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blcknebula · 4 days ago

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To Love The Burning Sun

Wc: 21.8k+ (woops) Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up. Cw: God!Phainon x Fem!Mortal!Reader, Alternate universe, Semi-smut, OOC Phainon, mentions of blood, slight 3.4 spoilers, MDNI, hurt/comfort (I ain't Shaoji). Notes: This is my first time writing (somewhat) smut + something this long, pls be nice (◞‸◟)

CHAPTER I

You sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the temple’s arched windows. The sunset bled across the skies of Okhema in a soft orange and gold. You could see the view of the city from afar as people began lighting up their burning lamps. The view should have brought comfort and peace to your restless soul.

But it only made you angrier as the color of the sky reminded you of him.

You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly as you tried to still the tightness in your chest. You lifted your elbows from the cool marble sill and turned away from the window, the warmth of the sun’s dimming rays brushing your back as you made your way across the quiet bedroom. You collapsed onto the cushioned couch near the hearth, arms folded. Soon, the temple maids would come, their polite voices chiming in another reminder for dinner.

Another formal, joyless meal at the long table meant to seat two — yet always ended with you alone at one end, the other left hauntingly empty. What was the point if your supposed husband never came home?

You tried to remember the string of events that had led you here.

It began twenty years ago, during the last days of the Black Tide.

Your father, General of the Okheman Knights, stood on a battlefield soaked in blood and shadow, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the monstrous. His comrades, once proud warriors, now lay lifeless or worse — corrupted into twisted, grotesque abominations, their bodies overtaken by the force of the Black Tide.

Smoke and ash choked the sky, painting it red. His vision blurred as the stench of rot and scorched steel filled his lungs. He sank to his knees, despair clawing at every inch of his body. It was then he whispered, eyes clenched shut.

“Oh… God Khaslana, protector of Okhema… Save this city. I will give you the greatest gift I can offer — My firstborn, to be yours, body and soul.”

Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, was known among mortals as the Deliverer, an eternal flame against the crawling darkness. He was radiant like the blazing heart of the sun and has long shielded the human kind with his light.

From the heavens, fire rained down. Meteors streaked through the sky like divine spears, crashing into the earth with fury. The monsters of the Black Tide screeched, then fell silent beneath the weight of the stones.

The battle was won, and the city was saved. The army cheered, thrusting their swords and shields upward as your father roared out a victory saying that Khaslana was with everyone.

When your father returned, he was hailed as a hero. He told the people of Okhema of the divine intervention — how the god himself had descended to save them. What he did not speak of, however, was the vow whispered on the battlefield, the promise made from a man to the divine.

It had been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea. Yet breaking a vow to a god? It was unthinkable. Especially when the god had answered so grandly, only his family and the priests of Okhema’s temple knew the truth. When he confided in the high priest, he was met not with comfort but with pressure.

“A vow to a god must be honored. To break it would only invite ruin,” the priest said.

That night, your father returned home. You were only a babe, swaddled in white linen, cradled in your mother’s arms. He watched the two of you quietly. His wife smiled, not yet knowing what burden had been placed upon their daughter’s shoulders.

You were raised in the temple, trained as a priestess to serve the god who had spared your city. Your father hoped that by living among the sacred — tending to the shrines, memorizing the old hymns, and praying beneath Khaslana’s ever-burning flame — you would grow to love the god who would one day be your husband.

You tried. You really did.

Now, you stand as a woman of the age when they became brides. Your time had come.

But your wedding was not like those you had seen in Okhema’s gardens or among the white-stone courtyards where laughter and music would echo. No streamers were fluttering in the wind, no tables heavy with food or jugs of honeyed ambrosia. No children dancing. Nothing.

Yours was a private affair. It was quiet, solemn, and shrouded in ceremonial gravity.

Only your family and the temple clergy were in attendance. You were dressed in a flowing white chiton, its fabric soft as breath, trailing behind you. A circlet of gold leaves rested atop your head. Golden cuffs adorned your wrists, broad and gleaming like sunlight pressed into metal. Your ears bore the weight of gold, your neck cradled by an intricate collar, etched with celestial symbols.

You climbed the stairs alone to the temple’s highest balcony — a sacred circular platform open to the skies above. The wind was gentle, brushing against your skin. You swore you felt a hand brushing your cheeks, the touch hidden in the gust of wind.

You stepped into the center of the platform as the archbishop began to pray.

You knelt, head bowed, hands clasped in practiced devotion. You said your vows, promises of loyalty, of faith, of love, offered not only as a worshipper, but as a bride. You spoke the vow you’d rehearsed a thousand times.

Then, light emerged from below you.

A brilliant, blinding glow burst from the platform, golden and radiant. It was more intense than anyone had ever seen. The wind surged around you, lifting your robes and tussling your hair. The archbishop froze, priests shielded their eyes. Even the people in the marmoreal market turned their eyes, wondering what miracle had occurred.

You closed your eyes against the brightness, heart thudding at your chest. But then, it was over.

The archbishop announced that your vow had been accepted. You were now the wife of Khaslana.

There were no cheers, only whispers, nods, and quiet awe.

You stood, shoulders stiff, eyes lifted into the sky. You breathed in deeply, calming yourself.

That night, you packed your things in silence. The carriage was already waiting for you at the gates of the temple. You said your goodbyes under the night sky. Your little brother, Atlas, clung to the hem of your dress, though you had never been close. His small hands trembled as you soothed his head with gentle pats.

Your mother embraced you next, brushing your hair behind your ear and murmuring her pride through teary eyes. Your father hugged you last, his was longer than the others. He didn’t speak first. Just held you.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered.

You forced a smile, “It’s all right. I’m lucky, aren’t I? Anyone would want this.”

You weren’t sure if you believed it.

As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, you stared out the window, watching your family grow smaller in the distance.

When you arrived at the temple atop the hill, the sanctuary where they said Lord Khaslana often rested, you couldn’t help but pause at the sight of it. It was… vast.

The marble pillars stood tall like pale tree trunks, disappearing into vaulted ceilings. The halls echoed softly with every step you took. Looking around, you realized there were a few staff members in this temple compared to the temple you stayed in, Okhema City. You later found out that only a few priests and priestesses served here — trusted ones who had long devoted their lives to silence, prayer, and sacred duties.

The elder priestess who guided you eventually stopped before a towering set of doors inlaid with gold and sunstone. Looking back, this place was separated from the temple, yet still connected by the long corridor. Your head turned back to the priestess when you heard a slow creak of the doors.

“This is Lord Khaslana’s chamber,” she said softly, “It is yours now as well.”

You stepped inside and gawked at the sight of the room. The bed alone was large enough to hold your entire family, heck, maybe twice over. The ceilings soared high, so distant that they would definitely fade into shadow if not for the chandeliers. The furniture was grand and oversized, built for someone not quite mortal. It really did feel as if a giant was living here.

You bathed in silence, the temple servants having prepared a warm bath perfumed with wildflowers and sweet oil. You dressed yourself in soft nightwear, brushed your hair, and sat carefully at the edge of the bed.

You even tried to make yourself look pretty.

You heard whispers about what a wedding night should be like. Servants at your old temple murmured things when they thought you weren’t listening. Stories passed between maids like secrets. Surely, this would be the same?

Right?

You flushed at the thought — embarrassed by where your imagination wandered, especially toward a god you had worshipped all your life. But he was your husband now, wasn’t he? It should be fine to think of him that way… shouldn’t it?

You didn’t even know what to call him. Should you call him with the honorifics still? Would “Khaslana” be too familiar? Would “my lord” be too distant? Could you ever say his name like a wife should?

You covered your face with your hands, trying to quiet your flustered thoughts. Still, you waited.

Would he descend in divine form, or would he look like the murals? Golden-dark wings stretching wide, with hair like woven sunlight, and eyes that could pierce souls. You told yourself it would be enough just to see him. To hear his voice. To feel that you weren’t alone.

Minutes passed.

Then hours,

The moon rose high above the temple, then it drifted past its peak.

Still, he did not come.

You stayed awake as long as you could, eyes fixed on the empty half of the bed. But eventually, exhaustion took you. You fell asleep with your body curled to one side, the silken sheets untouched beside you.

When morning came, nothing had changed. The bed was still smooth, the air quiet, the god you had been bound to in sacred ceremony had made no appearance, left no message, cast no shadow on the marble floor.

Was it supposed to be like this?

You told yourself he must be busy with the divine duties that kept him from descending. Gods moved differently through time than mortals did.

But as you sat in silence, a pit formed in your chest.

Were you not worthy of his presence?

Had you done something wrong?

A soft knock at the door startled you. A priest stood in the hallway, politely informing you that breakfast had been prepared. You forced a smile, thanked him, and got dressed. As you walked the corridor, you felt hollow. There were too many thoughts swirling in your chest.

Was this what marriage with the divine looked like? Was he disappointed in you? Displeased? Disinterested?

Still, you didn’t see him that day. Nor the next. Each night, you lie in the vast bed alone, heart aching a little more. The heart ached, pushing you to eventually gather the courage to speak to the Archbishop.

After morning prayers, you lingered near the sanctum until he approached. You explained your worries as delicately as you could — stumbling over words as you worry about how much was appropriate to say.

The Archbishop listened to you with patient eyes, “All things Lord Khaslana does,” he began gently, “Are done with purpose. Continue your devotions. If you wish to speak with him… speak through your prayers.”

That’s just their way of saying “I don’t know.”

You nodded and left the room. Nonetheless, you followed his advice.

The next day, you waited until the temple’s roofed balcony was empty. You stepped onto the stone platform, the one that overlooked the city below. The sky stretched endlessly above you, behind the round glass roof, the clouds painted with soft morning light.

You knelt on the cold marble, hands folded. At first, you whispered the usual verses. Then, you opened your eyes slowly. You looked up.

Hesitantly, you spoke.

“Greetings… husband,” you said, wincing at the awkwardness of it. When there’s no response, you felt your cheeks burn. But you still continued.

“I… I just wanted to say hi. Um…” You trailed off. You had no idea what you were doing.

“I hope you’re doing well. I’ll take my leave now!”

You stood abruptly, flustered beyond belief, and walked away with your heart pounding. But that soon became your routine.

Each day, you woke, ate a modest breakfast in the quiet dining hall, wandered the temple, sat in the garden with a book, prayed, ate lunch, wandered again, returned to your room, wrote idle thoughts on parchment you never sent, ate dinner, and finally prayed to your unseen husband.

Sometimes you’d say nothing, sometimes you’d ask him how his day was, even though you knew you weren’t getting a response. You smiled less. Spoke less.

Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months.

You were now in the present, sitting alone at the long dining table, spooning a lukewarm breakfast into your mouth. The temple was silent, as always. Only the soft clink of metal against porcelain accompanied you — a small, hollow sound swallowed by the high ceilings and marble walls.

Once finished, you rose, gathered your plate, and made your way to the kitchen. A servant greeted you with a respectful nod, which you returned with a tired smile. You handed over the dish with a soft “thank you” before turning to leave.

Your footsteps echoed through the temple halls, vast and empty. Each corridor felt like a labyrinth of silence, lined with tapestries that did not stir and statues that seemed to watch but never speak. As you passed one of the open arches, you paused, drawn toward the view outside.

The city of Okhema lay far below, nestled among rolling green hills and sandstone streets warmed by the morning sun. From here, the people looked like ants, moving about in the rhythm of daily life.

It had been a long time since you’d last visited.

You remembered how excited you were the first time you asked for permission. The Archbishop had granted it, so long as one of the priests escorted you. You nodded and followed his orders.

You had tried to enjoy it. Truly, you tried.

But it wasn’t the same.

The entire excursion felt performative. You weren’t free to walk where you pleased, only allowed to greet your friends briefly. The visit to your family had been short and formal. They had asked you how you were holding up and if you were happy, but you could only answer with a bitter smile as you lied about your happiness. Your family smiled back, glad that you were okay. Though your father had watched you with wordless guilt in his eyes.

You had returned to the temple more tired than when you left. You didn’t feel like going through all that again, so you scratched the thought off. You exhaled and rubbed your temples as you continued to walk back to your chambers in silence.

You passed by the sacred balcony, the platform where you had once knelt and whispered greetings to a god who never answered. You didn’t even look toward it.

You had no intention of “talking” to him today. What was the point?

You had spoken your thoughts into the wind and silence for moons now. Whatever patience the priests spoke of, yours was running out. Whatever marriage this was, you were beginning to wonder if you were the only one in it.

You pushed the doors to your room and let them shut softly behind you. The air inside was still and faintly scented. The high windows poured sunlight onto the floor, casting long golden stripes across the stone.

You didn’t bother changing out of your temple robes. You simply crossed the room and slumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The other half of the bed? Still untouched, pristine, as it had been every night.

You curled to your side, your cheek against the cool pillow. Outside the window, birds wheeled lazily through the sky. You watched them, envious of their freedom.

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t even sure if you remembered what that kind of freedom felt like.

Your mind begins to wander, a thought crept in — quiet, sharp, and unbearable.

Has he… abandoned me?

You closed your eyes and let the silence answer.

CHAPTER II

You wandered the gardens again, your steps trailing along familiar paths. The air was warm today, soft with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled soil. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, casting latticed shadows on the stone walkway. You passed by the same clusters of dianthus and wild hyacinths, now fully in bloom, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze.

The gardeners sure are diligent. Their work showed in every vibrant stem, every carefully clipped hedge. But even the beauty of the flowers couldn’t shake the dull ache in your chest.

You haven't prayed since yesterday. You knew you should have—not because you expected anything to change, but because that had been your one way to pretend someone was still listening. But the silence you would receive in return had grown too loud, too painful. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it again. Not now.

So instead, you let your feet carry you aimlessly through the garden’s winding paths. Eventually, your steps slowed, and you lifted your eyes toward the sky, letting out a quiet sigh.

“It’s so lonely here,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “I miss my family… my friends… the sound of the busy market…”

The words slipped from you without a thought. The truth of them made your eyes sting. You hadn’t realized how tightly the loneliness had been coiling in your chest until you said it out loud. It was homesickness, plain and simple.

The temple, for all its golden beauty and perfection, was a cage. Not one built of iron bars, but of duty, silence, and unanswered prayers. You were its reluctant bird, fluttering from one empty hallway to the next.

As you returned inside, your footsteps echoing along the polished floors, you passed by a few servants carrying bundles of fresh linens. They paused to dip their heads respectfully, and you returned the gesture automatically, your mind still lost in the haze of longing.

As you passed them, you caught fragments of their conversation.

“The town is already setting up for the festival… the one for Hysilens…”

Your breath caught. Of course. Today was the first day of the fifth month — the Month of Joy. The festival of Hysilens, goddess of the sea.

Your footsteps slowed to a halt.

You remembered how, back in the city, this day would transform the streets into rivers of color and sound. You remembered the rows of market stalls selling sugared fruits and roasted meats, the performers dressed in sea-colored robes dancing in the square, the laughter of children chasing painted ribbons through the air.

You remembered attending those festivals with your friends, pockets full of wages saved up over weeks, spending every coin on treats and trinkets and memories that lingered long after. Those had been the brightest days.

But now… You were up here, alone. Watching the world move on without you.

For a moment, you thought about asking permission from the Archbishop to attend the festival. But the thought quickly left your mind. You already knew how it would go. Even if he said yes, he would assign you an even stricter chaperone. You would be led from one designated stop to another, rushed. It would feel less like a visit and more like a ritual of appearances.

It wasn’t worth it.

Then a thought struck you. It sparked suddenly in your chest like a match struck in the dark.

What if you didn’t ask? What if you just… Snuck out?

Your heart skipped.

Could you even do that?

It felt like madness, but the idea had already lodged itself into your mind, refusing to leave. There were guards posted at the gates. Clergy walking the halls at all hours. And yet… the idea of slipping past them, of blending into the crowd of festivalgoers, of tasting freedom even for a day — it was too tempting to ignore.

You couldn’t make it to today’s celebration, that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, if you prepared carefully… next week could be different.

Over the next few days, you turned your casual walks into reconnaissance. You watched the guards from a distance, searched the halls for blind spots, watched the rhythm of the servants, and mapped the quietest corridors. You draw a poorly made map of the temple, scribbling notes on the paths you could take.

With your newfound determination, you’re sure you’ll be able to go to the festival this week.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

This temple was built like a damn fortress!

Every entrance was watched. Every path accounted for. You returned to your room one afternoon and slumped into your writing chair, burying your face in your hands. The frustration burned in your chest.

Curse those who assigned the layout of this prison temple.

You ran a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in frustration. With a sharp exhale, you stepped out into the quiet halls of the temple. It was nearing the hour of evening prayer anyway, so you stormed through the quiet halls of the temple, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing faintly against the stone.

When you reached the prayer chamber, you kneeled at your usual place. You clasped your hands together. When you opened your mouth, the words you uttered were not soft-spoken, but they were razor-edged. You followed the usual form of prayer, though this time, there was fire in every syllable, a simmering fury that made the priests nearby stiffen and steal worried glances.

They had never heard you pray like this before. Were you praying to Khaslana, or were you threatening him? They didn’t know. The priests dared not interrupt and kept their heads bowed.

After your evening prayers, you passed by the front gate. You didn’t intend to do anything, just watching.

But then you saw it.

Two of the guards had stepped away from their posts, moving with practiced ease as they swapped shifts. You lingered nearby, pretending to observe a flowering vine on the stone wall. Five minutes later, they returned.

It wasn’t much — just a narrow window, a sliver of chance. But it was something.

Your heart raced as you walked back to your chamber.

If you timed it perfectly, if the halls were quiet and no one was watching, you might be able to slip through during a shift change. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. Still, you had doubts lingering. You knew how unpredictable the temple was. There might still be wandering priests in the halls. You would need more careful timing.

You would need luck. Even divine intervention.

The thought made you pause. Would your husband notice? Would he stop you? Would he… care?

You considered praying to him, you know, just enough to tip fortune in your favor. But how could you make such a prayer without revealing your intent?

You tried keeping things vague: requesting protection, for clarity, for guidance on uncertain roads. But even so, guilt festered at the back of your throat. You were a mortal trying to outwit a god.

You sighed deeply as you sat back at your desk, fingers absently brushing over your ink-stained parchment. Your eyes drifted to the row of old temple scrolls. One of them, worn at the edges and bound in cracked leather, mentioned Cifera — goddess of trickery and hidden paths. For a moment, you considered turning your hopes toward her instead. Surely she would understand. She was the patron of secrets and silent rebellions.

But even that felt dangerous. Gods did not always answer as mortals expected — and Cifera, for all her wit and charm, was as unpredictable as the ocean. One prayer could lead you to freedom.

Or straight into a trap.

You sighed, walking to your bed, planting your face into the pillow, carefully planning the escape.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the night finally came, you looked outside your window and gathered your courage. You had prepared everything in secret, every detail planned with precision over the past few days. Your belongings were already packed: a modest satchel with your saved coin, you wore a simple linen dress, and a travel cloak with a deep hood to hide your face.

Just before sunset, you told the priestesses not to disturb you for dinner, claiming that you were unusually tired and would be resting early. They seemed concerned but didn’t question you further.

You waited until the temple fell quiet. According to what you’ve overheard, the Archbishop had summoned all the priests and priestesses to a meeting. Something about receiving a message from Lord Khaslana himself. That timing couldn’t be more convenient.

It was almost suspicious, even.

You almost laughed. Whether it was divine providence or coincidence, you didn’t care. You were determined to leave.

With your cloak slung around your shoulders and your bag secure at your hip, you crept through the dimly lit corridors. You kept to the shadows, heart hammering in your chest as the last golden rays of sunlight bled over the hills. You arrived at the edge of the temple grounds, ducking behind a stone pillar near the front gates. Just as you had predicted, the guards began their shift change.

Now.

You sprinted across the open courtyard, your breath catching in your throat as your sandals pounded against the stone. You muttered a desperate prayer to the West Winds, begging them to carry your footsteps quietly. Reaching the outer wall, you climbed with surprising ease — the muscle memory of childhood sneaking and tree-climbing in Okhema still alive in your limbs. With one final push, you vaulted over the gate, landing softly on the other side with a thud muffled by grass.

You paused only a moment to catch your breath, casting one last glance back at the towering temple. Then you ran, cloak fluttering behind you, hair whipping in the wind as you tore down the hill toward the city below. Your feet burned and your lungs ached, but you didn’t stop.

For the first time in months, you felt free.

The gates of Okhema loomed ahead, golden lights from the festivities already glowing like stars fallen to earth. Laughter, music, and the clatter of wooden wheels floated on the breeze. Your heart pounded.

Not from the run this time, but from exhilaration.

You were finally here.

You made your way to the familiar district where your family lived. When your mother opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief.

“By the gods… what are you doing here?” she whispered, pulling you inside.

Atlas, your younger brother, shouted your name with delight and rushed into your arms, wrapping himself around your waist. You smiled as you held him close, heart clenching at how much he had grown.

“I was granted permission to attend the festival,” you said, the lie tasting oddly natural. “Just for tonight.”

Your mother’s eyes searched your face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press. “Your father’s out of town,” she said after a pause. “There was an urgent dispatch from the southern front.”

You nodded, choosing not to ask for details. “Will you come with me to the festival, then? Just for a little while?”

She shook her head with a tired smile. “No, I’m too old for those crowds now. But take Atlas. He’s been begging me for days.”

“Please, Ma? Can I go?” Atlas clutched your sleeve eagerly.

Your mother sighed, then gave you a look that was part blessing, part warning. “Come back safe.”

“Of course,” you said with a grin.

Moments later, Atlas returned with a small bag of coins and excitement bursting from every step. He grabbed your hand and began pulling you toward the heart of the city.

The festival was more dazzling than you remembered. Lanterns strung across the streets bathed everything in amber light. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honey pastries, roasted chestnuts, and painted masks. Atlas dragged you from one corner to the next — watching dancers spin to the beat of drums, laughing at jugglers dropping flaming torches, squealing at the scent of fresh honeybread.

He remembered your favorite food. You hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention all these years.

“Sis, look! There’s a play! Let’s go watch!” Atlas tugged on your arm, pointing toward a crowd gathering near a stage.

“Atlas, slow down,” you said, laughing as you tried to keep up with his darting steps.

You ended up at the back of the crowd, barely able to see over the heads in front of you. Atlas strained on tiptoes, pouting in frustration.

“Come on, I’ll lift you,” you said, crouching.

He blinked. “Are you sure? I’m not that little anymore.”

“I’ve carried heavier,” you teased, and with a grunt, lifted him onto your shoulders.

His hands settled on your head for balance, and his smile widened as he finally got a good view of the stage. For a moment, everything felt perfect. It felt as though you had slipped into a pocket of time where none of your duties or fears existed. But that moment was broken when you felt something shift behind you.

Your bag. A rustle.

You turned quickly, but it was too late. A man was already sprinting away, the coin pouch clutched in his hand.

“Thief!” you shouted, quickly setting Atlas down before darting after the man.

You pushed past onlookers, dodging carts and barrels, the thief just ahead, weaving between alleyways. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in.

A tall, white-haired man blocked the thief’s path, moving with fluid confidence. Before the thief could turn, the man seized him by the collar and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. The thief writhed and kicked, but the stranger didn’t flinch.

“Now, now,” the man said calmly, his voice smooth as still water. “Let’s not ruin the festive mood with petty crime.”

He held out his other hand, palm open. The thief groaned and quickly handed over the coin pouch. Without another word, the stranger dropped him to the ground. Guards rushed in from the crowd and dragged the man away. You arrived just as the commotion died down, shielding Atlas with your arm on instinct.

The white-haired man approached, holding your pouch. “Yours, I believe,” he said.

You stared at him, not just out of gratitude, but out of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. His presence was overwhelming in a quiet way — like a hearth fire in winter, steady and warm but impossible to ignore.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you hesitated, unsure how to address him.

He seemed to catch your pause, his gaze briefly flickering with something unreadable before he smiled. “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon… I can’t thank you enough.”

“Thank you for helping my sister, Sir Phainon,” Atlas said with an adorable bow.

Phainon chuckled, kneeling slightly to ruffle Atlas’s hair. “It was my honor.”

You clutched the pouch to your chest. That was all the money I had left…

You found yourself staring at him; his striking white hair, his eyes the clear blue of the high heavens. He looked unlike anyone from Okhema. Had you met him before? Surely you’d remember a face like his.

You shook your head and composed yourself. “Then… let me repay you. I’ll buy you something from the stalls.”

He raised a brow, considering. “And if I decline?”

“Then I’ll insist,” you said with a half-smile.

He sighed with mock reluctance. “In that case, I trust you’ll choose wisely.”

The three of you began walking together, passing through the glowing streets of the night market. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he lingered in front of a stall selling grilled meat skewers. You chuckled softly, stepping forward to place your order.

You handed one skewer to Atlas, then another to Phainon. As you held it out, your fingers brushed. A strange heat rose up your arm — not burning, not painful, just… familiar.

Phainon looked at your hand for a moment before taking the food from you, then offered a slow, easy smile.

“Thank you, pretty lady.”

You turned away quickly, cheeks warming. That same feeling fluttered in your chest again, unnameable and unfamiliar.

The festival lanterns were beginning to dim, their golden hues paling against the indigo sky. The evening air had cooled, brushing against your cheeks with the gentle scent of roasted spices and trampled flowers. You hadn’t intended to spend this much time with Phainon. In truth, you hadn’t expected to spend any time at all. But something about his presence was disarming. He was steady, grounding even. He had a calmness that settled like silk over your nerves. Atlas adored him; that much was obvious.

Still, as you glanced up at the clock tower at the center of the city square, you knew time was slipping from your hands. If you don’t return soon, someone might notice your absence.

You turned to Atlas, who was still licking honey off his fingers from a fruit skewer. “It’s time to go home, Atlas.”

He frowned, lower lip jutting out like it used to when he was a toddler. “Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?”

You hesitated, your smile softening with guilt. “I’ll try to visit again soon,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Promise.”

You guided him home, Phainon walking silently at your side. When you reached your family’s doorstep, your mother opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a stranger beside you.

Her eyes flicked to Phainon. “Who is this?” she asked, ever the vigilant matron. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts, young man.”

Phainon bowed slightly, his voice smooth. “Phainon, ma’am. I’m from out of town. Recently relocated here.”

Your mother tilted her head. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze turning to you for explanation.

You cleared your throat. “He helped us earlier. A thief tried to steal my coin pouch.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “A thief?!” she gasped, her hand flying protectively to Atlas’s shoulder. “Oh, by the gods... thank Khaslana you were there, Sir Phainon.”

Phainon gave a modest smile. “I only did what anyone would.”

Your mother turned to you, concern etched into her face. “I should’ve known trouble might stir while your father’s away. With the general gone, they think they can take liberties.”

You offered a faint nod, placing a hand over hers. “I’ll pray for your safety every night, Mother.”

She squeezed your hand gently. “And what about you?” she asked, more quietly. “Is your... husband treating you well?”

You froze, a familiar ache returning to your chest. The words caught in your throat, and you looked away. Phainon, standing just behind you, didn’t say a word. But his gaze was steady and unreadable.

“I have to return now,” you said, dodging the question. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around your mother. “Please send father my love.”

She held you tighter than usual. “Be safe, my child.”

You pulled back, your throat tight. Atlas tugged at your cloak and hugged you around the waist once more. You turned away, waving goodbye to them, your mother’s expression sad, but you tried to reassure her with a bright smile. Phainon silently followed as you walked down the lantern-lit streets, heading toward the city’s edge. The path grew quieter as you left the bustle behind.

“It seemed like you hadn’t seen them in a long time,” Phainon remarked softly from beside you. “Why not stay longer?”

You exhaled, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. “I can’t. My husband is... strict.”

He stopped walking for a moment. “Strict?” he echoed, with a frown. “Really?”

You glanced at him, raising a brow. “He’s a loving husband,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I’m a child again.”

Phainon’s frown deepened, but he looked down, expression unreadable. “Maybe he’s just... worried. About your safety.”

You laughed bitterly, the sound carrying a note of pain. “If that’s the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

He didn’t reply to that. The silence between you grew heavier as the temple walls came into view in the distance.

“I can walk you back,” Phainon offered after a pause.

You looked at him. There was sincerity in his tone, no trace of insistence — just concern. “I live somewhere... unusual,” you said carefully. “Not many are allowed near it. It’s better if I go alone.”

He nodded slowly. “Then let me walk you to the gates, at least.”

“...Alright.”

The rest of the walk was quiet. You tried to find something to say. Small talk felt foreign now, like a language you hadn’t spoken in years. You glanced at Phainon from time to time, noticing the way the lantern light softened the sharp edges of his face.

Before you realized it, you were standing at the main gates.

You stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you again, Sir Phainon. For everything.”

He smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you, too. You were good company tonight.”

An awkward pause stretched before you. You cleared your throat and stepped back.

“Well... I should go. Farewell, Sir Phainon.”

“Safe travels, my lady,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.

You began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath your feet. But something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You stopped and turned around.

“I never told you my name, did I—?”

But he was gone.

The street was empty. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Not a shadow, not a trace of him remained.

Your shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping your lips. Still, a strange warmth lingered in your chest.

Maybe you would see him again.

CHAPTER III

Ever since you went to the festival, things have gotten… strange.

You hadn’t expected the guards to make it easy for your return. In fact, you’d spent most of your walk back from the city wondering how you’d sneak past them again without getting caught. As you neared the outer wall of the temple, your pace slowed, eyes scanning the shadows. Your heart was pounding as you drew closer to the main gate.

That’s when you heard it — a low, rhythmic sound. You stopped in your tracks.

…Were those snores?

Your brows knit in confusion. That couldn’t be… right?

But sure enough, when you rounded the corner, there they were: the two guards slumped against the wall, fast asleep while still standing on their feet. Their helmets were slightly tilted forward. The gate was ajar, just enough for someone your size to slip through.

There’s a weird feeling in your stomach. This wasn’t normal.

Had someone broken into the temple while you were away? Were the guards faking it?

You hesitated, then began to move cautiously as you moved your feet against the stone path. You slipped through the gate, wincing slightly when it let out a small creak. You paused, eyes flicking back to the guards.

They were still snoring; if anything, it was louder.

You exhaled softly. You admit this situation was a bit odd, but you didn’t want to think about it right now.

The temple grounds were unusually quiet. You would’ve expected at least one priest or priestess wandering about at night. But there was no movement, no sound. There was only a gentle breeze and your own groggy footsteps.

Your unease grew, but you pushed it down. Worry about this tomorrow!

For now, you just needed to make it to your chambers without being seen. Not that it mattered, there was no one patrolling the halls. It was as though the temple had fallen into a temporary slumber.

You slipped into your room unnoticed. Changed your clothes. Lie in bed.

Sleep came quickly that night.

The next morning brought no answers; it brought more confusion.

You were halfway through your breakfast, your thoughts still adrift in the memory of last night’s strange silence, when the Archbishop passed by. He gave you a warm, grandfatherly smile and patted your shoulder.

“When you’re finished, come to my office. I’d like a word.”

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t thought he’d found out, but now, your mind raced.

You’d explain, you told yourself as you walked toward his office. You’d apologize, say you just wanted to see your family, that you had no ill intentions. Maybe even pretend to weep if needed.

You knocked gently. “Come in,” came his voice.

The Archbishop was at his desk, scribbling notes into a scroll. He looked up, eyes bright behind his glasses. He gestured for you to take a seat across from him. You sat down and braced yourself.

“How are you feeling?” he asked casually, quill still in hand. “The priestesses mentioned you weren’t well yesterday.”

Your breath caught. Then you blinked.

What.

“Ah, yes. I was just… tired,” You said, quickly recovering. “A little rest was all I needed.”

“Glad to hear it.” He smiled, setting his quill down and folding his hands. “We wouldn’t want you falling ill, would we?”

You forced a polite laugh, tension still clinging to your spine. He laughed with you, then leaned back in his chair.

“One more thing,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Lord Khaslana has spoken to me.”

Your heart jumped into your throat. “He… did?”

The Archbishop nodded, his expression unreadable. “He’s permitted you to visit Okhema. Whenever you’d like.”

You sat there, stunned. “Truly? I can go alone?”

“Yes. You may leave the temple without an escort.”

Your face lit up with disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” you said quickly.

“There is one condition,” he added gently. “You are expected to return by parting hour, and you must ‘talk’ with him every time before you go.”

You tilted your head. The Archbishop noticed your confusion as he let out a laugh.

“Yes, I was taken aback by his last condition as well. I take it that you haven’t been talking with him lately?” He asked.

You looked away, “I… may have.” You answered sheepishly.

“Haha! Maybe he just wanted a bit of attention from his dear wife.” The Archbishop stroked his beard.

Him? Wanting attention from you? Last time you checked, he was the one ignoring you!

“Right… But I will accept those conditions,” you replied.

He smiled and nodded. “Then that is all I wished to share.”

You stood to leave, already imagining the market stalls, the smell of roasted foods, and the distant music echoing through the streets. But something tugged at you — a bitter feeling in your chest.

You turned back at the doorway. “Archbishop?”

“Yes?”

You hesitated for a few seconds. “Does… my husband speak to you often?”

He furrowed his brow slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Hmm… I wouldn’t say often. But from time to time, yes. Usually, when he has something he wishes us to know.”

The ache bloomed again, sharp and cold inside your ribs. “I see. Thank you.”

You left the office quietly. Your footsteps echoed in the corridor as your thoughts spiraled. You were sure that your new freedom was because your husband had probably heard you talk with Phainon yesterday, he knows you snuck out, and he lets you. You were now sure that the guards and the gates were all his doing. He heard you and yet…

Why won’t he speak to me?

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

True to his word, the temple’s gates no longer kept you captive. The priests, once hovering shadows at your every step, now bowed and let you pass unaccompanied. No more chaperones, no more restrictions, no more surveillance. For the first time since your marriage, you were free. And you felt it.

You began to spend more time in the city. You walked with Atlas to his school, sneaking in conversations with your friend at the bakery and other shops. Of course, you couldn’t tell them the truth. You simply said you’d been promoted and reassigned to a more “sacred” temple. That word tasted bitter on your tongue.

Even so, the temple staff noticed your glow; how your prayers grew longer and how you seemed to have more to say to your husband in the roofed balcony when you thought no one was there. Because now, you have something to talk about. Even if he never answered.

You ran into Phainon again one sunny afternoon, just outside the antique shop. This time, you introduced yourself properly.

“A beautiful name,” he said, and before he could follow up with something else, you gave him a stern look and reminded him that you were married. He only laughed, completely unbothered. It annoyed you and, somehow, made you smile.

He began showing up more often after that, just accompanying you wherever you go He’d tell you about the fake antique he saw, and how he managed to convince someone from getting scammed. Sometimes you’d share a meal with him after you pick up Atlas from his classes. Atlas was more than happy to see him, talking about what he learned from school and even bragging about his grades.

The little traitor even stopped pulling your hand during festivals and started dragging Phainon’s around instead. The tall man always hunched a little so Atlas could reach him properly, grumbling playfully and shooting you half-hearted looks of betrayal. You only chuckled.

And now, here you were, seated on a bench near the festival square on the last day of the festival. The lanterns above cast flickering gold against the deepening dusk, music drifting from a nearby corner. You both sat with tired feet and half-eaten honeyed bread in hand, watching Atlas run off with some boys from school. You and Phainon started talking as usual.

You hadn't meant to bring up your troubles. But the words slipped through anyway.

“He never talks to me,” you muttered, biting into the sticky bread. “Never comes to see me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible.”

Phainon cast a glance at you, his usually bright face dimming. “Your husband…? Maybe he’s… busy,” he said, cautiously.

“That’s the thing,” You cut in, a bitter laugh escaping. “I know he’s probably busy with… whatever he’s doing, but don’t tell me he doesn’t have time to even see me? No need to talk for hours, just… see me.”

You shouldn’t have underestimate what gods do. For all you know, he could be busy protecting Okhema from unseen threats. But you were pissed off, it’s rational for you to think this way.

Phainon looked like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it down. You stared off into the square, the sound of flutes drifting in the air.

“Maybe…” Phainon began carefully, “Maybe he’s afraid.” his voice was too steady for someone just speculating. It made something tighten in your chest.

You blinked and turned to him. “Afraid? Of me? I’m his wife.” You flail your arms, “He’s faced monsters and armies. He has helped many people as well! He has all that power— I mean skills, and yet he’s afraid to meet his wife?” You scoffed.

Phainon sighed, letting out a soft, breathy laugh, “To be fair, you are terrifying,” he mumbled.

You widened your eyes, looking at him with mock offense, “What did you say?” You asked, tone offended, though the smirk on your lips said otherwise.

Phainon raised his hands defensively, “What? I didn’t say anything. Wow, the West Winds sure are strong nowadays…” He said, looking at his surroundings as if to check the wind.

You tried to hold your scowl, but it cracked at the edges as you let out a laugh, “You defend him a lot for someone who’s never met him.”

Phainon smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say… I can imagine his side of things. From one man to another.”

You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes with a fond smile. “How about we just enjoy the festival tonight and leave our troubles behind, huh?” You said, rising to your feet and extending your hand to him.

Phainon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on your outstretched hand. Then, without a word, he took it.

You gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before gently tugging him upward. As he stood, you released his hand and turned, stepping forward with your newfound energy. Behind you, Phainon followed, your touch still lingering on his skin.

And the evening continued — gentle, golden, warm in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. You didn’t notice the way Phainon’s gaze lingered. The way he watched you not with curiosity…

But guilt.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was the sixth month now— the Month of Everday.

The days were blazing, the sun bearing down on Okhema like a merciless spotlight. You had stopped visiting Okhema City as often, worried that too much time outside would leave you sun-drunk or worse, sick. So you remained within the white-stone halls of the temple, living in routine and resignation.

Oh, and of course — you still hadn’t met your husband.

Still, you had a growing suspicion. Your prayers, though unanswered in voice, felt… heard.

Whenever you complained about the stifling heat, a gust of wind would roll in from the hills, brushing sweat from your brow like an invisible hand. Whenever you wandered into the gardens, that familiar loneliness clawing at your chest, you’d find yourself quietly joined by a bird perching near your feet, a butterfly settling on your shoulder, and a stray chimera curling beside your bench, purring softly.

Were those coincidences? Or was it his doing? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.

Today, the wind had picked up again. Cool enough that you decided to visit the temple library. The temple’s archive of fiction was surprisingly robust. Romance novels nestled among sacred texts, hidden like small rebellions. The priestesses pretended not to notice them, and you didn’t ask questions.

If escapism was a sin, then you were already damned.

Oh well, at least you’ll have your divine husband to save your soul later.

When you stepped inside, the doors were already open. The scent of parchment and lemon polish drifted in the warm air. Ah, the priestesses must’ve been cleaning. You walked down the rows of bookshelves until you reached the fiction corner. You were just beginning to trail your fingers across a row of colorful spines when hushed voices caught your attention from behind the adjacent shelf.

You didn’t mean to listen. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But then—

“It’s been a while since Lord Khaslana visited, huh?”

You froze.

“Yeah… I miss when he used to talk about the stars with us,” one voice sighed.

“He was so kind. Just… glowing. I always felt so calm around him.”

“Ever since the wedding, though, he’s stopped coming. I wonder why?”

Your blood turned to ice. The ache in your chest, the one you’d been nursing in silence for six months, splintered. So he had been coming before. He could come in human form. He had been visiting. He laughed, talked, and spent time with the others.

Just… before you came.

You turned on your heel, left the shelf, and made your way to the Archbishop’s office with purpose burning in your steps. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.

The Archbishop startled in his chair, lifting his gaze. “Child, what’s—?”

“Did Lord Khaslana used to visit the temple?” You asked, your voice low but shaking.

He blinked. “Yes… regularly, in fact. He often stayed in his chambers. He enjoyed visiting in his human form. Shared stories with us. Just casual talk.”

You swallowed. Your mouth tasted bitter. “When did he stop?”

The Archbishop exhaled slowly. “He… hasn’t visited since the wedding.”

You nodded, almost mechanically. “Thank you,” you said, though your voice barely carried. You turned before he could say anything more.

You walked. Fast. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself back in your chambers, your hands already gathering your cloak and satchel. You didn’t greet the guards at the gates like usual. You barely acknowledged them at all.

Their concerned glances followed you, but you didn’t stop.

You ran.

You ran through the dirt roads, through the burning streets of Okhema, your breath heavy and ragged. You didn’t care about appearances anymore. You didn’t care if people stared. You just needed to see someone who loved you.

You reached your parents’ home, panting and soaked in sweat. Your hand trembled as you knocked. When the door opened, your mother’s eyes went wide at the sight of your tear-streaked face. She didn’t ask questions and pulled you inside. She held you like she did when you were little, brushing your hair back and murmuring.

Your father was home too; he had just returned from his campaign. His rough soldier’s hands clenched into fists the moment he heard your sobs.

You sat between them on the couch, your words tumbling all at once. You told them everything. About the empty bedroom, the silence, the prayers that never answered in words, the dinners eaten alone.

The months of hoping for something — anything.

“I hate him!” you choked, collapsing into your mother’s arms. “I hate him.”

She stroked your hair, whispering, “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

“I don’t care! I want him to hear me!” You screamed into her shoulder. “I hate him! I hate him! He left me! I don’t want to go back!”

Your father stood in silence. Then, in a voice like thunder, he said, “I’ll kill him.”

You pulled back from your mother in shock, breathing still ragged, “What?! Father—” you sobbed, “have you lost your mind?!”

“I mean it,” He snapped. “God or not. No one does this to my daughter.”

“Dearest, calm down. Don’t say that,” Your mother gasped, rising to stop him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

He paced, shaking. “I do not care! It is not impossible to kill a god.” He muttered, “I offered her over, thinking that he would protect her.”

You looked up at him, tear-streaked, heart pounding. The sight was enough to stop him. Then slowly, he knelt beside you.

“Forgive me… I should’ve never…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth, “This is all my fault. Forgive me, my daughter.”

You wrapped your arms around him, nodding on his shoulder.

The rest of the evening passed quietly. Atlas had just come back from school. Thank the gods you had already washed your face. You greeted him with a smile as he told you about what he learned in school. Your mother ushered Atlas to take a bath and to change. He nodded and went straight to his room.

Everyone was at the dining table, your mother bringing out your favorite food. Your father, still trying to calm himself, began recounting silly stories from his latest travels, with Atlas asking him hundreds of questions every time your father said a sentence. The sight made you smile. It was warm and familiar.

But eventually, the moment had to end.

You declined their offer to stay the night, thanking them both for comforting you. You promised to return soon. Your mother pulled you into one more hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” She whispered, her voice helpless.

“I love you, too, mother.”

You stepped back into the streets of Okhema. The warmth of home faded behind you. You wondered if Phainon would appear tonight. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best, you’re not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone right now.

You arrived at the temple just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You told the priestesses not to wait for you at dinner, informing them that you had already eaten with your family. In your chambers, you changed out of your clothes, washed your face, and leaned against the window. A drop of water hit your hand, causing you to look up.

“...Rain?” you whispered. The sky above was darkening quickly, a deep grey settling over the hills. A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance.

You watched the rain fall, slow and steady. You didn’t know why, but something about the rain felt… different.

You closed the window and walked towards your bed. The sound of rain tapping the glass and thunder rolling over the skies above rocked you into sleep.

CHAPTER IV

The first time Khaslana heard your father’s prayers, he was sitting alone beneath the wheeling stars in the Vortex of Genesis. His throne was carved from marble and fiery amber, but tonight, his eyes were downcast, quiet.

The voice of a mortal reached him. It was frantic and raw. A father, kneeling in bloodied armor beneath a broken sky. He had offered his daughter to the Worldbearing God in exchange for deliverance. Not her life, but her fate. Her soul. To be entrusted to him. To become his.

Khaslana didn’t speak, nor did he descend. But he heard and he listened.

With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked open. Meteors streaked through the red sky, cleaving through the monsters of the Black Tide with divine precision. Screams of terror turned into shouts of awe.

Your father’s voice rang out among the crowd. But the god had already turned away. There were other matters to attend to.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Time passed differently for gods; A year for mortals was a blink for him. Yet when he returned to the mortal plane in his human form, the earth had changed again.

His hair was now snow-white, his eyes the piercing blue of high summer skies, and he walked through the halls of his personal temple, blending in like any other human. The Archbishop welcomed him warmly, inviting him into his study. The scent of honeyed tea and spiced bread filled the room. Though Khaslana had no need for food anymore, he accepted it out of politeness. Human cuisine always stirred something faint within him, perhaps it was a memory, a warm feeling.

“It seems the time has come for your wedding, Lord Khaslana,” the Archbishop began.

The god paused, a piece of pastry untouched in his hand as he raised a brow.

“The one with the General’s daughter,” the Archbishop clarified. “She’s of age now. And, if I may speak freely… she’s become quite the beauty.”

Ah. That exchange..

“Has the time come already?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, more to himself than to the priest.

“Yes,” the Archbishop replied, watching him carefully. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to accept the offer.”

Khaslana didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tea’s surface, where the reflection of his own face shimmered.

“The law of Equivalence,” he said at last, voice low. “As old as the breath of the world.”

The Archbishop remained silent.

“When a mortal offers something of true value, something that wounds them, the heavens are bound to answer. The greater the sacrifice, the deeper the prayer carves its way into us. And a daughter…” He looked up. “A daughter is no small offering.”

“So you accepted… not out of desire?” the Archbishop asked softly.

“No,” Khaslana said. “I accepted because it was owed.”

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The wedding day arrived.

Seated upon his throne, Khaslana watched. The ceremony unfolded beneath him like a sunlit dream.

You stepped onto the temple balcony, dressed in white and gold, the light catching the silk of your dress like water running over moonstone. Every moment, the way you walked and the way your fingers clutched stirred something ancient in him.

And when you lifted your face to the sky, full of resolve, something inside him ached. You were radiant. Perhaps… too bright for a god like him.

Aglaea has blessed her, he thought. I’ll have to ask her about this later.

He could not descend. Not yet. So he sent a warm, soft, laced with summer and sunlight, breeze to touch your cheek in place of his hand. And when you spoke your vows, so simple yet earnest, he smiled—not as Khaslana, the bearer of worlds, but as a man. A soul. Phainon.

As you pledged yourself to him, he answered. Not with words, but with the divine. The stone beneath your feet lit with a celestial glow. The covenant is now sealed.

As the ceremony ended, he immediately left the vortex, but not to you.

His mind raced with questions: How does one protect a mortal wife? How does one hold her without harm?

He went to Castrum Kremnos, seeking the advice of Mydeimos, the God of Strife, and also his closest friend. He had led his people to many victories. He was battle-hardened and unshaken. His people look up to him for his protection, and almost all of his people were warriors or warriors-to-be. Surely, he’s the one best when it comes to protection, right?

That was his first mistake.

“Why ask me such stupid questions?” Mydeimos grunted, arms crossed. “Treat her like any subject… just more important.”

Khaslana frowned. “Do all Kremnoans speak in riddles?”

A vein bulged in Mydeimos’ forehead. “Just get her guards! When she goes outside, someone follows her. Feed her. Protect her.”

Ah. Khaslana nodded slowly.

And just like that, he returned to his temple, appearing in the Archbishop’s office in his mortal form. The old man barely flinched — already used to his god’s sudden appearances. Khaslana gave his orders, guards, routines, and what was expected. The Archbishop was a bit puzzled, but he obeyed.

That night, Khaslana stood again in the Vortex of Genesis. Stars spun above like galaxies caught in breath. But his gaze was fixed below.

On you.

There you sat in your new chambers, at the edge of his bed, alone. Waiting.

Aglaea, the Goddess of Romance, made her presence known behind him, “Shouldn’t you be down there with your wife, Deliverer?” She asked, voice gentle and curious.

Khaslana turned to her, about to ask what she had meant. Then his breath caught in his throat.

Ah. The wedding night. Where couples would usually consummate their marriage.

He turned back to your room. You had changed from your temple robes into more delicate garments. You sat at the edge of the bed in silence, tugging at the edges of your sleeves.

“You fear her,” Aglaea murmured, stepping beside him.

“I do not fear her,” He replied too quickly. Then after a moment, “I fear what I no longer understand.

Aglaea tilted her head. “She’s human.”

He closed his eyes. “I was, too, once. I remember what it was to love, to burn, to yearn with a heart that beat for another. But now… I remember only the shape of those feelings, not their weight. Like remembering the warmth of a fire I can no longer feel.”

His eyes drifted back to you, “I know what she hopes for. I know what I should do. But what if I fall short? What if I hurt her without meaning to?” He turned to look at Aglaea.

“She wants with no fear. Speaks freely. Cries and smiles and hopes. How am I supposed to touch that… without breaking it?”

Aglaea’s face softened. “So the god who bears the world is afraid of breaking a single girl’s heart?”

He gave a dry smile, “Because I have broken nations without meaning to. What damage might I do… when I mean to touch?”

She shook her head, smiling faintly, “Hearts don’t shatter from being touched, Khaslana. They break from being left waiting.” She turns to leave, her voice fading with her steps.

He stayed silent, watching as you curled up in bed. Alone.

He took a deep breath before he descended in silence.

He appeared in his divine form, the chamber awash in starlight and wind. You lay peacefully, fast asleep. So small compared to him. His hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly.

You were… fragile.

He could cover your entire face with one palm. If he tried to touch you, would he shatter you like porcelain?

He withdrew.

Then disappeared again, leaving you in the quiet of the night.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Khaslana had watched your daily life unfold with quiet diligence. From the celestial cradle of the Vortex of Genesis, he observed everything. How you rose with the morning light, how you bathed with graceful efficiency, how you chose your robes each day with a frown of indecision. He even listened in on your earliest prayers, chuckling softly to himself at how bashful your voice became when you "talked" to him aloud for the first time. Something was endearing about the way your voice trembled.

He watched as you walked through the streets of Okhema with a chaperone trailing behind you, weaving between markets and festival stalls. He felt assured that you were safe, that you were protected, as Mydeimos had advised.

And yet, he never answered your prayers with words.

He could have. He had the power to appear at your side in an instant, to offer his voice in response. But a part of him hesitated. What if you asked why he hadn’t come to you? Why hadn’t he appeared on your wedding night? Why hadn’t he even seen your face-to-face since the vow? He wasn’t ready to answer that.

It was now the Month of Joy, and for the first time, your prayers carried a different weight. No longer just requests for health or protection.

You began to whisper your loneliness.

At first, he was puzzled. You were allowed to leave the temple grounds. Why didn’t you simply request permission through the Archbishop? A chaperone was all it took.

But then, he noticed something… odd.

Your behavior changed. You lingered in corridors longer than necessary, watching the guards with sharp eyes. Your gaze flitted from corner to corner when you thought no one was watching. You studied the temple’s layout as though trying to memorize every hallway, every path.

Suspicious. Curious. Restless.

Was this normal behavior for humans? Khaslana tried to remember how he had acted as a mortal. But his memories, though vivid in form, felt distant in emotion.

And your prayers changed again. They still asked for his blessings and guidance, but now they sounded… sharper. Each line was laced with the fire of frustration. Threats, almost.

Ah… those suspicious behaviors and those oddly vague yet threatening prayers… You were trying to sneak out. That amused him more than anything.

Cute. He thought, lips curling with dry humor.

Then came the night of your escape.

Khaslana had already planned ahead. He contacted the Archbishop using the stone tablet etched with his sigil, the divine channel between the Vortex and his temple, asking him to gather the priests and priestesses for an urgent “discussion.” The Archbishop, ever dutiful, obeyed. When the clergy assembled that night, expecting celestial orders, Khaslana simply asked how they were doing. No divine proclamations, no rituals. Just… small talk.

With the temple’s attention occupied, he turned his gaze back to you.

There you were — walking the cobbled streets of Okhema in the moonlight, your younger brother trailing behind you, eyes full of wonder. A smile tugged at Khaslana’s lips.

But then… a thief. Quick hands snatched your coin purse and darted through the crowd.

Before Khaslana could think, his body moved. In an instant, he teleported down to the mortal plane, hidden behind a tree in the city’s plaza. The thief was already headed his way, and without effort, Khaslana caught him by the collar, lifting him off the ground like a child.

He retrieved your coin bag and turned toward the sound of your footsteps. You had run after the thief, breathless, face flushed, and worried. Khaslana approached you with a quiet composure, holding the pouch in hand.

“Yours, I believe,” he said, voice steady. Though his pulse might’ve been racing.

“Thank you so much, sir...” you replied, dipping your head politely. His breath caught slightly. Your voice sounded so much clearer now, spoken directly rather than through the haze of prayer.

Then you looked at him expectantly.

Oh. You were waiting for a name.

He blinked once before smiling with effortless charm, “Phainon.”

“Sir Phainon... I can't thank you enough,” you said again, gratitude glowing in your eyes.

Your little brother approached, too, grinning up at him and offering his thanks. Khaslana reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest.

He should’ve left then. It was safer that way. But—

“Then... let me repay you. I'll buy you something from the stalls.”

He paused. Considered it. “And if I decline?”

“Then I'll insist.”

There it was. That smile. How could he say no to his wife?

So he agreed, reluctantly, but with a small twist of amusement. You led the way through the colorful rows of vendors and festival lights, your brother bouncing ahead. It had been centuries since he’d stood in a human celebration like this.

His eyes lingered on a stall that sold meat skewers. Oh, those looked heavenly.

Suddenly, you stepped in front of him and ordered two skewers. Without hesitation, you handed one to him, the other to your brother. His hand hesitated as he took the skewer from yours, your fingers brushing his in that brief contact. Warm. Real. He held onto that sensation like it might disappear.

“Thank you, pretty lady.” He smiled.

Your cheeks turned crimson.

Khaslana — no, Phainon — felt something loosen in his chest.

He stayed with you longer than he planned, drawn into the simple joy of watching you laugh, eat, and enjoy yourself. He noticed how your smiles here, in the mortal realm, were fuller than the ones you wore inside the temple.

He wanted more of that.

But then he saw your expression shift after looking at the clock tower. You quickly offered to bring your brother back home. Ah, yes, it was getting late for a youngster like him. He followed you back home, greeted your mother, and stayed silent after. Just watching you interact with your family.

After that encounter, he had tried to dissuade you from leaving so soon. Really, it was fine if you wanted to stay longer. He could just tell the Archbishop to turn a blind eye for tonight.

But then, something you said made him stop in his tracks.

“I can’t. My Husband is… strict.”

His brows knit together. Him? Strict?

“Strict? Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so offended.

You looked back at him, an eyebrow raised.

“He's a loving husband,” you said with dry sarcasm, the same tone Mydeimos would usually use on him, he notes. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I'm a child again.”

Phainon frowned, visibly stung. That wasn’t possessiveness? It was protection. But… maybe he’d misjudged what that protection felt like.

“Maybe he's just... worried. About your safety,” he offered gently.

“If that's the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”

The words landed like a stone in his stomach.

When he walked you to the city gates and watched you disappear into the night, a heaviness settled in his chest. He sighed, teleporting back to the Vortex, where the stars coiled like a divine storm above his head.

The Archbishop was still in his study. Through the sacred stone, Khaslana reached out once more and delivered new instructions — gentler rules, freer movement, and no more chaperones. The Archbishop, though clearly confused, agreed without question.

He owed you that much, at the very least.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Truly, revising the temple’s rules had been the right decision.

You had begun to bloom.

Your voice in prayer softened from its once-frustrated edge to something warmer, more sincere. Each time you entered the temple sanctuary, he could sense it: a calmness in your posture, a gentler rhythm to your words. You spoke to him now not as a distant stranger, but as someone familiar.

You told him about your plans before venturing into town, where you might go, and what you hoped to find. And when you returned, you’d come to the roofed balcony and recounted everything to him. From the people you saw, the food you tried, to the new book you discovered tucked away in a corner stall.

It had become your ritual. And though you didn’t hear his answers, he listened to every word like scripture.

Your frequent visits to Okhema meant he could now meet you — not as Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, but as Phainon.

Still, a quiet fear gnawed at the back of his mind.

What if you came to prefer Phainon? What if the smiling stranger with the white hair and blue eyes, the one who could laugh and tease and walk beside you, eclipsed the unseen god to whom you had been bound?

But those fears melted the day he tried flirting with you in the middle of a market stall, only for you to straighten and remind him, quite firmly, that you were a married woman.

He had laughed, not because of the words, but because of the quiet, overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest.

You still remembered him.

Not just the idea of a husband, but him. Khaslana. The one cloaked in divinity, hidden behind stars and clouded sky. You still held space for him.

After that second encounter, meeting you came more naturally. Your conversations grew longer. He no longer felt the sting of hesitation when you smiled at him, or the jolt of nervousness when your fingers brushed again. And in your evening prayers, you started mentioning Phainon with a kind of amused fondness that made him laugh in the Vortex.

It was adorable hearing you try to hide how much you enjoyed his company.

Whenever you visited the city, he’d always find a way to cross your path. Never too obvious. Never too frequent. But enough. Enough to hear your voice, to see you light up when Atlas tugged on his arm, to walk beside you, even if only for a little while.

He cherished those fleeting moments more than you could ever know.

And when you were back in the temple, fast asleep in your chambers, he would sometimes return in his divine form, a silent shadow bathed in starlight. He would stand at the foot of your bed, watching your chest rise and fall, listening to the soft sighs you made as you dreamed. In those quiet hours, something stirred in his chest — something foreign and familiar all at once. A tenderness and longing he could scarcely name.

You had gotten closer. Perhaps that was why your words on the final night of the festival struck him so deeply.

You had laughed together that evening, walked through bright-lit streets beneath strings of lanterns. But when the topic shifted to your marriage, about the husband you had never seen, your smile dimmed. Your voice cracked, wrapped in quiet sorrow.

You confessed how confused you felt, how hurt you were. How you didn’t understand why he — Khaslana — hadn’t come to see you. And in a low, guarded voice, you asked aloud if he even cared.

He listened, seated beside you as Phainon, heart heavy with guilt. Each word was a knife, though you didn’t know you were placing the blade in his hand. He had wanted to speak. To explain.

To say I do care. I watch over you every day. I listen to every prayer, every breath. I’ve never left your side.

But instead, he defended Khaslana as if he were someone else entirely.

A stranger.

That night, when he returned to the Vortex with questions running through his mind. Should he tell you the truth? Reveal the name behind the face you now trust? Or would it ruin everything you had come to build between you?

