, knowing honk.

Another dream.

The lake was gone.

The trees, the hunt, even the moonlight—gone.

Just mist now. Soft, endless, heavy.

And him.

He stood there, barefoot in the fog. Same as before—unfathomably still, dressed in nothing but golden shimmer and shadow. His eyes were the only clear thing about him: kind and deep, an ocean-blue that felt *too* knowing.

On your finger: the ring.

No longer warm.

Now hot—like lightning wrapped in sunlight.

You tried to pull it off.

You tugged once.

Twice.

Nothing. It didn't give, not once.

But it clung to your skin, to your bone, as though it had been made of you.

He watched quietly, not moving.

“You could at least warn someone,” you snapped, teeth clenched.

A beat.

Then, slowly, he stepped toward you, and the fog parted around him like it bowed to his passing.

Softly—almost regretfully—he murmured, “Would you have worn it, if I had?”

You froze.

“…Who are you?”

His head tilted, much like the swan’s. “That depends. What name would comfort you most?”

The ring pulsed once.

Then twice.

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer still—too close—and raised his hand, just barely brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were warm. Human?

And you hated how gentle it felt.

“You dream so loudly,” he whispered. “Even the stars listen.”

“Who are you?” a tinge of frustration tinged your voice. The man’s smile was not cruel nor kind, just tired. Like someone who’d lived far too many lives and counted none of them as home. His voice was soft.

“I am not here to harm you, little huntress.”

You took a step back, breath catching, hand instinctively flying to your side where—of course—your blade wasn’t. Not in dreams. Not in this place. “I didn’t ask for it,”

Something in his expression faltered—like it hurt to hold your gaze. Finally, he said, “…I used to be a god.” He leaned in, the fog coiling tighter, and whispered, “But now I am only yours.”

It was unfortunate—no, infuriating—that your sisters had banned you from killing the swan.

They’d even named it.

Loxias.

As if naming the cursed thing would tame its truth.

“Y/N, you’re being ridiculous,” Phaedra had said, rolling her eyes as she sharpened her arrows. “If it were a god, don’t you think it would’ve done something more dramatic by now? Lightning? Thunder? A chariot of fire?”

“She just doesn’t like it because it likes her best,” Lila had grinned, feeding the swan a fig as it paddled contentedly at the shore. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Y/N.”

You’d nearly screamed.

Because it was true.

The swan had done nothing since that dream. Not a single strange word. Not a sudden shimmer or transformation. No glowing feathers. No godly proclamations.

Just a swan. Just a bird.

Who followed you. Slept near you. Nestled too close when you rested. Watched you with eyes that were too blue.

And the ring still wouldn’t come off.

Not even in the bath.

Only Thea had given you a sidelong glance once, quieter than the rest, and said, “Well. Just don’t let it into your tent anymore. Gods like that get... lonely.” You hadn’t known how to answer that.

Because you hadn’t meant to let it in.

That night—like several others—it had simply appeared. Tucked at your side beneath the linen flap, breathing slow, wings curled, its long neck stretched delicately across your legs.

You hadn’t invited it. You hadn’t called for it. And you certainly hadn’t had the strength to shove it out again, not when it laid its head so gently against you—like it knew you were tired. Like it knew you'd scream if you dreamed again.

And you had.

Of him.

The strange man with the ocean-deep eyes.

And the ring—still clinging to your hand like it had grown there.

Thea’s words echoed again: “Gods like that get… lonely.”

You hadn’t told her the worst part.

You hadn’t told her that in your last dream, he kissed your hand. That when you’d woken, your lips had tingled like they’d been kissed too.

Or that when you bathed the next morning, the ring glowed faintly beneath the surface of the water.

You hadn’t told anyone.

It had only been a month and some. the swan was still steadily accompanying you.

All the way to the border of the lands, by the oceans shores. You were preparing to bathe, and you gave it an annoyed glance, giving a light kick with your foot. "Shoo. Begone."

The swan didn’t budge.

It blinked at you, slow and unbothered, then had the audacity to waddle a step closer—webbed feet pressing softly into the damp sand as the sea wind played with your hair.

You sighed. Exasperated. “I said shoo, you feathered parasite.”

Another blink.

Then—softly, defiantly—it settled in the sand beside your folded garments like a sentinel, nestling into itself with a gentle rustle of feathers. As though it had every right to be there. As though it belonged there.

You threw your arms up, stepping into the surf. “Fine! Watch, then. Peep like a cursed oracle for all I care.”

The waves licked at your thighs as you waded deeper, cool and sharp, biting at your skin. But the sea didn’t frighten you like it once had—not after the dreams. Not after hearing his voice in the tides.

Still, you glanced over your shoulder, just once.

The swan sat, pure white against the darker shore.

Watching, until it wasn’t.

Your breath caught.

The swan—slow and deliberate—slipped into the water after you, gliding silently across the surface with too much grace. Too much intention.

Ripples chased its path like silver veins, and for a fleeting moment, the sea felt too still. Like it held its breath too.

You turned sharply. “Stay there.”

But it didn’t.

It came closer, each movement smooth, measured, like a thought carried out over glass. You backed up instinctively, heart thudding. The salt stung your skin, but all you felt was heat. Not from the sun. Not from the sea.

From it.

You remembered—

That night in the woods. The way it curled against you, impossibly warm. The dreams that followed. The weight of lips pressed gently to your palm. The ring. That voice.

"I take it you liked the swan?"

You’d wanted to believe it was just a dream. That your sisters were right. That you were imagining things.

But now?

Now, as the swan stopped only an arm’s reach from you, and tilted its head with that too-human curiosity, you whispered the truth aloud for the first time:

“…You’re him.”

The swan blinked slowly.

And then, without drama—without flash or thunder—it dipped its head beneath the water, graceful and silent.

A long moment passed. And then— The surface broke. Golden fingers emerged, followed by the slope of a shoulder, the soft glimmer of wet skin, and finally—

Those kind, blue eyes, staring up at you through a curtain of sea-slick gold.

He smiled. And the waves curled like laughter around your waist.

Oh, but there was nothing to be happy about. Nothing to stare at in awe, no beauty to admire.

You stumbled back with a splash, heart lurching up into your throat. The water, once cool and calm, suddenly felt like it was clutching at your ankles—pulling, holding, as though it too conspired with him.

“No,” you breathed, shaking your head, salt-stung hair clinging to your face. “No. You don’t get to do that.”

His expression—soft, warm—didn’t waver. He rose slowly, water streaming down his chest in sheets of sunlight, and your mind reeled, trying to reconcile it. The swan. The man. The dreams. That ring.

“I—You’ve—” You backed up farther, nearly tripping over a hidden rock beneath the waves. Your hand darted to the dagger tied to your thigh, though it was mostly symbolic—dull, and useless against gods. “You were watching me. Lying next to me. I trusted you were… just a bird.”

“I never lied,” he said softly, the water reaching just above his hips now. His voice was like warm wine, too rich, too easy. “You never asked.”

Your fingers tightened on the hilt.

“That’s not—” you snapped, blinking fiercely, “—that’s not consent. That’s trickery. You entered my dreams.”

“I asked nothing of you there,” he murmured, tilting his head, golden hair clinging to his cheek. “Only watched. Only waited.”

Your heart hammered.

He wasn’t approaching, but he didn’t need to. The air between you bent, warped—like the tension of a bow pulled taut. Every part of you screamed run, and yet something else, something older, told you this had already gone too far. That the ring on your finger had already marked you, claimed you in ways your sisters had warned about in whispers by the fire.

