#The Colossus and the Fallen

[phantomstarss]

{Click for better quality dear god.}

Finished Nightmare for the dragon au~ Im sorry the quality is bad, for one I was playing around with my export settings and two, Tumblr also fucked the quality.

Originally I was going to post Nightmare and the gang all in one piece, but I have to go out of town this weekend so yeah.

@shadowy-suitcase-herring-neck is the one who inspired me to do this, they make great work go check them out~

[extraordinary-heroes]

Fallen Friend: Death of Ms. Marvel #1 (Cover art by Carmen Carnero)

[c-schroed]

Well equipped, eh?

I followed the Colossus out of a lot of curiosity and a bit of horniness. Little did I know that I would fall in love with it. Spoilers for this Fate-locked story after the cut.

The start was nice. Every part of the Unterzee had its own version of the "Seas of Memory" opportunity card. What a nice reason for a Zee trip. Bonus points for the opportunity to imagine my character marveling at the sight of the well equipped Colossus in front of the huge Gaider's Mourn.

This was what I was prepared for. What I was not prepared for was...

How marvellous is t h a t please?! But what finally made me fall in love was...

A gardener and a poet. That's it, I'm enamoured.

[twilit-tragedy]

Fascinating watching stream or VODs with chat on screen. I was watching the 7th colossus die and sink down to the bottom of its lake, with the damn sad music Shadow of the Colossus plays after every battle, and I look over to chat and see:

>It's so sad killing these majestic creatures D:

>WE EATING SUSHI TONIGHT

Truly the duality of man.

[museofhis]

Blood is Hot, like Love.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ⚰️ •• 五条悟. ━━ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ˚˚˚ ──✟ ⚔️ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡,ㅤ𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬⠀✟ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ血液与玫瑰 ⠀⠀𝟾𝟸ᵗʰ⠀⠀[ㅤ...ㅤ]⠀“⠀𝕮꯭𝖆𝗋𝗇𝖺𝗀𝖾ּ՛ & 𝕮𝗁𝖾𝗋𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌.⠀ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ─────ㅤ𝘴𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶 𝘨𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘹 𝘧!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳ㅤ( ♱ 𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟗 )ㅤ❚ 苦涩的亲吻.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ   ׄ، ㅤ ㅤ† ㅤ 𓈒 𓈒  深红色的爱蔓延  🪦ㅤ 🦇 ⎯ ㅤ𝑆ynopsis . . . As a saint, you were destined for purity, devotion, and faith. Yet, buried deep beneath sacred walls, your existence has been anything but holy—until the night Satoru Gojo, a vampire cloaked in charm and danger, finds you.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ╉⠀🔪⠀“⠀𝖙𝖗𝖚𝖙𝖍 𝖑𝖎𝖐𝖊 𝖕𝖔𝖎𝖘𝖔𝖓ּ՛⠀&⠀𝖆 𝖇𝖑𝖚𝖘𝖍 𝖔𝖋 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍.”⠀satoru gojo!vampire x fem reader!fallen saint/religious figure ، slowburn ? ، dark erotica ، exploration of sin, faith, and morality through a romantic/erotic lens ، sexual content ، religious symbolism (sacred/profane contrasts, desecration of altars, themes of sin and redemption) ، biting / marking ، petnames ، dirty talk ، clit play ، breeding ، belly bulge.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ ㅤ 🪦ㅤ❤︎ ���𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡. 25,187.

The monastery stood like a scar upon the earth, a stone monument that devoured daylight. Its walls were cold, eternal, and the air within reeked of incense and penance. Deep within the building, far beyond where prayers could reach, lay a forgotten basement. There, the air seemed to carry whispers, almost like a mournful sigh escaping from the cracks in the floor. The church had sealed the place centuries ago, with a fervor born of desperation, fearing what they could not understand.

She was there.

She couldn’t quite remember how she had arrived, but she knew she had once been more. A woman. A devout soul. A figure of faith. But her fate had been consumed by the flames of betrayal, her name dragged into the dust by those who had sworn to protect her. Her body—flesh and bone—was long gone. All that remained was her essence, trapped between the sacred and the forbidden, bound to that prison of stone where mortals came to forget their sins. And as eternity stretched on, fury and desire intertwined within her soul, turning her into a dangerous echo, an enigma mortals feared and the dark craved.

Elsewhere, in a world where the night seemed endless, Satoru Gojo moved with a grace only immortality could bestow. He was a vampire—one who didn’t bother hiding what he was. Humanity was his plaything, a game he always knew how to win. His eyes, blue as frost, were a warning, but his smile was a weapon more lethal than his fangs.

He had lived for centuries, and with every passing decade, the world lost a bit more of its luster. He had loved, he had hated, and now he simply existed, seeking something to shatter the monotony of his eternal vigil. During one of his hunts, while prowling human cities with his trademark carelessness, he caught wind of a rumor.

A spirit, they said. A soul unable to cross to the other side, trapped in an ancient monastery. They described her as a danger, a curse. But what truly caught his attention was how they spoke of her: a temptation wrapped in sanctity.

Interesting.

Satoru had learned that legends always carried a spark of truth, and he lived for igniting that spark to see how quickly it could consume everything.

Satoru didn’t take long to find the monastery. It was a stone colossus of forgotten faith, perched on the edge of the world where civilization seemed to dissolve into the cold embrace of the night. Beneath the moonlight, its darkened walls bled shadows, as though the structure itself knew it was a monument built on secrets and sins.

The air turned frigid as he crossed the threshold. He didn’t bother hiding his presence; no living soul would stand in his way. Yet every step echoed in the silence, a distant reverberation, as if something within the monastery recognized his arrival.

The basement called to him.

The stone steps were narrow, slick with treacherous moss that clung stubbornly to his boots. He descended in a spiral, an endless plunge, until the air around him began to change. It grew thicker, laden with a scent that didn’t belong there: wilted flowers, rusted iron, and something else—something cloying and sweet that clung to his senses like honey.

At last, he reached the final door, a massive barrier of wood and iron that had withstood the passage of time. Chains hung from it in crumbling defiance, rusted crosses hammered in chaotic patterns, as though those who had sealed it hadn’t truly understood what they faced but had done everything they could to contain it.

A faint smile curved his lips.

“They always do this,” he murmured to himself, fingers brushing over one of the crosses. “Sealing away what they don’t understand.”

With a light tug, the chains broke as if they were paper. The door creaked open, slow and mournful, as though the monastery itself exhaled after centuries of silence.

The interior was dark, but he could see you.

Suspended in the air, shrouded in shadows that seemed to move with a life of their own, there you were.

You weren’t a solid body but a whisper, a reflection caught between here and beyond. The shadows clung to you, tracing the curve of your neck, the sharp line of your collarbones, and the barely parted lips that seemed to murmur something inaudible. But your eyes… your eyes were fire, and when they met his, it was as if an invisible thread tightened, pulling him closer.

“Who dares enter here?” you asked, your voice soft yet carrying a weight that echoed against the walls.

Satoru didn’t respond immediately. He leaned against the doorframe, his smile unbroken, but there was something in his posture—a mix of respect and amusement.

“The rumors caught my attention,” he said finally, his tone light, teasing. “A temptation wrapped in sanctity, they called you. And now that I’m here… it seems they didn’t exaggerate.”

The air grew taut. You could feel his presence, the weight of his gaze fixed on you, as though trying to unravel the secrets you had guarded for centuries. But you didn’t retreat. The shadows around you stirred, alive, as if awakening from a long slumber.

“You’re the one they fear, aren’t you?” he continued, his tone casual, almost mocking, as he took a step forward.

The shadows reacted instantly, rising like a protective creature trying to push him back. But he didn’t stop. Each step seemed to challenge not just the invisible barriers around you but you as well.

And then, you moved.

Your form tilted toward him, gliding through the darkness with an unnatural grace. You let him see only a fleeting glimpse of your face, just enough for him to feel the full impact of your eyes boring into his.

“And you…” you murmured, your voice laced with a seductive defiance. “Are you another fool who thinks he can possess me?”

He laughed softly, a low, provocative sound that resonated through the room.

“No.” His eyes gleamed, the blue within them intense, almost luminous. “I don’t want to possess you.”

He took another step forward, close enough that his words felt like a breath against the shadows that clung to you.

“I just want to play with you.”

Silence followed, but it wasn’t empty. It was dense, charged with something electric, something that made even the air hum with tension. And deep within yourself, you felt something stir: an echo of what you once were, something you hadn’t felt in centuries.

The silence between you both felt alive. It wasn’t the absence of sound but the kind of quiet that wraps around two predators circling one another, neither willing to make the first careless move. The air carried an unspoken challenge, the weight of centuries pressing against your chest as his gaze refused to waver.

He stood there, his body still yet exuding a quiet intensity, as if every part of him—every molecule—was attuned to you. You couldn’t decide if he was amused, curious, or both. The soft curve of his lips suggested arrogance, but the way his sharp eyes studied you hinted at something deeper: a hunger, not for conquest, but for understanding.

Your voice broke the silence.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

The shadows around you writhed, reacting to the shift in your tone. They pressed against the walls, spilling onto the floor like liquid night, but he didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, his snowy hair catching the faint light that seeped through the cracks above.

“And yet, here I am,” he replied, his voice as smooth as velvet. He took a step forward, the soles of his boots clicking against the stone floor. “It’s funny, isn’t it? The places we’re told to avoid are always the most irresistible.”

You could feel it now, the power radiating off him like a pulse, subtle but impossible to ignore. He wasn’t like the others who had come before. The priests, the hunters, the desperate men who thought they could chain or destroy you—they had all reeked of fear. But not him.

“You think you’re different,” you said, your voice sharper now, cutting through the thick air between you. “You think you can walk in here, speak to me like this, and leave unscathed?”

He laughed, low and warm, a sound that made something in your chest tighten.

“Who said anything about leaving?”

The words hung there, suspended in the tension he’d created. Your shadows lashed out, a tendril snapping toward him like a whip. It was instinct, a test.

But he didn’t move.

The darkness stopped inches from his throat, hovering there like a blade frozen mid-strike. He stood as still as stone, his expression unchanged, and slowly, deliberately, he lifted a hand. His fingers brushed the edge of the shadow as though he were stroking something fragile, and to your disbelief, the darkness recoiled—not in fear, but in retreat.

It startled you. For centuries, the shadows had been yours alone, loyal extensions of your will. They obeyed no one but you. And yet here they were, responding to his touch like a creature curious about a stranger.

“What are you?” you whispered.

His eyes gleamed, the luminous blue of them catching the faintest light.

“Someone who doesn’t scare easily,” he said softly, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “And you? What are you, really? A ghost? A goddess? Or just another prisoner playing queen of the dark?”

The question stung, though you didn’t let it show. Instead, you stepped closer, your form gliding effortlessly through the air until you were face-to-face with him. His scent reached you now—earthy, clean, with the faintest trace of iron. You studied his features in the dim light: the sharp angles of his jaw, the almost ethereal fairness of his skin, and those eyes that seemed to pierce straight through you.

“I am not just anything,” you said, your voice laced with cold defiance. “And you… you’re a fool for coming here. Whatever you think you’ll gain, you’ll lose more.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned in, just enough that the space between you was almost unbearable. His presence was overwhelming, like a storm pressing against your skin, but you refused to back down.

“I’ve already lost plenty,” he said, his voice low, intimate. “What’s a little more, if it means meeting someone like you?”

For a moment, you faltered. His words weren’t what you expected, and the sincerity in his tone hit you like a blow. It wasn’t flattery, nor was it the empty bravado of a man trying to prove himself. He meant it.

You could feel it now—the centuries of pain buried beneath his smile, the weight of something broken yet unyielding.

And for the first time in centuries, you felt something other than anger or emptiness.

Curiosity.

Your hesitation lasted only a fraction of a moment, but he noticed it. His gaze sharpened, the faintest flicker of satisfaction crossing his features, as though your slip had confirmed something he’d suspected.

You drew back slightly, reclaiming the space between you. The shadows swirled around your form again, denser now, like a shield wrapping itself protectively over your skin. You’d spent centuries honing your strength, fortifying yourself against those who sought to harm or exploit you. This was no different—or so you told yourself.

“And what is it you think you’ll find here?” you asked, your voice regaining its edge. The curiosity bubbling beneath your surface didn’t bleed into your tone. It was a practiced detachment, honed through decades of isolation.

He tilted his head again, considering your question. “I could say the usual—power, answers, salvation.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “But honestly? I came here because I was bored.”

“Bored,” you repeated, incredulous.

“Yes, bored.” His tone was light, playful, but the glimmer in his eyes told another story. “The world is… dull these days. Too predictable. But you?” He gestured vaguely toward you, his hand cutting through the heavy air like a blade. “You’re not dull. I can feel it. Whatever you are, there’s nothing else like you.”

The compliment wasn’t what caught you off guard—it was the honesty behind it. His words weren’t rehearsed, nor were they the empty platitudes of someone trying to manipulate you. He spoke them as if they were fact, as if his presence here was as inevitable as the rise of the moon.

You stepped closer again, testing him, your movements deliberate and predatory. “Do you think flattery will save you, wanderer?”

“Not at all,” he replied easily, that maddening smile still in place. “But I’m not the one who needs saving, am I?”

Your shadows lashed out again, not with the intent to harm but to test his boundaries. They wrapped around his wrists, his throat, the tips brushing against his lips. He stood perfectly still, unyielding, though his expression remained calm. His head tilted slightly, as though inviting the darkness to do its worst.

“Go ahead,” he murmured. “If this is how you get to know someone, who am I to stop you?”

His audacity sent a ripple of something foreign through you—not anger, not fear, but something closer to intrigue. The shadows tightened, feeling for weakness, testing his limits, but found none. Instead, they recoiled again, like a beast unsure whether to attack or yield.

You glided closer still, the room shrinking as your presence expanded. He didn’t step back, his confidence unwavering even as you came so near that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.

“You’re dangerous,” you said softly, your voice like silk, brushing against him. “And yet you came here willingly. What does that make you?”

He leaned forward just enough that your faces were inches apart. His breath was cool, carrying the faintest scent of iron and rain. “It makes me someone who isn’t afraid to gamble,” he replied.

“And what are you gambling?”

“Everything.”

The word lingered in the air, heavy and absolute. You could see it now—his life laid bare before you, his existence shaped by losses and choices made in defiance of fear. He wasn’t lying. Whatever he’d come to find here, he was willing to pay the price for it.

A part of you admired that.

Another part wanted to destroy him for it.

But instead, you reached out, your hand slipping through the veil of shadows that clung to your form. Your fingers brushed the edge of his jaw, the faintest touch, as light as the breath between his words.

He didn’t flinch.

“And if you lose?” you asked, your voice no more than a whisper.

His smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Then at least I’ll know I played the most interesting game of my life.”

You withdrew your hand, but not entirely. The shadows at your feet shifted again, curling and uncurling like restless waves.

“Be careful, wanderer,” you said, your tone soft but laced with warning. “The games we play in the dark don’t end well.”

His laughter was quiet, almost affectionate. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The space between you felt charged now, the tension no longer one-sided. You could sense his pull, the strange gravity he exuded, and it was beginning to unsettle you. Not because you feared him, but because for the first time in centuries, you didn’t feel entirely in control.

And that made you want to see how far he’d go before breaking.

The air between you grew heavier, suffocating yet intoxicating, as if the room itself could no longer contain the presence of you both. His words lingered in your mind, the deliberate confidence behind them stirring something buried deep within you—something you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in centuries.

You stepped back, your movements slow and deliberate, the hem of your shadowy form brushing against the floor like smoke curling over cold stone. His eyes followed you, unyielding, the same maddening mix of curiosity and defiance in their depths.

“Tell me something, wanderer,” you said, your voice cutting through the silence like a blade wrapped in silk. “What compels a man to throw himself into the den of a monster? Is it bravery? Foolishness? Or perhaps…” You tilted your head, studying him. “Despair?”

The last word struck a nerve. You saw it in the slight twitch of his jaw, the way his posture stiffened ever so slightly before he regained his composure. It was fleeting, but enough to confirm your suspicions.

“None of the above,” he replied, his tone still light, but his eyes betraying the weight he carried. “I’m here because I’m curious. About you. About this place. About why someone like you…” He gestured around the room, the crumbling stone and rusted chains, the relics of a forgotten war against you. “...chooses to stay locked away when you could be ruling everything.”

The question was a knife, carving through your carefully constructed indifference. His words didn’t sting because they were false, but because they struck at a truth you’d long buried.

“Do not mistake my restraint for weakness,” you said, stepping forward once more. “This is not a prison. It’s a sanctuary. One I built for myself, to keep your kind from meddling in things they do not understand.”

“And yet, here I am,” he murmured, that teasing smile returning to his lips.

The shadows around you bristled in response, shifting like a living storm, but you forced them to still. His composure, his utter lack of fear, was a challenge you hadn’t encountered in centuries.

“You’re bold,” you said, circling him now, your voice dropping to a softer, almost hypnotic tone. “I’ll give you that. But boldness is no armor, wanderer. The last man who stood where you stand thought his faith would protect him.”

“And what happened to him?” he asked, turning his head slightly to follow your movements.

You stopped behind him, your presence pressing against his back like the weight of the night itself. Leaning in, you let your breath brush against the shell of his ear as you whispered, “He prayed to his god, and when no answer came… he screamed for mine.”

The words were a blade, cold and sharp, meant to cut through whatever façade he was wearing. But instead of recoiling, he laughed—a low, rich sound that sent an unfamiliar shiver through you.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” he asked, turning his head just enough to meet your gaze from the corner of his eye.

“It should.”

“And yet…” He turned fully now, closing the space between you until there was nothing but air separating his body from the shadows clinging to yours. “I’m still here.”

The tension was unbearable now, an electric charge that crackled in the silence. You hated how easily he unsettled you, how his presence made you feel exposed in a way you hadn’t since the night you were sealed in this place.

“What do you want from me?” you asked finally, the question slipping past your lips before you could stop it.

His smile softened, losing some of its arrogance. “I told you—I’m curious. I want to know what you are. Who you are. And maybe…” He paused, his voice dropping to something softer, almost vulnerable. “Maybe I just want to know what it feels like to face something that’s truly alive.”

The admission caught you off guard. It wasn’t what you expected, not from a man who carried himself with such reckless confidence. For a moment, you saw the cracks in his armor, the pain and exhaustion he kept buried beneath that smile.

“Alive,” you repeated, the word foreign on your tongue.

He nodded, his gaze steady. “More alive than anything else in this hollow world.”

For a fleeting moment, you allowed yourself to wonder what it would be like to take his hand, to pull him into the shadows with you and show him the depths of what you were. But that part of you—the part that yearned for connection, for something more than solitude—was quickly silenced.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” you said, your voice colder now, sharper. “To face me is to face the end of everything you’ve known. Are you ready for that, wanderer?”

He stepped closer, his voice low, intimate. “Maybe I am.”

The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of his words settling over you both. You could feel it now, the undeniable pull between you, the way his presence stirred something within you that had long been dormant. For the first time you weren’t sure if you wanted to push him away—or pull him closer.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t empty. It thrummed, electric and charged, with words left unsaid and questions that hung in the air like a blade waiting to drop. The space between you and him felt smaller than it should, as though something unseen was closing in, forcing you to confront the abyss he represented.

You could feel his gaze fixed on you, but not in the way others had looked at you before. There was no fear in his eyes, no hollow reverence for what mortals could not understand. No, what burned in his gaze was something far more dangerous: interest, raw and unadorned, a mirror of the very thing you had buried beneath centuries of solitude.

“If what you seek is to confront something greater than yourself,” you began, your voice distant, as though the weight of your words did not belong to you, “I can assure you, you will not live to comprehend it.”

You expected him to falter, for that flicker in his eyes to extinguish. But instead, his smile widened—slow, deliberate, like he was savoring the danger laced in your words.

“And what if I didn’t come here to understand?” he replied, stepping closer. The sound of his boots against the stone floor echoed, a steady rhythm that seemed to mock the stillness of the chamber. “What if I came to see how far you could go before you break?”

The shadows coiled around you, restless and reactive, wrapping themselves around your form like a protective shroud. His words weren’t those of an ordinary man, and though you wanted to dismiss them as foolish bravado, you couldn’t ignore the fire behind them.

“Break,” you repeated, the word rolling off your tongue with a mixture of disbelief and venom. Your voice dropped to a frigid whisper, sharp as the edge of a blade pressed against someone’s throat. “You’ve underestimated monsters before, haven’t you? Let me guess: none of them lived to tell the tale.”

“The difference,” he said, almost playfully, though his eyes betrayed his seriousness, “is that none of them were as interesting as you.”

Another step closer, and the air between you seemed to ripple with something tangible. You could feel the heat radiating from his body now, a stark contrast to the cold that permeated the chamber. But still, you did not move.

“You say I’m interesting,” you murmured, leaning in just enough that your voice could reach his ear like a veiled threat. “Why? What do you think you see in me, mortal?”

He didn’t retreat. Instead, he raised his chin, his expression a mixture of defiance and something deeper, something you didn’t want to name.

“I see a cage,” he said at last, his words cutting through the stillness like shattered glass. “Not for you. For the rest of the world.”

Your breath caught for the briefest moment, just long enough for him to notice. There was no malice in his voice, no mockery. Only truth, raw and unpolished.

“The cage exists for a reason,” you said, forcing your voice to steady. The shadows writhed at your feet, searching for something to anchor to. “The world doesn’t deserve what’s inside.”

“Or maybe it’s the other way around,” he countered, his response immediate, as though he had been waiting for those very words. “Maybe you don’t face the world because you know it doesn’t belong to you anymore.”

His words struck deep, their precision slicing through the armor you had crafted over centuries. It was a half-truth, but it was enough to shake you in ways you weren’t prepared to admit.

“Your arrogance will be your downfall,” you warned, stepping closer until your eyes were level with his. The shadows rose, curling around his neck like serpents, tightening just enough to remind him of the danger he was in. “There are things in this world you cannot conquer with words or bravado. I am one of them.”

The spark in his eyes didn’t falter. If anything, it burned brighter. “And what happens when I realize I don’t want to conquer you, but understand you?”

His words hung in the air, a truth more naked than any threat you had ever spoken. You could feel it—that fracture forming within yourself, an opening he was exploiting with every word, every glance.

There was something about this man that defied logic, defied instinct. He wasn’t like the others. Where others would have fallen to their knees before you, he stood firm. Where others would have recoiled from your shadows, he seemed to welcome them.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.

“Your curiosity will kill you,” you said at last, pulling the shadows away from his neck with a sharp gesture. Behind you, the walls seemed to whisper, echoes of warnings no one else could hear. “You’re a man lost in waters far too deep. Leave now, before you drown.”

He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just watched you, as though he were seeing more than you were willing to show.

The tension lingered, heavy and palpable, even as your shadows retreated to the edges of the chamber, curling and hissing like a nest of serpents disturbed. The man before you—this enigma wrapped in defiance and audacity—did not move. He stood as though the weight of your presence was nothing more than a breeze brushing against him.

His eyes, piercing and endless, held you captive, daring you to look away. But it wasn’t his confidence that began to gnaw at your composure—it was something subtler, something you couldn’t yet name. The air around him seemed charged, thickened with an energy that didn’t belong to a mere mortal.

“Who are you really?” you asked, your voice steady but carrying the faintest tremor of suspicion. You didn’t often ask questions—you didn’t need to. But something about him demanded it.

A corner of his mouth twitched upward, his smile teetering on the edge of mockery and amusement. “Haven’t you already guessed?”

The chamber grew colder, and yet the heat radiating from his presence remained. Your senses, honed and sharpened through centuries of existence, began to unravel the threads of his being. The steady pulse of life that mortals carried was absent in him, replaced by a stillness that spoke of death. Not the natural, fleeting death you had once known, but something darker, something eternal.

You stepped closer, your movements slow and deliberate. “There’s something wrong with you,” you murmured, almost to yourself. Your gaze narrowed as you searched his features for a crack, for a tell. “You don’t belong here. Not in this world. Not among the living.”

His laugh echoed softly, a sound as rich as it was unsettling. “Neither do you,” he said, his tone almost kind, though the weight of his words struck deep.

The realization came not as a sudden shock, but as a creeping certainty that slid into place with perfect, horrifying clarity. The way he carried himself, the unnatural stillness of his movements, the way his eyes burned with a hunger that no mortal could contain—it all fit together like the final piece of a long-forgotten puzzle.

“You’re a vampire.” The words fell from your lips, sharp and sure, yet tinged with disbelief.

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he took a step closer, his movements fluid and predatory. “And now you’ve said it,” he replied, his voice low and dangerous, as though the admission itself carried power. “Does that frighten you?”

Frighten. The word hung between you like a fragile thread, waiting to snap. No, you were not afraid—not in the way he might have expected. But you were... unnerved. Not by his nature, but by the implications of his presence here, in your sanctuary.

“I’ve faced things far worse than vampires,” you said, lifting your chin. It was the truth, but even as you spoke, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he was unlike any of those creatures you’d encountered before.

His smile widened, and for the first time, you caught the faintest glint of his fangs—a fleeting glimpse, but enough to send a ripple of something primal through you. “Worse,” he echoed, his tone almost wistful. “Perhaps. But I wonder... have you ever faced something that could match you, truly?”

Your shadows twitched, responding to the unease you refused to let show. “You’re bold for a creature that feeds on scraps,” you said, letting your words cut like glass.

“I don’t feed on scraps,” he countered, his voice soft, intimate. He tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that felt invasive. “And I wonder... what would you taste like?”

The question hung in the air, dark and tantalizing, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you closed the distance between you, your movements calculated and deliberate. “You wouldn’t survive the attempt.”

His expression didn’t waver, but something shifted in his gaze—a flicker of curiosity, of challenge. “Wouldn’t I?”

For a moment, neither of you moved. The chamber seemed to hold its breath, the flickering torchlight casting shifting patterns on the walls. He was close enough now that you could see every detail of his face—the sharp angles, the pale glow of his skin, the faint pulse of something ancient behind his eyes.

You felt it then, the weight of his existence pressing against your own, a force that was neither living nor dead but something in between. It was intoxicating and infuriating all at once.

“I should destroy you where you stand,” you said, though the conviction in your voice wavered.

“Then why don’t you?” he asked, leaning closer, his breath cool against your skin. His voice was a whisper, a challenge, a taunt. “What’s stopping you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the truth—the one you refused to acknowledge—was that something about him had already sunk its claws into you. And the more you tried to pull away, the deeper they seemed to dig.

The night had a breath of its own—a low, steady rhythm that whispered through the leaves and caressed the stones beneath your feet. The sky above was a velvet canvas, smeared with clouds that threatened to veil the full moon, though its light managed to spill through in soft silver beams. You stood at the edge of the cemetery, the stillness pressing against you like an old friend.

And there he was.

Satoru sat on the slanted roof of the crumbling chapel, his legs stretched out in a relaxed sprawl, one arm resting lazily over his knee. His white hair caught the moonlight like frost, shimmering against the backdrop of night. He looked utterly at ease, as though he belonged there, perched above the graves of the dead, a king surveying a silent kingdom.

“You’re late,” he called down, his voice carrying across the quiet like a blade slicing through silk.

“I don’t answer to you,” you replied, stepping onto the cracked stone path leading to the chapel. Despite your words, there was no venom in them—just the ease that had grown between you over these past weeks.

He tilted his head, a smirk tugging at his lips as he watched you approach. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “But I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me. And that would’ve been terribly rude.”

You stopped at the base of the chapel, staring up at him with a raised brow. “I think you’d survive the disappointment, vampire.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm, carrying with it that infuriating charm he wielded like a weapon. “Perhaps. But I think we both know you wouldn’t enjoy the silence.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, though the smallest of smiles ghosted across your lips as you stepped inside the chapel. The hollow shell of the once-holy place bore the weight of time and neglect. The pews were splintered and rotted, the stained glass shattered, leaving shards of color scattered across the ground.

From above, you heard the faint sound of Satoru shifting. Moments later, the creak of wood and the soft thud of his landing broke the quiet. When you turned, he was standing behind you, his hands stuffed casually into the pockets of his coat, that ever-present smirk lingering on his lips.

“Do you always come to places like this?” he asked, glancing around the ruined space with mild curiosity.

“Do you always follow me to them?” you shot back, folding your arms.

He grinned, sharp and unapologetic. “Maybe. You’re more interesting than the alternative.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t press the matter. Instead, you turned your attention to the altar at the far end of the room. The candles that once adorned it had long since melted into unrecognizable lumps, and the crucifix above was weathered and tarnished. Yet even in its decay, there was something comforting about the familiarity of it.

“You used to believe in this, didn’t you?” he asked, his voice softer now, almost reverent.

You hesitated, your gaze lingering on the altar. “Once,” you admitted. “A long time ago.”

He nodded, though he didn’t press further. That was something you’d come to appreciate about him—despite his sharp tongue and endless curiosity, he knew when to let things lie.

The silence between you was comfortable, like a well-worn cloak. You weren’t sure when it had shifted—when he had gone from being a threat, an intruder in your sanctuary, to this. A strange constant. A presence you’d come to tolerate, and perhaps even...

“Do you ever miss it?” he asked suddenly, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Miss what?”

“Belonging somewhere,” he said, gesturing vaguely around the chapel. “Having faith in something.”

His question caught you off guard, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you met his gaze, your expression unreadable. “Do you?”

He chuckled, though there was no humor in the sound. “I’m not sure I ever belonged anywhere to begin with.”

The honesty in his words struck you, carving a crack in the armor you’d spent so long building. He wasn’t what you’d expected—not when you first met him, and certainly not now. For all his arrogance, his bravado, there was a depth to him that you couldn’t ignore.

You took a step closer, your shadows trailing behind you like a living cloak. “Why are you really here, Satoru?”

He tilted his head, his smile fading into something quieter, something more sincere. “Maybe I just like the company.”

You held his gaze, searching for the lie, but there was none. He meant it, as much as someone like him could mean anything.

“Then you’re as foolish as you are stubborn,” you said, though your tone lacked the bite it once carried.

He smirked again, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “And you’re not as scary as you think you are.”

“Careful,” you warned, though the corner of your mouth twitched upward despite yourself.

“Or what?” he challenged, stepping closer now, his voice dropping to a murmur. “You’ll finally decide what to do with me?”

The tension between you was different now, lighter but no less charged. It was a game you both played, though neither of you had defined the rules.

“Don’t tempt me,” you said, your voice soft but firm.

His grin widened, his fangs just barely visible in the moonlight streaming through the broken windows. “I’d like to see you try.”

The silence stretched, and for a moment, the only sound was the distant rustle of leaves and the faint creak of the old chapel settling.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. But in that moment, you understood something you hadn’t before: whatever this was, whatever he was, it wasn’t going away.

And, against all odds, you weren’t sure you wanted it to.

The nights grew longer. Time, ever fluid in your strange existence, seemed to stretch in his presence. Satoru was everywhere and nowhere all at once—a figure that flitted between shadows, appearing only when he chose, lingering only as long as it amused him.

You found him again a week later, perched atop a weathered mausoleum in the heart of the cemetery. He sat cross-legged this time, balancing a small book on his knee, his pale hair almost glowing under the pale moonlight.

“You’re late,” he remarked without looking up, his voice tinged with that ever-present hint of amusement.