No, he’d just have to keep it a secret. Just for a little longer.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

When the Month of Everday rolled in, Phainon had begun answering your prayers more deliberately.

When you sat alone in the gardens, shoulders hunched, eyes faraway, he sent soft-pawed animals to sit with you; a curious chimera here, a fluttering cluster of butterflies there, chirping birds above. Gentle companions — not enough to startle, but enough to soothe.

When you muttered beneath your breath about the suffocating heat, he stirred the air with his fingers, sending winds to cool the sweat from your brow. You never seemed to notice the small cloud that followed you whenever you stepped beyond the temple gates, shielding you from the sun like a loyal servant.

He watched you and thought, Yes, this is enough.

The days had been steady. Almost peaceful.

Until he heard your sobs.

At that moment, he was in the midst of an argument with Mydeimos, a spirited bet over who could lift an entire mountain range faster. Their fists pounded the cliffside as they compared strength like war-hardened brothers.

Your sounds reached him like a whiplash.

It was soft at first. It sounded fragile, but unmistakable.

Then, loud sobbing.

Phainon stilled.

His head jerked slightly, listening. Mydeimos raised a brow at the sudden silence.

“What's the matter—?”

But Phainon was already gone.

He reappeared just behind your parents’ house. The sky above was bright, a contrast to your emotion. And through the walls, your cries tore through him like thunder splitting stone.

“I hate him!”

He froze, eyes wide, and his breath caught in his throat. The words struck like a blow to the chest, and his pupils trembled.

“I hate him.”

No.

No, no, that can’t be right.

He stepped closer, pressing himself against the shadows of the wall, every muscle in his divine body locked in place.

Then your mother’s voice, soft and warning: “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”

You didn’t hesitate as you answered, “I don’t care! I want him to hear me!”

The air around him cracked.

“I hate him!”

His heart stuttered.

“I hate him!”

Stop... please—

“He left me!”

No. No. I’m right here–!

“I don’t want to go back!”

That sentence hit harder than any divine weapon ever had. For a moment, time twisted. The world stilled. Your voice echoed in his head on a cruel loop, every syllable sharper than the last.

I hate him.He left me.I don’t want to go back.

He could no longer hear the muffled protests of your father or the sound of your mother’s arms pulling you in close. None of it registered. All he could hear was you.

The pain was unfamiliar. Foreign and all-consuming.

Why?

Why did you feel this way?

He had given you everything: comfort, safety, freedom. The power to come and go as you pleased. He answered your prayers. Protected you. Watched you. Even the smallest desire, he met with quiet, invisible care.

So why did you hate him?

He vanished once more, light splitting the space where he stood.

Back in the Vortex of Genesis, the stars above spiraled violently, distorted by the storm brewing in his chest. He hovered in the silence of the divine plane, your cries still ringing in his ears, over and over.

The look on your face. The tears that spilled down your cheeks. The grief in your voice.

It was all because of him.

Even when he kept his distance to protect you. Even when he tried to be careful. He still hurts you.

And he didn’t understand.

Phainon’s — no, Khaslana’s — breathing ragged, he fell to his knees. Divine form trembling, hands clenched so tightly the stone beneath him cracked. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Mydeimos' spear had pierced his chest once in battle, but it hadn’t hurt like this.

This... this was heartbreak.

Tears welled in his eyes, burning hot. They fell freely, only to sizzle and vanish into steam the moment they touched the sacred ground beneath him.

“You hate… me…” he whispered.

You hate me. You hate me. You hate me.

He repeated it in his mind like a curse, and the storms began to brew.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Okhema had been ravaged by storms for over a week.

Thunder rolled through the heavens day and night, shaking rooftops and soaking the earth with relentless rain. The fields were drowning. Crops began to rot beneath the mud. Work halted, streets emptied, and the people whispered of divine wrath. It was the worst weather Okhema had seen in generations.

High above, Aglaea watched the storm with a quiet frown. The Goddess of Romance was no stranger to divine tantrums; gods and mortals alike threw them when love faltered.

But this one had become… excessive.

Not only had Hyacinthia, Goddess of the Sky, blistered her ears with complaints about the ruined blue of her canvas, but one of Aglaea’s golden threads was trembling. Dangerously so. Nearly fraying at the edge.

A divine-mortal bond. Now that was rare.

Aglaea leaned closer, fingers brushing the glowing weave, noting its resonance. This wasn’t an ordinary thread, tangled from passing crushes or whispered longing. This one pulsed with something ancient and sacred. A thread that should never have been this brittle so soon.

She hummed, amused. “Now… who do you belong to, I wonder?”

Without another word, she vanished from her realm.

In a breath, she stood within the Vortex of Genesis. Stars swirled in slow, infinite spirals, like pain spilled into the void. She walked with grace past the twelve thrones of the Twelve, each grand in their own way.

And there he was.

At the edge of the vast platform, Khaslana stood alone. The Worldbearing God, cloaked in shadow, stared outward into nothing. His broad wings, once radiant with power, now hung heavy behind him. Their gold and amethyst plumage dulled like tarnished glass. The eternal flame of his hair, normally burning like a solar flare, flickered dimly above his brow. Even his halo had lost its luster.

Aglaea paused beside him, her presence warm, “I see Okhema’s having quite the weather — on the sixth month, no less,” she said lightly, her voice breaking the hush.

No response.

She tried again, more pointed this time. “Hyacinthia has come to me to complain that a certain Worldbearing God has been painting over her skies with stormclouds. She says they look like… hm… what was it that she said?” She tapped her chin with a playful smile, “‘a muddy, sulking bruise.’ Quite poetic, don’t you think?”

Khaslana didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, or perhaps… beyond them.

Aglaea folded her arms beneath her chest. “So… nothing to say about the storms, then?”

Still silence.

Her eyes narrowed, studying him more closely. His face was drawn, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched tight beneath his dim halo. Everything about him—from the slouch of his wings to the rigid set of his shoulders—radiated tension.

“The crops are dying,” she said more gently now. “The streets are flooded. The people of Okhema are starting to wonder what they did to anger their precious god.”

At last, his jaw shifted.

“…Let her complain,” he muttered, voice low and rough as crushed stone.

“Oh, she is,” Aglaea smirked faintly. “But I didn’t come for Hyacinthia.”

She raised her hand, and with a glimmer of divine threadwork, a golden string appeared. It curled in the air between them, one end wrapped around Khaslana’s divine presence, the other trailing far downward, through the layers of the world as if reaching for someone below.

“This thread,” Aglaea said, letting it swirl around her fingers, “has been trembling all week. Do you know how rare it is to see a bond like this? Between a god and a human? This isn’t just affection. It’s something sacred. But right now,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s falling apart.”

Khaslana said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeper. Then, finally, he spoke.

“She said she hated me.”

Aglaea’s eyes softened, a quiet breath leaving her lips. “Ah.”

“I did everything for her,” he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a bewildered ache behind it. “I protected her. Gave her food, shelter, and freedom. Everything she could want. And still…” He looked down at his hands, clenching them slowly. “She said I left her.”

“Well,” Aglaea said carefully, “didn’t you?”

His head snapped toward her, but she didn’t flinch.

“You gave her your temple, your guards, your blessings. But not you. You let her see her family, her brother, but not her husband.”

“I was there,” he said sharply. “I watched her. I listened to every prayer. I shielded her when no one else could.”

“But did you hold her?” Aglaea asked softly.

Her words landed like thunder on Khaslana. He didn’t answer.

“She is human, Khaslana. Mortals aren’t fed by silent devotion. They need to touch, they need voice, and presence. She needs her husband. Not just her god.”

Khaslana looked away.

“I never wanted a bride,” he muttered. “I only answered a prayer… one too steeped in blood and desperation to ignore.”

Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Then cast her off. Let her go.”

The thread shimmered between them, its glow dimmer than before. He didn’t speak, his jaw tensed, and his fists trembling.

“I can’t,” he said at last, voice cracked.

“Even if I never asked for it, I can’t let her go. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t imagine the temple without her steps echoing in the halls. I can’t remember what silence was before her voice filled it.”

“She was a burden I never meant to carry,” he whispered, “but now… she’s a weight I don’t know how to set down.”

“Then carry her properly,” she said. “Because if you don’t—she’ll tear herself from your hands just to feel free again.”

Khaslana’s voice turned hard. “You speak as if I could have simply walked into that room. As if lying beside her wouldn’t risk shattering her ribs or scorching her skin.”

Aglaea tilted her head. “Is that truly what you fear?”

He was quiet. Then, softly:

“My form isn’t what it used to be. I’m not some soft-lit statue. My body is lined with cracks. My shoulders are spiked. My hands are claws. I have destroyed armies with the weight of my breath.”

His claws curled against his palm.

“If I touch her… I would ruin her.”

Aglaea was silent for a long breath.

Then she said, “So instead, you let her ruin herself. Wondering what she did wrong. Believing she was unwanted.”

Khaslana’s expression faltered. Barely. But enough to show the storm beneath.

“She hates me.”

“She was lonely,” Aglaea replied, her voice quiet.

He turned from her, “You wouldn’t understand.”

But Aglaea only stepped closer.

“I understand love,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I understand what it means to show up, even when it’s terrifying. I’ve seen mortals risk heartbreak, war, even death, just to reach each other.”

She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, “Your body may be forged from flames, Khaslana. But your soul still longs.”

She stepped back.

“I’ll leave the skies alone for now. But if you let this thread break, the world may not end... but something inside you will.”

And then, like the soft falling of starlight, she vanished, leaving Khaslana alone with his thoughts.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

You stood by the window, worry etched into your features as you gazed out at the endless downpour. The storm still hadn’t passed.

For the past week, the rain had come in vicious cycles. It would rage from Lucid Hour to Parting Hour, winds howling, thunder deafening, and rain lashing the windows like angry fists. Then, it would slow to a drizzle during Curtain Fall Hour, only to begin again at Entry Hour the next day.

You were grateful that the corridors connecting your chambers to the temple were covered. Without them, even the simple act of fetching food would have been an ordeal.

Now, wrapped in a blanket, you remained cooped up in your chambers, your fingers curled around the warm fabric to help shield you from the cold. The sound of rain pelting the stone walls had become constant, almost maddening.

Then came a knock at your door.

You blinked, startled, and rushed to answer. Standing in the doorway was the Archbishop, his robes damp at the edges, his face weary but composed.

“Forgive me for coming so suddenly, my child,” He said gently.

You stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He moved with care, as if unsure whether he was intruding.

“You’ve never visited me in my chambers before, Your Excellency,” you said as you shut the door behind him.

He gave a small nod, his hands folding behind his back as he walked a few steps in. “Is something wrong?” You asked, sending a weight in his silence.

He stopped at your question and drew a deep breath. When he turned to face you, his expression was troubled.

“I believe this storm is Lord Khaslana’s doing.”

Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, clutching your blanket more tightly around your shoulders.

“What makes you think that?” You asked, your voice low.

The Archbishop looked down, hesitating before he met your gaze again. “This has happened before, there would be raging storms and our prayers would take more effort to be heard. And right now… He has not responded to our prayers,” he said, voice subdued. “Nor has he answered any of our calls to commune with him.”

You blinked, silence stretching between you. There was a heavy feeling in your chest.

“There are reports from the city,” he went on, “that the flooding is getting worse. The crops are dying. Food stores are spoiling faster than we can replenish them. Children are falling ill. Transportation has all but stopped.” His shoulder sank. “I fear we may be approaching a crisis if this keeps up.”

His eyes reached yours, weary and pleading. “Have you tried praying or talking to him to stop this storm? Did he answer?”

You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but asking me is pointless.”

You took a step back, your voice tightening. “He’s never responded to me. Not once. He has never spoken, has never appeared. Even if I did pray, he wouldn’t respond.”

The Archbishop’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took both of your hands in his.

“You are his wife,” he said, his voice steady despite the desperation behind it.

You looked away, your jaw clenched. “Only in name.”

He held your hands a moment longer before releasing them. “Try,” was all he said.

Then, with a small bow, he turned and left you standing alone. The silence that followed was deafening.

You bit your lip, frustration burning behind your eyes. Was this storm his answer? Did he hear you that night at your parents’ home, shouting your anger at him?

You let out a low, bitter sigh and dropped onto the edge of your bed. It didn’t matter what you felt. People were suffering, the city drowning, and your family — your people — were in danger.

You had no choice now. You would have to swallow your pride for the sake of Okhema.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was useless.

No matter how many times, in however many ways you tried, your prayers were met with silence. You had offered devotion, tears, your voice hoarse with pleading. And still, nothing. Lord Khaslana remained absent, and with each passing storm-filled day, your anger burned hotter beneath the weight of your helplessness.

How could you not? He’s acting like a child throwing tantrums!

You’ve had enough. If the passive approach didn’t work, you need a more aggressive approach.

You left before dawn. The thunder, for once, had settled to a distant murmur, like a beast sleeping fitfully beneath the clouds. You threw on the thickest cloak you owned, but the rain had already soaked you through the bone before you reached the temple gates.

The guards cried after you, the priestesses stepped into your path in panic, but you didn’t stop. You shook their hands off your arms. Your boots splashed through rising pools of mud as you walked with purpose — not to the city square, not to shelter, but to the hills. To the highest point you could reach, far from protection, far from anyone who might stop you.

Your fingers trembled with cold, your soaked cloak clinging to your back like a second skin. The rain was relentless now, an endless sheet drumming down from the bruised sky. The winds howled against your face, strong enough to nearly topple you off balance with each step.

But you pushed through it anyway.

Wet hair whipped against your cheeks, sticking to your skin. Mud pulled at your feet, but you climbed higher. The temple had long disappeared behind you, and now only the city lights flickered below, blurred by the mist.

By the time you reached the hill’s summit, your breath came in shallow gasps. Every muscle in your body ached, screaming at you. Your lungs felt like it was burning from the cold, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably.

Yet you stood there against the blackened sky. Your chest heaved as you felt the air was heavier.

“Lord Khaslana!” You screamed, the name ripped from your lungs, echoing into the storm. You paused, but no reply came.

The rain struck harder now, angry needles against your skin, “I’ve prayed!” you shouted, louder. “I’ve waited, I’ve begged! But you — you arrogant, absent god! You stayed silent through it all!” Your voice cracked under the weight of months of abandonment.

“You bring storms to punish the people of Okhema just because I said what I felt?!”

Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the sky for a breathless moment. You didn’t flinch. You glared into the storm as if daring it to answer.

“Oh, send your thunders then! Strike me down if it pleases you!” Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the words poured out in rage and desperation.

“Just stop hiding and face your wife you– you–!” You clenched your fists. Your body trembled from a final, reckless kind of defiance.

“COWARD!” you screamed with all the force your soul could muster.

A blinding light shattered the sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to split stone. Then came the strike.

A bolt of lightning split the earth just ahead of you. The blast threw a gust of wind so strong it forced you a step back, shielding your face with your arms. But when the light faded and the roar quieted—he was there.

He stood tall, towering over you by more than triple your height.

Radiant and terrifying.

Golden wings streaked with violet unfurled behind him like a storm split in half. His body glowed like cracked marble, lines of molten gold spilling from the fractures across his limbs and chest. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, golden and sharp, and his hair blazed like the sun.

His clawed hands flexed at his sides. And those eyes—those burning, golden eyes—pierced through the veil of rain like twin suns, fixed solely on you.

You staggered back in awe, your breath hitching as his presence filled the air like a pressure too great to bear. But before you could speak, the storm around you softened. A dome of warm, golden light shimmered into place above your head, shielding you from the wind and rain. The world fell quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.

You dared a glance upward.

He hovered just above the ground now, slowly lowering himself to stand before you. The closer he came, the more you felt it; his power, his sorrow, his presence pressing against your skin like something tangible. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your fury had carried you here, but his silence stole the words you had prepared.

With trembling breath, you forced yourself to stand firm. You could feel droplets of water dripping from your hair, your wet clothes heavy on your body. The wind no longer reached you, and the weight in the air still crushed your chest.

“Stop this storm,” you managed, voice rough. “Please.”

Khaslana’s golden eyes locked onto yours. There was no flicker of warmth in them, no spark of the god you once dreamed of meeting. His voice when he answered was low, almost cold.

“You’re asking me? The god you hated?” He said,

The sound of his voice rooted you in place. It was the first time you’d heard it, and yet something about it was painfully familiar. A memory brushed the edge of your thoughts, but the coldness in his tone and the tension in your spine prevented you from figuring it out.

“Oh for goodness sake,” you hissed, rolling your eyes as your chest heaving from anger, “You never responded to my prayers! You never even looked at me! What was I supposed to think?”

Khaslana’s eyes narrowed, the gold in them flaring like the sun. “I did respond,” He said, “You just didn’t notice.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What…?”

“I sent you winds when the sun was too harsh. I made the guards fall asleep when you returned late from sneaking out of the temple. I changed the temple rules after your complaints. I sent you critters to accompany you in the gardens. I was there, every moment, watching. Protecting.”

Your breath caught in your throat. A thousand little things that never made sense now returned like puzzle pieces falling into place.

“But you weren’t present,” you said, frustrated. “They said you stopped visiting after our wedding. You never came to see me. Never… touched me. Never spoke to me.”

“I did,” Khaslana said, quieter now. “Just… not in this form.”

And in a quiet, golden shimmer, his divine shape began to fade. The crackling marble softened into flesh. The halo dimmed. The claws became gentle fingers. The glowing eyes, still golden, now carried something more—vulnerability.

Phainon stood before you.

You gasped, eyes widening as the realization hit you like thunder, no wonder his face and voice was familiar. “Phainon… You were Phainon this whole time?!”

He frowned, looking away.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“When we first met,” Phainon murmured, “there were too many people. I didn’t plan to talk to you for long. Then... I panicked.”

“Panicked?” you repeated, hurt blooming in your chest like fire. “You’re a god, and you panicked?”

“I did,” he answered, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “And the longer I stayed quiet, the harder it became to fix it. You smiled at Phainon… but you said you hated Khaslana. How could I show you I was both?”

“Then why didn’t you just visit me—like you’re supposed to? As my husband?”

“Because I was afraid!” he shouted as a sound of muffled thunder cracked from behind him.

“I was afraid,” he said, quieter now, almost desperate. “Afraid that if I touched you, I’d break you. My true form… It’s wrong. It’s all jagged edges and burning weight. I’m not like you. I remember what it was like to be human, but I don’t understand those memories anymore. I don’t understand those feelings.”

His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I kept my distance. I thought if I gave you the world, you wouldn’t come looking for the god you were promised.”

Something snapped in you at those words. Your hands curled into fists, trembling. And then, before you even realized it, you struck him in the chest.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop you.

You hit him again, your voice ragged with pain. “I never asked for the world! I asked for you!”

You hit him once more, sobs escaping you now in messy gasps. “I waited. Every day. I waited for you to come. To say something. Anything. And instead, you watched me from your sky like some—some coward! I thought I was the problem. I thought I wasn’t worthy of you.”

Your fists weakened, falling limply against his chest as your legs gave out. You collapsed against him, burying your face into his shoulder.

“I was so lonely,” you whispered, brokenly. “So alone.”

Phainon didn’t speak. He stood still, hands trembling slightly at his sides as you sobbed into his shoulder, your pain crashing into him like waves. Each crack in your voice struck something tender in him — deeper than any spear, sharper than any blade. And though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped from his cheek.

It fell onto your hair with a soft hiss, evaporating before it touched your skin.

Then another fell. And another.

You heard it, the faint sizzle of heat, and slowly, you pulled away to look at him.

His brow was furrowed, his mouth parted in a quiet breath, and his blue eyes were wet and aching. The tears continued to fall and vanish into vapor, but he didn’t hide them. He let you see every drop of sorrow, every fracture of regret written into his face.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

Unbeknownst to either of you, the storm outside the golden shield had eased. The sky was still bruised with clouds, but the wind had softened, and the thunder no longer roared.

You wiped your own tears away with a trembling hand, then reached for his face. With slow, deliberate care, you brushed the tears from his cheeks, fingertips cool and soft against the heat of his skin. The contact made him flinch, not from cold, but from the gentleness, the grace of being touched by you in kindness after everything.

You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. Then, voice raw but steady, you spoke.

“You hurt me,” you started, “So much that… there were nights I thought about leaving you.”

A bitter chuckle slipped from your lips, dry and hollow. When you looked back at him, you expected anger or indifference. But what met your gaze was something far more fragile.

His face was stricken. His eyes were wide, devastated, like a child who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. Your words had pierced him in a place not even divinity could shield.

“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, quieter now. “If being married to me is just… a burden to carry, if I’m something that makes you uncomfortable —”

“No!” Phainon’s voice rose sharply, full of panic, as he stepped forward and caught your arms, holding them firmly but not harshly. His grip trembled, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

“I—” he faltered, eyes searching yours.

“I never asked for this marriage, no. But meeting you as Phainon… being with you that way — it changed everything.”

His voice the softened, almost trembling as he continued, “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in centuries. You made me imagine a life where we weren’t bound by pacts or divine duty. A life where we were just two strangers who met by chance and fell in love slowly without fear.”

Phainon’s smile flickered, touched with ache and hope. “You made me feel human again.”

“So no,” he said, firmer now. “I don’t want you to leave. Not now. Not ever.”

You stared at him, stunned, then slowly your expression softened. A new tear slipped down your cheek — not from grief, but relief.

“I see…” You murmured.

Phainon quickly released you, noticing your flinch too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you again?”

You shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “I’m… relieved.”

Above you, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, golden light filtering softly across the hill.

Phainon let out a shaky breath of relief. “Then…” he began, voice tender, “can we start over?”

You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Let’s start over. No need to rush.”

Then, with a faint smile and glistening eyes, you reached out your hand to him—not as a formality, but as an offering. Your fingers were cold, wrinkled from rain, yet steady.

He blinked, taken aback by the gesture. A handshake?

But the moment he took your hand, it no longer felt like just a handshake.

You gently curled your fingers around his and pulled his hand to your chest, just above your heartbeat. “I’m your wife,” you whispered, your voice warm and trembling. “It’s nice to finally meet you… truly.”

His eyes softened as he lowered his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there a moment longer than expected, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin, the texture of this promise, the shape of a new beginning.

When he looked up, he smiled.

“I’m Phainon,” he said gently.

You tilted your head. “Not Khaslana?”He held your hand a little tighter, “Khaslana bears the weight of the world. But when I’m with you… I’m not holding the world. I’m holding you.”

CHAPTER V

When he heard you sneeze on the hill, his expression shifted instantly to worry. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest. In a blink, the storm vanished from your senses. There was no more wind, no more rain, only the sudden warmth of your chambers and the soft scent of cedar and rose oil clinging to the walls.

You blinked in surprise, barely catching your breath as he guided you gently toward the washroom.

“Take a hot bath, quickly,” he said, already unfastening your soaked cloak. “You’ll catch a fever like this. I need to take care of a few things first—Hyacinthia’s going to have my wings for the skies I ruined.”

And with that, he vanished.

Just like that.

You stood there in silence for a long moment, the empty space where he had been already cold. The pain that flared in your chest was sharp, instinctive—not as deep as before, but still a ghost of the hurt you'd carried for months. You pressed a hand to your heart.

No. You had made peace with him. You had seen his tears. His heart. You had both made a choice to begin again.

Still…

You sneezed again—sharper this time.

You sighed, stripping off the damp layers clinging to your skin. Your fingers moved quickly as you turned on the hot water, steam already beginning to rise around the marble basin.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Phainon returned to your shared chambers not long after Parting Hour, the quiet hum of his powers still clinging to his presence. His expression was soft but worn, likely from appeasing Hyacinthia and announcing his return to the temple priests. You heard from the priestesses earlier that the temple had rejoiced, and the Archbishop was moved to tears when Phainon’s voice finally answered the ritual prayers.

Inside your room, the air was warm. You had just finished towelling off your damp hair, your night robe loose around your frame as you combed your fingers through the tangles. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn slightly.

Phainon approached with a tentative smile. “Sorry for making you wait,” he said as he made his coat vanish with a shrug of his shoulders, the materials disappearing into soft golden dust.

You arched a brow and gave him a small, teasing smile. “Only half a year. Barely noticed,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes before turning toward the bed.

Phainon let out a breathless sigh, following behind you with a dramatic pout as you perched at the edge of the mattress. He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to brush.

After a short silence, he cleared his throat. “So…” he said as his eyes nervously flickered between you and the bed.

“We don’t have to rush anything, Phainon,” you said before he could get too tangled in his own nerves. “Besides, I’m not spending the night with someone I barely know.”

His lips parted as if to protest, but you lifted a hand before he could. “And don’t argue that I know you because of the times we spent together. I know Phainon, the human version—the friend. But you? As my husband?” You gave a soft shrug. “That’s a whole different story.”

Phainon looked a little deflated at first, but then he smiled. It was a quiet, grateful kind of smile. “That sounds fair. Getting to know each other properly… That sounds nice.”

And so you talked. For hours.

The two of you curled into the bed, at first upright against the pillows, then slowly sinking into the comfort of the covers as the conversation stretched into the night. You told him about your childhood. You spoke of your fears, your petty dislikes, and your odd preferences.

Phainon, for his part, opened up in ways you didn’t expect. He told you about the earliest memories he had when he first became human, how he used to live in a place called Aedes Elysiae, which was surrounded by fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. He described his affinity for antiques and how he had a hobby of collecting them back then.

You laughed, cried a little, and at some point, you both lay facing each other under the shared blankets, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the fabric between you.

In the days that followed, life began to bloom around you again.

Phainon kept his promise. He was no longer just a god hiding behind the sky. He became a presence, warm and tangible. He walked with you through the temple gardens, sat beside you during meals, and occasionally dragged you just to lie in the sun.

He asked you questions often, about your dreams, your moods, your thoughts on every little thing. As if trying to memorize you in real time.

He formally met your parents again. This time, not as a stranger cloaked in mystery, but as your husband. You nervously explained everything to your family, how Phainon and Khaslana were the same person, and how things were different now. Your parents exchanged looks, and your brother seemed to be more excited, but overall, they were overjoyed to see you smiling again.

Your father did apologize for threatening to kill him once, though Phainon simply laughed and said, “I genuinely don’t remember what you said. I was too busy panicking.”

There were still days when he was called to perform his duties as the Deliverer, but every night, without fail, he returned to you. Sometimes late, sometimes exhausted, but always with the same gentle smile and whispered “good night” against your hair.

Tonight, he returned to you in his divine form.

Though he carried himself with his usual solemn dignity, there was no denying the weight on his shoulders. His movements were slower, the glow of his halo a little dimmer, and the golden lines within his fractured marble skin shimmered less brightly than usual.

Phainon rarely used this form in your presence, always quick to shift back to the human face you had grown familiar with. But when he moved to do just that, his hands already glowing with the telltale light of transformation, you stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait,” you said gently. “Stay like this. I want to see you… Really see you.”

His glowing eyes flickered with hesitation, but after a long breath, he nodded and let the light fade. Then, without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so that he could be closer to your eye level. Even so, his form was enormous, vast in its presence.

You reached forward, both hands rising to cradle his face. You have to admit it took you effort to do so. The moment your fingers made contact, Phainon closed his eyes. His expression softened, almost like he was savoring the contact.

You marveled at the texture of his skin — it was pale gray like the statues in the public garden, but far warmer beneath your touch. Your fingers traced one of the fine, golden cracks that ran along his shoulders.

“Do the cracks hurt?” you asked.

Phainon opened his eyes halfway, a breath escaping him.

“No,” he replied quietly, “They don’t.”

“Ah, okay. That’s good.” You murmured. “They kind of look like they did.”

Your touch wandered, now to his fingers. His claws were long, sharp, and metallic gold. You turned his palm upward and traced the ridges along it with your thumb. He watched you in silence until a soft chuckle broke free from his chest.

You looked up, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”

His smile was small but sincere. “Nothing. It’s just… It’s endearing — you asking if the cracks hurt.”

You huffed and looked back down at his claws. “I’m comparing you to a human body. If a human cracked like that, they’d be in excruciating pain.”

He hummed in amusement, eyes glinting with affection. You let your touch travel again, to the base of his wings. They were breathtaking—wide, arching structures of gold and violet. From afar, they looked feathered, but up close, you saw the sharp, blade-like edges to them, each feather-like sliver layered with precision. They shifted slightly under your hand, fluid despite their rigidity.

He noticed you staring and shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking away for a moment.

“Am I… scary?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.

You smiled at him, fingers tucking a strand of glowing hair behind his ear.

“When you appeared to me during the storm? Absolutely.” You laughed softly. “But now? You look absolutely divine.”

He stilled under your touch, eyes widening slightly as you leaned forward. With careful intent, you pressed a kiss just beneath his left eye.

Phainon froze.

He blinked as you pulled back, your cheeks warming as you began to mumble an apology. “Sorry—I just couldn’t help myse—whoa!”

He tugged you gently forward, hand firm around your wrist. You gasped at the sudden closeness, your face just a breath away from his.

“Do it again,” he said. His voice was quiet, but filled with something desperate and hungry. His eyes searched yours, filled with longing and disbelief, like he didn’t think he was worthy of what you’d just given him.

Your heart raced. Still blushing, you leaned forward again and placed another kiss on the other cheek.

“Again,” he whispered, his grip steady.

So you did. You kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the top of one of his ears. Each touch was soft, reverent. You moved slowly across his face, offering gentle affection like a balm over wounds unseen. As you kissed the curve of his jaw, you swore you heard his wings flutter.

You stopped just short of his lips, both of you breathless now. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with quiet pleading. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.

And with a quiet courage, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.

It was quick. Soft. Awkward in the way all first kisses are. You pulled back, your cheeks burning, and your hands covered your face.

He chuckled.

You peeked between your fingers to see what he was doing, but before you could say anything, he moved forward, his voice brushing your ear like wind across a harp string.

“My turn.”

In a blink, you felt the world around you shift.

You barely had time to gasp before you felt yourself being cradled by the familiar softness of your bed. The linens cushioned your fall as your back met with the mattress. And above you, Phainon — still in his divine form — hovered.

His immense body caged you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to brush your cheek with a touch so impossibly careful, it made your heart ache. His golden eyes were darkened by something deep and unreadable as they scanned your face, searching every inch like he was trying to memorize you all over again.

You swallowed, your breath catching when he tilted your chin up with his clawed finger, nudging your gaze to meet his, and then he leaned in and kissed you.

It was different now.

Even though he was careful, his lips dwarfed yours, overwhelming and unfamiliar in their shape and weight. You tried to match him, but it was clumsy, the angles imperfect. You shifted under him, trying to adjust, but it only made your nerves more jittery.

Phainon must have noticed. With a soft hum of understanding, he shifted course. His lips trail down the curve of your jaw, then to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped when you felt his mouth on the delicate spot just beneath your ear.

He kissed slowly, reverently. That is… until your reaction changed him.

Your gasp made him pause, then lean in again, this time with more intent. His lips pressed firmer, then parted. His tongue brushed your skin.

And then, he bites.

It wasn’t harsh, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, so unexpected it drew another sound from you, softer this time. Phainon exhaled against your throat like he’d found something precious. And then he began again, mouth moving along your neck with a hunger that wasn’t just physical; it was need, longing, the weight of months unspoken and untended.

But he was heavy. His divine body, though restrained, pressed down on you with weight you hadn’t realized until now. Your arms trembled beneath him as his kisses grew more intense, and you could barely catch your breath between the sensations.

“P-Phainon…” you managed, your voice small, but he didn’t stop. He was lost in you, in the way you sounded, the way you felt under him. His mouth grazed lower, teeth brushing your collarbone.

“W-wait!” you finally gasped, louder this time, your hand pressing gently against his chest.

He froze immediately. He pulled back with a worried expression, his clawed fingers rising hesitantly as if afraid he’d broken you.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking between your face and the red marks blooming along your neck. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, It’s—”

“Then… do you not want to…?” He asked again, voice careful.

“No!” you said quickly, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away in embarrassment. “I just… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just — your size…”

For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself, still in his celestial form.

“Oh,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”

In a pulse of golden light, his form shimmered and then shifted.

Where divinity once loomed, now sat Phainon. He was still radiant, still beautiful, but wholly human. He was shirtless, his skin glowing faintly from the residual of the transformation, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with each breath.

There was a flicker of nervousness in his blue eyes as he glanced at you.

“Better?” he asked softly.

Your gaze had wandered without permission, drawn to the definition of his chest, the lines of his collarbone, the familiar face now so close. You met his eyes again, your breath catching in your throat, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks.

Phainon picked up where he had left off, his touches reverent, slow, as if trying to memorize every inch of you through the warmth of his hands. His fingers traced along your sides with care, learning the curve of your waist and the rise and fall of your breath.

He leaned in again, placing kisses along your collarbone before slipping the fabric of your nightgown off your shoulders.

You felt the cool air brush your skin, but it was his mouth that truly made you shiver. He pressed his lips to the swell of your chest, then just above your heart, each kiss more deliberate than the last. His mouth moved lower, a soft sigh leaving your lips when his tongue flicked across your bud teasingly.

Your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging when he bit down with a soft pressure. Your breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping free, but you instinctively held back.

Phainon noticed.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression pinched with confusion, and just the faintest trace of a pout on his lips. “Why are you hiding your sounds from me?” he asked, voice low and tender.

You averted your gaze, cheeks flushed. “I just… I don’t want to be too loud.”

His frown deepened. “Why?”

You hesitated, then whispered, “What if someone hears?”

Phainon’s gaze softened at your words, though there was still a flicker of amusement behind it. He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your lips.

“They won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re far enough from the temple for that. And even if someone did…” He gave you a teasing look. “This is my temple, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do as I please in my own domain?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, his hand had dipped lower, fingers skimming along the soft flesh of your center. The sudden sensation caught you off guard, and a moan escaped your lips, sharper than before and unrestrained.

Phainon paused, smiled against your cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”

He didn’t stop. His movements now grew more assured, guided by every breathless sound that escaped your lips. Each time you gasped, his gaze flickered to your face, watching your expression. When your body would jolt, reacting to a particularly sensitive spot he had touched, Phainon would smile softly. A feeling of pride bloomed in his chest as if he had just uncovered a secret.

He leaned down to drown your voices in him, and slowly, he pushed his fingers in. His fingers moved with a pace—long, steady, and unrelenting. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth coursing through you. One had gripped his arm, while the other found its way into his hair, fingers curling just enough force to draw a low breath from him. He leaned closer, welcoming the contact as though your need anchored him just as much as his touch unraveled you.

“P-Phainon…” You whined, and he answered with a kiss to your forehead.

“Hm? Does it feel good?” He asked, still pushing his fingers in at a slow pace.

You nod your head, “I–I need, mmh, more…” “More? Are you sure?” Phainon asked as he adjusted his position, resting on his side while his other hand lay beneath you, hugging you closer.

“Yes, p-please…” You managed to voice out.

Phainon let out a breath before inserting another finger in. Your body arched towards his chest, and a high-pitched, strangled moan escaped you.

“Does it hurt?” He asked, planting kisses on your face.

“I’m okay…” You huffed, “Keep going.. Just… go slow…” You said.

“Okay,” he whispered, following your directions.

He moved his hands slowly and sensually, carefully checking your reactions to see any signs of discomfort. Then, after a few minutes, you nod your head.

“Okay… you can go a little faster.”

With that, Phainon picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them when he was deep enough. The rhythm of his fingers sent warmth blooming to your core, a rising tide sensation that left your breath stuttering.

You could no longer hold back the soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips. Your fingers clenched tighter around his arm, nails digging into his skin in a desperate bid to stay grounded.

But Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your closeness, entranced by the way your face contorted with unguarded pleasure.

With Phainon’s quick fingers, your body finally gave in to the building tension. The knot inside you snapped with a wave of release, your breath catching, his name escaped your lips in a cracked whisper. He watched you ride your high, his gaze filled with wonder, as though your unraveling was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.

As you came down, your lashes fluttered open. Phainon leaned in, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses, his hair brushing your skin and drawing a quiet giggle from you.

“I take it you had a good time?” he asked, voice playful but laced with affection.

You rolled your eyes at him fondly and reached up to trace his cheek with your fingers. “I did… thanks to you,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.

Phainon moved to hover over you again, deepening the kiss with growing need. His hips moved slowly against yours, his breath growing heavier. You gasped as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.

“Do you want to continue?” he asked, voice thick with restraint.

You nodded, more than ready, and pulled him close once more. Somewhere in the haze of kisses and wandering hands, you noticed him fumbling with his pants—an amusing contrast to his usual effortless elegance. But before you could comment, his body pressed against yours in full, his form settling into yours with a heat that stole your breath.

He paused, eyes locked with yours. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.

Phainon leaned in, resting his forehead to yours, breathing with you, grounding both of you. He finally pushed his hips forward slowly and measured. You held onto him tightly, overwhelmed by the stretch. Phainon let out quiet sighs against your neck, he pulled out before pushing back into you.

Your tightness around him was heavenly, and he’d been to heaven before.

As he rocked his hips into yours, you’d open your eyes to look at him. Small flickers of golden light danced around the corner of your vision. Every now and then, his divine form would slip through — his eyes would shift from sky blue to golden ones, even as far as only turning golden in one eye.

Soft golden flames would appear on his shoulder every time he reached a certain spot inside you, his hair would pulse from his usual white ones to his blonde ones. His voice, once deep and steady, faltered into quiet groans and murmurs of your name. Praising you, telling you how good he felt.

You kissed him again, anchoring him to you. “I love you, Phainon.”

His breath caught, but his hips still moved. When your eyes met, there was nothing hidden in his gaze. Just awe.

“I love you too,” he whispered, voice almost breaking.

With another kiss, he quickened his pace to chase your highs. The world around you blurring into quiet gasps and muffled moans, until nothing remained but warmth, closeness, and the stars flickering in his eyes.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

It was unusual to wake up to Phainon still beside you.

His body was warm against yours, his arms resting loosely around your waist in a quiet embrace. Before this, you would open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed or by your desk, greeting you with a quiet “good morning,” already dressed.

But not this morning.

This morning, the golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, touching his bare skin like a blessing. The light kissed the curve of his shoulder, the gentle line of his jaw, illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. You took in the sight carefully, as if afraid that moving too quickly would ruin this rare moment.

You turned on your side to face him, your body still aching from last night. You gaze across the angles of his face. His lashes were long, shadowing his cheeks with each breath, and you caught yourself smiling, well, perhaps a little jealous of how effortlessly beautiful he was.

Your fingers reached up, slow and gentle, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The softness of his hair against your skin made something tighten in your chest. It was the feeling of the weight of everything it took to reach this moment. The silence, the missteps, the months of loneliness, of sleeping on this very bed with nothing but questions in your heart.

And now, here he was. Real and warm. Sleeping beside you like he belonged there all along.

His brows twitched slightly, and then, with a small breath, his eyes fluttered open.

Those familiar blue eyes looked at you now with a different softness. They locked onto yours, and he didn’t say anything at first, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.

From where he lay, the morning light behind you framed you like a painting. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, your eyes a little puffy, the wrinkles of your smile faint. To him, there was no sight more divine than this. Nothing could rival the simple beauty of waking up to you.

“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft.

“Good morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep but still laced with the same tenderness he had shared with you last night.

You reached for his hand beneath the covers, and he met you halfway as he curled his fingers around yours without hesitation.

The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was warm. It was the sound of reconciliation, of finally being seen.

You rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You know there are still roads you’ll need to go through in the future. There would still be moments of misunderstanding, of learning how to love each other more. But now, you weren’t afraid of the road ahead.

You had found him, and he had stayed.

For now, that was enough.

©salmonmakiii, do not steal my work or feed it to AI.

#hsr #hsr phainon #phainon #phainon x reader #hsr x reader #phainon fluff #phainon smut #honaki star rail

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blcknebula · 4 days ago

Text

same but different — ft. phainon

phainon is always changing. he’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. and he’s changing. but he’s still your phainon and you still love him

word count. ❤︎ 10.4k words — girl (gn) what ze hell

before you read. ❤︎ female reader ; childhood friends to lovers ; modern/non canon au ; reader saves him from a bully when they’re young ; reader has a bad date (with someone else) ; very tame violence (phainon fights some assholes for her) ; love confessions ; loss of virginity ; awkward first times ; car sex/semi public sex (it’s dark) ; use of condoms (be safe!) ; finger sucking ; vaginal fingering ; slight hand jobs ; vaginal sex ; proposals (you say yes!) ; phainon is a bit of a crybaby (affectionate) ; not proof read pls tell me if there’s errors

commentary. ❤︎ THAT ART IN THE HEADER SENT ME INTO A SPIRAL BRO . so here’s the result ig

You meet Phainon when he’s twelve.

You’re new to the neighborhood, and so is he, starting over at school at the same time and learning the halls and classrooms in the same way—he seems to take being the new kid well. The teachers like him, and he’s friendly and easy to get along with, and most other boys like having him on their teams for sports because he’s agile and decent at catching a ball. You? Well…you don’t adjust as well.

You move not far from your old home, but far enough that everything feels different. He moves from some small town that no one has ever heard of, and all in the matter of a few weeks, he worms his way into your life and doesn’t let you know a single ounce of peace. You’re still eleven at the time, but he’s only two months, one week, and four days older than you, and you’ll be the same age soon enough.

But it doesn’t really matter that he’s older, anyway, because he cries like a god damn baby.

The older kids can be mean. Especially when twelve-year-old boys who still haven’t hit that growth spurt that most teenage boys seem to hit, like Phainon, are right there. Despite being quick on his feet, he’s especially small and scrawny for his age, shorter than you by a couple of inches—which is a little pathetic, you think. He’s supposed to be older.

It happens on a Monday—the start of you and Phainon. Phainon and you. Something weird possesses you on a random Monday before you turn twelve, and you step between him and a taller, broader, acne-painted older boy after school, and before thinking, you glare as you hiss out, “Leave him alone, weirdo.”

The boy doesn’t look too happy—and if you had an ounce of common sense, you’d take that as your cue to leave. But you don’t. You stare him good and hard in the eye as he grits out, “Mind your business.”

Phainon is still on the concrete, flat on his ass in a pathetic sort of way as tears coat his pale, soft cheeks and glisten in his eyes. They’re blue. Very blue. You glance at them for a quick second and realize too late that looking into them was an awful mistake. He looks like a kicked puppy, and something stirs in you and makes you turn abruptly, drawing your hand back before it snaps, and a loud, hard clap rings through the air.

You freeze, processing what you’ve done. Phainon’s breath hitches. The boy—some asshole whose name you never learn—turns his head, slow and stunned, the side of his cheek where your palm landed blooming red.

This is it, you think. This is how you die. This is where your body will be found face down in the dirt behind your new school that you didn’t even want to come to, and your parents will find you lifeless and limp. They’ll mourn you, like any parents would, and they’ll wonder why it has to be this way—why they have to bury their daughter and not the other way around. You’ll be dead in a few moments, and your poor, unsuspecting parents will have no choice but to blame stupid, annoying, crybaby Phainon for getting you killed in the first place. All because he’s too weak to fight his own fights and stick up for himself.

Except…nothing happens.

The boy just glares, rubbing his cheek, and grits out, “Lucky you’re just a brat and not like that little punk. I don’t hit girls.”

And just like that, he storms off. Heavy, angry stomps trailing behind him as he leaves you to let out a shaky breath of relief and marvel at your luck—you don’t typically run into people with standards when it comes to who they pick on. But, all things considered, you survived, and your parents won’t have to pay for your tombstone. You count your blessings and thank whoever’s looking over you.

And then you glance down at Phainon. He’s still sitting there, looking at you like you just parted the sea.

“You’re pretty pathetic,” you mutter.

“You’re pretty cool,” he says in awe.

“You should learn how to throw a punch or two.”

He grins, tears long forgotten as he stands up, brushes his hands on the front of his pants, and wipes his nose on his sleeve. You wrinkle your own nose at the snot stain he leaves behind.

“That’s okay,” he beams, “you can always just slap the bullies across the face like that for me, right?”

“No,” you gape, “I’m not your baby sitter—”

“I’m Phainon!” he holds a hand out to you. You look at it with a raised eyebrow before curling your lips in disgust.

“And I’m going home,” you say flatly.

You turn on your heel and start walking home promptly. You don’t want to make friends with the other new kid—especially not since he seems so much more well-adjusted to his new environment than you. (It’s a sort of bitterness only someone so young would feel. Being eleven and just on the cusp of twelve isn’t the age where rationality and logic are factored in with most decisions. Maybe, if you were older, you’d realize your bitterness has nothing to do with Phainon and everything to do with your inability to let go of your homesickness from moving.)

But Phainon is hard to shake off. He jogs after you and falls into step beside you as he pipes up, “You live down the street. I saw your moving trucks. My mom said I should be friends with you because you’re new too!”

“I don’t want to make friends,” you grumble out.

“Why not?” he looks bewildered, “being new and friendless is no fun.”

“Because I’m not staying here for long,” you snap, “I’m gonna save up and move back as soon as I get the chance. I don’t need to make friends somewhere that I’m not staying for long.”

He looks skeptical. It only makes you angrier as you throw him a sharp glare for having the audacity to not take you seriously, and he at least has the sense to quickly put his hands up in surrender as he murmurs, “Okay, okay! I believe you. But we can still be friends until you leave, right?”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes. He walks you home. You feel a little less lonely on the way back.

(In the end, you never move away like you said. He never stops being your friend. You can’t say you hate it even if you never admit it out loud.)

— — — — — — — — — —

Phainon is sixteen when you first realize he is no longer that puny, bite-sized little runt that got bullied by the older kids for being new. He doesn’t need saving anymore.

(He still cries as easily, though—it just happens with a little more dignity. He cries during movies and when he’s stressed from school and maybe after a bad day, but he doesn’t do it so easily in front of other people anymore.

Still, he always does in front of you.

Pathetic, you always call him. So mean, he always pouts. And then you hug him and he hugs you back and you remember the little boy you grew up alongside for the last four years. The one who’s two months, one week, and four days older than you, even though it doesn’t feel like it.)

It happens on a Friday night.

You go on a date. It’s your first one ever, in fact. Your father isn’t too happy, but your mother is ecstatic, and after a couple of convincing words from her, he reluctantly allows it to happen as long as you know your curfew and keep your location on at all times. You’re excited.

Until you’re not.

You think the date is going rather well. Really well. You like the boy, and he’s handsome and funny, and he listens to you when you ramble about the things you like. It’s a good date. Your mother bought you a new dress, and it’s your favorite color, and you even do your makeup a little nicer than you usually do. Everything feels right. Everything feels like it’s going how it should, and some naive part of you starts to dream about a high school romance that blossoms into something serious. Maybe at the wedding, you’ll speak about this date. How your father was against it, but your mother was thrilled. How you tried on seven dresses before this one, and had started to get antsy until you tried it on and knew it was the one. How you watched a YouTube video or two to learn how to do your eyeshadow properly, because you’re not used to doing it the fancy ways that older girls seem to do.

It’s all going well. Until your date politely goes to the bathroom and you wait for five minutes, which turns to ten, which turns to fifteen, and then at twenty minutes, your waiter comes and holds an apologetic look on his face as he informs you that the bathroom is empty after you insist for the third time that your date is just taking a while in there.

It guts you.

You don’t even know how or when he managed to slip out and leave you alone and stupidly waiting, but he does. Long gone are your dreams of a sweet high school romance and a big, happy wedding where you smile and remember the silly old days when you’d get dropped off to your dates by your mother ten minutes early as you anxiously check your makeup in the mirror. (And yes, maybe later you’d look back and laugh at how naive you were to think one silly date would snowball into all of that, but you’re sixteen. And at sixteen, your world feels like it’s the only thing that exists, and your problems feel like they’re bigger than they are.)

In the end, the only thing you can think of doing is calling Phainon. He comes in ten minutes flat, waiting outside in his father’s car that he’s allowed to use on weekends only and nothing more. (He’s sixteen and you’re still fifteen, so he’s licensed and you’re not. He likes to brag. You don’t typically find it as amusing as he does. Right now, though, you’re grateful. )

You get in the passenger seat, and before he can even ask, you burst into tears. He makes a face that you can’t quite discern. But he’s not happy—you know that much as easily as you know Phainon.

“What happened?” he asks softly, “It didn’t go well?”

“It was,” you sob, “I-I th-thought it was! We were talking, a-and laughing, and…and he asked me things and then…h-he went to the bathroom and he just disappeared for like…like half an hour! And the waiter checked the bathroom a-and he wasn’t there…and it was so embarrassing!”

He’s silent. For a long time, Phainon is quiet and he doesn’t say anything. It’s unlike him. He never lets the silence go on for long before he fills it with something. Whether it’s stupid or sweet or funny or annoying, Phainon always has something to say to you. He never runs out of things to talk about. It’s always been like that. He’s never had a problem talking your ear off and keeping you company and following you around and filling the silence with his voice. You never realized how deep it had gotten over the years until you watched some old videos back. The first time he was gone for a whole summer, you didn’t realize how quiet the world was until the only way you could talk to him was over text.

But he’s quiet now, and he just lets you cry. Softly, he reaches out and brushes tears from your cheeks gently as he murmurs, “Your makeup is pretty tonight. You shouldn’t ruin it, you know.”

“There’s no point,” you sniffle, “it’s not like anyone is gonna see it now, anyway.”

“I’m seeing it,” he insists, “just because some weird asshole doesn’t appreciate a nice smokey eye doesn’t mean I can’t.”

“This isn’t a smokey eye look.”

“Whatever it is,” he shrugs, “it looks good. You’re pretty.”

He says it easily, like it’s not weird or awkward or makes him shy to point it out. He says it so plainly, it’s like some passing observation he makes and doesn’t have to think too hard on. You’re pretty. Even when you cry your makeup off, he thinks that.

“I don’t want to go home,” you whisper, “my mom is gonna be sad and my dad will get angry when he knows what happened to me, and I just…don’t feel like dealing with that mess.”

“Then don’t,” he offers.

You raise a brow, sniffling as you reach into the compartment and grab the tissues that you know are there, and blow your nose. He stifles a smile at the way it’s loud. “What am I supposed to do then, just sit in here?” you ask blandly.

“Why not? We can drive for a while. In fact, we can get milkshakes.”

“Are you buying?” you perk up.

He snorts, looking at you in amusement as he mumbles, “Don’t I always have to?”

You beam at that. It’s true—he does always buy.

He takes you to a drive-thru and buys you a milkshake like he always does when he drives you somewhere. You add in a side of fries and he lets you, paying without a complaint and handing you your order as it comes through the window. It’s nice. It feels like it always does when it’s you and Phainon, and you forget the shallow asshole who broke your heart on your first date not even an hour ago. He parks in the parking lot and you sit and share your fries, and when he dips his in ketchup, you wrinkle your nose—and when you dip yours in your milkshake, he wrinkles his.

“I’m never going on a date again,” you mumble.

“Don’t say that,” he says softly, “you might miss out on a super handsome and nice guy some day who’s waiting for you.”

“That sounds like something my mom would say,” you snort.

He cracks a grin, chuckling as he offers, “Well, that’s probably why I’m so smart. You should listen to me more.”

“I don’t know about that one,” you tease, “you’re still the same crybaby from middle school.”

“I’m not a crybaby!” He gasps, “Quit saying that! Being emotionally intelligent and being a crybaby are not the same thing, you jerk!”

“Is that what you like to call it?” You laugh, throwing your head back against your seat. He stares. For a good, long moment, he stares as you laugh, and you never catch it. (He wonders sometimes if you will. If some day he’ll stare and you’ll finally notice that he only ever looks at you.)

“Yes,” he grumbles, “I am, in fact, emotionally intelligent. And women are really into men who are smart about their feelings.”

“I’m sure they are,” you give him a sarcastic nod. “And I bet they—”

“Hang on,” he says, stopping you.

You pause as he interrupts your sentence, and before you can even blink, his door is opened and then closed, and Phainon is gone. He’s left the car and he’s walking over to some group of boys who leave the fast food place you’re parked outside of, and you can’t figure out what on Earth would make him leave so abruptly to go over and—oh.

Your eyes widen as you realize.

Oh.

Something in your heart sinks deep into the bottom of your stomach as you realize your date is standing there among the group of boys with a bag of food in his hands and a drink. Something else in you gets a lick of anger that starts to burn in the pit of your stomach as you think about how he left you to pay for his meal while he’s here buying himself a whole new one after ditching you. And then your eyes widen when in a quick second, Phainon has swug his arm and landed a solid punch right in the jaw and knocked the guy onto his ass as he towers over him. You blink once, then twice, and then you quickly take your seatbelt off and climb out of the car as you rush over.

There’s a chorus of deep, angry voices back and forth and you can’t make out more than a few words at a time as everyone speaks over each other—Phainon, your asshole date, and his asshole (by association) friends.

“Yo, what the fuck—”

“He had that coming—” (Phainon.)

“Who the hell are you—”

“What’s your fucking problem man—”

“You get off on being an asshole, or something?” (Also Phainon.)

Maybe if you weren’t so worried, you would think about why Phainon’s voice is the only one you can make out so easily in a mess of all these other voices. Maybe if you weren’t worried about a group of boys outnumbering him as they approach him and try to beat him to a pulp, you might think more about the implications of that and what that means.

But you don’t. You can’t. Not when you have to go and save him, just like the day you met him, from boys who are stronger than him and can knock him to the ground easily.

Except he doesn’t need you to save him. Phainon…holds his own against three boys who come swinging at him, and…he does surprisingly well. He shrugs off each guy one by one and lands a punch when he needs to, and soon enough, when they realize that he’s a little too strong for any of them to properly take on, they call him a few names and leave a few empty threats before they leave. You stand a short distance away and watch, blinking as you process the whole exchange.

Finally, with a shaky breath, he turns to face you with a guilty look on his face.

“Sorry, I know I probably shouldn’t have done—”

“When did you get strong?” you interrupt, flabbergasted. “You can fight?”

He looks almost a little offended. “What do you mean? Why do you have to say that like I can’t be strong?”

“I used to save you from the older boys all the time,” you gape, “and all you ever did was cry! Since when do you know how to throw a punch?”

“I was twelve!” He sputters, looking at you in equal parts disbelief and equal parts embarrassment. “I’m way bigger now! I’m taller than you!” (He is.)

“You’re still a crybaby!”

“Am not!”

“You fought four guys and won,” you breathe out, like the concept is something you still can’t quite wrap your head around. (You can’t.)

He shoots you a glare and grumbles, “I am grown now, okay? You don’t have to keep acting like I’m the scrawny kid you saved in middle school.”

“You are the scrawny kid,” you argue.

“Am not! Look, I’ve been working out!” He flexes his arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulge of muscle forming at his bicep, and it makes you stare in disbelief as you take in the way Phainon has really changed. You never notice it because he’s with you every day, and every single day has started to leave its mark on him, but you’re too caught up in knowing him the way he is to think about knowing him the way he isn’t anymore.

But he’s stronger now. His voice is deeper, and he’s taller, and he has some muscle to him. You look at him properly for a moment, and it occurs to you for the first time that the chubbiness of his round face and baby cheeks are gone and they’re replaced with a strong, sharp set of cheekbones that carve his face perfectly. His hair is longer, too—and you think it suits him better this way. He parts his hair in a way that looks less childlike and more mature.

But his eyes are still the same. Same shade of blue. Same puppy look as he stares at you, mildly offended. Same soft, delicate orbs that look you in the eye, always, and never look away.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, “what is happening to you? This is freaky.”

He cracks a smug grin before he teases, “I’m growing up. Try not to fall in love with me—pretty soon, I’ll be a heartthrob.”

You bite back a grin and give him a scoff. “I doubt that. You’re about as interesting as cardboard.”

(You lie. In the end, you go against your own words, and you do fall in love with him. It’s hard not to. It’s hard not to fall in love with him, the more time passes every day. You never admit it, but you notice every little thing about him that changes from then on.)

— — — — — — — — — —

You’re eighteen when Phainon and you don’t just kiss, but share your first time. It’s on your birthday. There’s something there between the two of you that you both know is there. It’s impossible not to notice it.

You leave for college in two months, and he might not be going to the same one as you, but it's close enough that you can see him whenever you want. (Whenever you want—it’s what he had said when he first told you he wasn’t picking the same college as you. The look on your face was enough to voice your devastation without actually using any words, but he only laughed and murmured, I’ll be close by. You can still see me whenever you want, yeah?)

It happens in his car. It’s no longer his dad’s old one that he had to ask for permission to use only when his father wasn’t using it. This one is his, and he can drive it whenever he wants and wherever he pleases. Because you’re both old enough for that now—driving around and going places without needing to worry about curfews and school nights and your parents’ angry texts about being home soon.

“I’m officially an adult,” you tell him in his car, drinking the last of your milkshake that, as always, he’s paid for. (It’s your birthday, though, so you think it's especially fair that he pays because no one should expect the birthday person to pay for their milkshake.)

“Congrats,” he hums, “they grow up so fast,” he adds with a soft, dramatic sniffle.

“You’re not old enough to act like there’s a difference,” you roll your eyes, “I doubt in two months you’ve learned things like how mortgages and property taxes work.”

“Well, it’s actually two months, one week, and four days,” he corrects with a pointed look, as if it really makes all the difference, “and I’ll probably still learn all that shit before you do because I’m older.”

“Yeah, but you’ll also probably die first since you’re older,” you point out cheekily.

“I don’t think that’s how that works,” he huffs.

“You always decide how things work when it’s convenient for you, you prick,” you accuse, shoving him away as he chuckles and steals a french fry from your share.

He’s stopped laughing when his eyes meet yours, and something about the way he looks at you feels a little out of the ordinary. The wrappers are crumpled, the milkshakes are almost gone, and you’re both sitting in the same parking lot you have for years in the middle of the night, nothing but just the light over your heads in his car illuminating him just enough that you can still make out that soft blue of his eyes.

Everything is the same. The parking lot, the milkshakes, the way you drain his wallet, and he lets it happen, the way it’s you and him and no one else. Nothing has changed. Nothing but you and Phainon. You’re both different—something about you and him is different.

“What?” you ask.

Phainon shrugs, smiling to himself. “Dunno,” he says. “Guess you just look old.”

You scowl as he throws you a lopsided grin. (You think, regretfully, that it’s quite handsome.) “And you look geriatric,” you hiss back.