“You touched me,” you accused. “You curled against me like a creature needing warmth. I—I let you—and you knew!”

His smile faltered then, just slightly. Those blue eyes flickered. “I didn’t want to frighten you.”

“Well, you did,” you hissed, stepping back until the waves reached your knees. “And if you are what I think you are—if you’re some lonely god parading around as a bird—then I’ll say this once: you will leave me be.”

The man—half-glowing with seawater and gold, strands of hair clinging to his cheekbones—only blinked, serene as a wave just before it breaks.

“I should kill you,” you hissed, stumbling into a deeper pocket of water as you moved away. “I should’ve killed you the first night you came into my tent like some creeping—filthy—thing.”

His smile faded completely now. “I touched no more than you allowed,” he said softly. “Not a breath beyond it.”

“Didn’t touch me?” you snapped, pointing a trembling, accusatory finger. “You dreamed into me. You slid a ring on my hand without permission. You slept on me like I was a damned pillow while you pretended to be harmless!”

“I didn’t pretend anything.” His voice was soft, maddeningly so. “You gave me space. I took it. I didn’t ask for more.”

“Don’t twist this like it was mercy,” you spat, the ocean now up to your hips. “You watched me bathe. Slept beside me. Followed me across the lands like a shadow that thought it was entitled to affection just because it had feathers.”

His eyes—those blue, impossible eyes—lowered slightly, but you did not give him a moments breath.

“You lied,” you snapped, teeth bared now, fists clenched at your sides. “You made me think I was mad. My sisters laughed at me! I thought I was cursed!”

“You’re not cursed,” he said, almost tenderly. “Only… chosen.”

You took another step back. The water was up to your hips now. “What gives you the right—!”

He finally moved, hands rising slowly in peace, a shimmer of gold tracing the air like light through honey. “I meant no harm. I wanted to understand you first. To see if you’d fear me. Or love me.”

Your laugh came bitter. “That’s the trouble with gods. Always testing.” You glared. “And what if I fail your little test? What happens then, hmm? Do you turn into a wolf next and carry me off to some glade?”

He blinked—then looked down, almost… sheepish.

That silence was enough.

You swore under your breath, water splashing as you turned sharply and began storming toward shore. “Artemis protect me,” you muttered. “I knew I should’ve killed that damn bird.”

The man sighs. “Do you honestly think that sister of mine is going to help you? Your sisters haven’t even bothered to check on you.”

You turned slowly, the sea breeze curling around your bare shoulders, your breath shallow in your throat.

“Sister?” you echoed, voice brittle.

He stood waist-deep now, hair slicked back, the golden ring on your finger glinting like an accusation. His eyes—still soft, still unbearably gentle—met yours with something more ancient now. Something knowing.

“I love her,” he said simply. “But don’t mistake her for a savior.”

Your mouth twisted, a sharp, trembling sneer. “And what does that make you? A threat? A trickster? Another lonely god trying to carve pieces out of mortals just because he can?”

“No,” he said, his voice aching with something too complicated to name. “It makes me someone who’s seen what happens when divinity pretends to be distant. When we leave you all to fend for yourselves, and call it mercy. You pray to Artemis as if she’s above this. As if she hasn't turned girls to trees for less offense than loving the wrong thing.”

Your hands trembled.

“She protects us.”

“She watches you,” he corrected gently. “But protection? That’s different. She lets the wild claim you because it suits her nature. Because it's convenient.”

“You’re twisting it,” you snapped, voice sharp, afraid he might be right. “She gave us purpose.”

“And I could give you freedom,” he said simply.

You hated how tempting that sounded.

You hated even more the soft pull in your chest. The way his gaze made you feel seen. As if he hadn’t just played you like some woodland game. As if he hadn't just stripped away your certainty like bark from a tree.

You squared your shoulders, lifting your chin. “I am not yours. Not your prize, not your pet. I belong to no god.”

A faint smile curved his lips.

“Then why are you still wearing my ring?”

"Because it won't come off," you snapped, tugging at the chain until it bit into your skin. “I’ve tried.”

His smile didn’t waver. If anything, it deepened—infuriatingly calm.

"You don’t want it to."

Your stomach turned.

The wind caught your damp hair, tossing it about like wild brambles, and you stood there, salt-stung and furious, bare feet digging into wet sand as if the earth itself could anchor you against him.

“Don’t put thoughts in my head,” you hissed, voice like flint. “You slither into my dreams, my tent—”

“You let me,” he said softly.

That broke something in you.

“I let a swan rest by the fire,” you spit, stalking forward, “not a man. Not you. If I had known—”

Somewhere beyond the trees, your sisters called your name.

"Y/N!" "The tide is rising—are you in the water again?" "Thea said you were acting strange—Y/N?"

Voices layered over the sound of waves and wind. Familiar, grounding, human.

You turned sharply, ready to call back—to break the spell, to run toward the only world you'd ever known.

But he took a step forward.

“Will you lie to them again?” he asked, voice low, calm, too close now. “Tell them you slipped. Or chased a gull. Or—what was it last time? ‘I missed’?”

Your jaw clenched.

He raised his hand, slow as moonrise. Not touching—never touching—but near enough that the hairs on your arm stood on end.

“I don’t want to keep you from them,” he murmured, as if it were the gentlest of truths. “But I am asking you to see clearly. You already know you don’t belong there forever.”

Another shout.

“Y/N!”

This time, Thea.

You turned halfway, heart pounding.

His voice followed you like a shadow: “They will pull you back into silence. Into obedience. Into a life that never truly felt yours.”

And quietly, as you began to step back:

“I only ask that you stay long enough to ask yourself why you're so afraid to want more.”

The forest loomed ahead.

The man behind you.

You stared at them, slack with disbelief.

They came down the slope in twos and threes, laughing, calling your name—carefree as deer leaping through sun-drenched groves.

Phaedra reached you first, a grin tugging her freckled face. She threw her arms around you with the same eager force she always did, her bare skin warm and soft against yours. Her breasts pressed into your chest, but it was the normalcy of it—the ease, the ignorance—that made your breath catch.

Because he was still there.

Standing half in the shallows, the water curling around his ankles, golden hair catching the light like a halo—and they didn’t see him.

Not even a glance.

“Gods, you scared us,” she sighed, her bare chest pressing firmly to yours without hesitation, damp from the mist. “You shouldn’t stray this far alone.”

You stood frozen in her arms, spine stiff, eyes flickering—not to the woods, not to the sea, but to him.

Still there.

Still watching.

And yet… not one of them noticed him. Not a startled gasp. Not a turned head. Not a single uneasy glance. The golden-eyed man stood not ten paces away, bare-chested and luminous in the morning light—and they didn’t seem to see him at all.

Phaedra pulled back, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“You’re pale,” she said. “Was it a vision? Another one of your moon-sick dreams?”

Behind her, he smiled.

Like it was a game.

“Have you been in the water this whole time?”

“She always disappears when she’s moody,” Thea said lightly, peering past your shoulder. “Were you brooding? Or just hiding from chores again?”

You waved them off with a dismissive flick of your fingers, gathering the loose folds of your gown against your damp skin.

“I was just bathing,” you said, voice even. “Quit your bickering, lest Poseidon decides we’re not welcome.”

It was a well-placed warning—half a jest, half a prayer.

Thea laughed lightly, tossing her curls over her shoulder. “The sea god has better things to do than scold nymphs for gossip.”

But she looked around then, a subtle shift in her expression. Something wary. Like she felt the hush in the air, even if she couldn't name it.

Phaedra huffed. “You’re lucky we didn’t think you’d drowned. You know how Artemis scolds when we wander too long.”