“And you’re predictable,” you countered, stopping at the base of the mausoleum and crossing your arms. “You can’t seem to stay away from this place.”

“Neither can you,” he said, closing the book with a soft thud and finally meeting your gaze. “And yet you still pretend it’s coincidence every time we meet.”

“I don’t pretend anything,” you replied, though even as the words left your lips, you weren’t sure they were entirely true.

He jumped down effortlessly, landing before you with the grace of a predator. The proximity was unnerving, though you refused to let it show. You simply tilted your head, holding his gaze.

“You enjoy this,” he said, his tone low but certain.

“What?”

“This,” he said, gesturing lazily between the two of you. “The game. The banter. You’d be bored without it.”

You scoffed, though you felt the faintest flicker of warmth at the edges of your defenses. “You think too highly of yourself, vampire.”

“Do I?” he asked, stepping closer. His smile softened, losing some of its sharpness. “Or do I just know you better than you’d like to admit?”

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. You hated how easily he could unsettle you, how he seemed to peel back the layers you’d spent centuries building without even trying.

“You don’t know anything about me,” you said, your voice steady but quiet.

“Maybe not everything,” he conceded. “But I know enough.”

“Enough to what?”

“Enough to know you don’t really hate this,” he said, his eyes boring into yours. “You don’t hate me.”

His words struck deeper than you wanted to admit. You opened your mouth to respond, to deny him, to say something, but the look in his eyes stopped you. There was no mockery there, no malice—just a quiet, unsettling sincerity that left you at a loss.

The silence stretched between you, broken only by the distant chirp of crickets and the rustle of leaves in the wind.

“You’re insufferable,” you said finally, though there was no real venom in your tone.

“And yet, you keep coming back,” he replied, a smirk tugging at his lips once more.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you turned and began walking away, your shadows swirling at your heels. You didn’t look back, though you could feel his eyes on you, heavy and unyielding.

“Goodnight, little ghost,” he called after you, his voice carrying across the night like a whisper on the wind.

It wasn’t long before you saw him again. He always found you first, appearing out of the darkness like he belonged there.

This time, it was on the outskirts of the forest that bordered the cemetery. You were perched on a low stone wall, gazing out at the moonlit expanse beyond. The soft crunch of footsteps behind you announced his arrival, though you didn’t turn.

“I thought vampires were supposed to be subtle,” you said, your tone light but laced with an edge of amusement.

“Only when we want to be,” he replied, coming to stand beside you.

The two of you stood in silence for a while, the quiet stretching between you in a way that felt almost... comfortable.

“You’re not like the others,” he said suddenly, his voice softer now.

“The others?” you asked, glancing at him.

“The ones who cling to their humanity,” he said. “The ones who pretend they’re still part of the world they’ve left behind.”

“And what about you?” you asked, tilting your head. “What are you clinging to?”

His gaze turned toward the horizon, his expression unreadable. “Nothing,” he said after a long pause. “Maybe that’s the difference.”

You studied him for a moment, the pale moonlight casting shadows across his sharp features. There was something in his voice—a hint of vulnerability buried beneath the layers of charm and confidence.

“You’re lying,” you said, your voice quiet but firm.

His head turned sharply, his eyes narrowing slightly as he met your gaze. For a moment, you thought he might deny it, might brush you off with some clever retort. But instead, he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But if I am, it’s not to you.”

The honesty in his words caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond.

“You’re exhausting,” you said finally, though there was no real heat behind the words.

“And yet, here you are,” he replied, his smirk returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

For the first time, you wondered if perhaps there was more to him than you’d allowed yourself to see.

The forest stretched around you, dense and quiet save for the occasional murmur of the wind through the trees. The stone wall you leaned against was cold beneath your fingers, its surface worn smooth by time. Satoru stood beside you, his presence a strange constant now, like the way the moon returned every night to cast its pale glow over the world.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you said finally, breaking the silence.

“Oh? And what’s that?” he asked, turning his head to look at you.

“You’ve been alive for centuries, haven’t you? Seen things, experienced things most people couldn’t even imagine.” You paused, glancing at him. “Does it ever stop meaning something? The passage of time?”

Satoru’s expression shifted, his usual smirk softening into something more thoughtful. He leaned back against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “That’s a heavy question, little ghost.”

“Do you have an answer?”

“Maybe,” he said, his gaze drifting toward the trees. “The world changes, people change, but some things stay the same. The quiet of a forest at night, the way the moonlight feels on your skin, the weight of loneliness…” He trailed off, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “That doesn’t go away, no matter how many centuries pass.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with a sadness that felt too raw, too human for someone like him.

You frowned, studying his profile. “You’re lonelier than you let on.”

“Careful,” he said, his smirk returning, though it lacked its usual bite. “You’re starting to sound like you care.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t ignore the faint pang of something in your chest—sympathy, maybe, or understanding. “I just don’t understand you,” you admitted. “You don’t act like the monsters in the stories.”

“Maybe the stories got it wrong,” he said simply, his tone unreadable.

“Or maybe you’re just good at pretending,” you countered.

His grin widened, and he turned to face you fully, leaning in slightly. “Maybe,” he said softly, his voice a low purr. “But isn’t that part of the fun?”

You held his gaze, refusing to let him see the way his proximity unsettled you. “I don’t think you’re as clever as you think you are.”

“And I think you’re afraid to admit you like having me around,” he shot back, his eyes glinting with amusement.

You opened your mouth to retort, but before you could, a sudden rustling in the trees caught your attention. Your head snapped toward the sound, your instincts sharpening in an instant.

Satoru’s expression shifted immediately, his playful demeanor melting away into something colder, more dangerous. He straightened, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the darkness.

“You hear that?” you whispered.

“I hear it,” he said, his voice low and steady.

The forest seemed to hold its breath, the shadows deepening as the rustling grew louder. You stepped back instinctively, your hand brushing against Satoru’s arm. He didn’t move, his focus locked on the trees.

When the source of the noise emerged, it was nothing more than a fox darting across the path, its sleek body disappearing into the underbrush in an instant.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, your heart still pounding in your chest. “It’s just a fox,” you said, shaking your head.

Satoru chuckled, though the sound was quieter this time, almost subdued. “You’re jumpier than I thought.”

“You don’t live as long as I have without learning to be cautious,” you shot back.

“Fair enough,” he said, his smirk returning. “But I’m here, aren’t I? What’s the worst that could happen?”

You didn’t answer, though the weight of his words lingered. What was the worst that could happen?

Later that night, as you both walked back toward the village, the air between you felt different—quieter, heavier somehow. Satoru kept glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring himself to.

Finally, he broke the silence. “You never answered my question.”

“What question?”

“About why you keep coming back,” he said, his tone softer now.

You hesitated, your steps slowing as you considered his words. “Maybe I don’t know the answer,” you admitted.

“Or maybe you don’t want to admit it,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

You stopped walking, turning to face him. The moonlight illuminated his face, casting shadows across his sharp features. “And what about you?” you asked. “Why do you keep showing up?”

His smile faded, replaced by something quieter, more genuine. “Maybe I like the company,” he said simply.

The honesty in his voice took you by surprise, leaving you momentarily at a loss for words.

“Don’t look so shocked,” he said, his grin returning, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Even monsters get lonely.”

You stared at him, the weight of his words sinking in. For all his confidence, all his charm, there was a fragility to him that you hadn’t noticed before.

Without thinking, you reached out, your fingers brushing against his arm. He stiffened slightly at the contact, his gaze snapping to yours.

“You’re not as invincible as you like to pretend,” you said quietly.

“And you’re not as indifferent as you want me to believe,” he countered, his voice just as soft.

The tension between you crackled like static, the air growing heavier with every passing second. You could see the faint glow of his eyes in the dark, could feel the steady rhythm of his presence pressing against your own.

But neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

And in that moment, it felt like the entire world had fallen away, leaving only the two of you suspended in the quiet between breaths.

The silence between you grew heavier, thicker, until it seemed the very air around you was holding its breath. You could feel it again—that strange pull that seemed to surround him, like gravity bending space and time to make room for him alone. It wasn’t just the way he looked at you, sharp and piercing, but the way his presence filled every corner of the moment, leaving no room for escape.

And yet, you didn’t move.

“I think you’re afraid of me,” he said finally, breaking the stillness. His voice was low, soft, almost a whisper.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you replied, though the words sounded more defensive than you intended.

He tilted his head, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and curiosity. “No?”

“No,” you repeated, firmer this time. “If I were afraid of you, I wouldn’t be here.”

He studied you for a long moment, his pale eyes flickering like embers in the moonlight. “Fear isn’t always about running away,” he said. “Sometimes it’s about the things we can’t walk away from, even when we should.”

Your chest tightened at his words, though you weren’t sure why. “What are you trying to say?”

He stepped closer, his movements slow, deliberate. The shadows clung to him like a second skin, shifting with him as he moved. “I’m saying,” he murmured, “that you’re standing too close to the fire, little ghost. And you don’t even realize you’re burning.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, though it wasn’t fear that gripped you—it was something else, something deeper, darker. You wanted to look away, to break the tension that was building between you, but his gaze held you captive.

“I’ve been burned before,” you said quietly, your voice barely more than a breath.

“Not by me,” he countered, and there was something almost predatory in the way he said it.

You swallowed hard, the weight of his presence pressing against you like a storm about to break. “You like to play these games, don’t you?”

“Maybe,” he admitted, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “But this doesn’t feel like a game, does it?”

You wanted to argue, to deny him, but the words caught in your throat. He was right—this didn’t feel like a game. It felt like something else entirely, something you couldn’t quite name.

“What do you want from me?” you asked, your voice trembling despite your best efforts to keep it steady.

His smile faded, replaced by an expression you couldn’t quite read. “Maybe I just want to know you,” he said softly. “The real you.”

The sincerity in his voice startled you, leaving you momentarily speechless. No one had ever spoken to you like that before, with such quiet, unyielding intensity.

“You don’t even know who I am,” you said finally, though the words felt hollow even as you spoke them.

“I know enough,” he said. “Enough to know you’re not as lost as you think you are.”

His words hit harder than you expected, cutting through the walls you’d built around yourself with unnerving precision. You hated how easily he could get under your skin, how effortlessly he seemed to see through you.

“I should go,” you said abruptly, taking a step back.

But he didn’t move, didn’t try to stop you. Instead, he just watched you with that same quiet intensity, his eyes glinting like silver in the dark.

“Goodnight, little ghost,” he said, his voice soft but steady.

You turned and walked away, your heart pounding in your chest. You told yourself you were leaving because you wanted to, because you needed to. But deep down, you knew the truth—you were running, and it wasn’t from him.

It was from yourself.

Days turned into weeks, and though you told yourself you wouldn’t go back, you found yourself drawn to him again and again. He was always waiting, always ready with that infuriating smirk and those sharp, knowing eyes.

The rooftop of an abandoned manor became your meeting place. It was perched on the edge of the village, its crumbling walls and shattered windows a testament to time’s relentless march. You sat together on the slanted roof, the world sprawling out beneath you like a painting brought to life.

“Why this place?” you asked one night, your voice breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between you.

“Why not?” he replied, his tone light.

“That’s not an answer.”

He chuckled softly, leaning back on his elbows. “It’s quiet here,” he said after a moment. “No one to bother us. No one to get in the way.”

“No one to see you for what you are,” you added, glancing at him.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “And what am I, exactly?”

“A monster,” you said, though there was no malice in your voice.

“Maybe,” he said, unbothered by the accusation. “But monsters have hearts, too.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Do they?”

“Do you?” he countered, his gaze locking onto yours.

You opened your mouth to reply, but the words caught in your throat. His question hung in the air between you, heavy and unrelenting.

“I think you’re more like me than you want to admit,” he said quietly.

“Don’t compare me to you,” you said, though the heat in your voice felt more like desperation than conviction.

“Why not?” he asked, his voice soft but firm. “We’re both creatures of the dark, aren’t we?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Instead, you turned your gaze to the horizon, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions you couldn’t untangle.

He didn’t press you, didn’t push for a response. He just sat there, his presence a steady anchor in the storm that raged within you.

And for the first time, you wondered if maybe, just maybe, he was right.

The stars stretched endlessly above, their cold light casting silver trails across the sprawling graveyard. The broken stones and crumbling statues looked almost alive under the pale moonlight, their jagged edges softened by shadows. You sat on the edge of an old mausoleum, your legs dangling over the side, while Satoru leaned casually against a nearby angel statue, his white hair glowing faintly in the dark.

It had become a habit, these stolen moments in the quiet hours of the night. You weren’t sure why you kept coming back to him, why you allowed him to slip past your defenses so easily. But there was something about him, something magnetic, that you couldn’t seem to resist.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he remarked, his voice cutting through the stillness like a blade.

“I’m thinking,” you replied, your gaze fixed on the horizon.

“That’s dangerous,” he teased, though his tone was softer than usual.

You glanced at him, your lips curving into a faint smile. “Says the man who thrives on danger.”

He smirked, pushing off the statue and stepping closer. “Fair point,” he said, his voice dropping into something lower, something almost intimate. “What are you thinking about?”

You hesitated, your fingers tracing idle patterns on the cool stone beneath you. “Do you ever regret it?” you asked finally.

“Regret what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the world around you. “What you are. What you’ve become.”

His expression shifted, the playful mask he wore so often slipping away to reveal something raw, something vulnerable. He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze drifting to the stars above.

“Regret is a funny thing,” he said after a moment. “It eats at you, like a parasite. But you learn to live with it. Or you let it destroy you.”

“Which one are you?” you asked softly.

His eyes flicked back to you, and for a moment, you saw something in them that made your chest tighten—pain, perhaps, or longing. “Maybe a little of both,” he admitted.

You studied him in silence, the weight of his words settling heavily between you. It was easy to forget sometimes that he was more than the sharp wit and disarming charm he so often wielded like a weapon. Beneath it all, he was something else entirely—a creature shaped by centuries of solitude and blood and darkness.

“What about you?” he asked suddenly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. “Do you regret this? Being here? With me?”

The question caught you off guard, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. Did you regret it? The nights spent in his company, the way your heart seemed to beat a little faster whenever he was near?

“No,” you said finally, the word leaving your lips before you could second-guess it. “I don’t regret it.”

His gaze softened, the edges of his usual smirk fading into something quieter, something almost tender. “Good,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Because I’d hate to think I was the only one who felt this way.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your pulse quickening as his words sank in. “What way?” you asked, though you weren’t sure you wanted to hear the answer.

He stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking until he was standing directly in front of you. His hand reached out, his fingers brushing against yours where they rested on the edge of the stone.

“Like this,” he said simply, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite name.

The air between you felt electric, charged with an energy that made your skin tingle. You could feel the faint warmth of his hand against yours, the steady weight of his gaze as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

The air between you felt electric, charged with an energy that made your skin tingle. You could feel the faint warmth of his hand against yours, the steady weight of his gaze as he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

“Satoru…” you began, your voice trembling slightly.

But he shook his head, a faint smile playing at his lips. “Don’t say it,” he murmured. “Not yet.”

His words left you breathless, your heart pounding in your chest as you tried to make sense of what was happening. You could feel the pull between you, the invisible thread that seemed to bind you to him, growing tighter with every passing second.

And yet, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke.

It was as if the world had stopped, the only sound the quiet rhythm of your breathing and the faint rustle of the wind through the trees.

Finally, he stepped back, breaking the spell that had held you both captive. The loss of his presence left you feeling unsteady, as if the ground beneath you had shifted.

“We should go,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

You nodded, though your mind was still reeling from the moment you’d just shared. “Yeah,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

But as you followed him down from the mausoleum, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed between you—something fragile and unspoken, but impossibly real.

The walk back to the edge of the village was quiet, but not uneasy. The silence between you and Satoru felt heavier now, not from tension but from the weight of something unspoken. Every step you took beside him seemed to bring you closer to a precipice you couldn’t quite see but could certainly feel.

You hadn’t noticed it before, the way his presence seemed to alter the very air around him. It wasn’t just his physical beauty, though that was undeniable—it was the way he carried himself, as if the world bent slightly to his will. You wondered if he even realized it.

“Why do you come here, Satoru?” you asked suddenly, breaking the silence. Your voice sounded strange in the stillness, too loud and too soft at once. “Why this place? Why me?”

He glanced at you, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he smiled, slow and deliberate. “Isn’t it obvious?” he said, his voice carrying that familiar playful edge.

You frowned, your gaze narrowing. “No games,” you said firmly. “I want the truth.”

His smile faded, replaced by something quieter, more serious. He stopped walking, turning to face you fully. The pale moonlight bathed him in an ethereal glow, his silver hair catching the light like strands of starlight.

“The truth,” he repeated, almost to himself. His gaze dropped to the ground for a moment before meeting yours again, and for the first time, you saw uncertainty in his eyes.

“I come here because it’s the only place I don’t feel… alone,” he admitted finally. “And I come to you because you’re the only person who doesn’t look at me like I’m something to fear or worship.”

His words struck something deep inside you, a pang of understanding that you couldn’t quite name. You hadn’t realized how much you’d needed to hear them until now, how much you’d needed to know that he saw you not as a curiosity or an obligation but as something more.

“You’re not what I expected,” you said softly, the words tumbling from your lips before you could stop them.

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning faintly. “Disappointed?”

“Confused,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

“And you’re not like anyone I’ve ever met,” he replied, his tone matching yours. “That’s why I keep coming back.”

The honesty in his voice was startling, leaving you momentarily breathless. You wanted to look away, to retreat back into the safety of your own thoughts, but his gaze held you captive.

“Satoru,” you began, your voice trembling slightly. “What are you afraid of?”

His expression shifted, the playful mask slipping away once more to reveal something raw and vulnerable. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, his eyes searching yours as if looking for something he couldn’t quite name.

“I’m afraid of losing this,” he said finally, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “Of losing you.”

The weight of his words settled heavily between you, the air thick with a tension you couldn’t quite place. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, the sound of your pulse loud in your ears.

“You won’t lose me,” you said, the words leaving your lips before you could second-guess them. “Not unless you push me away.”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s the thing about me,” he said quietly. “I always push people away. Eventually.”

“Then don’t,” you said simply.

He looked at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “It’s not that easy,” he said finally.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not like you,” he said, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite name—regret, perhaps, or fear.

You stepped closer, the distance between you shrinking until you were standing only inches apart. “Then show me,” you said, your voice steady despite the nervous fluttering in your chest. “Show me who you are.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might refuse. But then he sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as if in defeat.

“You won’t like what you see,” he said softly.

“Let me decide that,” you replied.

He hesitated for a moment longer before nodding, his gaze never leaving yours. “Alright,” he said quietly. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Before you could respond, he stepped back, his movements slow and deliberate. The shadows around him seemed to ripple and shift, as if drawn to him, and the air grew colder, sharper.

And then, you saw it—the truth he’d been hiding from you all along. His eyes glowed faintly in the dark, a silver light that seemed almost otherworldly. His fangs, so carefully hidden before, glinted in the moonlight as his lips parted in a soft sigh.

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. You’d known, of course—deep down, you’d always known. But seeing it, seeing him like this, was something else entirely.

“Do you still think I’m worth staying for?” he asked, his voice quiet but steady.

You didn’t answer immediately, your gaze locked on his. He looked almost fragile like this, despite the power that radiated from him, as if he were bracing himself for rejection.

Finally, you stepped forward, closing the distance between you once more. You reached out, your fingers brushing lightly against his cheek, and he flinched at the touch but didn’t pull away.

“You’re more than this,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions raging within you. “You’re more than what you’ve become.”

His eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought he might break. But then he smiled, faint and bittersweet, and the tension between you seemed to ease, just slightly.

“Maybe you’re right,” he said quietly. “Or maybe you just see what you want to see.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, your lips curving into a faint smile. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”

For the first time that night, his smile reached his eyes, and the weight that had hung between you seemed to lift. After spending decades in the basement of a monastery, you felt like you weren’t alone.

The silence that followed felt fragile, as if the night itself were holding its breath, waiting to see what would come next. Satoru’s gaze lingered on yours, and though his usual smirk had returned, it was softer now, tinged with something that almost resembled hope.

“You’re brave, you know that?” he said finally, his voice low and warm, like velvet brushing against your skin. “Most people would’ve run by now.”

“I’m not most people,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“No,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’re not.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, the weight of everything unsaid settling around you like a second skin. You could feel the cold of the night seeping into your bones, but it was nothing compared to the warmth radiating from him, an impossible contrast to what you now knew him to be.

“I still have questions,” you said after a while, your voice breaking the quiet.

“Of course you do,” he replied, leaning back against the crumbling stone of a nearby grave. His relaxed posture was almost theatrical, but his eyes—those piercing, silver-lit eyes—remained locked on you, unyielding. “Ask, then.”

“Do you… feed?” The question felt heavy in your throat, your voice faltering slightly. You hated how naïve it sounded, but the truth of his nature was still sinking in, unsettling and mesmerizing all at once.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tilted his head, studying you with a curious intensity that made your skin prickle. “If I say yes, will it change the way you look at me?”

You hesitated, the weight of his words sinking in. You wanted to say no, to reassure him, but there was no denying the unease curling in your stomach. Still, you met his gaze, refusing to shy away.

“I don’t know,” you admitted finally. “But I want to understand.”

His lips quirked into a faint smile, though there was no humor in it. “Honest,” he murmured. “I can respect that.”

He straightened then, stepping closer until the space between you was barely more than a breath. The intensity of his presence was almost overwhelming, and you found yourself holding your breath as he spoke.

“Yes,” he said simply, his voice steady and unflinching. “I feed. Not often, and not the way you’re imagining, but it’s a necessity I can’t escape.”

Your heart raced, your mind conjuring images you weren’t sure you wanted to see. But his voice, calm and measured, pulled you back.

“I don’t kill,” he added, as if anticipating your thoughts. “Not anymore. I don’t take more than I need, and I don’t take from those who don’t offer.”

“Offer?” you repeated, your voice barely more than a whisper.

He nodded, his gaze unwavering. “There are those who seek it out,” he said. “The thrill, the intimacy of it. They come willingly, and I take only what they give.”

The idea was strange, almost unfathomable, but the conviction in his voice left little room for doubt. You searched his face, looking for any trace of deceit, but found none.

“And if they don’t offer?” you asked carefully.

He hesitated, his expression darkening slightly. “Then I don’t take,” he said finally. “No matter how hungry I am.”

The weight of his words hung between you, and you realized with a start that you believed him. Despite everything, despite the fear and uncertainty still lingering in the back of your mind, you trusted him.

“Does it hurt?” you asked after a moment, your curiosity getting the better of you.

His lips curved into a faint smirk, the playful glint returning to his eyes. “Only if you want it to,” he said, his voice laced with something darker, something almost… seductive.

Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly looked away, your pulse quickening. His soft chuckle filled the night air, and you could feel his gaze lingering on you, amused and knowing.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, though there was no real heat in your voice.

“Only when I want to be,” he replied smoothly.

The conversation shifted after that, the tension easing as you fell into a more familiar rhythm. You asked him questions about his past—where he’d come from, how long he’d been this way—and he answered with a surprising openness, sharing fragments of a life that spanned centuries.

You learned about the places he’d seen, the people he’d met, and the loneliness that had followed him through it all. And as he spoke, you found yourself drawn to him even more, the weight of his existence both fascinating and heartbreaking.

At some point, you found yourself sitting on the cold stone of a nearby grave, your knees pulled to your chest as you listened. Satoru sat across from you, his long legs stretched out lazily as he gestured with his hands, his voice weaving stories that felt like they belonged to another world.

The hours slipped away unnoticed, the chill of the night forgotten in the warmth of his presence. And as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon, painting the sky in shades of soft pink and gold, you realized that something had shifted between you.

He wasn’t just the mysterious, infuriating man who had disrupted your quiet existence. He was something more now, something you couldn’t quite name but felt deeply nonetheless. You didn’t feel afraid of what might come next.

The horizon began to blush with the faintest light, the inky black of the night softening to a deep blue. You remained seated on the cold stone, your legs tucked beneath you, listening as Satoru’s voice wove through the thinning darkness. There was a comfort to his words, a rhythm that held you still, though the stories he told were anything but ordinary.

He spoke of distant cities, their streets alive with sounds and scents foreign to you. Of empires that had risen and fallen, some you had read about in crumbling texts, others lost to history. His voice dipped lower when he recounted betrayals and darker truths. The weight of his centuries pressed into the space between you, but he carried them with such ease it felt almost unreal.

“And yet,” he said, his tone softening as his eyes found yours, “through all of it, I’ve never seen a sunrise quite like this one.”

You glanced away from him, toward the east where the horizon glimmered faintly. The light was fragile, like a thread stretched too thin, but it promised warmth. His words lingered, though, making you feel his gaze on you rather than the sky.

“Do you miss it?” you asked after a moment. “The sun?”

His expression shifted, though it wasn’t sadness that settled over him. “Not the way you’d think,” he said, leaning back on his hands. “I miss its warmth, sometimes. The way it feels on your skin. But there’s beauty in the night, too, if you learn to see it. You’d be surprised how many people never notice the stars.”

You looked back at him, your breath catching for a moment. The light was faint but enough to paint his features in delicate strokes of silver and shadow. There was a sincerity in his voice that made your chest ache.

“I suppose you’ve had enough time to notice them,” you said, trying to sound lighthearted.

His smile returned, slow and easy, but there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before—a gentleness that didn’t fit the sharpness of his usual demeanor. “Time isn’t the same when you’re like me,” he said. “It stretches, folds in on itself. Centuries can feel like days, and moments can last forever.”

You leaned forward slightly, drawn in by the quiet intensity of his words. “And this moment?” you asked. “How does it feel to you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he held your gaze, the space between you charged with something you couldn’t quite name. His expression softened further, his smile fading into something far more vulnerable.

“Like it could last forever,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a whisper.

The air around you seemed to still, the sounds of the waking world fading into nothingness. For a heartbeat, you forgot everything else—the weight of his past, the danger of what he was, the uncertainty of what lay ahead. All you could feel was the warmth of his words, the sincerity in his eyes, and the way your chest tightened as if the moment itself had reached inside you.

You looked away first, your cheeks warming under his unrelenting gaze. He chuckled softly, the sound breaking the spell, and you felt yourself relax slightly. “You’re impossible,” you muttered, though the words held no bite.

“And yet, you’re still here,” he replied, his tone light but his eyes still heavy with meaning.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it felt like a shared understanding, a thread connecting you in a way words couldn’t quite touch. You let yourself sink into it, the weight of the world slipping away as the pale morning light grew stronger.

But as the sun began its slow ascent, its golden light stretching farther across the horizon, Satoru shifted, his movements uncharacteristically cautious. You watched as he stood, his frame casting long, shadowed lines against the stone.

“I should go,” he said, though the words seemed reluctant. “The day isn’t kind to me.”

You stood as well, brushing the cold from your legs. “Will you be back?” you asked, hating how uncertain your voice sounded.

He turned to you, his expression softening. “You’ll see me again,” he said. “You always do.”

The promise in his words sent a strange warmth through you, though you couldn’t ignore the flicker of something darker beneath it. You didn’t ask him to stay—it felt like too much to ask of someone like him, someone bound by rules and dangers you couldn’t fully understand.

Instead, you stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you were close enough to feel the faint chill of his presence. “Be careful,” you said, your voice softer than you’d intended.

His smile returned, faint but genuine, and for a moment, he looked almost human. “Always,” he replied, though the glint in his eyes told you he rarely played by the rules.

He didn’t move at first, his gaze lingering on yours as if he were committing you to memory. Then, with a step backward, he was gone, his figure melting into the shadows as if he had never been there at all.

The warmth of the morning seemed colder without him, the sun’s light less vibrant. You stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where he had vanished, the weight of his presence still lingering in the air around you.

When you finally turned to leave, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the space between night and day—between you and him—was growing smaller with each passing moment.

The air that night carried a sharp chill, the kind that pricked at your skin and made the world feel just a little more alive. The moon hung high, luminous and unrelenting, casting its cold light across the crumbling stones of the cemetery. You walked slowly, your steps deliberate, as though afraid to disturb the fragile quiet that had settled.

He was there, of course. You’d known he would be. It was becoming a pattern now, a rhythm between the two of you that you couldn’t bring yourself to question. He stood atop a weathered mausoleum, his figure sharp and dark against the silver sky, one knee bent as though he were some tragic angel surveying his fallen dominion.

The sight of him stole the breath from your lungs. The way he stood, his white hair catching the moonlight, the faint smirk tugging at his lips when he noticed you—it felt like stepping into a dream you didn’t want to wake from. He dropped down in a single fluid motion, his landing so soft it barely stirred the earth.

“You’re late,” he said, his voice teasing but soft.

“Or you’re just early,” you replied, matching his tone.

He stepped closer, the shadows clinging to him like old lovers, reluctant to let him go. There was something languid in his movements, something that felt almost too practiced, too deliberate. Yet there was a tension beneath it, a restlessness he couldn’t quite hide.

“Walk with me,” he said, extending a hand.

You hesitated for only a moment before placing your hand in his. His fingers were cool, his grip firm but careful, as though he were afraid you might break under his touch. Together, you moved deeper into the cemetery, the stones and statues rising around you like silent sentinels.

The world seemed to shrink as you walked, the edges of reality blurring until it felt as though there was nothing beyond this place—just you, him, and the quiet pull of something neither of you dared name.

At last, you reached a clearing, where an ancient tree stood sentinel over a patch of wild roses. The air was thick with their scent, heady and almost intoxicating. He let go of your hand and moved toward the tree, his long fingers brushing over its gnarled bark.

“This place,” he said, his voice low and distant, “has seen more grief than it should. But somehow, it still stands. Still blooms.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, the weight of them sinking into your chest. He turned to face you, his expression softer now, the sharp edges of his smirk replaced by something gentler.

“It reminds me of you,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You looked away, unable to hold his gaze. The intensity in his eyes felt too much, like staring into the heart of a storm.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” you said, though your voice betrayed you.

He stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the faint chill of his presence. He reached out, his fingers brushing against your cheek, so light it felt like a ghost’s touch.

“You endure,” he said simply. “Even when the world seems intent on breaking you.”

The words struck something deep within you, something raw and unguarded. You looked up at him, and for the first time, you saw not the predator, not the centuries-old enigma, but the man beneath it all—the man who had carried more than his share of grief and yet still found it in himself to offer you this moment.

His hand lingered on your cheek, his thumb tracing an impossibly gentle line along your skin. You felt the world tilt, the air around you thickening as though the very night was holding its breath.

And then he leaned closer.

It wasn’t a kiss, not yet. He stopped just short, his breath warm against your lips, his eyes searching yours for permission. The moment stretched, the tension between you tightening like a bowstring.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, your chest tightening with a mixture of anticipation and fear. But you didn’t pull away.

He tilted his head slightly, the angle of his approach almost agonizingly slow. It reminded you of the stolen moments you’d read about in forbidden novels—the kind where the lovers moved as though the world might shatter if they moved too quickly. Like Catherine and Heathcliff under the relentless skies of the moors, like a specter of longing that had taken root between you.

When his lips finally brushed against yours, it was so soft, so fleeting, you almost thought you’d imagined it. But then he kissed you again, this time deeper, with a hunger that belied his earlier restraint. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as though he feared you might vanish if he let go.