His smile becomes a little softer, and something in it flickers—sad, maybe. You can’t tell exactly what it is, but you do know it makes something in your heart ache. Something like longing fills you up to the brim—it’s funny, you think. Even when Phainon is right next to you, all you can do is long for him anymore. You wonder when that started. Maybe it was the day you noticed he was bigger and taller. Maybe it was the day you noticed he paid with a credit card and not cash anymore, like a proper grown man. Maybe it was the day you realized his front teeth were no longer crooked and his smile was as bright as those perfectly blue eyes of his.

“I’m gonna miss this,” he admits quietly.

You don’t ask what he means. You already know.

It’s not the milkshakes, or the shared fries, or the way he always pays, no matter how much you can easily afford it on your own by now. It’s the way he’s home for you. The way you moved when you didn’t want to, and you didn’t get a say because you were only eleven and your parents made those kinds of decisions for you—when you left behind everything you loved, and Phainon took on the burden of becoming everything you’ll relearn to care about. When you promised to move away the first chance you got, he made you want to stay without trying. Now it’s not the same—now you move, and so does he, and you both make those decisions on your own because you're older now.

You’ll miss it. The quiet nights in his car and the long, stupid, pointless, aimless conversations that always meant the most when you babbled about nothing. The easy, familiar way you’ve always fit together—ever since he was twelve and you were eleven, all the way until now, after you both grew and grew and the days added up until they totaled to you both being eighteen-year-old adults. You’ll miss the way you’ll open your door, and you’ll see him waving down the street as he opens his. You’ll miss the way he can crawl to your window and sneak in to play card games, and your mother isn’t surprised as she makes him breakfast when you both accidentally fall asleep before he can leave. You’ll miss the way the world felt small, and all you knew was this. Here. Phainon and you and the town that becomes home, even when you didn’t want it to be, all because of him.

“You don’t have to miss it,” you say, trying to convince yourself it’s true. “We’re not going far.”

“Maybe not,” he murmurs. “But it won’t be like this. Not exactly.”

It won’t.

It won’t ever be like the way you guys are now, how you were over the years. When he sat on the ground and cried after being picked on and you saved him. When he came over and met your mother for the first time, and she looked relieved at the fact that you finally made some friends. When you let him borrow your favorite book, and he gave it back with the pages dog-eared and you had your first argument over your ruined book. When he rescued you after your awful first date and spent the night with you so you’d go home happy. When you rear-ended the car in front of you, and he was sitting passenger as he tried to warn you that you weren’t hitting the brakes soon enough.

“Is it a bad thing, do you think?” you murmur hesitantly, “if things change?”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning closer as he looks at you better.

And then you kiss him. Or maybe he kisses you. What matters is that you’re kissing each other. It’s been a long time coming—your parents have teased you about him, and your friends have always been too nosy about just how close you really are, and your teachers have always meddled with seating arrangements to make sure you’re close by each other because they’re certain something is going on.

He smiles into the kiss. It’s giddy and sweet and a touch clumsy as he presses into you closer, leaning over the center console of his car to get closer to you. You giggle. A soft, delicate little sound that makes his breath hitch before he moves again to swallow it up, drinking in the small, precious little sounds of joy you make against his mouth as his hand cups your cheek and your arms swing lazily over his shoulders.

“I think things are already changing,” you breathe as soon as you pull away, “so it can’t be so bad.”

“Maybe not bad at all,” he chuckles.

“Are you still gonna miss it?” you ask softly.

“Hm,” he pretends to think, “let me try this again and see what I like better just to be sure.”

You laugh against his mouth as he kisses you, pecking your lips once, twice, a third time before he’s back to pressing his against you with a lingering pressure. Some part of you knew this was going to happen. You didn’t know when or how, but you think this is a good way to let it happen. You knew that day he came to your defense in that parking lot—when he didn’t have to, but he did because he cared enough to. When he showed you he was bigger than you remember and growing more than you realized, and could take care of you just like you took care of him. (Maybe he’s been taking care of you all this time, and you just didn’t realize it. Maybe when you stopped being lonely and finally felt like you made a home on the street that he came at the same time as you, he was looking out for you all along.)

“I think change is an inevitable part of life,” he murmurs, “we shouldn’t avoid it.”

“Hm, that’s very grown-up of you to say,” you tease.

“Thank you,” he grins—stupidly handsome, and annoyingly cheeky. And you love him for it. “I am older, you know. By two months, one—”

“—One week and four days, yes, I know,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “Shut up.”

He does. He shuts up only to press his lips against yours again and kiss you like he’s been waiting years to do it. (He has. He’s waited many, many years to do this. More than he thinks you might even realize—he doesn’t think you understand how much he’s changed until rather recently, but that’s okay. He could wait. He did. He waited and he waited and he’d always have waited if it was for you.)

“Do…” he pauses, nervously taking in a shaky breath as he mumbles, “do you…want to like…w-well, we don’t have to do anything…but if you want—”

“At least this much hasn’t changed,” you snort, interrupting him, “and maybe it won’t—you’re still lame.”

He scowls at that, and as if he has something to prove, he climbs (and fumbles a little) into the back seat before his hand grabs your wrist and tugs you to follow. And when you fumble your way onto his lap with a squeak, flustered as your chest is pressed right up against his own (rather sturdy one), he murmurs, “Yeah? Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, looking into his eyes for a short second before quickly looking away, “it is.”

“Guess I’ll just have to change that,” he hums.

Suddenly, your lips are once more coated with the heat of his, and you close your eyes and fall apart in his arms. You press more of your weight onto him, letting him slump back against the backseat of his car while your hands weave into his hair and tug. He groans deeply. It’s a sound you’ve never heard from him—ever.

His hands bring you closer, and as your body is pressed against his with even less space, you feel it—something hard that pokes against your leg that you’re certain you know what it is. But, just to be sure, you pull away to look at him.

“What’s that?” you hum, grinning smugly as you move your thighs to brush over the hardness once more, “is that—”

“You know exactly what it is,” he huffs, flushing a soft pink that you can just barely make out in the dark, “now quit talking so much.”

“You don’t like me when I’m chatty?” you pout.

“I like you always,” he says bluntly, lips forming a small pout as he adds, “but I like you a little less than other times right now for being rude.”

“I’m not being rude! I’m simply making an observation—mmph!”

He cuts you off with another hard, impatient kiss before he pulls away and lets his thumb brush over your lip, smearing your already messy lip gloss some more as he murmurs, “I always wondered how that tasted. Seen you apply it so many times.”

“It’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?” you wink cheekily, “strawberry flavored.”

With that, you wrap your lips around his thumb and slowly roll your tongue around the digit, swallowing around it as you suck. It’s probably the filthiest thing you’ve done—which is not a lot. The filthiest thing you’ve done prior was sitting on a boy’s lap and feeling his hard-on against your thigh as you kissed him. There are a lot of firsts it seems he’s hell bent on taking from you tonight. Luckily, there’s not a lot of firsts you’re unwilling to give.

He groans at the warmth of your mouth, the wet glide of your tongue making him stare at you with hazy, lust-filled eyes before he pulls his hand away from your lips, hoisting you up enough so he can reach under your skirt and pull your panties down. They’re drenched. He takes a second to stare at them through the darkness of the backseat of his car while it’s your turn to feel heat spread across your cheeks and up to your ears.

“Stop looking, you pervert!” you hiss.

He gives you a not very apologetic grin. “Sorry,” he lies through his perfect, pearly whites, “guess that’s not very chivalrous of me, huh?”

You snort as you murmur, “You had your finger in my mouth a second ago.”

“And who put that there?” he teases. You feel your cheeks burn again—but he spares you the embarrassment a second time as he pulls your underwear down your thighs enough to leave your aching cunt exposed before he murmurs, “Do it again one more time for me, baby.”

You open without thinking as he presses his middle and ring fingers into your mouth, letting your tongue roll around them, too. You coat them well, the wetness of your mouth covering his fingers as his thumb strokes your cheek. His cheeks are flushed pink from the sight alone. Your throat bobbing from every swallow around his digits has him imagining much more lewd fantasies, and you can tell that from just the way his pupils lose focus, dilating at the image of you. You moan around him, and his breath hitches as he feels the vibrations from the sound.

It’s dirty, the way he’s thinking about you. Almost as dirty as the way you look as you suck on his fingers—and when he pulls them out and uses his fingers to press into your cunt, it feels dirty to be worked open with your own spit as the lubricant that helps him slip inside easily. Well…you suppose the way your core is dripping is also part of the reason why it’s so easy, but you don’t focus on that.

Instead, the only thing you can focus on is the way he curls into you as he thrusts his fingers in and out, in and out like he knows exactly what you need. His fingers are longer than yours. The only thing that’s ever been inside of you are your own digits when it’s late and night and you force yourself to stay quiet in your room—but Phainon’s fingers reach deeper and there’s no one here you have to be quiet for, so you whimper loudly as he presses into your walls and finds some spot deep in there that you’ve never felt before.

“Well,” he chuckles, “that was easy. I found it,” he gives you a cheeky grin.

“Sh-shut up,” you hiss, the sound tapering off into a moan as the heel of his palm glides over your clit while he angles his hand in and out of you.

He’s never done this before—it’s good, and it feels better than anything you’ve ever felt yourself, but he’s still never done this before, and it shows. He doesn’t get the rhythm quite right as he goes faster than you like, and when your hand gently grabs his wrist, he pauses and looks at you in alarm.

“W-what’s wrong? You want to stop? I-I’m sorry, I…I got carried away, I didn’t think—here,” he goes to pull his fingers and you hiss, tightening your grip and keeping him in place as he pauses and looks at you, bewildered.

“Just…just go slower,” you breathe, panting softly, “that’s all.”

“O-oh…” he nods slowly at first, then again with more confidence. “Okay.”

It’s better this time. He paces it better and watches your face for your reactions as he slows the timing of his fingers pressing into you, applying pressure with every thrust against a sweet spot you didn’t even know you had. It makes your head feel light and your ears hear things all muffled. You can hear his labored breaths as he watches you, and you can hear your own (almost embarrassing) noises as he works you higher, higher, higher to some invisible height that you can feel yourself slowly become closer and closer to plummeting off of.

“K-kiss,” you gasp, pleading as you lean closer, and he chuckles before he indulges you.

“Anything you want,” he murmurs, and then that familiar warm pressure of his soft, yet chapped lips is the final push you need to fall off the edge. You whine into his mouth, and he drinks in every sound like he’s parched, swallowing down your noises as your walls flutter around his fingers.

He works you through it. It feels better when it’s someone else—he’s not distracted by the feeling of being overwhelmed to falter in rhythm or pace. In fact, he’s extra careful as he watches you, rolling his palm over your clit and pressing the tips of his fingers in and out of you as your walls erratically clamp around him.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, gasping as a particularly harsh wave of your orgasm crashes over you, “Ph-phainon, fuck.”

“Feel good?” he murmurs, kissing your jaw as your mouth parts with a soft, delicate moan. It’s endearing. He’s not even smug anymore—all you do is fill him up with affection as he watches you.

“Yes,” you gasp, “oh god, yes!”

“Good,” he hums.

His forehead presses against yours as you finish, letting you calm down and take heaving breaths while he pulls his fingers out of your cunt and rubs the small of your back with his other hand. You clutch onto his shirt, fingers grasping onto the fabric to ground yourself while he admires the glow of your sweaty, damp skin.

“When did things change for you?” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Between…between us?”

“Hm…” he hums softly, “Don’t know. I think…I think they never really had to change. I always knew I wanted you.”

“Oh,” you mumble, still nervously toying with the fabric of his shirt. You don’t know what to say, so you say it again. “That…oh.”

He laughs softly, like the idea of things not being the same for you doesn’t bother him. (It doesn’t. He got you, he thinks. As long as it’s that outcome, he could have always waited longer.)

“When did they change for you?”

“When we were sixteen,” you barely force out, “when you…when you took on those guys. In the parking lot.”

“On your first date that broke your heart?” He gasps, “I owe your heartbreak to swinging things in my favor? That feels a little wrong,” he says dramatically, “I almost feel like I’ve manipulated you!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you roll your eyes, breaking into a small grin.

He laughs. It’s sweet. He’s always had that charm about him, even when it didn’t make you want him badly. “I think I told you not to fall in love with me, too. Seems like my words had the opposite effect,” he wiggles his brows.

You snort, shoving him lightly as you whisper, “It just felt nice to know you care. Like my feelings were yours, too.”

His eyes soften, and Phainon, you realize, has the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. So blue, you could mistake them for the ocean and get called over like a siren luring you in, drowning you until your lungs are heavy and filled with something that makes it hard to breathe.

“I always cared,” he hums, “still do. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” you bite your lip as you fight back a wide, giddy grin. “Yeah, I do.”

And you kiss him. This time, you know it’s you who does it first because he stiffens for a moment with a hitch of his breath before he melts into it. You’ve kissed so many times tonight, you don’t know why the feeling keeps shocking you, but it does. It’s new every time, but never unfamiliar. You know him—you know him like the back of your hand, and you’d know him with your eyes closed. But you’re still learning him. The way he parts his lips and the pattern of how he nips yours. The way he tugs you closer when he’s overwhelmed, so he can squeeze your hips and ground himself. The way he lets out a soft, barely-there whine when you tug at his hair without realizing it.

“I want you,” he breathes, “i-is that…is that okay?”

“Yes,” you practically beg, “yes—please.”

He clumsily undoes his belt and unzips his pants with shaky hands. You try not to watch and make it awkward. (It is, just a little. But it’s not bad. Nothing ever is with him.) You try to keep your expression neutral as his aching cock is finally freed from its confinements, springing up with a hard, leaky tip as pre cum collects in a small bead. It’s big—it curves a little to the side and the vein is thick along the bottom, and a part of you itches to wrap your hand around it and feel its weight in your grasp.

He flushes as you stare and breathes heavily.

“Can…can I…” You hesitate before gesturing at it.

He nearly passes out from shame when he nods too quickly, forcing himself to slow down and throw on a faux sense of nonchalance as he stutters out, “Y-yeah, yeah that…that’s cool. With me. If you want, that is.”

You nod. Slowly, hesitantly, your thumb smears the leaking pre cum at the tip along the head of his cock before you wrap your hand around him and squeeze slightly. He chokes, gripping your hips tightly as his jaw clenches and his eyes shut tightly while he tries to keep his breathing steady.

“Is this okay?” you whisper.

“More than okay,” he says, voice strained.

“Okay,” you nod, and, a little more confidently, you stroke along his length, watching as he melts and the tension leaves his shoulders, his face slackening while he lets out a soft moan. It feels good—you can tell that much as his head falls back and he lets out a soft, throaty sound when you squeeze a little at the tip before stroking down again.

It doesn’t last long, but you like it, you decide. You like making Phainon feel good. You like the way he looks when you touch him, and you like the feeling you get when you take care of him and give him something without taking anything back. But he stops you before long, and you pause as you raise a brow in confusion.

“J-just…I don’t think I’ll last if we keep…”

He’s red in the face when your eyes widen—you can tell even if it's dark. “Right,” you smile softly, “okay. Do you have…”

“Y-yeah,” he nods, “right…right, yeah.” He fishes out a condom from his pocket, and it takes everything in you not to ask the question in the back of your head of why he keeps one.

(A spark of jealousy clouds your mind for a moment, of whether or not this is something he’s done before with someone other than you to need one, but then you realize that you know Phainon. Better than anyone else, you know him, and you know he’d at least tell you if he’d ever done something like this before.

Because it’s you—you’ve known for a while now that there isn’t anyone else other than you.

The jealousy dies down, and all that’s left is endearment—you’ll tease him later about carrying a condom around like he’s preparing. For now, though, you’re grateful.)

It takes a tense moment of fumbling around with opening and rolling it over his length, trying not to let your hands visibly shake as he makes soft, breathy sound at your touch before gently, you raise your hips, hand still wrapped around his length while you guide him to your folds, the tip brushing along the slick, warm entrance of your cunt and making you both shiver. His hands find your hips, holding tightly as he guides you down, inch by slow inch taken one by one until he’s as deep as he’ll go and you’re sat on his cock, panting and quivering on his lap.

“T-tell me when it’s okay to m-move,” he grits.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily, trying to accommodate his size. It’s a stretch—it burns slightly, but you welcome it wholly. You’ve never taken anything as big as Phainon, and faintly, you hope you’ll never have to compare the size with anything else because you think this is it. This is perfect and what you were made to take. He’s perfect and what you were made to take. You fit like he was tailor-made to fit in you, and you don’t think anyone else will ever replace this.

This feeling. Him. What he means to you. Everything about Phainon is perfect to you—perfect for you. You don’t think it’ll ever be anyone but him.

“Okay,” you plead, “you…you can move now.”

With that, he guides your hips up, almost pulling you off of him completely before he brings you down, helping you slam down on him while thrusting his hips up and meeting you halfway. He’s thick, too, girth-wise—stretches you in a way that adds to the pleasure apart from just pressing against a spot your fingers used to never reach. You thought it was good before when he was just using his hand, but the real thing is even better. Everything around you stops. All you know is Phainon. All you ever want to know is Phainon.

“F-fuck,” he pants, and you barely register his voice cracking as he shoves his face into your neck, “y-you…feel incredible. I’ve always wanted you. You have no idea how fucking bad.”

Something wet hits your neck. You suck in a sharp breath as his hand pulls you down, helping you rock your hips onto him and slam down harder on his cock, taking him deeper inside of you and practically cling to him while he maneuvers your body the way he needs. The way you need.

“A-are you…seriously crying?” you gasp, “Now?”

“No,” he huffs. As if to distract you, he reaches between your bodies and finds your clit with his thumb and rolls harsh, fast circles while a strong, muscled arm wraps around your waist and guides you along a rhythm that has him nudging the tip of his cock hard and blunt against the back of your walls.

“You are,” you accuse. “Do you ever quit being a cry—” you moan and cut yourself off when his tip practically bruises the spot it presses against hard and fast, angling to meet exactly where you fall apart.

“Not a crybaby,” he argues, and his pace gets sloppy as he ruts his hips up into you. You can feel it, too—the beginnings of your second high of the night approaching you as you try to snap your hips and bounce along his length to match his pace.

It’s going to hit you harder this time. You can tell—you can practically feel it as it comes slowly but surely, creeping up on you in a way that makes you anticipate it blindly.

“M’close,” you pant, “m’so so close, Phai…Phainon.”

“Yeah? You are? M-me too, baby,” he groans. You clench around him at the pet name, and he has the audacity to chuckle about it, murmuring a low, “like being called that, huh? You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby—y’know that?”

“Fuck,” you whine, and with one last roll of your hips that he meets with his own thrust upwards, you fall apart while his thumb rubs its circles along your clit.

Your orgasm comes harder than you expect it to—it’s different when he’s that deep and stretches you out so well. It’s different when he rolls his hips to continue to fuck into you to work you through your high. It’s not like other times you’ve cum on your own, and it’s not like the time he made you cum on his fingers. This is entirely different. You can feel the twitching of his cock as the thickess bullies into you, splitting you open while you fall apart on him.

He follows not long after you, the tightening of your walls around him in spasms pulling him into his own release. It’s warm—you can make out the feeling of his release through the thin barrier of plastic as he fills it with thick ropes of cum. He pants your name through a soft, breathless voice, and you slump against his chest and lay your cheek on his shoulder as you ride through the final few waves of your peak.

When he finishes, he slumps back against the seat, chest rising and falling beneath you as he tries to catch his breath. His arms are still wrapped around you, loose and warm, like he can’t quite bring himself to let go yet.

“How was it?” he asks, voice tentative, almost shy.

“Good,” you whisper, still a little breathless. “I-it was… really good.”

“Me too,” he says with a quiet smile. You can hear it in his words. “It was really good for me, too.”

You snort. “Is that why you cried?”

He groans, burying his face against your shoulder as his arms tighten around you in protest. “No,” he grumbles, muffled. “I just… got…”

“Emotional?” you tease, the corner of your mouth twitching up.

“Yes,” he huffs, clearly flustered. “The way I feel about you…” He trails off for a second, like he’s waiting for the right words to show up. “It’s just… a lot,” he says finally, soft and vulnerable. “You make me feel a lot.”

“I know,” you say, muffled by his shirt, “I…I feel it, too.”

“Yeah?” he beams.

“Yeah,” you grin.

(You want to tell him that night—that you love him. That you have for a while. That you know you always will. You don’t have the courage to, though, but you never bring yourself to regret it. Maybe because it almost feels like he’s always known.)

— — — — — — — — — —

You’re twenty-three when Phainon proposes. It…doesn’t go how he wants.

He plans it out—it’s meticulous, and sweet, and it was going to be perfect and everything he’s ever wanted and everything he knows you wanted, too. He takes you on a nice, fancy trip, and you’re by the beach where you can feel the sun kiss your skin along with the warm breeze. On the last day, he can sit and admire you as you enjoy the beach one last time happily, and when the sun gets close to setting, he’ll drag you for a walk along the shore where the tides will come and wash away your footprints as they come. And when the sky is pink and purple and orange and every other color of the sunset that reflects in your eyes, he’ll get on one knee and ask you to be his wife.

And then it rains.

It rains hard.

You both gather your things as quickly as you can and run for the car—a fancy rental that he spent quite a pretty penny on to get for this trip, because it’s the kind you’ve always wanted to have and you’re still just barely out of college to have enough saved for it.

You climb into the car, drenched and panting from running, and still beautiful. And he feels his world crumble all at once as he sees that dazzling smile on your face while your hand brushes your forehead and wipes away droplets of water.

He notices your finger. Ringless. His heart bleeds, and everything around him feels like it's caving in on him, and he can’t breathe.

“My goodness,” you giggle, “who’d have thought the rain had it out for us on our last day, huh?”

He swallows thickly at that. And he tries—he tries so hard to keep on that brave face and act like it’s okay. It’s fine. He can wait and plan something else. He has time to make it better, more perfect for you. That’s what you deserve, anyway. He’ll make you smile bigger, make you want to say yes even harder.

This is okay. He still has you. He knows you. He knows you’ll say yes. It doesn’t matter if it’s now or a little later—he still has you.

And yet, when his face crumples and the dryness of his throat is something he realizes he’s not able to control, he understands why you’ve always called him a crybaby. Because that’s exactly what he is. He’s going to cry, and you’re going to be worried, and he’s going to have to explain why he’s upset and ruin your surprise and the most perfect moment of your life.

“Phainon?” You freeze, noticing the beginning of tears collecting in his eyes that he tries desperately to blink away. He swallows thickly, and your hand instantly moves to cup his wet face. “Baby, what’s happened? Did you leave something? We can go back and look—it’s just some rain, I don’t mind.”

“No,” he croaks, “no, it’s not that. It’s…it’s nothing,” he forces out.

“It’s not nothing,” you frown, “c’mon, you know I know you better than that. Acting like I don’t is almost insulting,” you nudge his ribs gently. It’s supposed to be good-natured. It’s supposed to be light-hearted and sweet, so he feels safe enough to let down his walls and tell you what’s on his mind because you love him. You do. You love him more than anything, and you make everything better, so he should just tell you.

But the thought of the words coming out feels like he’s a failure. Like he’s taken every ounce of your careful love and not given you what you deserved, even a little. But, as he’s starting to realize after years of arguing with you on it, Phainon is indeed a crybaby. And the tears tell on him faster than the words can, and he knows there’s no hiding anything from you.

So shakily, he grabs something small from his pocket, making you frown as you try to figure out what it is. He brings it closer, and your eyes widen, breath hitching.

You know what that is. You’d be a fool not to. You’re speechless as he sniffles and looks miserably down at the velvet box that’s tiny in his large hand.

“I…it was going to be perfect—th-the sun was supposed to set, a-and we’d go on a walk, and then when the sky was pretty I’d ask, and…and…and…” he takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes in defeat. “It was going to be perfect. For you. I had everything planned,” he croaks.

You soften. It’s quiet. For a moment, he thinks maybe this was all a mistake. Maybe you weren’t going to say yes, and all the marriage talks of the future lately were just talks and nothing more. Maybe it was too early for all this, and those were just talks of something for the distant future. Something he’d have to wait a bit longer for. And that’s fine—he would. He’d wait for you because he always has. He’s always loved you, and he’s always waited, and it’s always been okay. In the end, he’s always had you, and that’s all he’s ever needed.

Somehow, no matter how many years pass, Phainon stays loving you. At first, he thought it was a crush and that it would be just a phase, but it never went away. It’s just how he is, ingrained into him since he was young—he loves you, and he can’t stop. Somehow, every year, he grows and grows, and all it does is make more room for his love in that stubborn heart of his. He’s twelve, he’s sixteen, he’s eighteen, and he’s twenty-three. Every year he’s older and he changes, yet somehow, every year, it’s still always you. Even when you’re not there, it’s always your laugh he hears in the wind as it grazes his cheeks and leaves him with the ghost of you.

Loving you comes as easily as breathing. When the air finally settles in his lungs and lets him breathe, he starts to love you even more.

It’s that simple. It always was.

He lets out a shuddering breath and mumbles, “I-it’s okay. It was probably a bad time anyway—I got carried away. J-just forget I said anything, please. I…we can just forget—”

“Oh Phainon,” you sigh, soft and breathless, “you never change, do you, you big crybaby?”

He pouts. There are still tears clinging to his cheeks, and it only proves your point further. Still, you have enough grace not to point it out as you reach and cup his cheek to wipe away a tear gently.

“I am not a crybaby,” he denies half-heartedly, “I was just emotional, okay? Being emotionally intelligent is important!”

You smile. It’s warm and bright, and it’s the same smile he’s known for over a decade, but it’s different, too. Every year it changes a little. The days leave their small footprints along your features and carve their paths as you age, and sometimes, he sees it all at once. How much you’ve changed. How your features are a little sharper now that you’ve grown into them. How small, barely-there lines are etching into your skin where you smile the most and by your eyes where they crinkle. You’re older. You’re still you.

You smile, and it’s like he’s twelve again and nothing has changed, even if he’s twenty-three.

“Ask me,” you whisper, “I’ll say yes no matter where you ask me. So quit crying and ask, you big baby.”

“What?” he gapes, still sniffling a little.

“Ask me,” you huff, giving him a soft, impatient shove. Something about you is giddy. It’s raining outside, he’s crying yet again like he always does, while you have to deal with it, your beach day has been cut short, your surprise is ruined, and you’re drenched in the rental car that he’ll have to return tomorrow before you board your flight and go home. But still, you’re giddy.

And Phainon is in love. It’s nothing new, but it’s different. It’s better. It’s always you.

“Will you marry me?” he murmurs, “I know you said you didn’t want to be my friend that day, and I was a tiny bit of a crybaby only that day,” he gives you a pointed look as you roll your eyes, “and I know you said you’d move away and never come back and you didn’t need me to be your friend but we were friends anyway. And I was always happy being friends, but changing and being more was probably the best thing ever, so maybe we should just change one more time and be husband and wife, right? We’re not on the beach or under the sun, and we’re soaking wet, but will you marry me, anyway? So I don’t live up to the crybaby allegations?”

You laugh. The sun isn’t there anymore, but light still finds a way to break over your face as you laugh, and you cry, too. You cry with him, tears collecting in your own eyes as you nod frantically and whisper, “Yes, you idiot. Yes, I’ll marry you, of course I will. Is that even a question?”

“You’re crying,” he blinks back his own tears, “who’s the crybaby now?”

“Still you,” you snort.

He grabs your hand and just like he envisioned to leave this trip, there’s a pretty little ring on your pretty little finger that catches the light and makes you look a little more different than he remembers you, but a little better than before. He didn’t meet you with a ring on your finger, but he knows you that way now. And it’s different. It’s different and it’s good.

“I love you,” he murmurs, “even though you always lie and call me a crybaby.”

“I love you, too,” you sigh exasperatedly, “even though you lie about being the damn crybaby that you are.”

(He kisses you after. Kisses you hard over the center console of the car as your fiance just like the first time he kissed you over the center console of a car as your best friend. As Phainon. As that stupid, annoying, crybaby boy you came across when he was twelve and you were still eleven and younger by only two months, one week, and four days.)

well . i don’t rly wanna talk about it so there you have it folks. do not look at me

#phainon x reader #phainon fluff #phainon smut #hsr x reader #honkai star rail x reader #honkai star rail #hsr #meowdei.longfics

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blcknebula · 4 days ago

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My fave! I love this redesign!!!

Some more of my Princess Morbucks redesign because why not 💲💸💰💵

#powerpuff girls #princess morbucks #ppg #character designs #illustration

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blcknebula · 6 days ago

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(1) even when there was rain, sunshine came

pairing. caleb x fem! childhood friend! non mc! reader (x childhood bsf! zayne)

synopsis. caleb planted a seed in your heart when you were both young, nurturing it without meaning to until it sprouted and blossomed. it shouldn't have grown this much, not when you knew you could never have him.

genres/aus. angst, fluff, f2l, unrequited love, childhood f2l

warnings. slight ooc caleb (i have not read homecoming or wtv that chapter is called BC BLUESTACKS DOES NOT WANT ME TO FINISH LONG AWAITED REVELRY OR WTV THAT CHAPTER IS CALLED IM STUCK ON CH12...), NOT canon compliant oops (no higher being placing a curse on zayne, no experimentation done on mc and caleb bc josephine is a good person this time BYEEEE), reader has neglectful parent(s) in the beginning kind of, mentions/descriptions of crying, mc is female (she doesn't have a name in here either). if there's anything i'm missing, please let me know!

rating. sfw but make it lowk very angsty but fluffy ish at the same time.

wc. 8.2 k

a/n. live love laugh angst (but with a happy ending) and live love laugh not proof reading and SORRY FOR NOT UPLOADING THIS EARLIERRR uni sucks booty fr !! also, i've come to the decision that i will just make this into a mini series, having about 5-10 chapters maximum !! the ideas keep coming, and i'd like to take a different approach to this prompt/world i've build for this nonmc! reader in an actual caleb series much like my rafayel one! also decided to make it into a mini series bc i cant keep writing and expanding on this and leave yall hanging for longer IOEOIFJAWEOI

YOU’RE EIGHT YEARS OLD WHEN YOU MEET CALEB. it was in the last days of summer, right before the leaves began turning red and yellow and orange. you remember your dad telling you that an older lady moved into the house across from yours, that there two kids living with her: a girl younger than you and a boy your age though a couple months older. he said something about the girl having a special condition but the words went through your ear and out the other because you didn’t care about them; you knew you wouldn’t talk to them anyways.

then, your dad left to go to work and you were all alone.

you were always alone, and you felt that loneliness every second, acutely aware at how it bleeds into your soul and makes you so, so sad. it’s what makes you head to the park two houses down the street and sit at the big, oak tree there. your favorite thing to do is climb it and sit on one of the bigger branches around its middle, feeling as if you could reach the sky and escape these heavy feelings. you blame your dad for making you like this: for making you think that the heavens can help you escape your heavy feelings. he told you once, on a night where he was in charge of tucking you in while your mom worked late at the hospital, that he loves the sky and how it makes him feel like all of his worries are nothing but a speck of dust. he made you think that one day, you could reach the sky and feel what he felt. if you reached out enough, you would be free.

but today you had no energy to do that.

as soon as you reached the oak tree, you sat down and rested your back against the trunk. your eyes watered instantaneously, cold tears dripping down your cheek and to the tip of your chin as you tucked your knees into your chest, your arms holding them in place so they could keep your weeping heart warm. you were so lost in your overflowing sorrow that you didn’t notice a boy running to the tree, not even when he stood three steps away from you.

“why are you crying?”

you snapped your head upwards.

the boy looked surprised, his purple eyes as large as the moon as he stared at you. his back was to the sun, covering him in a golden glow. he didn't say anything as he knelt down, his brows furrowed.

you hiccuped and looked away, angrily staring at your house from where you sat. “go away, stranger.” you see the older boy that lives next door when you avert your gaze from your home. it’s zayne—you recall your mom telling you that you used to have playdates together when you were younger. obviously, you don’t anymore. you don't even speak to one another—perhaps, he thinks being friends with a girl two years younger than him is not worth his time.

you don’t blame him for thinking that; after all, your own parents probably think the same.

before your mind spirals into the inky void that tells you bad things, the boy speaks up. “my name is caleb! now i’m not a stranger, right?” you glance at him from the corner of your eye. caleb grins at you, his smile as bright as the sun. it’s too blinding, you decide, and drop your gaze to the ground. “i guess not…” you mumble.

“so that means we’re friends!” caleb laughs when you quickly look at him again, surprise evident in your features. “now you can tell me why you’re sad!”

you wrack through your brain to come up with an excuse and end up stuttering out, “b-but you don’t know my name!”

“you’re y/n, right?” he laughs again when your jaw drops in comical way, gasping for air in between his next words. “ha! g-gran… talked t-to your… parents!” caleb wheezes, tears in his eyes. “y-your parents told us about you!” once he calms down, caleb lets out a sigh as he sits next to you, nudging your shoulder. “c’mon, you can tell me why you’re so sad now.”

you look back at your house, frowning at how lonely it looked. “i… i don’t think my parents love me.”

“what?”

“i mean,” you rest your head on your knees, your voice now muffled. “they’re never home and they never spend time with me.”

your dad is often away, being the colonel and all, which means he’s gone for months at a time. it wasn’t always like that, but things changed when that forsaken tunnel appeared above the city. your dad was one of the first to answer the call, to fly in the sky to protect the world from wanderers. so it isn’t his fault and neither is it your mom’s that they’re never there. she’s a doctor, a colleague of your next door neighbor's parents.

it is not your fault they are both needed by more people and by more important matters.

caleb’s about to say something when a girl calls out his name, running until she stands in front of you two. you don’t pay attention to her, and instead keep your eyes focused on your house. you wish your parents were home more, that they’d spend more time with you. the girl ends up leaving after she speaks to caleb, who watches her go with a careful eye.

“sorry about that,” he says, scratching his cheek. “gran sent her to tell me it’s time for lunch, but don’t worry! i’ll stay here with you until your parents are back!”

you blink at him, feeling your eyes start to burn. “you’ll stay?”

“mhm!” he smiles, and this time you actually don’t turn away. caleb laughs softly, leaning forwards to wipe away at the tears that fall from your wide eyes. “why are you crying again?”

you didn’t even notice that you had stopped in the first place. “i-i don’t know.” you do know.

it's the first time someone ever stayed with you in a long time.

caleb, surprisingly, calmed you down in a matter of seconds. he stayed with you until the sun began to set, when the blue sky became tinted by orange and pink. he made time go by fast, making you smile and laugh until your cheeks and stomach hurt. and he was surprisingly attentive, noticing immediately the way you perked up when you saw your mom’s car drive down the road and stop in front of your home.

“you ready to go now?” caleb stood up and stuck his hand out, waiting for you to grab it.

“your hand is warm,” you mumble, gripping tightly onto his hand as you lead the way back to your house.

he giggles and nudges your shoulder. “my hand is warm?”

“mhm.” it’s very warm, akin to the blankets you wrap yourself with during the cold days of winter.

and just like that you were at your front door, shyly waving goodbye before going inside. the doorbell rang shortly afterwards, yet before you could open the door, your mom had already done so. you left and headed up the stairs and into your room, telling yourself you’ll eat something after your mom retires for the night.

but that never happens.

because the strangest thing happened afterwards: your mom came up to your room and talked to you, apologizing for making you feel lonely and abandoned.

you know it was caleb’s doing: why else would your mom be like this?

without meaning to, caleb planted a seed in your heart that day.

when you’re ten, you realize that you’ve changed the slightest bit. you’re a little more outspoken, a little more confident in yourself; and your world that was once monochrome is now full of color, full of warmth and life.

you have memories where you’re laughing until your stomach hurts, where you’re learning to love apple and bake apple pies to perfection, where you’re learning to do cartwheels with the little girl while his laughter echoes in the air. it’s all thanks to caleb—he reached out to you, deciding to integrate you into his world. you’re forever thankful that he decided to talk to you two years ago, thankful that he spoke to your parents about your feelings because otherwise you would be stuck in the dark.

caleb has brought light and warmth into your life, and now you are never cold and lonely. he even sticks to you like glue at school, never leaving you alone for a second in the classroom because somehow you always manage to be in the same class as him. sometimes you grow tired of having to keep up with the energetic boy, sometimes the fatigue wearing your bones down and rendering you useless. caleb seems to know when that happens, or maybe he doesn’t. what matters is that he seems to time his golden smile; it is a smile so radiant that it melts away what weighs you down.

and always being with him has made you adopt some of his habits, his attentiveness being the one that shines through the most. it’s what makes you notice your next door neighbor. days of careful glances makes you learn that he’s always reading on the porch of his house or he’ll do the same inside by the window, that he’s never with any other kids his age and that he’s never at the park.

maybe you should talk to him and—

“y/n~” caleb nudges your shoulder. you jerk in surprise and wobble on the tree branch you both sit on, gripping tightly onto the wood while you lean forwards from your lack of balance. the boy yelps and takes a firm hold of your arm, stabilizing you. “you scared me!”

you huff, glaring at him. “you scared me! i could've fallen just now, dimwit.”

he pouts, “but that's your fault! you weren't listening to me.”

“yes i was!”

“oh yeah?” caleb raises an eyebrow. “then what was i saying?” he snickers when you don't reply, gently nudging your shoulders this time because he learns from his mistakes, you know! “see? i was right. you keep staring over there.” he gestures in the general direction of where you keep staring. his finger touches the green leaves of the tree, the tips fading into a yellow color.

autumn is coming. not yet, but it will be there in due time.

you decide to tease him a little. “pft, you’re pointing at the leaves.”

his lips curl into a frown. “you know what i—”

“caleb!”

the eight year old girl comes running up to the tree, huffing as she points up at your best friend. “i-it’s time for dinner!” she tilts her head over at you, beaming. “gran said you can come, sis!”

caleb looks at you, “you coming?”

you smile at the girl before shaking your head, moving towards the tree trunk. “i need to do something,” you grunt, shimmying down whereas he just jumps off the branch and lands with a thud. the girls gasps and you gape at him with wide eyes once your feet hit the ground, “are you okay?”

“a-okay!” he grins, standing up proudly as if he didn’t just scare the living daylight out of you. caleb flexes a boney arm, “i’m strong, after all!”

“yeah, okay hercules.” you chortle, rolling your eyes. “i’ll see you around.”

you watch as he and she wave goodbye at you, caleb hooking their arms together as they disappear into their house afterwards. you notice that there's a tightness in your chest when you see them hold hands or hook their arms together—it happens sometimes, not always. like right now: your chest tightens a little, feeling heavy. you chalk it up to wanting to do that with caleb one day and go your merry way.

your mom is startled when she opens the front door just as you reach out for the doorknob. she holds a container with cake inside. “goodness,” she chuckles, leaning down to press a kiss against your cheek. “you scared me.”

“are you going next door again?” you move to the side so your mom can walk out.

she hums, “i am! i left some—”

“can i come this time?” you usually don't go to the dinners your mom has with zayne’s family every friday, always heading to hers and caleb’s house instead despite your mom’s best efforts in convincing you to join her. you always had an inkling that she wanted you to spend time with the older boy next door.

your mom beams at you so wide that you’re taken aback as she drags you to the li’s front door. did it really mean that much to her that you want to join this time? well, you’re on a mission to get close to zayne so that he can have friends too.

speaking of the devil, the door opens immediately after your mom presses the doorbell, revealing the older boy. his eyes widen the slightest bit when he sees you, though he quickly regains composure, his features relaxing. with a small smile, he greets your mom. “hello, mrs l/n.” he directs his gaze at you next, “hi y/n.”

you blink in surprise. “…hi zayne.” you didn’t expect him to remember you because you don't particularly remember much about him.

he steps aside just as his mom appears from behind, momentary shock melting into a warm smile. “y/n! i’m so happy to see you! will she be joining us?” her eyes flit up to your mom, who nods excitedly.

you’re ushered inside and into a seat not even a second after being welcomed in. “we always have a plate and cutlery out in case you stop by,” mrs li says. a lump forms in your throat and it’s hard to swallow. you feel awful, knowing that every time you chose to stay with caleb, the li family had hope that you’d stop by and eat with them.

still, you somehow manage to smile at the older lady. “i’ll make sure to come with my mom from now on.”

“really?”

you nod. “of course,” holding out your pinkie, mrs li laughs and hooks her own with yours. “i promise.”

mrs li heads into the kitchen with your mom, leaving you and zayne alone at the dining table. he sits in the chair next to you and you fidget in your seat, not sure how to break the stifling silence. what would caleb do in this moment? he’d probably say something stupid or just go ahead and ask to be friends… that’s something only he could do easily, but for you? that’s a challenge.

“you look worried.” zayne says, looking at you from the corner of his eye.

you frown and play with your fingers, “was it that noticeable?”

zayne hums as the two moms come back with pots of food while chatting about your dad. “you aren't doing a good job at being subtle.”

his comment makes you huff through your nose, the corners of your lips curling upwards. caleb says that to you all the time, claiming that you make it is easy for him to read you.

“smiling suits you.”

you stop breathing and stare at the boy with raven hair, slowly blinking while the moms plate the food and continue talking. zayne glances at you again and then looks at his plate, eyebrows furrowed as he picks up a fork and pokes at the carrots, nudging them into a corner. “did i say something wrong?” he mumbles.

he didn't say anything wrong… it’s just that no one has said that to you. not even after your change, even if it was a small one.

not even caleb.

you shake your head, “no.” coughing, your eyes shift to his hands, seeing how he stabs the last carrot on his plate and places it in the corner along with the rest. “you… you still don’t like carrots?” you vaguely recall a memory from when you were about five: you and zayne were eating a plate of oranges when he suddenly spat it out and a chewed piece of carrot was then laying on the table. his mom had cut small pieces of carrot inside his bowl alone with the oranges, trying to trick him into eating them.

zayne’s hazel eyes widen. “you remember?”

with a snort, you answer, “you spit out the carrots every time your mom tried tricking you into eating them. that’s pretty hard to forget, if you’re asking me.”

his ears flush the lightest shade of pink, making you giggle as your fingers wrap around his plate, rotating it. with your other hand, you grab your fork and take his carrots.

“…thank you.”

“i should be thanking you,” you hum, “i love carrots.”

whereas you and caleb are polar opposites and only have a thing in common, you and zayne are not. you’re so alike: reserved and quiet, both sticking to what you deem is the vicinity of your personal bubble. it was easy to befriend him again; by the end of what remained of summer, you had introduced him to caleb and her. it did take a month and a half of convincing, of relentless pleading that convinced zayne to follow you to the park where she and caleb were playing as usual.

caleb and zayne didn't get along well right off the bat, and they always argued. it took you aback in the beginning, not used to seeing caleb argue so… pettishly with someone. much less with zayne. zayne baffles you every time he mutters under his breath about how caleb is ‘so annoying’ because all he does is talk about dinosaurs or is ‘a child’ during friday dinners at his house. well, he is a child, so he’s not wrong there. but with that logic, he should also be calling you a child and yet he doesn’t.

zayne does, however, get along well with her.

you see it in zayne’s attentiveness to the young girl, you see it in the way his voice softens when he speaks to her, and you see it in the way he hangs onto her every word as if it were something sacred.

you also see it in the way his ears sometimes turn the lightest shade of pink when he speaks to her.

when you think about it, they’re both alike in that way.

the sun is in the sky, bright and warm like the boy next to you.

“he’s trying to steal her from me,” grumbles caleb. he swings his legs back and forth while the two of you sit on a tree branch, zayne and the girl sitting underneath on the other side of the tree. she’s teaching him how to braid a crown of flowers, and you can see the small curl of his lips. he’s smiling a shy sort of smile only reserved for her.

“he can’t steal her from you because she isn’t an object.” you tear your eyes away from them and focus on the brooding boy beside you, taking note of how he pinches his brows together and pouts, mumbling something under his breath. while the branches and its leaves provide good shade from the sweltering heat, there is still sunlight that peeks through gaps, and golden specks manage to coat caleb’s figure. “that means you can’t have her either, cal.”

your words have him turning to you quickly, his eyes wide. “i can’t have her?”

“of course not!” your silent admiration of seconds ago dissipates as you scoff, flicking his forehead. he yelps as you continue, “she’s a person! you can’t have people; that’s weird.”

“but that monster is stealing my best friend!”

you frown, blinking once. “zayne isn’t a monster.” but caleb sure seems like one at the moment, you think. a monster of green envy.

“yes he is!”

“zayne is not a monster.” you repeat, irritation beginning to bubble in your chest because caleb wouldn't be saying such things if he didn't have this weird rivalry going on with zayne. “don’t say that about him.”

“why are you defending him anyways?” caleb narrows his eyes at you. “you’re supposed to be my friend—”

friend. best friend. you realize he hasn't ever really called you his best friend because she’s his best friend while you think he's yours. if he doesn't think that of you, then you can’t think that of him… right?

you both whip your heads to the ground, clambering down the tree as zayne calls out both yours and caleb’s name. if his voice hadn’t betrayed the frantic feeling swirling in it, maybe you wouldn’t have this overwhelming sense of dread. when you both round the tree trunk, you see that his face is pale, and he’s holding onto her. she’s trembling, her face paler than zayne’s as if all the color had been drained from her features, and she’s heaving and trembling uncontrollably. the sight makes your stomach drop to the ground as caleb dashes forwards, dropping to his knees while yelling about getting granny josephine to them. you honestly don't remember running to their house, asking josephine to help the little girl—it’s all a blur. all you can remember is how the two boys finally had something in common other than their care for the younger girl: their expression.

they were both horrified.

and you wonder if you looked like them.

your eleventh autumn was just like any other, but this time it was different because of him.

you decided to stay the night after having dinner at zayne’s so he could help you study for your science test on monday. caleb would have been the one helping you, being in the same classes and all, but he was helping her study. while you do love and care about her, you care more about your grades because surely the tests in middle school are harder than the ones in elementary, right?

you’ve been inside zayne’s room before. more often than not, after dinner, you’d end up in there with him while talking about everything and nothing. sometimes you’d both be quiet, content with just being next to each other while reading a book on his bed, and sometimes you both would talk about current hobbies and interests.

“where will you sleep?” zayne’s voice comes from near his bed while you head towards his desk.

“in your bed, duh.” your eyes skim over the surface, chuckling at how tidy it is… until your eyes fall on a haphazardly hidden pieces of paper underneath zayne’s stack of notebooks. weird, you think. zayne likes keeping notebooks, books, and papers separate from each other.

“why would you sleep in bed with me?” he asks.

“we used to sleep in the same bed when we were children.” which is true: your moms have a photo book with evidence in it from your younger days together. “i don’t see why we can’t if we’re still children.”

you hear him huff through his nose. he’s probably pinching it right now. “you’re eleven and i’m thirteen. you’re a child and i’m a teenager.”

“didn’t you say that teenagers are fourteen-year-olds and up the other day?” your fingers wrap around one of the notebook’s spine, carefully lifting it and whatver notebooks are on top and pull the pieces of papers out.

your eyes scan the contents of one of the pages, highlighted words aiding in your understanding of what it is that you’re reading. medical school… majors… he’s looking at colleges.

“well, yes.”

you turn around and hide the papers behind you. “so that means we can share the same bed, right?”

zayne sighs, shaking his head while his lips curl upwards just the slightest bit. “you win this round, miss know-it-all.”

you grin at him and bring the papers out. “you sure i’m a know-it-all?”

the older boy stares at the papers you wave in the air, staying silent as if trying to find the words to explain something to you. you raise your eyebrows. “staying silent makes you look like you were hiding something from me.”

“well… i am. was, i was.” zayne corrects himself and sits down at the edge of his bed, patting the space next to him. you take a seat and eye him. “i’ve been trying to tell you this past summer that… well…” he sighs. “i skipped grades.”

“oh—” you gasp, eyes widening to the size of saucers. “so this means…”

majors.

medical school.

he’s grad—

he exhales slowly. “i’m graduating from high school this year.”

you feel the world go still. you hear your breathing. you feel cold. suddenly, you feel deep and heavy dread wash over you.

after this year, zayne will leave.

your best friend is leaving you.

“why are you crying?” zayne panics, clumsily wiping the tears you didn’t know were falling down your cheeks. the pad of his thumb is a little rough against your skin, but his touch is soft. he’s trying to be gentle, and it makes you feel more gloomy.

“i don’t know,” you mumble, hiccupping as you look down at your hands, watching the tears he doesn’t manage to wipe away fall onto them. “it’s just…” do you tell him? that you don’t want him to leave you alone? sure, caleb is a great friend but you’ve come to realize, since the incident last summer, that she will always be his top priority and—

majors. medical school… her.

“you’re doing this for her, aren’t you?” your voice is quiet.

you love her, you do. she’s like a little sister, and you obviously care for her like they do. but they care more, they love her more. you don’t quite understand the intensity of their love for her. and despite their burning ardor in wanting to be there for her and how it always ends up making you invisible, you can’t bring yourself to ever hate her. she’s innocent, just living her life while the two boys flock to her. she didn’t ask for their attention or love, it’s just that she’s so easy to love.

“…don’t tell her.” zayne’s hands fall from your cheeks and grab onto your hands. his touch is cold, unlike caleb, but it doesn’t make you flinch away from him. you let him take your hands into his, holding them carefully. “please.”

you huff through your nose. “if that’s what you want,” you answer. “it isn’t my place to tell them, anyways.”

it’s quiet, peaceful almost if you weren’t so caught up in the sinking feeling your chest. your heart just sinks and continues to sink in black ink, growing heavy. zayne’s voice timidly calls out your name. “you’re still crying. there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“i don’t want you to leave.” because if he leaves, you’re afraid that you’ll have to admit the ugly truth you know, deep down, about caleb. it’s a truth that is so clear to everyone, a truth that you see every single time they’re in their own world. a world that pushes you and zayne out like the waves when they leave shore and retreat back into the ocean.

the older buy chuckles, and you look at him through your wet lashes, noting how his hazel eyes flicker with quiet care in them. “i’m not leaving yet.”

“keyword being yet,” you mumble, gripping onto his hands now. “…i’m being dramatic, aren’t i?”

zayne opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. “i should be happy that you’re doing something so cool. i mean, skipping basically all of high school and graduating super early? that’s so cool… and i’m here crying like a baby over it.”

“but your reaction is reasonable,” zayne says. “i’d be upset, too, if my best friend told me all of sudden they’d be leaving at the end of the school year.”

best friend. not just friend.

“i’m your best friend?”

“naturally.” zayne responds quickly. “you know me better than anyone, just as i know you better than anyone.”

just like that, your tears stop falling and the sun peeks out from the cloudy sky inside you.

the rest of the night goes smoothly: zayne helped you study for your science test, which you both found boring after an hour because all of the questions were easy, and you spent the rest of your time talking with him. you wanted to know of his plans, what he’s thinking, about what he wants to do after graduating. you both fell asleep in the midst of your conversation, though you wake up at three in the morning because you felt weird. your own body was telling you that you forgot to do your night routine. so when you wake up, all blurry-eyed and dazed, the first thing you can see is your sleeping best friend. after a couple of blinks, your vision clears up and you’re aware that you’re close to him. in fact, you’re close enough to see and count his dark eyelashes. you pout, no way he has prettier eyelashes than i do. the thought goes away as quickly as it had formed in your mind, replaced by the icky realization that you fell asleep without brushing your teeth. so you sit up, gently waking zayne so he could do the same. when he stirs awake and stares at you with squinting eyes, he knows what you mean when all you do is wordlessly point at your mouth despite the sleepy haze of his mind. and just like that, you both silently head to the bathroom and brush your teeth next to each other, quickly going back to his bed and falling asleep once more.

when morning came, you both find yourselves staring at his mom with confusion as she giggles and repeatedly asks how you both slept during breakfast. you think she must have seen something while you both slept, though you decide to let your suspicions go when you bid the li family goodbye and head next door to your house.

mom will probably tell me about it later tonight, you think just as you shove your house keys into the lock. you push the door open and kick your shoes off your feet, sliding them to the side and slipping into your slippers when you step inside. you hear someone running down the street, and right when you’re about to close the door, you hear your name being called out.

“i didn’t see you at all yesterday!” caleb runs up to you, a bright grin plastered on his lips. with his back to the sun, he looks as if he's bathed in gold. “pips missed you, you know? what were you up to that—what’s that?”

you blink once and suddenly he’s in your bubble, burning fingers gingerly touching your eye. you close it on instinct, and he runs his thumb over your eyelid. you can see yourself reflected in his eyes from this close. his warmth seeps into your skin, and you have the urge to lean into his touch. your heart lurches and skips a beat, feeling excited and calm at the same time.

“what’s what?” you cough, taking a step back.

he frowns, his thumb now under your bottom lashes. “your eyes are red and puffy. are you sick or something? you feel oddly hot.”

oh, that’s right. you cried yesterday, and you feel as if your heart is ready to jump out of your chest and into his arms where it wishes it could be.

“i’m fine. it’s just that i watched a sad movie after dinner with zayne,” you sigh, gently pushing his fingers away from your eyes. zayne’s words echo in your head, a quiet reminder that you can't tell caleb because he’d tell her right afterwards.

caleb huffs through his nose, his lips curling into an amused smile. he shakes his head once, his purple irises reflecting the warmth he radiates. “you do cry a lot while watching movies, don’t you?” he leans back and tilts his head at you. “alright.”

you furrow your eyebrows. “alright… what?”

“even though you’re clearly hiding something from me, i believe you.” caleb pinches your cheek, the amusement in his lips softening. “i’ll see you later?”

“yeah…” you say, dazed, but shake your head quickly. “wait, what are we doing?”

caleb laughs, the hand pinching your cheek now covering his mouth, “don’t tell me you forgot that we’re supposed to study for the science test on monday?”

“about that…” you look away from him. “zayne helped me study for it last night.”

his silence has you taking a quick glance at him. caleb seems shocked and his eyebrow twitches, though it disappears and is replaced by something you can’t quite describe. a forced smile of sorts? “he helped you study?” he asks. “then what’s your verdict? will the test be easy or hard?”

you scratch your cheek, thinking. “well… even though he helped me study for a bit, i say the test is going to be very easy.”

“guess that means i won’t study.” caleb shrugs and ruffles your hair, a real smile on his lips now. “talk to you later, short stuff.”

“i am not that short, cal!” ever since he’s grown an exact inch taller than you, he acts like you're a midget now.

you watch as he waves goodbye, walking backwards for a couple steps with a laugh before twisting around and heading down the street. he’s probably heading to the small dessert shop nearby to pick up some of her favorite doughnuts—it’s what he does every saturday morning.

your twelfth autumn marks your first one without zayne.

he left at the end of summer, right as the tips of the green-yellow leaves on your favorite tree began turning a slight orange, barely noticeable. his disappearance had gone unnoticed until yesterday, half way into the fall quarter and midway into october. you’re in the middle of reading a book, one of your dad’s that he let you borrow, on his bed laying on your stomach while caleb helps her do her homework at his desk. he has a singular picture on it that he puts down whenever you're over, but you never ask why he does that.

“where is zayne?” she wondered aloud, tapping her pencil against her chin. “i haven’t seen him around lately.”

“huh,” caleb clicks his tongue in thought. “now that you mention it, neither have i.”

both their eyes land on you, though you don’t bother looking up. with practiced ease, you reply. “i haven’t seen him around.”

“but you go to his house every friday? and he’s your best friend? surely you know something.” she leans forwards in her chair, trying to get a better look at you.

“i go every friday because i made a promise to his mom,” you retort, finally looking up. with a shrug, you continue, “his mom hasn’t said anything about his whereabouts, so i’m just as clueless as you bunch.”

the girl drops it, a smile now on her lips. “your dad is coming home soon, right?”

you blink in surprise. “you remember?” you mentioned it in passing, it was when she and you were watching caleb during basketball tryouts. you told her that your dad would be coming back soon from the fleet, how you were excited to finally see him after so long.

caleb huffs a laugh through his nose, “of course she remembers, short stuff.”

you grimace, rolling onto your side and reach out to grab something in your vicinity, which happens to be a pen on his bedside, and fling it towards him. “you are literally just a couple inches taller than me, cal.” he’s actually a whole head taller than you now, and caleb's growing into his features. his cheeks have started losing their softness, his eyes a little sharper now. he has a natural, boyish charm, something that makes everyone notice him at school.

he loudly laughs, the pen stopping right in front of him before he swats it away. it lands with a clatter against the floor, somewhere in his room. with a huff, you lay on your back. “better work on that aim, short stuff~” he sings, getting up from his desk and heading over to his bed. you look up at him, your lips pursed as he pinches your cheek, purple eyes warm with mirth. his hair falls over his eyes, making its color look deeper. “how else are you going to get into the aerospace academy with me?”

you raise your brows, “you're acting as if you're already in.”

“well—”

the girl hums. “so you both want to leave me.”

just like that, caleb is back at her side and you’re all alone. “i would never leave you, pips.”

“pinkie promise?”

you watch from the corner of your eye how he wears a soft smile as they wrap their pinkies, his touch lingering.

you aren't stupid; in fact, you pride yourself in being so smart and attentive. so, you know that the tightness in your chest is because of caleb, because of the feelings you harbor for him. you aren't stupid, so you already know that caleb can never be yours, that he can never feel that way for you.

because he is hers.

with a sigh, you close your eyes and will yourself to calm your aching heart. you should be used to the ache that settles in your chest when this happens, but here you are.

later that day, right as the sun begins to set, you bid her and granny josephine goodbye. the taste of her apple pie from dinner lingers in your mouth.

“you don’t have to walk me home, cal.” you say, chuckling as you bump shoulders with him. instead of walking across the street, you walk down the sidewalk.

he hums, following you, “just let me be a good friend, short stuff.”

“you just love rubbing it in, don’t you?” you grumble, stepping into the park. your feet take you to the tree until you’re in front of it. you look behind you, raising an eyebrow at caleb. “i’ll stay here for a few minutes, so you can leave if you want.”

“i’ll stay.” at his confirmation, he moves past you, a faint scent of apples lingering in the air along with the sweet, woody smell from the oak tree as he scales up the trunk with ease. “your turn!”

“yeah, yeah.” you huff, rolling your eyes as you climb the tree and make it to the branch caleb chose to sit at. you breathe in and out slowly.

“the tunnel makes the sky look ugly.”

you snort, slightly baffled at the sudden proclamation from the boy. “where did that come from?”

“what?” caleb shrugs with a laugh, shoulders shaking slightly. “it does make it look ugly. like, really ugly.”

your quiet giggles get louder, and you throw your head back. “that is the first time i have ever heard anyone say that.” you wheeze, your laughter so strong you wobble on the branch. caleb wraps an arm around you to keep you from falling, his touch making you still instantly.