Your eyes flicked—just once—past her shoulder.

He was gone.

No ripples in the water.

No footprints in the sand.

Only the faint impression of presence still clinging to your skin, like the memory of heat long after flame.

You reached up, brushing a hand over your collarbone where the ring rested just beneath the linen, and smiled tightly.

“Well,” you said, voice steadier now. “I’m back.”

You turned toward the path before they could ask more.

But as you walked, Thea fell in beside you—silent at first. Then, just as the trees swallowed the sound of the ocean:

“You weren’t alone. Were you?”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

The swan was gone.

No more ripples in the lake at dawn. No more soft cooing or honking nestled in the reeds. No more white feathers left behind in the grass.

No more watchful eyes.

It was as if it had never existed at all.

Even Thea stopped asking. After a week passed with no sign of it, even she shrugged and said, “Well. Birds fly off. It’s what they do.”

But you knew better.

The ring still clung to your finger no matter how many prayers you whispered to Artemis, how many times you tried to pry it off in secret. It remained—cool against your skin, humming softly like a secret only he could hear.

Worse than the ring, though, was the absence.

It was quiet in your dreams now. Too quiet.

No golden man, no lazy voice curling around you like mist.

Only dark woods and whispering trees.

But what was here… was your Lady.

Your goddess.

Artemis.

She stood at the edge of the glade, where the silver light from the waning moon slipped through the branches like silk. She did not announce herself—she never needed to. The air bent around her. The forest stilled. Even your own breath felt reverent in your lungs. Something that made your spine straighten and your knees long to bend.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

She was your Lady, your Huntmistress, your sanctuary in a world of gods with too many hands and too many appetites. And yet—yet—even she could sense it, couldn’t she?

The ring. The dreams. The change in you.

Her eyes, like pale frost on winter bark, flicked to your hand.

The silence between you stretched taut as bowstring.

Your knees finally give, and you bow. “My Lady.”

Silence.

Then:

“He touched you.”

The words were soft. Deceptively soft.

You froze, shame and fury crashing together in your belly. Your hand curled into a fist over your chest.

“I—I didn’t invite him—”

“You dream of him.”

Her voice wasn’t angry.

Worse—it was wounded. Distant. Like a mother finding her child straying toward a cliff’s edge.

“You dream of him,” she repeated. “You carry his mark. You let him near you.”

You looked up, desperate. “I didn’t know—I tried—Lady, I tried to stop it—”

Artemis stepped forward. A breeze followed her. The trees leaned in.

“I felt it, child,” she said, and this time her voice was steel wrapped in silk. “The first night he touched your dreams. The first time your body remembered something your mind denied.”

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“…Will you punish me?”

A long silence.

Then Artemis crouched before you, not like a goddess—but like a sister, a leader, a protector.

Her fingers gently brushed a strand of wet hair from your temple. Her voice was no louder than a breath.

You stiffened beneath her touch. The warmth of her fingers against your skin turned to ice at her question.

“Has he bedded you?”

The words were blades, deliberate and cold, slicing through the veil of confusion and longing you’d been trying so hard to untangle.

Your throat worked, but no sound came. You felt your lips part, a protest rising—but what was there to deny? What had truly passed between dreams and waking, between body and spirit?

“…No,” you said, voice thin. “Not like that.”

Artemis’s expression did not change. Her hand lingered for a heartbeat longer, then withdrew.

“That’s something,” she murmured. But it was not reassurance. Not comfort. It was a statement of logistics. Strategy. A boundary not yet crossed.

“You’ve let him too close,” she said. “Even if you didn’t mean to. Even if you didn’t want to.”

You bowed your head again. The ring on your finger pulsed faintly, like it knew she was here—like it resented her.

Artemis noticed. Of course she did.

Her eyes fell on your hand, her brow tightening.

“You’ll come with me at moonrise,” she said. “There are rites to cleanse this sort of thing. But whether they will work... that depends on him.”

She sits up straighter, adjusting her braid so as not to lay on it. “You should have known better.”

The words hung heavy in the moonlit air, like a decree from the very forests themselves.

“You are a daughter of the wilds, sworn to my path—untouched by the gods’ tangled whims. Yet here you are, bound by a ring not meant for mortal skin. You should have known better than to welcome him.”

You clenched your fists, heart pounding in sudden defiance.

“I didn’t welcome him. I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Artemis’s eyes flashed, a sudden storm behind their pale glow. Her voice dropped low, sharp as broken glass.

“That doesn’t very well matter, does it? You should have known better— That ring was never meant for you to wear. And that he—Xavier—had no right to meddle with my nymphs.”

She stepped closer, the air between you crackling with her fierce anger.

“You carry his mark like a wound on this sacred grove. How could you be so careless? So weak?”

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, her breath quickening.

“This is not just your mistake— It is an offense against the wilds themselves. Against me.”

You meet Artemis’s blazing gaze, heart pounding with a mix of defiance and sorrow.

His words echo in your mind—Xavier’s voice calm and certain: “I love her. But don’t mistake her for a savior. You pray to Artemis as if she’s above this. As if she hasn't turned girls to trees for less offense than loving the wrong thing. She lets the wild claim you because it suits her nature. Because it's convenient... And I could give you freedom.”

You turned to speak, your lips parting—

—but then came the sound.

Whump.

Wings. Feathers against wind.

A swan.

It landed with eerie grace upon the lake’s edge, pure white, as if summoned by your thoughts.

Artemis’s bow was in her hand before you even registered movement.

Her voice rang out like a bell of war:

“Do not move.”

The string drew taut, silver-tipped arrow aimed dead at the creature’s chest.

“She dares,” Artemis hissed under her breath. “He dares.” Her gaze snapped to you, disbelief and fury mingling, as if you had just tried to stop her. “He is corrupt, Y/N. A liar. A god who wears skins he has no right to. I won’t let him take another.”

A mist of gold rolled from the swan’s form like steam from a sacred spring.

It shimmered—soft at first—then bloomed bright as the sun, so radiant it painted the trees in daylight hues though the sky was still dusk.

And from it stepped a man.

Tall. Barefoot. Wild in a quiet way.

His skin gleamed with the last light of day, and his eyes—those kind, blue eyes—fixed not on you, but on her.

“Sister,” Xavier said.

The word was calm. Heavy.

A greeting. A warning. A reckoning.

Artemis did not lower her bow. Her voice was a blade:

“You should not be here.”

“And yet,” he murmured, stepping forward, golden mist still clinging to his shoulders like a cloak, “you’ve drawn your weapon on me for less.”

“She is mine,” Artemis said, the words cracking like thunder. “My nymph. My oath.”

Xavier gave a low, easy laugh—quiet as rippling water. He lifted one hand, palm up, in mock surrender.

“If you say so,” he said, voice smooth as honey and twice as hard to scrub off. “I’ll back off. For now.”

Golden mist began to stir again at his heels, curling like affectionate vines.

“But you know me, sister. I was never fond of permanence.”

His gaze lingered on you a beat longer, unreadable—but warm. Almost apologetic.

Then: gone.

The mist collapsed into nothing. No flash. No thunder. No triumph. Just absence.

The forest breathed again.

Artemis slowly lowered her bow, but her expression was tight, jaw locked. Anger, yes—but not only at him.

She looked at you. Her nymph. Her charge.

But the ring was still on your finger. And you hadn’t stopped him.

“You’ll come with me,” she said coolly, turning without waiting for a reply. “We need to speak. Alone.”

A warning, more than a request.

Artemis was not unkind.

She healed your blistered feet when no one else noticed you limped.