You lost yourself in the moment, the scent of roses and earth mingling with the cool taste of him. There was a desperation in his kiss, a longing that felt like it had been buried for centuries, only to erupt now, with you.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in uneven gasps. His hands remained on your waist, grounding you in a way that felt both overwhelming and necessary.

“I shouldn’t…” he began, his voice hoarse, but the words trailed off, swallowed by the intensity of his gaze.

“Then don’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain.

The corners of his lips twitched, a faint smile breaking through the storm of his expression. He stepped back slightly, though his hands lingered, his touch light but steady.

“This,” he said, his voice soft but firm, “this is dangerous.”

“Then why does it feel so right?” you asked, the words escaping before you could stop them.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. He simply looked at you, his expression unreadable. But then he leaned in again, pressing a kiss to your forehead—a gesture so tender, it left you breathless.

“Because sometimes,” he said quietly, “the most dangerous things are the only ones worth having.”

The stars had scattered themselves generously across the night sky, their cold light spilling down over the darkened village and its many small chapels. These places of worship were scattered like forgotten relics, their spires reaching towards heaven in silent plea.

Satoru walked beside you, his movements as fluid as shadow, silent as the night itself. You, on the other hand, were a study in contrasts. The hem of your dress dragged against the uneven cobblestones, and though your steps were cautious, there was a reverence to your every movement.

You’d passed many churches before tonight, their doors closed and sanctuaries quiet. But this one—the smallest yet, its heavy wooden doors slightly ajar—drew you like a magnet.

“You shouldn’t go in,” Satoru murmured from behind you, his voice low and tinged with unease.

“Why not?” you asked, pausing in the doorway to glance back at him. “You’ve come with me to every other one.”

“This one feels... different,” he said, his pale gaze flicking to the building. “I don’t know why.”

You tilted your head, studying him for a moment. “Are you afraid of a church, Satoru?” you teased gently.

“I fear nothing,” he said, but his tone was softer than usual, lacking its usual arrogance. “Only for you.”

You ignored the weight of his warning and stepped inside. The interior was dim, lit only by the faint silver of moonlight filtering through the cracked stained-glass windows. The air was thick with dust, the scent of old wood and decayed incense clinging to your senses.

As your eyes adjusted to the dark, your gaze was drawn to the altar at the far end of the room. At first, it seemed like nothing more than another statue, another saint cast in marble. But as you drew closer, your breath caught in your throat.

The figure was unmistakable: a woman draped in flowing robes, her hands clasped in prayer. Her head was tilted slightly downward, her expression one of serene devotion, but it was the details that stopped you cold.

The curve of her lips. The slope of her nose. The eyes, though carved from stone, held a haunting familiarity.

It was you.

The realization struck you like a physical blow, your knees nearly buckling beneath the weight of it. Your mind reeled as you stepped closer, your fingers trembling as they reached out to touch the cold marble.

Satoru’s presence loomed behind you, his silence heavy. He had followed you, as he always did, but he said nothing. When you finally turned to face him, the look on his face was unreadable.

“What is this?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer immediately. His gaze flicked from the statue to you, his expression one of careful control. “You’re surprised?” he said finally, though his tone held no mockery.

“Of course, I’m surprised,” you said, gesturing to the figure behind you. “Why would there be a statue of me in a place like this? Why would they carve me as—”

“A saint,” he finished for you.

You stared at him, your heart pounding. “That doesn’t make sense. I’ve never been—”

“Haven’t you?” he interrupted, stepping closer. His voice was soft, almost reverent. “Perhaps not in this life. But the soul remembers, even when the body does not. And they... they must have remembered you.”

The weight of his words settled over you, a strange and terrible thing. You turned back to the statue, your thoughts racing. “But why?” you asked, though you weren’t sure who you were asking—him, the statue, or the heavens themselves.

“Because they saw what I see,” Satoru said, his voice so close now that you could feel his breath against your neck. “Someone who could save them. Someone who would give everything of herself, even if it meant losing everything in return.”

You closed your eyes, the truth of his words sinking into you like the sharp edge of a blade. There was a part of you that had always known, always felt the weight of something greater pressing down on you, even when you couldn’t name it.

But now, standing here in the shadow of yourself, you felt exposed in a way you never had before. And when you turned back to Satoru, the look in his eyes only made it worse.

“You think I’m still that person?” you asked, your voice trembling.

“I don’t think,” he said, his gaze holding yours with an intensity that stole your breath. “I know.”

His words were a challenge and a confession all at once, and they left you standing on the edge of something vast and unknowable. He reached out then, his fingers brushing against your wrist, and though his touch was cold, it burned in a way that felt dangerously familiar.

“You don’t understand what you are to them,” he said softly. “What you are to me.”

“And what am I?” you asked, though your voice was barely more than a whisper.

“A miracle,” he said simply.

The word hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The only sound was the faint creak of the old church settling around you, as though the very building was holding its breath.

And then, slowly, he stepped closer, his hand rising to cup your face. “But even miracles have their limits,” he murmured. “And I fear I may test yours.”

You wanted to argue, to tell him that you were stronger than he believed, but the look in his eyes stopped you. There was a vulnerability there, a quiet desperation that left you speechless.

So instead, you leaned into his touch, your eyes slipping closed as his thumb brushed against your cheek. “Then test me,” you whispered, the words a challenge and a plea all at once.

And in that moment, beneath the shadow of your own likeness, you felt the weight of something ancient and eternal settle over you. The past and the present blurred together, and as Satoru’s lips found yours, you realized that perhaps some part of you had been waiting for this—waiting for him—all along.

The air between you was heavy, almost electric, as if the small chapel could no longer contain the gravity of your shared presence. The dim moonlight filtered through the fractured stained glass, casting broken hues of crimson and sapphire onto the worn stone floor.

Satoru stood before you, closer than he had ever dared to be, his hand still cradling your face as though you might vanish if he let go. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, his touch featherlight but purposeful, and every nerve in your body seemed to sing in response.

“You're trembling,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration that sank into your chest.

You hadn't realized you were, but now that he said it, you could feel the faint tremor in your hands, in the way your breath hitched with every exhale. “I'm not afraid,” you whispered, though the truth was more complicated than that.

"I didn't say you were," he replied, his gaze holding yours with a quiet intensity that made it hard to think. "But there's something..." His eyes dipped briefly to your lips, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Something you're holding back."

Your heart pounded against your ribs, but you forced yourself to speak. "And what about you?" you asked, your voice steadier than you felt. "You've been holding back since the moment we met."

His smile faded, replaced by something darker, heavier. "You don't understand what you're asking of me," he said softly, his hand sliding down from your face to rest against your neck, his fingers splayed against the rapid pulse beneath your skin. "What it would mean if I let myself... take."

"Then help me understand," you said, stepping closer, so close now that you could feel the coolness of his body against the heat of yours. "Show me."

For a moment, he didn't move. The tension between you was palpable, a taut string stretched to its breaking point, and you wondered if this was the moment it would snap.

But then, slowly, his other hand rose to your waist, his touch firm but hesitant, as though he was still unsure of his own strength. He leaned down, his lips brushing against the curve of your jaw, and the sensation sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he murmured, his breath warm against your skin despite the chill of his body.

"Maybe I don't," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I know I trust you."

That seemed to undo him. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours for something you couldn't name. And whatever he found there, it seemed to break whatever restraint he had left.

He kissed you then, slow at first, as though testing the limits of your resolve. His lips were cold but soft, and the way he moved against you was deliberate, almost reverent. It was as if he was memorizing the shape of you, the taste of you, with every passing second.

You responded in kind, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. There was no hesitation now, no space left between you, and the feeling was intoxicating, overwhelming in a way that left you gasping for breath.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes half-lidded and heavy with something you couldn't quite name. "You make it impossible to stop," he admitted, his voice low and ragged.

"Then don't," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

His laughter was soft, almost bitter. "You have no idea what you're inviting," he said, but even as he spoke, his lips found your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses against the delicate skin.

You arched into his touch, your breath hitching as his hands slid lower, anchoring you against him. Every movement felt weighted, charged with a kind of intensity that left no room for doubt. This was no longer just about desire; it was about something deeper, something that tied you together in ways you couldn't yet understand.

"I could destroy you," he said against your skin, the words more a confession than a warning.

"Or you could save me," you replied, your hands tightening in his hair.

For a moment, he froze, the words hanging between you like a blade poised to fall. And then, with a low, guttural sound, he kissed you again, his hands gripping your waist as though you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

Time seemed to blur after that, the boundaries between you dissolving until there was nothing left but the sensation of his touch, the sound of his breath mingling with yours, and the unspoken promises that lingered in every kiss, every caress.

And though the shadows of the chapel seemed to press closer, as if to bear witness to the moment, you found that you didn't care. All that mattered was him -the way he held you, the way he made you feel as though you were the only thing in the world.

The chapel walls seemed to pulse with a life of their own, heavy with the weight of centuries of faith and despair. The altar before you remained still, a silent witness to a moment that, in any other context, might have seemed heretical. But here, in the dim light fractured by the pale glow of the moon, there was no room for judgment—only for what existed between you and him.

The air was thick, seizing your lungs, but the cold of his hands against your skin was the only anchor keeping you from dissolving entirely. Satoru was there, closer than he had ever dared to be, and the devotion in his gaze robbed you of all coherent thought.

“There was a time,” he murmured, his voice a whisper as his fingers traced the delicate curve of your collarbone, “when I wondered how someone could be so untouchable and yet so human.”

“And now?” Your voice barely rose above a breathless whisper, trembling and unfamiliar.

“Now I understand you’re not untouchable.” His gaze dropped to your lips, and the hunger in his eyes was almost suffocating. “You were only waiting for someone willing to fall with you.”

The confession left your knees weak, threatening to buckle beneath you, but before you could falter, his hands were there, steadying you with a tenderness that felt almost reverent. Slowly, he guided you toward the base of the altar, his movements measured as though he feared the moment might shatter.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for his lips to graze the shell of your ear.

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

Instead, you brought your hands to his face, forcing him to meet your gaze. “I don’t want you to.”

The words ignited something within him, something dark and ravenous that could no longer be contained. In one fluid motion, his lips found yours, and the kiss was everything you had imagined and more: searing, desperate, full of a need that seemed impossible to quench.

His hands, cold yet impossibly steady, explored your body with a precision that left you breathless. Every touch, every caress, was a reminder that this man was not human, and yet, in that moment, he felt more real than anything else in your world.

“My entire existence,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and dangerous, “I have walked in shadows. And now here you are, burning even in the darkness. How could I not want more?”

The weight of his words felt like a second skin, and as his lips trailed down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake, you found yourself clinging to him as though your very life depended on it.

The warmth of his breath cascaded down your neck, juxtaposed against the coolness of his lips. Each kiss was slow, deliberate, and yet there was an undercurrent of restraint, as though he was fighting a battle with himself even as he touched you. His hands, firm and certain, traced paths over your waist and hips, memorizing the curves beneath his fingers.

You tilted your head back, granting him access, your own hands threading through his silver hair, tugging him closer. His low groan reverberated against your skin, and the sound sent a shiver racing through your body.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he whispered, his voice ragged, the edges fraying with something that felt dangerously close to need.

“Show me,” you replied, your words a challenge, your breath catching as his lips moved lower, grazing the hollow of your throat.

The kiss deepened, shifting from reverence to something darker, hungrier. His fangs grazed your skin, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of heat pooling in your core. You knew he was holding back, denying himself, but you could feel the tension in the way his hands gripped your hips, the way his breath came quicker as he pressed his forehead against your shoulder.

“I could hurt you,” he murmured, his voice breaking with an edge of self-loathing, yet his lips refused to leave your skin.

“You won’t,” you breathed, your hands moving to cup his face, pulling him up so that your eyes met. “I trust you, Satoru.”

Something shattered in his gaze, and the wall he had so carefully constructed crumbled beneath your words. He kissed you again, and this time, there was no hesitation. His lips were demanding, his body pressing you back against the cold stone of the altar, and you welcomed the weight of him, the way he anchored you to the moment.

Your fingers fumbled at the fabric of his coat, tugging it from his shoulders, desperate to feel more of him. He allowed it to fall away, his own hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

“Satoru,” you whispered his name like a prayer, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you couldn’t put into words.

He answered with a kiss that stole the air from your lungs, his hands traveling lower, his touch setting your skin ablaze. His lips left yours only to trace a line down your jaw, your neck, his teeth grazing the delicate curve of your shoulder. The sharp press of his fangs was fleeting, a tease, and the anticipation alone was enough to make your breath hitch.

“Tell me to stop,” he said again, but his voice held no conviction this time.

You shook your head, your fingers tightening in his hair as you whispered, “Don’t you dare.”

And that was all the permission he needed.

He lifted you with an ease that was both inhuman and effortless, settling you atop the altar as though you were something sacred. His hands roamed your body with a reverence that made your heart ache, his lips following wherever his fingers led.

Time seemed to blur, the world fading until there was nothing but him—the feel of his hands on your skin, the sound of his breath mingling with yours, the way he made you feel as though you were the only thing that mattered.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, his voice a low growl against your ear, and the rawness in his tone sent a shiver down your spine.

“You,” you replied, your hands gripping his shoulders as you pulled him closer. “I want you, Satoru. All of you.”

His eyes darkened, the silver of his gaze nearly eclipsed by black, and for a moment, you thought you saw something almost primal flicker there. But instead of fear, all you felt was desire.

His breath caught at your words, and in that moment, the tension between you unraveled, giving way to something raw and unrestrained. His hands slid beneath the fabric of your dress, tracing the lines of your thighs as though every touch was an act of worship. The coolness of his fingers contrasted with the heat of your skin, sending shivers racing across your body.

“Do you even realize,” he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive spot just below your ear, “what you’ve done to me? How you’ve consumed me?”

You couldn’t answer, not with the way his hands and lips were moving, with how your body felt as though it was coming alive under his touch. Instead, you tilted your head back, offering him more of yourself as a soft gasp escaped your lips.

His mouth found your collarbone, his kisses trailing lower as his fingers gripped your hips, pulling you closer to the edge of the altar. The position forced your legs around his waist, and the intimacy of it made your heart race, your breaths shallow and uneven.

“You’re trembling,” he said, pulling back just enough to study your face, his silver gaze searching yours. “Is it fear, or…”

“Not fear,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “Never fear.”

A low growl rumbled in his chest, and before you could process it, he leaned in again, his lips crashing into yours with a fervor that stole the breath from your lungs. His hands tangled in your hair, his grip firm yet tender, as though he was holding on to something fragile and precious.

Your hands slid over the broad expanse of his shoulders, pulling him closer, needing him closer. The fabric of his shirt was a frustrating barrier, and you tugged at it, your fingers working to free him from it. He allowed it to fall away, revealing pale, sculpted skin that seemed to glow faintly in the moonlight.

For a moment, you just stared, your breath catching at the sight of him, at the beauty of someone who wasn’t meant to exist. He smirked at your expression, a hint of amusement flickering in his eyes.

“Like what you see?” he teased, his voice low and laced with that familiar arrogance, though it softened at the edges as he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing against your lips.

Instead of answering, you leaned forward, pressing your lips to his chest, letting your kisses speak for you. His breath hitched, and you felt the way his body tensed beneath your touch, the control he was so carefully holding onto slipping bit by bit.

“Satoru,” you whispered his name, your voice laced with a mix of longing and vulnerability. “I want…”

“I know,” he interrupted, his voice strained, almost pained. “I know what you want.”

He lifted you effortlessly, his strength a reminder of just how different he was, yet in his arms, you felt safe. He lowered you onto the altar, his body pressing against yours, and the cold stone beneath you only heightened the heat between you.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said, his voice softer now, his gaze holding an unspoken plea.

“It’s not,” you assured him, your hands threading through his hair as you pulled him down to you. “It’s never too much with you.”

His lips claimed yours again, the kiss deeper, more consuming, as his hands explored your body with a precision that made you feel as though you were unraveling beneath him. Every touch, every kiss, was deliberate, as though he was committing you to memory, and you could feel the weight of his restraint, the way he was holding himself back even as he gave you everything.

The world outside the chapel ceased to exist; there was only him, the weight of his body against yours, the way he whispered your name like a prayer as his lips trailed over your skin. Time seemed to stretch and blur, and all that mattered was the way he made you feel—as though you were something sacred, something he could never deserve but would worship regardless.

The air between you was electric, a tangible thing that coiled and snapped like a storm ready to break. His lips were a contradiction: cool yet burning, precise yet unrelenting as they claimed every inch of your skin, branding you in ways that words could never articulate. He kissed you like a man starved, each movement imbued with a hunger that no eternity could satisfy.

“You’re intoxicating,” he murmured against your collarbone, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. “I should have walked away from you the moment I saw you… but how could I? You’ve ruined me.”

You shuddered at the confession, his words carving themselves into your soul. Your hands moved to his face, cradling him as though you could hold his torment and his desire in equal measure. His eyes, those piercing silver orbs, met yours, and in them, you saw everything he couldn’t say aloud: a longing so profound it threatened to consume him.

“Satoru,” you whispered, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. “You don’t have to hold back with me.”

For a moment, he froze, his body taut as though your words had struck something deep within him. Then, slowly, a smile—soft, achingly tender—curved his lips. “You have no idea what you’re inviting,” he said, his voice tinged with something almost dangerous.

“Then show me,” you breathed, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw.

The restraint in his movements shattered. He captured your lips in a kiss that was unlike any before it—raw, searing, a confession of every emotion he had kept buried. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him as though he needed to feel every part of you to believe you were real.

You gasped against his mouth as his fangs grazed your bottom lip, the sharp sensation sending a jolt of heat through you. His tongue followed, soothing the sting, and the sound he made—a low, guttural groan—ignited something deep within you.

“You taste like sin,” he murmured, his voice dripping with both reverence and desire. “And I’d happily drown in you.”

His hands roamed your body, mapping every curve and hollow with a reverence that made your heart ache. There was no hesitation, no rush—only deliberate, unhurried movements that made you feel as though time itself had stilled for the two of you.

The cool stone of the altar beneath you grounded you, a stark contrast to the fire spreading through your veins. His lips trailed down your neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat, where your pulse beat wildly beneath his touch. He paused there, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, you thought he might bite.

But instead, he pressed a kiss there, slow and deliberate, as though marking you in a way that went beyond blood.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, his voice low and possessive. “Do you understand that? No one else will ever touch you like this.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, but they didn’t frighten you. If anything, they made you feel claimed in a way that was both terrifying and exhilarating. You nodded, your fingers tangling in his hair as you pulled him closer.

“And you’re mine,” you replied, your voice steady despite the tremor in your limbs.

His smile was wicked, his teeth gleaming in the dim light as he leaned down to capture your lips once more. This kiss was slower, deeper, and you felt as though he was pouring every unspoken word, every buried emotion, into it.

The world outside ceased to exist; there was only the two of you, locked in a moment that felt both infinite and fleeting. Every touch, every kiss, was a promise, a declaration, a prayer spoken in the language of your bodies.

The weight of him against you, the way his body molded so perfectly to yours, was intoxicating. His lips explored every inch of your skin, as though trying to memorize you by touch alone, while his hands skimmed the contours of your waist and hips with reverence. His fingers, cool and precise, slipped beneath the fabric of your dress, inching it higher as his kisses trailed downward, leaving a path of fire in their wake.

The shift of your clothing revealed more of your skin to him, and the way his eyes darkened at the sight made your breath hitch. He looked at you as though you were something sacred and forbidden all at once, his restraint unraveling thread by thread.

“Do you even realize what you do to me?” he murmured, his voice rough, filled with both awe and torment. His hands gripped your thighs gently, holding you steady, his thumbs brushing slow, deliberate circles against your skin.

You couldn’t respond, couldn’t form words under the weight of his gaze, so instead, you reached for him, your fingers curling around his wrist to anchor yourself. He smiled—soft, devastating—and leaned down, his lips brushing against the curve of your knee, his breath warm against your skin.

His kisses traveled upward, slow and languid, as though savoring every moment. Each press of his mouth sent sparks of heat skittering across your body, your breaths coming quicker with every inch he claimed. His touch was careful, precise, but there was an intensity behind it that betrayed his own struggle to remain in control.

“Satoru,” you whispered his name, the sound barely audible, but it was enough to make him pause, his eyes meeting yours.

There was a flicker of hesitation in his gaze, a shadow of the beast he kept caged within himself, and you could feel his restraint wavering. But then you reached for him, your hands sliding up his arms, grounding him, and the tension in his body eased under your touch.

“I’m here,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the way your pulse raced beneath your skin. “I trust you.”

Those words unraveled him completely. He surged forward, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender. His hands framed your face, holding you as though you might disappear if he let go, while his body pressed against yours, every movement a silent plea for more.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, and the low sound he made in response sent a shiver down your spine. He shifted, his weight settling between your thighs, and the intimacy of the moment stole the air from your lungs.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your lips, his voice trembling with the weight of his restraint, though his body betrayed just how much he wanted this—wanted you.

You shook your head, your hands sliding down to rest against his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. “I won’t,” you whispered, your voice trembling but resolute.

His silver gaze burned into yours, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this fragile, infinite moment. Then his lips found yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation, no restraint.

His kisses deepened, his hands sliding beneath the fabric of your dress to explore the bare skin beneath. His touch was like fire, igniting every nerve, and you arched into him, your body responding instinctively to his. The cool stone beneath you was a sharp contrast to the heat between you, grounding you even as you felt yourself spiraling.

His fangs grazed your skin as his lips moved to your neck, the sharp sting sending a jolt of electricity through you. You gasped, your fingers tightening against his shoulders, but instead of fear, all you felt was exhilaration, a heady mix of pleasure and surrender.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered, his voice a low growl against your ear. “Do you feel how much I crave you, how much I need you?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your head tilting back to give him more access, your body trembling beneath his touch. “I feel it. I want it—I want you.”

The admission broke something in him, and he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze, his silver eyes molten with desire. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice a soft, reverent growl, as though speaking the words aloud solidified them.

“And you’re mine,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper, but the certainty in it left no room for doubt.

He kissed you again, his movements growing slower, more deliberate, as though savoring every second. Time stretched and blurred, and the weight of his body against yours, the press of his lips, the heat of his touch—all of it felt like a communion, a merging of two souls that transcended the boundaries of flesh and blood.

The night stretched endlessly around you, the chapel a silent witness to the bond forged between you. And in that moment, beneath the watchful eyes of the stone saints, you knew there was no going back.

You were his, and he was yours, bound by something that neither time nor eternity could break.

His hands moved over you as though you were carved from the most fragile marble, his touch reverent yet deliberate, like an artist shaping his masterpiece. Every kiss he placed on your skin was an act of worship, slow and unhurried, leaving behind a trail of fire that seared into your very soul.

The fabric of your dress slipped away under his fingers, pooling around your hips in a soft whisper of surrender. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, but the warmth of his body pressed against yours kept you tethered, his presence grounding you even as you felt yourself unraveling beneath him.

Satoru’s gaze devoured you, silver eyes gleaming in the flickering candlelight like molten steel. The intensity of his stare left you breathless, the hunger in it impossible to ignore. He was looking at you as though you were something divine, something he had craved for centuries but never dared to touch until now.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with longing, the faintest tremor betraying the depth of his emotions. His hands trailed up your sides, his thumbs brushing against the curve of your ribs, and the softness in his touch was almost unbearable. “Too perfect for someone like me.”

“No,” you whispered, your voice trembling but certain. You reached up to cradle his face in your hands, your thumbs brushing against the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “You’re exactly what I’ve been waiting for.”

The words seemed to break something in him. His lips crashed against yours with a force that stole the breath from your lungs, his hands tangling in your hair as though he couldn’t bear to let you go. His body pressed against yours, pinning you to the altar, and the intimacy of the moment made your heart race, your blood singing in your veins.

Your hands found their way to the buttons of his shirt, your fingers trembling as you worked to undo them. The fabric fell away to reveal the pale expanse of his chest, the faint glow of his skin illuminated by the moonlight streaming through the stained glass above. You couldn’t stop yourself from running your hands over him, marveling at the way his muscles tensed beneath your touch.

He groaned softly at the contact, his head tilting back as though your touch was both pleasure and pain. “You’ll ruin me,” he whispered, his voice raw, as though the admission cost him something.

“Then let me,” you replied, your voice barely audible, but the weight of your words hung heavy in the air.

His gaze snapped back to yours, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. Then he was kissing you again, deeper this time, his hands exploring every inch of you with a fervor that left no doubt of his intentions.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as the tension between you reached a breaking point. The feel of him against you, solid and unyielding, sent a shiver through your body, and you couldn’t stop the soft gasp that escaped your lips.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured against your neck, his voice trembling as his lips ghosted over your skin.

“It’s not,” you replied, your fingers threading through his hair. “Don’t stop.”

Something in your words seemed to ignite him. His movements grew more urgent, his hands sliding beneath the fabric of your undergarments to touch bare skin. His touch was like fire, igniting every nerve, and you arched into him, your body responding instinctively to his.

His fangs grazed your neck again, and this time, you didn’t flinch. Instead, you tilted your head to the side, baring your throat to him in a gesture of trust and surrender. The low growl that rumbled in his chest sent a thrill through you, and when his lips closed over your pulse, you felt the sharp sting of his bite.

Pain and pleasure mingled in a heady rush, your body trembling as you clung to him. His arms wrapped around you, holding you steady as he drank from you, his mouth moving against your skin in a way that was both carnal and tender.

When he finally pulled back, his lips were stained with your blood, and his eyes burned with an otherworldly light. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath ragged, his hands cradling your face as though you were something precious.

“You’re mine,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words laced with both possessiveness and reverence.

“And you’re mine,” you replied, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, memorizing every detail.

The night stretched on, the boundaries between pain and pleasure, heaven and sin, blurring until there was nothing left but the two of you, entwined in a bond that went beyond blood, beyond flesh, beyond time itself.

The chapel fell into a heavy stillness, broken only by the sound of your shallow breaths and the faint rustle of fabric as his hands moved over you. The world outside the stained-glass windows no longer existed; there was only Satoru, his cool touch igniting heat beneath your skin, and the overwhelming intensity of the bond now sealed between you.

His fangs had left two faint crescents on your neck, but the pain was forgotten, replaced by the electric hum that coursed through your body, binding you to him in ways you couldn’t explain. He pulled back to study his work, his lips painted with the faintest streak of your blood. There was something primal in his expression, a raw hunger tempered by reverence, as though he saw you not just as his equal but as his salvation.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly, his voice a low vibration against your skin. His fingers ghosted over the bite mark on your neck, the contact so tender it sent a shiver down your spine.

You met his gaze, your breath catching at the way his silver eyes seemed to devour you. “It’s not fear,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He smiled then, slow and devastating, a flicker of wickedness curling at the corners of his lips. “Good,” he murmured, his hand sliding to cup the side of your face. “Because I’m far from finished with you.”

His words hung in the air like a promise, and the weight of them sent a rush of heat through you. His lips found yours again, softer this time, as though he were trying to soothe the fire he had lit within you. But his restraint didn’t last long. The kiss deepened, his hunger bleeding through, and you responded in kind, your hands moving to his shoulders, pulling him closer.

The press of his body against yours was maddening, a perfect balance of coolness and heat that left you breathless. His hands roamed your sides, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. When his fingers brushed the fabric of your undergarments, you felt your breath hitch, anticipation coiling tight in your belly.

“Let me see you,” he whispered, his voice rough with restraint as his fingers toyed with the edge of lace. “Every part of you.”

You hesitated for only a moment before nodding, your fingers trembling as you helped him guide the last barrier away. The cool air of the chapel kissed your exposed skin, but the heat of his gaze was what truly burned.

He didn’t speak, didn’t move for a long moment. He simply looked at you, his expression unreadable, though the hunger in his eyes was unmistakable. When he finally moved, it was with a slowness that bordered on agonizing. His hands skimmed up your thighs, his touch light but deliberate, sending shivers cascading through you.

“You’re a masterpiece,” he murmured, his voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it. His lips followed the path of his hands, leaving featherlight kisses against your skin, and the tenderness of it stole the breath from your lungs.

When his mouth finally found yours again, the kiss was slow and consuming, as though he wanted to claim every part of you with it. His hands explored with a confidence that left no room for hesitation, each touch drawing soft gasps and sighs from your lips.

“Satoru,” you whispered his name like a prayer, your hands threading through his hair to pull him closer.

“Say it again,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and commanding, his teeth grazing your collarbone in a way that made your pulse race.

You obliged, his name falling from your lips in a breathless whisper as his hands and mouth continued their exploration. The line between control and surrender blurred until you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

His kisses trailed lower, his lips brushing against the curve of your hip, and the intensity of the moment left you trembling. Every movement, every touch, was deliberate, as though he were determined to savor every inch of you.

“I could spend an eternity here,” he said, his voice rough and almost reverent. “And it still wouldn’t be enough.”

The words sent a shiver through you, but before you could respond, he shifted, his lips finding yours again in a kiss that was both searing and soft. Time seemed to slow, the weight of his body grounding you as his hands moved to intertwine with yours, pressing them above your head against the cool stone of the altar.

“You were made for me,” he murmured against your lips, his voice heavy with conviction. “Every part of you.”

“And you for me,” you replied, your voice steady despite the trembling in your limbs.

He smiled then, a flicker of triumph in his expression, before his lips claimed yours once more. The world fell away entirely, leaving only the two of you, bound together in a moment that felt both infinite and fleeting.

The silence between you was charged, heavy with unsaid words and unfulfilled desires. Satoru loomed over you, his frame a perfect juxtaposition of danger and devotion. He had unmade you entirely, stripped you of every defense you’d clung to, leaving you bare before him—body, soul, and everything in between.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his voice like silk stretched thin over steel, his silver eyes blazing with an intensity that felt like it could undo you. “Do you even know what you’ve done to me?”

Your breath hitched as his fingers brushed the side of your neck, tracing the faint crescent marks of his bite. His touch was featherlight, a deliberate contrast to the weight of his gaze. You shivered under the caress, the heat pooling low in your belly spreading like wildfire.

“I should stop,” he whispered, though his actions betrayed his words. His lips found the line of your jaw, trailing downward in a path that made your pulse race. “I should leave you to your innocence, untouched, unbroken.”

“You already broke me,” you said, your voice trembling as you tilted your head, exposing your neck to him in a gesture of both surrender and challenge. “Don’t stop now.”

The faintest growl escaped him, low and reverberating, as though he were barely holding himself together. “You’re playing with fire,” he said, his tone caught between warning and desire, though the way his lips skimmed the sensitive skin of your collarbone belied any true resistance.

“Let me burn,” you whispered, your hands sliding up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.

And burn you did.

His hands moved over your body with a precision that bordered on worship, each touch lighting a spark that threatened to consume you entirely. He kissed you deeply, hungrily, his tongue brushing against yours in a dance that felt both forbidden and fated. Your moans were swallowed by him, his name a whispered prayer against his lips.

The fabric of your gown was an afterthought, discarded with reverent care as though he were peeling away layers of sanctity to reveal something far more divine beneath. His lips followed the path of his hands, trailing heat down your shoulders, the curve of your breasts, the soft plane of your stomach. Each kiss was deliberate, lingering just long enough to leave your skin tingling.