“you need to be careful,” he says. “one of these days you’re going to end up falling and i’ll fall with you.”

“if i ever fall, it’ll be because of you.” you cough and attempt to shimmy away from him, though his grip slightly tightens, preventing you from getting away.

the brunette absentmindedly taps on your arm with a finger. “i’d never let you fall… you know that.”

he’s saying that because you're his friend, and he is fiercely protective of those he cares about: the people in his inner circle. you are a part of it, you know that, and yet your heart cannot help but to stupidly flutter at the illusion of a hidden meaning behind his words.

“…it’s getting late.” which is true—the oranges and pinks of the sunset are now bleeding into a purple hue. “i should get going now.” you don't wait for him to say anything; you just climb down the trees as quickly and possible and book it to your home.

caleb is not far behind you.

stepping on the first step of your house’s porch, you stop and turn around. you’re eye to eye with caleb.

caleb wears a boyish grin on his lips, something that makes your stomach flip. “i have something for you.”

“oh? and what would that be?” the corners of your lips turn upwards.

“how about you close your eyes?” you shut your eyes, hearing intently to the boy shuffling. you feel a warmth brush against your cheek, trailing over to the back your neck. “give me a second.”

you hold your breath. caleb’s fingers work nimbly, and something cold hangs around your neck. there’s silence for a beat; he’s still close enough for you to hear his breathing until he leans away. “open your eyes.”

they flutter open at his command, and flitter down to see a necklace. there is a cloud with a wispy appearance right at the bottom, and small translucent beads hang from it in white and blue. the chain around your neck is decorated with solid white and blue beads.

“do you like it?” caleb scratches his neck, eyes carefully watching your reaction.

your voice comes out quiet, shy. “i do.”

you hear the smile in his voice. “i’ve been trying to give it to you since your birthday.”

“what?” looking up from the necklace, you blink at him repeatedly. “but my birthday—”

“i know.” he laughs softly, shaking his head. “i’ve had it since last year, and… i just didn’t know how to give it to you. i thought now would be a good time.”

i thought now would be a good time.

his words echo in your mind, and you take a deep breath. you also have something you want to give him: it’s sitting in the drawer of your desk, in a small box. “do you… do you want to come inside?”

you’ve never invited anyone inside your house, inside the walls that is your safe space. zayne is the only one who has stepped foot inside, who has made it up the stairs and into your room on more than one occasion. caleb used to bug you about that when you two first met, into the early months of your friendship. he thought it was weird that you were always over at his home while he had never gone inside yours. his complaints stopped when you introduced zayne to them—probably because he didn’t want to be around him despite the desire he had to discover what lays hidden in your home. you like to think that he finally decided to wait until you were ready to show him what’s inside.

caleb’s eyes are wide with surprise. “you want me to go inside?”

“i also have something for you.”

despite the poor lighting of the porch lamp, caleb is still akin to gold. he smiles and you turn around to unlock the front door, your heart thumping loudly in your chest. when you open the door and hold it open for him, caleb is all too quick to walk inside, following you up the stairs into your room after you shut the door. his eyes scan the inside of your room as soon as you turn on the lights, shuffling over to your desk as he stands by the doorframe. the color of your walls are a light blue, strings attached to the ceiling with paper clouds hanging at the end. he realizes there’s glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling after squinting. there’s a book shelf in the corner of your room, right besides your desk. the top shelf has a few trinkets: a small airplane, a blimp, a cap.

he assumes it's your dad’s cap, the one that goes with his uniform.

the second shelf has a couple of books, a stuffed animal in the form of a snowman, and a picture: the last one you took with your parents. last summer, you and your family took a trip to verona. in the picture, your dad has you hoisted onto his shoulders, an arm on your legs to keep you steady while the other is wrapped around your mom. everyone wears a smile, yet yours is the brightest one out of the three. caleb’s chest swells with pride, knowing he did the right thing all those years ago when he found you crying at the big oak tree.

the third shelf has a picture, one where it’s you and him. he remembers when, where and who took the picture. it was on your last day of school, your fifth grade promotion ceremony, and your mom took it. again, your smile is the brightest one. though, upon further inspection, he realizes your picture is different from the one he has on his desk. you’ve decorated it with small stickers, ones of golden and purple swirls that sit on the frame.

then there’s more books. another picture frame—is that zayne? you and zayne as children… oh, well you look at that? another picture frame of you and zayne. a recent picture, it seems, decorated in the same manner as his. he’s not sure when or where or who took this picture—

“think fast!”

caleb blinks and the flying box stills in front of him, floating in the air before it can hit his chest. “uh… why?”

“gotta be on your toes if you want to be in the aerospace academy with me.”

he laughs. “look at you, already acting as if you’re in.”

you shrug. “you do the same.”

“touché.” his eyes look down at the box. with a hum, he grabs and opens it, blinking once. inside sits a necklace, one with a small, silver sun on it with a purple gem in the middle. “…a sun?”

“you remind me of the sun.” you mumble. “you’re warm like it, too.”

caleb beams so wide his cheeks start to hurt, and there's faint blush on his cheeks that spreads to the tips of his ears. “i’m like the sun?”

“mhm.”

“funny… because i got you a cloud because sometimes you’re calm and happy, sometimes you’re gray and gloomy, and there are times when you’re like a storm.”

you stare at him, wide-eyed, and he continues. “tell me when you feel like there’s a storm in you.” he gets closer to you so that he can tap on the necklace that hangs around your neck. “so i can shine the sun on you... i will never hurt you with my warmth.”

it’s a silent promise that he’ll be there for you.

“and if you do?”

“then you can hit me!”

his fingers twitch, his foot taking a step forwards. but there’s a knock on your door before it’s pushed open. both you and caleb watch, confused.

your mom has a night shift and wouldn’t be back until morning.

caleb doesn't see a thing before you’re already leaping forwards into the arms of a man in a black uniform, his cap falling onto the ground. he recognizes the man as the one that holds you on his shoulders in the picture on your bookshelf.

your dad, the colonel of the farspace fleet.

caleb smiles to himself, his hold on the tiny box in his hands slightly tightening. he will be there for you, whenever you're sad or happy or mad.

he will be there.

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taglist. @ellieevu @ryusjwks @llamabois @kazbrkker @1ncpst @babythotbox @angelwhizpers @miffysoo

#love & deepspace #love and deepspace #love and deepspace fanfic #love and deepspace drabbles #love and deepspace angst #love and deepspace imagines #love & deepsace x reader #lads caleb x reader

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blcknebula · 7 days ago

Text

Rotten Apples ❦.ׂ

chapter fourteen: frankenstein's monster

masterlist , series masterlist , ao3 link

previous part | next part coming soon

oh yeah, i made a spotify playlist for this <3

18+ MINORS DNI

pairing: caleb x non!mc reader

synopsis: you and caleb are on the run. tensions run high between you two. you make a call for help.

word count: 10.2k words

warnings: please, please, PLEASE read the trigger warnings before proceeding. lightly proofread...it ain't perfect!

author's note: hi everyone! just wanted to swing by and say hi! i'm sorry if this chapter sucks! but also a quick note for my taglist: at least half of you are not interacting/liking/commenting/reblogging the past few chapters. kinda annoyed by this so if you want to stay on, make for sure you at least like the post so i know you're actively wanting to be on the taglist otherwise im gonna take you off and make room for the others who wish to join!

oh and remember...the narrative isn't completely objective!

trigger warning: death/murder, bodily harm, thoughts about death, light suicidal thoughts, caleb grabs reader's neck once (not choking), let me know if i missed anything

my rotten apples <3 : @militaryapple , @kebarney , @pinkismyfavcolor , @romils , @erisnxxi , @rik0shii , @reni502 , @spacehopper27 , @llamabois , @likesvader , @pandoras-rabbit , @princessfruit , @lukassafespace , @jexireads , @etsuniiru , @tinnyrabbit , @orianakira , @xiaorixx , @beomluvrr , @sanzy4 , @vickykazuya , @blcknebula , @sleepydang , @flamedancer13 , @gojosbedwarmer , @silmeria-lafleur , @ikiru-wa , @animecrazy76 , @fealy , @i-messed-up-big-time , @motheraiya55 , @vvonunie , @1uv4jiya , @yuuuumii , @okumurarinsbabe , @mcdepressed290 , @luleck , @sanzy4 , @lucifers-silhouette , @crazygirl3001 , @april-likes-smut , @kazbrkker , @l1ttlebabyapple , @writersandroses , @kookie-my-little-sunshine , @curryexpress , @earthykitsunesrain , @raining4food , @chaoticbardlady99 , @lemonwithstupidity

Caleb hated pressing the off button. He despised watching your body crumble in on itself, the way it surrendered to its momentum before succumbing to the ground. It took everything in him not to reverse his choice. The single flick of his finger to bring you back to life, to see your chest rise and fall again instead of it being suspended in limbo, frozen in time.

The Colonel uses his Evol to catch you. You float through the air and into his arms with practiced ease, the man releasing your body from his power, the full weight of your unconscious body now supported by his arms.

“I’m…” Caleb breathes the words out as if they are a respectable apology that will make up for this sin that he has committed, “I’m sorry for this.”

Caleb pushes through the metal doors of the compound. His purple eyes scan the immediate area, your hair flowing in the night desert wind. You’re much lighter than before. Underneath the Farspace Fleet uniform must be an undernourished body that the Professor forced you into. Caleb remembers his days with Ever, how most days he was fed through a tube or IV and the days that he was allowed to eat, it was scrap pieces of bread and leftovers from the scientist’ cafeteria.

Can you hear his words? Are you able to listen to his voice while you sleep? Caleb hopes you can hear his apology but if you can’t, well, he is not too mad about that either. He simply does not know what the right choice is in this moment, what choice will bring the two of you the least amount of pain or hurt. All he knows is that he is protecting you.

Every choice that he has made after pulling the trigger on Professor Lucius has been made with you and you alone in mind. What he is doing now is to protect you. All he can do is hope that you will understand as he walks you through a battlefield littered with the corpses of men who fought for nothing but a cold place in the grave.

Caleb knows what death is like and you do too. You both know what that dark place is like. Although, you have visited it more often than he has. Death and you are friends now, or so it seems. Caleb does not know what goes through your head whenever you find yourself in its clutches.

He wonders about it, though. None of the files that the Professor had on you described the state that your mind goes into whenever you die or are turned off. The man hopes that it is like a gentle sleep, a way for you to finally find peace in rest.

He also knows that with you like this, body and mind disconnected from one another, that he can do whatever he wants with you. He knows that you will not be able to fight back against him if he decides to move you to a remote location in the world, to hide you away from the evil people who wish to bring you harm. He can take you wherever he wants, whenever, and you would be none the wiser…or so he thinks.

Fuck. Caleb feels dirty thinking about you this way, like you’re a toy that he can play with and can control at will and yet here he is, controlling you, putting you straight under his thumb, the one thing that you most likely hate the most.

Caleb adjusts you in his arms. It is eerie that you don’t flinch in your sleep. Twitch. Breathe. It’s one of the most unsettling things that he has ever encountered. Even with the corpses that line the taxiway, your inability to be a living being in his arms makes Caleb feel so unsettled.

He steps over the bodies of men from other countries, the men who laid their lies down for nothing. His foot hesitates when his eyes land on Liam. His adjutant remains face down, a pool of blood formed by his head, creating a sadistic looking halo. He gives him a gentle tap with his foot, one last attempt to see if the lifeless body will move.

It doesn’t. Caleb moves on.

There are a few options out of the desert. There is the obvious choice, the Farpspace Fleet aircraft that he flew here. The only problem that comes with it, though, is the fact that the Fleet can track his location and ultimately follow the path that leads them straight to you. Caleb can’t risk it.

He looks around, stopping at the Farspace Fleet aircraft, opening its doors and placing you into one of the chairs. You slump over, head hanging low, strands of hair covering your eyes. He shrugs off his Colonel jacket and drapes it over your body, protecting you from any stray specks of sand that slice through the air. He places his gun on your lap followed by the pad that controls your body and Toring Chip.

There’s not a soul around who can kill him or you. He can take the risk of leaving you alone for just a few seconds, right?

Caleb exits the plane and scans the area. There are a few cars to the side, old jeeps that still run on gas. They most likely come from the guerrilla troops that the Professor brought. They’d have to remind away from technology, away from the eyes of the country they fight against. He knows just how hard it will be to remain disguised. Technology is everywhere, after all, and the Colonel will try his damn best to get the two of you away from it.

The man heads to the jeep, a small smile flashing across his face. He drove one similar to this in high school. He bought it for a cheap price and drove it home with the shell taken off of the top, the warm summer wind touching against his skin and tousling his hair. He remembered the way the car vibrated and shook, its age prominent in every turn and press of the gas pedal. Caleb, with very finite resources as a teenager and with the help of your father (you weren’t aware of this fact), he was able to fix the engine and make it run smoother than ever before. Sure, the engine was basically new after he fixed it, but it was still the same old jeep he bought months prior.

Caleb grabs the gas cans that sit in the back of the jeep, collecting all of the leftover canisters that sit in nearby cars, piling them in the open trunk. The keys weren’t inside of the car but it only took a few minutes to find. The keys were pocketed in one of the dead solider’s jacket, just barely poking out onto the asphalt when Caleb spotted it. After a few minutes, Caleb begins to drive the car back to the Farspace Fleet aircraft.

He gets out, pocketing the keys as he moves, and turns to see you standing outside of the plane with his gun pointed at his head. Caleb pauses, his purple eyes trained onto yours, slightly narrowing at the sight.

You hold the gun with your right hand while the left fidgets with the Toring Chip pad. Your thumb swipes across the screen, making quick work while you try to remove Caleb’s retinal scan, not appreciative of the way he took away your bodily autonomy within seconds of gaining control.

“You’re awake,” Caleb speaks, trying to ease the tension. He holds his hands up, beginning to move closer to you. He only stops when your eyes snap back to him, arm stiffening as your aim returns back to his head. “Hey, hey, I’m on your side.”

“Are you?” you’re quick to counter, gaze sharpening onto his. “You did the one thing that I never wanted to experience again, Caleb,” you take a step forward, staring at his head from just above the crosshairs, “the one god damn thing, Caleb!”

“I know,” Caleb nods at you, his throat tightening, “I know and I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do.”

Caleb takes another step towards you. You pull the trigger, a blast of energy shooting past his head at lighting speeds. Caleb doesn’t flinch. He cements his feet into the ground knowing that you’ll kill him. He sucks in a breath, eyes flickering to the pad in your hand, anxiety beginning to form deep inside his muscles.

“How did you wake up?” Caleb asks, trying to move the conversation to something else — literally anything — to buy time. He doesn’t know just how trigger happy you are, wondering if that was the only warning shot you were going to give him before blowing his brains out.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you murmur, eyes floating back to the transparent tablet.

Truth is, you don’t know what happened. Last thing you remember was stepping out of the bunker before things went black. You remembered the ice cold feeling that overtook your body as you slipped into the temporary coma before being pulled out, waking up inside of the Farspace Fleet’s plane. The tablet was on the ground besides Caleb’s gun and, well, here you are.

“Why is your retinal scan in here?” you ask, barely looking over at Caleb. You hesitate when he doesn’t immediately respond, turning to look at him. “Why haven’t you used your Evol on me?”

“I need you to trust me, pretty bird,” Caleb grunts.

“Yeah,” you let out a quiet chuckle, shaking your head, tilting your face back towards the transparent tablet, “look at where that’s gotten me.”

“You can…you can still trust me,” he continues. His eyes move between your face and the tablet, his curiosity slowly killing him. “What are you doing?”

“Deleting your retinal scan,” you murmur, holding the pad up to your face. A small red light flashes, capturing the details of your irises. Your hand lowers, the gun slightly faltering in its place, as you navigate through the Toring Chip’s options.

“We’re safe now,” Caleb comments. It brings you no relief, just dread of what is to come.

Will you live a life on the run? Are you forever destined to be on the road, always looking over your shoulder for the people who may never come?

It is not a life worth living. You are done of letting other people control your life, control your body and emotions. You are done playing the role of a pawn. The game’s master is now dead and, well, you wish to burn the board and everything that comes attached to it.

“They can track us,” you inform Caleb, glancing in his direction. A quiet ding comes from the tablet. You turn to him and force a fake, cheery smile on your face, waving the tablet in the air as an ‘I told you so’. “I guess they can only track you now.”

“Pretty bird,” Caleb lowers his hands and straightens his posture. He opens his mouth to say something and you lean forward, waiting for the response that never comes.

“What was your plan to escape, Caleb? Hm? You turned me off and thought, ‘Hey! Let me just pack up my things and unconscious girlfriend and get out of here!’? Is that what you thought was going to happen?” you can’t help but laugh at the situation you find yourselves in.

Caleb, the one person that your gut instinct told you you that you could trust, has obliterated any progress that he has made with you since your short-lived reunion. He did the one thing you never wanted to happen to you and now it feels like the man who stands before you is a stranger, calling you pretty nicknames, his voice soft and gentle…who knows what he had in plan for you.

When he continues to be silent, you scoff and lower the gun. Your gaze drifts up and down his body, shaking your head as you close your eyes, throwing your head back with a laugh. Caleb watches, unsure what is happening to you.

Is it a mental break? Has your mind finally had enough and is ready to plunge itself into compete and utter insanity? He wouldn’t blame you if you did. He would have done the same thing if he were in your shoes. Constantly dying and being experimented on is something he would never wish upon someone, especially you.

“What are you doing, Caleb? Truly. What are you hoping will happen?” you ask, opening your eyes to look at him.

He’s much closer now. You can see the orange in his eyes. The beads of sweat in his hair. The way he’s loosened the tie of his uniform, unbuttoning the top three buttons to combat the heat. You narrow your gaze at him, grip on the gun tightening.

“I was hoping to get us out of here,” he truthfully answers. “I need to get you to safety.”

“I needed that eight months ago, Colonel,” you push your shoulders pack, emulating the perfect posture to a man who you should consider to be your superior. Your knuckles turn white. Anger boils inside of you, red hot and ready to burst at any moment. “Hate to break it to you, but it’s a little too late.”

You go to turn away from him when your body freezes in place. Caleb’s Evol engulfs you. The blue and orange flicker of his power annoys you more than it should. You look to the side and watch as Caleb comes into view.

He slowly takes the place in front of you, his purple eyes now dark. Caleb lets out a quiet sigh. His long fingers attach themselves to your chin, moving it from within the dense gravity field that surrounds you, and tilts your face up to look at him. He licks his dry lips, his skin burning into yours. His gaze remains on your eyes, the way the moonlight reflects off of your eyes.

“I can keep you safe now,” Caleb’s voice is low and hoarse. It itches the back of your brain in just the right way, shutting you the hell up. “I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”

“I can take care of myself,” you mutter back. A smile flickers across his face.

“I thought you wanted a hero,” he tilts his head to the side. “I thought you wanted me to come save you. Well, here I am, pretty bird, and I’m not going anywhere.”

You don’t respond. You bask in the quiet sound of the desert wind, the beats of your heart echoing in your ears. Caleb leans in, his hand moving from your chin to your cheek. The pads of his fingers are tough against your skin, sending chills down your spine with one flick of the wrist. The tip of his nose presses against yours, the man nuzzling into your face. His forehead is hot from the heat of the night.

“We’ll never leave each other ever again,” Caleb whispers, his breath warm against your mouth. You remain silent. “Now get in the jeep,” his Evol releases you, your muscles no longer in suspended agony from the tension, and he pulls his face away from yours, his hand still on your cheek, “or I will make you get into it.”

Caleb slips the gun from your now weakened grasp. He turns on his heel and opens up the aircraft’s door with a wave, the hatch door dropping down with ease. You stand there and watch as Caleb casually picks up his Colonel’s jacket, laying it into the crook of his elbow, grabbing a few other items from inside the plane such as a flashlight, first aid kit (not like you need it anyways), and flares. He turns back around and looks down at you, flicking his hand to the jeep.

“Go,” he says.

The command alone sends chills down your spine. You slowly do as he says, your eyes remaining on his for as long as possible before your back is turned to him, your feet dragging across the ground as if his Evol were still chained to you. The car is about a meter or two from the aircraft. You instantly spot the gas cans, noting the way the driver’s seat as already been adjusted.

With the way Caleb has been acting ever since you woke up, you are certain that there is no way in hell that he’ll let you behind the wheel. If he wanted to, he could handcuff your hands together, condemning you to remain by his side until he decides he’s had enough of you.

Weird. You thought you had finally escaped from one crazy ass motherfucker but now? Now you’re trapped with a man who has been through a hellscape of a childhood and has emotional issues…you suppose it’ll be fine, though, since he claims to love you.

At least he did in the past.

Before you can open up the car door, Caleb is behind you, reaching around your body, his slender fingers connecting with the metal. He pulls it open with ease as you turn around and look up at him with a raised eyebrow. You slowly get inside of the car, the door closing behind you, watching Caleb from the corner of your eye. He tosses his jacket into the backseat along with the other things. You shrug off your own, placing it on top of your lap. Caleb gets into the car. The vehicle dips down under the weight. You turn your head away.

Whenever an animal is trapped, it will chew off its own leg to escape, no? Suddenly, you feel like one of those unfortunate animals.

The engine rumbles. You shift in your seat and Caleb rolls his sleeves up to his elbows. The gears shift into place and Caleb slowly reverses the car with one hand.

The sand dunes catch your attention. From the distance, the wind picks up the loose specks and carries them just a small gap above the main body of sand. It’s mesmerizing to watch as the car pulls away from the taxiway. You steal a quick glance of the side of his face.

Caleb’s jaw is clenched. He holds one hand on the top of the steering wheel while the other rests on the gear shift in front of the middle console. You cross one leg over the cover, earning a quick look from the man, and look at the side mirror.

Caleb’s eyes drop to your legs. In the past, his hand would have been welcomed there if you weren’t holding it. Was it a habit that formed between the two of you? Obviously. He knew that would be crossing the line, pushing far too many boundaries even though he was still considered to be your boyfriend. If you even considered him to be your boyfriend. He digresses, though. He presses on the gas pedal and the car lurches forward. He clears his throat, traversing over the top of the sand dune.

The tablet’s tucked into your pants. You feel the base of it press into you, dying to reach for it and figure out a way to get your body back. Heat remains in your face where Caleb touched you. It helps with pushing away the feeling to immediately try and fix yourself.

Is it pathetic to want to do so? You haven’t been yourself in so long. Time never moved while at Ever and your mind began to splinter from constantly dying and being put back together again. You can’t even bring yourself to look at the man who sits beside you, who has reminded you that you are his top priority. His words mean nothing yet they hold so much weight. To you, though, he is just a means to an end. A stepping stone before you can break free from the confines of the desert and find yourself in a new world with no more strings attached to you and your body.

Freedom. Independence. Free will.

It is all so close yet so far, not quite attainable just yet as you and Caleb drive through the never ending desert.

You close your eyes and relax into the seat. You shift away from Caleb, angling your body towards the open stretches of golden sand, the moon in one of it’s crescent phases, providing just enough light fro Caleb to drive over the hills. You cross your arms over your chest and slowly inhale. Your muscles begin to relax, slightly tingly as the tension from the day begins to leave your body.

It’s unfortunate how you are able to sleep in stressful situations. You do not even feel entirely safe and yet here you are getting comfortable in a jeep with a man who controlled your body not even an hour ago. A yawn leaves your lips. Caleb quietly chuckles beside you. You open up one eye to look at him, adjusting your body one last time with a quiet groan.

“What?” you ask.

“What?” Caleb repeats just as the car tilts over the top of a dune, leaning forward. Your body moves with the momentum, ready to slip forward, when Caleb reaches over, his hand splayed against your chest, keeping you pushed into the chair.

“What’s so…funny,” you ask, your heart slightly swelling from his touch.

“Oh, you know,” Caleb quietly huffs, removing his hand once the car reaches the bottom of the hill. “This isn’t exactly how I imagined taking you on a car ride.”

“You’ve taken me on plenty of car rides,” your mind slowly becomes awake again, the sleep slipping away form you. “You’ve driven me to work, back home, to all of those restaurants that I wanted to do to.”

“No…that’s not,” Caleb looks over at you, your gaze meeting his. You raise an eyebrow. He clears his throat, awkwardness settling into his body. He looks back to the front of the car, gaining up at the stars as it guides him to a nearby city, an oasis that barely made it onto the map. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” you tilt your head to the side, licking your dry lips.

Caleb doesn’t respond. You bask in the sound of the rumbling engine, the way the car vibrates whenever he pushes back down onto the gas pedal.

The side of his face is backlit by the moon. You try your best not to stare, not to give in to your temptations and urges. You’ve done it so well before in the past, what makes it so different now?

“Do you remember when I had that jeep back in school?” Caleb finally breaks the silence. He clears his throat and sits up in his seat, glancing at you.

“That old thing? I fucking hated it,” you can’t help but laugh, closing your eyes and shaking your head.

Caleb’s eyes shoot open. He fully turns his head towards you, both hands now clutching the steering wheel for good life. He always thought that hearing your laugh would cure all of the troubles that burden his soul, an instant remedy that would bring him the joy and happiness to get him through the rest of this shitty situation. He just never thought, though, that your laughter would be at the expense of him and his not-shitty jeep from almost ten years ago.

“What do you mean you hated it?” Caleb’s disbelief is written all over his face. “It was a great car!”

“Yeah, a car that woke me up at four in the morning,” you open your eyes and look at Caleb. “Every. Single. Day.”

“I had a busy schedule okay,” the man begins to defend himself, “I had to work out before basketball and practice was always in the morning because coach didn’t—” he stop himself before he can go any further. “It was a good car, pretty bird.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” you snort, turning away from him.

“I had always dreamed of taking you for a drive in that car,” Caleb’s voice softens. Your body tenses at the sound. You do not turn to look at him, instead focusing on the sand ahead. “I had a plan and everything before you, well, cut me off,” Caleb’s chuckle is bittersweet. “I was going to get you flowers. Make some food for a picnic. Drive us all the way to a faraway beach so it’d just be the two of us. No distractions…no people to interrupt us. I’d drive us back at night with the stars in the sky and our favorite song playing on the radio—”

“Our?” your question interrupts him. Caleb simply nods.

“I knew all of your favorite stuff back then. Your favorite song was my favorite song,” a heartfelt smile spreads across his face.

You don’t know whether you should feel loved, flattered, smothered, or pity for him. How could one person revolve their life entirely around another? Especially when that person wanted nothing to do with him. It’s a sad life to live in your opinion and yet you dedicated yourself to avoiding him, carving him out of your life, so you suppose you’ve lived a very sad life as well.

“At least we have the backdrop of stars you wanted,” you tilt your head up to look at the stars. “There’s the sand…not a beach but it’s close enough, right?”

“Driving at night,” Caleb nods, humming to himself, “escaped a doomsday bunker that our abuser brought us to.”

Your head snaps to look at Caleb. He stares back. You clear your throat, diverting your gaze away from his. A bitter taste forms over your tongue, swiping it over your teeth to try and get it to go away. Shifting uncomfortably in your seat, knee bouncing up and down from the sudden burst of adrenaline coursing through your body, Caleb places his hand on your knee. The pressure from his touch keeps your leg cemented to the ground, his thumb gently stroking the small area on the inside of your knee, hospital touch searing hot through the thick pants of the uniform.

“Caleb,” you breathe his name out and close your eyes, “what are you doing?”

“You liked this before,” he quietly responds, “it helped you during your bad nights.”

“Why are you doing it now?” you don’t know how you want him to respond.

A part of you wishes that he’ll say that he is simply doing it as a favor to you, that he no longer feels that romantic connection to you. That the two of you can get out of this situation and be free from each other. He can go back to his back up plan and run into her arms while you can pick up the pieces of your life and rebuild it all over again. Maybe you can pick up that job as a language teacher in a community college, the one place you didn’t want to end up.

The other half of you, the half that is still a lovesick girl who wants to be protected by the man she has constantly dreamed and thought about for the past ten years. That piece of you who has had the opportunity to love and be loved by Caleb Xia, to feel the warmth of his affection, to remain stuck in his arms the mornings he doesn’t want to get us early, the man who knows exactly how you like your eggs to be cooked in the morning. You wish for him to tell you that he still loves you, that he truly is not going anywhere, and the you will be safe in his arms and that you don’t have to constantly be in a state of fight or flight.

“You should get some sleep,” there is a hint of longing in his voice but you don’t call attention to it. “It’s a long drive before we reach the town. Rest up.”

Your face sours but you nod in return, unsure if his sudden change of conversation is a good thing or not. Caleb swallows the lump in his throat and begins to pull his hand away. You quickly grab it back, placing it on your thigh. He shudders, briefly closing his eyes as you reach into the backseat for his jacket. You drape it over your body, balling up your jacket and making it into a makeshift pillow, adjusting yourself in the passenger seat.

“I’ll wake you up when we get there?” Caleb asks, eyes flitting to you.

“Sure,” you sigh, closing your eyes, willingly surrendering yourself to sleep.

“Pretty bird,” Caleb coos, gently shaking your arm, “time to wake up.”

Your eyes shoot open, hand grabbing a fistful of Caleb’s shirt, yanking his face to be close to yours. Your breathing is sharp, eyes darting around. Caleb’s hand settle on the center console, the other planted on the side of the car. His purple eyes train on yours. Worry flashes across his face at the sight of your scared state, unsure what is happening.

“Bad dream?” Caleb whispers. You nod. A bead of sweat rolls down the side of your face. “It’s okay. I got you, you don’t need to be scared.”

You slowly release your grip on his shirt. Your eyes drop to his Adam’s apple, watching it slightly bob up and down, your palm flattening against his chest, slowly pushing him away from you. Caleb’s head blocks the sun, your cheeks hot from the morning heat. He looks down at you and tilts his head to the side, the sunlight breaking through the strands of his dark brown hair.

“Where are we?” you quietly ask, slowly sitting up in the passenger seat.

Behind Caleb is a casual yet busy scene. There aren’t as many people in the town as you thought there would be, definitely on the less populated side. Perhaps the town you find yourselves in will be a ghost town in the next couple of decades — years, even. The buildings are made out of plaster and dried mud, the color of red ochre prominent.

Caleb opens up the car door and offers his hand to you. You ignore it, slipping free from the vehicle, stepping away from the man. You rub your sweaty hands on your sides, your fingers grazing over the tablet.

There are a few people who walk by. There’s a child with their mother, holding hands as she swings her doll around in the air. A man carries a bag over his shoulder while another speaks into a nearby pay phone, a piece of paper hanging from his hand. They all wear smiles on their faces. Friendly and happy, everything that you are not.

In another life where you weren’t kidnapped and taken away, maybe you and Caleb would have taken a trip to a village just like this, a vacation for yourselves in a distant land where the Farspace Fleet and Ever aren’t watching.

Why dwell on fresh fruit that you will never be able to taste when your own rotten and decaying fruit is for you to take?

“What’s the plan?” you ask, shielding your eyes from the sun.

Caleb casually steps in front of you, blocking the bright light from your eyes as he looks around the nearby area. Your eyes move to his face, noticing the pink on his cheeks. Sunburnt, that’s for sure. His skin is slightly darkened but that’s from the kicked up dirt and sand from the car ride once he found the road that led him here.

“Find new clothes, for starters,” Caleb huffs out, tapping the loosened tie that hangs around your neck. “Make ourselves look invisible. After that…” he shrugs.

“Wonderful plan, Caleb,” you try your best to bite back the sarcastic comment and the irritation that begins to nip at the back of your brain. “How do you plan on getting us the clothes?”

“We can always steal and run,” he comments with a small smile. As soon as he sees your serious expression, though, his face immediately falls. “Okay, maybe not steal and run—”

“Do I need to do this for us?” your tone is sharp, arms crossing over your chest. “I can go talk to a storeowner and see about the clothes for us.”

“I can handle it,” he quietly groans, his own annoyance and anger flooding his body.

“Can you? I don’t mind—”

“No,” Caleb cuts you off, his voice sharp, angered. You raise an eyebrow at him. “Stay here. I’ll go get us clothes. Don’t worry about it, I have it all under control,” Caleb walks off without another word, leaving you hanging as you watch from the car.

You shake your head, rolling your eyes. Of course, he just had to leave you behind. It is probably one of those times where he thinks that playing the role as your savior and over protective knight in shining armor will win your affection. News flash: it won’t.

You know that Caleb definitely doesn’t know the language that the people here speak. Just by standing around with the village’s world passing you by, you have picked up on a few of their words. You know a similar language that shares a few of the same words. You could learn their language fairly quick if needed, already having picked up on what a few words mean when you watched a child point and yell.

Leaning to the side, you watch as Caleb struggles with conversing with someone. A small smile spreads across your face at the sight. Just complete and utter amusement as the older woman with a scarf over her head yells at Caleb in a tongue that he does not understand. Your feet carry you across the small distance, slipping inside of the small store where Caleb has his hands on his hips, looking down at the much smaller woman. You force a friendly smile on your face, placing your hand on Caleb’s back, sliding it up between his shoulder blades. Caleb tenses, eyes widening, ears turning a light pink color as he looks down at you.

“Please excuse him, he doesn’t know the language,” you smile at the woman, whose mood immediately improves once she hears your voice with her words. “Can I ask what the problem is?”

“He has no money,” the woman lets out a tired sigh, pointing at the clothes in Caleb’s arms.

“We don’t have money, but,” you look up at Caleb for a brief moment, slipping the tablet from your hand. You show it to her, watching as Caleb moves from your side to the space behind you, placing his hands on your waist. You don’t fight him away or push him off. “We can pay you back in time. I know that you have no reason to believe us and you have every right to tell us to go away, but we can give you money equivalent to this entire store if you help us out.”

The woman looks you up and down. She’s uneasy, of course, of the proposition of two strangers taking clothes with the hope that they might return. She knows that it is a risk that she isn’t willing to take at the moment but there is something about the desperation in your eyes, the way Caleb is so quick to protect you and shield you from the outside world while you speak with her. It reminds the woman of her own life, the past she once lived with a man who is now buried deep beneath the sand.

“Are you two in need of a place to rest? I can provide clothes, a home cooked meal, and a room to sleep in,” her words come at a surprise to you.

You glance at Caleb, who glares at a man who enters the store, and turn back to look at the woman. You nod and she smiles, waving her hand over her shoulder to the doorway that has a cloth acting like a door. You flick Caleb’s wrist and slip free from his hold, following the woman through the curtain. Caleb is quick to follow, listening to the sound of your voices. When you speak the language, it sounds so beautiful to him, like an angel sent from the heavens to grace his ears as the morning turns into the afternoon.

The three of you walk up the mosaic stairs, the inside of the woman’s home so much cooler than the dangerous heat outside. It is a breath of fresh air, honestly, and you can feel your body begin to thank you for getting away from the sun. The white collar of your shirt is drenched with sweat and the fabric sticks to your skin. You follow the woman inside of a mostly empty room.

A single bed with a wooden dresser to the side of it. There’s a window that overlooks the small oasis, the heart of the city where a group of people meet for the day’s tasks. It is small and yet you feel so safe in here knowing that Ever is no longer watching you. You can deal with the guard dog at a later time.

“Thank you so much,” you speak to the woman. Caleb places the clothes down onto the bed, closely inspecting the small and bare room. “Could I ask if you have a phone that I could use?”

The woman instantly nods. You follow her out of the room and wave a hand at Caleb for him to stay behind. The woman guides you into the share living space where a couch and very humble tv sit. Cords come out of the back, something that you have only ever seen in old movies and tv shows you have watched, and there’s a phone attached to the wall. It is like time has stood still here. You love it.

“It is right here. I have to go back down and run my store, but please, make yourself at home. I will be back when the sun begins to set. We can make supper together,” she smiles at you and it warms your heart. She gives your shoulder a pat as she walks away, disappearing down the stairs.

“Who are you going to call?” Caleb asks from behind.

You jump in your skin, goosebumps scattering across your body. You slowly turn around and watch as Caleb approaches you. He presses his hand against the wall right beside your head. You tilt your chin up to look at him, back pressed against the wall. Caleb cocks his head to the side, eyes darkened as he leans down.

“I’ve missed you,” he says. You hum in response. Confusion flickers across his face. “Can you not say it back?”

“What difference does it make?” Caleb’s breath hitches in his throat from your words. “I’m here now, aren’t I? There’s no need to miss something that is here.”

It feels like a trap. You are ready to grab a nearby knife and cut yourself free from the tension and angst that forms in your heart. You want to give into him. You want to push through the boundaries of your mind, the walls that the Professor has built so high.

The fortress that you placed yourself behind only five months into your time with Ever kept thoughts of Caleb out. You hid behind the fortified walls, seeking refuge in the darkness of isolation, knowing that only pain can come from the man with violet eyes. Whenever the Professor brought him up in your conversations with each other, you would try to avoid the conversation. He watched how your heartbeat spiked on the tablet — the same one that is tucked away on your body — and would always laugh at the sight of it.

He would make you pay for your thoughts about Caleb. The way your body reacted so viscerally to the mention of his name or status in the Farpsace Fleet. He would poison your food, beat you until you cried blood, leaving you a shell of yourself to hide behind a forming layer of hatred towards the man.

Whenever you look into Caleb’s eyes, all you feel is conflict. How can you love someone who you can only see as a means to hurt you? To bring you harm?

And yet he has done nothing but protect you — he even killed for you. His sweet words of promises and safety call for you, beckon you to join him in his arms, to run away from the pains and agony of life that you have had to endure for so long. Will you even feel normal in his arms? Will you even be able to open your heart to him all over again?

There are so many unanswered questions. Too many open ended possibilities and hypothetical endings to your story with Caleb. You wish to leave it unanswered, to leave it open to the interpretation of the world that surrounds you. You wish that death should have taken you a long time ago, that your time on this earth has come to an end.

At least he’d be happy, right? Happy with her instead of you, away from the drama and fractured mind that you now hold.

“Didn’t you miss me too, pretty bird?” Caleb coos into your ear, his lips grazing the outer shell, chills running down your spine. “Come on, tell me you missed me.”

Caleb plants his hands on your waist. His slender fingers wrap around your side, pulling your body close to his. Your arms move around his neck without thinking. His head dips down, lips now hovering over the skin of your neck. His breath is hot. It makes you feel alive, like the spark you once thought to be smothered is now back to life. He pulls you closer to him, bodies now connected, his hand moving to the back of your head to keep you in place.

“So quiet,” Caleb murmurs against your skin. He drags his nose against your neck. Your breath hitches. “What? Don’t have a response for me after I got you out of there?”

“Do you want a gold star?” you whisper, fingers sliding into his hair.

“I would like,” Caleb roughly pulls away from your neck. His hand moves up to your face, gripping it. Your chin rests in between his thumb and index finger, the tip of his index finger resting just below your eye. “—for my girlfriend to tell me that she’s missed me. That me killing those men was worth it to hear that she wants to be in my life as much as I want to be in hers.”

There’s something dark in his voice. Something dangerous and unbridled. It is both exciting and terrifying to see, to witness the switch between the mask that you know Caleb puts on every single day to the man who has the desperate need to control everything. It takes your breath away.

“Caleb,” your voice trembles, “I missed you.”

His purple eyes darken. It is quiet for a moment, the sounds of your breaths light on your ears. You hope that he believes your words even when you don’t believe too much in them. His eyes drop to your lips. They slowly move back up, his gaze as sharp as a razor.

“I don’t believe you,” Caleb whispers, a slight shake of his head. His eyes flicker to the phone behind you. A small chuckle leaves his lips, a flash of a smile striking his face, disappearing as soon as it came. He turns his attention back onto your face, slowly inhaling. “Who were you going to call, pretty bird? Hm?”

“Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters,” Caleb’s grip on your face slightly tightens. “Everything that has to do with you matters,” he lets out a soft sigh.

Can you not see what you are doing to him? This is pure agony for Caleb. A reunion he deluded himself into believing has been turned on its head, backfiring on him. He underestimated the Professor. He underestimated the older man’s ability to take you away from him. When he was a boy, he was able to save himself from the Professor’s clutches, to keep his fresh and young mind as far away from him as possible. He only wished that you were able to do the same.

Circumstances were different, though. Caleb knows this. He knows that what he went through as a child is nothing in comparison to you being subjected to the same cycle of death over and over again. Who knows what it has done to your mind, the way you think and see the world. No wonder you have been so, so cold with him. Distant. Using him. He knows this. He knows that you will never be able to look at him through the same lens as before.

Caleb will make you see through light. He will make you see that the only safe place for you in the world is a place at his side, one that will forever belong to you and the love that you once shared with him. Caleb will make you see that he is the only person in the world who can understand you is him and not some doctor that he knows you are bound to call. Caleb will show you that he will love you more than life itself.

It reminds him of a quote that he lighted in a novel in high school. He saw you reading it and checked the book out of the library the next day, finishing the book in one sitting. It is a quote that he has carried with him every single day, throughout the entire time he watched you from afar, the mornings that he saw your bedroom light flick on when he started his car right next door to you.

And if thou dost not love me, I love thee enough for both.

“Is that what you want?” Caleb quietly questions. Confusion flashes across your face. Caleb’s hand drops from your face to your neck. He keeps it there, not applying pressure but his hand does not hover either. His eyes burn into yours, your touch in his hair loosening. “You want someone who will be there to catch you when you fall. To take the brunt of the hit and tell you that it will be okay, that everything will be fine.”

“Caleb…what are you—”

“Fuck that. I can’t lose you again,” Caleb’s fingers flex on your neck. He quickly removes them and suddenly you are able to breathe again. He attaches his hand to your waist, fingers roughly digging into your skin. He takes a step forward, pushing you back up against the wall. He leans his head down, mouth hovering beside your ear. “I will protect you. I will keep you safe from danger. I will make for sure nothing will happen to you, even if it means locking you away from the rest of the world for only me to have access to.”

Well fuck.

You open your mouth to speak but Caleb shakes his head, cutting you off before you can even begin.

“You’ve lost that privilege, pretty bird. You’ve lost the privilege to call whoever you want, to go wherever you want…to be with whoever you want,” he breathes the words out like they are a part of his manifesto that he has written inside of his head, a manifesto entirely dedicated to you.

“You want to keep me in a cage?” you ask, hiding the tremble in your voice.

“I want to keep you with me,” Caleb pulls his face away from your neck and looks down at you, his stare even more intense than before.

“You know who you sound like?” you lean up, your face closing in on his. Caleb mimics your movement, meeting you halfway. You stop just before your lips meet. “You sound just like Lucius.”

Caleb pauses, eyes flying open. His eyes are met with a look of disdain on your face. The anger and annoyance that you feel.

“Do you want to help me, Caleb?” you whisper, placing your hand right above his heart. You can feel how it pounds on the inside of his chest. His eyes soften, the darkness from within beginning to dissipate but you’ve already seen it. You know the truth. You know what his motives are. “Then help me break free from the first cage I’m in before putting me into another one.”

You push him away from you, stepping towards the room the woman first led you to. Before Caleb can catch up, you snatch his clothes from the bed and throw them in his direction, the door immediately closing from behind you.

“Pretty bird,” Caleb groans. He leans his forehead against the door. He quietly knocks, listening to the sound of rustling clothes and your quiet, and very annoyed, breaths. “Open the door. I’m sorry. Let’s—”

“Let’s what?” you say as you swing the door wide open. Caleb’s body falls forward before he catches himself on the doorway. “Talk about our feelings and pass a talking stick? No thanks.”

You push past him, the new clothes significantly lighter on your skin. The fabric is a deep blue color, red accents and floral designs lined up at the cuffs of the sleeves, moving up towards your shoulders. The pants are just as flowy too, giving you so much more comfort than the suffocating Farspace Fleet uniform.

You enter the living room, feeling the weight of Caleb’s eyes on your shoulders. He’s quick to follow, grabbing your wrist and turning you around to look up at him. You narrow your eyes at him and suck in a breath, ready for the argument that is sure to come.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Caleb whispers.

“Doing what?” you play dumb.

“Torturing me by staying distant,” he honestly answers, “by being so…”

Caleb falls silent. Your eyes fill with tears but you refuse to let them fall, blinking them away. You slowly nod up at the man, seeing the pain and torment flicker from deep within his purple and orange irises.

“Go on,” you whisper, “say it. Say that I’ve changed. That I am not the same girl that you fell in love with all of those years ago. That I am a different person than the woman you reunited with in the Fleet. Go ahead and say that my change is torture to you.”

“No…that’s not what I meant,” Caleb shakes his head.

“You were going to say it though. I know you’re thinking it,” you reach out and tap the center of his forehead. “I know what you’re thinking, Caleb. Yes, I have changed. That is abundantly clear. I do not need to be reminded of it because I was fucking there,” tears fill your eyes once again, voice shaking. “I am well aware that I am what the Professor has made me to be.”

Caleb’s face softens. He reaches out for you but you take a step back, shaking your head at him, unable to deal with his hands on your body or the way he wants to keep you locked away just like how you were for the past eight months of your life.

“Do you know how long I waited for you?”

The question makes the room fall heavy. Caleb can barely keep his perfect posture, his shoulders slumping, hands desperate to reach out to you and make your pain go away. He knows that he can’t. He shouldn’t. It will only push you away more and that is the last thing that he needs right now.

“I waited for five months. Five months, Caleb. I thought of you every single day. I wondered where you were and how you were doing. Your face was the first and last thing I thought about every day. I knew that you were trying to find me. I remained patient and held onto that flicker of hope that you would come bursting through the doors of Ever and rescue me from my holding cell — which by the way, the Professor put me on full display for all of his other experiments to see,” you pause, your voice shaking. “The first day of the sixth month was when I gave up on you. The Professor used you as a weapon against me, Caleb. He used you and your image and your voice and your words…he turned them into poison. Now all I can see is the reason why I ended up there in the first place.”

“Pretty bird,” Caleb’s voice breaks.

“I believe that you are the reason I am like this. A freak of nature. I defy death at every single turn and all I can hope for is that the next time someone decides to put a bullet inside of my brain, that I never wake up! That I never escape from its clutches!”

You cross the small distance and get into his face, the tears now freely flowing down your face. You shove him away from you but he steps right back, your fists pounding against his chest.

If you could, you would show him all of the scars that your mind wears. If there were any remnants of the deaths that you have endured that you could show to Caleb, you would do it in a heartbeat. You would show him the way your skin has been burned, your blood boiling, eyeballs melting, limbs being cut off just to be reattached with a flimsy piece of string to hold it all together. You had become Frankenstein’s monster.

That is the fucked up situation about the matter. You feel like a monster that the scientists in the Ever lab could watch as if they were at a zoo. They laughed at your screams, giggled at the way you squirmed under the scalpel. You had become friends with lunacy to stay sane, as ironic as it may sound, and sound comfort in the way your mind fractured since your body simply wouldn’t.

“Do you know what they did to me, Caleb?”

“Yes, I read the—”

“No,” you interject, shaking your head. “Not in the fucking files. All of the shit they didn’t record. All of the times the Professor thought that one of his loyal soldiers and scientists could use me as a way to make their sick fantasies come to life.” A laugh flies from your mouth. “They burned me alive because one of them wondered what burnt flesh smells like. Another time, they thought it would be fun to see just how much my—”

“Stop,” Caleb’s voice trembles.

And you do. You do stop. You obey his soft demand like the loyal monster you are because, quite frankly, that is what you think is all that is left of you. A monster.

“Don’t put me in another cage, Caleb,” you whisper. “I will chew my fucking leg off to get away. Don’t worry, I’m used to the pain. I’m used to feeling my muscles stitch themselves back together, my bones sliding right back into place as if they were never broken before. I will not get used to being captive…never again.”

The room falls silent. You let the tears fall from your face. Caleb cries too. His eyes are red and irritated from your dark revelations. Has it infected him now too?

Has the apple tree of your relationship finally dead? Will you finally stop wishing for an ending that will never come?

“So yeah, Caleb. I’m fucking different,” you finish. “You may not see the scars on my body but I’ve changed. Deal with it. Go get changed,” you turn around and walk over to the phone.

You pick up the black machine, bringing it up to your ear, listening to the quiet dial tone, the machine ready to receive the number you’re about to put in. With one quick look over your shoulder, you watch as Caleb disappears inside of the bedroom, the door closing behind you. A sigh leaves your mouth. You suck in a slow breath, the anger and tension finally leaving your body, the tips of your fingers tingling from the sensation.

The clock hangs just a few feet away from you. The sun, the last you saw of it when you were outside, was hanging in the middle of the sky. You can assume that it is past noon, diving deeper into the afternoon. The person you wish to call leads a very busy life. They may be on a lunch break, though, so you could use this chance to call their personal phone instead of their work. No…that won’t work. You have to call the front desk. It is too risky to call their personal phone, anyways, just in case Ever is on the lookout for you and Caleb.

Your finger spins the dial, watching as the phone slowly collects the number. You lick your dry lips, tasting the saltiness from your tears. You wipe them away, listening to the quiet beeping of the other end of the phone.

“Akso Hospital. This is the cardiology department. My name is Yvonne, how may I help you?” a woman’s voice comes through the other end of the call.

“Hi,” you breathe into the receiver’s microphone, closing your eyes. “I was wondering if there is a Dr. Zayne Li available? I need to speak to him about something. It is…well, it’s urgent.”

“Uh huh,” the woman hums. You can hear the annoyance in her voice, the way you have clearly interrupted her day. Is it busy at the hospital? You can always try again later, right? And call his phone when you know he will be home. “Can it wait?”

“Uh,” your mind goes blank. You shake your head, unable to calm the anxiety that blossoms inside of your chest. “No. It can’t. I’m sorry. Can you tell him that it’s me?”

“Sure, honey, what’s your name?” the nurse asks. You give her your name, playing with the spiral cord that is attached to the phone. “Please hold. Dr. Li is walking by right now.”

“Alright, thank you,” you breath out, relief taking over your body.

From behind, you hear the door quietly open. You glance at Caleb from over your shoulder, watching as he closes the gap between the two of you, tossing his old and bloodied Farspace Fleet uniform onto the couch. You quickly turn away, focusing your eyes back onto the tan wall in front of you. His presence comes from behind you, his body heat enclosing yours beside the wall. He shifts on his feet and your body tenses once again.

You turn around and look up at Caleb, the phone still pressed onto your ear. Your eyes meet and he reaches out, gently fixing the strings at the top of your shirt. goosebumps raise on your chest and you become aware of your breathing, trying to remain as still as possible. On the other side of the phone, you hear the rustling of papers, a familiar voice that sounds all too worried before asking the call to be transferred to his office.

“Dr. Li will be with you soon. Thank you for holding,” the nurse says.

“Thank you for helping me out. I appreciate it,” you speak as calm as possible. Caleb’s eyes burn into yours, making you feel more nervous than you need to be.

“Who is it?” Caleb whispers. His eyes slightly darken and his jaw clenches when his mind wanders to the only possibility. “No. Pretty bird, we can do this on our—”

“Is it you?” Zayne’s voice cuts through the phone. It silences Caleb, the man able to hear the muffle of his vice through the phone’s tiny speaker. “Are you okay? Where have you been? You disappeared—”

“Zayne,” the name rolls off of your tongue not as smooth as Caleb’s does. “I don’t have much time. I need you.”

Caleb shoots a glare at the phone. He groans and takes a step away. You raise an eyebrow at him, listening to Zayne’s calculated breathing. Caleb’s eyes meet yours. He steps right back to your side, hands attaching themselves to your waist, pushing you up against the wall.

You may have changed, buy Caleb surely hasn’t.

“What is it?” Zayne asks after a moment of contemplation.

“I…” your voice falters, “I need you to perform surgery on Caleb and I. There’s so much I can’t say over the phone but…please. I need you.” Caleb’s grip on your waist tightens. He leans in, his ear trying to get as much volume he can.

“Alright. I’m assuming this needs to be somewhere…discreet?”

“Yes,” you nod. Caleb groans, hating absolutely every second of this conversation. “You need to find a way to dissolve Caleb’s Toring Chip. It may not be able to be removed surgically like mine.”

Zayne’s breath hitches at your words. You wish he didn’t do that, to remain the calm and never emotional man.

“I have a colleague who can help you,” Zayne breathes into the phone, “meet me in a week in the Arctic. I’ll pick you up from the station.”

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#caleb x non!mc reader #caleb x reader #caleb x fem reader #caleb x you #caleb x y/n #caleb love and deepspace #caleb lads #lads #caleb xia #xia yizhou #love and deepspace #rotten apples #bookie grace eats down again

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blcknebula · 9 days ago

Text

But I’m a creep, I’m a weirdo…☆ ◝

Snippet | “Press up a little… Okay um… try curling your finger—like, hook it up.”

꒰ Desc | Stressed after work? No problem ➜ until your favorite comfort item goes missing, and luckily your socially awkward roommate has a solution that leaves you unraveling in more ways than one.

꒰ CW | MDNI 18+ ꒱ Smútノangst, implied inexperienced! Choso, avoidant attachment! Reader, scént k⋆nk, pra⋆sé, m!ld bėgg!ng, s⋆zé k⋆nk, dry húmpúíng, spít, góóner! Choso, bràtty(ish)! Reader, ń⋆ppIe pIay, scént k⋆ńk, s⋆ze k⋆ńk, p⋆ssess!vé behavior, hint of geek! Choso, multiple big o’s, petnames, tèás!ng, b⋆dy w⋆rship, delayed O, squ⋆rt⋆ngノcr⋆⋆m⋆ng, óvèrst⋆múlat⋆ón, f⋆⋆t wórsh!p, túmmy búIge, yearner! Choso, ˖ aftercare.

�� FT | Fem!Reader X Roommate!Choso K. ꒱

WC ➜ 11K ➜ ML | A/N : Inspired by radiohead

You were absolutely doomed.

Around six-forty p.m was the time you usually arrived at your shared apartment, well after you stopped by for fast food to stuff your belly full—deserved especially since your shift worked you down to the bone. Then you’d hang your keys on the rack, strip out of your uniform in the bathroom, shower, and finally masturbate in your bedroom.

But that was the problem...

Your vibrator was nowhere to be seen, you literally searched everywhere.

Crawling on the floor with tattered breath as if you’d just watched a horror movie, digging through your cluttered closet, ripping apart the designer shoebox without a care, biting your lip as you forcefully pulled out every last drawer in your dresser, you even looked underneath your bed—which you decided it needed some tidying up later—at least after you fixed the bigger issue.

Tears nearly threatened to escape the corners of your eye, in complete distress at this situation.

It wasn’t like you were trying to be dramatic, but each rude client was worth at least eight orgasms or even double that, hell you’d try and go all night if you didn’t have better things to do.

Sighing before making your next move, it was best to hit your last resort—asking your roommate if he’s seen your vibrator.

Of course you’d feel a little embarrassed, what’s the worst that could happen though? At most he’d give you a puzzled look and say no, still you were desperate, so it was worth a shot.

What you didn’t know about Choso was that he’s a bit of a gooner.

Whenever your friends visited you and they saw him they’d either :

A. Fangirl over your roommate gushing how hot quiet tall men are, and twirl their hair (apparently) flirting saying how they like their men “tatted up like a chipotle bag.”

B. Secretly whisper about how weird he looks—off-put by his broody energy and unapproachable face.

It only made you confused, because this was someone you’d defend with your life over someone calling him weird, but you never noticed at night how he groaned as he slowly stroked his cock to women that could possibly be your doppelgänger on twitter.

Thrusting up into his fist with a dying need when he’d watch hentai and the women would make the ahegao face, because he could only dream of making you roll your eyes back like that while you loll your tongue out.

Softly crying out your name as he rammed into his fleshlight like it was your pretty pussy, that he accidentally got flashed by once.

Choso couldn’t help himself, dirty talking to it—pretending it was the real thing. He’d whimper “Fuck, fuck, fuck, you like how I pound you Y/n?” Hearing your mewls through the walls with his keen ear only made it worse.

Which is exactly why while you were gone he hid your vibrator so discreetly he even forgot where he put it, he only hoped and prayed you’d have no other choice, but to come to him.

Oddly enough Choso was slightly shocked his little plan worked so easily.

When you gently knocked on his door, some rustling could be heard like he was trying to hide a few objects before opening it.

At last the door squeaked as it pried open, revealing his taller stature.

His eyes were baggy like if he got any sleep he’d start breaking out in hives, his ears decorated in piercings as if it were art on a canvas—his short shirt had shown off his tatted sleeve that drove women crazy.

“Do you need something?” Choso asked, leaning against the door frame, tying the drawstrings on his Star Wars pajamas with a dull look, although mentally his head was crowded with tiny people cheering for him.

“Yeah,” you took a long deep breath, answering.

Fiddling with the hem of your silky pink nightgown, you practically stalled for what you were about to ask.

“I was just wondering,” you muttered, trailing off.

Hiding your sweaty hands behind your back, you tried speaking again “actually don’t judge before I say it.” You dodged eye contact, making your eyes busy in his suddenly plain room that looked as if some collectables, or posters were missing.

“Did she notice anything? Quick, Quick! act normal Choso.” He panicked, his thoughts scolded him so loud he swore you might’ve heard them.

If he had two choices to let someone see his unholy room smothered in erotic figures, or those anime posters he claimed to watch for the ‘plot’—he’d let that someone be a god before you.

Dipping his hands in his pockets, he leaned closer into your space with warm inviting cocoa-tinted eyes, brushing his bangs out of his face.

“I won’t, promise.” He calmly reassured you.

“Have you possiblyyy,” you sing-songed, already regretting your life choices “perhaps seen my vibrator?”

For a moment, Choso had an unreadable look displayed on his face, then he raised an eyebrow, pressing his lips into a thin line.

“No?” He had to be honest with himself, shame simmered in his stomach as a lie trudged out, he hated making you feel a little crazy over this, but this was his only chance to feel the touch of a woman.

“Why would I see that?” Choso folded his arms, his eyes raked across your figure. Gradually losing his composure due to your fresh scent—the honey body wash with hints of vanilla perfume was begging him to rip your clothes apart so badly that he had to repeat to himself “Hold it together Choso.”

“Ah. You’re right, I just thought,” you poked your lips out, adjusting your bonnet to distract you from the incoming bomb of embarrassment.

Usually since you often misplaced your keys you’d often ask Choso if he’d seen them and he’d find them for you, which is why asking him this made at least a little sense.

“Nevermind.” You turned on your heel, preparing to use your fingers instead, (knowing you’d sob yourself to sleep after).