She combed your hair when the others laughed at the brambles caught in it.

She slit a deer’s throat for you on your first hunt, when your hands shook too badly to aim.

She was not cruel.

Just… firm. Stern, like cold water on tired skin. The kind of cold that made you sharper. The kind that said, wake up. You are not a girl anymore.

And maybe that’s why you’d followed her so fiercely, so faithfully. Because she made the wild make sense. She offered structure in chaos. A kind of purpose—an edge to hone yourself on.

But now…

Now you weren’t sure if that structure was keeping you safe, or keeping you small.

You thought of her as you always did—bow in hand, moonlight woven through her braid, eyes harder than marble and twice as ancient. She was the forest’s law and the nymphs' spine. And she was yours.

But...

But you can’t help but wonder…

Did she love you as a sister—flesh and laughter, summer knees bruised on river rocks? Or did she love you as a sword—polished, sharpened, hung at her hip to serve and be swung?

You open your mouth to speak—something soft, maybe, something explaining, maybe—

But Artemis raises a hand. Keep quiet.

That was all it took. The gesture was elegant. Final. It cleaved the air between you like an arrow splits bark.

Yes. Your Lady was indeed angry.

“I will kill him,” Artemis said finally.

Not a threat. Not a shout. Just a sentence. Cold and absolute as the edge of a blade.

“Stupid brother of mine. Has all the lovers in the world and yet…” Her voice curled around the word, bitter as old wine.

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

The trees around you stood still in reverence—or fear. Even the moon above seemed to hesitate.

You swallowed. The ring was still on your finger, warm despite the wind. And her eyes—moon-bright and merciless—flicked to it. Just for a heartbeat.

“I never gave him permission,” she said, quieter now, but no less dangerous. “He plays his games with mortals. With you.”

A pause.

“My lady, forgive me. But I care not even a hare’s breath for your words or his.”

Artemis halted.

The forest stilled with her. A breeze caught in the branches above as if deciding whether to flee or freeze.

Her back remained to you, but you could feel the weight of her gaze even without seeing her face.

"You speak boldly," she said at last, voice tight as a bowstring. "I like boldness. I trained it into you."

You could see her fists clench at her sides. Moonlight gathered along her shoulders like armor.

"But do not mistake my silence for patience."

You stepped forward despite yourself, your pulse pounding in your throat. “Then do not mistake my obedience for agreement.”

The words left your mouth before you could pull them back, hot with everything you’d bottled inside since the dreams began, since the swan first looked at you like it knew you, since you’d woken with a ring on your finger you couldn’t name or remove.

“I care not for your brother's intentions. I care not for your fury. What I do care about is that none of you — not him, not even you — asked what I wanted.”

Her breath caught—silent, small. But her eyes glowed when she finally turned, and her face was a mask of moon and wrath.

"You are mine," she said, low and laced with godhood. "Chosen. Sworn. And if I must drag you back into the fold by your hair and strip that ring from your cold corpse, I will."

You stared at her. Goddess. Sister. General. Your Lady.

Your mouth stayed closed, but your thoughts screamed.

She lets the wild claim you because it suits her nature. Because it's convenient... And I could give you freedom.

Xavier's words, spoken in that dream-silk voice, curled in your mind like ivy choking a tree.

Artemis stood before you now, radiant and furious — but not weeping. Not pleading. Not even asking. And for all her talk of sisterhood, of loyalty, of being hers...

Where was the softness?

Where was the love?

You remembered the times you'd bled for her, followed her into battle, slept curled beside her throne like a favorite hound. You remembered the laughter at the campfires. The sting of her smile when you bested Phaedra in a footrace. You remembered feeling chosen. And now — now she looked at you like a broken weapon. A blade chipped at the hilt.

Xavier had said the truth in the cruelest way possible. Maybe that was his poison.

But now... you wondered if it was also your antidote.

You swallowed hard. “If I’m yours,” you said quietly, “why does it feel like I was never mine to begin with?”

Artemis’s face twitched — just once. A crack in the marble.

Then her jaw clenched. “You were always mine. And you chose to forget it.”

“My Lady!” you say, exasperated—half in plea, half in protest.

The title scrapes your throat as you speak it, heavier than it’s ever felt. You don’t bow. You don’t kneel. You just stand there, heart racing, the faint scent of pine and sea salt clinging to your skin. Artemis’s eyes narrow, and though she doesn’t raise her voice, her silence sharpens like a blade drawn slow from its sheath.

“You speak as though I betrayed you,” you go on, each word trembling at the edge of defiance. “But what did I do but exist? What did I do but dream, without your permission?”

Her eyes flash silver in the shadows.

“You took what was not offered,” she says coldly.

“I took nothing!” you snap, louder now, grief flaring into anger. “The ring won’t come off, you said it yourself! If your brother is a curse, then curse him, not me!”

Her hand flies before you even register the movement.

A sharp crack splits the silence, louder than thunder, louder than breath.

Your cheek burns—stinging, blooming with pain, hot and bright and humiliating. Your head whips to the side, and for a heartbeat the forest tilts. Even the birds go quiet.

You taste copper. Feel the ring pulsing on your finger.

You don’t cry. You don’t flinch again.

But you do look at her.

Artemis’s palm remains frozen in the air for a breath too long, as if she too is startled by what she’s done. But her face stays hard—like stone carved to resemble justice, not mercy.

“You forget yourself,” she says, voice low and tremoring not with weakness, but fury contained. “You forget who I am.”

“I remember,” you murmur. Your voice is hoarse, rough like bark. “You’re the goddess who swore to protect us.”

A pause. Something flickers in her eyes—guilt, or shame, or something far more ancient. But it’s gone before you can name it.

“I protected you from men,” she says bitterly. “I never expected I’d have to protect you from yourself.”

It hurts more than you care to admit.

Not just the sting on your cheek—that’ll fade. It’s the words. Her words. The way she looked at you, not as a sister, not as a nymph under her moonlight—just as a failure. A disappointment. Something broken she couldn’t fix.

Your throat tightens, but you swallow it down. You won't cry—not here, not in front of her. If you do, she wins. If you do, you become the thing she already believes you are: weak, wayward, foolish.

But inside?

A part of you crumples.

You had believed in her. Truly, blindly, fiercely. You whispered her name like a spell in every danger, every doubt. You once thought she would burn the world for you, if you asked.

Now, she burns you instead.

And maybe Xavier was right. Maybe she only loves her huntresses when they’re obedient—when they bleed for her, not because of her. Maybe she never truly wanted sisters at all. Just swords that never questioned where they pointed.

You straighten. You press your fingers to your cheek, feel the swell, the heat.

Then you say, cool and distant, “I won’t trouble you again, my lady.”

The night air bites your skin despite the fire, crisp with the kind of chill that creeps through your linen gown and settles in your bones. Smoke from the roasting lamb curls into the sky, the scent mingling with pine and salt from the distant sea.

Your sisters’ laughter rings soft and golden—Thea singing off-key, two others clapping along, one strumming the lyre with more passion than rhythm. For a moment, it almost feels like nothing's changed. Like you're just a girl among girls, the moon your crown and the stars your witnesses.

Phaedra passes you a charred piece of lamb, still steaming, with a half-smile. Her eyes search your face. “Eat,” she says, not unkindly. “You haven’t all day.”

You take it. You murmur your thanks.

But you don’t eat.

Your eyes drift beyond the trees, to where shadows stretch and curl in the dark. The memory of Artemis’s hand, swift and final. The ring still clinging to your finger like a shackle of silk.