When his mouth dipped lower, your breath hitched, your fingers clutching at the stone altar beneath you as the sensation left you trembling. He was meticulous, his kisses and touch perfectly balanced between tender and unrelenting, his name spilling from your lips in gasps that you couldn’t suppress.

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and reverent, as though you were something holy. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading you for him as his lips left no inch of you unexplored. “Like you were made to be ruined by me.”

You couldn’t respond, the words caught in your throat as his mouth moved lower, his touch deliberate, skilled, until coherent thought became impossible. Every nerve in your body was alight, every ounce of tension spiraling into a crescendo that left you breathless.

“Satoru,” you gasped, his name breaking like a confession from your lips, your body arching into him as he pulled you closer to the edge of oblivion.

He looked up at you then, his silver eyes blazing with a hunger that left you undone. “Say it again,” he demanded, his voice rough, commanding, yet softened by the reverence in his gaze.

“Satoru,” you repeated, the syllables trembling as his touch consumed you entirely, the pleasure building to a point of no return.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice a low growl of approval, before his lips claimed yours once more, sealing the moment in an embrace that left no doubt of his devotion.

He held you as though you were his salvation, his movements a careful balance of reverence and possession, and you surrendered to him completely, the line between sacred and profane blurred beyond recognition.

“Do you know what you’ve done to me?” he murmured, his voice rough and low, vibrating through you like the echo of a prayer in an empty cathedral.

You swallowed hard, your chest rising and falling as you met his gaze. “Tell me.”

A slow, devastating smile curved his lips, but there was nothing playful about it. “You’ve made me a sinner,” he said, his thumb brushing against your lower lip, and the weight of his words sent a shiver down your spine. “And I’ve never wanted anything more.”

His lips found yours then, claiming them with a hunger that had been restrained for far too long. The kiss was deep, consuming, his hands threading into your hair as he pulled you closer. You melted into him, your own restraint crumbling as you pressed against him, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

“Satoru,” you whispered against his lips, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and need.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his silver eyes darkened with desire. “Say it again,” he commanded softly, his hands sliding to your waist, steadying you as though you might collapse under the weight of the moment.

“Satoru,” you repeated, the sound of his name a plea that you couldn’t suppress.

He groaned softly, the sound reverberating through you as his lips found the curve of your neck. His fangs grazed your skin, a sharp reminder of what he was, but instead of fear, it only heightened the anticipation coiling in your belly. His hands moved over you with deliberate intent, tracing every curve, every hollow, as though memorizing you by touch alone.

“Let me see you,” he whispered, his voice a low growl that sent a thrill through you. “All of you.”

Your breath caught as his hands slid to the laces of your gown, his fingers deftly untying them with a reverence that bordered on worship. The fabric fell away, pooling at your feet, leaving you bare before him.

He stepped back slightly, his gaze raking over you with an intensity that made your skin flush. “You’re perfect,” he said, his voice rough with awe. “Like something carved by the divine.”

You shivered under his gaze, your arms instinctively moving to cover yourself, but he stopped you, his hands gentle but firm as he guided them back to your sides. “Don’t,” he said softly. “Let me look at you.”

And look he did, his silver eyes tracing every inch of you as though committing you to memory. When he finally moved, it was with a deliberate slowness, his hands gliding up your sides before settling on your hips. He kissed you again, his lips demanding and possessive, his hands pulling you against him as though the space between you was unbearable.

The rest of his clothes were shed quickly, and the sight of him left you breathless. He was all lean muscle and sharp lines, a predator wrapped in elegance, and yet the way he looked at you made you feel powerful, as though you were the one who held him captive.

When he lowered you onto the cool stone altar, the contrast of its hardness against the softness of your skin sent a shiver through you. His lips followed, trailing heat down your neck, your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, each kiss drawing a soft gasp from your lips. His hands moved with the same deliberate care, exploring every inch of you with a precision that left no room for hesitation.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with something between concern and pride.

“I’m not afraid,” you managed to say, your voice trembling as his lips continued their descent.

He smiled against your skin, the curve of his lips wicked. “Good.”

His mouth found your most sensitive places, his touch both reverent and unrelenting, and the sensation left you gasping, your fingers clutching at his hair. The tension built quickly, spiraling higher with every stroke, every kiss, until it felt like you might unravel completely.

“Satoru,” you whispered, his name a broken plea on your lips.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady, and the conviction in his words grounded you even as he pushed you further into the abyss.

When the tension finally broke, it was like a dam bursting, the release washing over you in waves that left you trembling in his arms. He held you through it, his touch gentle, his lips pressing soft kisses to your temple as you came back to yourself.

“You’re mine now,” he said softly, his voice filled with a quiet intensity that left no room for doubt. “In every way.”

“And you’re mine,” you replied, your voice steady despite the lingering tremors in your body.

He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that lit up his face. “Always.”

The silence of the space shattered with the wet, urgent sound of your bodies meeting, a raw echo in the vast darkness surrounding you. The chill of the marble beneath your back contrasted with the searing heat of his hands, his mouth, his body claiming you without mercy.

Satoru didn’t speak. There were no words on his lips—only a hunger that devoured everything in its path. His tongue traced fierce lines down the column of your neck, biting just at the edge of pain before descending to your breasts. His mouth latched onto you with an intensity that stole your breath, sucking until your skin turned red and bruised with his presence. Each pull of his lips sent waves of pleasure straight to your core, and you moaned, not caring to stifle the sound.

“Don’t you dare hide from me,” he growled against your chest, his voice rough, as if he was on the verge of losing all control. His large hands gripped your hips, lifting you with ease so you fit perfectly against him. “I want to hear every sound, every moan, every damn scream you give me.”

Your breathing was erratic, your fingers digging into his shoulders, anchoring yourself in a storm you couldn’t escape. When his hand slipped between your thighs, there was no gentleness, only a fierce need that made you arch instantly. His touches were filthy, slick, relentless.

“Satoru…” Your voice broke, caught between gasps and sighs.

He smirked, arrogant and ravenous, but the tenderness in that expression was overshadowed by the way he slid his fingers inside you without warning. Your back arched, a sharp cry tearing from your throat at the exquisite stretch, the dirty, utterly possessive act of it.

“Stay like this for me,” he whispered, his tone burning as hot as his touches. His movements were calculated, brutal, his fingers working a rhythm that matched the erratic thrum of your heart. “You’re made for me, don’t you see it? Every part of you…”

He withdrew his fingers, leaving you aching, empty, but there was no time to protest. In one fluid motion, he turned you, pressing your back against a stone column. Your hands clung to the cold edge, and his body found yours again, pressing firmly against you from behind, his hardness unmistakable against your hips.

When he finally took you, it was with an insatiable hunger. He thrust into you in one sharp movement, his size filling you so completely that it stole the air from your lungs. You screamed his name, loud and shameless, and he growled in response, his hands gripping you so tightly you knew they’d leave marks.

The pace he set was merciless, his pelvis slamming against you with a sound almost as erotic as the moans filling the air. Each thrust drove you closer and closer to the edge, the delicious friction blending with the weight of his body, the grip of his fingers on your hips, and the heat radiating from him like a fire you couldn’t escape.

“Tell me you’re mine,” he demanded, his voice low and guttural, almost an animalistic growl. One of his hands slid up to your throat—not to squeeze, but to keep you utterly under his control. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasped, your voice trembling with the pleasure consuming you. “Only yours.”

“Always,” he murmured, leaning down to bite the curve of your neck, his tongue tracing the spot before his teeth sank into your skin. The pain was sharp, but so was the pleasure—a wave so overwhelming it made you scream as the climax tore through you like a violent storm, leaving your body trembling against his.

Satoru kept moving, even as you shook and moaned, pushing your body past every limit you thought possible. He consumed you entirely, every part of you trembling, every part of you screaming his name as he took you over the edge again and again, until the final climax washed over you like a flood, leaving your legs shaking and your mind in tatters.

At last, he stilled, his heavy breathing hot against your back as he stayed buried inside you, his forehead resting against your shoulder. His lips brushed your ear, a whisper laden with possession and promises:

“I’m never letting you go. Ever.”

And from the way your body still craved him, you knew you’d never want him to.

The silence that followed wasn’t calm—it was charged, vibrating with the tension that still crackled between you. His hands hadn’t left your body, roaming slowly now, possessively, as if grounding himself in the aftermath of what he’d taken from you. The raw friction of his skin against yours only reignited the ache he’d left, a dull, relentless thrum that begged for more.

Satoru pulled back slightly, just enough to turn you around and face him, his icy eyes burning with a fire that seemed endless. He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your swollen lips, and his voice was a low growl when he finally spoke.

“You think I’m done with you?” he asked, his tone almost taunting.

Before you could respond, his mouth was on yours again, demanding and devouring, his kiss so intense it stole the breath from your lungs. His tongue pushed past your lips, claiming you with a brutal intimacy that made your knees weak.

He didn’t let you fall—his hands were already gripping your thighs, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. The cold stone behind your back did nothing to cool the heat building between you as he pressed you against the column again. His hips rolled into yours with deliberate slowness this time, dragging a moan from your throat as the still-sensitive nerves inside you clenched around him.

“Satoru, I—”

“You’re not leaving this time,” he interrupted, his voice rough against your ear. “Not until I’ve taken every scream, every cry, every bit of you.”

His teeth grazed the shell of your ear before his mouth traveled lower, trailing kisses and bites along the column of your throat. He left marks wherever he touched—proof of his possession, blooming like bruised flowers on your skin. When his mouth closed over your collarbone, his teeth sank in deeper, the sharp edge of pain blurring into pleasure so intense it made your vision blur.

“Mine,” he growled again, almost to himself, as if branding the word into your very soul.

His hands slid down your sides, gripping your hips tightly before lifting you higher, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist. The angle was obscene, exposing you entirely to him, and the smirk that curved his lips told you he reveled in the vulnerability.

“You look perfect like this,” he murmured, his voice dark and filled with a cruel kind of affection. “So messy. So fucking ruined.”

The first thrust was slow, deliberate, and agonizingly deep, and you cried out, your head falling back against the stone. He held himself there, buried to the hilt, savoring the way your body clenched around him, the way your breath hitched and your nails dug into his shoulders.

“Do you feel it?” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Do you feel how perfectly you fit me? Like you were made for this. For me.”

The next thrust was brutal, pulling a scream from your lips that echoed in the hollow space around you. He didn’t stop, didn’t hold back, setting a pace that was punishing and relentless, driving you higher and higher until you thought you might shatter.

Every sound, every cry, every gasp of his name only seemed to spur him on. His hands gripped you tighter, his nails digging into your skin as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting you go. His mouth found yours again, swallowing your moans as his hips slammed into yours with a ferocity that left you trembling.

And then his hand slid between your bodies, his fingers finding the most sensitive part of you, circling with expert precision. The combination of his movements and the overwhelming heat of his body sent you spiraling out of control, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave.

You screamed his name, your body convulsing around him, and he followed soon after, a deep growl tearing from his throat as he buried himself in you one final time. The warmth of his release filled you, the sensation both shocking and strangely intimate.

For a moment, the world stood still, the only sound the heavy breaths you both shared. His hands gentled, his grip loosening as he cradled you against him, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your temple, your cheeks, your lips.

But the tenderness didn’t last long.

Satoru pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes still blazing with an unquenched hunger. His lips curved into a smirk, one hand brushing your hair back as the other gripped your waist firmly. “I’m not finished with you yet,” he murmured, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down your spine.

Before you could respond, he moved, flipping you effortlessly so that you were straddling his hips. The movement left you gasping, your thighs pressed against his as he leaned back against the column, his hands already sliding down to grip the curve of your ass.

“Ride me,” he commanded, the words both sinful and sweet, his tone dark but his gaze soft. “I want to see how desperate you are for me.”

Heat flushed your cheeks, but there was no hesitation. The lingering ache between your legs only intensified as you adjusted yourself, letting him guide you until he was pressed firmly against your entrance. Slowly, you sank down, the stretch making you gasp as he filled you completely, his size forcing you to take him inch by inch.

“Good girl,” he breathed, his voice rough, his hands gripping your hips tightly as you settled onto him. “Look at you. So perfect. Taking me so well.”

The praise sent a thrill through you, but it was the raw friction, the way his cock stretched and filled you, that left you trembling. You moved slowly at first, rolling your hips experimentally, but his growl of impatience spurred you on.

“That’s it,” he murmured, his hands guiding your movements now, urging you to pick up the pace. “Don’t hold back. Show me how much you want this.”

The rhythm you found was frantic and unrestrained, your body moving on its own as waves of pleasure coursed through you. His hands alternated between gripping your hips and smacking your ass, the sharp sting of his palm sending jolts of sensation that only heightened your arousal.

“You like that, don’t you?” he teased, his smirk widening as he watched your reactions. “You like being ruined by me.”

His words were filthy, and you hated how much they turned you on. Your nails dug into his chest as you rode him harder, chasing the release that felt just out of reach.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groaned, his voice thick with pleasure. “You’re gonna make me lose it.”

But just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, he shifted, grabbing your hips and flipping you onto your back in one swift motion. You barely had time to gasp before he was on you again, driving into you with a force that left you breathless.

“Satoru!” His name was a broken cry on your lips, your hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders, his arms, anything to ground you as he fucked you into oblivion.

“Don’t hold back,” he murmured, his voice low and commanding as his hand slid down to toy with your clit, the pressure making your vision blur. “Come for me. I want to feel you.”

The climax hit you like a tidal wave, your body clenching around him as you screamed his name. He didn’t stop, his movements rough and unrelenting as he chased his own release, his growl of satisfaction echoing in your ears as he came, spilling into you with a heat that left you trembling.

But even then, he wasn’t done.

Even as you lay trembling beneath him, your body still pulsing from the overwhelming release, Satoru didn’t stop. His hand trailed down your thigh, gripping it firmly as he pushed it higher, spreading you further beneath him. The vulnerability of the position made heat flare in your chest, but the hunger in his eyes erased any hesitation.

“You think I’m done with you?” he murmured, leaning down so his breath ghosted over your lips. His smirk was wicked, almost cruel, as his hips rolled into you again, slow and deliberate, sending shocks of overstimulation rippling through your body.

Your gasp turned into a moan, your fingers clutching at his arms as the friction reignited the fire low in your belly. “Satoru—”

“Shh,” he whispered, his voice soothing despite the intensity in his gaze. “You can take it. I know you can.”

The weight of his body against yours kept you grounded, his touch commanding yet oddly tender as he began to move again. The rhythm he set was slower this time, almost teasing, but the way he filled you—every thrust deliberate, every movement precise—kept you on the edge of sanity.

One of his hands slid down to your belly, pressing just above where the base of his cock stretched you wide. The sensation was overwhelming, the pressure making you gasp as he smirked down at you.

“Feel that?” he asked, his voice dripping with arrogance. “That’s me, buried so deep you’ll never forget it.”

Your cheeks burned at his words, but the way your body clenched around him betrayed you, drawing a low growl from his throat. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a bruising kiss as his thrusts became sharper, rougher, driving you closer to the edge once again.

The pleasure was almost too much, your body caught between the sharp sting of overstimulation and the addictive pull of another release building deep within you. Satoru seemed to sense it, his hand slipping between your bodies to rub slow, teasing circles against your clit.

“You’re close again, aren’t you?” he murmured against your ear, his voice rough but laced with a cruel kind of affection. “Go on, let go for me. I want to feel you come undone.”

His words were your undoing, the tension snapping as your orgasm crashed over you in waves. You cried out his name, your body arching into his as the pleasure overwhelmed you, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

He growled your name, his pace unrelenting as he chased his own release, his teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. The sharp sting only heightened the pleasure, sending another shockwave through your body as he thrust into you one last time, spilling into you with a guttural groan.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was your heavy breathing, his weight pressing you into the altar as his lips trailed soft kisses along your skin.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your ear, his voice still rough but filled with a quiet tenderness that made your chest ache. “Every part of you.”

You nodded weakly, your body still trembling beneath him as his hands began to wander again, stroking over your thighs, your sides, your waist. The intensity in his gaze hadn’t lessened, and a small, wicked smile curved his lips as he leaned down to press a kiss to your temple.

“I hope you didn’t think I was done,” he murmured, his voice dark with promise.

And before you could respond, he was moving again.

The cold, unyielding surface of the altar pressed against your back, its edges biting into your skin as Satoru loomed over you. The juxtaposition of the sacred and the profane wasn’t lost on either of you. His movements seemed to echo the blasphemy of your union, his body commanding yours as though staking his claim on something once deemed untouchable.

His hand gripped your thigh, pulling it higher over his hip as his body pinned you firmly in place. The sensation of his cock still buried deep inside you left you trembling, the weight of him making it impossible to escape even if you wanted to.

“You’re divine like this,” he murmured, his voice reverent despite the filthy words. “Spread out on this altar, looking like a fallen saint.”

Your chest heaved, every nerve alight as his other hand roamed over your body, his touch teasing and possessive all at once. Fingers brushed over the swell of your breasts, pausing to toy with your nipples until you whimpered beneath him.

“Satoru…” His name fell from your lips like a prayer, though no deity would answer in a place desecrated by the heat of his touch.

“Say it again,” he demanded, his tone a mixture of arrogance and need. “Say my name like you need me to save you.”

When you obeyed, his response was immediate. He thrust into you sharply, drawing a cry from your lips that echoed off the ancient stone walls. The rhythm he set was relentless, each movement driving you closer to the brink, the altar beneath you creaking with every snap of his hips.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the space, mingling with your desperate moans and his low, guttural groans. His hand slid down your body, gripping your waist to pull you even closer, even deeper, as though he could somehow fuse the two of you together.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice rough as he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Do you feel how perfectly you fit me? Like you were made for this—for me.”

You could only nod, your body too consumed by the pleasure to form coherent words. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing your skin before biting down hard enough to leave another mark. The sharp sting made you cry out, your hands clutching at his shoulders as your nails dug into his skin.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice dark with satisfaction. “I want everyone to see these marks. To know you’re mine.”

His free hand found its way between your legs, his fingers rubbing quick, deliberate circles against your clit. The added stimulation pushed you over the edge, your body arching off the altar as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave.

“Satoru!” you cried, your voice breaking as the pleasure consumed you.

But he didn’t stop. Even as you trembled beneath him, he kept moving, his thrusts rough and unrelenting as he chased his own release. His grip on your thigh tightened, his pace quickening until he finally stilled, spilling into you with a growl that sent shivers down your spine.

The silence that followed was heavy, your bodies tangled together on the desecrated altar. His lips brushed against your temple, then your jaw, then your lips, the kisses soft and almost tender despite the raw intensity of what had just transpired.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “No turning back."

The cool stone of the altar beneath you was a sharp contrast to the heat that burned between your bodies. Satoru’s lips ghosted over your jawline, trailing down to your neck as his hands wandered, calloused fingers gripping your hips with a possessiveness that sent a shiver through you.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured against your skin, his breath warm and teasing. “Is it the cold... or me?”

His words sent a rush of heat through you, and your hands found his shoulders, clutching at him as though to anchor yourself. “It’s you,” you admitted, your voice barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to make him chuckle darkly.

“You’re honest, at least,” he said, pressing a kiss to the hollow of your throat. “That’ll make this easier.”

He pulled back slightly, his gaze sweeping over you with a hunger that made your pulse race. The way he looked at you—like you were something sacred and forbidden all at once—sent a thrill through your chest. Slowly, deliberately, he trailed a hand up your thigh, spreading your legs further apart as he settled between them.

“You look like you belong here,” he said, his voice low and reverent. “A saint turned sinner, laid bare on this altar for me.”

Your cheeks burned, but there was no time to respond before he lowered his head, his lips brushing against the inside of your thigh. His tongue followed, the warm, wet sensation drawing a gasp from your lips as he worked his way higher, his hands gripping your legs to keep you still.

“Satoru,” you whimpered, your voice shaking as the anticipation built.

“Patience,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement. “You’ll get what you want. What we both want.”

When his mouth finally found you, the sensation was overwhelming. His tongue moved with precision, every flick and stroke driving you closer to the edge. The way he held you—firm but gentle—made you feel completely at his mercy, your body arching into him as soft moans spilled from your lips.

He worked you expertly, drawing you higher and higher until the tension coiled so tightly within you that you thought you might shatter. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you steady as his tongue delved deeper, the intensity of his focus making your head spin.

“Satoru, please,” you gasped, your fingers tangling in his hair as you tugged him closer.

The sound of your desperation seemed to ignite something in him. He hummed against you, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through your body. It wasn’t long before you were falling apart, your release crashing over you in a wave that left you trembling, his name a broken cry on your lips.

As you tried to catch your breath, Satoru rose to his full height, his lips glistening with evidence of your pleasure. He looked down at you, his expression a mix of satisfaction and something darker—something possessive.

“You taste even better than I imagined,” he said, his voice low and rough.

He didn’t give you a chance to respond before he was pulling you to the edge of the altar, positioning you so your legs wrapped around his waist. His hands gripped your hips as he pushed into you slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt.

The sensation was overwhelming, the stretch and fullness leaving you gasping as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a kiss that was all-consuming. He didn’t move right away, his body pressed flush against yours as though savoring the moment.

“You feel perfect,” he murmured against your lips, his voice soft but laced with intensity. “Like you were made for me.”

And then he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate at first, each one driving deeper until he found the spot that made you cry out. He smirked at the sound, his pace quickening as he chased both of your undoings, the friction and heat building until it felt like you might unravel completely.

Each thrust sent a wave of pleasure rippling through you, his pace steady yet unrelenting, building an ache that felt like it would consume you. The sharp edge of the altar pressed into your back, grounding you in the sensation of his body against yours.

Satoru leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear as his voice dropped to a gravelly whisper. “Do you hear yourself?” he murmured, the words laced with both amusement and adoration. “So pretty when you beg for me.”

Your cheeks flushed, but you couldn’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips, your hands clinging to his shoulders as though he were the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. His hands roamed your body, one sliding down to your thigh to keep you spread open for him, the other tangling in your hair to tilt your head back, exposing your throat.

He kissed and nipped at the sensitive skin, each bite leaving faint marks that he soothed with his tongue. The contrast of pain and pleasure had your body arching into his, every nerve alight with the intensity of his touch.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Falling apart for me on this altar like the good little sinner you are.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, and he smirked at your reaction, his thrusts becoming sharper, deeper, until you felt like he was claiming every part of you.

“Satoru,” you gasped, your voice trembling as you clung to him.

“I know,” he replied, his tone softening just slightly, his hand brushing against your cheek. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’ll take care of you.”

The intensity of his movements increased, his body pressing you further into the altar as he chased the edge of pleasure. You could feel the tension coiling tightly within you, threatening to snap at any moment. His fingers found your clit, rubbing in tight, deliberate circles that had you crying out, your head falling back as your body trembled.

“Come for me,” he commanded, his voice firm but laced with tenderness. “Let me feel you.”

And you did. The release hit you like a tidal wave, your body arching against him as you cried out his name, your walls tightening around him as you shattered beneath his touch.

He wasn’t far behind, his pace becoming erratic as he chased his own release. When he finally stilled, his body pressing flush against yours, you felt the warmth of his climax spill into you, the sensation both overwhelming and grounding.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound the mingling of your heavy breaths. His hands gentled, one brushing against your cheek as the other cradled your hip. He leaned down, pressing soft kisses to your temple, your jaw, your lips, his touch reverent in contrast to the rawness of the moment.

“You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet conviction. “Completely.”

“And you’re mine,” you whispered in return, your fingers brushing against his cheek.

His lips curved into a smile, rare and genuine, as he pulled you into his arms. The weight of the moment settled between you, the desecration of the altar and the sanctity of your connection intertwining in a way that felt both wrong and inevitable.

As the night deepened, the two of you remained entwined, the cool stone beneath you a stark reminder of where you had surrendered to him. And though the world outside might have judged you, in that moment, there was no room for guilt—only the unshakable bond forged in the heat of your union.

© museofhis all right reserved. do NOT copy, heavily inspire, plagiarize, repost and translate my work.

[not-that-dillinger]

Ed had come to terms that he could at any point disappear, and nobody would really care in any way that mattered a long time ago. Long before he became a suspect in the Kira investigation, and before he moved to Japan.

This, ironically had to do with why he took the job in Japan in the first place. His restraining order had (at the time) about a year before it expired, and the judge wouldn't renew it for a second time. He'd hoped Japan would be safe, or at least harder for his father to find him. It was because of this that Ed had memorized a plan for what to do in the even that anyone abducted him.

Those plans, unfortunately, practically went out the window when he was abducted, because rather than his father, it had been a group of crazy cultists that wanted to punish him for being a false god.

Not that he ever claimed to be Kira.

When Ed came to, he was restrained to a table in a cold, dark, abandoned building. He didn't know where. He didn't know his captors names, and wouldn't have been able to identify their faces even if they weren't wearing masks since he didn't have his glasses. All he knew was they planned to make him suffer a slow and excruciatingly painful death.

That had been... Ed didn't know. A week ago, maybe. Or, he would have guessed, if he had been capable of coherent thought. As it was, he was in such pain and had a brain fog so thick, coherent thought was near impossible. Everything ached. He was bruised and bloody, and they'd broken his legs, arms, and more than a couple ribs and... the better question was probably what bones weren't broken. Most of the blood was from the various gashes and deep cuts that had been inflicted on his body, though a fair bit of it had been from rope burns caused while he was in a blind panic when he found himself restrained.

Raye may have felt Ed's pulse quicken in fear, heard his short, quick breaths, or seen what little color he still had in his face drain as he expected only more pain, Ed was too weak to attempt any sort of struggle.

Had Ed recognized Raye's voice, he would have thought he was hallucinating, as despite everything, he still wouldn't have expected his husband to actually go looking for him. He had hoped Raye would move on with his life.

/* You can sit on this one or just delete since we already have two threads going if you don't want to, but. I crave more of the married sillies and this one looks fun... --@not-that-dillinger */

⛓️ (from "send ⛓️ to find my muse bloody, bruised and restrained")

Ever since Ed had gone missing, Raye spent day and night searching for him. He had never gone so many days without sleep, quite sure the moment he let himself rest he'd lose Ed for good. His office was a catastrophe, and the apartment a mess of documents of leads that went nowhere.

When he finally found the answer to where Ed had been taken, he was a danger to everyone on the road. He'd always been a safe driver, but he nearly crashed his car right into the side of the building Ed had been taken into. His breaths heavy and uneven, he pulled out his gun with no plan of remorse. If he saw who did this, he would end them.

Kicking down the door, he prepared to be gunned down - or even assaulted, but whomever did this had run off. Shit. He had to call in backup. Though he knew this, calling for backup was the last thing on his mind. First and foremost was finding Ed.

He could've sworn he heard something in one of the rooms deeper into the building. Struggle. He rushed into it, expecting to have to deal with a hostage situation. Pointing his gun into the room, he prepared to fire. Adrenaline rushed through his veins and-

Oh god.

Ed looked like he'd been through hell.

"No- nonono-" Raye dropped his weapon, immediately checking for a pulse.

"Please- please be breathing- please be-..." he trailed off, unable to stop shaking. He fumbled with the rope tying Ed down, tears blurring his vision. He was always one to keep composure, but his heart was thrumming in his ears and he couldn't stop crying.

After what felt like forever of tugging at the rope, he finally managed to get Ed free. Raye immediately cradled his husband, holding him close - but being careful of any wounds. He tucked his face into Ed's shoulder, so overwhelmed with emotion he couldn't even think.

"It's okay, it's okay-... I'm so sorry- I'm so sorry I let this happen to you-"

[just-dreaming-marvel]

Love That Burns ~ Ending 1 ~ 44

LOVE THAT BURNS MASTERLIST

< previous chapter

Word Count: 2,210ish

Summary: Logan wakes up in the mansion, his conscience returning to 2023.

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks! 

Logan’s head still felt like it was underwater. It was pounding and foggy. There was soft music playing nearby, barely catching his attention. Slowly, Logan's eyes opened. They struggled to focus on anything everything was blurry. But he was in a room—his room at the mansion. That wasn't possible, right? He was lying on his stomach on top of the already made bed. He was dressed and ready for the day—or had he fallen asleep like this? He couldn't remember. Pushing himself to turn over, he glanced at the alarm clock on the nightside, playing music and projecting a small hologram of the world. 

Logan hauled himself off of the bed and out into the hallway. His movements were slow like he was sick or drunk or being weighed down by something. His eyes were barely open, trying to still figure out the haziness he was feeling. 

The hallway was bright despite the dark wood, the large windows bringing in the sunlight. Children—Students of various ages were walking around, talking, and using their mutations. Logan’s eyes squinted as he noticed two familiar faces down the hall. Bobby and Marie. They glanced back at Logan, shooting him a smile before they walked off holding hands.

Logan couldn’t get his legs to move faster as he headed down the hall. He paused at one of the classrooms, where Kitty and Colossus were teaching a group of younger students. Nothing was making any sense to him. Was this a dream? 

Blinking a few times, Logan turned to continue down the hall. Hank's laughter as the blue beast walked towards him caught Logan's attention.

“Morning, Logan,” Hank greeted with a chuckle as he walked past. “Late start."

Logan couldn't get himself to respond as he stared in shock, eyes tracking Hank as he walked the other way. Logan made it to the stairs. Gripping on the railing, Logan took the stairs slowly, not trusting any of his surroundings. He paused as he saw Storm standing at the bottom, helping a group of students. 

“Storm,” he whispered unbelievingly. 

He continued to the bottom of the stairs, eyes catching someone leaning in the doorway of the Professor's office. Her fiery red hair and outfit made it obvious who it was.

“Jean,” Logan gasped. But that wasn't possible. Jean was dead. He killed her himself.

Jean looked over and smiled at Logan. “Hey, Logan,” she greeted.

“Jean,” he repeated, still in shock as he made his way over to her.

"Are you okay?” Jean noticed the shocked expression on his face.

“You’re here.”

"Where else would I be?"

Logan’s hand went to touch Jean to see if she was real when a hand caught his arm.

“Whoa,” Scott said, making his presence known. “Easy, pal."

Logan couldn't help but chuckle. “Well, some things never change,” he said. “It's good to see you, Scott."

“Uh-huh,” Scott was clearly confused. He slipped past Logan. “See you later, Jean. Professor.” Then he left.

"Logan, is everything all right?” Jean wondered.

“Yeah," he breathed out. “Yeah, I think it is.”

Jean, still not believing Logan, left to let him talk to the Professor. Charles was sitting behind his desk, reading over something. Logan stepped further into the room.

“You did it," he said.

“Did what?" Charles questioned. “Logan, don't you have a class to teach?"

"A class… to teach?”

“History."

“History... Actually, I could use some help with that.”

“Help with what?”

“Well, pretty much everything after 1973. I think the history I know is a little different.”

“Welcome back."

“It’s good to see you, Charles. It's good to see everyone.”

“Well, I had a promise to keep. You and I have a lot of catching up to do.”

“Yeah.”

"What's the last thing you remember?"