Your roommate didn’t allow you to leave just yet though, grabbing your wrist.“Wait, unless you, uh… wouldn’t mind me helping you.”

You paused like the entire world disintegrated, stepping back in shock.

“Helping me?” You tilted your head, on the verge of mentioning what if it changes things–not wanting anything to be tricky after, but at this point you couldn’t care anymore, you just wanted at most—one orgasm tonight.

“Yeah, I mean that’s only if you want,” he began scratching his head, abruptly leaving the “cool” act behind “You could even imagine someone else if–”

But before Choso could drown himself in a pool of awkwardness, you yanked him by his hand dragging him into his room like you owned it.

“Say no more!” You declared like you were at a restaurant and your roommate was the only thing on the menu.

He gasped, appalled like he didn’t construct this entire plan. Your smaller figure somehow managing to rule his taller frame.

He wasn’t expecting you to actually give in, so what now?

Choso never had a pretty woman this close, well, one he actually had an undeniable desire for.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he fidgeted with his fingers, nearly sweating for what was about to come.

“C’mon get closer, you don’t gotta be shy now!” You purred as you bat your luscious lashes, scooting towards him.

His hand was glued on top of yours, lifting for a second like he wanted to make a move—do anything, but he never thought he’d get this far.

Your fingertips grazed his skin as you tilted his chin upward with a featherlight touch, guiding his gaze to meet yours.

Your breaths mingled for a moment, dancing in the closed space.

Tracing a path of soft, fluttering kisses along the rim of his sharp jawline, you savored the heat radiating from his skin and the way he subtly leaned into your touch.

Your lips ghosted over the spot in front of his mouth, as if you were edging yourself with tasting him.

His heartbeat was comparable to an earthquake, booming loudly in anticipation. He felt the entire four years of living with you flash before his eyes, as if this was hard work that paid off, and he could finally die complete.

Then, without warning, your mouth claimed his—almost like you were marking your territory in spite of other women crushing over him.

It was dramatic the way your lips crashed against his repeatedly, suckling on his bottom lip like you were ravenous.

Your lips were melded into each other as if neither of you could get enough of this. His hand cupped your cheek like this was something bound to happen—practically screaming you were made to kiss only him.

He gently smiled into your plush lips remembering a few of the guys you used to bring over—now it was at last his turn after hearing how your pussy squelched through the walls.

Years of being on the side due to your toys or other men and he finally had a chance—he felt a rush of dedication to prove he was better, an urge to outdo everything that you scurried to during ovulation.

With one swift motion Choso picked you up, both hands cradling your hips and sitting you on his lap, forcing a gasp out of your throat.

“Didn’t know you had it in you like that.” You blurted, swearing if this were a show a saxophone would theatrically play in the background.

It was a known fact Choso was strong, but picking you up so fast you barely even noticed had you feeling like a love spell was casted on your heart, suddenly hearing it roar in your chest.

“I… Uh–” He started off, but his mind became scrambled, intoxicated with how close you were.

Your honey vanilla scent could’ve made him cum on the spot if he didn’t have enough self-control, except he reminded himself this was his only chance–he refused to fuck up.

It was too late though, because he immediately began to buck his hips up like a bull, causing your arms to wrap around his neck instinctively.

He never knew what it was like for a woman to sit on his lap before, he couldn’t help himself–the way your cunt throbbed all over his bulge it only enticed him even more.

“Fuck, I can’t believe this is real…” swirled around in his mind in disbelief, a fantasy he told himself would never be real achieved to bloom into life.

Choso’s angry veins were practically cursing you for how good your slick panties felt on top of him.

His cock felt like stone, already frustrated from the thin fabric separating the two of you.

“God, you’re so fucking hard,” you bursted into giggles, continuing to roll your hips “guess I’m not the only one… this pent up huh?” You teased, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“Mhmm.” He mumbled, eyes barely open as he nuzzled his head into your shoulder, fitting like a perfect puzzle piece.

His focus was as good as a drunk person. Every shift of your hips became the only thing that mattered.

He bit back noises like if he let them slip, he’d no longer impress you, but it was as if you knew he was holding back—switching to a faster rhythm, placing kisses on his neck then sucking harshly at the tender skin, sure to leave a dark purple bruise.

He finally let go, ecstasy ascending in his bones, whimpering like a man obsessed—someone who’d merge souls with you if it were possible.

Choso’s body chased yours as if were a reflex, his mind morphed into complete fuzziness it was like he was on autopilot, but there was only one thing—he didn’t know what to do with his hands, maybe stealing your vibrator was a little odd, but he still wanted to remain respectful.

His hands moved lower down your back, fingers drawing circles on your nightgown, but halted like he wanted to go further and couldn’t.

“You wanna touch me?” You whispered, lips brushing his pink tinted ears, sending shivers throughout his body “It’s okay, go ahead.”

“You sure?” He brought his face from your shoulder for a moment, pressing his forehead against yours, the tips of your nose basically engaged to each other.

You nodded, reaching for his hands, dragging them down slowly to your ass. He quickly grabbed a huge handful, like it would escape from him.

“Fuck, you’re so soft.”

He groaned, feeling a surge of something primal brewing throughout him, his fingertips screwed harder into the supple fat of your ass damn near branding you.

You were driving him wild without even doing much but looking pretty while grinding on him.

The weight of you in his lap was insane—his mind shuffled with “please let this be more than once, I’ll do anything to have her again.”

Choso brutally bit the inside of his cheek, making sure this wasn’t a dream, if he woke up any minute he’d definitely take his anger out on one of his poor body pillows.

The fact that you came to him, agreeing with his idea to help you even if you could’ve just used your fingers, or just asked him to help you search for it meant everything to him—he never felt this needed in his life.

He was breathless at the touch starved friction, your moans swimming in his ear, how you gently clawed at his back, your captivating scent, was all too much for him.

“Feels so good.” Became the only thing he could spew out, veins bolting as he gripped you tighter, bringing you closer as his clothed cock rubbed on your pulsing clit.

You sighed entirely dazed, the air around you two growing thick and humid. You had your arms wrapped around his marked neck like you wanted to trap him in a web to keep him there forever.

Unfortunately, nobody’s touched you in what felt like decades; to some abstinence for only two years sounded weak, just about anyone could go without dick for two years right?

Absolutely not, at least for you, these past years were hell, it was so horrible you considered calling your ex-situationship to satisfy your needs.

Which was why you rutted into his pelvis like an animal in heat, your body acted as if it were irritated he didn’t ask to help you sooner.

Your panties became a slip n’ slide, every single one of his needy whimpers sprinting straight to your puffy clit—Choso’s wet kisses relishing in your neck had your nipples shamefully pebbling in your nightgown.

Somehow your hips even picked up speed on its own rocking into his tented pajama pants, you wouldn’t be surprised anymore at other decisions it could make.

There was no way you were this turned on by a little bit of humping, right? You mentally reprimanded yourself.

It was almost like you were a virgin again with no sense around a man, pure lust cascading your body.

Your breath was disappearing from you like a ghost, unable to handle your roommate’s wispy moans striking your ear, sounding as if he was on the verge of coming–all you could feel was the splotch of pre-cum leaking from the middle of his pants.

Your fingers ditched his neck to tangle into his raven tufts hoping it’d help stabilize yourself from the inescapable coil building in your tummy.

Not even the blasting fan nearby could cool the large sums of sweat off your bodies—convinced you were soul tied at this rate by how in sync you moved together.

Every hungry grind lined up perfectly with his bulge that continuously attacked your bundle of nerves sticking to the seam of your panties.

He held you so close you could feel his abs flexing as he gripped you tighter, the possessive touch causing you to clench around utterly nothing.

“Choso,” your mouth let out a choked sob, nails indenting itself into his shirt “Shit, I’m… close…” you gasped desperately in between breaths.

Your thighs began to shudder around his waist, drunk off the sheer intensity of him thrusting up into you.

Arrays worth of fireworks launched in your head, dizzy on the fact that you’d possibly get your first orgasm of the night after a long shift.

“Yeah? Haah, mmggffh me too…” He whimpered, placing a kiss on top of your head, but unfortunately he had a sudden change of plans—slowing down his movements while shifting his body just to lay you on the bed facing him against the plethora of fluffy pillows.

“Wait, nooo why’d you stop?”

You whined, heart humming like a drum—your pussy clamping around nothing, begging for anything to get relief.

“Because if I kept going I was gonna cum in my pants like some filthy loser.” Choso rasped, wetting his lips—dark brown eyes secured on your figure as if you stepped out of his favorite doujinshi.

You playfully smirked as you gave a pointed look to the sticky grey patch on his pajama pants. It might’ve only been pre-cum, though replaying how breathless he sounded, he definitely sounded like the filthy loser in question.

Clearing his throat, he pushed up the silk material of your nightgown with no rush behind his actions.

He delicately spread your legs apart, sweeping dainty kisses from your slick-covered thighs to your stomach before unhurriedly pulling away your sticky panties.

Once they were all the way off he gave them a huge whiff like he wanted the scent of your cunt after an eight-hour shift to burn deep into his nostrils.

He exhaled as if it were a sweet aroma of baked cookies, and bunched it up into a ball flinging it somewhere in his room like he was signaling you weren’t getting that back, causing your eyes to widen.

“I wanna savor this—savor you…as long as I can.”

His voice was hoarse as he slipped a finger inside your velvet walls, careful and deep like he needed to feel every inch.

But there was one dire issue, he thought he knew what he was doing from watching—an almost concerning amount of porn, yet it unfortunately made him move his finger only in and out with no sense of set pace or rhythm.

You bit your lip hesitant, leaning up on your elbows as your eyes bored into his “Wait, you’re not doin’ it right.” It wasn’t to be mean, but if he wanted to help out, you weren’t going to take this back and forth like he was trying to hit a non-existent red-button.

He paused his finger for a moment.

“Does that not feel good?” Choso questioned, furrowing his brows in confusion. Thinking wrongfully he was prepared enough for this, gooning to all those videos on twitter or other websites didn’t seem to do him any good afterall.

You shook your head mumbling a near inaudible “Mm-mm.”

“Guide me on what to do then, angel.”

He pleaded, his tone enveloped with curiosity, eager to be corrected—yet felt you flutter around his finger.

“Does she like being called angel?” Those words scampered around his mind, as he squinted his eyes, he made a quick mental note on what you liked while waiting for you to explain any directions you were willing to spill.

You chewed the inside of your cheek, face burning at explaining what your body needed—either way you craved an orgasm, so you decided to suck up the slight tension.

“Here,” you whispered, grabbing his wrist and helping him move at a tortoise-like pace. “You’ve gotta press up a little.”

His mouth fell open slightly as he watched you guide him, if it were possible to get a tattoo of a memory he’d want to ink your vulnerable state in his brain next.

“Press up a little?” He asked, voice tentative like he was trying to figure out his way through a maze.

“Okay um… try curling your finger—like, hook it up.” You described curling your fingers in front of him to give him a picture, assuming he could be more of a visual learner.

He did exactly what you told him, marking your directions in his brain like a fervent student, adjusting his hand to press against a fiercely sensitive spot hiding inside you.

“Keep moving slow okay?” You instructed, chest rising and falling as you relaxed into his touch.

Choso’s mind began to flash back to sensual porn he watched whenever he got tired of overly rough videos, abruptly realizing that’s what made him cum quickly—maybe it’d be the same for you if he properly mimicked the same movements.

Beads of sweat trickled down his temple, as he pursed his lips in concentration, devoted to making you fall apart on his hand first.

Slithering his finger in your clingy walls, he continued to curl up in a repeated motion, stroking your g-spot with the same precise care he gave the finest brushes in his art collection, forcing your back to beautifully arch, entirely surrendering yourself to his long digit.

Choso moaned softly, at how demanding your pussy became–despite him only having one finger engulfed in you, it grasped him like it’d fire him from his job if he stopped at any moment.

He smiled with adoration, mind filled to the brim with colorful confetti, celebrating like this was his biggest accomplishment in life, besides one of his paintings he sold–he got the exact girl he was longing for writhing underneath him, depending on him for pleasure.

“Like that?” he questioned, following your reactions like a hawk.

“Aah, yes! Like that Cho.” You mewled, as you toyed with your hardened nipples through your nightgown, impatiently peeling one of your tits from out of the top.

His pace stuttered for a moment, distracted by the sight of your exposed breast and how lazily you teased yourself. He swallowed hard, correcting his rhythm with a low whimper.

Fuck, why are you like this?

You weren’t even trying to be hot, all you did was flick your nipple between your fingers and for some reason, it was enough for him to bang his hips into the mattress aiming to satisfy the painful throbbing ache in his pants.

Choso rubbed your thigh like he needed it to ground himself, he gave it a gentle squeeze, having a strong thirst to live in your soft flesh.

He maintained massaging your spot, proud your elbows finally became weak—no longer able to support you due to how much bliss you were in.

“You okay, angel?” Genuine concern cloaked his tone, refusing to overwhelm you, but he somehow didn’t realize that’s exactly what made you lose your mind, being overwhelmed.

“‘M fine... just—” your voice shattered like glass, hardly able to finish your train of thought, as your walls fluttered tight around him, “add another finger, please.”

You yearned for that extra push like a woman who hopelessly waited on love letters from her man at work, and at that moment it registered to you that this began to feel a little more intimate than just roommates.

You wanted to push away his wrist—stop him—do anything, but that coil that was stirring in your tummy had you under deep control, it’d be like trying to break free from a cage made of steel.

“Is that better?”

“Mhmm… f–feels so good. You’re doing so well, Cho—so good f’me.”

Oh, he couldn’t wait to free his cock, at this point you were torturing him—not that he minded.

The way your back arched, breasts high and nipples pleading for more. Mouth slightly parted with half-lidded eyes made him want to sketch you like this—ruined under his touch.

“God, you’re so wet,” he panted, surprised at the obscene squelch sounds your body gave him. “you look so pretty, trembling like that for me.”

“She must really like praise, huh?” His thoughts clouded his mind, as he watched a waterfall worth of slick that coated his palm.

Choso gave a smug half-smile, realizing he could unravel you with nothing but his words. Any doubts about sounding awkward? Gone—submerged under the sound of your moans.

Your mind fell numb, grinding your hips down on his digits, crying out his name like a broken record.

“Oh my god Choso.” You squealed—eyes slamming shut, as you grabbed at his lean tatted arm, his muscles flexing at your unexpected touch.

“Choso, choso, choso, I’m close, don’t stop.” You begged, playing a memory that dragged you back to when other men would change their pace or rhythm as soon as you were on the tip of coming.

“Faster Cho, you’re doing such a good job.” You encouraged as your nails scraped his arm, tits jiggling while your hips stuttered against him like he was your only source of euphoria, completely forgetting about your ‘lost’ vibrator.

He listened to you attuned to your needs, then thumbed at your fat greedy mound.

It was too much, feeling overstimulated—his wide thumb circling on your clit as he thrusted his fingers swiftly in a come hither motion, provoking drool to slip past the corners of your lips.

“Hah, Choso—gonna cum, I’m coming!” Your thighs quivered as you threw your forearm across your face, pussy spasming around him like you were trying to reel him in forever.

Faint cries echoed throughout his room as a gush ripped from your cunt, raining over his already doused palm.

Loads of waves poured over him, claiming his palm and wrist, so bad he became sure he’d need an umbrella.

Your body acted like you haven’t orgasmed in centuries, spilling out way too much as if it’d never get a chance to feel another man again.

Finally, he pulled away his fingers noticing the skin was now wet and wrinkly, still he tapped his digits against his lips like he was debating whether or not he wanted to taste your arousal.

Then he dipped them in his mouth, suckling at your wet essence that coated him–his tongue glided over your slick while he tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, as if that’d manage to disrupt his judgement.

Choso’s brows creased like his brain was scanning the flavor on his taste buds and relaying the information to form a final opinion.

He smacked his lips for a second “Hmm, a bit salty, yet sweet, maybe like a chocolate covered pretzel?? I’d say this is a ten out of ten.” Choso announced, giggling as if he were a well-known food critic, but in tasting cum.

“A chocolate covered pretzel?!” You snorted, boisterous, yet fairly bewildered at the bold comparison.

He joined you in laughter, shrugging, except His giggles died down as his eyes met yours again—still entranced from everything.

“You okay?” he asked, checking on you once more, rejecting anything less than an astonishing experience for you. His hand rose up to caress your side, touching you at any chance he had.

“Of course I am,” you nodded, doe eyes swaddling him, but masked behind lust, you reached up towards him, tugging him feebly by his shirt.

“C’mere… I want you inside me, pleaseee.”

The ache in his pants pulsed hard enough to make him wince. He exhaled slowly, nudging closer, slotting his hips between your legs.

Choso blinked, his breath catching. “Y-Yeah? You sure?”

His fingers flexed against your thigh. You were still twitching, your cunt fluttering around nothing as you pawed at his pajama pants.

“I need it, Choso—need you now.”

That was all it took, he leaned in, peppering kisses all over your face like a man who made love to his woman before he went to war. “Fuck, you’re unreal.”

Choso scrambled to tug down his pants, whimpering at the fact that he could finally take care of his boner.

His cock sprang free like it was ready to ravage your pussy, causing your eyes to pop as a gasp flew out of your throat.

The tip was on par with an abnormal sized mushroom, maybe even lab made—flushed coral pink and bitterly leaking, envious it didn’t get any attention yet.

But that wasn’t even the best part, the length looked around seven inches paired with a five inch girth, this was the kind of dick that’d steer you away from any ex or toy for life, you made a wild guess you’d most likely get attached after this as if your heart would stop without him.

“Oh my god?” You covered your mouth, appalled. The other men you’d been with had three or four inches, which occasionally made you yawn during sex.

You never would’ve guessed your roommate who’s quiet—makes small talk with you was secretly packing underneath his typically baggy clothes.

“Is it bad looking?” Choso quizzed, face hued a rose pink—worried he wouldn’t succeed your expectations. “I could still try to please you if—“

“No, it’s so fucking big” you drooled, ogling at him “put it inside me now!” You ordered, as you rubbed your clit in small circles.

He was only left speechless, cock twitching profoundly at your approval until a few words came to mind, “anything you want princess.”

Choso turned powerless to his own actions, hand moving to give himself a few pumps before slapping his fat tip on your clit, provoking you to jolt.

He let out a breathless chuckle like he was going insane. “I’ve been waiting so long for this.”

“You have?”

He responded with a nod as his tip stroked your entrance, gathering some slick to act as lube before lining himself up, then he steadily glided himself in—making your breath hitch.

Your hands fisted the sheets, to comfort yourself with the burning stretch. You were able to feel every single throbbing vein, ridge, and you’d imagine even his beauty marks that decorated his length too.

His eyes searched your face for any discomfort while he continued pushing himself inside you, his girth splitting you open into two.

“Mmm, you want me to stop half way?” He asked as he massaged your hip.

You immediately shook your head “No, all the way in.”

Even through the slight sting you needed everything Choso could give, except that costed your breath to increase, getting heavier, not realizing how much you had to accommodate.

Your walls panicked, feeling like it instantly had to find a way to mold itself properly to his size to ensure you’d only feel a compelling sense of pleasure.

He continued to drag himself all the way in, just like you asked until your pelvis pecked at the hair freckled at the base.

“W—want me to move, or do you need a minute?” Choso questioned, throwing his head back at your tight, warm, wet cave encasing him—knowing it’d be difficult to return to his fleshlight after this, it’d be like trying to sober up after an addiction.

“You can move.” You stated, making an attempt at a neutral tone, but it came off more of a plea.

You never thought missionary could hit like this, usually it bored you, leaving other men to watch a blank expression on your face as they had their way with you, but with Choso, your body sucked him in like a black hole completely immersed in his length.

“Fuck, fuck—you’re squeezing me so tight, angel.” He groaned as he unbuttoned his shirt, taking it off like it’d cool off his body.

Then at last his hips rocked forward, slow but deep, like he wanted to carve his name into your guts.

“Y’gonna ruin me,” he breathed, and you swore for a moment question marks were exploding on top of your head confused like he wasn’t the one ruining you.

Vibrators always helped with stimulation but they never prepared you for the sheer stretch and fullness of cock—especially since Choso’s thick, it felt like a soda can was trying to jam inside your cushion walls.

He pulled back just enough to harshly launch back in on purpose—remembering how much you loved being overwhelmed.

You sobbed his name in like a prayer hoping to be answered any minute, turning your head side to side into the silk sheets.

It almost turned mortifying how sensitive your sopping cunt was, those two years promptly catching up to you, reminding you how badly you wished for dick to break the streak.

You were basically in heat, squeezing around him, placing your hand on his abs like it’d console you from his deep thrusts.

“S–shit, I didn’t know anyone could make me feel like this.” You mumbled beyond perplexed an inexperienced man already had you seeing stars.

You kept trying to tell yourself on loop that this is just sex, something casual until you marched yourself to Spencer’s to buy another soulless piece of silicone to mourn the real thing, but your lash line started to swell with tears, cherishing that his eyes were glued to your face digging for any reaction you spared him.

And telling yourself this is just a small one-time thing began to feel suffocating, specifically since he delicately held your hips–too shy to leave bruises, rolling into you like you were an idol meant to be worshipped.

Your heart erupted with heat each time he softly cursed your name–leaning in to kiss your neck, beginning to realize your friends possibly weren’t exaggerating when they expressed how mind-blowing sex is, every stroke raised your standards for the next man, well, if you weren’t too attached afterwards.

Choso shot a smile flourishing with passion, knowing you felt ecstasy simply because of him–it was just like he dreamed of when he masturbated if not better.

He used one hand to thumb at your clit, circling it with careful, messy swipes just to hear those moans, the ones gentle as clouds escaping your lips—with his other hand, he reached for yours, fingers lacing together and pressing them into the pillow beside your head like he wanted sculpt how infatuated he was with you.

His hips rocked forward in slow, deliberate thrusts, but each time he bottomed out, he ground—like he was trying to argue with your body to prove entirely nothing could be better than this.

He wanted to etch himself into your walls, dedicated to making this memorable.

Every steady drag of his cock left behind a milky trail of your thick cream on his shaft that clung to him like a crazy jealous ex who wouldn’t let go.

You felt him everywhere.

Not just stretching your pussy, but filling your tummy, pressing against something deeper—maybe your womb, probably your soul.

You clamped around him uncontrollably tight—not even sure if your body wanted more, to cry, or scream that you couldn’t take it.

But then you thought about those rude-ass clients from earlier.

There was no way in hell you were tapping out.

His fat tip kept thumping your sweet spots with surgeon-like precision, making your toes curl and your hands try to weakly reach for the nightstand.

It still wasn’t enough. You wanted to be wrecked—spoiled—reduced to nothing but a whore underneath him.

So, you did what any bratty woman would do, what better way to ask than tease your way into this?

“You… don’t gotta… move so slow anymore Choso,” you faked a yawn, or tried to in between breaths “maybe I should go look for my vibrator—see if that gets the job done instead.”

His pace faltered—just for a moment like something short-circuited. Then his eyes shifted, and you could see it click, something devious lighting up behind them.

“Yeah?”

His voice dropped an octave—baritone, yet rich as satin, being enough to make your skin prickle with goosebumps, recognizing there was something mischievous hiding underneath the surface.

He withdrew his shaft, but didn’t pull all the way out, just until the head of his cock sat tauntingly in your slick entrance, like it was alerting you what you were in for, messing with a man who has had an excessive fixation on you for four years.

You could feel your pussy throb like your slutty hole had its own heartbeat, attempting to grab him back in as if it were irritated you were teasing the best dick of your life.

His soft palm cupped your breast, watching how your hard nipple jostled at his fingertips.

With a slow roll of his thumb, he circled your bud—softly pinching it, studying the way your back twitched off the mattress.

A whimper flew from your parted lips, fingers tangled in the sheets at how sacred his hands kneaded you, a sheepish expression plastered across your face at how responsive you were, it was like every molecule in your body finally felt seen.

And although Choso looked like someone who sat on Discord all day, sketching anime girls in questionable poses for “anatomy study,” debating mischaracterized characters on Reddit threads at 2 a.m.—you knew you were about to be ruined.

“If that’s what you want…” He sucked in a shaky breath through his nose, jaw tight so tight a vein could burst—like he was satisfied he could be rougher, letting his pervy energy leak through. “I’ll give you anything.”

You tried to keep up the bored act, a deadpan expression sprawling out over your face, considering whether or not rolling your eyes or huffing out a fake sigh was too far.

Distracting yourself by the windy spring air blowing the curtains—you pondered for a moment, eyes deciding to entertain themselves inspecting the rest of his room, darting to the walls decorated with anime posters that were most likely judging your sinful actions.

But then—he grabbed both of your legs, hoisting and folding them over his shoulders in one sharp motion, so quick that the succulent fat of your thighs angrily jiggled at the sudden movement.

His eyes narrowed in focus, shaking his head to move his raven bangs that stuck like glue to his forehead, but you instantly broke him out of deep concentration as broken moans rumbled from your throat.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Your voice strained, as a string of curses rushed out of your mouth, his mushroom tip pushing farther.

You weren’t ready for how deep this angle let him reach—having your knees nudge your collarbones or the intense stretch.

Mentally, little disorganized files in your brain broke open, scattering to figure out where he learned his technique from, especially since not too long ago you were guiding him on how to finger you, could it be porn, or maybe advice from quora?

You couldn’t even be bothered to solve that grueling mystery now though, because you swore you saw a faint trace of a smirk gracing Choso’s features.

Not the playful one you usually gave him to tease, just to rile him up for pure amusement.

It screamed more like a yellow warning sign, a promise as if to tell you “be careful for what you wish for.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Your voice cracked between shallow breaths, pleading for mercy, all while secretly hoping he’d ignore them—wrecking you until you were walking funny for the next two weeks.

But in typical Choso fashion, not a single word dared to exit his mouth.

You simply braced for impact, throwing your forearm back over your face like you were a damsel in distress.

Then he slammed into you–all the way, at once–his full length bullying any sensitive spot imaginable, burying himself to the hilt—his short nails digging tiny crescent moons into the plush of your thighs.

Your mind shimmered in elation—the pleasure comparable to a warm hug, you nearly wondered if you should’ve mumbled out a thank you for how dreamy everything felt.

Each slam of his thick cock felt as if it were exasperated, reclaiming his silence for four years of crushing on you–like he was begging to know how you could be so oblivious this whole time.

The poor wooden headboard croaked at the pressure, banging against the wall louder than siren, someone would assume it was trying to find an escape–refusing to be the spot you two fucked like animals on top of.

Those years of moaning into your pillow with your vibrator on max setting—worthless. It was like your pussy forgot what real pleasure was supposed to feel like.

Ramming into you his balls slapped the curve of your pussy, hard enough to make your back arch and body shudder like he was commanding you to, except without any words needed.

The stretch of him felt like if your body took another cock it’d deny access immediately, you wouldn’t mind staying this way though, even if it was too much for you to handle, you’d replay this moment while lucid dreaming, doing anything to be folded in half like this again.

“S’full, m’ so fuckin' full Choso.” You babbled, tears wobbling at the edge of your lash line, creeping down your face like it didn’t want to be noticed.

“Mhm, I know princess.” He cooed, continuing to drive into you as he carefully watched your tummy bulge dance with every thrust “That’s all me huh?” He mentioned completely struck at how big he was as if he didn’t consistently measure himself.

Once one large hand departed to press on your belly, your jaw went slack from the immense pressure, his dick kept critically knocking into that precious a-spot, like he was perfectly doing calculations in his brain which angles or thrusts would make you sob.

Your half-lidded eyes were blurry, rolling back until you saw white.

Your vision was as good as television static, the black and white specs twinkling—thoughts fading into a puddle of mush as your tongue lolled out, proving he fucked you dumb.

Drool slipped past your lips, lashes flickering like you were fragile—seconds from breaking apart.

That's when he snapped—mind brittle in arousal, eyes darkening at how pornographic you looked, exactly how he’s been daydreaming when he masturbated to the thought of you, hungry and desperate for you to make a slutty ahegao face.

“Shit,” a long drawn out groan crawled out his plump lips, as his pace stammered for a moment, absorbed in your lack to control your features contorting by bliss.

One pale hand still rested on your leg, while the other grabbed your jaw holding you in place effortlessly, leaning so close his breath could fog your face if it were glass just to spit a massive glob making sure it aimed right for your tongue.

By this point you were hazy—maybe half-gone swallowing without hesitation, lips closing as his spit swam down your throat keeping a piece of him inside your body.

You gave a droopy smile, almost nothing could break you out of your sexual high besides Choso quickly apologizing for the sudden act.

“Shit, wait, I didn’t mean—” he started to explain himself, voice drizzled with guilt, yet it was hard to focus with him consistently pounding so deep you wouldn’t be exaggerating if you said you felt his dick in your chest.

“Was it too much?” He panted, worried he may have grossed you out.

Not knowing that you’ve been craving someone who goes beyond vanilla sex this entire time.

“No, do it again.” You begged, scratching at his abs with no force behind it.

His breath hitched, eyes nearly bursting out of the socket “You’re gonna be the death of me Y/n.”

Tilting your jaw once more, he gathered every last drop of saliva in his mouth to spit another glob on top of your needy tongue.

His fingertips pushed up at your chin, signaling you to swallow everything he gave you—making him proud that another piece of him was going to disappear down into your tummy.

You held onto it for a minute before swallowing though, savoring the flavor of his obsession before completely letting it leave—moaning once you felt well-fed by your roommate.

“There you go, s’good for me.” His pupils twitched at how vulnerable you were with him, feeling a sense of connection to every noise you made, every eye roll, how you trusted him enough to let him do whatever he wanted with you.

And your heart shouldn’t have combusted like it did at his words, knowing this should only be a one time thing before things get serious, but your thoughts were frolicking in circles at the idea of being married to Choso, unable to care about the relationship stage first.

Your eyes—finally able to look properly couldn’t even stare into his, dodging his every glance.

You couldn’t tell whether you hated how observant he was or not because then—he grasped your jawline like it was an insult to avoid his gaze.

“Look at me angel, want you to see how good m’ fucking you.”

The only thought you could conjure up was “Is he trying to make me fall for him?” It seemed like everything he did made both heartbeats skip.

His length hammered into your sensitive core as you looked up to him with loving doe eyes, your fingers holding onto the ones hooked on your jaw keeping him in place, like if he let go you'd miserably whine if he stopped.

“Mmngh, look at that…” Choso groaned, intentionally thrusting slower to let you revel in how much his girth ripped you to shreds, while he carefully analyzed the outline of his cock he ingrained into your belly—still shocked, not realizing how huge it was.

You could only respond by squeezing him like you were trying to milk him dry of four years worth of being pent up, dazed, you struggled to give him eye contact, until he instantly made them broaden—completely stunned.

While one hand stayed pressed on your stomach, one of his hands latched to your ankle, planting a tender kiss on it without breaking his fast paced rhythm, he dragged your pointed foot up—lips making love to your heel, the soft skin of your arch, and each one of your toes coated in cheetah print polish.

He wasn’t sure why, but the lavish design only drew him in even more like if he kept paying your feet any more attention he’d stay hard for another round.

“Mmmph s’cute,” he slurred, wet muscle grazing the pads of each toe like it was a heavenly meal prepared and served only for him to pamper himself with.

At first it tickled like your nerves were panicking—trying to process being stimulated there, but then once the strange tingly feeling finally substituted for pleasure your mewls grew louder as he added suction like he was striving to extract your soul through your foot.

He slurped, releasing each toe with a wet pop before taking in the next, unapologetic about how down bad his demeanor drifted off.

Your brain fried itself like it urgently tried to pinpoint why it felt so amazing, yet peculiar at the same time.

Words like “No, no, no, this is so fucking weird, but I don’t want him to stop????” Tripled in your head, chasing after an answer you couldn’t find.

The sensation of his mouth on one end and his cock punching deep into your guts felt too much to handle, although you practically asked for it.

You floated in a pool of shame, arrows pointing at how pitiful and submissive you were for allowing this to happen.

Usually you judged others for being into something like this, scrunching up your face in disgust whenever someone mentioned how they enjoyed having their feet adored, slowly you were beginning to realize this whole time it was all about having the right person do it for you.

With Choso, he did it with so much care, ideas of it being disturbing declined crossing your mind, he made it certain he wanted to devote himself to testing everything that possibly turned you on.

Even the parts that others would deem as too filthy, he just saw it as another part of you to explore.

As he increased suction, slightly hollowing his cheeks, his wet muscle swerved around the dips and ridges of your skin.

Sex wasn’t supposed to be this intense, you never had to manually breathe through taking cock, yet here you were mentally telling yourself to inhale and exhale as you massaged at your bundle of nerves as if that’d somehow calm you down, but that coil started to build again, like you were on the tip of letting go any moment.

“C’mon, I know you’re close,” he murmured, voice muffled as your toes were still in his mouth causing your pussy to spasm around his length—vibrations driving you crazy.

Recognizing that familiar spasm, this time around his dick—he briskly thrusted so deep his tip nearly smooched your womb.

THWAP THWAP THWAP!

The sound of skin colliding with each other filled the room, echoing loud enough to be heard five doors down your shared apartment.

“Choso, fuck, oh my god...” you let choked sobs roam free as the weak coil rang, like it had to alert you were going to cum, the most fierce orgasm you were about to have in your life, not even your wand vibrator on max settings or your favorite rhythm could compare.

You would’ve never guessed that having every inch of your body worshipped including down to your soles of your feet would make you feel like a swarm of butterflies fought in your stomach.

Slowly you gave up mentally coaching yourself how to breathe—every exhale becoming ragged like someone was chasing you, except that someone happened to be your orgasm.

Your legs trembled on top of his broad shoulders, body jerking like a woman possessed, but in pure euphoria.

Everything around you fizzled out into nothingness, unable to form a single thought, and maybe your mind was doing you a favor, letting you fully appreciate this moment with every fiber in your soul.

“Shit, c—can’t move…” His voice wavered along a high-pitch needy groan, the muscles in his thighs shuddering like his own body attempted to run from the orgasm he was seconds from collapsing under.

Your pussy squeezed him like a tight glove, designed for him flawlessly, it felt like watching another girl on twitter would be degrading to you by how snug you were.

The one thing your tight hole tolerated right now was him grinding so deep you'd need a map to find his mushroom tip inside your silk walls.

“Baby, I—I’m g’nna cum, hold me, please...” you pleaded, tears anchoring at the edge of your eyes as you weakly reached up for him with a pout forming on your face.

“Baby?” His eyes softened—like hearing you call him that unlocked something buried in the depths of his soul as if a cupid’s arrow somehow managed to shoot him in the dead of spring.

Immediately letting your foot go, you didn’t have to tell Choso twice, he leaned over still balls deep inside you–using one hand to cradle your head like you were all his, while the other snaked itself underneath your back pulling you slightly towards him.

“Let go for me, cum all over my cock.” He whispered into your ear, helping you through your orgasm.

And although your moans were raw—guttural, his mind managed to mistake it for angelic cries, so beautiful it sounded like a melody on the harp serenading him.

Your legs wrapped around him, your nails clawed at his back, the deep red scratch marks contrasting with his pale skin.

Gasping at first he felt dizzy, drunk off of the pain you saturated him in, his tip kept nudging your a-spot until you spasmed around him in rapid motions, soon coating him with a thick cream that nuzzled right at the base of his length, dribbling even his hair in your arousal.

Your noises went silent, stuck in an o shape as he continued to pound into you, abs flexing as he chased his own high.

His breath became frayed like a rope, a flood of tears streaming down his cheeks, landing onto your face as you cupped his chin, somehow making him fall harder than before, convinced his heart was stabbing you by how fast it was racing.

“F—fuck, fuckfuckfuck, love you so m—much, loved you this whole time.” He admitted, roughly biting your neck like that would keep him stable.

Your greedy cunt fluttered at his sudden confession, gasping like he revealed a dirty secret not even an interrogator could get him to blurt out.

“He loves me..?!” Your thoughts repeated like those words were signed into your memory forever, wondering if you really had been oblivious for eons.

Your lips pursed like you wanted to reply back, but something was yanking you away, so many questions were bouncing through your head, like how long has it been since he realized his feelings? Or did you even deserve to be surrounded in this much attention? Especially for the sake of stress relief after work.

Drowning out your thoughts his fingernails dug so far into the flesh of your hips, it’d be bruised for weeks—Choso planted kisses over face in a scattered motion, as his hips snapped up into your pelvis in messy uneven thrusts, knocking the wind out of you.

“Where do you want me?” He begged to know, satisfied with any answer you gave him.

“O-on top of my tummy.” You croaked out with a giggle, freeing him from the cage of your wrapped legs, you knew exactly what you were going to do once he came.

Following your command he instantly fumbled his way out of you, his cock twitching with shaky hands as he jerked himself whimpering loud enough to deafen your ears.

Pushing up the material of your nightgown that tried running down due to his movements, his hips jolted forward until thick white ropes spilled on top of your stomach, finally draining himself—years of being pent up.

It wouldn’t stop leaking out—his slit gushing out cum like paint from a cracked can. You swore it was enough cum to last a decade, warm like an oven, sending chills down your spine, forgetting how good someone’s arousal could feel against your skin.

The room was filled with panting as if two people were in a race, but in who would cum first—trying to catch your breath for a moment you bit the inside of your cheek as your fingers traced the thick seed he left to melt on you.

Smearing it all over yourself first playing in it like it was made to relax in when you were stressed—bringing it up to your lips to taste it, your mouth closed around your digits like it was your last meal before blacking out.

“So, how does it taste?” He asked, interrupting your little test awkwardly, scratching his pink tinted neck.

His gaze intensely flowed into you, hoping your response wouldn’t embarrass him—but thankfully in advance he had been preparing himself in case he ever got the slim chance to fuck you.

His diet consisting of fruit bowls bigger than his head and jugs those of water coming in handy—rarely munching on junk food, avoiding fucking up his flavor as much as possible.

You smacked your lips, purposefully mimicking him tasting you from earlier “It’s surprisingly good.”

“Surprisingly?” He chuckled, not sure whether or not to take it as a compliment.

“I expected it to be super salty, I’m sorry.” You half joked, leaning up on your elbows with whatever strength you had left.

“Ouch…?” He said with the face of a kicked puppy, eyes droopy at your assumption.

Staring at the mess he made, he was almost hesitant to ask, wishing he could pause time and be stuck in this moment forever.

“W-wanna get cleaned up or… uh?”

You nodded, yet your eyebrows raised in disbelief at how he stuttered like he didn’t just rummage through your guts.

“Carry me!” You demanded like a soldier defeated in battle.

He gave a lazy smile mumbling “yes ma’am.”

Lifting you off the mattress with shaky arms, Choso held you like you were made of glass—though the sticky mess between you begged to differ. His load clung to your skin and smeared across his stomach with every step, but he didn’t complain. Just buried his nose in the crown of your head as he carried you to the bathroom in silence.

Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck, like if you let go, your body might actually fracture into tiny pieces.

The tiles were freezing when your toes hit the floor, and you clung to his inked forearm for balance. He turned the silver lever slowly, steam hissing out with the first spray of warm water.

Neither of you said much as he took off your bonnet, then slid back the straps of your short nightgown down your shoulders, watching it drop on the floor.

Choso guided you under the water, letting the heat soak through your skin like a balm.

Leaning against the wall for support, your legs were as wobbly as an antique table, already dreading the thought of clocking in at your job tomorrow.

The first splash attacked your hips and you winced, throwing your head into the wall, breathing in the steam like that would somehow help.

Choso turned so fast he nearly broke the spinal cord in his neck.

“Did I hurt you?” His tone cracked with the ghost of guilt, running his hands through his glossy damp hair.

He knew he was a little rougher towards the end, but he felt like a monster knowing you were in pain because of him—praying he didn’t go overboard.

You looked down at your figure and saw the faint bruises forming along your sides where his fingers had dug in brutally.

“No,” you murmured so quietly not even a wolf could hear, while picking up the shower head letting the water push the seed off of your belly. “I’d let you do it again anyway.”

His Adam's apple bobbed like your words were a shot of honey mixed with poison.

But his expression crumpled like a paper bag for a second. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to feel proud or ashamed.

The thought of you allowing him the possible chance of being able to make love again infiltrated his brain, his mind began to wander if you two would eventually buy a place with one bedroom—no longer needing separate rooms, maybe he’d never need pillows again to keep himself warm and not feel a little empty at night.

His fingers grazed your stomach like he was touching something divine, a blush staining his pale cheeks at the amount of cum he drizzled on you.

Instinctively you snatched yourself slightly to the side, flinching like his touch was foreign–the love radiating off of his heart attempting to transfer itself to yours haunted you.

Retreating his hand, he furrowed his brows in confusion, completely lost at the sudden act, you wouldn’t be hallucinating if you said you saw question marks rise above his head.

“I'm still a bit sensitive from everything, sorry.” You blurted, dodging eye contact, facing forward to the wall in front of you–studying the silver rack filled with bath bombs, wash cloths, and soaps.

He blinked, stunned. Something in him screamed to reach again, but he stood still—fighting the fear that if he touched you again, you might disappear completely.

He bashfully smiled in relief, whisking up a little plan to help your trouble, his fingers reached for the body wash on the rack before speaking.

“Let me at least take care of you,” he mumbled, lathering a few pumps into his palms, rubbing his hands together to let it bubble first.

Then he massaged it gently onto your skin like he was a professional that worked at a spa. It was hard not to feel soothed under every press of his digits, letting out chaste moans as his touch got slower and intentional—less about cleaning up, more so about making you feel cared for afterwards.

Your eyes gradually sealed shut, as he rested his chin on top of your head inhaling your saccharine fragrance.

“Your hair smells so nice, wish I could live in your scent.” He whispered, voice raspy, as he kneaded your sore hips like dough.

You tried to force away a grin at his praise, biting your lip, refusing yourself to easily fall for someone again.

The brick barrier you built to protect your soul was too strong to be broken, by something temporary right?

Beneath the tranquil stream. Water cascaded down the curves of your bodies, tracing every line like it wanted to mesh you two together in a knot that even someone with pounds of muscle couldn’t untie.

At last, Choso cleared his throat, gulping so loud it had its own echo.

“Y/n…” he started, saying your name in an uneasy tone, yet almost too soft to hear over the water, withdrawing his hands for a moment, fiddling with his fingers he looked down at his feet, gathering his thoughts like one wrong word would change his life forever.

He inhaled deep, like the steam wasn’t scalding enough—like if he didn’t ask now, the moment might slip through the palms of his hands.

You blinked, lashes heavy with water sprinkling on them.

“Yeah?” You finally answered with confusion embellishing your voice.

He swallowed hard like he wanted to back out of popping the big question, but he was already too far gone.

His eyes didn’t meet yours anymore, but you could feel them searching—just not brave enough to land.

“I don’t really know how to say this,” he muttered, voice hoarse, hands wringing together jittery like he needed something to hold onto to comfort him.

“But…”

There was a pause, a long unsettling one.

You watched him retract into himself—processing, editing, like he was writing a graded essay in his brain, chucking every word that would throw you off into his mental dumpster that tried to come out before this.

“What are we?”

Those words hit you like a truck with no intention of stopping—no brakes, no hesitation, just raw steel and impact.

They didn’t just slam into you. They peeled something open. Something you weren’t ready to unpack yet.

Your stomach dropped, a twisting ache blooming in your chest like you’d been caught in something too deep and too fast.

You knew you should’ve had this conversation prior, the “what ifs?” But of course you thought with hormones and not with intelligence.

Moving away from him, you looked side to side like you were trapped, suddenly feeling claustrophobic.

Because it wasn’t just a question. It was every unspoken hope he had. A reminder how oblivious you had been these past four years.

It was him flinging his heart into your hands without knowing if you’d catch it—or crush it.

“I mean—” he scrambled, voice picking up a notch in panic. “I know I’m the one who offered… the whole stress relief thing. And maybe I’m reading into it too much, maybe it’s just me, but—”

His throat bobbed, gulping down whatever bond you two had left.

“Was this just a one-time thing?”

And that question—so gentle, so sincere—felt louder than any moan from earlier.

Because it wasn’t just curiosity.

It was hope that you’d say no. That you’d say maybe. That you’d say anything other than what he feared most.

“I—I don’t know.” You blurted without thinking, covering your mouth like you were appalled at your own sentence.

Just possibly, if he had given you time to collect your thoughts, it could’ve turned out differently.

You wanted to say it. That you were inching toward something with him too. That maybe this wasn’t just heat-of-the-moment lust.

But it felt too fast or too much—usually, you loved being overwhelmed, except not like this.

He wasn’t aware that you’d been abstinent for a reason—not just because of past burnout, but because of what the last situationship did to you.

How it left you afraid of promises. How it carved out the belief that intimacy always came with a deadline.

You’d spent months convincing yourself love was a trick, something that only lived in fairytales or those hallmark romance movies.

And yet, here was Choso.

He didn’t just fuck you. He gave you an experience that felt holy—touching you like you were his alter.

And that horrified you.

Because for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like your body was drained of all its use. It felt like something someone wanted to stay with and belong.

“You don’t know?” He repeated it so softly it barely cut through the sound of the shower. Like if he spoke any louder, it would crack something open inside him.

“Okay.” He responded, monotone, no emotion behind it, yet internally he felt desperate to kneel like a knight who was soon to be beheaded.

“I’m sorry.”

You whispered it as if it could bandage the gaping wound you already shot into his heart.

Steadily and awkwardly, you slipped out from under the stream, opening the curtains and drying your feet on the mat. You didn’t look back—not because you didn’t care, but because you did. Too much.

You reached for the towel, draping it over your shoulders like armor.

You lingered there, just a second too long. The sound of water pinging the floor filled your ears, near deafening. You almost turned back, shaking your head since the damage was already done.

He didn’t stop you. What could he say? What would’ve changed your mind?

The silence thudded louder than anything else had tonight.

As you trudged out of the bathroom, the steam curling around your ankles like it wanted to follow you, Choso remained rooted in place.

Alone beneath the falling water.

He turned slowly, reaching behind to scrub at his back—but the sting from your nails made him hiss. It bloomed sharp and sudden, and he winced at the red lines carved into his skin.

Somehow, even that hurt less than hearing “I don’t know.”

A near-permanent reminder that—for one night—you gave him a chance to hold you at all.

He mentally encouraged himself to cry, to let it all out and soften the blow.

Usually, he wouldn’t let himself.

But how could he feel weak when his tears would blur right into the water anyway?

Just like everything else he didn’t get to keep.

Divider/Boarders produced by anitalenia & cursed-carmine.

Song written by Koi’lani/@aquasoftware.

REBLOGS, COMMENTS, (nice) ANONS, AND LIKES ARE HEAVILY APPRECIATED!! THANK YOU <33

#— ꒰𝗞𝗼𝗶’𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗶’𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘆 🎰꒱༄#choso x reader #choso kamo x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk choso

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blcknebula · 9 days ago

Text

sex with a stoner

fratboy!choso x bestfriend!reader

wc: 16k

smut with so, so much plot.

choso kamo is the kind of boy people notice without realizing they’re staring. he’s not loud, never one to demand a room’s attention, but something about him pulls you in, the lazy grace of someone who’s always just a little bit stoned and completely at peace with himself.

he throws the best parties on campus, the kind that aren’t just about getting drunk or high, but about the vibe. incense burning in the corner, led lights set to red or purple, trap playing softly over speakers. and yet, you’re the only one who really knows him.

you, the sweet girl who never misses a single one of his parties. the one always curled up next to him on the couch with a red solo cup of something you can barely taste, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. it’s always been like this. ever since freshman year, when you met him during that stupid icebreaker event on campus that neither of you wanted to go to.

somehow, you’d ended up next to him. not even talking at first. just being. and then he’d pulled one earbud out and offered it to you without saying anything, and you’d heard frank ocean’s “ivy” playing soft and crackly from his phone. you’d smiled at him, and he’d smiled back. just a little.

after that, it was like something clicked. you didn’t have to try with choso. you just existed in each other’s space like you were meant to.

you’re sweet, outgoing, a little flirty, always the first one to compliment someone’s outfit or remember their birthday. people love you for your light, your laughter, the way you make everyone feel seen.

but when it comes to closeness, to real comfort? that’s reserved for choso.

it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.

you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”

and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.

and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.

choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.

you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.

because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.

and you? you love him. maybe too much.

you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.

maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.

it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.

you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.

but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.

there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.

it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.

maybe not forever.

the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.

bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.

you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.

he’s on the couch. he always is.

slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.

until he sees you.

choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.

“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”

and just like that, you’re home.

you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.

“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”

he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.

“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”

he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.

your heart stutters.

“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”

you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.

“you’re stoned.”

he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”

you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.

the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.

he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.

“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.

“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.

he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.

you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”

“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”

you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”

he hums. “don’t hit the same.”

you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.

you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.

so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.

you stay like that. for a long time

later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.

you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.

his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.

you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.

“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”

he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”

you grin. “exactly.”

he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.

like you always will.

when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.

he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.

“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”

he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.

“always.”

you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.

you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.

but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”

you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.

“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.

he doesn’t let go.

you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.

choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.

you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.

he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.

“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.

“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.

he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.

and there it is again. home.

“this party was kinda ass,” you say.

“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”

your stomach flips.

but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.

“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”

choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”

“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.

“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”

you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”

“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”

“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”

he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”

you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”

“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”

“always.”

his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.

“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”

you blink.

“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”

you laugh. “well someone has to.”

“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”

your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.

he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.

he says it like it’s just the truth.

“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.

his thumb strokes your arm, slow.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.

he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.

you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.

he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.

they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.

how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.

they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.

you’re not together.

but this? this is something else.

“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.

you nod, curled into his side.

“you?”

“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”

“i never do.”

he hums, already drifting.

you close your eyes.

"night, cho."

"night, babe."

and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.

right where you’re supposed to be.

the sun’s too fucking bright.

choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.

his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.

he’s never rushing.

the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.

he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.

he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.

“yo.”

he looks up.

toji.

posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.

choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”

“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.

choso shrugs. “feel fine.”

“late night?”

“always.”

toji grins. “bet.”

choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.

they’re not close, but they’re good.

“you throw last night?” toji asks.

“yeah. packed out.”

“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”

choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”

“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”

“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”

“tragic.”

they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.

“how much you make off the door?”

“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”

toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”

choso snorts. “nah.”

“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”

“i’m not good with rules.”

“fuck rules.”

choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”

“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.

that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.

“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.

“yeah. lab.”

“tough.”

“i'm so fucking hungover.”

toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”

choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”

toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.

“y/n?”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“you guys together now or what?”

choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”

toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”

“why?”

“you’re always with her.”

“yeah.”

“you sleep in the same bed?”

choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”

toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”

“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.

“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”

choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.

because it isn’t like that.

not yet.

but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.

“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”

choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.

he knows.

choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.

there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.

his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.

his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.

[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn

[10:38am] choso: chem

[10:38am] you: ew

[10:38am] choso: yea

[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored

[10:39am] choso: wya

the response comes fast.

[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.

choso smiles.

it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.

he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.

the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.

perfect.

you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.

you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”

he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.

“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.

he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.

you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.

he doesn’t notice.

or maybe he does.

but he doesn’t say anything.

“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.

“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."

you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”

“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”

you shrug. “probably.”

he grins.

you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.

you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.

choso looks over. blinks once.

his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”

“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”

“your brand is slutty candy princess?”

you flash him a wink. “you know it.”

he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“you’d like it.”

“maybe.”

you both laugh.

but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.

“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”

choso blinks. shifts.

“how’d you know that?”

“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”

he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.”

you hum. “what’d you say?”

he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”

you nod.

but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”

choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”

you don’t speak for a second.

then—

“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”

he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”

you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”

“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”

it knocks the air out of you a little.

you don’t reply.

he doesn’t push.

instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.

“you mind?” he asks.

you shake your head. “go for it.”

he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.

you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.

he passes it to you.

you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.

“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.

“you always smell like sleep and candy.”

“that a compliment?”

“you know it is.”

you smile.

and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.

he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.

you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”

he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”

“toji’s place?”

“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”

you make a face. “ew.”

he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”

“what kinda party is it?”

he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”

“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.

“come anyway.”

you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”

he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”

“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.

“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”

“classic.”

“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”

you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”

“better lighting.”

“less vomit.”

he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”

you blink at him. “so what?”

“you comin’?”

you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”

he gives you a look. “me."

“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”

“me.”

“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”

he smirks. “you already know.”

you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”

“what an honor.”

“you’re welcome.”

he flicks the roach away and leans back again, hood falling down to rest at the nape of his neck. you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

there’s something warm in your chest.

like always.

“what time’s it at?” you ask.

“late.”

“when are we getting there?”

“later.”

you smile. “as always.”

“as always,” he echoes.

you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.

he doesn’t notice.

but you do.

you always do.

the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.

shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.

because you’re painting.

your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.

you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.

the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.

but this time’s different.

this one’s for him.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.

maybe it’s because you love him.

not like that.

not yet.

but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.

in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.

in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.

you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.

outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.

you aren’t ready yet.

but you will be.

because he asked.

because you always go when he asks.

by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.

there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.

“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”

“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.

you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.

“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.

a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.

“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.

“two,” you shoot back.

you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.

“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”

“please tell me you’re drinking tonight,” maki says, eyes already glossy.

“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"

“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”

you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”

“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.

“girl.”

you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.

“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like—cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”

maki snorts. “you faked it?”

“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”

shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”

“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.

“they’ll live,” maki says.

you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.

“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”

you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”

they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.

“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”

nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because you just spotted him.

across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.

he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.

you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”

you beeline straight to him.

he sees you coming, of course. always does.

“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”

you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.

“hey, babe.”

he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”

you grin. “you’re high.”

“and you’re hot.”

“so high.”

gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he was proud of him.”

“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.

“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.

“a sweet menace,” choso adds.

gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”

“godspeed,” you tell him.

choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”

you nod. “girls are wild tonight.”

“when aren’t they?”

you smile. “party’s kinda gross, though.”

he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”

“i missed your parties.”

he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week. tuesday.”

“a tuesday party?”

“hell yeah.”

you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.

without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.

he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.

you hand it to him wordlessly.

his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.

he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.

“you painted this?”

you nod.

“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”

“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”

he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.

then—

“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”

you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”

he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”

you blink.

he says it so casually. so high. so him.

like it’s just a fact.

you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.

but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.

“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.

choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.

he flicks it once. flame bursts up.

“perfect,” he mumbles.

“it works?”

“better than my soul, babe.”

you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.

you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”

his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.

he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”

you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”

he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.

then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.

“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”

choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”

you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.

“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.

he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.

then he’s alone.

not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.

the lighter’s still in his hand.

and it won’t stop looking like you.

'she fuckin’ made this.'

that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.

(which you do.)

'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.

he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.

'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'

it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.

he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.

he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.

he pauses there.

your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.

his thumb hovers over the screen.

“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”

sukuna.

choso glances up. “am fried.”

sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”

choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”

they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.

“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”

“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”

he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.

sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”

“yeah.”

“you look like you just had a vision.”

choso finally meets his eye.

“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”

sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”

choso doesn’t answer.

instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.

sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”

the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.

he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.

it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.

“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.

the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.

“what’s up, man?”

choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.

he holds out his phone.

“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”

the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.

it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.

looking up at him.

choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”

the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”

choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.

the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.

the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.

“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”

choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.

then finally:

“nah.”

the guy hums. “girlfriend?”

he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”

he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.

“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”

the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”

choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.

“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”

“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.

“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”

the guy snorts. “fair.”

the needle hits skin.

choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.

“like what?”

he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.

choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.

“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”

the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.

“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”

“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.

“nah.”

another pause.

“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”

a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.

“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”

choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”

“yeah?”

he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”

the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”

choso closes his eyes.

“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.

just for him.

the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.

“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”

choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.

“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.

the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.

and fuck.

there it is.

your eyes.

wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.

for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

he just stares.

it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.

yo.

he’s obsessed.

like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.

he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.

god.

you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.

it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.

but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.

“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”

“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”

the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”

“fair.”

he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.

she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.

nah.

this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.

“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.

“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”

“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”

choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.

he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.

“appreciate you, man.”

“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”

he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.

but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.

not of what they are.

but of what you mean.

upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he��d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.

maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.

but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.

he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.

sleeve tugged down.

lighter in his pocket.

eyes on his arm, just for him.

later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.

you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.

“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”

you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.

“hey, ma.”

his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.

“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”

“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”

“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”

“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”

“amen,” sukuna snorts.

“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.

“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”

“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.

“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

“was it… alive?”

“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”

“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”

choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”

“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.

“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”

“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.

“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”

“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.

“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.

“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.

the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.

you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.

“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”

“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”

“you ever tried dabs?” sukuna asks. “that’s when shit gets spiritual.”

“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”

“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.

“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.

“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.

“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”

you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.

“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.

“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.

and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.

the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.

choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.

“you good to dip?”

you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.

he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.

“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”

gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”

you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.

“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.

sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”

“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.

they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.

“get on.”

you blink, amused. “seriously?”

“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”

you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.

“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.

he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”

you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.

he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.

his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.

but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.

he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.

you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.

you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.

“hey.”

you look over, curled on your side facing him.

his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.

“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”

your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”

he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”

you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”

“feels like it.”

he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.

you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.

he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.

“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”

you press your face into his chest.

“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”

choso’s quiet for a second.

then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”

you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”

he exhales slow.

“fuck, ma.”

“what?”

“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”

you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.

his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.

“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”

he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.

“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”

you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.

his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.

his voice comes again, quieter this time.

“gonna keep that lighter forever.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”

“not even gonna let gojo touch it."

“definitely good.”

his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.

you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.

his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.

“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.

you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.

his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.

and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.

just for him.

just for tonight.

just for you.

it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.

he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.

“yo, choso.”

doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.

he pulls one earbud out and slows.

toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.

“what’s up?” choso mutters.

“you got a sec?”

choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.

“…yeah,” he says anyway.

they walk.

they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.

“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.

“same shit.”

“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”

choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”

toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”

he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.

“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”

choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn��t need one.

“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”

he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”

choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.

“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.

toji hums. “you sure?”

choso looks over.

“what’s your point?”

“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”

“we’re not.”

“but you hang out every day.”

“yeah.”

“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”

choso’s mouth tightens.

toji grins like he caught something.

“so she’s single?”

choso stares straight ahead.

“…yeah.”

“good to know.”

silence.

the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.

“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.

“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.

“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”

no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.