You wonder if they can feel it too—the shift. If they noticed the tremble in your voice when you told them you were fine. If they see that you're no longer just tired, but different. Off-key in your own way.

You glance at the firelight dancing in Phaedra’s eyes.

Would she still offer you lamb if she knew what you dreamed of?

If she knew that the swan wasn’t just a swan?

Phaedra's voice cuts through the crackle of firewood, low enough not to draw the others' attention.

“Tell me.”

You blink, turning to her slowly.

“Hm?”

Her eyes don’t leave yours, sharp in the flickering firelight, half-lidded with concern—but not without suspicion.

“What has plagued my sister so?”

The words are careful, but not soft. Phaedra has always been the one who watches instead of asks, who listens instead of speaks. But now, she’s asking. Now, she’s watching you. Her features are soft in the firelight, a contrast to the flint edge in her tone.

You swallow hard. "Why would you think something plagues me?"

Phaedra doesn't blink. Her words are silent, but you know what she’s thinking. Because you're quieter. Because you flinch when the Lady draws near. Because you stopped laughing at Thea's jokes, and because I saw you trying to scrub that ring off your finger like it was blood.

Your hand clenches on instinct.

The ring glints.

You open your mouth—and close it again. What could you possibly say? That the swan that sleeps curled beside you is no beast but a being older than stone, who calls you beloved in dreams and leaves gold in his wake? That Artemis struck you for the sin of being wanted by her brother? The fire snaps, and the lamb in your hand feels heavy. Greasy.

You speak finally. A whisper, almost a confession.

“I’m just tired.”

But Phaedra’s eyes narrow, and she leans in close enough that you can smell the rosemary oil braided in her hair. “Tired girls don’t look like they’re hunted by something divine.”

"I won't tell them," she continues. "But you must tell me. What god did this? And what did he promise you that you haven't told our Lady?"

Your mouth goes dry, then bitter—bitter with the taste of anger, of shame, of something rotting in the back of your throat. You clench your teeth, feel your jaw tighten.

“He promised freedom,” you say finally, voice low, venomous. “From her. From all of them.”

Phaedra's eyes widen, but she doesn’t interrupt.

You stare into the fire like it might burn the truth out of you. “He said she—our Lady—only loves us when we are obedient. When we kneel. When we’re useful. That we are swords, not sisters. And I—” your voice breaks before you can catch it, “—I think he might be right.”

The words hang heavy between you, thick as smoke.

Phaedra’s hand stills where she had been picking at the lamb. Her brow furrows, the flicker of the flames casting strange shadows across her face. But she doesn’t speak—not yet.

You swallow hard. The bitter taste clings to the back of your tongue, and your voice lowers again, this time quieter. Tired.

“—And yet my heart rots at the thought of the words coming from his lips. Poisoned as they are, I know not if he fibs.”

You shake your head slowly, blinking away something hot behind your eyes. “He is a god. A liar. A thing of golden mist and honeyed cruelty.”

Phaedra finally moves. She reaches for your hand—hers warm, grounding—and holds it tightly in both of hers.

“It’s not wrong to question,” she says. “But don’t forget who raised us. Who gave us our bows. Who called us sister.”

You look away.

And don’t answer.

The land had once known only fire—chariots crashing, blood soaking into the cracked earth, the wails of mortals and gods alike tearing open the sky. But now…

Now it breathed.

The field stretched endlessly, a living quilt of wildflowers—lavender, poppy, hyacinth, and golden crocus. Petals brushed against your cheeks like kisses, and honey bees danced lazily between the blooms, their hum more lullaby than labor. The air was thick with the scent of nectar and sunlight.

You lay there, body half-buried in a cradle of grass and clover, your limbs slack with surrender. The sky above you was impossibly blue—divine, unmarred, and wide—as though the heavens themselves had finally unclenched their fists.

Birds chirped from the olive trees in sweet, spiraling verses, their songs threaded with joy and love and perhaps a little longing.

And then—

A hand.

Fingers, warm and light, traced your forearm. The hairs rose in response, goosebumps flaring across your skin like a secret being whispered to your flesh. The flowers did not stir, and the bees did not mind. The world simply continued in its slow, golden turning.

And you, still and blinking up at the sky, knew in your bones that this was not a dream. Not entirely.

You did not look to see who it was.

You didn’t need to.

His arm slid around your waist like a ribbon of sun-warmed silk, drawing you back into the shape of him. Bare skin met bare skin—heat against heat—and your breath caught somewhere between your throat and ribs. His chest was firm, steady, and solid in the way only ancient things are, the thrum of his heart impossibly calm against your spine.

Then his chin came to rest on your shoulder, languid and intimate, as if he had always belonged there. His breath fanned softly against your neck—warm, unhurried. No words. No need for them.

You tried to move. To flinch, to pull away, to even whisper—but your body would not obey.

The flowers swayed. The birds sang. The bees danced around your limbs like sentinels. But you... you were still.

Your fingers wouldn’t twitch. Your breath came shallow and slow. The weight of his arm felt like a shackle made of honey and gold, too sweet, too heavy. His chin on your shoulder—a crown you never asked to wear.

It was a dream, it had to be. And yet the warmth of him was too real, too present. The rhythm of his heart was a drumbeat echoing inside your own ribs, and your skin burned with the contact—like the moment before a fever breaks.

“The lamb smelled good.”

You tried to move. To flinch, to pull away, to even whisper—but your body would not obey.

The flowers swayed. The birds sang. The bees danced around your limbs like sentinels. But you... you were still.

And yet, here he was.

Xavier.

Behind you, warm breath kissed the shell of your ear. His presence was unmistakable—honeyed and unnerving, unsettling and impossible to ignore. The arm around your waist held no force, but you felt trapped all the same. Caught between memory and body, between devotion and rebellion.

He chuckled lowly against your skin, the sound like the crackle of fire through dry wheat. His lips brushed your shoulder—soft, warm, like sunlight at dawn after a frost.

"Relax," he whispered, voice drowsy with charm, golden with something older than the earth beneath you.

The field around you shimmered. Not with magic, no—this was something subtler, more sacred. The wildflowers tilted their heads toward him. The bees, which had danced lazily in the breeze, now hummed in slow, reverent orbits. Even the birdsong had quieted, as though the world held its breath at his presence.

The air smelled not of the sea, not of brine or storms—but of warmth. Baked figs. Burnt incense. Honey melting on a hearthstone.

"I only came because you called," Xavier said, fingers trailing idle suns across your stomach. “You may not have spoken my name, little huntress... but your soul did. Loud as noon.”

And though you willed your muscles to move, your limbs remained heavy. Weighted by golden light, by something ancient and unyielding.

He leaned in closer, voice nearly a purr now.

“You dream in color when you think of me. That’s how I know you’re still mine.”

You swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising as disgust twisted in your gut.

His touch—so gentle, so impossibly warm—felt like chains wrapped in silk. Your body betrayed you, frozen and helpless beneath his grasp, every instinct screaming for release, but unable to break free.

“No more poetics,” you rasped, voice sharp with frustration and cold resolve. “Please.”

Xavier’s blue eyes gleamed with something unreadable—amusement? pity? desire?—before he drew back just enough to let you breathe.

“Very well,” he said softly, his smile folding like the sun slipping behind the horizon.

It was quiet for a long moment — the kind of stillness that presses against your skin and leaves your breath shallow.

Then his voice came, soft, almost reverent.

“I… I saw you when you hunted that ram,” Xavier murmured, eyes fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, as if replaying a memory only he could see. “How ethereal you looked. Like a force of nature itself—wild and untouchable.”

He smiled, a flicker of something tender threading through the warmth.