“Uh, drowning. And—Y/N! Where’s Y/N?”

~~~

Logan's legs were not moving fast enough. Charles barely said your location before he was off; no one could stop him. He needed to get to you. He needed to see you alive and breathing. He needed to feel your warmth. Logan rushed into the Danger Room, where you were instructing a group of older students. Not paying any mind to your students, Logan hurried across the room and took you in his arms.

“Logan!” You squealed as he squeezed you tightly. The group of students laughed behind you. His head buried into your neck while his arms pinned yours to your sides. As soon as you felt tears hit your skin, knew that something was wrong. “Uh, class dismissed."

The students quickly gathered their things and left, leaving just the two of you in the Danger Room. 

“Logan,” your tone was soft and full of concern, "what's wrong?"

Unable to hold it back anymore, Logan collapsed onto his knees. His arms moved to wrap around your legs as the dam broke and the sobs let loose. You tried to kneel down in front of him, but his grip was unrelenting. Your hands found his hair, gently combing through it.

“Was it a nightmare?” You asked. Only sobs in response. “I'm sorry about our fight and that I caused it… I didn’t mean that you needed to go back to your room… I struggled to sleep, too. You know I can't sleep much without you.”

“It wasn't that," Logan muttered through the tears.

“Then what—“ You stopped with Charles entered your head.

“It’s him,” he said into your mind. “He’s back.”

You gasped, knowing what Charles was talking about. “Oh my gosh, Logan… did you... have you... are you the Logan that came back to 1973?”

Logan’s head nodded against your legs. “Yes.”

“Oh my gosh, Logan!” His grip loosened enough for you to fall to your knees in front of him. You wrapped him up in a hug. “Welcome back.”

“You died… again.”

“I know, I’m so sorry.”

“I drowned, and I didn’t know if I would ever see you again."

"You can't get rid of me that easy, honey.”

Logan pulled back so that he could see your face. “Honey?” He took your left arm and pulled it so that he could see your hand. More tears came as he saw the ring on your finger. “We’re married... You're my wife... I'm your husband.”

“Well—“

You couldn’t get the rest of your thought out with Logan's lips pressed against yours. He was kissing you like he hadn't in years. Which it sure felt that way to him. His hands held your head as your hands went around to his back. You let Logan take the lead. He needed this a lot more than you did. When he began kissing down your neck and his hands started roaming, you let out a laugh.

“We should take this somewhere more private,” you told him.

“Yeah. Okay.” 

He kissed your lips before pulling away. He didn't make a move to stand though, as his large, rough hands came up to carefully cradle your head. He sighed, his eyes shining with pure love and tears. You could tell he still had a lot weighing on him.

“What's wrong?” you asked quietly.

His thumbs gently rubbed against your checks. “It’s just… you’re as beautiful as the day I lost you.”

“Logan,” his comment had you suddenly growing shy.

He pecked your lips. “Let's take this somewhere else."

~~~

Logan had carried you up to your room before ravishing your body for hours. He needed to feel you, every inch of you. Eventually, the two of you laid cuddled up in your bed.

“Tell me your story," Logan whispered, his fingers absentmindedly drawing patterns on your skin. “Tell me our story.”

“Well, I died in front of the White House that day,” you began. “I won’t up here in the lab. Charles and Hank informed me of what happened, my phoenix power we didn’t know I had. I tried to find you, but Charles said that things would work out the way they were now supposed to. I had to trust that. So, I’ve been here as a teacher and X-Men member since then.”

“When did I show up?”

“2001. With Rogue. You didn't know who I was; Stryker had erased your memory. He had pulled you from the river that day and kept you for years. It was hard on me when you showed up without your memories, though I knew that would happen. It allowed me to understand how you must have felt for those few days you were there in 1973. You helped us save Rogue from Magneto.”

“So that was still the same?"

“That happened in your timeline, too?”

"Yes, you... you tried to sacrifice yourself for Rogue. I was terrified, though; I didn't fully understand who you were at the time.”

“Yes, so I guess it was the same.”

“What happened next?”

“You left when I woke up. You headed to Alkali Lake. You returned with no new information. Stryker attacked the mansion that night. He took me, Scott, and Charles. You pulled me out of his mind control. I ended Stryker that day.”

“That same thing happened in my timeline, though Jean died that day.”

“Jean saved us. She would have died if it hadn't been for Kurt.”

“Good,” Logan nodded. "Was there a cure made?”

“Yes, but as soon as Hank and Charles realized that it was being made from a mutant child, the government shut it down.”

“Wow. That's definitely a bit different than my version… What happened next?”

“We left for a few years, needing some time to figure us out. You build us a beautiful house in the Canadian mountains. We lived there for years, learning how to have a relationship and be a couple. You proposed there, and we got married. Well, it wasn’t an official marriage. Just some declarations of love between the two of us."

"Do you want to make it official?”

“Seriously?”

“I’ve never been more serious in my entire life, sweetheart. Marry me again. This time for real.”

"Yes, of course, I’ll marry you, James.”

Logan captured your lips with a heated kiss. Still kissing you, he moved to hover over you. You smiled in the kiss before he pulled away, pressing kisses around your face.

“Logan!” You giggled. “I'm not done!”

“The stories can wait, princess. I’ve got to remind my wife again of just how much I love her.”

~~~

You continued telling your story the next morning. Logan learned that the incident in Japan had happened just as the one in his memories. The two of you had ended up on your Hawaii trip, turning to the mansion permanently afterward. The two of you had been there ever since.

“So, you've only died twice?" Logan questioned, the concern pressing on his mind.

“Yes,” you replied, softly caressing his face as the two of you lay in bed, facing each other.

“Good. And you... you know the truth about that power?”

“That it could eventually kill me? Yes. It’s actually the reason why we were fighting the other night. There’s a mission that you deemed too dangerous for me to go. You wanted to bench me.”

“That’s still not gonna change, honey.”

“Yeah, well, I have a feeling that once Charles informs the others of your... condition, you'll be benched too.”

“As long as you're by my side, I really don't care.”

You smiled before pressing a kiss to his nose. “You’re just a big softie, aren't you?”

“Only for you, baby, only for you.”

~~~

Charles gathered the adults in the mansion together at noon. He and Logan informed everyone what had happened, and with the help of Jean and Charles’ powers, everyone was shown a glimpse of it. You stood by Logan the entire time, holding his hand in support.

“So, what about you, Y/N?” Scott asked. “Where are your thoughts on all of this?”

“Logan is still my husband,” you responded. Logan gave your had a reassuring squeeze as you spoke. His eyes were completely focused on you, like he was in a loving trance. “I knew that this would eventually happen since 1973. It was a risk I was willing to take knowing that that future Logan I met loved me so much.”

“But your memories aren't the same,” Bobby commented.

“You’d be surprised how many memories are exactly the same,” Jean responded with a knowing smirk.

“And the two of you are still going to insist on this husband and wife thing, though you've never actually married each other?” Rogue questioned.

“Actually," Logan drawled as he dropped your hand, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you against his side, “we want to make it official.”

“Yeah," you agreed with a bright smile, "and we want to make sure everyone's a part of it.”

“If it’s alright, Professor, we'd like to use the gardens for the wedding.”

“Of course," Charles smiled. “And my finances are at your disposal as well.” 

“Yay!” Ororo exclaimed. “We’re going to have a wedding!”

Logan looked down at you, smiling widely. “We're going to have a wedding," he whispered. He leaned in and kissed you softly. You sighed as you leaned into him further. 

“I love you," you whispered once you broke the kiss.

“I can promise that I love you more, sweetheart.”

next chapter >

[twilightkitkat]

OK QUESTION with the one series with the different universe we see how you think the X-Men would react to a similar Logan being so close with Deadpool.

BUT

How do you think our main universe reacts to the relationship especially when they compare this new Logan to the fallen hero?

This is such an interesting question that I thought about it for a while before answering because I wanted to do it justice. Firstly, I want to clarify that my answer takes place in a world where all the X-men are miraculously alive somehow except for Logan (maybe by some time shenanigans or just twisting the plot).

---

The world at large would be shocked to see The Wolverine again, especially after he was confirmed dead and his bones were buried. The TVA wouldn't want the entire world to know about them, and Logan and Wade would probably be the type to never really formally address his existence (since they aren't actually official heroes or a government body).

His resurrection would likely spark a lot of conspiracy theories and people wondering if he had a secret mission where he pretended to die or if he had a reason to stage his death. It's almost like the urban legend of Bigfoot with how rarely he shows up (somehow always next to the same red vigilante).

Aside from the initial shock, the public reception would be very positive. Who wouldn't want to see your childhood superhero back in action again? People would be excited to see him rejoin the X-men only to be extremely confused when he showed no interest in returning to his superhero work (especially when they assumed he either died and came back or was on a mission and so would naturally want back his spot).

As a matter of fact, after initial sightings of him in his suit, he just sort of... fades away. He never really makes public appearances or is involved in much of anything. He looks different than he did before and he always dresses casually. This combined with the lack of media about him after the initial outrage means that he only occasionally gets recognized in public.

(Something he's secretly very grateful for. He disliked being reminded of his past, of a world where he wasn't a failure. Of the version of him that was revered instead of feared and hated. He has to stop himself from flinching sometimes when people loudly yell out, "It's The Wolverine!" He lays low for a while in Wade's apartment, only accompanying him sometimes on covert missions until people mostly stop caring about his existence.)

But more than public confusion is the confusion of the X-men. They heard the truth through Colossus that this Wolverine was from another universe than their own and that he'd helped save their timeline.

(And most of the X-men were very confused because... why does Colossus know this of all people? Why didn't Logan just come to tell them himself? They knew Colossus was in cahoots with this vigilante vaguely from the time he visited the mansion, but they didn't know he was actually close to him. And why did being Deadpool's friend give him exclusive access to The Wolverine and his situation?)

They expected Logan to show up at their doorstep, one day. He apparently had the X-men in his own world, and while Colossus never really elaborated further (despite their prodding) they could surmise something happened to them if Logan was staying here. It's a perfect fit: the X-men who lost their Wolverine and the Wolverine who lost his X-men.

But he never does. At first, they chalk it up to him going on one of his solo trips. He liked to do that—to go out into the wilderness or disappear on some unspecified mission. He never really stayed in one place too long. (It was his personality, wasn't it? He got antsy being tied down to commitment and wanted to be free from everyone. It was fine even if it was inconvenient, it was just how he was.)

But then he never makes an effort to get involved. To reach out to them. He doesn't show any interest at all in returning to his old life or taking up the helm of an X-man again.

This Logan couldn't be all that different from theirs, right? Even if he was a lone wolf type who kept up his guard and acted gruffly, he only really had them. They took him in and fed him and clothed him and he showed up when shit went sideways in return. A perfect, neat, package with a bow on top.

But then a month passes. Then two. And even if he was the type to do his own thing, this was a little ridiculous. He'd just come back to life and didn't even bother showing up?

They all cornered Colossus, one day. Asked him about his well-being and what he was doing. Why he wasn't reaching out and when they should expect him to come back.

His answer shocked them. Apparently, Logan wasn't out on a mission at all. Instead, he was staying with Deadpool at his apartment and just... living there. Existing. He wasn't even particularly busy, he just hadn't visited. When they inquired further, Colossus smiled slightly and said that he seemed happy there. Content. That Wade was good for Logan and Logan was good for him, too.

It was... hard to wrap their heads around. Logan—fierce, closed-off, restless—just staying in one place? Content to just live with someone and accompany them on mercenary jobs.

Since when did Logan prefer teamwork? He always tried to turn joint missions into solo ones, and went out of his way to brush people off.. More than that—Logan, a mercenary? He'd rather pick up illegal work for some extra cash than return to being a hero? To being with them? Why did he decide to stay in a shitty apartment taking shady jobs for rent instead of just staying for free at their mansion? It made no sense.

It all came to a head when Laura (who'd been staying with them but largely kept to herself around the X-men) had her birthday party. They had parties often for the children in the mansion, that wasn't anything new. Except for the fact that the Wolverine was coming. She'd been excited when she mentioned that both Logan and Wade were going to show up (they didn't even know she'd stayed in touch with them).

(Why was the first time they saw Logan at a birthday party for someone else? Were they not enough? They'd taken him in despite his... difficult personality. What more did he want?)

And Logan comes. But he's entirely different than their Logan, the one they remember.

He's more... relaxed, somehow. He looks less hostile and cagey, letting his muscles relax and his head lean back. He looks like a man content with life instead of the guy who ran away the first chance he got, who always had an itch under his skin to move and never stayed too long.

He sticks to Wade like glue. They're always touching, somehow. An arm around the shoulders, a hand placed firmly on Wade's waist, fingers intertwined, legs pressed together. Logan is touchy in a way he never was with them.

And the way he looks at Wade—like he hung the stars and the moon and the sky itself. Even when they try to catch his eye from across the room, to get him to come over, he doesn't pay attention. His eyes are firmly locked on Wade's face, a warmth there (a softness) that they'd never seen before.

Wade gawks at the mansion and its decoration, flitting between Colossus and Negasonic and Yukio, gleefully grabbing some of the food. And Logan stays by his side the whole time, only watching him, murmuring in his occasionally which makes Wade either jab him in the elbow or cackle.

(And Logan lets him. He doesn't even retaliate aside from a grunt when Wade punches him in the arm, rolling his eyes and flicking his forehead in return but entirely content to let Wade at him. The trust there was so obvious it was painful. The familiarity. The warmth.)

The first time Logan takes his eyes off Wade is when Laura comes up to them. His eyes soften as he looks at her, almost imperceptibly if not for the fact that in their memories, his eyes were always hard. Guarded. They could count on one hand the number of times they saw even a semblance of that expression, normally involving Jean or Rogue.

Laura hugs him, grinning as she prattles on about whatever she'd been doing lately. Logan hugs her back, arms coming to wrap firmly around her. Easy affection. She pulls back and Wade hugs her too, spinning her around in the air as she laughs and hits him and asks him to put her down.

When Logan looks at them, the fondness is so obvious it's painful. They were used to seeing Logan show emotion—anger, sadness, fear, arousal. But never softness. (Especially not for a tumor-ridden mercenary and an experiment built off of his DNA.)

The party continues like that, with Logan leaning against Wade and basking in his presence. Hiding in his shadow when he's tired, leaning his forehead against Wade's shoulder.

Until they finally decide to approach them. Scott and Jean hold hands as they approach him for the first time, tired of observing him all night. Storm follows closely behind.

"Logan, nice seeing you man. It's, uh, been a while," Scott smiles crookedly at him. He expects Logan to respond how he normally does. To grin back, insult him, and start up their typical banter.

Like a well-oiled machine, they kept their rivalry going. Logan and Scott would act like they hated each other in public and fight like children over Jean until she inevitably chose Scott (and then it'd repeat). Sometimes, in the quiet of the night or an emotional moment, they'd become more. But that was rare, and Scott preferred the comfortable rhythm they normally kept to.

But Logan barely looked at him, nodded, and then turned back to Wade as he talked about some kid's show.

"Logan, that was a little rude, don't you think? We haven't heard from you in a while, it's good to see you're doing well." Jean lightly scolded him before letting her face melt into a smile. It was meant to be welcoming. Kind.

Scott tightened his arm around Jean. He knew Jean would always choose him, in the end, but it was annoying to see Logan flirt with her. She'd entertain him enough, and occasionally the three would wind in bed together in a moment of passion. But Jean was his, in the end.

Except, Logan didn't react. He just grunted in response. When his eyes met Jean's they were completely devoid of any attraction. He didn't flirt with her or pay her any attention. His eyes were solely on Wade.

It was only when Wade's eyes flicked toward them and he waved that Logan bothered to acknowledge their existence.

"Oh, hey! You guys are the real deal! The original X-men! The ones that took the 2000s by storm and made Marvel a shit ton of money," he rambled. His face was... interesting, to say the least.

Logan snorted. "Did you not expect to see the X-men in the X-mansion, bub?" The first time he verbally admitted they were even there.

"Considering the budget on my previous movies? Fuck no. It was too expensive to even have a good cameo, let alone actually have them on screen for more than a minute to have a conversation."

...What the hell was he talking about? He sounded clinically insane. And Logan was living with this guy?

But Logan laughed, genuinely, and it was like the world stopped spinning. He smiled and his eyes wrinkled, forming crescents. He teased Wade back in response, but they were stuck in that moment.

Logan was never like that. Never open, never soft. He cared, in a distant way, but he never really stayed. (Was it really that? Was it that he never tried to stay, or that they never gave him reason to? That they never gave him the chance before shutting the door in his face.)

But here it was. Physical proof that he was capable of looking at someone so softly. Of melting his hard exterior and becoming someone softer. Someone capable of cherishing the person they loved, of being domesticated.

Because there was really no other way than "domesticated" to describe him. He used to be like a wild animal—all sharp edges, jagged teeth, and razor-sharp claws. He snarled and growled at anyone who got too close and cornered him. He'd drop by for food, but snatch it and run off.

(But that's the thing about wild animals, isn't it? To get them to calm down, to stop seeing you as a threat, you need to be patient. To reach out. To prove you're safe. Did they ever really try?)

And now he even looked different. His hard muscles had filled out with a layer of fat. He looked healthy, like he wasn't just a tool built to fight and gnaw on the scraps he was given. He looked like a person who went home and ate a warm, balanced dinner at night. Who got adequate sleep and had all of his needs taken care of.

They thought that Logan's personality was rough, sharp, and jagged. That he was just Like That, and that it was useless to try to change it.

(After all, the bad boy is just someone you flirt with. Not someone you take him. Jean had said that, hadn't she?

And Logan had told her he could be the "good guy." Tried to show that he was capable of being more than just how he acted when he was hurt and alone. But she brushed it off. They all did.

And yet here Logan was. Soft and entranced by Wade in a way he never had been, even with her. Looking at him with something so much deeper than lust or attraction or infatuation. Looking at him with devotion. Reverence. Complete and utter love.)

But Logan wasn't Like That. He had always wanted to be soft. To be able to curl up next to somebody and trace the curve of their spine with his fingertips. He'd always yearned for a home he could feel genuinely warm in, where he'd be accepted and allowed to be vulnerable even if it wasn't pretty.

He'd only been hard because he had to. Because if he wasn't, the biting words and indifference of everyone around him would cut so deep he'd never recover. Because if he let himself love and be vulnerable with the X-men and they still viewed him as a passerby, as a tool, as an outsider, as just someone to sleep with—he'd break.

But Wade gave him a home. Gave him the chance to finally love and be loved and not feel afraid. To finally relax and open up. To show his emotions without fear of being scorned and to know he'd always be taken seriously. To not just be seen as the bad boy, but as a broken man desperate for anyone to cling to and feel cared for.

He was finally seen as more than just a stereotype. He was seen and loved for he was.

He was used to being hidden. Like a shameful secret. Jean was embarrassed to like him. Scott hid him away during the night and fought him during the day. He was a temptation, but that was it. They'd always choose each other first. Every member of the X-men had their person, but he was nobody's.

But with Wade, for the first time in his life, he was the first choice. He was the priority. He got to eat at the table instead of being fed scraps thrown onto the floor.

Logan thought it was natural to be treated as lesser. To be an afterthought. But with Wade, who cradled his face like he was something precious and was willing to die for him, he realized that he could be loved just as fiercely as he loved Wade. As an equal. As partners.

And so when he saw the X-men, he reacted the same way they had all those years ago: with indifference. With the same detached care he'd grown so used to. He spared them the effort of a few words, of reluctant acknowledgment, but that was it. If they never wanted to look closer at him or care about his needs, it was fine. But he'd do the same.

After all, there was so need to scramble to collect crumbs when he was well-fed. There was no need to look for a shitty room in an empty-feeling mansion when he already had a home.

[awkward-walking-potato]

so I was thinking for a request. what about reader who seems to have bad luck in dating. she has tried to date but it doesn't go further than one date . but the thing is she's actually in love with her best friend wade wilson. but with everything that happened to him: the cancer, vanessa breaking up with him, and her simply never having the guts to tell him. she decides she will try to get over him so she asks wade for advice in dating so he gives her tips and now she's getting more dates to last longer than one date but now wade has been feeling things romantically for her. you decide what happens next. 💖

Good Luck, Bad Luck, Deadpool

[Y/N] sat on her couch, her phone in hand, staring at the latest message from her latest date. It was polite, cordial even, but the meaning was clear: another date that wasn’t going anywhere. Another one-and-done.

She sighed, tossing her phone onto the cushion beside her. It wasn’t that she was unlucky in dating—okay, maybe she was—but there was something else behind her constant failures. Every time she went out with someone new, she found herself comparing them to her best friend: Wade Wilson.

Wade, who made her laugh until she cried with his off-color jokes and ridiculous antics. Wade, who had a dark, hidden side that he rarely showed but which made her heart ache with understanding. Wade, who she had fallen in love with long ago, but could never bring herself to tell.

Wade, who was a mess of scars, broken dreams, and a heart bigger than anyone realized. After everything that had happened to him—the cancer, the experiments that turned him into Deadpool, and then losing Vanessa—how could she possibly burden him with her feelings? He deserved someone whole, not someone who couldn’t even manage to get past a first date.

Determined to move on, she had finally decided to ask Wade for advice. Maybe, just maybe, if she could figure out what she was doing wrong, she could start dating someone who could help her forget about him.

Wade Wilson was the last person anyone would think to ask for dating advice. But then again, [Y/N] was anything but predictable. When she had shown up at his door a few weeks ago, sheepishly asking for tips on how to improve her dating life, Wade had been more than happy to help. After all, he had been a hit with the ladies back in the day. Sure, he was disfigured and kind of a psychopath now, but he still knew how to charm a date.

At first, he treated it like a game. He gave her the best advice he could: be confident, show interest, and, of course, don’t be afraid to show a little skin. He even helped her pick out outfits for her dates, outfits that made her look so stunning he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying something stupid.

And to his surprise—and maybe a little horror—it worked. Her dates started lasting longer than just one awkward evening. She was getting second, even third dates. But with every new date she went on, Wade felt something stir inside him. Something he hadn’t expected.

Jealousy.

At first, he didn’t recognize it for what it was. Wade wasn’t exactly in touch with his emotions—at least not the softer ones. But the more he thought about her being with someone else, the more it gnawed at him. He’d tried to convince himself it was just because he didn’t want to lose his best friend, but it went deeper than that.

The truth hit him like one of Colossus’s punches. He was falling for her. Hard. He had fallen for his best friend, the one person who had always been there for him, scars and all. The one person who saw past Deadpool and still cared for Wade Wilson.

And now she was trying to move on. Move away from him. And that, he realized, was something he couldn’t let happen.

[Y/N] stood outside Wade’s door, taking a deep breath before knocking. After weeks of going on dates with people who were perfectly nice but just not right, she was back where she started: thinking about Wade. She needed his advice again, and maybe this time, she could finally get some closure and really move on.

When the door swung open, she was greeted by a sight she hadn’t expected. The usually cluttered and chaotic living room had been transformed. Candles flickered softly around the room, casting a warm glow over everything. In the center was a small table set for two, adorned with a simple vase of roses.

“Wade?” she asked, her voice full of confusion and something else—a flutter of hope in her chest.

Wade stood by the table, wearing something that resembled a nice suit, although still accessorized with his favorite katana strapped to his back. He looked at her, and for the first time in a long while, he seemed almost nervous.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You look… really good.”

She blinked, still trying to process what she was seeing. “What is this?”

Wade gestured to the table, his usual bravado faltering slightly. “This… this is me, trying to get my shit together. To ask you… on a date.”

[Y/N] felt her heart skip a beat. “A date?”

“Yeah,” Wade said, taking a step closer. “I know, I know—I’m a walking red flag. I’m about as stable as nitroglycerin, I’ve got more issues than a Marvel crossover event, and let’s face it, I’m not exactly pretty to look at.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.

“But,” he continued, his voice softening, “you make me want to be better. You make me want to be the kind of guy who deserves a chance with you. And I know I probably should have told you this before, but I was scared. Scared you’d laugh, or that I’d screw it up, or that you’d find someone else who was better for you.”

Wade reached out, taking her hands in his. “But the thought of you with someone else? It kills me. I don’t want you to get over me, [Y/N]. I want you to give me a chance to be the guy you deserve. And if you’ll let me, I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy.”

[Y/N] felt tears well up in her eyes, but she quickly blinked them away. This was Wade—her Wade—baring his soul to her in a way she never imagined. He had always been so strong, so tough, and here he was, laying his heart out for her.

“Wade,” she whispered, stepping closer until they were inches apart. “I’ve been in love with you for so long. I just… I didn’t think you’d ever feel the same way.”

His eyes widened behind his mask, and he let out a soft laugh. “Well, I guess we’re both idiots then.”

She laughed too, the sound breaking through the tension in the air. “I guess we are.”

Wade grinned, and for once, it wasn’t the manic, over-the-top grin he usually wore. It was genuine, full of hope and something that looked a lot like love.

“So, what do you say?” he asked, his voice light but full of meaning. “Will you go out with me? On a real date?”

[Y/N] smiled, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “I’d love to, Wade.”

The kiss was sweet, a promise of something new and wonderful. When they finally pulled away, Wade rested his forehead against hers, a contented sigh escaping him.

“Good,” he murmured, pulling her close. “Because I’ve got a whole night planned, and it’s gonna be awesome.”

[Y/N] laughed, the sound full of joy. “With you, Wade, I have no doubt.”

And as they sat down at the table, the candlelight flickering around them, [Y/N] couldn’t help but feel like her luck had finally turned around. She was exactly where she was meant to be—with the man she had loved all along, who loved her just as much in return.

[lady-quen]

Hounds to Hamartia

"...Do you really want this, Commander? You wouldn't have gotten so far if not for your hunger." "...A hunger to succeed. To be recognized. To have power. You greedy creature, always reaching for more than you can swallow until the God of Flames finally made you choke on it. And yet, you'd return? To do it all over again? Don't you see how far you've already fallen - from a bright eyed Valiant to a wolf gripping tight the reins of all those who would dare question and oppose you? You're a killer, you know, right? You're never satisfied. And no matter what you do and how much you achieve, it will never be enough. You can drink til you're sick but never til you're satisfied. You will lose your Dream but your Hunt shall never end. Is this what you want?" "To save her. Yes. I will do anything." "Will you be anything?" "Yes."

[The Departing soft rewrite as applicable to my canon. 15k words. Tws for major character death, major character undeath, blood, gore, unreality, fantasy racism, swearing. The study of ambition as a fatal flaw, ironic destiny, as well as what it means to become a monster to stop an arrogant god. The Commander's encore.]

The arid Elonian air strained his lungs. That, and all that smoke from the Forged that insisted on barricading his path every step of the way.

The Knight ducked, deftly avoiding a blow from a massive Cannonade - deathly green magic snaking around the tip of Caladbolg as he angled it upward. With a shink! the Thorn slotted neatly between the plates of the construct's armor, severing the strands that bound the soul battery within. The flame fizzled out, and the colossus fell to its knees.

That... was the last of them. Maelmordha sighed, wiping a stray bead of sweat from silver skin. Sun-dried, his leaves and bark had practically lost all color. The sylvari took a short break in his climb, leaning against one of the rocky pillars that offered him some shade. Idly, his unaltered hand played with the settings of his communicator. He had already tried to enter the channel before, but the duststorms coming in from around Kesho had rendered the effort moot. Once again, the device returned nothing but static. Just like the buzz of sand in his ears when he braved the vast desert.

The necromancer pocketed the contraption, vinetooth arm adjusting Caladbolg's weight upon his shoulder. Not too long, now, he thought to himself. As he walked, the top of the Spire finally came into view - the meeting place he had arranged for the Dragon's Watch to pick him up. In theory, the altitude should allow for his communicator to work even despite the chaotic weather.

In practice, however, he really didn't like the dark clouds looming in the distance.

„Taimi, come in.” He stopped in the middle of the plateau. The only thing that answered him was yet more static, causing the Knight to let out an exasperated huff. The airship should have been visible by now. Did they get stuck in the storm? Worst case scenario, he could wait however long it took - he'd much rather spend a few extra rations than have the Watch crash somewhere far from civilization, thrown to the mercy of Elona's fickle weather and scorching sun. Spirits of this land only knew just how much of a scorned mistress it could really be, but he was beginning to get an idea. And that idea was that the sky was darkening much too quickly to be natural.

Something stirred in the pit of his stomach. Gold eyes narrowed, scanning the area around him. His stronger arm rested on the hilt of the Thorn, feeling the fuzz on his neck stand up as though seized by crackling static.

A sound. Like thunder.

The Commander leapt back, just narrowly avoiding the fiery meteor that crash landed in the middle of the Spire. What in the fucking Hydras..?! No, this wasn't a meteor -

„Balthazar!” His lips moved on their own. Fuck.

The God seemed to drink in the shock and fear betrayed by the necromancer's features. Grizzled features contorting in a self-satisfied smirk beneath a crown of obsidian horns. His gaze was oppressive, even when his voice seemed almost eerily playful. „Expecting someone else?”

Shit. This wasn't winnable.

The Commander forced a smile, even when he could already feel his skin shedding water at the sheer heat emanating from the God of Fire. His mask would do no good here - Balthazar knew all too well he held the upper hand. Still, if the Dragon's Watch were to come - how did the human God even know they were meeting here?!

Think, Mael, think..!

„Oh? Can't a man go sightseeing in peace?” He blurted out with a nervous laugh, Caladbolg poised and ready for combat. He could hear the rush of sap in his ears, heart pounding to the rhythm of alarm bells ringing in his skull. Gold eyes scanned the plateau. As if on cue, walls of fire, summoned with a snap of the rogue deity's fingers. Cutting off his escape route. Like a wolf smoked out of its den and ensnared in a ring of burning forest.

This was the end of the road. Knowing running was no longer an option, the sylvari's gaze focused on Balthazar, eyes wide and instinctive smirk turning into a wicked-looking grin. It wasn't a smile, anymore. He was a cornered beast, all bared teeth and feet ready to spring. The god chuckled. „Good. Just like that. I want your eyes on me, now, Commander.”

His title was a mockery, upon Balthazar's tongue. Like playing pretend with a child who wished he could be king. In the end, mortal rulers were but fleeting autumn leaves, falling soundless before eternal Gods. Not even a requiem, only the desert winds.

Fuck that. He was not going to think that way. He would not give this man the satisfaction. Maelmordha grinned, the sharpened tips of his fangs but polished wood before the hulking giant of flame and metal. So, too, was Caladbolg - but the Thorn had slain strange things before. And he laughed, a brazen sound to challenge Balthazar's own. If he were to fall, he would not go quietly.

„Bring it, then. Just us.”

No one was coming. Good. He would not suffer Balthazar to hurt his guild.

His attitude seemed to humor the God. An enormous blade of lupine decor and crackling hellfire rose at the fiery monarch's whim, carried solely by the strength of his will. Mael prepared himself to dodge - ducking swiftly under a wide swing that would have surely cleaved him in twain where he stood. Like a hot knife through butter. Still the red-hot bottom of the sword singed his foliage, adding a dusting of black to once pure-white leaves.

He sprang back to his feet, rolling deftly around the God's shin. Caladbolg struck viciously - a resounding clang as divine wood struck divine metal, repelled by the sheer force of magic clashing against magic. Shit. Balthazar was not only armored from head to toe - he was his armor, inhabited by flame like the lanterns in the Grove holding fireflies.