“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply.

“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”

“don’t do this.”

choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.

“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”

he tilts his head.

“so which is it?”

choso breathes slow through his nose.

“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.

but he doesn’t.

“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”

“what’s that mean?”

“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.

“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, bebe ron the lips.

because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.

“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.

“yeah,” choso says, barely above a whisper.

toji gives him one last nod.

“cool,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.

just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.

he knew before he asked.

and now he’s coming.

because choso left the door wide open.

and you?

you’re free to walk through it.

choso’s room, late afternoon

your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.

his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. always do.

“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.

“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.

toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.

you bite your lip. thumbs hover.

then you type:

you [3:07pm]: oh you're stalking me noww?

you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.

“who you texting?”

you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.

“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”

he tilts his head.

“someone, huh.”

you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”

he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.

“that toji?”

your breath stalls.

“…yeah.”

choso stares at you. unreadable.

“why?”

“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”

he hums. low. not buying it.

“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”

“what’d he say?”

“choso—”

“lemme see.”

he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.

“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.

“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.

“he said i was cute when i was bored. and i said maybe. that’s it.”

his jaw ticks.

“you flirting with him?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.

“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”

“what does that matter?”

“it matters.”

his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”

“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”

“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting. he’s circling. you don’t see it?” you blink.

“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”

you freeze.

the silence that falls is loud.

so loud.

your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.

“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.

“never mind.”

“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”

he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.

you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.

choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.

“why?”

he doesn’t answer. but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.

because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.

you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.

“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.

instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.

“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.

“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”

“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”

his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too. “how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”

“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.

he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.

“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.

“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you ever tell me?”

choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.

“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.

“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”

he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”

his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.

he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.

“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.

you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.

“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.

“i’m fucking in love with you.”

your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.

“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”

you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.

“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”

you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.

“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”

you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.

“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”

his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.

“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”

his eyes widen. “no—”

“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”

“y/n, it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”

choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.

he swallows.

and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.

he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.

there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.

of your eyes.

staring straight back at you.

your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.

choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:

“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.

“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.

“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”

your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.

“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”

you’re still staring at the tattoo.

he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.

“you think i’d get your fucking eyes on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.

his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”

his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.

but he lets it go anyway.

“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.”your breath catches.

“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of the street. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like i already lost you. and it kills me.”

his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.

“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”

you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.

and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.

and then he doesn’t anymore.

he crashes into you like he’s starving.

the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.

your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.

his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”

your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.

“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”

his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.

you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.

“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”

“choso.”

he shudders.

“again.”

“cho!.”

he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.

and fuck, you let him.

you’ve wanted this just as long. needed him just as bad.

and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.

you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.

choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.

“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.

you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”

he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.

and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.

his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”

you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks — slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.

“choso…”

he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.

your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.

he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.

“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”

your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.

“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”

his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.

and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.

his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”

“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”

and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.

“fuck, baby… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”

his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.

he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.

“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”

you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?

you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.

he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.

“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”

the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.

and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.

gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”

“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”

“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”

“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”

“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“you okay?” you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.

“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”

“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,�� nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”

“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”

“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.

“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.

you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

and the thing is — he is.

he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.

more choso for you >~< 'sticky situation' 'you,always.'

awe wasn't that sweet 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 masterlist !!

guys look at this beautiful art @ryololart did inspired by this fic i love her go like it rn omg this is the perfect visual.

#choso kamo #choso x reader #jjk choso #choso smut #jujutsu kaisen choso #jujutsu kaisen #jjk smut #choso kamo x reader #fratboy choso #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujustu kaisen #jjk #college au choso #jjk x reader

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blcknebula · 10 days ago

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I just wanted to show my pretty girl :)

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace mc #black mc #lnds #lads #lads mc #lnds mc #she’s so pretty #I love her so bad

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blcknebula · 10 days ago

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I’m so not ready for the wedding banner. I’M BROKE BUT GUESS WHAT IMMA FIND A WAY TO GET SY SY AND CALURB 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

#love and deepspace #sylus love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #it also doesn’t help that I stopped playing for a month straight and only came back to get Caleb’s birthday card #it’s okay though imma grind #like there’s no tomorrow #crap #it’s over for me

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blcknebula · 10 days ago

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yeth

#sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace #sylus x mc #lads sylus #qin che #sylus #lads #black mc

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blcknebula · 11 days ago

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🐦‍⬛ OUT OF BOUNDS — you get isekai-d into the n109 zone [chapter four]

synopsis — the monotony of your university days is interrupted by a stroke of misfortune, one which lands you in the world of love and deepspace, the game you had been casually playing for the previous months. with no way to return home, sylus offers you the job of being his personal secretary. — a continuation of the one-shot “out of bounds”

pairing — sylus x non-mc! reader

tags — reader is not mc, isekai/transmigration, fluff, angst, mutual pining, slice of life, boss/employee relationship, slow burn, grief, mourning, loss

a/n — we have finally reached the long awaited reader crashout and are nearing the end… i hope you all enjoy! this chapter was fucking with me for so long and i wanted to take my time rather than under deliver. this story means a lot to me and i’m trying my best to make sure it pays off well<33 but still, 18k words was not easy to edit so please don't mind any slight errors 😓 also, caleb came home in 30 pulls so do expect a birthday fic coming soon ~ (whether it'll be on time for his birthday is the question...)

ao3 | masterlist | series masterlist | part three | part five [coming soon]

chapter four: inevitable — it’s hard to shine when you’re standing between the sun and the moon. wc: 18.6k

The hunter’s arrival is no more than a whisper within the N109 Zone.

Sylus has kept the truth of her existence under lock and key, hiding his weakness under steel and chainmail. As far as the world knows, his interest lies in the protocore attached to her heart — and he plans to keep it that way. Biding his time, preparing for the day he carefully steps into her life.

But, like the force of nature she was, the hunter manages to find her own way in.

He’s the image of cool confidence as he’s informed of her capture in enemy hands, draping a blazer atop his shoulders and instructing the twins to start the car. “Will you be able to hold the fort on your own?” He asks.

But you can see the barest tremor in his hands, the tension in his shoulders, the rising fear of losing her before he even gets to see her with his own two eyes.

“You can count on me.”

This is the only peace you can offer him in the midst of this chaos.

His eyes continue to linger, as if time wasn’t of the essence. Little words have been exchanged between the two of you since the hunter came into the picture. And for a moment, you think he might say something (please, say something). But all he does is grip your shoulder as if to ground himself, nodding in a silent ‘thank you’ before he leaves.

The door shuts behind him.

You know how this story goes. It was only a matter of time before he reunited with his lover in this life, before the story would continue along its tracks and catch you in the crossfire.

Your search for a way home had become painfully futile. You’d think a world altered by the discovery of the Deepspace Tunnel would have more answers to the truth of your presence here, but your search had dug up nothing. Wormholes, dimensional travel, transmigration; from the philosophical to the scientific, all paths led to dead ends.

You sit listless in your chair, fiddling with the necklace Sylus gave you as you wait for your life to be thrown into chaos.

Staring into the metropolitan abyss of the N109 Zone, you sometimes like to imagine what sylus sees. An ant-like web of crimes and deceit, of power-hungry folks looking to get ahead and eat each other alive in the process. But all you ever see is a world beyond your understanding. And here, you wonder where you fit in this ecosystem; what your presence has done to change the story.

You burst into terrible, broken laughter.

You shouldn’t get ahead of yourself.

You were but a drop of water in the ocean. There was nothing that you, with no worth or significance to your name, could do to make more than a solitary ripple.

And so, you keep your longings locked and your love as just thoughts, as you wait in bated breath for the story and their fated reunion to begin.

—————————————————————

“Where are you taking me?” Her voice is biting as the twins bring her to the room you’ve prepared. Ornate, spacious, and windowless, just as Sylus asked. A gilded cage with an open door. You don’t see her but her rage rings through the corridors, something that feels almost like a hallucination after having stepped in her shoes, reading the story you once adored.

Her arrival is a marker of the story catching up to you, of time catching up to you. A reminder that you do not belong in this world.

In the next few days, you become a quiet observer of this tale, watching their fractured reunion play out.

“What makes you think I'd ever be willing to help you?” She snapped at Sylus after their third failure at resonance, a sad attempt at a threat when she lay exhausted, slumped in the fancy chair in his study.

“You don’t exactly have a choice, sweetie. As you can see —” He gestures to the opulent surroundings, “— you’re in my territory.”

You roll your eyes. Trust Sylus to make a shit first impression, even to the supposed love of his life.

You keep to the sidelines, going about your typical routine. But your curiosity gets the better of you on the second day, when you offer to bring the hunter her food.

You can’t help but imagine being in her shoes right now; kidnapped by the man she believes to have destroyed her home and killed her family. To an extent, you think it might not be so different to how you felt, first arriving here.

So, you decide to reach out. Maybe gain her trust and coax her into eating and regaining her strength. Food is the way to the heart, after all. At dinner time, you bring a tray to her room, knocking on the door and calling her name.

“Who's there?” She asks from the other side of the door, wariness lacing her voice.

You introduce yourself, “It’s me, Sylus's secretary. Aren’t you hungry?” You soften your voice, treating her with the gentleness you would a cornered animal, but you’re met with silence. Concern gnaws at you, “You haven’t eaten in twenty four hours.”

She scoffs, the sound muffled by the barrier between you two. “What, isn’t that your plan? Starve me til’ I’m too weak to escape and resist Sylus's demands?”

You stop in your tracks, puzzled. “Escape? You know you can leave, right? No one’s going to stop you.” Even the door was unlocked. But you believed knocking was a basic form of respect, unwilling visitor or not.

She stays tight-lipped for the next few moments, so you continue, “Not that you’d get any further than a couple blocks, what with vultures hanging around the compound at all hours of the day—” Your spiel is cut off as she suddenly swings the door open, doing a double take at the sight of you.

It’s clear she sees the resemblance just as you had, her face contorting from defensiveness to stunned confusion. But for you, seeing her in the flesh only refuted any idea of similarity between the two of you.

Haggard and bruised, the hunter still manages to shine in the gritty underbelly of the N109 Zone.

When you first saw her face projected in the hologram, the likeness was unmistakable. The shape of your eyes, the slope of your nose, and the barely-there difference in the color of your hair and complexion. Anyone could have mistaken the two of you as cousins, maybe even siblings. But standing in front of her now, the difference has become clear as day.

You can’t help but understand how so many have fallen head over heels, enthralled by her and her character. In the shadow of her energy and vivacious presence, you could only look dim in comparison. Standing beside Sylus was no small feat — one that you’d failed to live up to, looking nondescript and ordinary at the side of the most powerful man in the N109 Zone.

But of course, she fits like the missing piece to his puzzle. The dragon and the sorceress, now the criminal and the hunter. You try not to feel inferior, tamping down the jealousy and pettiness festering within you, but it’s hard to shine when you’re standing between the sun and the moon.

The initial surprise dissipates, and she eyes you with the mistrust expected of a kidnapee twice-over. You extend the tray towards her as a sign of good will, “Eat it while it’s still hot.”

“...How do I know it’s not poisoned?”

You huff, taking a quick bite. “Happy now?”

She snatches the tray and slams the door behind her in one quick motion. You click your tongue; so much for gaining her trust.

—————————————————————

Time had dulled your memory of how awful their first meeting truly was.

Really, what was Sylus thinking? You wonder as he treats his treasured soulmate so… menacingly.

You’ve become a bystander to the motions of the story you’re familiar with; the failed resonance, her disdain for him, and his absolute lack of tact in interacting with her. With his every word coated in menace and veiled threats, you’re wondering if Sylus was even thinking at all. Was he like this when you two first met? You try to recall as you get the ick from his unexpected hostility.

You want to know what’s running through his mind, what possessed him to think this was the appropriate way to go about this. But since the hunter’s arrival, your time with him had become even more scarce, any moment together cut off by his work or your urgency to leave.

Guilt washes over you each time you see his face drop, when you make another hasty escape from facing him. But you cling on to the belief that this was necessary, to give you both space to adjust to the hunter’s presence, and for you to learn to live with the fact that he was not yours.

The two return from the workshop, and you stride into the office to give your daily secretarial report — only to find him hunched at his desk with a glass of wine, staring vacantly into the skyline of the N109 Zone.

In the dimly lit office, his eyes, shrouded by the shadows, give away nothing. But you catch the way his shoulders tense, his fingers clenching the stem of the glass.

“Sylus?” You call out gently, announcing your presence with audible footsteps as you approach him, breaking your internal promise to keep your distance. But you could only hold out this one-sided silence for so long, weak in the face of his vulnerability.

He calls your name with a weary tone, “Do me a favor and tell the informant I won't be meeting him today.”

“Are you okay? What happened?” You take slow steps in approaching him.

He fiddles with the stem of his wine glass as he releases a low, bitter laugh, “Well… it seems that our dearest hunter fears me. It was not any bodily dysfunction or injury that was preventing us from resonating, but rather her disgust.”

She captured his heart, bound his soul to hers, and now has no recollection of any of it. Detests him to the point her evol rejects his.

You feign ignorance to the story beats you remember, “Well, it’s only been so long since you’ve met her again… If she’s still the same person, her memories of you are still there, deep down.”

“As if the world hasn’t made me wait long enough.”

You don’t know what to say to that — heart torn between feeling bruised and feeling sadness for him.

“I'd like to be alone.” He takes a deep breath, a subtle command as returns his gaze to the skyline, guarding his vulnerability, unwilling to bare more of his weaknesses than he already has.

The world sees Sylus as an unstoppable force, as the supreme authority in the criminal underworld. But though the dragon may be fierce and capable, the human underneath was just that — a human. One that got frustrated, whose skin bruised, who had weaknesses that he guarded with veiled ferocity. But somehow, somewhere along the way, he’d chosen to strip the curtains of that vulnerability to you.

Maybe in another world, you would have taken him into your arms, refused to leave him as he quietly fell apart. But in this reality, it was no longer your place to do so. As it was, he had promised his heart to another, leaving yours too tender to comfort his.

The only peace you could offer him now was the privacy to crumble in solitude.

Still, you couldn’t bear to leave him so quietly. “You’re not a hard person to love. You know that, right?” You whisper, a quiet admission of your feelings. For all his gruff and intimidating nature, it was not his power, money, or looks that earned him your affection. But rather, all the softness he guards from the harsh world he lives in.

You shut the door before he can acknowledge you, trying to wipe the mental image of his conflicted expression. You mute his email for the next hour, redirecting it to your inbox, offering him a brief moment of peace to ruminate in his thoughts.

You laugh silently, bitterly to yourself, for giving so much of yourself for a man who was devoted to another. Despite having been set aside, you still can’t help but show your love for him in the only way you know how. (In the only way you can).

And you wonder to yourself: could you ever touch the part of him that hurts? One of the most powerful men in this world, having his world shaken by the hunter’s disdain. If it were your spite, your hurt that he faced, would it even feel close to the gravity he feels now?

You shouldn’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.

You had found yourself in the deep end, and it was high time to swim back to shore, to back out of this one-sided race. Because you may have received his affection, but you will never receive the depth of his devotion.

—————————————————————

Hostility melts into mischievous affection as the hunter’s dynamic with Sylus takes a sudden pivot into unfamiliar territory. The visit to the shopkeeper marked a turning point in their relationship as Sylus came to his senses, and their relationship evolved for the better. The truth to their tied souls, you think, as you bear witness to the connection quickly blossoming between them.

You’re fine. Really, you are.

(At least, that’s what you tell yourself each time you see the soft smile on his face, melting in adoration for the hunter.)

You stop avoiding him, after catching a glimpse of the vulnerability he attempts to hide. His face lights up whenever you approach him, breaking the silence you kept for so long. And not for the first time, you feel guilt wash over you for how you added to his existing turmoil.

But still, you’re left wondering about your place in his life now that the hunter has arrived.

The pages turn one after another as the two of you fall back into old routines, nurturing the friendship and camaraderie you built over the past year. But not everything stays the same.

You maintain your boundaries, keeping your nightmares and worries to yourself — settling for long, lonely nights, when the alternative is setting yourself up for a painful road.

One night, you find a rare moment of peace in the recent chaos. The two of you battle over this world’s version of Monopoly in a high-stakes, cutthroat bet to determine who will have the first taste of Luke and Kieran’s slightly… dubious creation in the kitchen.

They had taken up a class in baking after catching you one too many times in the dead of the night, making midnight snacks. A fact which warmed your heart, at first, until you realized that neither twin has ever touched a stove in their lives. The clanging of pots and shouts coming from the kitchen only serve to fill you with dread.

You try your best, but eventually resign yourself to your fate. You know a lost cause when you see it. You didn’t exactly expect death by food poisoning, but when you think about it, it wasn’t a bad way to go.

“Can’t you let this poor salaryman pass through? Just this once?” You pout on the second hour of playing this stupid board game, putting on your best puppy eyes as you implore him to pity your little player.

“That wouldn’t be fair to you, sweetie.” He smiles as you begrudgingly hand over the play money for landing on his property.

His attention is focused solely on you, a rarity since the hunter’s arrival. But even with the scarce time you’ve spent together, you can’t pretend not to have noticed the growing bags under his eyes, the constant furrow in his brow. He’s handled the chaos in the N109 Zone with the stride of a man who knows his word is law; but at the expense of his own health and rest.

In perfect timing, the game ends just as the twins exit the kitchen, dressed in matching aprons and holding a plate of mini strawberry shortcakes. You end up losing, as expected, but Sylus is a good sport — taking a bite right alongside you.

It’s… not bad at all, especially for a beginner. A little wonky and undercooked in the middle, the edges slightly burnt. But it’s edible. “Not bad,” You say — and immediately correct yourself, “Not that I thought it would be! But it’s good. Better than my first go at it, at least.” You leave out the age you were when you first touched an oven — all worth it to see their eyes shining from your praise.

”Awe, thanks, Miss Secretary! It was all in a day’s work,” Luke grins as he fixes his crooked apron.

Of course, Sylus is Sylus. Eliciting his praise is like pulling out teeth. “It’s… acceptable, I’ll admit,” He says with a satisfied hum.

Still, it’s enough for the twins to celebrate with a high five, “Hell yeah!”

The four of you clear half the tray, before bidding the twins good night, the two suddenly tired from the sugar crash. “Amateurs,” You tease. They probably kept taste-testing the ingredients.

“I hadn't expected baking to become such an… outlet of energy for them.” Sylus comments, stealing a strawberry from your piece. You retaliate by getting a scoop of his whipped cream.

“Well, most people I know started baking as some sort of distraction or stress relief,” You eat a forkful of cake and nod in approval. Every storm in your life has been followed by the creation of more pastries than you could possibly eat. “If it distracts them from the pranks, then I wholeheartedly approve!” You cheerily stake your fork into the air.

“Knowing the twins, they’ll just find a way to incorporate it,” He eyes the kitchen doors skeptically, not wanting their mischief to bleed into the food they eat.

With all the sugar you just consumed, it was clear you wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. “Wanna clear this batch with me? Before they go and stock the fridge with the rest of their projects.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to take a rain check on that,” He says as he puts on his blazer again, standing up from the dining table.

“Hm? But there wasn’t anything on the calendar, last I checked. Did I miss —”

You’ve already brought out your phone to view the shared calendar when he explains, “I’ll be meeting with the hunter regarding a little… deal, that she’s brokered.” He leans down to match your height and ruffles your hair. “Don’t worry, Miss Secretary. Your schedule’s still intact.”

You roll your eyes, trying to muster a smile as you remind him, “Be nice.”

He raises an eyebrow, “When am I not?” Tch. When is he ever?

Soon, you settle in the silence of an empty kitchen — and the thought of more cake doesn’t sound so appealing anymore. It’s never easy hearing of the two spending time together, much less seeing them in the penthouse everyday. But you’d rather have a friendship with Sylus than nothing at all. And you can only hope that with time, one day, it won’t hurt at all anymore.

For a brief period of time, you have hope of that possibility. You think if you hold these boundaries in place and protect your friendship, things might just return to normal. Even if it means the end to anything more.

That is, until the arrival of the auction.

The Solon Hotel celebrates its 15th annual auction, a Myriad of Nights. The crinkled invitation has been pinned to your corkboard for months, a dreaded reminder of all the preparations you needed to make.

The event has kept you on your toes; dutifully studying the list of guests, keeping an eye on keen bidders and Onychinus rivals. This auction is one of the N109 Zone’s most important events of the year, with the grossly rich and the violently powerful alike having a stake in this auction.

One week before the auction, Sylus strolls into the office, a sly smile plastered on his face, “I come bearing good news.”

You roll out your chair to face him. Without missing a beat, you ask, “A raise? World peace? Luke and Kieran outgrowing their terrible twos?”

“I'm not a miracle worker,” He smirks at that last one. “No, I've come to tell you that you’ve been granted a night off on the 17th.”

“The 17th?” You question — and he amusedly spins your chair before striding over to his desk, ready to start the work day. But you’re left dazed, stopping the wheel as you pull up the shared digital calendar, confirming your suspicions. “But that’s the night of the auction.”

“Miss Hunter will be covering for you.”

“Oh?” Your face falls in an obvious dismay you can’t hide.

The auction. Like many things from the story that have become hazy over time, the auction had slipped your mind. With how far back preparations had started, you completely overlooked its connection with the hunter’s arrival.

“She has her own agenda for the night,” He continues, “One that promises bloodshed. So, I want you to rest easy for the night. Take a well deserved break.”

By all accounts, you should be glad. You can’t blame him for making this decision, as you vocally detest going to these events. It’s easily the least enjoyable part of your job. But even with the foreknowledge you had, the thought of her taking your place weighs like a heavy brick in your stomach.

He realizes you’re not exactly pleased. “You can still come if you’d like to, of course,” He’s quick to assure you. “I thought you might enjoy the night off since you despise dealing with these affairs. I didn’t take you for being such a workaholic,” He chuckles affectionately, motioning to ruffle your hair — but you pull away, a little too abruptly.

You see his face fall, and you quickly brush it off and pretend to be unaffected, “Ah, ah, ah — no can do, slave driver!” You dramatically make a letter X with your arms. “You can’t take away a day off once you’ve given it.”

He rolls his eyes, but the concern doesn’t leave his face as he tries to coax you into opening up, eyes filled with a quiet honesty, “There’s no need to pretend like you’re not bothered by this. I know you’ve worked hard for this event.”

“Sylus, you don’t need to worry about me. You have bigger fish to fry. Besides, why would I be bothered by a day off?” You try to play it off.

He sighs, accepting that you’re not going to talk about this any further. “Well, you know that there’s no one who can do your job better, right?” He places a hand on your shoulder, “I just don’t want you getting caught in the trouble that’s bound to ensue.”

You muster a smile, “Of course. After all, what would you do without your dearest secretary?”

He smirks, mind flashing to a night that now feels further than the sun. “Descend into chaos, no doubt.”

As though you were a scorned lover, you watch them from the mezzanine of the penthouse, dressed in your frilly pajamas and sipping a hot mug of tea as they leave dressed to the nines. The criminal and the hunter, two souls cut from the same cloth.

As much as it hurts you to stay behind, there was no way you would be able to stomach the picture perfect image of them together.

“Ready?” He offers his arm with the mannerisms of a perfect escort.

“It's showtime.”

“You lovebirds leaving without me?” You can’t help but be a little dramatic and interrupt their moment — though, Sylus definitely sensed your presence long before they entered. “Could’ve saved me a dance, at least.”

The hunter’s face scrunches in disdain at the mention of lovebirds, but she quickly recovers. “Oh, I think there’ll be more than just dancing, Miss Secretary,” She cheekily lifts the slit of her dress, showing a peek of the pistol strapped to her thigh.

Despite already knowing they’ll have a safe return, your brows knit in worry, “Stay safe out there, you two.”

“You know we can’t promise that — but we’ll make a good effort,” Sylus smirks at you, a hint of concern in his eyes at the idea of leaving you behind.

You nod, a silent way of saying you’ll be okay. You wave goodbye and the hunter returns it eagerly, having warmed up to you in the past week. But the concerned, knowing look never leaves Sylus's face until they depart.

The elevator doors slide shut, and it feels like a coffin closing over your heart.

You laugh at how dramatic you’re being as you hold back a slight tear. It’s just an auction, you keep telling yourself. But it’s not the auction, isn’t it? It was seeing her take your place, and knowing this won’t be the last time.

You pick yourself back up, resolving to make the most of your night off. You make yourself comfortable in the living room, blanket and couch all to yourself, a movie running as background noise as you try to distract yourself with all sorts of hobbies. But you find yourself listless, unable to keep your mind focused on one thing.

The movie ends, and it becomes quiet.

With Sylus gone and the twins on a mission, the silence becomes all consuming. You leave a light on for when they return, trekking through opulent hallways until you reach your room, where once again, you stare into the city skyline stretching out into the distance.

There’s rarely ever an opportunity to be alone in the Onychinus base. But when you are, it never ends well. You used to be able to appreciate solitude in your old world, but maybe you’ve become a little spoiled here, in receiving the constant companionship you had once lived without as a student living away from home.

Here, solitude is when the lines between your dreams and reality begin to blur. Hours dazed in the possibilities of the past, the possibilities of a world where you had stayed. Graduated, diploma in hand as your family stands proudly at your side. Starting your career, devoting your passion to the field you love.

In comparison, this place feels like a lovely yet imprisoning dream. You’re fascinated by the wonders of the world you live in now, but each day that passes is a reminder of your place — or rather, lack thereof — in this world. A reminder of losses beyond comprehension. The loss of chance. The loss of possibility. No opportunity for you to grow, no winding path to change and evolve. And you ask yourself: are you even living?

This world feels like dreaming in a far-too-long nap. And not for the first time, you want to wake up from it.

It's currently March, the last of the winter chill before the snow melts, marking more than a year since your arrival. You feel like a broken record, looping back to the same hurts in an endless loop of grief; your doomed love, severed home, rootless soul. You can no longer fool yourself into thinking you can continue like this. You can no longer pretend to have a reason to stay.

You need to spare yourself from this grief, before it consumes you.

—————————————————————

The auction reaches a chaotic conclusion, one that is whispered about through the N109 Zone for weeks after. You feel the ripples of their actions even from the safety of your office. Luke and Kieran are sent to clean house at The Nest. Meanwhile, you’re swamped with associates from Onychinus’s complex web of loyalties, scrambling to reclaim their spot in Sylus's good graces in light of the recent power struggle.

Eventually, the dust settles. The pages of the calendar turn as the snow melts and warmth pours into the Onychinus base. And alongside the sunshine is Miss Hunter, whose presence becomes a permanent fixture in the penthouse.

It has only been a year since your arrival in this world, but your life has been completely upended, you think. From being a broke, burned out college student, to a tired secretary and mother of three.

Who were those three children, one may ask?

“Miss Secretary!” You poke your head out to see what the fuss was all about, hearing the twins snickering not too far away. The hunter stomps her way to your room, face cringed and seething in disgust. “Luke and Kieran gave me a cookie filled with toothpaste!”

“Ah — see, your first mistake there was trusting anything they gave you.”

Luke and Kieran warmed up extremely quickly to the hunter, as they did in the story. They enjoyed her presence around the base, but you couldn’t tell if it was more for her personality or the fact they had a new target for their trickery. A part of you was relieved; it meant you were no longer on their roster of victims (not that they particularly like pranking you, as you stare them down in disappointment each time). But their determination to mess with the hunter was going to send you into an early grave.

“I didn't even know they could feed themselves, let alone bake,” She pouted, crossing her arms. “In fact, they told me you made them!”

Ah. “Well… there may be some truth to that…” Your voice descends in volume to hide your guilt, but the hunter manages to hear quite clearly.

“You knew about it, and you didn’t tell me?” She gasps, face contorting into mock betrayal. “I can't believe you had it in you to be this… deceitful!”

In your defense, they had only asked you for baking lessons on how to make a cookie sandwich. You had no part in the actual crime. (Though, you may have turned a blind eye at them squeezing toothpaste in the frosting bag. Your patience can only go so far.)

As penance and apology, you promise to bake her actual, edible cookies in return for the monstrosity she just ingested, when you suddenly have a stroke of genius. “I wonder if they have any left.” Your face contorts into a shit-eating grin, “Don’t you think Sylus would appreciate a sweet treat right about now?”

The two of you cackle and rope the twins into it, sending Miss Hunter as the messenger. (He sees right through your ploy, but still takes a bite because she’s the one offering.)

So maybe you’re not as mature as you preach to be. However, your headaches aren’t exclusive to the humans in the penthouse.

Mephisto's permanent return to the base was a spark of joy in the bleak few months you’ve had, as he’s released from the duty of monitoring the hunter 24/7. It surprised you how much you missed the crow, realizing you’d taken his presence as one of your constant companions for granted.

The first week after his return, he sticks to your side like glue. Displeased at the hunter’s continued presence, continuing to report about her to you. Each time he catches her with Sylus he goes to show you the footage — almost like a son tattling on his father’s misdeeds. It’s a sweet gesture; clearly he’s smarter than given credit for, enough to decipher why you’ve been so downtrodden in the recent weeks. But as much as you appreciate his concern, you’re also not a masochist.

“What is it, Mephie?” You groan, abruptly woken after three grueling hours of trying to fall asleep. You would have thrown hands had you not discovered Mephisto, flapping his wings urgently.

He pecks at your cheek, showing you a hologram of Sylus and the hunter in his room, shoulders pressed together in a close proximity you were not prepared to see. “What, you want me to do something about it?” He flaps his wings in earnest, and you promptly turn around to bury your head in the pillow.

“It's none of my business!” You stubbornly burrow yourself under the blanket as he continues to squawk, “I don't want to know about the time they spend together, okay? It’s just rubbing salt into the wound.” You groggily explain, voice muffled by the pillow.

You didn’t need Mephisto to report on them — you already knew Sylus spent all his free time with her. As recalling her memories was a long shot, he turned his efforts to slowly build up their relationship again. What were once free slots in his calendar are suddenly blocked with the simple notes of ‘Miss Hunter.’ Your work dynamic has never been more out of sync, with his adjustments to the hunter’s daytime schedule after you had originally adjusted to his nights. Gone are the nights you could find him downstairs, spending the night chatting away your fears. Now, all you find are the lights turned off and a motorcycle gone from the garage.

Your voice must have taken a sad turn as the crow whimpers, nuzzling his beak into your neck to comfort you, almost like an apology. “It's okay, I know you just wanted to help.”

You let him roost on your bedside drawers, watching as he mechanically shuts down to rest. Mephisto's presence usually helps you fall asleep but tonight, you sigh as you resign yourself to a night of overthinking.

For a while, you thought that Mephie’s grudge against the hunter was one-sided. A rebellious phase, like a son’s poor reaction to his father’s new partner. So imagine your surprise when you realized she returned the sentiment.

You’re knitting on the couch, nodding along and reacting accordingly to Mephie’s squawks and accusatory pointing of his wings to the disgruntled hunter across the room.

“She said that? Oh, I’m so sorry you had to hear that…” You dramatically cater to the crow’s concerns, “I'll talk to her for you, don’t you worry.”

“Sylus should’ve fed him to the wolves,” The hunter pokes her tongue out at the crow, who squawks in horror. “Of all the adorable, fluffy, non-feathered pets he could’ve had —”

“Ah, ah, he’s not a pet,” You correct her to appease the bird who looks as if steam is about to leave his butt. “He’s the best reconnaissance agent we have at Onychinus. Aren’t you, Mephie?” You coo at him and he flaps his wings in agreement.

But of all the changes the hunter’s arrival brought to your life, the most unexpected development was your friendship with her.

In hindsight, it was no surprise. She may be a hunter — cutthroat and fearless, storming into the N109 Zone, wreaking havoc in the city’s most powerful crime syndicate — but you find there’s a certain bond between all freshly graduated college students. A little burned out, a little lost in life. Your similarities run deeper than your appearances, finding common ground in interests and life experiences despite having come from two different worlds.

She turns to you as a refuge within Onychinus, and in the process, she becomes yours.

Although you loved your newfound family, a year spent with only them had perhaps led you to become a little stir crazy. You almost forgot how it was to interact with normal people your age, as your current situation and job didn’t leave you with a lot of room to feel carefree. But the hunter steps in as a breath of fresh air, taking you along on her various escapades.

“What, leaving without me?” Sylus asks with a touch of playful offense, when the hunter arrives at the Onychinus headquarters — not for him, but for you, to his comical surprise. You can see the silent question in his eyes as they flit between the two of you, and you shrug.

“Yes, now go shoo,” The hunter flicks her wrist, motioning for him to leave as she grins and slings an arm over your shoulder. “It's just me and Miss Secretary today.”

This had all began when the hunter had been rambling about Kitty Cards, and you had stupidly made the off-hand comment, “Oh yeah, I’ve never played that before.”

It wasn’t a lie; the real life edition of the game would be a vastly different experience to the virtual one. But the appalled look on her face sent waves of regret coursing through you, as she immediately booked a session at her favorite cat cafe.

Of course, Sylus still manages to pull one on you as you’re promptly greeted by two bodyguards from the pool of new initiates.

Your jaw drops as you turn to him, “Excuse me, do you not trust me to go out on my own?”

“It's not you that I don't trust,” His gaze drifts over to the hunter, who glares at him in offense. “Our dear hunter, on the other hand, has a talent for finding trouble.”

The hunter in question scoffs, “Well, why else do you think I keep you around?” She tilts her head cheekily at him, as he rolls his eyes, breathing an affectionate sigh.

Like always, it’s a casual punch to the gut.

His gaze travels to you (almost knowing, you think) but you brush it aside and keep the neutral expression on your face. “Let’s wrap it up, you two.” You walk forward, lightly shoving your shoulder against Sylus’s, interrupting their moment. A rare moment of pettiness from you, but you think you’re entitled to it every now and then. “Shall we go? I’d like to see the Linkon sun before nightfall.”

You spend the day in Linkon where she crushes your ass repeatedly, and you’re not even offended. You were only here to see the cats, after all. It’s the perfect duo; she’s way too competitive and you don’t care about winning at all — the best of both worlds as you share the winnings, anyway, at the badge counter.

In your small world consisting of your newfound family at Onychinus, you appreciate the new friend you’ve made. An appreciation that surpasses any of the petty jealousy you may have. Time spent with the hunter means the opportunity to be a little less mature, to be silly in a way you haven’t been in a long time. You appreciate the brief reprieve, as this world has forced you to remain at 100% — keeping you at constant guard in the wake of your transmigration.

Alongside kitty cards, she introduces you to the pop culture in this world, something you were never given a glimpse of in the game. One afternoon, you two decide to steal a set of speakers from Sylus’s study, putting on a playlist she made after learning how little you knew of mainstream music.

You’re sitting on the floor of your room, surrounded by papers as she switches the song to a soft acoustic track. “I like this one,” you comment, making a mental note to add the artist to your own playlist.

“You don’t know them? Huh, I guess I shouldn't be surprised since you didn’t know any of the fifteen others before this…” You laugh awkwardly as she sends you the link, murmuring a soft thanks. “Did you grow up under a rock?”

“Something like that. I grew up really far from Linkon, it’s like an entirely different world there.” It wasn’t a lie.

She never questions you further than that, to your relief. “You know, three months ago I wouldn't have dared to step into sylus’s study unless my life was at stake,” The hunter reminisces, sprawled out on your bed. “But here we are, committing casual theft.”

“You’ll learn over time he’s not as scary as he thinks he is. Especially when it comes to you. You could — I don’t know, spill your coffee on his desk, or stage a revolt against him in Onychinus, and he wouldn’t even bat an eye.”

She rolls her eyes, but you can see the faint blush coating her cheeks. “You’re exaggerating. Honestly, I was scared shitless when I first met him. Don’t tell him that,” She stares you down, and you motion to zip your mouth closed. “But I guess he’s not that bad, the more I get to know him…”

You smile, partly out of affection and partly out of bitterness. The hunter is so obviously smitten, and you know it’s only a matter of time before she opens her heart to him.

By all means, you should be happy for them. You should be happy that your dearest friend in this world is finally getting the love and happiness he desires, that he deserves. You promised to back out of this unspoken race and let the story continue as intended — but here and now, fiddling with the beautiful necklace given to you many moons ago, you realize you have a habit of clutching onto things for far too long.

Long after the hunter leaves, you shuffle papers and calendars around to an unnecessary degree of perfection, lingering on these thoughts. Your friends, your family, your dreams, had made up the beautiful, imperfect mess that was your life. But here, beyond the walls of this place, the sad reality was there was little reason for you to stay. Little reason for you to live.

And you wonder, when she finally takes the place you hold in Sylus’s life, in Onychinus — what will be left for you in this world?

—————————————————————

Early April showers take over the dark skies of the N109 Zone, a soft drizzle pattering against the windows of Sylus’s main office. It's a slow day, spring taking its course as Onychinus returns to a new normal with the hunter.

Stoic and focused he may seem, but Sylus’s mind is anywhere but work, drifting to the hunter and their blossoming relationship. He’s taken any and all opportunities to spend time with her. His schedule — once filled with free nights and weekends spent cozily in the penthouse — are booked back to back in any free moment he and the hunter can spare. His text messages, typically relegated to his work, become full of silly little moments as she continues to take a larger place in his life.

It’s what he wanted, isn’t it?

So why does he feel his heart fall every time he sees the distance that’s grown between you two?

It's the 17th of April, and despite the little time you’ve spent together, he knows you already have something planned for his birthday. You haven’t breathed a word about it, but he knows that you would refuse to let it go uncelebrated, if the twins’ hushed scheming around him isn’t enough to go by.

He rests his chin on his hand, scrutinizing you, as if he could read your mind if he tried hard enough. You type away on your computer like a machine, so focused that it takes an awfully time before your eyes drift over to him, a bit alarmed at the intensity of his staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“No reason at all,” He barely holds back the smirk threatening to curl at his lips.

He can practically see the thoughts running through your head. Is he mad? Is he planning something? Can he read my mind? Until you finally look away with a resigned sigh.

He chuckles under his breath, thinking he’s ready for whatever you have planned, when the door swings open, revealing the hunter — who was supposedly busy with work today — on a surprise visit.

“Knock knock!” She raps her knuckles against the open door, “Good evening, Miss Secretary! Or — good morning, I guess, for the both of you?”

“Did I say you could come in?” Sylus asks with his typical drawled snark.

She scoffs, throwing a smile at you before occupying his visitor’s chair, crossing her legs and making herself comfortable. “Is that any way to greet your favorite hunter, who’s so kindly come to you since you’ve been busy all week?”

He narrows his eyes, “You want something from me.” A statement, not a question.

She sticks her tongue out at him, having clocked her immediately before she even got a word in. “A little birdie may have told me that you own an RX–116 —”

“You’re not riding it.” The answer comes automatically, eyes mechanically returning to the paperwork he’d been previously neglecting.

“You haven’t even let me explain why…!”

“Alright, tell me. Why should I let you take Treasure — my most cherished motorcycle — out on a reckless joyride into the N109 Zone?” He crosses his arms, patiently waiting for her answer.

“Because you’re a fun–loving soul at heart, who values the happiness of his friends?” Her tone is light, fingers crossed, only to receive his deadpan stare. She huffs, “Oh, come on. I promise I'll be careful. What if you drive? If Miss Secretary can survive it, I definitely could!”

His eyes drift over to you, and you barely glance up from your screen, deigning him with a shrug. “Sorry, she asked.” He continues to stare intently at you, a silent plea he hopes you’d understand if only you’d just look up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“…No meetings? Deadlines? Overdue paperwork? Tell me what’s on my schedule today.”

You grant him an almost knowing smile, rolling your eyes. “Since when have you cared about paperwork?” Still, you flick through the digital calendar, lazily pretending to indulge his request. “No, there’s nothing keeping you. You’re free from the clutches of work. For today,” You emphasize that last part as a subtle threat.

Still, he continues to look at you skeptically — it’s almost like he wants you to hand him more work. “I mean it, go have fun. Take a break. Since when did you care so much about skipping work?” He can almost hear you muttering, “The privileges of being a rich bastard…” as you breathe a tired sigh.

It's true that Sylus's position affords him the privilege of passing up on the workday for his whims. Whether it be upgrading Mephisto, waiting on online auctions for vintage records, or in this case, a day out with the hunter.

It unnerves him, this side of you. Despite the stark gap in power between you, you’ve never failed to scold and banter with him, thumping him on the head more than a few times after he’d neglected the calendar. But lately, you’ve been almost… complacent with him, as if you’ve accepted something inevitable.

It's a jarring realization when he thinks about how little time he’s spent with you since the hunter’s return. Especially considering how close you had grown, how you’d spent almost every free moment with him before. A part of him knows that for one reason or another, you’ve kept your distance, and he hates it — but at the same time, the hunter was slowly opening her heart to him.

But were you really going to let him go this easily, on the eve of his birthday, when you clearly had something planned already? It was moments like these that made him wish for things to return to normal. (That made him wish to see the side of you that cared.)

“Fine,” He gives into the pleading eyes of the hunter, who cheers as he tosses her the keys. “Meet me in the garage. Careful not to go too wild, kitten.”

He shakes his head as she skips out of the room, catching one last look at you before muttering, “You two will be the death of me…” He leaves the office without looking back.

The evening is spent racing through the outskirts of the N109 Zone, wind and rain rushing past them as Sylus takes the opportunity to show off the motor’s maximum speed. She screams, and it echoes through the empty roads. Joyously carefree, still carrying the same fire and spirit she once held in their previous lives.

But, not everything was the same. The hunter’s life was by no means easy, but she grew up in a much kinder world than the sorceress, untouched by the horrors that he and her previous iteration were irrevocably changed by. Does he even want her to remember? Would it still be love if he forced her to relive those horrors?

His devotion to the sorceress has always been overwhelming, all-consuming. But in this life, he does not feel the same intense love, but more so a quiet affection, a desire to protect. And so, he’d rather the hunter live in peace. Never knowing the horrors of their past, even if it means that he’ll be forgotten, as well.

She urges him, “Go faster!” and he obliges with a smirk, revving up the engine to go at maximum speed. She cackles, letting go of his waist and letting her arms caress the midnight breeze. He can’t help but breathe an affectionate sigh — her dauntless, the opposite to your wariness on this very motorcycle.

Miss Secretary. His thoughts have once again spiralled back to you, a habit that’s slipped out of his control. He's always been unwavering in his desires, but your arrival had upended his world and the foundations of what he knew about himself. And now, he no longer knows where his heart lies.

He knows it’s not fair to either of you. He feels guilty for the hunter’s oblivious nature — clueless to what almost was (what could still be) between you and him. And for you, you have done your utmost best to keep the boundaries he wasn’t strong enough to.

He's a shameless man who’s never been afraid to take and take. But every time he sees the pain that his indecision — his choice — has caused you, he can’t help but tread carefully, wary of hurting you any more than he already has.

The clock strikes twelve, marking the beginning of April 18th. They return to a base shrouded in darkness, where they stumble around for the lights, only to be greeted by a garishly decorated living room and the twins dressed in red and black.

“Happy birthday, boss!” The twins blow party poppers as he walks into the living room, “Didn’t expect this, did ‘ya?”

He’d been so conflicted at leaving before his birthday, when little did he know, it was all an elaborate ruse to distract him while you and the twins decorated.

“…It seems I've been deceived.” This is the first time you have ever left him truly dumbfounded.

“Surprise!” The hunter slaps him on the back, a satisfied smirk on her face. “Did you really think I was bugging you for a ride out for nothing?”

“Well, not nothing, considering you commandeered the vehicle halfway through.” She swats at him playfully in response.

His eyes search for you, and just in time, you carefully step out of the kitchen, holding a two-tiered cake with a candle lit atop. What ensues is an off-tune rendition of happy birthday, as you step closer, careful not to extinguish the flames, “Make a wish, Sylus.” You smile.

Since the tragic end to his life as a dragon, he’s only ever had one wish. But this year, he hesitates.

For the first time, he wishes for something else. Something new and precious.

The flames dance in the wind before being snuffed with a single breath, smoke trailing with the promises of what’s to come.

Once again, you‘ve planned an elaborate celebration, just as you did the previous year. Something simple here at the base, but still catering to his preferences. From the tasteful red, black, and gold decorations, his favorite meals laid out on the dining table, and a pile of presents wrapped in a mishmash of patterns and ribbons.

When he takes the first bite of the cake, he lets out a hum of satisfaction, immediately noticing the gleam in the twins’ eyes.

“What, did you like it?” You smile at him cheekily, chewing through your own bite. “Luke and Kieran baked it, red velvet cheesecake with a bourbon coating.”

The hunter scowls, still not over their previous attack on her taste buds. “Oh, so Sylus gets a fancy, artisanal cake and I get toothpaste cookies?”

Kieran grins, lightly punching her shoulder, “Don’t worry, Miss Hunter. Just wait til’ it’s your birthday.”

”Yeah! We’re more than ready to top the last one," Luke chimes in, a sinister promise no one wants to hear.

Sylus's gaze follows the hunter throughout the night. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to closure, he thinks, seeing her slot into his close circle (family) like a perfect puzzle piece, celebrating a day that never mattered to him until they made it matter. In their previous life, they had never been afforded the time or peace to celebrate these mundane milestones.

But despite the jovial atmosphere, his eyes can’t stray from your strange mood. You do a good job of pretending that everything is alright, going about the motions and matching the merry of the occasion. But though you may be able to fool others, you can’t fool him. After the party has come to an end, he doesn’t leave your side — determined to know what’s been bothering you.

“Hey, no cleaning for the birthday celebrant!” You lightly shoo him away with the broom as he tries to take over cleaning the living room.

“Oh? I say the birthday celebrant gets to decide that for himself,” He easily swipes the broom from your hands, and you huff, relegated to picking up the wrapping paper strewn about the floor.

“Stubborn bastard,” You mutter under your breath.

“A little louder, dear. I couldn't hear you.” You scowl at him and he laughs, “I can't let you do all the work, no? What kind of boss would I be, then? Tsk, if only you had just left it to the cleaners like I told you to.”

Still, you resolve to finish cleaning. It’s a bit comical seeing him with a broom and dustpan, and on his birthday, of all days. Still, you assert that it would be too rude to leave all this work for the cleaners’ shift come morning. With the two of you working at it, by the time the hour’s up you wouldn’t have been able to tell a celebration occurred.

“Let's go to the rooftop,” Sylus suggests, after taking out the trash. “I feel like taking a breath of fresh air.”

The two of you walk up the familiar staircase to the rooftop, the highest point in the N109 Zone, where you’ve spent many nights deprived of sleep and spilling your deepest fears and nightmares.

“Watch your head.”

“What are you— ow!” You bump your head on a new exit sign that hadn’t been there the last time you came.

He laughs breathily, rubbing your forehead with his thumb after he perfectly ducks under the sign. “I did warn you.”

“It feels like forever since we’ve been up here.”

“It's also been quite a while since I’ve seen you.”

You laugh shakily, “What are you talking about? We’re in the office every day…”

“Don’t act like you don’t understand, it’s unbecoming of your intelligence,” He brushes a stray hair from your face.

“Well, what can I say? We’ve all been so busy lately… But you seem happy, though.” He remains silent, so you continue, “You’ve waited so long to reunite with her. I've never believed in soulmates or anything like that, but for you two, I just might. I’m happy for you,” A timid smile paints your face, and he can’t tell if it’s out of bitterness or soft appreciation.

He doesn’t know how to feel, receiving your approval — feigned as it may be. “If that's so, do you believe it for yourself?” You look at him strangely. “Do you think you could have a soulmate?”

The question seems to weigh heavily on your mind as you look away, dangling your feet aimlessly, “Maybe so… But I like to think that love is a choice. Something that’s earned, built up over time. That's the kind of love that I want, at least.”

His heart has been conflicted for so long — but all of a sudden, you feel unreachable, slipping from his grasp into a territory uncharted. (All of a sudden, he wants to give you everything you wish for.)

“It's been a while since we’ve talked like this. It’s nice being able to spend time with you again.” You stand up, brushing non-existent dirt off your thighs. “But I better head to bed.”

It’s a lie, you both know you’ll spend the night tossing and turning into the hours of the night; so he tries to push at the walls you’ve put up. “Come on, dear. It's my birthday. Just grace me with your presence for a few more minutes…”

He tries not to sound desperate, but all he wants to do is reverse time, to return to a period where you weren’t wary of spending time with him. He'd been spoiled by the affection and friendship you once offered so freely, and now he couldn’t bear this distance you stubbornly held in place.

He reaches to grab your hand, but you pull yours away.

You hesitate before turning around, “I'm sorry, Sylus. But maybe another night.” Your voice is soft as you say good night, his eyes stuck on the image of you walking further away until you disappear from sight.

He wants so badly to pull you back, yearns to grab your hand once again, to feel the warmth of your palm against his. But he knows he has no right to. The presence of the hunter a few doors over says it all, says his choice. He can’t bear to hurt you any more than he already has. But at the same time, he can’t bear to lose you.

So instead, he watches you walk away, knowing that he’s chosen the hunter, his soulmate. But a part of his heart continues to yell at him, telling him he’s making a grave mistake.

—————————————————————

You don’t think you’ll ever get used to the overstimulating atmosphere of the underground ring. The flashing lights, the all-consuming noise in the hours before a match starts. It's been months since you’ve been here, but it’s clear that anticipation runs high in the crowds, with this being Sylus's first game since last year’s loss.

You sniffle, holding back a sneeze as you approach the ring with a bouquet of flowers, waiting patiently for Sylus to break from his pre-game focus as the coach gives him a last minute pep talk.

His eyes eventually drift over to you as he takes a sip of water, “Oh? Look who showed up." He smirks at you, arms leaning against the barrier, “And here I thought you’d be a no-show after last year’s disappointment.”

“What can I say? It’s a crime to pass up on an easy bet.”

“I'm touched by your faith in me,” Unlike his words, his tone is deadpan.

You mockingly scoff, “Who said I placed my bets on you?” You say this, but both of you know who you’re rooting for. “I just thought I might as well wish you good luck, considering I used my PTO on this.”

“Trust me, dear.” His smirk is one of confidence, as he leans past the barrier, face inching towards yours. “By the end of the night, there’ll be a new champion reigning this ring.”

A sudden screech comes from behind — some sort of ongoing venue prep — and your face scrunches up, another headache coursing through you.

“Are you okay?” His brows furrow as he calls your name, concerned at the deep circles under your eyes, the pale sheen to your face. “Maybe you should sit down. You don’t look well.”

“I'll be fine,” You wave him off, “It’s just a headache. I can champ through it.”

“But is it wise for you to stand in these crowds?” He removes his glove, pressing a hand against your forehead. “Go sit down in the locker room, they’ll be airing the match inside. I don't need you in the stands to know you’re supporting me.”

The increasing dizziness you feel is the only reason why you nod, picking up your things and doing as told without so much as a fight. His eyes follow your sluggish form until you make it past his sight, settling inside the rundown locker room to watch alongside other competitors and coaches.

Even though you’ve been continuously sneezing and feel like knocking out, you’re on your toes the entire match, even from the low quality screen delegated to the locker room. The crowd is just as enthusiastic, roaring for his revenge match. You know nothing about boxing, but even you can tell from the first few minutes alone that he’s doing well, performing better than he ever was as the cheers of the crowd pound through to the walls of this secluded room. The camera shifts as he overtakes his opponent — and that’s when you see it, a glimpse of the hunter cheering at the front row.

You already expected her presence, was anticipating to sit by her side as the both of you cheered Sylus on. But a part of you feels sick, lightheaded, progressively dizzier as the match continues. Not just because of the hunter’s arrival, or the anxiety of seeing Sylus getting socked in the face — you realize as you feel the bile rising up your throat.

The match ends as you walk out of the bathroom, contents of your stomach flushed down the toilet. You missed the final blow, the crowning moment, the television having switched to an interview. His voice fills the room, the audio muffled and crackly, “Someone came all the way here to watch me. Said she didn’t want to see me lose.”

You recognize that look of adoration, reserved only for the hunter. And once again, you feel your stomach lurch.

It's a weak moment for you — you want to stay, to cheer him on as his friend and supporter (the only things you were and would ever be to him). But it was too much for you, seeing her take the place that maybe, in another life, could have been yours.

You guiltily leave the bouquet in the locker rooms, slipping away easily into the swarm of crowds leaving the venue. You pass by the ring as you make your way to the exit, seeing him at the edge of the barricade, swarmed by reporters.

In the ring, he shines like a star far out of your reach.

Was this penance for your pride? For believing you could take the spot of someone who was long destined to be by his side? The last image you see is of his arm wrapped around her waist, lips pressed to her forehead — his attention, his gravity, tethered to her.

You leave the underground stadium guilt-free, feeling a little silly for having doubts about your departure affecting him. You realize that no matter what you do, he’ll be fine.

He has the hunter now.

—————————————————————

The moment he steps out of the ring, lights flashing and reporters crowding to get his interview — the first thing he sees is the hunter, standing front row in the bleachers, cheering him on with her fist in the air. His arm stays around her waist as they celebrate his win, answering nosy interviewers and being crowned with the champion’s ring.

He should be filled with nothing but happiness, satisfaction. But right now, all he could think of was finding you.

He fiddles with the champion’s ring, a nervous tic he’d never dare show to the naked eye as he makes his way to the locker room, where he finds an intricate bouquet of flowers and a congratulatory note, written in your familiar penmanship.

It seems his greed had become far too overwhelming.

Faced with all his wishes coming true, he still yearns for more. Everything he ever wanted was coming together, but none of it felt right — not with your absence creating a gaping void in a picture perfect image.

Disheartened by your absence, the dim mood follows him as he returns to a quiet home. He carefully steps inside, your snores filling the space as he finds you sprawled on the living room couch, still dressed in your outside clothes, skin dull and face tightened in discomfort.

He lifts you up, beginning the trek to your bedroom to let you sleep away the rest of the night, only for you to stir awake in his arms. “Sylus?” You peek at him through bleary eyes, “You’re home…”

He places the back of his hand against your forehead, “You’re burning up. Did you take any medicine before falling asleep?”

“I'm sorry I couldn’t stay for the match…” In your drowsy state, you don’t hear his question, instead nuzzling your head into his chest. He savors the feeling of your warmth. “Did you get my flowers?”

“I did. They were a beautiful choice.”

“That's good. You deserve only the best, after all.” Your voice is a little breathy, soft and tender in ways you never reveal to him anymore — and he couldn’t help but be a little lovestruck.

“You know just how to flatter me, don’t you?” He lays you down gently, tucking the covers over your form, as he musters the courage to follow through with his thoughts. “But since you brought me flowers, I should give something in thanks.”

He slides the champion’s ring off his finger, delicately placing it in your palm, closing your fingers over it. “I believe this should be yours.”

“Sylus, what is this?” Your face is still unnaturally pale, but you seem more lucid now, staring at the ring with an unreadable expression on your face.

“There's only one reason I left as a champion today, and she’s standing right in front of me.” His eyes are glued intently to yours, water still streaking from his hair after the quick shower he took before leaving. “Last year’s match was a blow to my pride, I'll admit. But how could I ever stay down with you by my side?”

It’s rare for him to display his fondness on a silver platter — not painted in wit or banter, but with the clarity of an open window into his heart. But something about you wills him to take steps he never has before.

You stay silent for an unnerving amount of time, turning away from him, overwhelmed by the depth of his gaze. Your face contorts into a fractured smile, “I think we both know who you should really give this to.

He stares at the ring, refusing to take it from your outstretched hand. a strained laugh leaves his lips. He gently grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him once again, “You won’t even accept gifts from me, now? How much will you pull away from me before you’re satisfied?”

“I can't accept this, and you know why.”

He knows. Just like he knows why you stray from his touch, why you avoid his gaze. He knows, but he refuses to accept it.

“I went into this match for you. I won it for you, not the hunter.” A frantic sort of grief fills his features, imploring you to open your heart to him. “So why is it that you keep telling me to run to her? What makes you believe you’re undeserving?”

“Because it shouldn’t be me. I just—” The words fail to form on your tongue, twisting and turning until the intention is lost. “Please, sylus. I can't do this right now.”

“I didn't think your cowardice was stronger than our friendship.”

You come to an abrupt still, your eyes glazing over in stifled shock. “Well, I'm sorry to have disappointed you.”

Regret immediately courses through him as he realizes the harshness of his words, and the guardedness of your tone. He hates causing you hurt or pain, but he can no longer bear to ignore the distance that's grown between you. (But does he even have the right to confront you about it? When he knows his actions are the root cause.)

“We can't hide from this forever, so why won’t you just talk to me?” He's just about ready to beg for you to look at him again, to talk to him again, without the inhibitions that separate you now.

You take a deep breath, a hundred thoughts running through your mind before you settle on simple words, “Because things can’t go back to normal, and I don't know if they ever will.” You turn around, effectively ending the conversation and drawing that dreaded line. “I'd like to be alone now, please.”

It’s not irreparable; at least, you don’t think so. But regardless of the place the hunter now holds in your life, you had crossed a turning point in your relationship, one that made it impossible to turn back. This was the price of his choice; he couldn’t have his cake and eat it, too.

Despite how much he wants to confront you, more than anything he wants to respect the boundaries you’ve set in place. And so, Sylus is left to stew in his thoughts in the living room, fiddling with the ring and wondering why he wouldn’t just give the ring to the hunter. Why he caused all of this mess. (He knows exactly why.)

The bond he had with the hunter transcended lifetimes, giving his soul a first taste of human connection and love. He grasped at the seams of that bond, holding on for dear life and desperately seeking the peace they were never afforded. But your arrival broke the monotony of his days, and in the process, treated him to that connection, that genuine acceptance and care so freely. You easily slotted into his life, and now that you were trying to walk away — he couldn’t just bear to let you go.

He may have fallen in love with the sorceress in their previous life, but now, it was time to face his current reality.

In this world, his heart had chosen you.

—————————————————————

You feel like you're being replaced, being pushed out of the picture you were never meant to be captured in.

For the longest time, you’ve felt the petty urge to hate the hunter. To pick out her flaws and shortcomings to make yourself feel better. But that wouldn’t be fair to her, who’s done nothing but unknowingly capture Sylus's heart. And it would only fan the flames of bitterness and hurt that were already burning inside you.

You stomp at the petty jealousy taking root in your heart — because what right do you have to feel that way? What right do you have to mourn a love that was never yours to begin with?