“Even Zephyrus—the very breath of the west wind—was in awe. Not once did he seem to draw away, even when your knife was buried deep in the ram’s stomach, steady and sure.”

“I am Lady Artemis’s huntress. I take no man in my embrace- god or mortal.” It comes out stiff as molasses, and whether it was for you or him, well, it didn’t really matter.

He chuckles softly, the warmth in his eyes flickering with something sharp and amused. “A pity, really,” he murmurs, lips trailing a gentle kiss down the curve of your neck.

His other arm snakes around your waist, the grip tightening just enough to blur the line between tenderness and control.

That kiss—the warmth, the softness—it was a carefully crafted illusion, a masquerade of gentleness hiding something far more possessive beneath.

You can feel it now: the subtle pressure, the quiet insistence. It’s a faux kindness, a gilded cage disguised as affection.

Your skin prickles with the cold realization—this isn’t comfort.

His voice drops to a low, teasing murmur, almost playful but edged with something darker.

“Did you know,” he says, the faintest cruel smile tugging at his lips, “if I let it get hot enough—which I could choose at any moment—your sisters would just… melt?”

He laughs quietly, a sound that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“No, no, I wouldn’t do that. You’d cry.”

"They could melt...slowly or quickly.." He traces a finger adoringly up and down your arm in idle patterns as he speaks quietly, "They could collapse from heat stroke, or burst to flames, or- well, there's a lot of possibilities. "Of course, there's more than just heat, I suppose. turn them into animals, to trees- oh, Hera had turned that one man into a flower before..."

You narrow your eyes, the sting of his false warmth turning to ice. “You think you’re funny, do you?”

He blinks, genuine confusion flickering in his blue eyes. “Funny? I wasn’t trying to be. Why? Do I amuse you?” His tone is almost hopeful, as if desperate for your approval.

The irony of it all—this god of the sun, craving your laughter like a child—makes your heart beat unevenly, caught somewhere between disdain and something far more complicated.

“No. You disgust me.”

His hopeful expression falters.

The words cut sharper than any blade. For a moment, he doesn't speak—his smile doesn't drop, not entirely, but it stiffens, straining at the corners like sunlit glass about to crack.

“Ah,” he says softly, almost to himself. “Well. Honesty, then.”

The air around you seems to shimmer faintly, heat rising like the first tremors of a wildfire. His hand, still resting on your waist, curls slightly, but not in affection. You find yourself being turned. His hands press gently — too gently — to your sides as he lowers you onto the bed of wildflowers. The golden light from above flickers behind him, haloing his head like the sun itself was watching through his eyes.

You’re on your back now. Trapped.

His frame casts a long shadow over you as he leans closer, every movement slow and deliberate, as though savoring the moment.

Big, blue eyes — the kind that might have once looked innocent on another man — stare down into yours. But there’s something ancient in them. Something blistering beneath the surface. Power, barely leashed. Worship, too...but not the kind that gives. The kind that claims.

"You keep looking at me like that," he murmurs, tilting his head. "As if I’m a monster."

His thumb grazes your cheek.

"I suppose...if I am, you made me one, little nymph."

Your jaw snaps forward without hesitation, the sharp taste of skin and salt blooming on your tongue as your teeth sink into the meat of his arm. You expect him to yank away, to curse or strike or recoil—

—but he doesn’t.

Instead, Xavier laughs. Low and quiet, as if your resistance delights him. The muscles beneath your bite don’t tense in pain — they flex in pleasure.

“Pretty…” he says, voice soft with something like fondness. Or mockery. His arm stays where it is, unmoving, golden blood pooling where your bite drew through skin. You feel it — warm and metallic on your lips.

He leans closer, voice brushing your ear like the heat before a wildfire. "Bite harder. Show me you're still hers."

You pull away, disgusted. But then-

Your breath stutters as his fingers clamp around your face—thumb at your cheek, fingers curling tight along your jaw. Not painful. But firm. Commanding. Too practiced.

"Do not leave," he says again, slower this time. Less like a plea and more like a decree, heavy with divine weight. That awful warmth ripples from his skin again, like standing too close to the noonday sun. Suffocating.

The field stills around you. No birdsong. No wind. Even the bees vanish, the air too thick to move through.

Your muscles lock, spine rigid with fear—or obedience. You can't tell which. His blue eyes are wide, intense, too bright to be human. The color of sky when it burns. His gaze pins you, like you’re just another creature caught in the light.

His thumb brushes your lip, smearing the blood from where you'd bitten him. His own blood.

"You’re mine too. You just don’t know it yet."

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes—not really. There’s something hollow there, something flickering just beneath the surface of that golden glow. A crack in divinity. Something unwell.

The hand on your face trembles slightly now, not from weakness, but restraint. His pupils are too wide for daylight. His breath quickens, shallow and sharp, like he’s drunk on the tension, on your stillness, on the smear of gold across your lips. His blood.

“You feel that?” he whispers, tone trembling with something between awe and obsession. “That connection?”

His expression twists—devotion mingling with madness, with possession. “You’re the only one who sees me. Really sees me. The rest worship a name. A title. But you… you bit me.” He laughs again, high and breathless, manic around the edges. “That means something.”

You flinch when he leans in closer, forehead almost pressing to yours.

“It was always supposed to be you.”

His voice is too soft now, too intimate for the weight of the moment. His grasp is still too tight, and his eyes—

Gods. They shimmer like boiling skies.

He looks like something that’s forgotten how to be worshipped gently.

Holding your face in that still too-tight hold, he presses his lips against yours, his eyes closing. Xavier is close enough that you could count his lashes, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted, too.

But temptation is a cruel thing—sharp-edged and fleeting—and whatever warmth coils in your belly is swallowed swiftly by the cold press of reality.

Because his grip is bruising, and his kiss is not a request.

And whatever flicker of softness you might have once imagined behind those sunlit eyes vanishes with the press of his mouth. There is no tenderness in the way he kisses you. Just insistence. Just want—consuming, god-born, and blinding in its arrogance.

Your hands curl into fists in the wildflowers.

You don’t kiss him back.

And he doesn’t seem to notice.

He sighs against your lips like this was always meant to happen—like he’s fulfilling some prophecy only he believes in. His breath is hot, feverish. Golden.

“You’ll learn to love me,” he murmurs, as if it’s a promise. As if it's a curse.

You feel your jaw tighten beneath his palm.

You stare at the ceiling of the tent, breath shallow and heart racing like a hare in the brambles. The dream clings to your skin, hot and sticky, as if the sun itself had crawled beneath your ribs.

Phaedra stirs slightly beside you, her hand twitching in her sleep, her face serene in the dim morning light. She looks peaceful, untouched by the nightmare that still thrums in your veins.

But the relief is short-lived.

Because your skin still remembers. The pressure on your face, the heat on your lips. Your heart pounds in your chest—not from the remnants of desire, but from a cold, creeping dread.

You envy her peace.

Outside the tent, the wind howls low and lonely, brushing the fabric like a whisper. You tug the blanket tighter, willing yourself to believe that it was only a dream. That he had not found you again, that the ring on your finger was just some odd trinket, not a brand of ownership.

But your hand betrays you.

The ring is still there.

Cool. Heavy. Gold.

“Gods above…” You pull your knees to your chest. Your whisper is barely a breath, a prayer—or a curse. You're not sure which.

The ring pulses once, faintly, like a heartbeat that isn’t your own.

You yank your hand under the blanket as if hiding it could undo what’s been done. Could take back the heat of his lips, the weight of his body, the false gentleness that made your stomach twist.