Unbothered, the God of War extended a palm - his war machine of a sword moving of its own accord and raking the ground where Mael had stood but moments prior. Lazy, like a cat swatting a toy mouse. Knowing its plaything won't run away. Catching a gaze of twin funeral pyres, the necromancer extended a hand of his own. There was no flesh nor blood here, but a necromancer of his caliber could make do.

„Rise!” He commanded, and the bleached bone of Elona's past answered his call. Skeletal warriors, rapidly assembling, with sand-worn equipment clutched in desiccated digits. Not like these could do much against the living embodiment of volcanic fury dressed in fortress walls, but they could be a distraction.

„Oh? What's this? Playing with toys? Feeling lonely?” Balthazar teased, a swing of his sword turning one of his minions into bone dust. Too shattered to return, a jigsaw with a million pieces. „...Have your friends abandoned you?”

He wasn't going to let Balthazar's teasing get to him. He only grinned in response, brows furrowed over sharp, golden orbs. Good, he wanted to say. Good, only I pay the price for my foolishness - no, don't think like that.

...You can salvage this. He's arrogant. An enemy so sure of their superiority won't be as ready for the tables to turn.

He ducked and weaved, striking with Caladbolg where he was able. Hissing as the fire burned his skin by mere proximity, retreating into a Shroud of shadows. Each step of this dance was a brush with death - against a predator who could crush him in a single blow.

„What do you say we take things a little more slowly this time?” The deity rumbled contentedly - reveling in his opponent's fleeting strength.

„I'm surprised a God can derive this much enjoyment from fighting one mortal.” Maelmordha quipped back. „Picking on prey your own size didn't go well, last time?”

„It seems you need a lesson in humility.”

He provoked him. Good.

Having baited Balthazar into advancing, the Commander leapt back. As soon as the God's boot touched the polished stone floor where he had stood but seconds prior, runic patterns alight with a green hue began their work.

An explosion, followed by another, and another. Sizzling poison accompanied by bitter frost, Death's own essence wrapped around the fallen God's form to sap his strength. The necromancer felt some of his burns heal from the sheer amount of magic taken through this gambit. Revitalized, a glimmer of hope surfaced within his mind that maybe, he could last long enough to devise a proper plan.

...And yet, even that amount of magic only seemed equal to plucking a single hair off the back of a rampaging boar. Balthazar didn't even seem to feel it.

He closed the gap faster than Mael could have ever anticipated such a behemoth to move. A motion of a fiery hand prompting his greatsword to thrust forward at unprecedented speed, and the Pact Commander could only respond so well.

A massive claw of pure darkness rose from the ground to intercept the blade, hardening quickly into solid shadow. But the flame only burned brighter. Parting the dark like a lantern, phasing right through his spell before he was fully ready to dodge.

He felt the blade brush against his side. It almost felt painless - before the scream caught in his throat.

He fell to his right, clutching his cleaved side. Golden blood gushed from the gruesome wound, Caladbolg clattering to the ground without fanfare. A howl of agony burst through clenched lips before he could ever choke it down. Shaking, he pushed down on crimson fabric, knowing no bandage could stem the flow of the sap that stickied his fingers.

Like a tree taking an axe to the trunk only to topple over. Even with all these years, he really was no more than a sapling.

No, no..! Get up. This isn't the end. Is it..?

He fought so hard to not let the terror show in his eyes. Even so much as meeting Balthazar's gaze was a monumental task. But he did. He blinked against the twin suns that threatened to steal his vision, and the Lord of Flames smirked. Satisfaction, mockery, faux pity, he couldn't even tell what it was, if not all of it at once.

„Feeling mortal yet?” He thundered, even the softest whisper of his voice an earthquake in its own right. „Do you recall the lesson? No? Let me repeat it for you: never defy a god.”

Through the haze of pain and building panic, the necromancer did the only thing appropriate. He laughed. His vinetooth arm reached for the fallen Thorn. Using the sword as a crutch, he pulled himself up to his feet. Even if his knees trembled. Even if the warmth spreading across his side sent waves of nausea through his guts.

And he felt it again. That magic he had absorbed previously. Except - no - this magic was.. was Balthazar directly feeding a sliver of his magic to him, right in that very moment? Was he going crazy from blood loss? And if so, why did he suddenly feel so much better?

Good enough to stand. Good enough to swing a sword - even with just one arm, and the other possibly the only barrier stopping his insides from sightseeing the outside world. He was still bleeding, but this... he had time. He had time.

Time. Time. Just... a little more time. What are you holding out for, Valiant? You know help isn't coming.

Tick, tock.

He bit back a groan of pain. I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

Every second he wrestled from this dire hourglass was a testament to his resilience. Every long second that counted down towards his death was a testament to Balthazar's pride. Panting, mortal breath mixed with immortal, singing fire and the roar of a sword two times his height or more slamming against the ground like a thunder drum.

A terrible symphony, for none to behold but themselves.

Tick, tock. He dodged. Tick, tock. The Thorn glanced off of impenetrable armor. Tick, tock. He slipped on his blood. Balthazar seemed almost disappointed at the lack of banter.

He couldn't move fast enough. His right hand joined the left in gripping the hilt of Caladbolg when he prepared to parry. Blinding light strained his eyes as the telekinetic strike came his way, and he angled the Thorn to minimize damage.

A sickening crunch. He skid back several meters, fresh pain seizing control of his senses. His right arm refused his control, and the tip of Caladbolg fell heavy against the floor in a pitiful attempt to stop him from falling. His breath came in ragged gasps as he beheld what had become of his uncorrupted arm - mangled at the elbow, splinters of wood tearing through vine. Fresh sap streaming down his sleeve, dripping from unresponsive fingers. It hurt. Oh, by the Tree it hurt so much. A low whine of agony escaped heaving lungs, tears flowing freely down silver cheeks. He couldn't even find the energy to meet the God's gaze, then. And he wasn't sure he even wanted to. Reality's weight was settling in, like dull ache in the bones.

If he looked at him now, what would he find? What was this sadism? How long would this last..?

Tick.

Tock.

Another blow. There wasn't even any time for him to breathe. If he were to fall, he would not go quietly. Like a ragdoll, he was practically thrown across the arena, a new slash in his shoulder rendering his right side almost completely useless. His mangled form finally came to a halt when it crashed against a pillar, rupturing something inside. A pained hiss, then desperate roar of hatred and sheer anguish. With his sole working hand, he slowly dragged himself, yet again, towards his sword.

„Suffer a little more loudly. Cry out!” The God raved in glee. „Let everyone hear!”

...Who...? There was no one here... Was there? It was getting dark. Maybe the shadows dancing at the edges of his vision were people, after all.

So he did the only thing he felt he could still do. Eyes numb to the pain. He got... up. Up to his knees, for his body refused to climb any higher. Up, as though clawing for a shred of dignity. At this point, the liquid pooling in his mouth tasted all the sweeter when he considered it signaled his coming release. And he knew how Trahearne had felt. Yes, the darkness suddenly seemed so... appealing. Even if the quiet scared him.

He didn't want it to be so... quiet.

„I do enjoy these little get-togethers. You're proving to be quite useful.” What in the fuck was Balthazar rambling on about? He struggled to focus on the words. He let out a wheezy „what” and spat anothet mouthful of sap. M-maybe if he tried to talk, Balthazar would converse rather than slowly pull him apart. Alas, his inquiry was ignored.

But something else answered. At first, he didn't know what it was.

The God of Fire walked towards him at a leisurely pace, before finally stopping mere centimeters away from the Knight - forcing him to look practically straight up. He could no longer make out Balthazar's features, privy only to a hazy outline of horns and two burning eyes.

„Listen...” Maelmorda rasped. Even that much took an unbelievable amount of effort. A long pause, just to collect enough breath to form words. „I never... even... wanted... to kill you....”

The true threat to Tyria were the Dragons. And they could not be killed without catastrophe following. He supposed all his dreams and lofty ambitions were but delusions of a madman. In a sense, Braham was right. Who gave him the right to kill Dragons, anyway? And who made him believe he could ever stand against a God? Hubris, all the way down. His very own hamartia.

„You won't.” The deity of Fire and War answered, matter-of-factly. The clock was winding down. Sleep. Please. „...How sad for you to die so far from home.” Please. No more magic moving his strings. No more teetering on the brink of oblivion.

No more. He let out a harsh gasp and fell backwards. Balthazar seemed satisfied. He supposed he could die knowing he gave a God some exercise.

There was a light in the sky. Huh, so this is how....

He blinked. This was no star, nor an opening of the heavens. It moved. It was... blue. And he felt a tiny mind hold the hand of his own. Filling his silence with song just to keep him afloat. And he knew. And oh, he knew.

„Ah, the scion... come here to defend her Champion.”

„Aurene, no...” He cried out, sole working hand reaching out in her general direction. His mind begging her to run. Grasping at the air with twitching fingers, as though he could in any way stop the God from taking her like he took all he ever wanted. Just another conquest.

She whined like a battered pup. Tiny yelps that communicated more than language ever could. Her magic cradling his weary soul even as he felt every thread that tied him to existence snap one by one. Begging her to stop. Holding her mind's hand when she refused, for he knew all too well the pain of letting go. But Balthazar had already claimed what he came for. Played him like the fool he was. So he decided to claim one last thing, just out of spite. I want your eyes on me, now.

Aurene was whisked away from the reach of his vision, fading sight filled completely by his killer. And the sword that lingered, a stake, above his heart. „And now, you die.”

...Aurene, I'm so -

In an instant, she felt the connection sever.

What am I? Who am I?

It saw a barren sky, shorn of stars. Its eyes never blinked. It did not know what a sky was. Only that it filled its sight, the very first ephemeral memory, ever since „existence” became a concept that it knew.

But besides that, it also knew one other, much more intimate thing - an idea that existed before it did. The idea it needed to be somewhere else.

It rose. Spectral fingers digging into grass, without feeling. Chest falling and rising without breath, as though in a hazy recollection of having once carried that rhythm.

The ground was cold. What was... cold? Everything that heat wasn't. It did not know why, but it brought it comfort. The idea of being something else than cold terrified it. And so it wandered. It was the only thing it could really do. It was almost familiar, like a dreamscape that it once existed in before existence became a concept that gave it meaning.

Occasionally, it passed another spark. Heard questions, and discovered it could speak.

What is my name? Something inquired. I don't know, it answered.

What is a... name? And why does everything hurt?

In the distance, an object. It moved towards it. Beside it, stood a spark, asking questions. Inside it, stood another. Different. Almost like it did not... belong. The very moment it moved closer, it was addressed directly.

„You there! Come here. Over here. We can help each other. What is your name?”

Ah, again... that word.

„I don't even know who I am. Or where I am... Or how I got here.” It only spoke the truth. It had no concept of anything else - at least at the time. The stranger, however, seemed well versed.

„You died - it happens.” It shrugged. Seemingly unbothered at the notion of whatever death was, even though it certainly raged at the predicament of being restrained within an object. „Welcome to the Domain of the Lost. I am, of course, King Palawa Joko.”

Huh, it thought, and its mind regained a little clarity. Was „Palawa Joko” a name?

„King Joko..? I'm sorry. I don't know that name,” it gently responded. Wide, curious, trusting gold, like the eyes of a a freshly blossomed hound. Ah, yes... it missed them. Why weren't there more hounds? It felt like there were, last time. When was... last time?

Its inability to recall the name sent the stranger into a fit of anger. The spark could only tilt its head inquisitively, attempting to understand the many terms that rapidly spilled forth from chapped lips. Ah, yes... it had... a body. It was not a spark - a spirit. Like it. Why was it different?

So it asked. And received another name in response - Balthazar. It felt... familiar. But it did not feel cold, and that scared it more than anything.

It seemed this Balthazar was a liar, then. A deceiver. And it understood what it meant to lie and deceive, and some of the light left its eyes. It knew that it, too, had lied and deceived in life. But... why? Why would someone do that? A concept of a headache was something that became known right after. And yet, that gnawing, anxious sensation persisted. This was no place for it. It needed to be somewhere, but not here.

And it realized it, too, had been a he. Like Balthazar. Was he.. Balthazar? No. He can't have been, right? He had half a mind to ask Joko about it, but the amount of confusion he was already suffering was enough for the time. Such as, what the difference between „God” and „King” even was, if there was any.

He imagined that, had he really been Balthazar, King - God..? Joko would have had more to say about it. He let out a spectral sigh as he watched the other spark argue with the stranger on the proper definition of godhood. He was not sure what “Genuflect, peasant” was supposed to mean, but apparently, the Domain of the Lost was where such debates commonly took place.

„Come, gentle spirit. You must take the next steps, and I've heard enough of Joko's blasphemies.” Its - her..? voice pried him from his thoughts. She had evidently grown bored with the stranger within the object, and decided to debate him next. Oh, Mother. Wait, who was Mother? But more importantly...

„...Who is the Judge..?” He asked the fellow spark, following closely in tow. The landscape was strange and the anxiety was not going away. Even existing was difficult, like every body part was ill-fitting. Uncomfortable, like his very self was a lie. 

She turned her head, coal brown meeting gold. She had a soothing air around her, like the remnants of a gentle sun. Warm. But not... scary. Not in the sense that Balthazar was.

„He is a loyal servant of Grenth. Charged with sending all the spirits who come through here to their appointed place.”

„But I don't know who I am. I don't know where I should be.” He mused sadly, as though afraid to admit he had no frame of reference. Everything simply fell away the moment he arrived here. If he even did arrive. Or had he always been here..? And yet, if so, why did it feel so wrong?

They walked the haunted plain, passing many other sparks. Some tall, some diminutive, some with beaks and fangs and tails. So many shapes to exist in that he had never fathomed. So, he looked at his hands. Compared his silver skin to that of the spark walking beside him. Bronze, soft, kissed by the sun. His was... harsher, pale, cold like snow.

Eventually, his senses were filled with the presence of something far greater than mere sparks. She beckoned for him to step forward, coaxing him gently towards the being. He was... massive. Hooded, with a skull mask for a face. He absentmindedly touched his own.

„Come, spirit. Do not be afraid.”

„I'm not sure why I'm here, or even who I am.” He confessed, resolving not to lie. In truth, he wasn't even sure.. how to, at least not at the time, but if being wretched had condemned him to that place, then nothing good could ever come of it.

The creature seemed to recognize his turmoil, and spoke in a soothing baritone. „That's because most spirits find their own way to their fate when they die.” He explained. „But those whose deaths are too traumatic often forget who they were or how they perished.”

„These spirits, like you and me, end up here in the Domain of the Lost.” The spark beside him added. Again, that name. This place. So.. wrong. Traumatic. Perished..? Right. He died. King Joko told him that.

„But I can't be here.” He tried to reason in the only words he knew. He didn't know why, nor where else he was possibly meant to be - he just knew it wasn't there. Like... warm. Too warm. Like fire.

Walls closing in from every direction, every angle, and he needed to get out. He needed to call for help, but also... he needed it to stay away. He was not to be helped. Why? There was a shadow in here with him. One other being. The only one. He felt like it had all happened before, and was the reason everything hurt. Why his skin felt like a lie, and his gaze darted around corners.

„You will reach your rightful place in time.” The grand being reassured, standing ever tall. He had to look up just to meet his gaze, and his chest moved faster.

„First, you must recover your name to know who you were and how you lived. Then, you must learn your purpose, to understand the choices you made and why you lived as you did.” The Judge continued, his bright green orbs a familiar hue. „Once you know your name and your purpose, only then can I determine your final destination.”

„...But how do I do that?” He asked. Confusion and fear swirled in gold eyes, as though the walls were already getting closer. Soon, he may be stuck here forever. A cage. Let him out. Let him out. He needs to see her.

Who?

„Nenah has traveled the path you now face. She can assist you.” The servant of Grenth clarified, an armored hand signaling in the direction of the sunlit spark. He met her eyes, and understood her name. ”...For though they may have belonged to you in life, once your name and purpose enter this domain, they are yours no longer. And you will have to fight to reclaim your name.” The creature's next words rang out with a heavy finality. „Now, arm yourself.”

And he was gone, dissolving into the shadows from whence he had come. Though he still had more questions than answers, this... was a starting point.

„Nenah... So you discovered your name? How do I reclaim mine?” The cold spark mused, unsure where to even begin. He did not want to fight other spirits for something he wasn't even sure was his. What if he ended up with the wrong name? What if he stole someone else's only hope to leave this place? Was this a price he was willing to pay? A spectral hand massaged the bridge of his nose, as though the habit had helped him process similar predicaments in life. Not that... he really even knew what „life” was - just that it wasn't „here.”

And if it wasn't here, maybe he needed to be alive.

„I learned my name from the spirit of my old mentor. But only after besting him at a challenge of riddles.” Nenah smiled sadly in recollection, letting the words linger on her tongue. ”I discovered my purpose hidden in an old diary I had written as a child. I was a teacher.”

A mentor, then. How fitting. Guiding others in life, and now again in death. A luminary in a land of darkness. „Is it that simple?” He raised his brows, hesitant to believe things could ever go so smoothly. Somehow, he had an inkling that bad luck was destined to follow him wherever he went. Call it a hunch, but... his hunches tended to be correct.

„It's different for everyone. The judge said you must fight to recover your name, so you clearly weren't a teacher.” Nenah pondered aloud, taking in his form from head to toe. His gaze followed hers, and he found himself clad in crimson fabric. Comfortable, but form-fitting clothes, accentuating his graceful shape. His shoulders, adorned with metal pauldrons - and knees guarded in a similar manner. Chainmail beneath his vest, little interwoven loops of steel. „A soldier, perhaps?”

„I... I don't know.” Despite everything, he truly did not know. The world was bleeding back in very slowly. Who's to say he was a fighter? Maybe he was a scholar? A performer? His knuckle idly moved across his lip, but he excavated nothing else from the chasm that was his memory. 

Nenah sighed. „Well, if you are to fight, you must first arm yourself.”

„With what?” He asked, incredulous. For whatever reason, he had an instinct to pat himself over for hidden weapons. The woman raised a ghostly eyebrow.

„Spirits must abandon their possessions before they may move on.” She set off towards some distant yonder, and once again he followed.

„I'll look around. Maybe I will.. find something.” He sifted through foliage and rubble, even when the geometry of the place didn't make much sense. For weapons, he would usually go to... a blacksmith. A mystic forge, maybe. Mother?

„You know, I.. remember. I had a sword.” He recounted, searching for a familiar outline on the floor. Sliding across stone. Reaching for the hilt. He only had bits and pieces, but he instinctively looked low. „I think.. Mother gave me it.”

„Your mother?” Nenah chatted. „Was she a warrior, then? Was the sword a family heirloom?”

„I don't... think she was, no. But I think others have owned that blade before me. I think it... had seen the blood of its wielders.”

„Too much blood spilled everywhere, I tell you...” The fellow spark sighed. „I know all about it, gentle spirit. Though with your recent revelations, I suppose gentle may not be so fitting.”

„...Why do you think so?”

She did not answer.

It took them a long time to get anywhere with the search. He supposed time lost meaning in a place such as this - with no frame of reference, who's to say what was day and what was night? If death had already come, there was nothing to count down towards. Sifting through mud, he wondered whether eternity was always supposed to be so dull.

Here and there, other sparks. Shaped like many things - the best approximations of themselves in life that they could muster. And yet, there were also those formless. Like clouds, and their voices sounded like rain mixed with lightning static. Nenah warned him away from those. He supposed that was what awaited if one did not reclaim their name.

And then some who spoke in nonsense and riddles. Cryptic warnings, issued from behind trembling hands, as though covering one's face rendered them invisible. It's coming, they whispered. What, he asked.

„...The Beast. And It will get you too.”

Before he could ask any additional questions, the spark... evaporated. Pure magic in the air, and then nothing. Wherever they had gone, he hoped they had at least escaped It.

„...Is it Balthazar?”

„Who?” The teacher turned to face him as he sifted through a pile of sand.

„The Beast. It's the worst thing I have heard spoken of, here. It feels like it matches with that name.” He had no better ideas, anyway. Each step into the unknown unlocked something - not always useful, but he was determined to connect the dots. Even when he grasped at straws.

„Oh, Balthazar? No, no. He's one of the Human Gods. The Six. And he betrayed them.”

„He betrayed them? He lied and deceived them? Why?”

„No one knows. One day, he just... did. And the Beast has been here ever since.”

The sand moved with a gust of wind. A shine caught his eye, and he moved closer.

And there it was, halfway buried, as though attempting to take root. A ghostly image of his sword - slotting neatly into his hand. Like it was meant to be there. Like it had been, for a long, long time.

„Huh.” Nenah gave Caladbolg a good lookover, before coal eyes met honey gold.

„I know now. I was a soldier.” There was conviction in the spark's voice. A newfound confidence, even when facing his truths came at a cost. His words gradually turned quiet. „I... don't think I was a good man. I lied and deceived. I think I wanted something very much.”

Nenah lingered in silence. A hand of sun-kissed bronze rested upon one of the cold spark's shoulders, feeling metal. A reassurance, perhaps. Or simply an acknowledgement. Whatever it was, her smile gave him the strength to keep going.

„Look. Over here.” She suddenly yanked him, pulling him behind a cover of trees. And then, himself.

Red cloth, bronze tinted metal. Stealing fervent glances, as though afraid of every shadow. That expression of prey-animal terror did not suit his features.

„That spirit... it looks just like me.”

„We should follow. Hurry!” They ran after it, and it broke into a sprint. It weaved inbetween rocks and trees, heading for a cave shrouded in webs. A dead end. His gold eyes met their own reflection, and his mirror image screamed.

The Thorn moved like second nature, and the dagger fell out of their hand. And so, the illusion shattered - a small creature huddled, weeping, where his warped self had been. „I yield!” It screeched. „I yield. Take it! It's yours.”

He still held the Thorn - a show of power, though he did not intend to strike down the thief. „Why did you steal my name?” Gone was the mellow calm with which he arrived. The timbre of his voice changed - and so too did the look in his eyes. No longer honey, but liquid gold. „Answer me.”

And the creature wept, for it did not know any better. But he still did not remember. Why he fought, why he lied, why he killed.

„Keep looking.” The same guiding hand rested once again upon his shoulder. Though steady, her tone was filled with urgency. „If you don't reclaim your name quickly, you could lose it forever.”

And so, he fought - like the soldier he was. And as each spark begged for his mercy, doubt surfaced in his spirit.

„What if it was.. an evil name? What if finding who I am will make me worse?” He questioned, feeling the heat radiating from his bark. Pain. The sword in his hand was singed and black. It hurt. He did not remember, but the pain was growing. „What if where I am meant to go is even...”

„That's not for you to dwell on. Your task here is merely to find it. There is nothing more for ones such as we.”

„Nothing more..?”

„Your name and your purpose are all there is. And since more than one have claimed your name, it means it must be a prestigious one. Now, ask yourself. If yours were an evil name, then would they still seek to make it theirs?”

„...Do they know who I was? And if so, then why don't I..?”

„You will. All things in time. So fight, noble spirit.”

And he fought. Until the tide of shadows finally stopped coming. And the dam holding back his tears broke.

„I remember.” He lifted his clawed hand, watching his digits tremble with each new memory that surfaced in his hollowed mind. „My life... was filled with conflict.” Always war. Always killing. „Victory... and loss. I was a leader - a commander. I was...”

A Dreamer. A Valiant. A son. A Knight. A Commander. A Champion. A Dragonkiller. A Lichslayer.

„...Maelmordha. Yes. This is who I was.” A name, of his own. Something that felt right and not like a lie - even if the pain never went away.

Umber eyes lit up with the gentlest smile. „I could tell, Maelmordha. You wielded that weapon like a true fighter.”

„But I don't know why I fought... what I strove for, or against.” The sylvari spirit looked down, amber orbs filled with indescribable longing. It was all so very tiring, and he felt bad for relying on Nenah's guidance so extensively. Didn't she have a place to be..?

Didn't she, too, feel like she had to be somewhere else?

„Next is your purpose. What drove you forward... and what ultimately led to your death. The answer is here, somewhere in the Domain of the Lost.”

„...I just have to find it.” He finished her thought. She smiled, and nodded. He returned the gesture. „But how will I know it? Where will I find it?”

The words that came next were nothing but cryptic - as his guide slowly made her way onward, as though knowing exactly where to go. „If you truly desire it... your purpose will find you. I'd start with the bird.”

„A bird..?” The fallen necromancer questioned. And then he saw it: a raven of brilliant white. Its feathers alight with a sheen that reminded him of home - like Mother's petals. And he remembered Her, and each lullaby She used to sing. „Come! I need to -”

He tripped over a stray root, and realized it was moving. The ground itself shook and parted beneath his feet, tendrils slithering like snakes as a beast - a Dragon - rose in the distance. Grand, like a monument of leaf and vine, and in front of it - a pair of lights. Caithe, one of the Firstborn. And himself. Images of the eldest Knight of Thorn, Riannoc, his blade of alabaster bark glowing with the light of hope. Caladbolg itself, which now rested in his care. And on the other end, a lich, his skeletal hands commanding death like a putrid orchestra - drowning the First Knight in a sea of corpses.

Fear not this night, you will not go astray. 

The raven flew ever onward, unfurling a sea of memories. And he ran after it, hand outstretched, mouth forming a silent call.

Though shadows fall, still the stars find their way.

It weaved through the darkness like a lone bolt of lightning through blackened storm clouds. He took Nenah's hand, pulling her along - afraid to let go, but infinitely more scared to lose track of the light. And they ran. „My eyes are - they're open, Nenah!”

„Good! Let yourself feel it, and let it wash over you. He who follows his purpose will never truly lose it!”

Awaken from a quiet sleep, hear the whispering of the wind. Awaken as the silence grows in a solitude of the night.

From the dark, twisting shapes. The stench of rot and clattering of bone as a tide of Zhaitan's legions marched against the army of the Pact. Mazdak, the Accursed, fallen at last at his hand – his first Hunt fulfilled. Sieran's parting words as the gates closed. The Sunless' advance and the fall of Claw Island. The tears shed that day, and the promises made to live on in spite of them. And then, in the end, their banners, raised high upon the towers - him and Trahearne, side by side.

Darkness spreads through all the land and your weary eyes open silently

Sunsets have forsaken all, the most far off horizons.

And again, they charged. Roar of gunfire and steel. Wyld Hunts that seemed all but impossible, keeping steadfast hand in hand. And the heart of it all, cleansed and beating again, as he remembered holding him for the first time. And laughing.

Nightmares come when shadows grow. Eyes close and heartbeats slow.

The assault on Arah. The thundering of war engines and the roar of airships. Destiny's Edge standing united, and him leading the final push. Zhaitan's death throes shattering the mountain, sending the Dragon itself crashing from blighted heavens towards the shoreline. Victory, and the first kiss shared in the dim light of a study. Why was he crying? Like he was already aware what came next.

Fear not this night, you will not go astray. Though shadows fall, still the stars find their way.

„Mordremoth!”

It all unfolded in quick succession. Ceara's fall; Scarlet Briar. The assault on Lion's Arch. Aurene's egg and Caithe's betrayal. The disaster of Maguuma, all that death and then - past the horror of it all - holding his dear's broken, dying body as the foul magic bled out of his system in rivers of gold. The Thorn trembled in his hands, but he knew not to let it go. The day his eyes turned cold. He felt Nenah's hand squeeze his own.

And you can always be strong. Lift your voice with the first light of dawn.

His hatred. His bitterness. And Her light, which saved him.

The founding of Dragon's Watch. The awakening of Primordus and Jormag. Braham's burden and the wrath in his words as he snapped. A bridge, burned to ashes - a wound that they would no longer have the chance to mend.

And Her, coming into the world at last. Caithe's words, and her vow. To lay down her life for -

„Aurene.” He found himself repeating his own words. „Her name is Aurene.”

Dawn's just a heartbeat away. Hope's just a sunrise away.

The rise of Lazarus. A mystery of the great deceiver. Climbing the spire as everything around them began to burn, and yet they knew the only way was up. He knew the only was was up.

It had always been like that, hmm, Commander?

The raven disappeared into the smoke, and he dove after it. Coughing, as though his lungs remembered the feeling. White leaves singed black and then he lost her in the fire. „Nenah! Where are you!” He could no longer feel her hand. His fellow spark had disappeared, and only Balthazar's pyre remained. The planks behind him crackled and crumbled as burning heat cut off the way back. So he climbed. Following each white feather. Humming Mother’s lullaby.

„...Have your friends abandoned you?” He could hear the God's mockery in his ears. His oppression, his glee, the sadistic pleasure he took in prolonging his every breath. And then, Aurene. Reaching for him. Damning herself just for a chance to save him.

And still, in the end, she was taken, and he died with no one to hold him. His last words frozen in his throat. But now, he screamed. He screamed and wept and his eyes shot open only to find his fellow spirit clutching his hand tightly within hers. And he looked into coal orbs and in his tormented mind, they seemed to flash crimson, shadowed by a crown of horns.

„...Balthazaaaaar!!” He howled like an animal, thrashing. A hand pushed down on his chest, keeping him on his back, before pulling his head into her lap. „Shh. Shh. There, there. Just breathe. Like you remember. Even like this, it helps.”

Tears streamed freely down silver skin as he wept in terror, clawed hand outstretched towards the sky. But there was no Aurene. No dark clouds cutting him off from the world. No Balthazar, staring down at him like yet another broken toy, balancing his blade over his heart. So, he did the only thing he could. He cried, allowing the mentor spirit to gently pet back his leaves, quelling the sobs that shook his body.

„...I remember. I remember.” He repeated, the most quiet of whimpers. Wet, haunted gold found umber again as he spoke. „Balthazar - he wants revenge on the other gods, and he's going to use Aurene to get it. I... I have to convince the Judge to send me back.”

„Rest, silver tongue. Death is not something to outwit.”

„You don't understand.” He gathered himself enough to stand and walk, even as his knees shook with every step. „That bastard will destroy Tyria. All of it. This isn't about me and my ego, for fuck's sake!” The Commander broke into a sprint. Moving as fast as his legs would carry him, causing the Elonian spirit to struggle to keep up. „He wants the strength of the Elder Dragons for himself, and doesn't care that killing them now will doom the world!”

„I see.” Nenah responded. There was deep concern upon her face, now, as the true weight of all that had transpired took the time to fully settle and click into place. „...He has ravaged this place. Stolen spirits and used them to bolster his army. He has let something horrible into this place, something beyond even Grenth's jurisdiction.”

Maelmordha paused, stern gold meeting her gaze. „The Beast. Come. We need to move!”

As soon as they arrived in the Judging Ground, the grand spirit rose again from the shadows, a visage of skull and green fire ready to welcome them both. Recognizing Nenah and sensing the distress within her companion, he turned his full attention to Maelmordha.

„Grenth welcomes all, noble spirit. Step forward, and I will send you to your appointed place.”

But the necromancer had other ideas. He took exactly one step in the Judge's direction, setting his boot down with absolute conviction. „You must let me go back.”

For a moment, there was absolute silence. If the Judge could produce an expression, he would surely have frowned. A spectral sigh laced his words when he next spoke, weighting them carefully. „...I see you clearly now, Commander. Balthazar killed you, but you would face him again?