You feel rather foolish. You thought you knew what his affection felt like, but it was nothing compared to seeing his devotion. You never believed in soulmates — but how could you deny the cosmic connection before your very eyes? Like a planet and its moon, they orbit each other — his harsh edges softening in her presence.

Sylus gave you hope for a future in this world. But to him, you must be just one of many, a buffer while he waits for his lover to finally come along in this life. He was someone who had never known peace, never known the warmth of love before he met her. In the grand scheme of things, what was your rust to her gold?

These fantasies have become fatal, cutting open old wounds and deeply hidden thoughts. Never have you felt so untethered. No place where you belonged, no place to call home, no connection that was meant to be truly yours. Your world had been shrouded in static in the wake of losing your loved ones, life becoming grainy and distant in your grief. The loneliness had been dampened by new connections, by a blossoming love, but was now coming back in full force as you watch the image of how it should be, without you.

You were never meant to be here.

(Thus, it was only right to return things to how they should be.)

—————————————————————

Thunder rolls in, casting gloomy skies over the N109 Zone. it’s one of those days where you can’t muster up the energy to do anything but curl up on the couch with a blanket, paperwork left forgotten on the coffee table, watching raindrops dart against the tall windows overlooking the city.

The twins are similarly sprawled across the living room floor. With Sylus and Mephisto out on a mission, it’s just the three of you in the penthouse, spending the last of the spring showers working by the warmth of the fireplace, before humid summer storms take over.

The dreary atmosphere did nothing to quell the persistent grief that weighed heavily in your chest. Not even the comforting presence of Luke and Kieran could muster a smile on your face, these days.

Your eyelids start to flutter, the movie and the twins’ chatter becoming hazy as you drift into slumber, where once again, you dream of home.

You find yourself thinking about home much more, nowadays. You miss the sun, you miss the food, the warmth of company (the lack of doubt of your belongingness). But as always, you wake up to the cars and gunshots typical of the N109 Zone, the rain having slowed to a soft drizzle, pattering against the window.

You spend a little while with your eyes closed, savoring the taste of home only a dream can capture, a feeling that slips through your fingers before you can truly grasp it. And once again, you wish for a clue, a hint, an answer to a way back home.

Little did you know how soon this wish would be granted.

You stretch your arms out, coming to a slow rise from the couch, remembering the pile of paperwork that awaited you on the coffee table. You sigh as you see the other half; it seems the twins hadn’t gotten much done either, their papers getting mixed up with yours during your short nap. you take quick, mindless glances at the papers — your events and supply documentation, the twins’ mission reports — as you sort through them.

One in particular slides out from the pile, and you pick it up, intending to place it on their side of the table — only to stop in your tracks, catching a single phrase. Dimensional travel.

You shouldn’t be snooping. As Sylus's secretary, you’re already privy to most of the ongoings in Onychinus. You know that if something’s been kept from you, it’s for a reason. But as your mind flits over all the dead ends you’ve run into in your search to go home, you think — what’s the harm in taking a look?

Your blood stills.

What greets you is the twins’ hasty scrawl, recounting their findings as they led a reconnaissance mission at an EVER lab on the outskirts of the N109 Zone. Test subjects who were found in public, on the brink of death. Who spoke of “other worlds.” Unfortunate individuals who were found somewhere more public, deemed a nutcase, and left vulnerable to the hands of EVER. In Kieran’s more formal penmanship are the words, “These findings are supported by the classified dimensional travel studies at Prestara University…”

And when you see the date of the mission — it’s from the previous year.

Why did no one tell you about this?

All of you were smart enough to connect the dots. Near-death experiences, tales of other worlds. Here you were, searching on what seemed to be a fool’s errand, when the people you slept under the same roof with held the very answers you’d been so desperately seeking.

An eerie feeling settles over you (you don’t want to name it as betrayal) as you look over the papers, reading them over and over, thinking there’s no way this had been just out of reach, all these months.

On the dot, the twins return to the living room with bags of snacks in their arms, Luke with his typical cheer as Kieran stills, seeing the papers in your hand. “Miss Secretary, you’re finally awake. Do you want a snack —”

“What is this?” You cut him off, uncharacteristically stoic as you raise up the stapled reports, still reeling from shock at the words you’ve just read. “Your mission reports… These are from a year ago. Why didn’t I know about this?

The two worriedly look at each other in silent communication, before you ask again, fed up with the lies and secrecy. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“Luke, she read the reports. She knows.”

“But the boss said — Fine. But don’t blame me when this ends badly.” He sighs before giving in, turning to look you in the eye. “I think it’s better if we show you. But… Please don’t be mad at the boss.”

“No more than you already are,” Kieran adds, and you look at him skeptically. “We know you two are fighting. It’s been torture seeing you guys mope! The boss has been burying everyone in work and you… You’ve been a shell of yourself.”

You open your mouth, ready to spout excuses, but he interrupts you. “Don’t deny it, we can see it for ourselves. Especially with the way the boss has been grovelling.”

“Sylus has not been grovelling. He has better things to do with his time.” You roll your eyes, but they continue to stare at you in doubt, until you sigh and let up.

“Alright. so we may have had a… slight disagreement. But really, I've just been in a funk. A little homesick, and a little actually sick. That's all. But you know what will help me?” You raise up the reports once again, flipping to the research page. “Show me these case studies. Show me everything there is to know about this.”

“Well, we tried.” Kieran lets out a tired exhale, “If knowing this will help you, then we’ll do it.”

The twins lead you into their wing of the penthouse, a territory you never dared to venture unless it was dire circumstances— which it very well feels like it is now.

“Welcome to our little abode!” Luke cheers as he swings the doors open.

“Oh, how… charming.”

You tiptoe around the communal living area, unable to distinguish what is a weapon for Onychinus and a personal invention they’ve made for an elaborate prank. Frankly, it’s a mess. Apparently teenage boys are the same type of disgusting in any universe, you cringe as you find a smelly article of clothing on his desk that's definitely overdue for a wash. Only the promise of answers holds back your urge to hand these kids a broom and force them to clean.

“Over here’s my desk. Go wild, I guess. I'll be in the other room if you need anything.”

Your heart races as you’re left to your own devices, inputting the related mission code — and there it is. A wealth of information answering the questions you’ve had.

You skim over the articles, all from the same research team, studying the phenomenon of dimensional travelers, as they’ve so aptly put it, and their possible connection to the Deepspace Tunnel.

But the most damning implication of them all, was that there was a way for you to return home. The researchers are positive they’re close to a breakthrough, they write, as they cite the commonalities between these travelers. If a close encounter with death is what brought them all here, then it only makes sense it can bring them back.

But this is where the trail ends. The last article ends with the researchers discussing potential experimentation — the risks of being lost in the unknown boundary between worlds, ripped to shreds by the force of gravity, or better yet — just dying. With it, your hope dims.

But it’s something. Nothing concrete, but enough to prove you weren’t crazy. Enough to have hope. Enough to try.

But the question remains… how could this have possibly slipped past you? You’ve researched every corner of info available to you in the Onychinus database.

As Sylus's secretary, you’re granted the privileges to access almost everything in Onychinus, including the information databases which contain a wealth of information from various sources (legally and illegally obtained, many inaccessible to the public yet). And when you check the status of the articles — you see that your access has been blacklisted.

As it was, there was only one person in Onychinus with the power to do this.

“Sylus put you up to this, didn’t he?” When your eyes turn to Luke in question, he only nods grimly in confirmation.

“The boss asked us to keep it from you,” He almost looks like a sad puppy wagging his tail, trying to appease your increasingly irate mood. “He was only worried about what you might do if you found out about this.”

“He should’ve worried about what I’d do if you kept this from me.” You spat bitterly, and immediately, guilt coils through you for misplacing this anger on Luke. The twins might have been in on it, but despite all their mischief, they would never have had the heart to lie to you. No, this was all Sylus's doing.

You walk away, as overwhelming waves of betrayal course through you. You don’t want to make assumptions, but there is no other possible truth. It’s almost uncharacteristic of him, you think. He's always supported whatever you wanted to do. So why would he do this now?

Why hide the answers that would lead you back home?

And if he hid this from you, what else could he be hiding?

These thoughts continue to plague you into the late hours of the night. Hours of tossing and turning in the sheets, before giving up on slumber entirely. Before, you would tiptoe in the marbled halls in search of laughter and company. But things were no longer the same. Now, you lock yourself in silence, refusing to bare any more of your heart.

But there still comes some nights such as now, when you can’t stifle the dark creeping in. Like a sheep heading into the wolves’ den, you tiptoe out of your bedroom, making your way to the kitchen where you cope as you always have: by baking.

As you pull out the ingredients, Sylus eventually comes strolling in, as if he had a sixth sense to your presence.

“Can’t sleep again?” He asks groggily. Hair mussed and robe crumpled, it was clear he had already been in bed. His tone is careful, still tiptoeing around you after the mess of a conversation you last had after the match.

You nod tiredly, “Too much to think about.” You’re being uncharacteristically cold to him, not even turning around or looking at him in acknowledgement. But if he notices, he doesn’t show it.

All you want is a moment alone. But already, he’s coming far too close to you — invading your space like he’s entitled to it, when all you want is to be as far away from him as possible.

“Let me help you.” He says, grabbing the bowl from behind you and rolling a whisk in his other hand. “It'll just be like old times, don’t you think? Miss Baker, with her apprentice running the ovens.”

You can’t help the anger simmering beneath you as you slam the cupboards closed, alarming him. Can you not get one moment of peace in this fucking household? “You know what? I think I'll just go to bed, actually.”

He lets out a breath of frustration. "Alright, it’s clear that there’s a problem here.” He grabs your hand to stop you from leaving, only for you to rip it from his grasp. He steps back, “I admit that I said some hurtful things before, and I'd like to apologize properly. But can we sit down and talk about this like civilized people?”

You know it’s wrong to lash out like this, but this betrayal had you reeling and acting out impulsively. A crash-out long in the works, tipped over by your recent revelation. “Always one to ask forgiveness rather than permission, aren’t you?”

“What?” He pinches the bridge of his nose, utterly confused. “I don't know why you continually insist on shutting me out — but I assure you, nothing productive will come out of this.”

A bitter laugh escapes you, “Well, I don’t know why you insist on lying to me. But I'm not the one asking questions here.”

“What are you talking about?” His blood runs cold, gaze steely as he begins to tread carefully through this volley of words.

“Did you think I'd never find out about the information you hid from me? That you ordered Luke and Kieran to lie to me about? How much have you hidden from me?” You seethe, the words spilling out of you like an overflowing kettle.

His silence says it all.

“Gosh, I guess it figures.” You don’t know whether to laugh in irony or cry in defeat. “The one person I trusted the most turned out to be a lying bastard… I don't know why I expected any better from you.”

Sometimes you forget the person Sylus truly is, beyond the softness he’s shown to you in confidence. He may be flowing with unspoken affection for those he cares for, but in the end, he was still a criminal. The leader of the world’s most notorious crime syndicate, gifted in the art of deceit.

But despite this, Sylus was still the person who took you in when you had nowhere else to go. The one person you trusted more than anyone in this world. Although his blossoming relationship with the hunter sprouted thorns over your friendship, you thought that you’d at least have total honesty.

But your expectations crumble into disappointment.

Sylus treats this exchange flippantly, at first, trying to stave off a fight he doesn’t want to have. But you’re so frustrated, you can’t even look him in the eye. Though his face gives away nothing, a storm was brewing inside as the consequences of his actions dawned on him.

And so, he decides to tell you the truth.

He whispers your name carefully, like an apology in itself. “I'm sorry I lied to you. It was never my intention to deceive you, or to hold you back from finding answers — but I know I've hurt you nonetheless. But please, let’s not fight about this. Let me explain myself, first.”

You turn to him, waiting for an answer that will resolve the hurt in your heart.

He doesn't know where to begin, so he starts with an explanation.

When you first arrived, Sylus had done the research. Tried to find a way to send you — this anomaly who’d landed in his backyard — back to where she belonged. But all he could find were dead ends. As far as he knew, there was no way to send you back. You, this stranger, who he wanted out of his life. (Oh, how the thought hurts him now.)

Almost a year later, when the dimensional travel research came in — he immediately marked it as classified. A spur of the moment decision, where he blocked off your access to these files in fear of you discovering them. He excuses it as the danger, the potential recklessness that might possess you in the face of this revelation.

But the truth was: you were no longer just a stranger, you were Miss Secretary. A core part of his life, regardless of the short time you’d been here. Maybe if he was less in-deep, if the reality of you slipping from his grasp wasn’t so tangible, he wouldn’t have resorted to deceit. But as it was, there was no way he was letting you go now.

After all, the fear of lying to you was nothing compared to the fear of losing you forever. (But now, he may just lose you because of it.)

His explanations ring through your head, but all you hear are excuses. You fire back, words slow and tense like a string stretched thin. “You think you’re always right, but you’re not. That's not an excuse to withhold this from me. Living in the N109 Zone is a danger in itself, so what’s so different about this?”

He scoffs, “The difference is that here, you are by my side. Do you think I can't protect you?”

“It's not your responsibility to protect me. In fact, I've long overstayed my welcome here.”

“Says who?” His eyes stare intently into yours, as he opens his arms, “Look around, dear. The only person who wants you to leave is you.”

He shakes his head, frustrated, “Do you even understand what could happen to you if you pursue this path? This not only blurs the boundary between our worlds, but the boundary between life and death. You could die before ever seeing a glimpse of your old world,” A frantic panic shadows his eyes as he moves forward, shaking you by the shoulders, almost begging you not to do this.

“At least I'd finally have some peace!” You spat out like a bullet that’s been lodged in your chest, a truth so hard to bear. Every day in this world has been an uphill battle, and no connection — whether familial or romantic — could make up for everything you had lost, or the closure you had seeked.

“You don’t mean that.” He murmurs in disbelief, the broken look on his face enough to have your shoulders slumped in guilt.

He tries — you know he does — to close the distance that you have placed. But a sadistic part of you likes to see him hurt, likes to see him struggle to repair what he unintentionally broke. But the other part of you just wants to spare yourself from any more hurt.

You’ve never been the type to cling to your pride, but not even you can acquiesce to this when you feel so wronged.

“Do you even understand what this information means to me?” Your voice trembles in desperation, “You don’t know what it’s like to lose everything. I cared about my life. I had dreams, I had plans! My family and friends, they all probably think I’m missing or dead — when I'm just here, trying to get back to them. Yet you have the audacity to pretend like you did this for my sake?”

To him, your arrival was a miracle. Another surprise fate had thrown his way, something he was determined not to let slip from his grasp this time around.

But to you, your arrival in this world was your greatest tragedy.

In spite of it all, he puts his foot down, refusing to put your life on the line. “No, this is where I draw the line. You will not be pursuing this — this death wish, and that’s final.” He doesn’t realize how tightly he’s gripped your shoulders until he steps back from the sheer betrayal in your eyes.

For the first time, you look at him as if he were no more than a stranger. Like you didn’t know him, hadn’t held him in your arms in his lowest moments. He could handle the hunter’s anger and distrust, your distance and aloofness. But your fear? It breaks him.

Still, he swallows this heartbreak in favor of your safety. “Ignore me, hate me — I'm willing to put up with all of it so long as you don’t hurt yourself.”

“Well, what fucking choice do I have when you control everything in this goddamned place?” You close your eyes and laugh bitterly, whispering, “I guess I never knew you as well as I thought I did.”

You walk away, and he knows better than to chase you.

All this time, you had felt guilty for hurting him with your distance, for being an obstacle in the space that was meant for the hunter. Meanwhile, he had been the one barricading you from going back. But why? You cannot comprehend as to why he would be selfish enough to try and keep you here, not when he has everything he’s ever wanted.

Your thoughts continue to spiral as you return to your room– and for the first time, you feel more peace in the silence than in his company.

—————————————————————

He sits in the kitchen until early noon, stewing in disappointment and anger towards himself.

Sylus is hailed for his ability to read people. His target’s desires, his enemy’s weaknesses, his loved ones’ needs. Yet when it comes to you, he finds himself lost at sea, in conflict with himself in a way he hasn’t been since he was unused to the world and its dangers.

For the past millennia, he’d had a clear focus, a clear goal — until you strolled in and completely upended his world and everything he thought he knew.

And what’s worse? He would let you do it as many times as you wanted.

He knows this won’t be resolved so easily. Both of you are the type whose true feelings cannot be encapsulated by mere words. And when the storm inevitably rolls in, he’s afraid of what might be lost in the collateral. Because now, he was far too gone.

Losing the sorceress had nearly broken him once, sent him on a search that had clouded his realization of the place you’d taken in his heart. The realization that he couldn’t bear to live without those mundane moments with you.

He knows, here and now, that he needs to fix this. Right his wrongs, clear things with the hunter, and maybe beg at your feet for you to look at him kindly again, after all he’s done to push you away. Before it's too late and he lets love slip from his grasp once again.

—————————————————————

The ballroom is lit under the warm glow of the numerous chandeliers, casting light over your stone cold face. The opulent celebration — a business partner’s 40th wedding anniversary — was a complete juxtaposition to the storm raging inside you, uncaring to be approachable as you swirl your wine.

In a twist of cruel irony, another event had delegated Sylus to bring a partner for the evening.

“We'll be leaving at 8 o’clock. Use my card for the dress — and treat yourself, while you’re at it.” He informed you, placing one of his cards on your desk along with the invitation. You raised an eyebrow in skepticism, he never spared time for frivolous events such as anniversaries, especially for people he barely knew.

“What, the hunter wasn’t free this time around?” You can’t help but ask, the snark evident in your tone.

He sighs and walks away, not even deigning that with a response. “Don’t be late.”

You shove the invite into a drawer, fully intent on ditching him. But alas — he added it to the calendar himself.

You were expecting him to hand you another half-hearted apology, to add to the growing pile that was already accumulating. Apology flowers left at your desk, paperwork submitted on time, deliveries of chocolates and your favorite food at the office, as his eyes suspiciously don’t meet yours.

“If you think you can bribe me with material things, then you don’t know me very well,” You bitterly threw these words at him then, before clocking out for the day. But Sylus was never one to give up easily.

Throughout the night, you feel the constant prickle of eyes on your back. At first, you assume it’s because of past events, people’s curiosity towards the secretary Sylus was so quick to defend. Your insecurity has you turning around each time — only to meet your employer’s gaze across the room, his eyes lingering on you even with the conversation in front of him. You scoff and look away.

Eventually, he approaches you with your coat in hand, “I believe it’s time to take our leave.”

“So early?” You reply, your words short and cutting when it's necessary to speak.

“This night has already proven to be a disappointment. No reason to waste any more of our time.”

“I'll call for the driver then,” You’re about to dial when he plucks your phone out of your hand.

“No need, I've already given him the night off. I'll be the one driving us home.” You squawk in indignance. Once again, this man has managed to corner you into a situation where you can’t escape him. “But, dinner first, shall we?” He extends a hand, which you resolutely walk past.

This seething ignorance follows him the whole way to the restaurant, into the dimly lit private room where the two of you are seated. Had it been any other occasion, you would’ve taken the time to appreciate the florals adorning the tables, the band playing jazz in the corner, and the delicious food. But your anger clouds your enjoyment, as you channel your frustrations into blindly ordering the most expensive items on the menu.

It isn’t until you’re about halfway through the meal and down one bottle of wine when he finally gets you to speak up, “You can’t stay mad at me forever, darling.”

You take a heavy breath through your nose, “Maybe not, but I can certainly try.” You take another sip of your wine, burying your hurt and sorrow into another bottle.

“You should realize that I'll do whatever it takes to earn your forgiveness.”

“You broke my trust. You lied by omission, letting me continue on a wild goose chase when you were withholding the answers. Pretty words and extravagant gifts aren’t enough to earn my trust again.”

He gently reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. “I know that, and I'm willing to do it all to earn your forgiveness. Not only for my deception, but all your hurts that have gone unnoticed.”

It’s too much, your chest feels too heavy with all that’s bearing down on you. Your voice takes a shaky note, “Sylus, all I want is to go home. That’s it.”

You put up the boundaries he never had the heart to, kept your heart at bay for both of your sakes. But now, he wants to pry open your walls, to reveal the fears that plague you at night.

“I know, dear. I know. And if that’s what you truly want, then I promise to do everything in my power to help you —- so long as it doesn’t result in you getting hurt.” He looks into your eyes, grasping your hand tightly, “All I want is for you to feel safe in confiding in me again — to share your worries, your fears, as you once did. Allow me to carry the weight of your grief with you.”

He knows how much your arrival in this world hurt you, and he carries the guilt of being selfish enough to keep you here despite that.

“I can't anymore. It hurts too much to confide in you, to have a taste of what I know I'll never have. What we’ll never be.” You don’t know what possesses you to admit this yearning. Maybe the intoxication from the wine. Maybe his pleading eyes, or his sweet talk, saying all the right words you’ve wanted to hear for the longest time. But you don’t have any fight left in you to keep your distance.

“What you can’t have? Darling, I would lay the world at your feet, if that was your wish,” He strokes your cheek with an intimacy surpassing friendship — but you haven’t been just friends in a while, have you?

Maybe you both drank a little too much, scooted a little too close in the booth, got too caught up in each other's presence (something you've both been starved of for a while). You don’t know who moved first — but one of you ends up breaking.

You share a starved kiss, hidden under the privacy of dim lights. All at once, the chatter of the restaurant and the rushing of cars dissipate, and all that's left in this universe is you and him and cosmic dust, orbiting around each other.

He explores your mouth, brows furrowed, hands gripping your waist and pulling you to his lap — as if he could meld the two of you by the flesh. It’s like a taste of heaven on your lips, tasting what you had yearned for, denied yourself for so long.

And for a moment you think: what was stopping you from being together? What was so wrong with this connection — so powerful that it wracked your body with shivers and tethered your soul to his presence?

And then you remember: the hunter.

The reality of what's happening dawns on you, your eyes widening mid-kiss as you abruptly push him away, leaving him stunned; his tie crooked, lipstick staining the corner of his lips.

Your hands tremble, still hazy from that searing kiss as you try to hold back the tears welling at your eyes, “Sylus —” You choke on your tears, unable to form the words.

He grasps your face, breathing your name, trying to make sense of what just happened.

“Sylus, oh god, what did we just do? I — fuck, what about the hunter?”

You run outside the private room, the voices of the restaurant and servers fading in the distance as you hastily escape from the implications of what you’ve just done. You try to hail a taxi when he catches up to you, calling your name.

He may be in front of you but all you see is the hunter, her face riddled with betrayal and hurt. Unlabeled as their relationship may be, she’s just spent the past few weeks opening her heart to someone only for it to be betrayed. By a new friend, at that.

You don’t know what possessed you to kiss him back, to deepen it and lose yourself in his lips. Love struck your head, ridding you of logic. Made you give in to the sin of yearning for something that isn’t yours. And now, you were facing the guilty consequences.

“Sylus, we’ve done enough. Please, let’s just forget that any of this ever happened —-”

You’re cut off by his hollow laugh, his chin tilting down for his eyes to stare directly into yours. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”

“This is gonna ruin everything you’ve wished for, don’t you see?” You’re desperate for him to see the wrongdoing in your actions.

“No, it’s you who doesn’t see what’s in front of you.” He grasps your wrist, pressing it to his chest, gentle in a way that doesn’t match the fire in his eyes. “Do you feel this heart? It races in your presence, melts at your touch — and if you disappeared? Well, it would simply stop beating.”

His other hand rests on your clavicle, fiddling with the necklace that has remained on your neck since the night of your birthday. He's a man who never says please, but for you he’ll get on his knees and plead.

His words, such heartfelt words that want to make you give in to all of his wishes are one thing. But his actions are another. You’ve witnessed firsthand the way he looks at her, melts in her presence. And you’re not ignorant to how she feels for him now, once heated frustration turning into the adoration she feels now.

“How could I ever believe what you’re saying?” You feel almost hysterical, with the weight of your emotions crashing down on you. “You’re telling me that you’ve waited hundreds of years for the love of your life, the person bonded to your soul, and you’re going to push it all away for some fleeting connection?”

“Don’t reduce it to something as frivolous as that,” His face darkens, and he grips your hand tighter. “You know that what we have runs deeper than both of us can describe.”

”But what is it to a soulmate?” Your voice is despondent, resigned, “What is this compared to a bond transcending time and space? I know that regardless of what happens here, you’ll choose her. I know that very well, Sylus.” Your voice breaks as you reach your tipping point.

His heart stills, because he himself doesn’t know what he can say to prove himself.

“Please don’t cry,” His voice softens at the sight of tears welling in your eyes, becoming all but putty in your hands. As of this moment, he knows there’s no convincing you, no making you believe that his words ring sincere and true. But he still can’t help but motion to wipe your tears, until you harshly block his hand.

The sorceress and the traveler, Miss Hunter and Miss Secretary. The dragon resting inside of him couldn’t bear to let go of his mate — after all, what was a centuries-old love compared to a new, fleeting connection? But the threads of fate had woven together to bring you to him, and the man he was now couldn’t bear to cut those ties.

You swallow the hurt, trying to put into words the burden that’s been weighing on you for so long, “I don't want to live in her shadow. I don't want to see this through when I know that one day, you’ll regret what you’ve lost.”

His face falls, and you feel a bit of satisfaction in seeing him carry even a smidgen of the hurt you’ve felt. But for the most part, it just hurts you to see him in pain.

”You think so lowly of me, as if I don't have the autonomy to make my own decisions. But you need to face the facts, dear —- the only one holding back is you.” He’s laid his heart on a silver platter. The only obstacle here was your own doubts, your own insecurities.

You reel back as he steps closer, “So tell me, why do you prevent us from having what we both want?” He brushes his hand gently against your cheek.

You take a deep breath to say the words you know will end this for good. “Because I deserve better than to settle for second place in your heart.” You give him no time to refute before you turn around, heart bruised and battered. “Please, just leave. Don’t follow me. I don't wanna speak to you anymore, not tonight.”

“I’m not leaving you alone in this city —”

“I'll call someone.”

And that’s how it ends.

You walk away, deciding to call Kieran to pick you up. You can’t bring yourself to be in close proximity with Sylus right now. You know he hasn’t actually left, hearing the conspicuous whirring of his motorcycle in the distance, engine alerting you to his presence from a mile away. In the corner of your eye, you can see Mephisto's red, beady eyes from the pedestrian light across the road, watching you.

Still, you continue to walk aimlessly in this false notion of solitude, carrying your heels as you wait for Kieran to arrive. Now that the haze of alcohol has cleared, and you’ve let out all that was building up since the hunter’s arrival, you can’t help but feel hollow. Completely drained of all the anger and sorrow that you’d been carrying in the past few weeks.

The streetlights cast these roads in an artificial light, the moonless sky and desolate streets feeling emptier under its warm glow. Midsummer was fast approaching, a period once marked by sunshine and cicadas. The N109 Zone was the antithesis to everything you’d ever known and cherished — and for a while, you thought that maybe it could be enough.

But now, you yearn for the sun to rise after the long night you’ve endured.

A familiar car eventually pulls up, the window rolled down for you to see the concern on Kieran’s face. But he says nothing as you enter, haggard and spent, with no energy to hide your woes or muster up small conversation. The lights of the city dissipate as you head into the outskirts of the N109 Zone, and you can only hope the darkness is enough to shroud the silent tears streaming down your face.

Kieran says nothing as you silently cry in the backseat, offering you the grace of asking no questions.

—————————————————————

Sylus watches painfully as you walk away, ashamed by this seemingly forbidden act — when all he wants to do is pull you in for more.

For the longest time, he'd been in this foolish delusion that things could be the same between him and the hunter. If he got her to remember, if he got her to open up. But the truth was, it’ll never be the same. Both of them were two entirely different people in this life, and now… now there was you.

He had been desperately latching on to the love that was robbed from him centuries ago, and blinded himself to the way you’d fully taken root in his heart.

Now, he needed to cut off these loose ends and find a way to make up for his mistakes, his indecision — and only then, could he even try to give you the love that you deserve.

But the next few days prove to be a trial as the world seems keen on keeping the two of you apart. You have a talent for avoiding him, finding increasingly elaborate ways not to cross paths with him. And when an important mission arises, requiring him to go into the field himself, it felt like fate conspiring against him.

He finishes the mission in record time, completing it in detached efficiency as he ponders how to go about speaking with you — something he plans to do as soon as he returns home. But as he nears the entrance to the Onychinus headquarters, he can immediately sense that something is wrong.

A flash of light strikes through the heart of the N109 Zone — devoid of the accompanying rumble of thunder to be lightning — when dread fills his bones. He realizes he's seen this before.

On the day that you arrived.

He rushes into the building, immediately approached by his lackeys reporting of traitors lurking in Onychinus, who thought it wise to attack the base in his absence. But all he can think about is finding you.

He rushes to his office, finding the twins equally distressed, after they’d cleared the floor for traitors. “Boss, she’s gone.”

“Explain it to me clearly. Who's gone?” His heart is racing — struck by horror at the blood pooling at your desk. He knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to confront the devastation about to tip over.

“Miss Secretary. We apprehended the traitor, but there was a stray bullet and then — she just vanished.”

Rage blinds him. Suddenly he wants vengeance, retribution, ordering his men to apprehend the shooter. All he can do is imprison and torture the man who dared shoot at the woman he loves, making him suffer for what he’s taken from you.

But it's not nearly enough. Not when your absence is so palpable, not when you’ve left his life as easily as you entered it.

In the end, your departure is but a whisper in the N109 Zone, leaving behind nothing but a pool of blood and a mark on his heart.

—————————————————————

are we gonna talk about the way it took me a whole car crash, the national elections, and a loved one's terminal illness to finally finish this chapter? maybe another day. but for now i'm going to play death and rebirth (i didn't let myself until i finished this LOL) i'll see you all on the next chapter where we pick up where this chapter left off and (maybe) see things from sylus’s perspective!

some things i’d like to share since i took off for a month

i've started a new term with new professors — and one of them is literally named GOJO??? my class calls him “professor gojo uwu~” behind his back its hilarious

hot chocolate does not mix well with vodka (don’t ask me how i know)

filipino lads artists are goated and i spend more money on their merch than on the actual game

i fear i’ve become too delusional because why does my dad’s doctor look like ZAYNE —

p.s. if any of you are interested, i've linked the playlist i made for this fic in the series masterlist :>

taglist — @mangooes @mentaltrouble2201 @animegamerfox @crazy-ink-artist @phisen @jeondyy @t4naiis @wifunozomi @munimunni @blessdunrest @rafayelridesfisheatsfish @paintedperidot @mansonofmadness @pillarofsnow @sylususeyourevolonmepls @angelichiaro @mephisto-with-a-knife @crimsonmarabou @hikaru-sama @flamedancer13 @tati-the-fangirl @ameili @poptrim @caramelizedpopcirn @cupid-gene @vvonunie @lunia-likes-pomegranet @iamawkwardandshy @tinyweebsstuff @astolary @vyntheria @theloveofnagiseishiroslife @velourmobius @beaconsxd @hon3yydew @kira-loves0905 @codedove @that-lost-one @colonelcalebs-pipsqueak @kaiii07 @bohoooitsme @everythingistaken00 @rmjace @red-raf-sy @goddexxluv @seris-the-amious @stellisangelicus-world @alhaith4ms @young-adult-summer @junrui

feel free to dm/comment on the series masterlist if you'd like to be added or removed from the taglist 💕comment and reblog if you enjoyed!

#out of bounds 🐦‍⬛#sylus x non mc #sylus x non mc reader #love and deepspace sylus #sylus love and deepspace #lnds sylus #lads sylus #love & deepspace sylus #qin che #love and deepspace #i love me some angst #i love crying

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blcknebula · 12 days ago

Text

Nothing's Wrong When Nothing's True

Crossposted on my ao3 here.

Pairing: Zayne x reader

Words: 12k

Content warning: Lots of angst, smut, oral sex (f receiving), slight overstimulation, munch Zayne, reader on top, unprotected sex, apologetic Zayne, plenty of yearning.

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

The office is eerily quiet—it contrasts with the wind howling outside as it hits the large windows overlooking Linkon’s empty streets. The otherworldly darkness of the night sky is sparsely filled with snowflakes as they whip through the air at a dizzying speed. It’s a good enough distraction from the throbbing pain in your upper arm.

“It’s snowing again,” you flatly comment while glancing at Greyson. Your voice slightly cracks on the last word, and Greyson sighs softly as he glances away from the wound to let his eyes wander over the storm brewing outside.

He nods before opening his mouth. “They mentioned something about it on the news—record low temperatures for the season.” While neither of you mentions it, you know from the slight crease that appears between his brows that you think simultaneously of the same person.

Regardless of the pesky snowflakes, it would be nearly impossible to ignore Zayne’s absence, given that you are currently in his office. Sitting on the usual examination table that lines the wall near the desks feels unsettling without his usual comforting presence. Your attention diverts to the unobscured view of the patient files messily sprawled over the large wooden desk—Greyson’s doing. You know for a fact that Zayne’s desk has never looked like this.

The younger doctor temporarily took over his mentor’s workload while the hospital’s management figures out a replacement for their missing chief of surgery. While it was easy to pretend at first that the changes were interim, now, a couple of months later, everyone seems to have silently accepted the new norm within the cardiology department.

Zayne’s absence feels suffocating as your eyes rake over his belongings, which sit, collecting dust in their usual place, as if also awaiting his return. You can tell Greyson hasn’t changed a single detail about the layout of the office. The jasmine plant languishes near the window, adjacent to a coat rack that still holds some of Zayne's lab coats. It seems he shares the same silent wish.

You suddenly wince in pain as Greyson digs too close to your wound with the curved tweezers nested between his steady fingers. “Sorry,” he instantly mutters under his breath, flashing you an apologetic look as he reaches over for more antiseptic solution. The astringent scent makes you scrunch your nose, but you try your best to keep your expression as compliant as possible.

“Do I even want to ask how you got this?” He asks, breaking the heavy silence, but flashing you a worried smile on his lips as he reaches for the suture kit.

You sigh guiltily, chewing the inside of your cheek while debating telling him the truth. “Mission went sideways. It’s just a bullet graze.”

Greyson raises one of his eyebrows but keeps his mouth shut as he inspects the syringe between his fingers before flicking it once. “It’s just an anesthetic,” he mouths while searching for your eyes before continuing.

The sting of the needle quickly subsides, as well as the burning pain from the gash on your upper arm. You fidget with your other hand, playing with the burgundy silk of the dress Sylus picked specifically for the auction. It feels out of place in the sterile and drab environment of the hospital.

“Didn’t think you’d be working this late,” you point out, trying to keep your mind occupied with small talk. The cardiology department is dead silent as the night stretches on—most patients on the floor are sleeping, and the nurses are filing quietly at their station with most of the lights dimmed to a minimum. Even the emergency room, which is usually incredibly busy, was surprisingly empty as you rushed through the doors.

Greyson shakes his head ever so slightly. “Ever since Dr.—,” he pauses, looking at your face before swallowing thickly. “Ever since he left, we’ve all had to work extra hours to try and cover for his workload.”

You nod away, a lump forming in your throat as you search for any words that would sound comforting without acknowledging your own struggle with coming to terms with Zayne’s disappearance.

“Kinda ironic since you were always on his back for overworking,” you chuckle, offering Greyson a forced smile. He scoffs, mildly amused, tying up the last stitch before dropping the needle in the bloodied gauze next to him and disposing of everything else on the table.

You wonder, as he walks back to you, if it’s the dim lighting in the room that makes him look so sickly or if he’s simply so overworked that the deep circles under his eyes are now a permanent feature of his.

It’s been a rough couple of months for everyone, it seems.

“Do you want more of the stabilizer?” The question takes you by surprise, and Greyson rushes to bashfully explain himself while rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it’s against policy, but I also know that Dr. Zayne would probably chew my head off if I let you walk into the emergency room in the same state as earlier.”

You purse your lips to the side, unsure if he’s trying to trick you into admitting you will most likely need another dose in the near future. As your stand-in primary care physician, you know well that he disagrees with your extensive use of your unstable evol. The calming warmth of the first injection he administers still lingers in your veins—it keeps at bay the blinding pain that blooms in your chest whenever your symptoms run rampant.

“Could you spare one or two? Just in case,” you let out, with a sweetened tone and crooked grin that you hope gathers sympathy from the man sitting in front of you. His tired eyes find yours as he lets them wander over the expanse of your face before silently nodding and walking over to the small fridge by the nurse station.

“Aren’t you going to get into trouble?” You ask as he hands them over to you in a small plastic pouch that feels cool to the touch.

Greyson simply shrugs, perching his glasses on the top of his head before rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Things have been so hectic recently that I doubt anyone will even notice. Since the cocoons have been made available to the general public, we’ve had fewer patients with protocore syndrome than ever. The syringes would have probably been wasted anyway.”

“I really thought we could have put a stop to them,” you bitterly let out, shoving the medication at the bottom of your bag. “I can’t believe the authorities aren’t doing anything.” Greyson is about to open his mouth to answer when his expression suddenly shifts—his face draining itself of blood as his brows furrow instantly.

The hairs on your arm raise, and a shiver runs down your spine. Your back is to the doorway, but the sudden chill in the air, the weight pressing on your chest until breathing hurts—you already know who’s behind you. You spin around, and your bruised ribs protest at the sudden movement, but the adrenaline flooding your bloodstream makes the stabbing pain fade into nothingness. The frantic thumping of your heart in your ears dulls your senses away from anything else but the sight of him standing in the doorway.

You shakily inhale, hit full force with the sudden surge of conflicting emotions that grip you by the throat. “Zayne.”

His hair is longer—it’s more dishevelled than you ever remember it being. It curls around his ears and almost reaches his eyes, where it usually hangs perfectly coiffed on his forehead. He lost weight—his eyes are sunken, and the skin under them has a lilac tint to it. You half-expect him to flash you a cold and detached look, but as his hazel eyes meet yours, they burn with the same yearning that has been plaguing you for weeks.

A wave of nausea hits you, and the coppery taste of blood fills your mouth as you bite your cheek to prevent a relieved sob from breaking through.

Greyson freezes next to you, the colour draining from his already pale face. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he bites out in a tone that is meant to come across as angry but ends up sounding dejected from the relief that he can’t quite hide.

Zayne takes a step inside his office, almost shutting the door behind him; his hand lingers on the handle, and his gaze avoids your searching one. “You texted me,” he plainly says, his voice stirring something inside you as tears well up, fogging the vision of him in front of you until it’s indistinguishable from the muddled recurring dreams you’ve had since he left. “Where’s the file?”

It takes a moment for Greyson to process Zayne’s request, but his mind suddenly snaps back in place, and he reaches over the desk to hand him over the requested labs. By the pinched expression on his face, Greyson isn’t quite sure if Dr. Zayne is even allowed to do so. He doesn’t technically work here at the moment, but he swallows his uncertainties alongside a couple of questions he knows he won’t get the answer to.

“Labs came back almost average after the stabilizer injection,” Greyson points out, fidgeting with his name badge that hangs from the pocket of his lab coat, which is stained red near the sleeves from tending to you. You swallow thickly, bile rising in your throat from the sickening urge to reach for Zayne.

He stands there, in front of you, for the first time in months, and he makes the same pout he does whenever he is reading something—for a moment, things are back to the way they were. “Did you run an EKG?” he questions Greyson, flipping through the pages and giving you a clinical do-over devoid of any feelings.

The younger doctor nods, swallowing before replying curtly. “There was some ectopic activity before the stabilizer, but it resolved. The EKG’s clean now. No indication of cardiac stress... at least nothing too concerning.” You pick at your nails, trying your hardest to pretend that the conversation isn’t about you.

Zayne’s eyes flick back down to the last page of the report, lingering longer than necessary as you hold your breath in fear of setting him off. His jaw tightens, and you watch Greyson nervously fidget with the watch on his wrist. Zayne remains silent—flipping the pages back as if double-checking every number on the page. “She’ll need a follow—”

“I already scheduled it,” Greyson cuts him off, reaching for the files. If Zayne notices his attempt, he gives no sign of giving them back. “I have things under control.”

Zayne frowns, his mouth pulling tight as he dubiously eyes Greyson, actively still avoiding the spot where you sit on the table. “And yet this tells me she’s overusing the stabilizer.” While the words are directed at his colleague, the accusation lands on you.

Greyson flashes you a warning look and is about to counter-argue when Zayne continues his lecturing. “Potassium’s dropping, ALT’s elevated, and her QT’s already at 470. That’s not from a single dose.”

“If you want to contest my medical decisions,” Greyson bites back, eyes sharp as he snatches the files from Zayne’s grip, deliberately dropping them out of reach on the desk. You watch the scene unfold, mouth slightly agape—it’s the first time you’ve ever seen Greyson address his senior like this.

“It’s not his fault,” you interject, breaking the tense silence. Zayne’s attention snaps to you, the intensity in his gaze making you stumble over your next words. “Greyson’s just doing what’s best, given the—the situation. My mission went sideways. It was an emergency.”

“Your mission?” Zayne’s voice is sharp, his eyes narrowing just enough to pierce through your excuse. A flicker of disapproval lurks beneath his calm exterior. He turns to Greyson, a mildly amused expression playing on his lips—but the unmistakable tint of anger stains his hazel eyes. “Is that what she’s been telling you? She’s been suspended from the field for months.”

Your blood runs cold, and your shoulders sag, your spine curving inward as you silently wish the room would swallow you whole—anything to escape the two pairs of eyes burning into your skin. “Not everything I do is tied to the Association,” you say quietly, still avoiding their gaze but trying to soften the weight of Zayne’s accusation.

“Perfectly legal endeavours, I assume,” he replies with a sharp quip, crossing his arms as his eyes rake over you. The coldness in his gaze flickers briefly as he finally seems to register the dress you’re wearing.

Greyson clears his throat, taking a step in the space that stretches between Zayne and you that seems to shrink with every second that passes. “While I appreciate the input, Dr. Zayne, this no longer falls under your responsibility. She’s no longer your patient—I’m the one responsible for her care now, and I’ll decide what’s best moving forward.”

Zayne blinks, momentarily stunned, then straightens, voice clipped and controlled. “Then I shouldn’t be the one informing you of the discrepancies.” Greyson frowns, but before he can open his mouth to reply, the pager in his pocket loudly beeps. He immediately reaches for it and sighs.

“I’ve got to check on a patient—something urgent.” He takes a hesitant step towards the door, turning towards you with a worried expression. You flick your hands away, silently urging him to go while reassuring him.

Halfway through the door, Greyson turns back at you and adds with a firm voice. “Make sure you don’t miss your follow-up. I’ll be on your case if you do.”

He gives Zayne a curt but apologetic nod before heading for the door, leaving the two of you with a charged silence that neither dares to break. You clear your throat, smoothing your dress before getting up. The sound your heels make when hitting the floor seems to echo in the room, and you notice a slight flinch from Zayne.

A thousand questions run through your mind as your gaze lands on him—on the familiar contours of his face and the immediate sense of relief you get from being in his proximity again. “You look like you’ve been through it.”

Your words take him by surprise, and he can’t quite conceal the amused glint in his eyes at the casual way in which you address him after so long. He’s played out this exact scene more times than he cares to admit—more times than he can recollect. They muddle together in his head. Fragmented pieces of realities that never happened—each one as deluded as the next. “I could be saying the same to you.”

You scoff, turning your head towards the window in the hopes he won’t notice the weakened grin that forms on your lips. “Been busy,” you reply, shrugging and taking a step in his direction. You grip your bag with both hands—anything to stop yourself from reaching out, from checking if the Zayne in front of you is real and not some mirage conjured to soothe wounds that never healed.

Standing so close to him after all these months, the air feels electric, and your heartbeat frantically pulses under your skin as if wanting to crawl out of your chest and land right in the palm of his hand. You take a hesitant step towards him, letting your fingers glide against the thick fabric of his coat. Zayne exhales shakily, shutting his eyes, his body freezing up. His fingers twitch to his sides, and you notice the fresh scars littering the pale skin of his knuckles.

He docilely lets you pick up his hand, opening his eyes to watch attentively as you run your fingers—retracing every wound as if healing them through touch alone.

“Do I even want to ask?” His dark gaze meets yours, and for a moment, you expect him to answer. You notice the way his lips pull tight and the slight crease between his brows as he debates where to even start.

His silence has always been more telling than his words, so you settle for it this time.

Zayne pulls his hand away, shoving it in his pocket and averting his attention to the window. “Did you drive here? The roads are dangerous,” he simply says with renewed coldness in his tone that makes it difficult to breathe.

You shake your head, lips pressed tight. The way he looks at you makes your skin prickle, heat blooming under the thin fabric of your dress despite the cold air of the office. A trickle of sweat slides down your spine. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll figure something out.”

His jaw shifts, and he flashes you a disapproving glare before exhaling through his nose. “I’ll drive you.”

You blink, taken aback by the quiet certainty in his tone—in the way he phrases it as a statement rather than an offer. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it, eyes fixed on the stitched-up bullet graze on your arm. You stand there in a daze for a moment before you finally allow yourself to nod slowly.

“O-okay then,” you force out, letting him lead the way down the corridor where the elevator is. The doors close, and a quiet hum fills the silence as you watch the floor numbers pass by. Zayne doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He stands a careful distance away, but you still feel the urge to stand a little closer in the fear he’ll disappear again.

You risk a glance at him, only to find his gaze fixed on you, his expression unreadable.

“You haven’t been returning my texts,” you say quietly, surprising even yourself. It’s a weightless accusation, but one that you feel the need to voice out regardless. The anger you felt weeks ago has long since melted into a quiet disillusionment—a hope that maybe, eventually, he’d answer.

His eyes flick to you, and something sharp that then shifts into a softer, more apologetic look. He pinches the bridge of his nose, shutting his eyes for a brief moment. “I told you,” he says, voice low, “it would be better if you didn’t keep reaching out like that.”

You instantly frown, “Better for who ?” Your tone cuts through like a sharpened blade, resentment carrying through despite your best attempts to remain collected.

Zayne’s eyes darken, but he says nothing. Instead, he plays with the lapel of his coat and shifts his gaze away, the silence hanging heavy between you.

“I’m just worried about you.” His eyes instinctively find yours as soon as you utter the words out—a plain admission of the feelings that have been rotting inside your chest. “You–you just left everything behind. You left me behind, and you expect me not to have questions?”

For the first time, you witness the frozen veil in his gaze flicker—revealing a suffocating, vulnerable shell beneath. His fingers twitch nervously. “I didn’t leave because I wanted to.” His voice is low, strained. “There are things that even I can’t explain…even if I wanted to.”

His eyes flicker to yours, silently begging for something — forgiveness, understanding—but he looks away before you can decipher it. A breath hitches in his throat, and for a moment, his fingers reach for yours—a cold and hesitant glide of his skin against yours. It’s a fleeting thing; his hand is back in his pockets before you have the chance to react.

The doors open, and he walks ahead, taking long strides until he reaches his car parked in the employee section. The sight of him with his back turned to you and the sound of his shoes on the ground, combined with the silence that hangs in the dead of night, is such a familiar scenario. Memories of nights drastically different than this one replay in your head, each step like a twisted sense of deja vu. The inside of the car feels exactly the same as last time — pristine, immaculate, with the sharp scent of mint lingering in the air. Cool leather presses lightly against your thighs through your clothes, and you hesitate, wondering whether you should break the fragile balance to ask Zayne to turn on the heater.

Outside, the roads are covered in a thin veil of snow, wisps swirling with each gust of wind as Zayne carefully steers through the deserted downtown streets. The stoplight bathes the cabin in a soft red glow, casting shadows across the hard lines of his face as you glance his way. The soft ticking of the turn signal echoes the rapid pace of your heartbeat as you consciously slow your breathing to hide the swell of emotions that threatens to spill over.

“I missed you,” you let out, keeping your eyes glued to the road ahead, your fingers tightening their grip on your purse. The admission drags a shaky breath from you as you fight to contain the tears threatening your vision.

The light turns green, but Zayne makes no move to press the gas pedal. He stares at you dumbfoundedly, blinking a few times. His mouth opens as if to answer, but he stops himself, gripping the steering wheel, scarred knuckles whitening before finally moving the car forward. “Have you had any more…episodes?” you ask away, wincing at your choice of words. He seems unfazed by the question, almost relieved that you changed topics.

“Here and there—it’s hard to tell when it happens. I get glimpses of days I don’t recall,” he starts, his voice carrying a hint of frustration. Noticing the worried expression on your face, Zayne quickly corrects himself. “Make no such face. It’s slowly improving ever since,” he cuts himself short there.

“Ever since you left,” you finish the sentence for him, nodding away while diverting your attention to the window. The truth stings, but the rational part of your mind is glad that he’s been regaining control over the slip-ups.

A beat passes, then another. “When I got Greyson’s message,” Zayne starts, voice guarded, eyes glued to the road ahead of him. “He said you were admitted to the emergency room, and I just—Next thing I knew, I was on my way to you.”

Your heart skips a beat in your chest—a painful throb that spreads in your chest as an uncomfortable warmth that makes your skin break into a sweat. Your fingers itch to reach for his hand that rests on the console in the middle, but you stop yourself by biting the inside of your cheek. “It wasn’t as bad as he made it sound. I might have overused my evol, but it wasn’t like that one time with you.”

Zayne casts you a side glance, mouth pulled tight. “That’s not a very convincing argument to make.” He brings up his hand to gesture at where he knows the wound on your arm is, careful not to touch it even through your coat. “Is this from one of your missions ?” The discernment in his tone sparks guilt inside your chest.

You sigh loudly, pausing before coming clean. “I’ve been working on the side to catch a protocore supplier. Heard through the branches that they were linked to Xander sciences.” Zayne scowls at the mention of the name, shaking his head disapprovingly.

“And this supplier happens to be in the N109 zone? I thought hunters couldn’t go past the border.” He waits to see if you will take the bait—eyes keeping tabs on the shifting expression on your face. Your eyes widen, destroying any hopes of duping him.

Your shoulders sag. “How long have you known?” Blood rushes to your face in the same way it did whenever you got chastised as a kid.

He lets out a small chuckle, a knowing smirk on his lips. Things almost feel normal again. “ Long enough .” The smile melts away as he turns left on your street. “Still, you shouldn’t be out there taking such risks with you evol—you know it’s unstable.”

You roll your eyes slightly, brushing him off with a quick gesture of the hand. “I don’t make a habit of it. The deal went sideways, and the situation called for it,” you add, gesturing to the new addition to your collection of fading scars.

He glances down as well, not saying anything at first. His fingers flex around the steering wheel, and you can tell he’s resisting the urge to further lecture you. When he finally opens his mouth, his voice is low. “I wish you’d stop putting yourself in life-threatening situations.” There’s no anger behind his words, they’re laced with fear and a bone-deep exhaustion that creeps through at the end of the sentence along with a defeated sigh.

“Well, it’s not like anybody is doing anything to stop Xander science,” you retort, tilting your head in annoyance at the way he dismisses your effort to a cause that you know he shares the same opinion about. “Plus, I’m still here.”

Zayne frustratedly exhales through his nose, jaw tightening. “That’s beside the point.” He slows down the car in the parking lot near your building entrance, but neither of you moves. “You’re just being reckless.”

You stay silent, unable to come up with anything witty enough to disarm his accusation. Shame crawls beneath your skin, painting your face a deeper shade. You focus instead on the sound of the wind violently whipping against the window, anything but the weight of Zayne’s eyes on you.

He sighs beside you. “I’m just worried.”

Your head snaps up, eyes narrowing. “And how do you think I feel? You quit your job, and you don’t answer anyone’s messages. How can you stand there and pretend nothing existed between us?”

Zayne frowns, his gaze dropping to his hands resting in his lap. “I’m not. There are things you don’t understand, but I won’t sit here and let you believe you mean anything less to me just because I had to leave.” His words are sharp—cutting through the thick air with an anger that’s been simmering for a while.

It makes you flinch, the fight draining out of you, suddenly embarrassed by your outburst. “I’ll get going. Thanks for the ride,” you mutter, grabbing your bag with your uninjured arm.

You push the door open, the freezing wind rushing inside and instantly making you shiver.

But before you can step out, Zayne reaches across the console and slams the door shut. The click echoes through the car, startling you. You blink up, suddenly trapped between the passenger door and his chest.

“I don’t think so,” Zayne says, his voice low. His breath tickles your ear, and you pray that he can’t make out your frantic heartbeat from how loud it suddenly becomes.

You swallow hard, staring at the closed door, trying to ignore the feelings that stir alive at having him so close. “Zayne,” you start, but the rest catches in your throat.

He instantly pulls back, just enough to give you space to think, and runs a hand down his face. You finally let out the breath you’ve been holding.

“Let me walk you up,” he says, his tone quieter now—his eyes avoid yours.

You don’t have the strength or the will to argue with him, so you simply nod.

It’s a short walk to the entrance, but the wind bites at your skin nonetheless. By the time you reach the door, you can barely feel your fingers. Zayne trails closely behind, keeping a safe distance that does little to ease your frayed nerves. His dress shoes echo unevenly with yours on the tiles. The elevator ride feels like a lifetime, neither of you looking at each other but standing shoulder to shoulder.

You count up to a hundred to distract yourself from the urge to reach out to him.

The doors finally open, and you rush towards your apartment door, fumbling with your keys for longer than necessary. You can feel Zayne’s intimidating presence behind you—waiting patiently with his hands shoved in his pockets. You can sense the tension—the air around him coiled and heavy.

You hesitate, not knowing if it would be too much to ask him.

Turning to face him with a wince, you break the silence. “Can you, um…” You stop yourself, embarrassment creeping up your neck until it stains your cheeks a deep crimson. “Actually—I need help with something.”

Zayne’s posture straightens a little, and he tilts his head. His expression, however, remains flat, always unreadable. “What is it?”

“It’s this stupid dress,” you start, fidgeting with the fabric of it before vaguely gesturing to the back of it. “I can’t get to the corset with one hand.”

There’s a pause. You half-expect him to make an excuse to leave you to your demise.

Zayne remains silent for so long that your curiosity gets the best of you. You dare to glance up at him and are greeted by the sight of his slightly stunned expression—his cheeks now a faint pink colour that brings life back to them.

He blinks and nods, clearing his throat before speaking. “Okay.”

Your eyes widen, and you hurry to open the door before he can change his mind. The inside of your apartment is a mess. Your apartment is a mess—clothes strewn, dishes piled, lights half-left on.

The sight should embarrass you more than it does, but the bone-deep exhaustion that caused it still lingers under your skin. If Zayne minds, he does not comment on it.

His hand reaches for the sleeve of your coat; it startles you for a second, and you turn to face him. The look of yearning he gives you is unexpected—it makes something twist low in your stomach. Silently, Zayne helps you shrug off your jacket with more delicateness than required, but the attention makes your heart flutter, so you let him do as he pleases.

He hangs it up by the door and turns to you. “Can you turn around for me?” Zayne asks, his voice barely above a whisper. You nod, not trusting your voice.

A hesitant hand reaches above your shoulder, gathering your hair to one side. The exposed skin of your shoulders prickles even though the air inside is warm. He’s so close, his breathing tickles the nape of your neck. His agile fingers work through the first knots, pulling tightly at them until you feel the fabric give way around your ribs. You take a deep breath to steady yourself.

While reaching for the laces, his fingers graze your skin, and you instinctively flinch at the stark temperature difference. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

“It’s fine,” you whisper, smiling awkwardly even though your back is facing him.

He’s careful, almost maddeningly so—it makes your heart crawl in the back of your throat. Your breathing stutters when his knuckles graze your spine, and by the way he goes completely still, he notices. The sad song of the wind outside permeates the room—it’s almost as loud as your thoughts. Zayne lets his forehead rest on your upper back, his hands resting on your hips where the laces lay undone.

“I missed you too,” he finally admits, his voice muffled by your skin, but the words sink in nonetheless. “More than you can know.”

Your eyes flutter shut, tears gathering at your lashline before you can stop them. His words tear through healed scars—the ache it causes guts you. His bare skin on yours, you press your lips together to keep yourself from shaking.

Your eyes meet his—silently begging with a sudden burst of emotions that have been building up for these past months. “Come back to me.” It’s a desperate and pathetic plea for what you want most. Zayne doesn’t shy away from your gaze for once, but the sorrow reflected in them is answer enough. “Please .” He leans into the palm of your hand, closing his eyes as if trying to memorize the feel of your skin against his—something his memory continually fails him on.

Zayne slowly shakes his head, a few strands falling in front of his eyes as he bites his lip to stop it from trembling. “I can’t,” he whispers, voice broken and heavy, matching the pain etched across his face. His thumb wanders over the expanse of your bottom lip in what is meant to be a soothing gesture.

A lone tear runs down your cheek, and his eyes follow its path to where it disappears beneath the strands of your hair. The softness in your gaze sours, flashes of anger flickering, muddling the fading affection at his refusal. It feels embarrassing—almost childish with the way you force yourself to look away from him so he won’t witness the extent to which he wounds you. His fingers slide down the side of your face before gently gripping your chin and guiding your eyes back to his. Zayne adds, “I wish I could. Believe me .”

Blood rushes to your face at the earnestness behind his words—at the devotion with which his eyes still worship you as if the answer to the growing distance between the two of you was hidden somewhere in the depths of your gaze. “Then just for tonight,” you reply, voice barely audible. “Let me pretend.”

He seems to hesitate for a second, the grip on your chin tightening ever so slightly, his brows furrowing. Zayne breathes your name—a plea of his own to spare him from his fate. Though his face is mere centimetres away from yours, he’s never felt so far away from you as when standing right there. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he dejects, lowering his head to hide his heated face.

You shake your head, clicking your tongue. “You won’t,” you hush out, the hint of a smile grazing your lips as you let your hand reach the nape of his neck, where you play with the long strands. Zayne picks up his head, a disagreeing look painted on his face.

“I already have,” he counters, his hand reaching out to rest against your ribs—fingers stretching out to fit the width of the scar he left behind. Guilt carved deep in the line between his brows, he presses harder against your skin as if willing the marks to go away.

Your eyes dart down to where his hand lies—skin heating under his welcomed touch. The relief that floods your bloodstream makes its way to your face as your pinched expression melts away. “It wasn’t you.”