You don’t cry. You won’t. You’re Artemis’s huntress. You’ve slain beasts that towered over trees, tracked prey across burning plains and frozen wastes. Outside, the dawn was beginning to bleed across the sky, and still, you could hear the whisper of his voice, low and amused in your memory:

“You would cry.”

Your nails dig into your palm.

“No,” you mutter. “You’ll be the one who cries, Xavier.”

“Who’s Xavier?”

You freeze.

Your heart stumbles in your chest like a startled doe.

Phaedra’s voice is soft, muzzy with sleep, her eyes still mostly shut, face buried in the crook of her arm. But her words hang in the air like a snare.

You swallow.

“No one,” you lie quickly, too quickly. “Just… a name from a dream.”

She hums, unconvinced, but drifts again, her breathing evening out.

You don't move for a long time.

The next month passed like a fevered blur.

You couldn’t rest. Not truly. Every time your eyes slipped shut, you felt it—a gaze heavy as a predator’s on the back of your neck. The same sense of being watched, of something pressing too close, even when you were alone. Especially when you were alone.

You stopped bathing by the river. You stopped wandering from camp. You started sleeping with your knife tucked in your fist, just beneath your chin, wrapped in cloth so it wouldn’t nick your skin.

Even then, rest never came easy. When you did sleep, your dreams were full of fire and gold and him. Always him.

Phaedra began noticing.

“You look like death, sister,” she teased at first. But when you didn’t laugh, her jokes softened to concern.

“You’ve barely eaten. The others are worried.”

You gave a hollow smile and shrugged it off.

But inside, something stalked you. A feeling, a presence, a weight that never left your chest. Sometimes, you would catch a flicker of light between the trees, as if the sun lingered where it shouldn’t. Sometimes, you felt breath on your neck and spun—only to find empty woods behind you.

Even Artemis grew distant.

Her eyes lingered on you longer than they should have, quiet and unreadable. She never spoke of what happened that day with the swan, or Xavier, or the ring. But there was something different in her now—something sharp, and tightly controlled, and wholly furious.

So you kept your mouth shut.

You hunted. You cleaned your blade. You didn’t flinch when it sang through the neck of a boar. You stood tall when your sisters called to you. You smiled when you had to.

But your nights were full of whispers.

Hot.

Hot, hot, hot—it was all you could feel. All you could breathe. The grass beneath you was scorching, the air like flame trapped beneath your skin. The sun pressed too close, too heavy, like it had descended from the sky just to touch you.

And he was there.

Xavier.

God of light. Of heat. Of unrelenting presence.

He was on you, his body burning with the slow, measured cruelty of midday sun. His skin blazed like it was carved from molten gold, his breath like fire down your neck, against your collarbone, into the hollow beneath your jaw.

You gasped, but it wasn’t from pleasure. It was instinct. Survival.

Your hands pushed against his chest, but it felt like trying to move a mountain. He didn’t hurt you—not yet. No, that wasn’t his way. Not the god of light. No, Xavier melted you slowly. Like wax. Like a candle.

You turned your head, tried to escape his mouth, his heat, his everything—but even the air was burning.

“Stop,” you rasped.

He didn’t answer at first. He only looked at you with those searing blue eyes, as if confused you didn’t welcome it. As if your body must want what your mouth refused.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me,” he said softly, heat coiling around every word. “Even now, you tremble for me.”

You shuddered.

It was not desire. It was dread.

“Get off of me.”

Still, his hand slid along your waist, leaving a trail of fever in its wake. His voice, smooth and slow, like honey turned poison.

“I could burn the world for you.”

“I never asked you to.”

And then—your eyes met.

You saw something behind that beautiful, cruel face. A glimmer of something ancient and rotten. A hunger dressed in golden skin. A god who had never been denied.

Or perhaps…

Denied too much.

Perhaps that was it. Not just a god who had never been told no, but one who had been told it far too often. Who had once reached out—gentle, open-palmed—and been spurned. Cast aside. A golden boy turned bitter flame.

There was something desperate beneath the cruelty. Not tenderness—no, never that—but a kind of bruised need. A desire to be chosen, not for what he was, but despite it. And when he wasn’t?

He took.

“Do you know,” Xavier murmured, his breath tickling the edge of your ear, “how many times I have offered warmth, only to be called a monster?”

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because part of you did wonder—had Artemis turned him away one too many times? Had the other gods, the mortals, the muses all basked in his light and then fled the moment he burned too bright?

But sympathy was not enough.

Understanding did not mean forgiving.

You stared up at him—this god who hovered like the sun itself, so beautiful and terrible—and you said, through clenched teeth:

“That is not my fault.”

And for the first time, his face changed.

Not rage.

Not sadness.

But a flicker of hurt. Something unguarded and small.

He flinched—as if your words struck deeper than any arrow his sister could notch.

Then, slowly, his grip slackened. The heat receded—not gone, but contained.

“I never wanted to be alone,” he said.

But the sun moves regardless. Because it must. Because it cannot stay.

To stay would mean commitment, a kind of stillness that gods like him were never built for. To remain in one place, in one heart, would demand that he be tethered—anchored. That he drag that person along with him as he scorched across the sky, orbit after orbit, burning paths into time and memory.

Around… and around… and around.

And yet, he said it—“I never wanted to be alone”—as if he didn’t know what that meant. As if he wasn’t the very reason he was.

Because even if he could stay, even if he tried—he would still burn through everything he touched. And you were not born to be ash.

You turned your back to him. You did not look to see if he stayed.

Because the sun does not stop for anyone. And it was never your duty to be its shadow.

His voice is honeyed poison, velvet wrapped around steel, and it slips beneath your skin before you can brace against it.

He pulls you closer—closer than breath, than thought—and suddenly your vision flashes white at the edges, your head light and your limbs numb. You feel your body, but it’s distant. Weightless. A puppet hanging on golden threads.

"You’re dreaming, you know." His breath warms the shell of your ear. "But how come you never wake up?"

The question claws into you.

Because… you tried, didn’t you? Didn’t you scream, claw at the seams of the dream, beg for the cold slap of waking?

Or did some secret, traitorous part of you stay—stay for the warmth, the want, the wrongness that felt like safety when you were too tired to know better?

A prayer slips from your lips like breath, raw and shaken.

Artemis help me.

But the wild is quiet. No arrows through the branches, no silver-streaked salvation. Only the heat—his heat—pressing in around you like a second skin, and that voice, low and smug, curling under your ribs.

“Still calling for her?” Xavier murmurs, eyes gleaming like dying stars. “Even after everything?”

You feel sick. Betrayed by your own mouth, by the way your heart still reaches blindly for a goddess who had turned her face from you. Sister or sword—you still didn't know what you were to Artemis. But you whispered her name anyway, because you had nothing else. No one else.

He cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek like he owns it.

“She won’t come,” he says, like it’s mercy. “But I never left.”

And that, more than anything, makes you want to scream.

Before the temple, the air had been cooler beneath the olive trees, though sweat still clung to the nape of your neck. Phaedra walked beside you, arms crossed and jaw tight.

“She’ll know,” she muttered, not looking at you.

You swallowed. “I know.”

“She’ll see it on your face before you even speak.”

“I know.”

Phaedra finally turned, her brows furrowed with something too sharp to be worry. “Then why go at all?”

You hesitated, your throat dry despite the cool shade. Then, quietly—almost truthfully—you murmured:

"That... that I’m not sure." It tasted like guilt. Like heat. Like a lie you told yourself so often it stopped needing words.