„Yes.” The sylvari replied immediately, filled with fervent - perhaps even crazed - determination. Yes, a thousand times yes. Even when it hurt. He couldn't just let her... He grit his teeth, releasing a quivering breath.

„Balthazar has done great harm here.” Grenth's right hand confirmed what Nenah had already told him. „The magic he uses to hijack spirits shakes the foundation of the Domain of the Lost. But I... cannot help you.”

No..! No, this wasn't going to end this way. He would not let it. By the Tree, he had to bargain.

Mael took another step, lacing fingers together as though in prayer and slowly shaking his hands with every word. „If I could only get back... if I could defeat him, it might undo the damage he's done in both our worlds.” There. He was officially bargaining with Death himself. Or, rather, his right hand, but the point still stood.

The Judge sighed painfully, sending ripples through the aether. „It is too late. No life remains in your body. Unless...”

Unless? Fucking hell, he was actually getting somewhere.

„When Balthazar left, a fearsome beast, the Eater of Souls, rose to prey on the waning life energy of the spirits here....”

Nenah moved closer. „That's got to be the screams I heard in the distance. So, it is true, after all.”

„...If you were to defeat the beast and claim its power, that life energy might be strong enough to reanimate your body.” The Judge continued. „Allowing you to go back. But, if you were to fail, the beast would consume your entirety. I could grant you no final reward or punishment. Your spirit would simply cease to be. Do you.. really want this, Commander? You will be changed. There is no other way. As a necromancer, you know what this entails.”

He did. Oh, he did. He opened his mouth to speak, but the sound froze in his throat.

Riannoc...! He tried to shake the memory from the Dream. Lose the ghost of the man whose Wyld Hunt he once bore. No, this was bigger than him. Bigger than all of them. That bastard had Aurene, and if she...

Maelmordha clenched his fists. Gaze downturned, shrouded in white leaves. His shoulders shook with the weight of the choice placed in front of him. With the phantom of his people's very first nightmare. Did he... have the right? To do this? And if so, who gave him it? Who allowed this man to play God in his own right?

He supposed the answer was standing right in front of him. Gazing with green orbs, waiting patiently for his reply. „Grenth does not take kindly to those who defy his domain. But he is willing to forgive this one transgression, in the name of both our worlds. You will become something different, and if you ever go astray, you will no longer be entitled to your final reward.”

„Diabolistic magic...” He muttered under his breath. His fellow spark looked on with worry. Softly, her hand once again found his shoulder, resting upon it with comforting weight. „Whatever you decide, I will help you see it through til the end. So, think - for what does your purpose call?”

Did it call for him to fall this low? And yet... if it was the only way to save Aurene - to save Tyria, then did he ever really have a choice at all? He took a breath, and his golden gaze rose anew, finding ghastly green.

„...I accept that risk. I have to go back to finish what I started.”

Clawed gauntlets rose into the air, the Judge's mask angled towards the jade-hued skies. „Then in Grenth's name, o blessed sinner, conquer the Eater of Souls and live again! Remind Balthazar that none escape judgement.”

With a snap of the servant's fingers, crimson fabric set on viridian fire, and in an instant, his body was framed in darksteel. A long, black cape extended from beneath the upturned spikes of his new pauldrons, ornate gauntlets wrapping around his forearms and tall, metal greaves fitting upon his legs. A disc of magic flared to life over his sternum, like an eye of Death itself.

He took a moment to inspect his new armor, finding it a perfect fit. „...Thank you.” He gasped, unsure at first what to make of the gift. And yet he could feel no ill magics from it - nothing meant to limit or control him, only accentuate his existing power.

„Let this be proof of Grenth's favor. An exceptional honor, in exchange for your willing sacrifice. Go, blessed sinner, and may your soul remain your own through this dire tribulation.”

„It will. You have my word.” And he turned around, features dark and the Thorn on his back ready.

After all, he who bore Caladbolg would not fall, so long as his desire was pure. Funny how that turned out. Did the sword's apparent curse carry on in death? He'd have to find out.

„Allow me to lead you, Maelmordha. The Beast stalks the deepest shadows of this land. Those spirits we've met earlier...”

„...It may already be too late for them.” He finished the teacher's thought. „I'm sorry, Nenah. But I cannot allow you to go with me, this time.” If he were to be devoured... ah, would it not simply be due payment for his hubris...? But her? She had done nothing but help him. „This is a journey I must take alone.”

„Even when dying alone was your greatest fear?” She retorted, causing the necromancer to seize up. He did not look at her, simply continuing to walk forth into the darkness. „...Thank you, Nenah. But I will take this from here.”

„As you wish, blessed sinner.” And just like that, her footsteps no longer accompanied his.

And in the deepest depths where even the raven did not delve, he found it. A hideous demon of blue fire, contorting into whatever fears his mind held to finally settle on the form of a Mouth of Zhaitan. Towering, with rows of fangs ready to snatch him up where he stood. How did one fight hunger incarnate..? He drew the Thorn, and charged.

The same rules did not apply here as in the waking world. This was not only a fight of tooth against thorn, but a dance of nightmare. Like every worst part of him, reflected right back in his face. The shadows had been nothing, compared to this. They only wanted his name, after all.

Oh, the Beast? It wanted everything. To strip his soul, down to the marrow. And in the end, it had been decided all along. To conquer the Mouth was to embrace its hunger. To take for himself another name. Even if he had to become a worse version of himself, he would do it in every life. His right hand's fingers traced a symbol on his heart. Chanting an ancient curse, the same forbidden verse he spent his first five years researching. The Commander's spirit ignited in black smoke, Caladbolg a Reaper's scythe.

...Do you really want this, Commander?

You wouldn't have gotten so far if not for your hunger.

...A hunger to succeed. To be recognized. To have power. You greedy creature, always reaching for more than you can swallow until the God of Flames finally made you choke on it. And yet, you'd return? To do it all over again? Don't you see how far you've already fallen - from a bright eyed Valiant to a wolf gripping tight the reins of all those who would dare question and oppose you? You're a killer, you know, right? You're never satisfied. And no matter what you do and how much you achieve, it will never be enough.

You can drink til you're sick but never til you're satisfied. You will lose your Dream but your Hunt shall never end. Is this what you want?

To save her. Yes. I will do anything.

Will you be anything?

Yes.

Waken then, Fell Wolf, and hunt.

Kill Balthazar, and devour.

The monstrous body before him fell, dissolving into shadow. His scythe still lodged in its burning core, he felt the cold flicker climb up his weapon and touch ground with his skin.

The demon's magic flooded his senses. The world swirled in front of his eyes, a gaze of spectral gold darting around in terror. He saw the lost sparks return, freed from the beast's belly, as they all moved in unison towards Judgement. The Domain breathed a sight of relief - and then he felt his chest rip open.

And he screamed. By the Pale Tree he fucking screamed. Feeling every second of the blade digging into and parting his flesh, crushing organs and searing his insides. Except now, the blackness offered no relief. There was no merciful veil of Death to take the pain away, to ease his body's last gasp as embers took his lungs. And the flames did not burn his throat and steal his voice. At some point, the agonal screech turned into a howl, and his eyes wept spectral light.

Seizing, he fell to his knees. His armor glowed a deep cerulean - and more metal enveloped the Commander's form. He scarcely registered it, even when links of chain snaked round his heaving chest and hooked into the gaping cavity of his wound.

It was almost a mockery. Almost a voice, sneering into his ear. This is what you are. Do you regret it yet?

„Aaaargghh!” His own voice burst forth in strained cries. Calling names as though their owners could ever help him. „Pale Mother! Aurene! Grenth!”

No one will save you now, either. You chose this. Maelmordha, you poor, poor fool.

It felt like ages but the pain relented just enough to leave the fallen Knight gasping and wheezing in a ghastly approximation of life. Collecting his stolen breath, registering a familiar sensation upon his cheeks before he ever realized he was crying. Again. And only then did he get to truly, wholly gaze upon his form - the warped image of his own demise, seared forever into his soul.

Trembling fingers probed at the edges of his wound - the very one that killed him - and found fangs. Rows of umbral teeth, licked by flickering tongues of blue fire. This had to be... was this real? Absently, he reached inside, half expecting the slick wetness of entrails. Instead, he found only cold nothingness, and a pulse at the core of it all. A rhythmic thrum of magic where his heart had been, just barely out of reach, yet begging for his touch.

Focus, the magic whispered. The Alchemy bends to your whim. Death's defector, defiler of Nature. So he did. And the dark became corporeal.

Transfixed, he pulled on the object, and out emerged a sword of midnight. Blue veins running along its surface, magic pulsing to the beat of the orb that lay at its center; Connecting the hilt and the blade. And he felt his new heartbeat, bare within his hand. Bound to his maw with chain like some eldritch stem, bridging the gap between man and demon. The first fang of the bound Wolf, and then the second - Dromi and Lædingr.

They slotted into his grip as though he had never been meant to hold anything else. Extensions of his ambition and his sin. These blades, they felt nothing like Caladbolg. Where the Mother's Thorn tasted of light and grief, these weapons? They were forged of naught but gnawing hunger, pulled straight from the pit of his stomach.

„I'm...” He was almost afraid to have a witness. But he did. And slowly, he lifted his gaze again, finding his fellow spirit staring back with what could only be described as somber pity. „...Nenah, why did you come... I'm...”

What am I?

A Dreamer. A Valiant. A son. A Knight. A Commander. A Champion. A Dragonkiller. A Lichslayer. A... his sight was blurry.

„I'm... so...”

Static enveloped his mind. Ghastly blue light burned within his eyes.

„I'm... so... hurrggh....”

He was ravenous. He - it - the Soul Eater.

Someone called out. Their words but white noise in the void of his thoughts.

Slowly, he walked. Tips of his swords dragging against the ground and gouging the earth. The magic inside him pulsed like the want that moved his jaws. The desire that now held together his spirit. This unholy, aberrant, ugly spirit. Pounding in his split-open chest, the war-drum of instinct drowning out every alarm bell in his mind.

Devour. This is what you are. This is what you chose. Didn't you?

„...Remember...”

A voice. Did it matter? They all screamed at the precipice between worlds. Their words made no difference.

„...Remember who you are...! Remember why you did this..!”

Aurene? No, she was...

Who - whose name was this? What was a name?

„Blessed sinner..!”

Who?

There was the sensation of weight wrapping around his wrists. He growled, lips twitching. And in that moment, his mind surfaced - searching for something, anything, to keep itself afloat.

„Remember your name! Maelmordha..!”

And he snapped back. Blue eyes back to yellow, swords dissolving and chest stitching shut. A gasp, as though his soul yet remembered the rush of air in his lungs. And he found dark eyes, holding the gaze of his own - a lifeline for a dead man.

The eyes of a woman who never knew him. A woman who had nothing to gain from this, and everything to lose.

„...Why..?” He mouthed. Utter silence in his mind aside from that singular question. „...Why did you risk your li - your existence? I could have -” Mael scowled, bringing gloved hands before his face. His digits shook with the strain of keeping himself together.

He could have eaten her. Erased her. Even now she caused this beast's mouth to water. A soul - a light - pure magic. He knew now how Dragons felt, and if the hunger hurt so much, then were they ever truly to blame..?

There was conviction in Nenah's eyes as she once again took hold of the sylvari's wrists, pulling them down as to force the fallen Commander to meet her gaze. „This isn't about... what you could have done to me. Nor what could happen to you. This world is falling apart at the seams because of Balthazar. I believe... I'm here, because Kormir wanted me to help you.”

„Kormir..?”

The Goddess of Truth who could only smile sadly as she departed. No actions taken, only words of hollow solace - as she abandoned them all. Abandoned her people. He wasn't human, but witnessing the heartbreak on Kasmeer's face? He might as well have been. „Kormir left us. Left Tyria behind. The Gods have relinquished all claim to this realm -”

„And yet you're here. And you'll live again. With Grenth's own blessing. So who's to say they really left us? Who's to say they abandoned us when they still guide us?”

Mael closed his mouth. The teacher was right. This was an angle he hadn't truly stopped to consider - and what right did he have to stomp down on the hope that still remained for the people? Living or dead, they all needed a light to lead the way. Gods and spirits for men, Dream for sylvari. Heroes and concepts to hold onto - invariably, no one ever wanted to go alone into the dark.

To trudge on, not knowing what awaits on the other side. The necromancer's voice came in a soft whisper.

„...You're right. I'm sorry. And... thank you.” Maelmordha swallowed, desperately pushing down his racing thoughts. He forced an apologetic smile, a last look at the fellow spirit who had accompanied him for so long. „So... I guess this is goodbye.”

„So it is.” She returned a smile of her own. In that moment, the humble teacher truly looked like the Goddess she so loved. And he could see that love burn bright. It would be the beacon that lit her way to her final reward, far, far away from the war that took her and those she mentored. A war he'd return to, damned as he was - to make sure it took no one else. Perhaps it was a fool's notion, but a chuckle broke through the silence nonetheless.

„Good luck wherever you're going, and... Pray for me, would you?”

„I will, Commander. Trust in Grenth. And know that everything happens for a reason.” She let go, a final nod offered his way before she turned around, heading towards the Judge.

And so, Maelmordha turned his gaze towards the precipice of worlds, knowing he now possessed the strength to bridge them. But one more voice vied for his attention - someone he unfortunately recognized. Once again demanding to be the center of the world, now with the added bonus of kissing ass. A smirk crept onto the Commander's features.

„Look who's groveling. Genuflect, Your Majesty.”

And so began the worst lich feud in Tyrian history, but that was a tale for another time.

”Gods, I... I can't even bear to look at him.” The mesmer's body shook with stifled sobs. Tears charting dark lines down pale skin - washing away the paint from her lids.

Tribune Brimstone could only frown, jaws parting to offer some form of solace just before he remembered he was never any good with words. And so, lips fell over fangs again, safekeeping solemn silence. „Yeah... yeah.”

He always did make everything worse, didn't he...? Green orbs wandered back to the proof of his failure. The haphazard veil that covered the worst of the Commander's wounds was soaked in sap. Empty eyes now resting closed, the poor bastard looked almost eerily peaceful. Almost as though he were merely resting. It didn't suit him to be so dark in the evening, though. That ruby light was gone and the soldier in Rytlock - all he had ever been - knew better than to dwell on death as humans did. It wasn't sleep. No gods to kiss it all better. And all that blood and gore couldn't be dressed in words in a way that made it pretty.

„He's done so much and I can't... I can't even look...”

Kas was still crying. Rytlock winced. Clawed hand hovered over her form, as though debating whether his touch could offer any superficial semblance of comfort. Ultimately, it retreated, and his tail flicked uncomfortably. With a deep rumble, he excavated his voice.

„...He wouldn't have wanted you to.” There was no point. He was gone anyway, so it didn't matter. At least he wasn't in pain anymore. And, well, Commander never did want anyone else to have to suffer for no reason. „Shit, how we gonna break this to Taimi...”

„That's what I'm worried about. Kid won't take this too well.” Canach sighed, raising himself up from his kneeling position. „Aren't you the Watch's second? Should I call you Commander, yet?”

„Shut it, weed.” The snarl came on its own before he ever had the chance to reel in his anger. A growl seeped past the Blood Tribune's teeth, and he pinched the bridge of his snout. „Look, just - just let me think. Or make the call yourself if you have so much yapping left in you.”

Uncharacteristically, Canach merely sat quietly away to the side, closer to the body. For a brief moment, the Secondborn's stern gaze met that of the charr, before both men promptly looked away. It was clear the former convict had no interest in petty arguments at the time - whatever words he did have locked firm behind his teeth.

„I'll do it.” A meek voice picked up from the back. Rytlock's head turned, only for green orbs to meet dim blues. Lady Meade looked positively pathetic. And yet, though her eyes were framed by streaks of runny makeup, her expression was one of tired determination. Rytlock chuffed.

„You sure? You aren't looking too-”

„I said I'd do it. So, let me.”

Silence. Kasmeer raised her hand to her ear to dial on the device, and the comms crackled to life. One last shaky breath, and a tiny voice came through.

„Yes? Hello? Guys, is everything alright?” The small prodigy chirped in a fervent tone. Her voice cracked towards the end and Kasmeer Meade could feel her heart crack in tandem. „...Please tell me everything's alright.”

„Oh, Taimi. Baby, I'm so sorry.”

„Kas? Kas - I - Kas tell me what's - No no no please don't tell me he's -”

Despite the fresh tears tugging at her waterline, the mesmer knew she had to say it. „Shhh, I'm so sorry. Mael's gone, Taimi.”

It was as though the full weight of it only really sank in at that moment. Rytlock's glare seemed to actively want to bury itself in the dirt, while Canach turned away to gaze silently off into the distance. Even Kasmeer felt a fresh knot twist within her gut only to release, all that horrible, horrible tension burning like living fire the very second she heard Taimi's voice quiver on the other end of the line.

„No.. no, no.. Kas this isn't funny...” She sniffled, and the mage of Lyssa could oh so easily visualize the little girl shaking her head over in her lab. Just like when she argued with Phlunt, or any other scientist. Always so very confident in herself, and what she believed in.

„No, this isn't FUNNY, don't LIE to me, he's FINE! He's the Commander - he's  - he's FINE - go check! Do the light test on his eyes - t-take his pulse - s-sylvari don't have easily accessible carotids b-but -”

„Taimi...”

Another click, and Canach joined the line. „Taimi, there wasn't even a need to check.”

„Canach!” Kasmeer could only gasp at the swordsman's blunt intrusion. „Canach, I swear on the Six -”

„Make that Five. He's dead, kid. That's a whole God that got him. Could tell the moment we looked.”

„Fucking burn me, have some tact!” Rytlock snapped, earning a scornful glance from the sylvari. The tension could very well be cut with a knife.

„Or what? Thorns, sometimes you have to be direct. Grow some spine, you people!”

„That's a CHILD!”

„...I'm still on the line. I-I’m not a child! I can hear you all. I'm sorry. I j-just -” Taimi's voice broke again, dissolving into a series of wheezy sobs. Kas's heart dropped. She was having an episode. The mesmer wasted no time in briefly disconnecting her communicator.

„Shut UP! Both of you!” The outburst was so out of character that both Rytlock and Canach promptly fell silent. Having achieved her immediate goal, the mesmer tapped the device again. „Talk to me, Taimi.” Walk her through this, Kasmeer, just like Mael used to. Don't let him down, now. This is the least you can do.

„I'm - I-I'm just... I'm so sorry I screamed.” The teenager sniffled, interrupting herself with a hiccup. „I-I knew the odds were bad... I just didn't want it to be true...”

Lady Meade smiled painfully, mustering up every bit of comfort in her voice. Oh, how she wished she could be there with her - lay her hand gently upon the asura's head and pet her hair. Just like he always did.

„It's alright. Everyone reacts in their own way. It isn't your fault. Shh. Shh. It's okay...”

„If I - I-if I weren't taking a break at the time I could have noticed the energy readings were shifting and he - B-Balthazar - was changing course - and we could have warned him before the storm set in and comms died -”

„...You know this isn't true. You can't always work. If you had overworked yourself, you could have missed something else, baby. We may all have been dead. You could have gotten hurt from overdoing it.” The only thing she could do now was speak and listen. Between herself and the Dawnborn, she wasn't ever really sure who was better at talking people down. „...He wouldn't have wanted this, alright? Commander - Mael - wouldn't have wanted you to aggravate your condition. None of us do.”

„H-he was the first person who really, truly took me seriously!” Taimi was spiraling. „What I do is my choice! And I could have saved him! I could have... Alchemy...”

Her tired body was giving out, too drained to argue in vain with herself. Deep down, she knew. She knew that she had been powerless to stop it. That even the Dragonslayer had no hope to kill a God, and it was a childish thought to even entertain. That deep down, Mael himself knew he was marching to his death, but his Wyld Hunt drove him onward anyway.

Just like shackles and chain. Being pulled ever towards the gallows, with no ability to run. And yet, he shouldered his fate with a smile.

Even when she watched him grow bitter and jaded he always found it in himself to smile for her.

„...You did your best. That is more than enough.” Kas' lids fell shut, forcing out the last tear that still lingered in the corner of her vision. „He's proud of you. I know.”

Wherever he was. If he was... anywhere. She didn't have the heart nor the stomach to consider the full implications of Grenth leaving. When she next opened her eyes, her vision was swimming  - and not because of the desert heat, which had long since given way to a brisk evening chill. Taimi seemed to have calmed down, and only the occasional quiet sniffle still registered on their shared frequency. The Meade sat down on a rock, fearing her own legs too feeble to keep her upright for long.

„...So, what do we do?” It was Rytlock who next broke the silence. „It's late and there may still be some Forged in the area. Wouldn't exactly want a bullet through the skull and an early ticket back to the Mists. Would hate to disappoint Commander like that.”

Again, he thought to add. He bit his tongue.

„...I'll stay here and get a breath of fresh air.” Canach sighed, the usual edge to his tone replaced by bitter, cold apathy. „If you want to go back to the ship, then go. I need to collect my thoughts.”

„I'll cloak us, just to be safe. Let Fidus know to post sentries and be on a lookout for trouble.” Exhaustion was not going to stop Kasmeer from being cautious, and this was simple magic, anyway. With a wave of her hand and reality rippling beneath her force, the top of the Spire was encased in an invisible bubble. Reflecting sight, just like a one way mirror. If anyone else wandered inside, she'd know.

In the end, none of them had it in themselves to go back - not yet. A quiet vigil for the fallen. For a leader. For a friend

It felt like several hours had passed. The night was silent and uneventful, an air of tranquility fallen over where tragedy had struck. Ash and dust long since scattered to the wind, there was scarcely a trace of the battle. Only charred foliage, cooled armor strewn about here and there, and three broken people trying to decide where to go from there. But the night, though quiet, held danger nonetheless. Teasing fate was a fool's errand in these lands.

„It's high time we move. I'll... get the body. Set a course for Amnoon.” The revenant spoke, and the airship's crew began preparations for takeoff. Kasmeer and Canach wordlessly nodded, their gazes following Rytlock as he walked up once again towards the center of the Spire.

...The very last thing Kasmeer Meade expected was to hear Rytlock holler her name with borderline panic in his voice.

„Uh, Kas?!”

„What is it?!” Both her and Canach were already running from the deck back to the plateau, weapons drawn and half prepared to find Forged come to hunt them down and finish what Balthazar started.

But Forged did not have blue eyes. Whatever stared back at them from the very center of the Spire was no soldier of Fire. A figure shrouded in shadow, darkness itself gathering where it stood to leave its features obscured and nigh unrecognizable. Stark blue eyes seemingly lost interest in gazing into Rytlock's own in favor of inspecting the sheet of gold-soaked cloth held in one hand.

„Get back!” The charr ignited Sohothin, wide arc of his sword a warning to both sides. „Where is the bo - where is he?!”

The stranger's head turned, shifting shadows offering a glimpse of white hair. Aether warped their words, like the Mists themselves speaking. „Rytlock...”

And yet, the sound of his name in their - in his lips was recognizeable beyond all doubt. „Kasmeer! What in the hells! Is this one of yours or am I going mad?!”

„What do you mean mine - you can't be - since when do I -” The mesmer was tripping over her words, staff clutched tightly. She could smell necromancy anywhere. Jory, and Mael - she's spent so long around them, but this felt familiar and different at the very same time. A darkness she knew well, but somehow wrong. A twisted image of Grenth's magic that sent alarms going off in her brain and overwhelmed her thoughts. That aura was oppressive.

„Is that...” Canach mouthed, incredulous.

„No. It's not.” Brimstone bared his fangs, tail lashing wildly against the ground. „I've been there. I know what lurks there. This isn't him. It's a demon.”

The figure's eyes seemed almost sad. He dismissed the notion.

„Grrraaaahh!!” With a mighty leap, he charged, fury burning in his eyes - challenging the reflection of the ghost fire that razed Ascalon. If this beast thought he'd let it defile the Commander's body, it was dead fucking wrong.

Split seconds before Sohothin could sink its fangs into a gap in darksteel armor, the stranger's chest opened. A jagged maw of teeth. 

„Pale Mother!” Canach gasped, and Kasmeer covered her mouth. Taimi came online and hurled a hundred questions over the comms.

Their swords met with a spectral chime. Like a rung bell, living flame against one cold and dead. That strength. How did so much power fit in such a small, feeble sylvari body? The charr grit his teeth, air hissing past his brandished fangs. A deadlock.

„Rytlock! Stand down!” The stranger repeated, forcibly. The Tribune's mind flashed back to their last fight. Pain and rage seethed in jade orbs, muscles pushing with all their might against the single sword that halted his advance. „...No. I won't let you. You don't deceive me!”

Blue eyes that gazed from where gold had once been narrowed. „I thought I had made myself clear before, Tribune. I won't take no for an answer.”

A pulse of dark magic repelled Sohothin, forcing Rytlock back. His weight shifted dangerously, hind claws struggling to find purchase. Green orbs shot wide open - he was exposed, and the dark blade was more than capable of ending him right then and there.

So he focused, a last ditch-effort; With a mighty beat, crystalline wings sprouted from his back - the Dragon Prophet's own visage bursting from the Mists to lend him her strength.

And then she just... stopped. The Commander - the stranger's free hand was outstretched, and he felt every nerve in his body refuse to listen. „What in the...” Some blasted chains - wrapped around him, wrapped around even Glint before her fleeting facet dissipated.

He felt familiar magic swallow him in rosy light and he was yanked back, appearing in a portal next to Kasmeer. Her and Canach had both stepped forward to shield him with their bodies, but made no move to advance. Hesitating? Now, of all times..?! He was about to tell them off before he noticed that very same spell binding them in place, every fibre of their bodies frozen and helpless to the fates.

„Burn me! Rrraahh!!” He raged against his restraints, soul reaching out through the Mists to call for aid. Any aid. What was a charr to do to get some fucking reinforcements around these parts?! Glint, Jalis, even the blasted Shiro Tagachi or Mallyx, it made no difference. The voices in his head fell silent, unwilling or unable to manifest his magic. He was stuck, and this monster was going to kill them all.

Balthazar didn't even have to get his hands any dirtier and come finish the job. Some random fucking demon was all it took. I'm sorry, Commander. It seems I can't stop messing up.

But the killing blow did not come. The blade that emerged out of the portal mouth upon the bastard's chest simply went right back in like his body was some twisted scabbard. Split open by a God's wrath and this demon was hell-bent on making a mockery of even the Commander's death. What a joke.

„...Rytlock...”

„Stop it. Just, get it over with. I've some dignity to keep.” His fur stood on end, hearing that voice when he knew it wasn't real.

„If I wanted to, I would have done so already. Pale fucking Mother, Rytlock.”

The Shroud relented, and the shadows fell away. And so, they got a chance to see him, really see him, for themselves. No anger nor malice contorted his features. Only sadness. A deep, profound sadness in haunted eyes that extinguished the blue flame within to once again welcome gold. Those eyes that had once fallen dim and unseeing weren't fully dead. There was no light inside, not anymore, but... there was a spark, nonetheless. A sliver of cerulean that danced inside his pupils - just like the color of his glow, a stark contrast against the crimson they had come to know. And above all, he just looked so... tired.

„What's going on?!” Taimi was almost going into hysteria on the channel.

The chain magic dissolved, sending Rytlock stumbling a few steps forward. Some animalistic side begged him to charge again, but the desolate look within the Commander's eyes gave him pause. Similarly, Kasmeer and Canach made no move, staring with fear and worry at the scene unfolding before them. Mael - no, he couldn't let it deceive - was he..? - opened his arms, palms facing the starlit sky. Exposing his chest. Clad in some strange, new armor, seemingly spawned from the Mists just like the one worn by the Blood Tribune. A circle of magic spun slowly upon his sternum, remnants of blue fire easing into necromantic green.

„ ...That's Grenth's regalia. Like those given to the Seven Reapers.” Kas observed.

„It's Grenth who let me go back.” Maelmordha nodded at the mesmer, gratitude in amber orbs. His voice somber, but so unmistakably his. „Even in this state.”

The asura finally managed to shove herself back into the center of attention. Her words shot forth like machine gun fire inbetween panicked breaths. „Wait, w-wait wait wait - I DEMAND an explanation right now! If this is some sick prank I- I...”

Mael reached for his own device. Luckily, it was still in one piece. His tired smile was evident in his tone. „Hi, Taimi.”

„...Hi, Taimi? You almost DIE and „hi, Taimi” is all I get?! What's going on! You all said the Commander was dead! I flipping told you! I told you to check you - you -”

„I... I was dead, Taimi. But now I'm back.”

„Yeah, but that's not how „dead” works.”

„She makes a good point. You don't just go back to being alive like you go back to being your usual cranky self after a night of drinking. Kind of defeats the definition of „dead”, if anyone wants my opinion.” Canach interjected, sword lowered but not holstered. Skepticism in a gaze of violet framed by thorns. But also hope, try as he might to hide it. „...We checked, Commander, and you were very much no longer with us.”

„Here's the catch. I'm not alive.” The Commander let out a forlorn sigh, arms crossed over his back as he turned back around and slowly walked over to where his veil lay. He bent, once again taking it in a gloved hand - feeling the weight of his lifeblood.

„You're not?” The Secondborn raised a ridged brow. „I'm getting confused here. Is this some sort of last visitation to collect the money I owe you? ...Do you still need the money?”

„You're not?” Taimi repeated. „B-but... but.. buh...”

„Oh no...” Kasmeer seemed to realize the implications first.

„Listen.” The necromancer was back to doing what he did best. The party fell silent and focused on his words. „...I'm... still me. I've got this. I'm still the Commander. Still -”

That's right. Remember your name. It may well be the last thing that remains of you. He shivered.

„...Still Maelmordha.” The sylvari finally discarded the bloodied cloth from his grasp.

„Those damn teeth dare to disagree.” Rytlock growled, frustration bleeding through his words. Had he no fur to hide them, his knuckles would have been white with how tightly he gripped Sohothin. And yet, despite the anger, all the chaos within him, he silently prayed to legends and gods he did not believe in. „...What are you, really?”

„A lich.” With revulsion in his tone, the Commander answered. Even now, he felt the true weight of it all was lost on him. Too much to process all at once, too little time - this was a wound which would open later.

He stepped forward, eyes trained on Rytlock with such intensity the charr seemed to shrink back, uncertain. With one finger, the sylvari lifted the very tip of Sohothin. Angling its blazing spikes to face his sternum, as though knowing it would not strike him. „Which means killing me isn't going to stick. And the fire that took my life? Don't plan to let it burn me twice.”

„A lich..? Like Palawa Joko...? That makes no sense.” Kasmeer spoke up, hesitant and afraid. Had Maelmordha still a heart of his own, it would have shattered against the terror in her words. „Grenth doesn't approve of breaking the balance of Death. He wouldn't have -”

„There's one thing Grenth approves of even less than me breaking his and my own moral code, and that is Balthazar ravaging the Mists and ripping the souls of the dead right out to fill his Forged quota.” The Commander's voice was laced with venom. Before the Watch could blather on in circles for even longer, the fallen necromancer growled. „Listen! The bastard has Aurene.”

„We know...” Kasmeer replied, gaze somber. „He was taking her south toward Kralkatorrik when we arrived. We tried to stop him, but there were too many Forged.” The sheer wall of steel and fire cordoning off passage into the Desolation prevented the slightest notion of following the fallen God. Otherwise, they would have already done so.