“So then…” it’s quiet again, the sounds of the birds your only song. “No one else knows, I take it?” You shake your head. “And Lady Artemis refuses to believe me. She insists that I am allowing this.” tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them away before you realize it.

Phaedra's expression tightens, lips pressing into a thin line. Her voice drops to a whisper, heavy with disbelief and fury. “Allowing it? As if you wanted this?” She looks away, plucking nervously at a leaf, her thumb running over its veins. “Sometimes I think the gods see us more as possessions than people. Beautiful things to decorate their shrines... or playthings to pass the time.”

You swallow, hard. “I told her. I begged her to see. She said nothing—just struck me. Like I’d betrayed her. Like I’d welcomed him with open arms.”

Phaedra stops walking, the hem of her robe brushing the dry earth. “No,” she says, voice low with disbelief. You don’t stop. “Yes.” She hurries a step to catch up, eyes wide. “Our lady?” “Indeed.”

There’s a long moment where the world holds its breath. Birds go quiet. Even the wind hesitates.

“She struck you,” Phaedra says, as if repeating it will make it make sense. “After everything you’ve done. After the vows. After—after him.” You nod once, jaw set. “She saw the mark,” you add softly. “The ring. She asked if he’d bedded me.” Phaedra exhales sharply, her expression contorting with fury and something heavier—grief, maybe. “She didn’t even ask for the truth, did she? Just assumed it. As if your silence meant guilt.” You glance away, voice barely a whisper. “Well, he didn’t… unless dreams count.” Phaedra stiffens. “Not… not fully bedded me,” you go on, shame curling in your gut like smoke. “Just kisses, thankfully.” She stops again, her brows knitting, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Dreams,” she repeats, like it’s a foul thing in her mouth. “Gods damn him. That’s how he’s doing it.” You flinch. “It’s not just violation—it’s dominion. The sun touches everything. If he’s in your dreams, it means he’s not just watching. He’s choosing when and how to haunt you.” "Well—" you start, maybe to defend yourself. Maybe him. You're not even sure anymore. The words taste confused, bitter, halfway between guilt and misplaced empathy.

"Well nothing." Phaedra’s voice cuts through like a blade. She's glaring at you now, not out of cruelty, but something closer to heartbreak. “You think I haven’t seen this before? You think you’re the first?” Her voice trembles, not with fear—but rage. “He plays at being warm. Golden. Gentle. But he sears. He doesn’t love—he consumes.” You go quiet. “He knows what he’s doing,” she continues. “He chose you because you’re hers. Because it would hurt.”

“He…he promised freedoms…and everything he says- Phaedra, he doesn’t- he hasn’t lied.”

Phaedra’s expression flickers—pity, sorrow, and something dangerously close to fury.

“Of course he hasn’t lied,” she says, voice sharp. “That’s the trick. Gods don’t need to lie when the truth will ruin you just the same.”

You look at her, and for a moment, you feel like a child again—clutching a snake because it was beautiful, because it whispered sweet things, because it didn’t bite. Not yet.

Phaedra steps closer. “He offered you freedom? From what? From your vows? From Artemis? From the wilds that raised you?” She scoffs. “That isn’t freedom, it’s abandonment wrapped in gold.”

You swallow hard, trying to breathe past the knot in your throat. The heat of Xavier’s sun still lingers on your skin, phantom-like.

“Do you really think a god like him gives anything without cost?” she says, quieter now. “He didn’t choose you because you were weak. He chose you because you matter. Because when he cracks you, it will echo.”

Her hand is warm, grounding, though her words are sharp enough to cut.

“Think of the poor nymph Raf-Eros killed,” Phaedra says, voice laced with bitter memory. “And for what? Because she was friends with his love? Because she swore to protect her?” Her grip on your cheek tightens for a breath, not out of anger, but grief. “You know what they did with her body? Nothing. They let it rot beneath the water. And the gods sang songs of her beauty while stepping over her bones.”

You look down, the shame crawling up your throat like ivy.

“You cannot trust men—gods or not,” she murmurs. “Their love is violence dressed in poetry. Their promises are chains dipped in honey.”

The wind brushes past the trees, and for a moment the forest itself seems to listen.

“They want to own what they find radiant. They want to touch it, name it, keep it. But you were born wild. And wild things burn in cages.”

“Then what would you have me do?” Your lips wobble.

Phaedra looks at you, really looks—past the dirt smudged on your cheeks, past the sleep-starved eyes and the tremble in your voice. Her expression softens, though the fire behind it never dims.

“I would have you remember yourself,” she says, low and fierce. “You are not some moon-gilded trinket to be passed between gods like a sweet they forgot to unwrap. You are a huntress. One of ours. You were chosen by Artemis, yes—but you chose this life, too. The bow in your hand, the earth beneath your feet, the sisterhood of it all. You are not helpless.”

“Well I feel helpless.”

Phaedra's jaw tightens. She doesn’t scoff—doesn’t roll her eyes the way some of the older nymphs might’ve. Instead, she exhales, slow and steady, like she’s reining in the storm that’s always simmered just beneath her skin.

“Then let’s start there,” she says. “Let’s name that helplessness. Let’s scream it into the forest and let the trees carry it to the gods, if they’re listening.”

She crouches before you, eyes level with yours now—green and burning.

“You feel helpless. Fine. Say it again. Say it until it’s hollow and the shame melts off like old skin. And then we move. Even if you have to drag your strength behind you like a wounded limb. Because he—they—want you stuck. Want you too tired to fight, too unsure to run. That’s their trick. It always has been.”

Her hands settle gently on your shoulders. “You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to be weak, even. But you don’t get to forget that your blood sings with moonlight. That you’ve stood over beasts with your knife dripping red. That you chose Artemis.”

When she leans in and closes her eyes, she rests her forehead against yours. The shadows shield you from the sun’s gaze.

“Phaedra…why have you chosen this path? Chose Artemis?”

Phaedra exhales slowly, lashes brushing her cheekbones as she keeps her eyes closed, as if your question is both sacred and dangerous to answer.

“I didn’t choose Artemis because she was kind,” she says softly. “I chose her because she was resolute. Because when the world wanted to break me down to nothing, she said I didn’t need to be soft to be loved. That I didn’t need to be someone’s wife or songbird or whore to be sacred.”

She opens her eyes, and there’s no light in them—only shadow and fire.

“But I stayed,” she whispers, “because I thought she saw me. The part of me that doesn’t want to bow. That wants to scream and run and kill and live without shame.”

Her thumb brushes the line of your jaw, grounding. “Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the moon is no different from the sun—it just hides its heat better.”

She looks up, as though daring the sky to punish her for the blasphemy.

“But you asked why I chose this path?” Her voice turns quieter, steel under silk. “Because it’s the only one that let me believe I belonged to myself.”

You shrink into yourself. “He doesn’t visit every night. He doesn’t take everything either...he…he whispers sweet words- so sweet they make my insides churn as if I've consumed forbidden ambrosia."

Phaedra’s gaze softens a fraction, but the weight of her resolve doesn’t lessen. “Sweet words can be poison wrapped in honey,” she murmurs, tracing a finger along your collarbone like a warning and a comfort both.

“But…I fear that that is not the worst of it.” “Sister?” You look down with shame, whispering this next part. “I can’t say I entirely hated it.”

Phaedra’s breath catches, eyes flickering with a mixture of sympathy and quiet alarm. She reaches out again, this time to gently lift your chin, forcing you to meet her gaze. “That is the curse of men like him,” she says softly, voice threaded with sorrow. Her fingers tremble slightly, but she tightens her grip just enough to remind you she’s here.

“Come. Let us venture to our Lady’s Temple. "

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