„And I hate being the bearer of bad news, but it appears that Balthazar has managed to build up quite a formidable army.” Canach added, swordwhip crackling as though on cue at his side. So eager for violence, but its owner was not as hasty to a grave of his own.

„He does seem to make 'em faster than we can break 'em.” Rytlock bared his fangs, fist hitting the palm of his opposite paw.

„That's why we need an army of our own.” His trademark smirk was back, a devilish spark already dancing in his eyes. „I met someone in the Domain of the Lost who told me where I can borrow one.”

„Borrow”... an army?”

„Domain of the Lost?” The elder sylvari questioned, knowing he would likely not get an answer. „My, my, Commander, back from the dead and already scheming. It really is you.”

The occasional sniffling on the channel gave way to a happy giggle. „Yay, we have a plan!”

„Kas, have you got anything that can change our appearances?” Mael continued casually, as though he hadn't just suggested the most ridiculous idea known to Tyria.

„Yes, but nothing that can make the four of us look like an army.” Naturally, she was skeptical, and yet only waiting to hear just what kind of deranged plot they were pulling off next.

„It doesn't have to.” The Commander gave the verbal equivalent of a shrug. „It just needs to disguise us as someone else... after I secure our cover story.”

„Okay. I'll be standing by.” Setting her doubts aside, Lady Meade took a breath - getting ready to place her trust in this new version of her guildmaster. She wiped off her makeup-stained face, making room for a small smile. Blue orbs met gold, and she could feel his relief and gratitude. The necromancer offered a nod, and the mesmer returned it. Finally, things were going somewhere.

„And I'll be at the casino in Amnoon. If you can come back from the dead, I want to double my wager on you.” Canach smirked, that same sly look on his face he so often shared with his Commander. Mael simply nodded again, and the elder headed for the airship.

„Fine. I'll get word to you all when the time is right. For now, let's get the ship moving somewhere safe.” A brief scowl shadowed his features when he considered having a repeat of the prior conversation with Fidus and his crew. A man was scarcely allowed to come back without being asked questions, after all.

For the last time, he went back to where he had fallen - collecting the singed Thorn. Its bark was charred, leaves burnt - but even now, the Mother's holy magic was regenerating it steadily. He felt it recoil at his touch. The last vestige of the Dream inside his thoughts, all because the sword had simply become a part of him in its own, strange way. I'm so sorry, Caladbolg. How dirty he felt, but he forced himself to focus on Aurene. Visualize. Think. Remember. Even now, Nenah's words were fresh inside his mind. Remember why you did this. For whom.

Blue flickered in his gaze, and a single covert tear fell upon the Thorn's cracked surface. He rose from his knees, greatsword in hand.

A gravelly grumble finally pried him from his thoughts. Rytlock cast a side glance in his direction - meeting his gaze - before groaning and looking away in an almost sheepish manner. If not for the circumstances, he might have considered it cute.

„Oh, hey, Commander...” The charr mumbled, scratching the back of his mane. „Good to have you back.”

Maelmordha only smiled in response. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but his comrade wasn't paying heed.

[timetodecidedjo]

The Poolverine Wedding Fic is here ❤️💛

Huge thank you to @avenging-captain for being my beta reader, and just genuinely being so sweet and supportive of my work!

It’s also posted over on my AO3 under I Never Loved A Man (The Way I Love You) by xuaerduobb if you wanna leave some love 🥺

I Never Loved A Man (The Way I Love You)

The air was crisp and filled with the earthy scent of fallen leaves. The sunlight, a vibrant golden amber color, was preparing to set on the day and transition into the evening. Logan felt the cool chill of the wind down his adamantium grafted spine and made a joke in his head about getting cold feet.

It was the evening of his wedding, and minute by minute, it was getting closer and closer to ceremony time. Most of their guests had already arrived and were seated in their mismatched chairs on each side of the aisle, waiting with excitement and anticipation for the happy couple. Everyone looked so nice and dressed up for the occasion, clad in scarves and warm coats to combat the chill of the October air. Logan had decided he wanted to be in full black for the wedding, black suit, black shirt, black tie. His blushing “spouse to be” always said he looked so good in dark colors, minus his iconic yellow suit.

The rolling hills of upstate New York made for such a breathtaking backdrop that Logan couldn’t help but to keep thanking Vanessa over and over for the help finding the perfect venue. Wade had said on so many occasions that it didn’t matter to him where they had the wedding, that he would’ve married Logan Howlett right there in their crummy apartment. Logan knew that he wasn’t kidding, but also knew that Wade deserved to have the perfect day he had always dreamed of.

“Logan, I have the rings, do you have your vows?” Laura asked, pulling Logan back into the present. He nodded and pulled out a folded up piece of paper from his jacket pocket, waving it in front of her. Laura was wearing a floor length black satin dress, gold jewelry and a pair of short heeled nude shoes. Her long hair was pulled back into a messy bun, with a few pieces of hair framing her face. She had a simple makeup look for the day to celebrate her TWO dads.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” Logan beamed as he took his daughter’s hand into his own.

She smiled and pulled him into a loving hug, so proud to be a part of their day. She pulled back when Vanessa tapped on her shoulder to alert her that it was almost time, and that everyone needed to get into their positions. Laura gave her father a reassuring smile and followed Vanessa back to the barn on the other side of the lawn where Wade and the rest of the wedding party were waiting.

Logan walked up the aisle to stand at the front of their entire family, smiling and waving at the guests that were there. The sight was so surreal. Never in his 200 years of living did he think that this would be his life, that he would get to experience falling in love and getting married to the person of his dreams.

Wade had asked Colossus to be the officiant for the wedding, and he was there waiting for them at the end of the aisle. Logan reached out to shake the steel man’s cold hand as a thank you again for agreeing to be a part of their special day.

“It is no problem, Logan,” the man made of organic steel replied as he shuffled through the book he needed to read from. “I am very happy for you and Wade.”

Just then, the hired DJ began playing the orchestral music that the bridal party was to walk down the aisle to. Wade had picked a classical version of pov by Ariana Grande, and though Logan was pretty sure he had never heard the song before, he had to admit that it was just as beautiful as the evening had turned out to be. First to come out was Yukio and Ellie, both dressed in similar black dresses to Laura’s. Their floral bouquets were decorated with sunflowers and red roses, a nod to Wade and Logan’s suits.They both had big smiles on their faces as they walked down the aisle to end at their respective spots, Yukio on Wade’s side and Ellie on Logan’s.

Then it was Vanessa and Laura’s turn as the maid of honor and best woman. Vanessa’s long black hair spilled over her shoulder and onto her back, her pale skin contrasting from the black dress she had on. They walked together with their arms linked until they had to separate, Laura standing by her father’s side, and Vanessa waiting for Wade. She looked over at Logan and mouthed, “He can’t wait to see you.”

Next, arguably more the star of the evening than Wade was, Mary Puppins pranced her way down the aisle with a basket of red and yellow flower petals hooked to her back. She ran straight to Logan and hopped up into his arms allowing all of the petals to finally fall out of the basket and onto the ground. She gave Logan quite the stinky kiss before he put her back down where she sat at his feet, like she could finally relax.

At long last, it was time. Logan was about to watch the love of his life walk down the aisle, dressed in his best suit, looking as handsome as ever, and when they’d walk back down said aisle, they’d be husbands. There was a mix of gentle, swirling energy inside of Logan’s abdomen, like his stomach had been doing flips. Before even seeing him, Wade gave him butterflies.

The barn doors opened completely this time, revealing Logan’s future husband and mother in law. Althea, who had been like Wade’s mother figure over the last 10+ years, shuffled her way down the rocky aisle, arguably Wade moreso escorting her. Though she was blind, there had been no one else Wade would’ve wanted to walk with on this special day. It was funny really, because it was kinda like a metaphor, right? Wade, blindly finding his way to the person who would be his soulmate to the altar, the aisle being the time it took for them to get to this day. The writer is hoping that makes sense…

When their eyes met, everyone else faded away, and it was just the two of them. Time had immediately slowed down. The noise, the people, the nerves… it all became a blur as Logan’s full attention shifted to Wade. He could feel his eyes soften and his vision become blurry as they filled with tears. Happy tears. Wade helped Althea to her seat and made his way to the spot next to Logan’s, where he wanted to be for the rest of their lives.

“Hey, Honey Badger,” the merc smiled, looking so incredibly handsome in his all black suit to match. “Or should I say Mr. Logan Howlett-Wilson.”

“Not just yet,” the Wolverine teased, taking his fiance’s hand into his own and kissing it. “I have some things to say to you first.”

They both turned their heads to face Colossus, but stayed in place, hands still intertwined. Wade’s hands were so cold. They always were. Logan made a mental note to send someone for gloves once the ceremony was over.

“Friends and family,” Colossus began, reading from the book in his hands. “We are gathered here today to celebrate the love between these two men, Wade Wilson and Logan Howlett. They are two of my closest friends, and I am so appreciative of their friendship. I have known Wade much longer than I’ve known this Logan, but now I don’t think I could ever know them separately ever again.”

“That’s right,” Wade grinned, still gripping onto Logan’s calloused hands tightly. “I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

Logan shook his head, but couldn’t help but feel a smile creep up onto his face. His cheeks hurt like hell from all the smiling, but it was a good hurt. One of the best hurts he’d felt in a long time.

“It is now time to exchange the vows. Who would like to go first?”

Before Logan could even say Wade, the merc with the mouth was already pulling out the sloppily written notes out of his pocket with one free hand.

“To my Honey Badger, my sweet boy, my Logan:

You know, they say don’t meet your heroes… that most of the time, these idealized versions of people will only set us up for disappointment. People have flaws, imperfections, make mistakes, and sometimes make choices that aren’t always the best. But meeting you, Logan, and getting the chance to fall head over heels, slit my own throat in love with you, has proven all that to be wrong. I did have a glamorized idea of you in my head, and you’ve exceeded it in every way possible. I know that it’s hard for you to see the things that I see in you, but I think I always knew deep down that you were and still are the best Wolverine. You’re the best Logan. Especially for me. I wanna fight with you. I wanna hold you when you’re feeling anxious. I wanna make you breakfast in bed on the weekends, even though I’m always burning the eggs. I wanna make sure you know how loved you are. Most importantly, I wanna make everyone in our apartment building uncomfortable when we’re taking a trip to pound town.”

“You do that already!” Althea called out from her seat in the front row. “The landlord gets at least 10 complaints every week. I know. I’m 7 of them.”

Everyone burst into nervous laughter, except for Althea and Ellie. It wasn’t funny.

Wade looked back down at his vows, and continued on with reciting them, this time not reading from the paper, but looking into Logan’s tired eyes.

“I call you by so many names: Wolvie, Honey Badger, Peanut, Angel Baby, Loverboy, Sweet Cheeks, the list goes on. But you’re also: my protector, my teammate, my best friend, my soulmate. I love you with every cancerous fiber of my being and I’m so excited to spend the rest of eternity with you.”

The emotions that Logan was feeling in that moment, all of them, hit him like a ton of bricks. He was never one to cry or show any emotions really. Other than anger. For so long, it was just anger. But from the moment they had met, Wade was one of the only ones who could ever break down his walls, brick by brick. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, he just couldn’t anymore. One single tear finally fell from his eye and rolled down his cheek. The merc released his grip on Logan’s hand in order to use his thumb to wipe away the wetness. Logan leaned into the touch and smiled softly before pressing a quick kiss onto Wade’s palm.

“Sorry I made you cry, Wolvie,” Wade apologized as he took his hand back and brought it back to Logan’s.

“Wait till you hear his,” Laura whispered with a small smile.

The mutant pulled out his written vows from his jacket pocket and opened them up slowly. This was hard for him. Being vulnerable like this in front of so many people… it was like knocking the wind out of his chest. He felt paralyzed, frozen there in his spot at the altar. Laura pressed a supportive hand to his back, quietly giving him the strength that he needed to say what he needed to say.

“Wade, that day in the bar when you found me drunk, wallowing in my self hatred and filled with so much anger… you literally showed up out of the blue and dragged me back to reality. You reminded me of who I am, who I was always meant to be. You continue to make me a better man every single day, teaching me patience and taking me out of my comfort zone. Wade, you keep me focused on the present and more importantly, our future… and you never make me feel bad about my past. You never stop making me laugh. Even when you’re being the most annoying person on the planet, you’re still making me laugh. You’re the funniest, sweetest, most thoughtful person I’ve ever known. You’re also a bit of a fuckin’ lunatic, but that’s just part of the Wade Wilson charm.”

Again, another laugh from the crowd, even Wade joining in. His eyes were just as glossy as Logan’s were before.

“You do these little things to show me how much you care; things that most people don’t ever see. In the middle of the night when I’m having a bad dream, you help me to wake up and realize that it was nothing but a nightmare. You’re always bringing me back little trinkets from places you travel to for work, and I still have every single one. When we order pizza on the weekends and they put mushrooms on it even though I always tell them not to, you pick them off for me before I ever notice that they’re there. You brought the daughter I never knew I needed into my life, and you love her as much as I do.”

Logan took a small breath so that he could finish his vows, his stomach in knots from all of the emotions running rampant.

“You’re the anchor being of my universe, and I’m so grateful that you made an educated wish two years ago. Our love transcends time and space. It’s a love I never knew I was capable of. It’s a love I never thought I’d ever get to experience. I love you, Wade Wilson.”

Not a dry eye in the house. Classical fucking Logan… swooping in and making a bigger impact on the audience, as always.

“Who has the rings?” Colossus inquired, primarily asking Logan because everyone knew not to allow Wade to keep them in his possession. He could be trusted with getting milk on the way home from a mission or feeding the dog every single night, but when it came to their wedding rings, it was better to be safe than sorry. Laura pulled out a small velvet jewelry bag that contained the rings out of her bouquet and passed it over to Logan. He took the ring he had picked for Wade out of the small bag and placed it onto his ring finger. Being an expert sword fighter, Wade could always keep a steady hand. But now? His body was shaking. He was barely keeping his shit together. It felt like his entire body was vibrating with excitement, anxiety, joy, adoration, desire… Once the ring made its way down his finger, the mutant brought Wade’s hand to his lips to press a kiss onto it.

Logan flipped the small bag over and out plopped the ring Wade had picked out for Logan. It was beautiful. Both rings were. The pair had been specially made out of adamantium and each had one singular garnet gemstone and a yellow sapphire embedded in. Wade had saved up every penny he could to get those rings and did NOT steal them in any way, shape, or form. Got it? Good.

Colossus continued to read from the book he held in his hands, flipping to a particular page.

“These rings represent infinity, signifying your eternal love and bond. It is a visible promise that you are forever devoted to each other through the highs and the lows, the hardships and in prosperity, when the sun shines and when it rains-“

“Hey, big guy,” Wade whispered, giving the steel man his best side eye. “That’s all very sweet, and I love the sentiment, I really do, but I’m dying to kiss this smoking hot, very soon to be completely off the market hunk right here. Finish strong, ‘kay?”

The steel mutant sighed and rubbed his forehead with his palm, closing the book he was reading from in the other.

“I am not really sure if any of this is actually legal due to Logan being from another timeline, but, by the power vested in me by the state of New York, I now pronounce you… married! You may now share a kiss.”

Wade had practically launched himself into Logan in an effort to be as close to him as possible. If body parts happened to rub against each other in the process, that was just good luck. Not for everyone else attending the wedding, but that's neither here nor there. Logan took Wade’s face into his hands and they shared a deep kiss, a familiar warmth consuming both of their mended hearts. It was a kiss that hit both their bodies like a tidal wave, and sent all of their emotions into a frenzy. Every guest broke out in a supportive cheer, and the orchestral music began to play again. When the two men broke away from the kiss, they walked back down the aisle, hand in hand, as newlyweds.

_________

Set against the rustic charm of the old barn on the venue’s property, the wedding reception was this small and cozy atmosphere. There were golden string lights hung up all around the ceiling that gave the inside of the barn just the right amount of glow. It was enough to see one another, but it was dark enough that you could relax and unwind from the evening. Every table was adorned with lanterns and floral arrangements that accompanied the bridal bouquets from the ceremony. There were several fire pits set up outside so that guests could go outside and drink under the stars. The DJ had a steady stream of music pouring out of the speakers, and people were already starting to drink and dance on the makeshift dance floor. It was utterly perfect.

The DJ lowered the volume on the music and started to speak on the microphone.

“I’d like to turn everyone’s attention to the doors at the front of the barn to give a warm welcome to the newlyweds…”

The barn doors opened allowing Logan and Wade to walk in together, hand in hand, all smiles and full of so much joy.

“Please clear the dance floor so these two lovebirds can share their first dance as a married couple.”

The entire barn erupted in applause as the happy couple walked inside and onto the dance floor, people moving out of their way so that they could share their first dance.

Aretha Franklin’s I Never Loved A Man (The Way I Love You) started to play softly from the speakers, the sultry jazz and blues music adding to the coziness of the atmosphere. It was an interesting song choice for sure, but the couple had made quite an interesting pair.

Wade pulled Logan close and wrapped his arms around the older mutant’s waist, the biggest smile permanently fixed onto his face. Logan looked at Wade, his eyes softening, and draped his arms around Wade’s shoulders. They slowly grooved together to the music and took another opportunity to kiss each other, this time a little more risque than it had been back at the ceremony. It was their wedding, damnit, and Wade could NOT be expected to keep his hands or his lips to himself for the rest of the evening.

“You know, I keep waiting to wake up from this dream. This just can’t be my life,” Wade murmured as he danced with his new husband. His husband. His Logan.

“Wow, and you didn’t even say ‘wet dream.’ I’m a little offended. I got all dressed up in this nice suit, let Yukio fix my hair, and you’ve hardly made any inappropriate comments about my ass. I’m even wearing that thong you bought that says ‘eat me.’”

“We’re gonna come back to that last thing, but I’m a married man now. That’s like, major adult-like behavior,” the merc replied back, watching Logan immediately rolling his eyes and laughing at his response.

“Plus, I promised Colossus that I would act appropriately tonight. As soon as he leaves for the mansion though, I’m not gonna stop making inappropriate comments about your ass. I’m gonna say absolutely vulgar and obscene things about it, to be quite honest. And don’t even get me started on the kitty ears you got going on up there,” Wade yapped on, taking his index finger and swirling the little cowlick on top of Logan’s head. “And good choice on the whole monochromatic black look. A callback to 2013’s The Wolverine when you attended Yashida’s funeral? Arguably one of the only good decisions Fox ever made.”

Logan did what he always had to do to get The Merc With a Mouth to shut up and planted another big sloppy kiss onto his lips, successfully getting his message across. Loud and clear. They continued like that for most of the night, swaying together to the music, hands all over one another, drunk off of the bliss they felt just being with each other like this. Married. In love. Soulmates. Forever.

[not-that-dillinger]

Colossus looked up at Raye at the mention of a walk, immediately backing out of the closet. Ed dropped his hands into his lap from where they'd been, deep in the dog's fur. "Et tu, Colossus?" he said flatly when the dog got off his lap. Colossus looked up at Raye, wagging his tail in excitement.

Ed had to admit, if only to himself, however, that a walk would help with his anxiety, and it would help him fell less like he was trapped at home.

"...Okay,"he replied with the same dry tone. He stared at Raye's hand for several seconds before very hesitantly accepting it and allowing Raye to help him up. He didn't return the smile, though he did catch Raye staring at... him, though he couldn't figure out why. His joints ached and popped as he hauled himself to his feet, and he found himself momentarily dizzy, unconsciously squeezing Raye's hand and freezing in place as he tried to keep his balance until the wave passed.

"We're married"

《 from Raye Penber @first-frost-fallen-snow because that would be the funniest route to me also sorry for like disappearing I was focusing on moving out and now my fatigue is killing me 》

Ed awoke for once not slumped over his keyboard, yet also not in the empty apartment he'd moved into when he first moved to Japan. Though he supposed technically, the apartment he was in belonged to him, as did the bed he lay in, though both truly belonged to the man laying next to him. He squinted at the clock on his nightstand, at red LED numbers so blurry, only years of practice allowed him to decipher the time without having to put his glasses on. He still had time before he had to get up, a couple of hours before he had to get to work.

A flash of gold on the nightstand drew his eyes from the clock to the ring next to his glasses. It was the only piece of jewelry he owned, and far more expensive than anything he would ever purchase for himself. There was a similar ring on the other nightstand on the opposite side of the bed that belonged to the other occupant--Raye Penber.

Ed... still didn't know what to make of his new situation, let alone the man he was now legally bound to. He didn't hate him, certainly, though whether he trusted him was yet to be decided. Their marriage hadn't been Ed's idea, nor had it been Raye's. A necessity to facilitate the Kira investigation, it had been called, and Ed had only begrudgingly agreed to it for fear of opposition somehow being used against him as evidence and landing him in prison.

Thought of their marriage left an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He'd sworn when he got his job at Encom, and finally escaped his father's control that he would never put himself in any sort relationship where there was a power imbalance and they were not equals. He wouldn't put himself in a situation where he could be abused again. And yet here he was, a foreigner, far from anyone he could call a friendly face, barely understanding the language and culture, and though their partnership was supposed to be one of equals, it didn't feel that way.

Not that he had anyone on the other side of the Pacific he could call for help if he was able, anyway. His therapist, maybe. Though he didn't trust that the call wouldn't be monitored. Or an old rival, if he was desperate.

He felt trapped. He was relying on a man he barely knew to keep him from being falsely accused of mass murder. He was at risk, not just from his partner, but from the people in charge of the investigation as well, People he felt like were treating the investigation as nothing more than a game, where both his and his partner's lives were nothing more than disposable pawns.

How strange it was, that such a tiny band of metal could hold so much meaning. To others, it would have been a symbol of joy as bright as it's polished surface, but to Ed it had just replaced the physical handcuffs that had bound him to his legal partner to with a symbolic one.

[ohitspurple2]

The pops on the fallen empire's planet watching the colossus enter low orbit after their entire fleet get destroyed by 1 trillion disruptor corvettes

[honey-minded-hivemind]

Hello! I was taking pictures of my cat and it got me thinking about the fallen snow au and the giant cat room you mentioned. I was wondering if you could make a little post of everyone reacting to reader sleeping in the cat room like this

No rush of course! Keep up the great writing ❤️

Oooooooh my heavens, look at that lil' bby!!!😍 They are so precious!!! And I can try to make a reaction headcanons list to how the different platonic yans act if they see Creed!Reader sleeping like this!!! Let's try it:

• Sabretooth would be purring, seeing his cub curled up like that. The guy would likely curl up with Reader, hissing if anyone who wasn't the other kids or his brother came close

• Wolverine would likely be having a cuteness meltdown on the inside (He does whenever he sees any of his cubs or pups doing something cute, he just shortcircuits on the outside for a second or two)

• Laura and Kyle (X-23 and Wild Child) would immediately be lying diwn next to Reader and hugging them like they were a stuffed animal. They woukd look like a pile of kittens or puppies sleeping together, not gonna lie

• If Scott or Jean saw them, they'd be taking pictures/mentally telling the Professor about it. They'd be trading the photos like trading cards, too

• Pietro and Wanda would be blushing, then asking if they can join the cuddle pile. Would find a way to steal Reader into their room if they knew they wouldn't face the wrath of the feral kids

• Rogue and Evan would just lay down without asking or taking no for for answer, and making themselves comfortable. They don't care what anyone says, for once Reader isn't aware enough enough run or hide, so they're hugging them, no ifs, ands, or buts

• The Professor would have pictures taken. He'd He'd also have Hank/Beast working on a new drug/medicine for the ferals, to help them fall into their instincts and to feel happy and calm. Is also able to read Reader's mind for once, since their mental walls are down, so he looks through everything that has happened to them, from their past to the after their escape to the present time

• Magneto would try to move Reader to his and his kids special room, then finds that he has to fight every feral and sleepy kid who joined them (even if they weren't allowed in the special feral room)

• Hank/Beast is working on a new set of drugs, sedatives, and medicines for the Reader and other ferals, to help them fall into their instincts easier, to help them feel calm, even to make them a little loopy/to lower their shields a bit. He asks if he can join, and when he promises to make an extra tracking device for Reader, is let into the snuggle pile

• Storm is let in, no questions asked, as Wolverine and Laura and Evan like her and view her as family. And because she could drop a snowstorm on Wolverine and Sabretooth and make it so she was the only adult allowed to be with the kids. So no one stops her if she joins them

• Mystique would try and sneak in. She wouod be caught, and depending on who catches her, woukd either be allowed to stay or (politely) thrown out

• The innocent teens (Kurt, Kitty, Toad, Fred, and Lance) would want to join, despite not knowing Reader well. They would be asked to wait a bit, and let the adults see if Reader will be up to it later (they want to make sure the drug/sedative still works well enough, and make sure Reader doesn't feel freaked out over having new packmates)

• Gambit, Colossus, Pyro, and Tabby are told they can join the other teens while waiting, and that in a few days they'll try and see if Reader is still up for it

• The ferals eventually say "scr*w it!" and kick everyone out, since they want time with THEIR cub/littermate, and everyone else can have their turn once they've had their's. They want to enjoy being with Reader, especially since they feel extra guilt at being related to Reader yet never helping them when they needed it most. So if they can offer comfort and warmth (and the adults can nurse them), then they'll take that chance

• The photos of sleeping Reader become trading cards, and soon, everyone tries to get photos of Reader when they're relaxed or just unaware. What can they say? They're cute, even if they are rather skittish and act like a (literal) feral kitten who's never been hugged. Of course, they now need to hide the cards from Reader, so as not to seem weird or even more avoided than they already are...

(Whoops! I, um... maaaybe did this for the ❄Milky Snow🍼 AU)... But it CAN be read for ❄Fallen Snow🩸 AU, too... Whichever one you prefer!!)

[holsten-from-hasa]

I need to post more about my wynn ocs, honestly.

But for now here's an overview of them, because I will be posting torments for them when I can.

Also please feel free to send asks for them. I love to ramble.

Anyway.

Phobos "Phoebe" Mneme - She/her - Trickster Assassin

Originally from Fruma, Phoebe is an assassin whos magic is almost entirely based in illusions. Able to do near impossible things as long as both her and the target believes she can, she keeps a tight hold on how people see her just so she can keep that edge. She's made a name for herself as the flashy new hero of Wynn who walks into hell and comes back where no one else has - their 'Little Phoenix'.

She has a sister named Deimos, that she nicknamed 'Sunshine', who walked the same path she now does in a now-destroyed timeline. From Deimos' powers, Phoebe is 'trapped' in a time loop that resets every time she dies. Originally, this sent her a long ways back, but now Deimos can create 'save points' for her.

Together they're trying to save the world, keep their friends, and avoid some of the disasters Deimos witnessed in her timeline. It's... Going. Some things can't be changed or are better off left alone. The life of a hero is exhausting.

Willow - She/he - Boltslinger Archer

In the time after the Factory's shutdown, there were a lot of volatile opinions on the subject of it and mechs in general. Willow was a mech mechanic during this period, one of the best in the field on account of her unorthodox usage of body modifications.

Following an attack on the workshop where he worked, he was left scarred and missing an arm. Though she had an excellent prosthetic that met her needs, he still felt uncomfortable while wearing it. It never felt like it was truly hers and was a constant reminder of what had happened. But, of course, being seen without it was enough to have people questioning him on the street.

So, as any self respecting mechanic does, she began tinkering with what records existed of the magic of the constructs of Gavel - the magic of the Colossus and of the smaller, ruined constructs in Cinfras County. The magic of binding flesh with something other than.

Of course, nothing ever turns out as planned.

Ananke - He/him - Fallen Warrior

Terrible things can happen to anyone, really. Terrible things also have the horrible habit of happening to some of the best people. While the latter is debatable in Ananke's case, it cannot be denied that what happened to him was terrible.

Fatally wounded by corrupted in his early days as a soldier of the Detlas Army, he was left behind by his peers as they ran to save themselves. It's not like he can blame them for it, but he still feels incredibly bitter over the entire thing.

Yet it was less than a week later that he walked back into Detlas. Not as an undead, but as alive as a person could be. There's been several questions as to how in the time since, but none have ever been given a straight answer.

<<[What lurks beneath will raise itself again. The sun rises. The moon sets. And the fires of dawn burn furiously.]>>

Rumours that he was corrupted continue to circulate, but they're never proven. Even when they test Ananke himself for any signs of it.

Edwyn - They/them - Summoner Shaman

Edwyn is dead. At least, that's what everyone believes. If they saw the state they were in these days, they'd probably come out swinging torches and pitchforks.

Fortunately, they can't see the state they're in.

No one can see them at all.

In a state between living and dead, both and neither but not undead, Edwyn wanders the province of Wynn trying to understand the world. They have no memories of who they were before, but some places and people tug at a faint sense of familiarity that brings curiosity if nothing else.

To understand why they exist as they do is all they seek. To understand the world and its intricacies is a fun hobby.

To understand who they used to be is a necessity they wish wasn't.

Edwyn is dead. They just wish the world could accept that.

[blazehedgehog]

Do you agree with the TheGamer's article, Astro Bot Isn't A Celebration, It's A Graveyard?

I have not read the article or played the game, but watching talk about Astro Bot and how it's this "great celebration of Playstation" is absolutely a bummer. Watching Astro Bot get Spike's net and run around catching monkeys in an Ape Escape level feels more like a cry for help than a celebration of anything.

It's Team Asobi saying, "Hey remember when they used to let us create weird, wacky, super creative games? Well they consolidated like eight teams down to just this Astrobot group here, so this is a toast to our fallen comrades."

I'm sure that, to Sony, doing that "made sense," because games like Locoroco or The Last Guardian or Gravity Rush were not hitting the right "sales targets." (A made up number that doesn't mean anything to anyone other than shareholders) So, you restructure, you filter out all but the best and brightest talent, and that's how you get Team Asobi.

But I've been saying it for a while, and so have a lot of other people, that we're back to the same kind of egotistical Sony that launched the PS3 to the sound of dead weight hitting the pavement. Now, that Sony turned the PS3 around towards the end, but that's because they got humbled by the Xbox 360 and had to figure out a way to bounce back.

And then they bounced back right as Microsoft's ego started to humble them and it launched the Playstation 4 into such a huge lead that they're still kind of coasting on that, particularly because instead of bouncing back, Microsoft has just kind of rolled over and accepted their fate. Whatever success they have with Game Pass isn't good enough for them to really swing back at Sony very hard.

So we get this clownshoes company that closes down all of their Japan studios, that launches a VR headset peripheral that's more expensive than the console it's made for, and that same VR headset has no backwards compatibility with older PS4 software even though the console itself does, and then they launch an equally expensive wifi-only remote dock (read: a Wii U Gamepad) for that console, they keep raising their prices in Japan, they launch and then two weeks later shut down a live service game that spent 8 years in development...

And then you look at Astro Bot, brimming with "Remember when Playstation used to be the coolest thing in the world?" references, from Parappa the Rapper to Ape Escape to Shadow of the Colossus, and it's like... yeah, I do remember that, and I can only remember it, because that's not the kind of company Sony is now. This is a party primarily for things that don't exist anymore.

You could call that a graveyard, sure. It's a wake at the very least.