It’s a simple admission—something you meant to tell him weeks ago but hadn’t quite figured out how to say. Absolving him of a guilt rooted so deep it embeds itself in the very fibre of his being—taints his every decision. “Zayne, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Nonsense,” he quips out, shaking his head with a frown while gliding his hand upwards to rest right under the underside of your breast. The tenderness of his touch wrecks you—dragging out a shaky breath from your lips. “I did this. Even though I promised that”—

“Do you want to see?” Your question stuns him, his eyes widening and effectively cutting him off midway through his self-loathing speech. Your hands tremble at the edge of your dress, meeting his gaze to solidify your offer. His cheeks turn a crimson colour as he opens his mouth without being able to say anything in return. “It’s not as bad as you think.”

Zayne nods once, keeping his attention on your face as you awkwardly drag the fabric of the dress down your arms until it pools at your waist. The cool air grazes your skin, making your heart race even faster as you meet his heated gaze.

His breath hitches—fingers instinctively reaching to trace the scar pattern left behind. The healed skin is nearly translucent—it catches the slightest bit of light. The ridges are slightly raised against your ribs, where they spread like a frostbite bloom from the point of impact. The branching crystallized paths spread across your body with a geometric pattern that resembles the high points on a snowflake.

You meet his fingers as they continue their dance across your bare skin, evoking goosebumps in their trail. Countless times before, you’ve traced the same ones with a bittersweet expression of what they represented. Zayne’s hand stops right at the edge of it—his expression crumbling apart as he silently apologizes without needing to say anything.

Not that he can—the knot in his throat makes it hard enough to breathe, let alone properly convey the depth of his guilt. “Did Greyson refer you to a dermatologist? With some laser therapy, they could get rid of it—mostly.” Zayne sports his clinical frown—his mind running through all the possible options to wipe away the permanent traces he left behind. He drops his hand to his side before instinctively reaching out to you once more, his hand settling on your half-covered hip. You don’t flinch or pull away, simply holding your gaze with the same sickeningly adoring expression as you shake your head.

“I don’t want it gone.” His fingers twitch against your hip—a torrent of emotion cracking through the hardened walls he keeps up. “It’s all you left me with.” It’s an accusation and a confession at the same time.

Zayne pulls you in, a quick and assured gesture that sends you tumbling forward. Your hands land on his chest, and a surprised squeak leaves your lips at the sudden proximity. He darts down, whispering the next words right against your lips. His forehead is almost touching yours, and his eyes openly express the regret that plagues him. “You should.”

“But I don’t.”

Before you know it, his lips brush against yours—a hesitant, fleeting kiss that sends your heart surging forward. You lean in, yearning for more, but Zayne pulls away. His eyes are shut, expression torn. “We shouldn’t—this is a bad idea.” You click your tongue softly, chuckling at the predictable line that comes out of his mouth.

“What do you want?”

He exhales shakily. “It’s irrelevant to—”

“Zayne,” you blurt out with a sharpened tone. “What do you want?” The look he gives you is devastating—unshielded, conflicted, and tender at the same time. He hesitates for a split second before reaching out for you, hands cupping your face, and he crashes his lips into yours.

It’s bruising, demanding, and hungry .

His hands thread into your hair, tugging until there’s no room between the two of you, like he’s terrified to let you slip out of his grasp. You gasp into his mouth, clinging to the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline, trying to match the feverish pace he sets—the raw longing he can’t put into words.

Zayne walks you backward, stopping only when your back hits the counter of your kitchen island. He can’t stop himself; his mouth never leaves yours, teeth grazing your bottom lip before biting hard enough to pull a soft whine out of you. The pain stings but soothes simultaneously—a real-time reminder that he’s real. The sound has him groan, low and wrecked, as his grip on you tightens.

You’re so pliant against him, it makes his head spin. The warmth of your skin sinks into his, like shy tendrils of sunlight through a frosted window—the promise of a long-awaited spring. He willingly drowns in you. The intensity of it clouds his mind in an addictive haze that lets him forget about his cursed fate for just a moment.

Pure selfishness that he knows he’ll come to regret later.

But for now, his undoing sets him aflame—as addicting as the pleased noise you make against his lips. You pull away, desperate for air, and Zayne presses his forehead against yours, both of you panting. His voice comes out raw—ragged. “I keep dreaming of you. Every night, it’s the same recurring one where I hurt you over and over.”

You caress the top of his cheekbone with your thumb, tenderly grounding him with a softness he feels undeserving of. “I’m okay, I’m not going anywhere.”

Zayne makes a strangled sound—half-groan and half-sigh—before kissing you again. It’s slower this time, as he slides his hands under your thighs and perches you on top of the counter, walking in the space between your legs. His freezing grip lands on your hips and then your waist—he doesn’t know where to touch first.

He wants it all at once—unbridled greed. He’s forgotten how sweet you taste.

“I can’t forgive myself,” he mouths against the column of your throat, pressing open-mouthed kisses. It feels like a silent apology—an admission of guilt that drips down your naked skin in rehearsed paths.

His hands tremble with need as they roam against you—he’s trying to get a grip on his evol. He gropes at the skin with an almost bruising strength, giving you a look that on first glance looks like relief but is laced with something darker—starved, almost feral.

“You’re in my head. All the time, and I can’t stop it. Even when he takes over—you’re all he thinks about as well. Makes my blood boil.” There’s a threatening edge to his possessive tone that you know isn’t meant for you, but it stops your heart in its tracks as you wrap your arms around his neck.

Zayne pulls back, just far enough to get a good look at what he did to you—lips swollen, hair dishevelled, and the most delicious shade of red spread across your cheeks. His eyes scan over every feature of yours with clinical accuracy, like he’s terrified to even allow himself to blink in the fear that it’s nothing but another dream of his.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Zayne,” you assure him, grabbing his hand before pressing a chaste kiss to the back of it. The contrasting nature of the innocent gesture against the position he’s got you in shatters something in it.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he murmurs against your mouth, brows furrowed in disagreement. You capture his lips greedily, swallowing the small, satisfied noise that he makes as you swipe your tongue on his bottom lip. His hands linger at the clasp of your bra, seemingly at war with himself. A small scoff escapes him—a bitter chuckle. “It only makes things harder.”

He holds your gaze, cradling your face so carefully you can barely feel the cool of his skin against yours. His statement wrecks you—a wave of sadness washing over you as you let your head fall to the crook of his shoulders. “Can’t you forgive yourself even for a moment?”

The suffocating heaviness in his chest eases—he exhales slowly. Eyes seemingly distant as you watch him think—stuck deep into thoughts that you can read from the sorrowful expression on his face. He comes back to you, blinking before opening his mouth hesitantly. “Are you sure?” The flutter of your heartbeat seeps through his fingertips as they rest just below your jaw.

You smile tenderly, eyes shutting for a moment to contain the tears that threaten to come forward. “Kiss me.”

Zayne doesn’t protest further. He kisses you, deepening it as he pulls you flush against him. It’s tender and overwhelming in the best way. You let your hands wander over his shoulders, pulling at the collar of his coat until he pulls it right off—the fabric hitting the ground with a soft thud. He pulls down your dress, pressing kisses down your legs as the fabric exposes new skin.

Your dress joins his coat on the ground—nothing left but your black underwear. The nerves make it hard to think—it’s been so long since the two of you have seen each other that his touch falls somewhere between familiarity and novelty.

“You’re elsewhere,” Zayne huffs, biting at your collarbone to catch your attention. You fail to suppress the guilty smile. His hands settle on your thighs, rubbing circles while giving you time to answer, but you choose to shut him up with a heated kiss. He opens his mouth to protest, but you pull at the strands on the nape of his neck, and his words turn into a throaty whine that makes the building heat between your legs nearly unbearable.

You shift your hips forward, the thin fabric of your underwear making contact with his dress pants—it’s too much and not nearly enough at the same time. Zayne exhales raggedly, his hands instantly finding your lower back to roll your hips against his, slower this time.

You both let out a sigh of relief, right against each other’s mouths. The intimacy building up in the space between his lips and yours is maddening.

His hands are near freezing against your feverish skin, but it grounds you in the moment. Impatiently, you messily unbutton his shirt, missing a few times and letting out a frustrated chuckle. Zayne silently steadies your nervous hands, curling his fingers around your wrist and guiding you down with each button. You toss the shirt across the room, wasting no time to pull him into your embrace once.

Eagerly, you find his belt, fingers dancing across the metal buckle. Zayne shakes his head instantly, pausing the kisses across your collarbones to protest. “ Not here .”

He slides his hands under your thighs and hauls you forward, your legs instinctively wrap around his torso as he makes his way through your apartment. The lights are off in your bedroom—only the dim moonlight creates highlights on your bare bedsheets. His mouth never leaves yours, entranced by the feeling of having you under him once more. Careful not to hurt your arm, he hunches over, dropping you on the mattress.

Your hair sprawls around you and creates the most mesmerizing sight. The moon reflects on the soft sheen of your skin, highlighting the scar on your ribs—a hauntingly beautiful sight. Zayne takes a moment to appreciate the view. Lithe limbs stretched out, the blush that spreads from your cheeks down to the middle of your chest. His mouth waters.

“Cat got your tongue?” You tease him, but your nerves carry through your tone—your voice wavering ever so slightly. Zayne scoffs, a small smirk gracing the corner of his lips that flips your stomach.

With one knee on the bed, he attaches his lips to your neck, sucking at the skin until it bruises. The purple hues blend with the soft shadows that the night casts on the contours of your chest. His lips nip and soothe the bites as they make their way down to the top of your breast. You can’t quite stop your chest from heaving as he peels away your lacy bra, silently grateful that you wore a nice one instead of your usual sports top. His gaze darkens as his eyes meet yours; the silent devotion in them is enough to make your head spin.

His large hand squeezes at the flesh, fingers sinking in as he attaches his mouth to the top of your left breast—his other hand reaching between your thighs where he toys with the fabric of your underwear. The ghost of a touch where you need him most. His mouth is warm; it contrasts with the air that gets progressively colder. He watches obsessively the way his saliva makes your skin glisten as he makes his way down your body—marking it with love bites and kisses that he selfishly hopes will haunt you for as long as the memory of this will haunt him.

He doesn’t deserve this —you.

The tight coil in your stomach becomes unbearable as Zayne takes his sweet time carefully unravelling you between his fingers. His index makes contact with your drenched core, and a relieved moan escapes your lips.

“Zayne, please .” He clicks his tongue in annoyance at your impatience, peeling your underwear down your thighs until it reaches your feet. His hands are reverently roaming against the skin of your legs, his eyes scrunched shut as he attempts to control his evol that keeps leaving condensation trails as the ice melts on your skin.

You push yourself up on your elbows, flashing him your most convincing impatient look that does nothing but amuse him. Zayne grabs your left leg, tentatively climbing his way until he reaches your knee with his lips. There’s a hint of stubble on his jaw that tickles your skin as he reaches the inside of your knee, using one hand to push your other leg to the side—making space so he can settle between them.

Exposed to his hungry gaze, you dart your eyes up to the ceiling, suddenly too intimidated to watch as he grips your inner thigh and presses fleeting kisses right below where your navel ends. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he mumbles against the sensitive skin there—his voice is low, nearly delirious.

You’re not quite sure he’s even talking to you.

His breath fans against your core, and it makes your eyes roll to the back of your head in anticipation. As if to drive you mad, his mouth keeps avoiding where you need him most as he teases you until you can’t take it anymore—close enough to feel the heat, never enough to satisfy. You lift your hips, a silent plea for him to get to it. Unrelenting as he is, he still doesn't give in. Frustration claws up your throat, and you thread your fingers into his hair and tug, trying to guide him to where you want him.

Zayne doesn’t budge.

Instead, he lets out a frustrated groan, and he frees one of his hands to grab your wrist. He pins it beside you, firmly pressing it into the mattress until he’s sure you won’t be able to use it against him once more. His eyes flick up to yours, half-lidded and dark.

“ Patience .”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a warning.

The strict tone he uses has your breath stalling, heat flooding your cheeks as your body clenches around nothing while he goes back to his tantalizing ministrations. After what feels like an eternity, his fingers drag across your clit, eliciting a needy whine to which he smiles in return. Zayne’s tongue is careful at first—he already knows what you like. He intends to make you come apart as many times as he can. The taste of you has him biting back a groan. It’s a low sound that vibrates against your heated core as he drags his nose upwards.

It’s sudden and breathtakingly intense.

“Zayne—” you gasp, your pinned hand pulling against his tight grip. Your fingers sink into the bedsheets as you try your hardest to ground yourself in anything that will provide a distraction from the mind-numbing pleasure that sparks from your lower stomach.

It reaches your chest, making it hard to breathe without making embarrassing sounds. You bite your other fist, trying to smother a moan as he sinks two fingers into you.

Zayne seems to notice because he suddenly pauses, panting against your thigh with a frown on his face. “Stop that.” Your eyes widen, and you slowly drop your hand to your side until it hits the mattress with a soft thud. “ Good girl .”

Without any warning, he dives back down, devouring you like he’s been deprived of it longer than he would have ever liked. There’s a dangerous accuracy to his movements even though they’re laced with desperation. He spreads the two fingers buried deep inside you and latches his mouth directly around your clit. Your toes curl, your back arches off the mattress, and the air instantly cools down the sweat on your skin. His grip on your thighs tightens as he holds you open for him while your thighs start to shake.

Both of your hands find his hair again; this time, he doesn't stop you. “Zayne—” you gasp loudly, hips canting forward.

His name falling from your lips only seems to spur him on. He groans your name into you, the sound sending sparks across your spine—invisible branding across your skin. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t come up for air. Too focused on the tells of your body and the feeling of you coming undone under his tongue.

The sounds that echo in the quiet of your room are obscene— wet .

You’re so close you can taste it in the back of your mouth—the electric feeling that gathers under your skin, the blooming heat that travels up your spine and makes your head fuzzy. “Zayne—I’m so close.”

He hums lowly against your core, adding his thumb to press directly against the bundle of nerves. The thread snaps, and you cry out, legs twitching on either side of his head as you ride out the first wave of your orgasm. Zayne aids you through letting go of your legs and switching to soft kisses down the sides of your thighs. When you finally open your eyes, the sight that greets you is world-altering. His half-lidded gaze is on you, his mouth is wet, and his lips are swollen. He lets out a soft chuckle, rubbing up and down the skin of your thighs in silent praise.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when you feel him press a kiss right next to your still-sensitive core. He pulls your legs apart, his hungry eyes glued to the way the skin glistens with your arousal.

“Wait,” you breathe, your voice cracking. “I just came—”

He scoffs, amused as if you made a joke. “I know,” he keens, his voice too calm to match the ravenous look on his face.

Zayne lowers his mouth before you can get another word out. Your mind blanks at the nearly painful wave of pleasure that hits you. You jerk against his bruising grip, shifting your hips to escape his unrelenting mouth. He growls possessively in protest, grabbing your hips to pull you closer to his face.

“Zayne, it’s too much—I can’t.” Your voice breaks again, too breathless, too out of it to make out full sentences. He pulls away just long enough to speak, his expression falling somewhere between annoyed and amused.

“You can take it. I know you can.” His words punch straight through your resolve. His tone isn’t demanding—it’s reverent. Desperate. Like he needs this more than you do. You settle with a pained whine as his tongue parts you, lapping at the arousal that gathered near your entrance.

“You’re being so good for me,” he breathes against you.

While he coaxed your first orgasm with quick intensity, Zayne seems hellbent on taking his time for the second round. His touch is less hurried, more grounded as he takes his time to memorize the taste and contours of your body. His tongue laps over your clit, slow and cruel, and your whole body jerks again. One of his hands reaches up blindly, fingers threading through yours, pinning your hand down next to your head. His thumb rubs soothing circles on the top of your hand, and you try your hardest to push back the second orgasm that threatens you.

“I’m close again,” you quiver, squeezing his fingers and grabbing his shoulder between your legs. The hums—the only indication he gives you as he parts you with his fingers and dips his tongue inside of you.

Your stomach tightens impossibly, the burn of overstimulation tipping into something hotter, darker, and unbearable. You sob out loud, trying to get oxygen into your lungs as it inches closer and closer. Zayne whines your name—a sinful sound that tips you over the edge. Your release crashes into you, harder than the last. A strangled cry is torn from your throat as every muscle in your body suddenly seizes from the intensity of it.

Zayne mercifully pulls away from your drenched core and holds your legs steady until they stop shaking. You gently push his head away, and he finally gives in, a dumb, satisfied smirk stuck to his lips. The sound of both of your laboured breathing fills the silence while you try and recover. He gently presses kisses up your stomach until he reaches your sternum. His hand tenderly runs over the raised lines of your scar with guilt written all over his face.

You pull him up to kiss him—an attempt to both distract him and reassure him in a way that words could not convey. Zayne sighs in relief against you, his skilled mouth coaxing your mouth open; his lips still carrying the taste of your release. Your fingers comb through his hair, still damp with sweat. Zayne melts between your fingers, sinking into your touch like he’s scared you’ll let go. Breaking the kiss for air, you rest your forehead against his, reaching out to caress his jaw.

His eyes flutter shut, lashes trembling faintly at the sudden surge of emotions from the tenderness of your touch. He struggles to contain himself—deluded by the feeling that this is not a temporary oasis in the isolation he is cursed with.

The metallic sound of his buckle has him open his eyes—they meet yours with an uncertainty that wrecks you. “Are you okay?” You whisper against the column of his throat as you press a chaste kiss to the damp skin there. Zayne nods, audibly swallowing before caressing your back as he traces the words of an apology he can recite by heart.

Zayne aids you, ridding himself of his belt and letting it drop on the carpeted floor of your bedroom. With careful hands, you reach for the button of his pants. Your fingers work slowly, deliberately, your touch light—making eye contact with him the whole time. He watches you intently, choked up by the sight, chest rising and falling in unison with yours.

Your hands slide the fabric down his hips, over the sharp lines of his hips—his pale skin glowing in the moonlight. You lovingly kiss your way down his stomach, revelling in the way it flexes under your touch. He’s already hard, straining against the dark fabric of his underwear. Impatient, you hook your fingers under the waistband of it before glancing up at him for silent permission.

Zayne’s bottom lip is tucked between his teeth, and a deep flush runs across the lower part of his face. His eyes meet yours, and he nods once, a shaky exhale breaking the silence. You unceremoniously toss them to be forgotten with the rest of the clothes sprawled around your apartment. He hisses as your fingers wrap themselves around the warm skin of his cock, sliding it upwards until it catches the head.

A soft moan breaches his lips, and he gives you a needy, half-lidded look from under you. The way you look at him makes his heart race. He commits to burning it inside his mind so that time away from you won’t be able to rob him of the affection he witnesses. You lean in, pressing a brief kiss to his tip before lewdly dragging your tongue along the underside, your eyes never leaving his. Zayne throws his head back, exposing his throat as he groans at the overwhelming feel of your wet mouth on him.

“Fuck, honey,” he breathes, his voice strained, jaw tightening as his head drops back against the pillow. The pet name sends a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your legs. His hand finds your hair, and for a second, you are tempted to torture him in the same way he did.

You settle for wrapping your lips around his length, sinking until he hits the back of your throat—torturing him in another way. You swallow around him, careful eyes watching the delicious reaction he gives.

“Wait—” He sits up slightly, gently guiding until your mouth is completely off. His face flushed a deep burgundy all the way to the tips of his ears. There’s a slight stammer in his breath, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “I need to be inside you.”

The words rushed and unapologetic—the truth tumbling out of his mouth. You’ve always been terrible at withholding anything from him.

You climb into his lap, straddling his hips, letting his hardened length glide against your drenched folds. His hands rest on your waist, a quiet groan wracking through him as you lazily grind in his lap. Heat builds up again in your lower stomach—a shared hunger that is reflected back at you from his hazel eyes. You reach between your bodies, lining him up to your entrance before slowly sinking down onto him. The foreign stretch knocks the breath from your lungs—the pain grounds you in the moment. Zayne’s brows furrow, mouth parting in a gasp as he’s enveloped in the wet heat of you. Relief floods your veins at the domesticity of the scene in front of you—how familiar it feels, and the false sense of normalcy it brings with it.

It’s easy to pretend for a moment that this is nothing but a fleeting dream for the two of you. Blurred boundaries and blurrier admissions of guilt on either side for a fate neither of you can escape.

“ Shit—” Zayne hisses as you squeeze around him. The sound of him swearing sparks amusement for a second before it’s replaced by something much darker—insatiable. “I forgot how good you feel around me.”

You brace your hands on his chest and start to move, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately getting yourself off in a selfish demonstration meant only for him. Zayne’s grip tightens on your waist, and he tips his head back onto the pillow as he tries his hardest to get a grip on the withering control that threatens to slip away.

He almost manages to get a grip on himself. That is, until you unabashedly moan his name— he can’t anymore.

His hand instantly snakes up your back to settle on your shoulder, and he bucks his hips into you, a bit too deep. Your breath gets knocked out of you, nails digging in his chest—red moon crescents that will fade long after he’s gone.

“I’m sorry,” Zayne hisses out, eyes shut in an almost pained expression. “I just–.”

Your hair falls on either side of your face; it traps the two of you in a dizzying proximity. Your heart surges forward, a choking wave of affection making it hard to think. You bend down to kiss him, biting his lip enough to catch his attention. “I’m okay,” you whisper, reassuring him with a brief smile.

He nods, eyes meeting yours with a little more lucidity this time, like he sees you. Zayne takes a deep, shuddering breath and gently lets his hands wander over the expanse of your stomach, where he knows he’s buried inside. The sight brings him an unhealthy sense of satisfaction that he files for later. The unbearable need coiling under his skin makes it hard to think lucidly.

“Are you with me?” Your voice sounds muffled in his ears, and the vision of you sitting in his lap is distorted—he blinks until it shifts back into place. Zayne nods, swallowing his thoughts. He reaches out to you, pulling you down to kiss your neck, his hands settling on your breasts.

You use the new angle to your advantage, rocking back and forth, letting his length slip in and out with ease. “I need this—just—fuck, keep going.” His words set your skin on fire, delicious heat that seems to be contagious, judging from Zayne’s feverish gaze. The slow pace you set isn’t enough for him. His hands wrap around you tightly, and he begins to move his hips—no longer careful or restrained. He lets his lips trail along your jaw and your throat until they reach your ear. He mouths words into your skin that he doesn’t dare say out loud.

You don’t need to hear them to know what he means.

The sounds he makes, the feeling of him sinking deep into you—it feels like being allowed a second chance. It makes you dread the next goodbyes. From the sorrow in Zayne’s eyes, you can tell the same thoughts plague him. So you ride him through it all—his guilt, his aching tenderness, the dreadful anticipation of what comes after this.

Your thighs burn from lifting yourself up. Zayne notices your faltering pace and aids you, effortlessly lifting you up and down as he rams into you—bringing you closer and closer to your release.

“Being away from you for so long,” he whispers, his voice cracked and utterly broken. “I can't bear it.” The admission takes you by surprise, hitting you full force in the chest.

“I’ll be fine. You’ll be fine,” you reassure him, caressing his hair with trembling hands as the thread in your stomach pulls you away from your own thoughts.

“I’m close,” he bites out, biting down on your shoulder harder than necessary. “Are you?”

You nod, unable to speak as he chases his own release at a brutal pace, slipping a hand between your bodies to find your clit—you let out an obscenely loud whine that he greedily swallows.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes against your skin, coaxing your release out of you at the same time as his.

And you trust him. You fall apart in his arms, shattering around him. Your walls clench impossibly tight around him, and Zayne immediately follows with a groan of your name, burying his face in your neck as he finishes inside you. There’s a moment of silence where the two of you are too stunned to move, to speak, to do anything but chase your breaths—foreheads pressed together in the dimmed moonlight.

“I love you,” Zayne whispers out, unapologetically, while cradling your jaw, making sure to drown you with a loving gaze that tragically matches the earnestness of his confession. Your chest tightens, and tears trail down your cheeks in both an expression of grief and relief. “I hope you know that.”

Tucking your trembling lip between your teeth, you nod, sniffling loudly as he caresses your hair with a saddened smile. Zayne pulls out with a hiss before gently rolling the two of you over, making sure to be careful around your healing arm. You tuck your face into the crook of his neck, where his pulse still thrums. With him pressed against you like this, you can pretend, for a little longer, that the outside world doesn’t exist.

Neither of you speaks for the longest time. Both because there’s so much left to say while simultaneously having said everything. The time seems to still, the universe for once letting the two of you share something without having it be ripped away at the earliest occasion.

Zayne brushes the damp strands of hair from your temple, pressing his lips there like a silent promise. “Let me get you a towel,” he gently suggests, peeling away from you. Without him, the air feels chilly, and goosebumps unwelcomely settle on your skin as you stare at the ceiling, watching the way the golden light from the bathroom and Zayne’s shadow dance with each other.

When he finally comes back into your room with a damp towel in hand, his clothes are back on. He silently insists on cleaning you up himself, his touch fleeting and delicate across the bruised skin of your thighs.

He does not seem sorry for once as he admires his work, a semi-permanent reminder of this moment.

After, Zayne sits at the edge of your bed, a few centimetres away from you. He keeps throwing glances your way every minute or so as if you’ll vanish from where you lie exhausted in the bedsheets. Sleep creeps up on you, but you refuse to close your eyes until he leaves.

Zayne’s expression is tense—almost guarded, as he checks the time on his phone. Daylight is still a few hours away, but he knows the time he selfishly borrowed is up. Hands braced on his knees, fingers twitching nervously, he debates whether to say anything or if it’ll simply make the goodbyes harder.

You stay lying on your side, sheets pulled loosely around your bare chest. Your eyes are glued to him, attempting to memorize this new version of him that still belongs to you. His eyes meet yours, slightly surprised by the understandingly bittersweet look on your face as the silence stretches uncomfortably.

“I have to go.” Zayne exhales and drags a hand down his face. “I shouldn’t have stayed this long.”

You blink slowly, unsure of what to respond. His words aren’t meant to wound—they’re predictable and not even directed at you. However, the heavy truth that grounds them in your reality hurts nonetheless.

“I know,” you begrudgingly admit, and your voice barely sounds like yours. It sounds more detached than you intend to.

Zayne breathes in. It’s a pained shudder that he tries to mask with a cough. “I don’t know when��.”

“I know,” you repeat, your trembling voice betraying your flat expression. You can tell he never intended to finish the sentence, but you free him from the burden of doing so.

Or perhaps it’s to spare yourself from having to hear it.

“Just promise me that if you can, you will.” Zayne’s eyes light up as he hears the empty solution you come up with. It's nothing but a sad promise meant to soothe your own insecurities, but it ends up lighting the embers of hope in him. The words leave you with an unsettling expectant feeling that you know will rot away inside your chest for the months to come.

“I promise to,” he whispers, bending down to press a kiss to your forehead. You shut your eyes, swallowing down a sob that stabs the inside of your throat. He smells like a mix of his usual shampoo, the slight musk of sweat, and a mix of your own perfume.

It’s a haunting realization that he’s still him, even when away.

He cradles your face one more time, his eyes committing to this more recent version of you—silently begging his mind to hang onto the most minute details. From the way your dishevelled hair settles around your face to the tired expression on your face, accompanied by the permanent blush on your cheeks.

You almost beg him as he steps out of your bedroom. It would be easy to ask for more—to try and delay the inevitable. Remembering the already broken look on his face, you grab the pillow next to you and wrap your arms tightly around it until your hands start to shake. He lingers at the door, hand hesitantly pulling at the door knob but he does not turn around to look at you once more.

You release your tight hold only when you hear the unmistakable sound of the front door shutting close. With a silent sob, your arms collapse on either side of you. Your injured arm stings; a quick glance tells you it’s bleeding again.

The throbbing pain dims the gaping hole inside your chest. The two muddle until they are indistinguishable from one another, coming in waves that keep you awake for hours after he’s left. When you dare to look outside, the snow has finally stopped, and the wind has died down.

All that is left is a timid breeze that blows through the tree branches where young leaves brace themselves against the unusually cold temperatures. The promise of spring hangs in the air as the golden tendrils of sunlight start to bathe your room.

And for the first time in your life, you start to count down of the days until snow returns.

⋆꙳•❅*°⋆❆.ೃ࿔*:･*❆ ₊⋆

Thanks for reading ^^

#zayne x reader #love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #lads fanfic #lads fic #love and deepspace fic #lads zayne #lnds zayne #lnds

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blcknebula · 13 days ago

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Duty's Cruel Embrace, 3

Chapter Three: Past and Present

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18+ MINORS DNI

pairing ; prince!xavier x princess!reader

synopsis ; you and xavier journey to the port of tartus where your first betrothed awaits you.

word count ; 14.6k words

author's note ; hi everyone! i am so sorry about the delay in updates! i am trying my best to work on these chapters asap!! i hope you enjoy this chapter as much as i enjoyed writing it!

trigger warning ; mentions of death, alcohol use, weapons, xav and reader make out and he gets just a little handsy, light sexism, talks of political marriage, let me know if i missed anything!

my ladies in waiting ♛ °˖✧ @velaenam , @schwnapps , @massivenutkid , @celestialforce , @exitingmusic , @zeskyzed , @eve-ishu , @underfcvcked , @duffyinwonderland , @hiqhkey , @dooopiee , @awkward-stierle , @justpassingdontworry , @queenkymmie , @miffysoo , @kazbrkker , @applepi405 , @flamedancer13 , @prplbunny , @loreleis-world , @animecrazy76 , @emo4r , @crazygirl3001 , @creator-freak , @spacenott , @luckypup0506 , @wltneko9006 , @wonys-won , @sh4do3 , @witchbybirth

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please go check out @velaenam 's story domina of the east! there are light spoilers for her story in this chapter <3

The crown prince of Philos remained close to you after you left the king’s tent. He remained far away, always behind you, never slipping into your line of sight. He had to convince himself that you were not looking for him, that you were on your own mission in life, one that does not revolve around him. He detests the idea of you being loyal to another cause, one that does not belong to him.

You are to be his wife, are you not? You will be the woman he shares the throne with, the woman who will bear his children and provide heirs for his future and legacy. He should be allowed to claim you as his own. As his one and only.

You were now away from your kingdom, a day’s ride to be exact, and soon the two of you will be on a boat heading across the Mediterranean Sea back to his kingdom of Philos. He knows that in time, you will grow to love Philos as much as he does. All he can sit and wish is that the two of you fall into something like love, a way for you to live in harmony for the rest of your lives.

Will it be love? Or will it simply be a partnership that you two barely tolerate?

He knows, though, that you will not be won in war. Your game of cat and mouse, the constant push and pull, the game that has brought him so much more excitement than he could have ever imagined. It is the reason why he is drawn to you. It is the reason why Xavier hasn’t been able to keep you away from him while on your journey to the port of Tartus.

He watches you from afar. Just like how he keeps his distance from you, you keep your distance from the other men at camp, the disgusting soldiers who laugh and tell the tales from their skirmishes and battles in Nabira. He sees the look of disgust on your face. Your expression slightly twists into something fatal, devastating, mourning the loss of the soldiers from your kingdom. You even wince at a few of their motions, the way they describe slicing the necks of the men that they have encountered in the battlefield.

Whenever you pass by, too, the soldiers either remain silent and bow their heads with respect, or they throw taunts your way, calling you pet names as if you now belong to them.

But you belong to him. Xavier knows it…even you know it.

Xavier remains by your tent throughout the night. He had his squire bring him one of the wooden chairs from his father’s tent and he placed it beside the entrance to your tent. Men walked by, their drunken laughs being silenced from Xavier’s scowl. The tip of his blade remained beneath the earth, his hand remaining on the hilt. Soldiers partied in the distance while Xavier listened to the rustling of the thin blanket he provided for you — the one he brought from his bed chambers in Philos — and waited for the night to come to an end.

The bright blue moon was his only light in the night as the majority of torches were snuffed out. He looks up at the Heavenly body, focusing on the imperfections that shine brightly on its surface. Xavier wonders if you like the moon as much as he does. He loves watching the Heavenly bodies in the night sky, looking upon them as they twinkle from the depths of the darkness.

The prince wonders what lies beyond the sky. Are there other worlds like his own? Are the men on that distant and far planet forced into unnecessary wars that their fathers wish to wage? Do the men there get to freely choose their wives or are they forced to marry vipers in disguise from a kingdom across the known world?

A sigh leaves his lips. Xavier looks away from the sky and shakes his head, turning his attention towards the ground. There are shadows from the scattered patches as grass of the campsite. There is a mixture of sand and dirt and grass, the combination of two different kinds of ecosystems merging together.

A sense of longing and worry overwhelms his mind. Xavier closes his eyes and rolls his head back, cracking his tensed up joints and bones as a quiet groan escapes his lips. He knows that his journey and time in Nabira is coming to a close. He will finally be back in Philos, a place he knows like the back of his hand. He has dreamed of his kingdom almost every single night since he has reached the desert, sailing away from the green scenery into the abyss of the desert.

Back in Philos, Xavier remembers the endless rolling hills of green grass, the steady streams and rivers that run through his kingdom. He remembers each and every crevice and rock of the mountainside where the Philos castle sits. He remembers the dark gray stone bride that attaches the base of the mountain to the rest of the village. Xavier misses the sound of the roaring river that runs beneath the bridge, the perpetually cold water spraying over the edges when the winds are strong.

Nabira is a completely different environment than what he is used to. Getting used to the desert was harder than he imagined, his right hand man back in Philos, Jeremiah, telling him what he should prepare for. He thought that the hot temperature was comparable to the hottest summer day in Philos but after experiencing the coolest day in Nabira, he knows that he is not meant for this type of climate. He supposes that he misses the green scenery. He is tired of the constant tans and browns, the only green coming from fabrics and the scattered patches of shrubbery that lay somewhat near oases.

He thought that he would find his inevitable demise in Nabira because who can truly survive a war as destructive and brutal as his father’s campaign for Nabira. Who can survive in the endless stretches of desert with little to no water to live off of, his body aching and his skin turning rough and red under the blazing sun. Even the metal of his armor has made him feel so suffocated while traveling through the sand dunes. Perhaps his inevitable demise did not come in the form of death but rather in the form of a beautiful woman behind a black and gold veil, the woman who has infiltrated his every waking and unconscious thought ever since he met her.

You…you have proven to be an intoxicating potion that has been slipped into his drink, a spell that is your name that has taken control over his mind.

Xavier opens his eyes to the sun already above the horizon. His light blue blanket is draped over his body, the hand on his sword covered. A quiet groan vibrates his throat. He slowly sits up, back tense. Xavier’s blue eyes scan the immediate area, the morning sun warm against his skin. You slowly approach from afar, a silver cup in hand along with a plate with bread, nuts, and dried meat. Xavier hides the small smile that begins to form on his face, covering it up by clearing his throat and sitting up in his chair.

“I can ride the horse for us today,” you say to him, skipping the greeting. It amuses Xavier. “Here,” you mutter under your breath, “eat. Drink. Your father wishes for us to embark from this place as soon as possible. He thinks we can reach Tartus by sunset if we move fast enough.”

Xavier takes the plate and chalice from you, your fingers grazing against each other. You ignore the way the corner of his lips perk up, the way his cloth shirt exposes the top part of his chest. You clear your throat and tear your gaze away, looking at the soldiers who tear down the campsite. They scurry around as their king watches. The silver crown on his head reflects sharp flashes of light whenever he turns, the man’s squire and his noble attendant by his side as he quietly speaks his demands.

“When did you wake, princess?” Xavier asks.

You struggle to respond. Your gaze meets his and all of the words slip out of your mind. You have memorized and learned Xavier’s mother tongue when the Philos troops were first seen on the outskirts of Nabira’s borders. Countless books and endless nights studying their words, the way they speak. The teachers in Nabira helped you become fluent but sometimes the words slipped free from your mind, leaving you with a mouth and brain filled with an empty void.

Xavier tilts his head at you, perking up an eyebrow. He slowly chews the hardened bread, narrowing his blue eyes at you. He slowly stands. The light blue blanket slips off of his body, hanging over the top of his sword. Xavier places the chalice and plate down, turning his attention back to you.

“Take your time,” he whispers, “or, you can say it in thy own tongue.”

“I woke at dawn. The dogs’ barks woke me,” you speak with no hesitation.

Xavier picks up on your words. His year in Nabria allowed him to learn some of your language, not all of it because he has always been stubborn and, quite frankly, did not think that he would get a Nabiran wife out of the crusade. He watches you closely as you gesture to the pack of nearby dogs, their snouts red from blood from that morning’s hunt.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” you continue, finally turning back to wake him. Xavier’s. Your expression softens at the sight of his tousled hair, the way the silver strands poke out in every direction. You wave him down, which he immediately obeys, and you gently flatten the hair back against his head. “You looked so peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” Xavier quietly repeats the word in your tongue. You freeze and pull away from him, eyes slightly widened. Does he know your language? Has he learned during his time in Nabira just like you have with his? “What does that mean?”

“Peaceful,” you state after a moment’s hesitation, swallowing the lump in your throat.

“Peaceful…” he whispers with a slight nod. “I will ride for us today. Be ready soon. A solider will handle your tent for you.”

“Xavier,” you watch as he drapes the light blue blanket around your shoulders. With one hand, he picks up the plate and chalice, balancing the silver cup on the plate, his sword now resting in his free hand. He steps around you. You watch him as he leaves, disappearing into the chaos of the Philos camp.

You sigh. You hang your head low as you stare at the ground. The leather bag your father gave you sits beside his wooden chair. The chair looks so uncomfortable…why would he spend the night like that? Did he truly wish for you to see this act of service as one that shows you can trust him? Or is it a false sense of security that he will use against you in the near future?

Confusion infiltrates your mind. You allow yourself to gather your belongings, plucking the golden bow from the inside of your tent. It sits around your bodice, the golden point sticking up into the sky, the quiver of arrows attached around your hips. The black crow feathers absorb the heat of the day. You feel them between the pads of your fingers, fiddling with them. They help keep you company as you walk through the camp, looking around for the man you are forced to be allies with.

Whether you like it or not, you know that Prince Xavier is your only saving grace on the journey to Philos. Even then, once you reach his kingdom, he is still your only ally in the political world that is much different from Nabira.

You cannot help but question if Xavier will be there by your side like he vowed to do. You do not know if he will remain loyal to you and the aid you require. Your mind wanders across the many possibilities that you will encounter in the new world.

Does Xavier have a mistress? Is there another woman in his life that you will have to learn to tolerate during your political and arranged marriage? You do not know what waits for you in the near future. It feels as if you are willingly walking into a lion’s den.

You can try your best to hide behind the furs they will gift to you. You can try to hide behind the crown of thorns that they will place onto your head. At the end of the day, though, it is you and you alone that is in charge of your life. You will have to fight for your spot in the Philos court, to fight to show the nobles that you earned your position as the future Queen of their kingdom. They will try to bring you down but you must persevere.

“Princess,” Xavier’s voice sounds from behind. You do not turn, simply continuing to stare at the ancient ruins from your ancestor’s empire.

After it fell hundreds of years ago, the Roman Empire lost its influence. Their colonies and cities fought back against Roman control all while the title of emperor was being fought about in the heart of Rome. You read about it in the books your father gifted to you as a child. Your brother did not particularly enjoy reading about the fall of an empire, but you enjoyed seeing how Emperor Caleb’s laws and provisions remained in place when it came to Nabira. He ruled far before the empire fell. His descendants, your ancestors, kept his vow alive. It is admirable, really.

There are broken statues and pillars in the distance. Another outpost that was once under Roman control. Now Mother Nature runs it with vines reclaiming the white and cracked stone. Xavier’s armor and chainmail sounds from behind you. His white horse whinnies. The scraping of metal rubbing against itself used to irk you, send chills down your spine, but now it is a welcoming sound of the man you will call your husband.

“Is thou ready?” he asks.

“How long do you think that has been there for?” you ask and gesture to the crumbling pillars. Xavier takes his place at your side, his eyes fixed on the landmark. His horse remains tethered to its reins.

“I do not know,” he quietly responds. “Centuries, probably.”

“Centuries,” you muse with a chuckle. Xavier looks down at you, confusion written across his face. “Is there a centuries old outpost in Philos?”

Xavier remains quiet. He studies the side of your face, taking in the slenderness of your cheeks, the hollowness behind your eyes. You’re tired, yes, and he can tell that you have not been able to stop thinking since you woke up that morning. He clears his throat and tugs on the leather reins.

The white horse trots around and settles in the space in front of you. Your eyes flicker to Xavier and he avoids your gaze, simply sliding the reins into your hands. He grabs your waist and you place your foot into the stirrup. In one motion, Xavier helps you onto the horse, your leg kicking over the horse. You remove your foot and scoot forward. Xavier takes your bag and attaches it to the side of the horse, placing it beside his. You quickly reach inside and pluck out the diary your father gifted you, placing it in the small space in front of you and the pommel of the saddle.

Xavier quickly mounts the horse and takes his place behind you, his armored hands rest on your thighs for the briefest of moments. You lean back into him, already accustomed to his presence behind you. He leans in, his lips close to your ear. His breath is hot against your skin. It sends chills down your spine.

“You’ve been thinking,” he murmurs. He takes back the reins from you and gently kicks the horse’s side. It lets out a huff and turns on its hooves, moving back towards the camp. “Thinking of the past and history…tell me what is on your mind, princess.”

You look straight ahead. The camp has been broken down while you were lost in your thoughts. The soldiers have resume their marching positions, already beginning the journey to the Tartus port. You assume that Xavier’s father is at the helm, guiding his men through the last of the desert. The two of you assume a position towards the back, the soldiers and guards a part of Xavier’s future Kingsguard taking their place behind you.

“Shall I take your silence as your answer?” he quietly hums.

You roll your eyes and angle your face to look behind you. His eyes meet yours, a hint of amusement in his blue irises. It irritates you to see just how much fun he is having with this. All of the positive feelings you felt towards him begin to slowly dissipate, his sudden cockiness grating your nerves.

“I think of the future,” you finally respond, turning your head back towards the front. Your drop your gaze to the diary in your hands, the horse’s trot just stable enough for you to read.

“I thought you were lost in the past,” Xavier chuckles. You suck in a breath, shoulders tensing. “Now thy worries over the future?”

“Yes, your Highness, ’tis what I said,” your voice is sharp.

You open the diary with a huff, frowning at the tan pages. You flip through the entires, knowing that your ancestor’s words are completely foreign to the man who sits behind you. You stop at one entry whose words catch your attention. You see the old Emperor’s name, Caleb, and stop flicking through the pages.

“Do you wish to be alone?” Xavier quietly asks. He slightly leans forward and stares at the pages. The script is a mystery to him. He may be able to comprehend a few spoken words, but to read it? It is an entirely different story. Your silence is answer enough for him to nod to himself, tearing his gaze away from the diary and to focus on the environment around you.

You silently struggle with your feelings for the crown prince. He has been nothing but kind to you — besides your confrontation when your fathers’ decided on a marriage between the two of you — and he has been patient with your blunt questions. He even sat in front of your tent to make for sure that you were safe. His kind gestures make your heart flutter but your mind combats every single instinct that kicks in.

You do not know if you can trust him. You do not know if he is someone worth your love and attention or if he will have it in himself to return the positive afflictions. Will it even be possible for your heart to come to love a man like him? You know that you can tolerate him, that you will find a rhythm that the two of you can fall into if love does not blossom or come into fruition. There is just that hint of hesitation, though, the single insecure thought that lingers in your mind.

You are a woman. He is a man. He is able to get away with so much more than you ever will. He will be allowed to keep mistresses if he so desires and you will remain alone in your separate bedchambers with nothing but a book and the candlelight to keep you company. He is allowed to lose control, to show his anger while you must remain quiet and obedient, subservient to him and him alone.

Unfortunately, you live in a world dominated by men. For your entire life, you were surrounded by powerful men — even your brother as a boy employed more power than you — who could control the outcome of the Nabiran kingdom with a snap of their fingers. Oftentimes, your father’s male advisors would shut you out of political meetings. Whenever the Lemurians, or other diplomatic kingdoms, came to visit, you were told to entertain the women and girls who were brought along while the men drank wine from behind closed doors.

Always forced to watch, never allowed to participate.

The day has been long and hard. You sat in silence, only speaking in short whenever Xavier asks you a question or if you need anything. The sun begins to make its descent back towards the horizon and you can’t help but feel relieved. With the sight of trees and greenery now coming into view, you know that the port of Tartus is near. The sand dunes have turned into grasslands, the yellow and green grass replacing the golds and browns of the sand.

“Princess,” Xavier’s voice draws you out of your thoughts. You hum in response, eyes remaining closed as the horse continues on its way. “Why did thou remain silent before?”

“My mother taught me that if one does not have a kind thing to say, to not say it at all,” you play coy and dance around the meaning of your silence.

Xavier simply chuckles in response, shaking his head. He enjoys this game with you, whether you are aware of it or not. He rests his hand on his thigh, looking away and at the setting sun.

The Philos army travels across the bluffs of the new village. It is governed by Nabira but most of its soldiers come from Lemuria, an old alliance that formed between the kingdoms centuries ago. Two halves that operate in peace and harmony. Xavier looks away, thinking that it will take about an hour to reach the port. He feels your body relax against him once he notices you finally catch wind of the sight.

“Is there someone thou wishes to see there?” there is slight hint of jealousy to his voice and in the way his body slightly tenses up.

Xavier knows that you were originally betrothed to the Lemurian prince, a man by the name of Rafayel. He has only met the prince a handful of times and their interactions were short and brief. He has the most unusual appearance, his hair a vibrant purple color and his irises holding more than one color. Rafayel is extremely extroverted, the complete opposite of the prince himself. Xavier prefers to engage with parties from the outside whereas Rafayel loves to be in the middle of it all.

He does not wish to speak ill of your previous betrothed, simply following your mother’s advice that you bestowed upon him.

“And if there is?” a small smirk flashes across your face.

You hide it as you turn to face him, his hand finding itself on your side as you lean into it, getting the best look possible. His brows are slightly knitted, his jaw clenched. His eyes have lost all of their wonder and dare you say it — sparkle — that he once held towards you. There is a darkness behind his eyes and yet all you can feel amusement towards his sudden possessiveness towards you because, well…what else could it be?

“Will thou play the role of my knight in shining armor?” you lower your voice.

Xavier’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down. His grip on the leather reins tightens. His heart pounds on the inside of his chest. He unconsciously moves towards you, leaning in as his breathing grows heavier.

You truly are a viper, aren’t you?

You let out a quiet sigh. Leaning forward, you pluck the veil from your bag, placing it over your head and the diary. Xavier may not be able to understand the written form of your language, but you wish to have some kind of privacy from the outside world as you travel the last length of distance. The diary opens up with a soft crinkle sound, your finger acting as a bookmark. Sunlight breaks through the sheer veil but protects your eyes from the star, the veil providing slight shade for you.

In the quiet of my chambers, the oil lamps flicker low… The weight of my crown feels most distant. I confess to these pages that I dare not speak aloud.

Caleb. My emperor.

Your ancestor’s silent plight calls to you. You see her words, feeling as they resonate throughout your body. The ink looks shaky as if her hands were trembling as she wrote these words. She has gone through the same conflict you feel inside of your heart and mind. Forced to be wed to a stranger, a man who holds power.

Yours is a mere prince, the weight of a newer yet large kingdom resting on your shoulders. Your ancestor, though? She married an emperor who ruled an empire that stretched from one side of the world to the other.

And yet your internal struggles remain as one, the same trouble of having to share the sheets with a man who is so foreign to you. Does she share the same worries of a mistress? Does she also feel the inexplicable urge to cross the distance, no matter how big or small it may be, and to unite with him as one?

Betrayal coated over a toad. But for some reason I find myself wanting to kiss him.

He stands atop marble steps now gilded in cracks and anger. But I can't help my feelings for him. Even when duty made a stranger of him.

Yet in the stillness that followed…Gideon emerged.

A quiet laugh leaves your lips before you can stop it. You continue to read through the passage, unable to contain the small gasps that leave your body from the revelations that she has confessed to the pages of the diary. The heat from the irony of the situation making the sun even more unbearable. You feel the warmth of Xavier’s armor push into your back. From the corner of your eye, you watch as he reaches to the side of you, picking up the corner of the veil before slowly lifting it up.

“Yes, Xavier?” you ask with a quiet voice, closing the diary. “Is there something thou wishes to say?”

“What…amuses you?” Xavier asks in a quiet voice. “Thine’s smile disappeared when she saw me…how may I see it again?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. Your gaze flickers to the sliver between his head and the fabric, the blue sky growing darker. Xavier simply leans to the side and effortlessly catches your gaze once again.

“Answer me,” his command is harsh while his tone reeks of slight desperation.

Perhaps you made your judgment on him too quick. Maybe Xavier truly does wish to make an effort to be your husband. Your future with him will now be one that is easy and complimentary, yes? You will both make an effort for things to be good. Maybe love will come out of it in due time.

“Are you asking me that as the future king or as Xavier?” you quietly ask. Xavier’s face flinches. Your eyes drop to his lips before moving back to his eyes.

He does not reply. You slightly tilt your head to the side, the sunset flashing into your eyes, illuminating your irises. Xavier’s breath hitches and he suddenly believes in his country’s religion again. He blinks at you, too flustered to focus.

Suddenly, the sound of men’s snickering and cheers captures your attention. You draw away from Xavier, your posture straightening. You turn to the front, staring through the veil, noticing that the soldiers stare at the two of you. Embarrassment floods your body, your cheeks heating up. Xavier slips out of the veil, his sharp glare silencing the soldiers.

“Turn around,” Xavier commands them with such ease it sends chills down your spine.

He slows your horse, the soldiers passing by on their own animals or jogging around you. Xavier watches them as they go, your horse coming to a full stop. His hands slip under the fabric that pools at your hips, his gloved hand resting on your stomach, pulling you closer to him. You cannot move. You’re frozen as time and the soldiers pass you by, only able to fully breathe again once the sound of their horse’s and footsteps fade into nothing.

Xavier removes the veil from your body, holding it away from you as you try to snatch it back from him. The horse whinnies. You glare at him, turning back around to the front, watching as the soldiers march into the distance. Xavier’s grip on you tightens. The raised metal of his coat of arms pokes into your skin, leaving you breathless. He leans down, the tip of his nose grazing against the shell of your ear with closed eyes.

“Do you wish me to be?” Xavier whispers into your ear.

“Wish thou to be what?”

“To be yours, your knight in shining armor,” Xavier is breathless, his cheeks bright in color. You close your eyes, unable to think of an immediate response.

Is it not early to show such affections? Is Xavier showing his cards too easy? It feels like a trap. A sudden sweetness to win your favor before his alliance with Nabira can be severed when your Lemurian friend comes into the portrait. There is no way that he could possibly feel jealousy towards an old suitor. You were never going to leave Xavier even if you tried. You need Philos’ alliance for your father’s sake. You are unequivocally his despite your distaste towards the matter.

“Do what you want,” you breathe out, “it is no matter to me.”

“Truly you do not mean that,” he quickly follows up.

“Unburden yourself, Xavier,” his breath hitches at the sound of his name, “and take us to the port.”

Xavier follows your command. He kicks the horse into motion, tightly holding the reins to keep the horse in check. The horse shifts into a gallop, crossing the distance with ease and flipping up through the pack. The people part for his highness and you remain resigned in front of him, focusing your eyes on the port that lies ahead.

You wish that your childhood friend, a boy you haven’t seen in little over three years since the crusades were first brought to Nabira’s attention, is there to see you to your new home. Rafayel was the one who sailed the seas and rode on a horse with his father as soon as they saw Philos’ army. They did not hesitate to offer help, help which your father declined, and you had to say goodbye to the man you originally were ready to marry.

It will be nice to see him. You can silently plead for aid and protection with the Lemurian ladies in the Philos court — if they have any, that is. He is sure to help you. Maybe he will find himself at your wedding to the infamous Lumière, a man who was sure to have killed both Nabirans and Lemurians in battle. Xavier was a common enemy before he turned into your betrothed. Does that change things with your Lemurian prince now?

After an hour, the Philos army reaches the lively port. The army stays on the outskirts of the port city while you, Xavier, the King, and a smaller portion of the army make your way through the decorated scene. You know that today is a Lemurian holiday, one where they take the night off and dance the night away. They are very free spirited people with art, music, and their navy being their priorities and greatest achievements. Even Rafayel is known to have a few masterpieces under his belt at his young age.

The smile returns to your face. Many of the Lemurian and Nabiran citizens bow their heads at you, stopping in their tracks to show their reverence for their domina. It was sure to be known by now that you are leaving for the rest of your life, that you will never return. Tonight will be as much about your release from the kingdom as much as it is their holiday.

Xavier keeps his eyes on you, watching as you gaze upon the Lemurian rich city with such wonder and awe. It is different from Philos’ much more mild mannered festivities. The city, even when it is an ocean away from their kingdom, is much more vibrant and colorful compared to Philos’ whites and grays color scheme. Much more lighter and monotone from the Lemurian’s bright blues and pinks and purples.

He knows that you will have much fun tonight. There is no reason for you to listen to him or keep you away from that friend of yours. He may accompany you, though, even if you disagree to it. He wants to see what his future bride likes to take part in. It is what every good husband should know, no? He should make for sure that man does not taint your honor or bring any stigmas onto yourself for the Philos court to hear about before your arrival.

It is the least he can do as your future husband.

The horses arrive at the Lemurian’s biggest ship, the Abysswalker, a ship that Rafayel is known to command, just as the sailors disembark from the wooden ship. As soon as Xavier’s horse comes to a slow, you swing your leg over the horse’s head and slide off of the animal, your feet colliding with the earth made dock that the Aysswalker is connected to.

“The domina has arrived,” Rafayel calls to his men as he walks down the wooden plank over the small gap between the ship and the dock, “make sure to behave.” A smile spreads across his face. Your eyes flicker to his hair, which is longer than you remember it being, the purple strands stopping right when they meet his shoulders.

“Is that a command for me or your men?” you smile at him, resting your hands on your hips just as he steps foot back onto land. He stops right in front of you and leans down, brushing your hair out of your face.

“I’d like to think it was one for you,” Rafayel’s smile is as bright as the rest of his face. He mimics your hands on the hips and rests back on one foot. “Did you get shorter?”

“One would think you are insufferable,” you retort back.

“Welcome to Tartus, my lady,” Rafayel takes a step forward, delicately taking your hand. He brings your knuckles to his mouth, his eyes meeting yours, and presses a sweet kiss to your hand like the true gentleman he is. You crack a smile at him, feeling even safer with him than you do with Xavier. Rafayel’s eyes flicker to Xavier, who has gotten off the horse and made himself at home in the space behind you. “Prince Xavier, we have been expecting thy’s arrival.”

“Is that so?” Xavier rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. You purse your lips in annoyance. “Will you be the one who escorts my queen and I to Philos?”

“Yes,” Rafayel’s posture stiffens at the mention of you being his so called queen. His eyes move to you, catching the annoyance that moves across your face. “My apologies if our banter has crossed a line with your…king.”

“I am not his queen yet,” you muse, feeling the tension begin to form between the three of you. You are simply weighing all of your options. You do not wish to marry a man who may be planning your death, making it look like the journey to Philos destroyed you. At least you know you are safe with the Lemurians around.

“Ah,” Rafayel nods his head, turning his attention back to Xavier, “allow me to show you to your quarters. Thou must have had a long day. Rest will do you well before we set sail.”

Xavier nods and steps around you, following the men that immediately move from behind Rafayel. The Philos soldiers set off, except for his father’s Kingsguard, for their own camp since they will be traveling back to Philos by foot. About three years journey across the land if Xavier’s father decides to not send any ships to pick them up and ease the distance. He hesitates when he notices that you and Rafayel do not move a muscle, your eyes never leaving each other’s.

“It’s been a long time,” you whisper to him over the sound of squawking birds, “you’ve grown into the role of Captain.”

“Admiral, actually,” Rafayel’s smile grows more smug by the second. You nod your head at him, keeping it coy and detached. “Do you wish to celebrate tonight, my lady? I remember you telling me that you would love to celebrate the holiday.”

“I would love to if you are the one who keeps me company,” perhaps you are a little too polite in your response. It is all in good faith and all at the expense of your soon to be husband. You like the way his face darkens when another man offers you his gaze, the way he grows jealous at even the slightest thought of you plotting against him or simply when you entertain someone who isn’t him.

“I shall join too, then,” Xavier steps back. His eyes move to yours then your lips. “I shall accompany you.”

“Three is considered to be a crowd,” Rafayel tries to interject.

“Who is to say that he may last through the night?” you challenge. Xavier’s nostrils flare. “My prince, perchance you have spare clothes for me to wear.”

“It can be arranged, princess,” your head snaps in his direction at the title. Rafayel smirks and steps away, walking towards the nearby building by the dock.

You let out an amused huff of air. Xavier steps in front of you. He tightly grips his sword, looking down at you with intense eyes. You attempt to step around him but Xavier blocks the path, his armored hand digging into your flesh. You let out a quiet gasp, feeling a stinging sensation as he yanks you towards him.

“Am I to be worried, princess?” Xavier asks, his voice low and dangerous.

“We speak of clothes,” you say.

“Do you think me a fool?” Xavier counters. You catch the sharpness in his tone.

“You know I am to be yours,” you match his tone, “he means no harm.”

“He is mad.”

“Just as you are?” you lift your connected hands to his eye line.

Xavier immediately releases his grip. He takes a step back, the scrapes of his armor quiet, and diverts his gaze. You purse your lips and walk around him, following in the direction that Rafayel walked in.

The purple haired prince approaches a tall sandstone building. It is much taller than the rest of the seaside village, a landmark for those watching from afar but also a place for nobles and diplomats to stay. You have never been here but your brother has and he told you all about how lively the village is, the way the candles are never snuffed out, acting like golden stars in the night sky.

You pick up the extra fabric that pools near your feet as you walk. You slice through the crowd, the people dispersing as soon as they notice you, and watch as Rafayel waves his hands at the guards by the door. The wooden doors creak to life as you reach the top of the stairs. The prince offers you his arm and you immediately take it.

Xavier scoffs from behind, glaring at the sight of your connected bodies. A scowl overtakes his face as he steps through the doors, entering inside of the brightly lit noble-run home. Servants scurry past, holding sheets and plates of food, bowing their heads at Xavier as they pass. He approaches his father’s side, his eyes never leaving you and Rafayel as you laugh about some comment he makes. Xavier does not see the humor you do in the prince. Do you not know that he is known to be a rake? Xavier and his hand, Jeremiah, have watched as Rafayel passed himself around the ballroom, never taking the time to act like a proper human being.

“Do you know of the festivities, father?” Xavier has to pull his gaze away from you and Rafayel, turning to look at the king that stands beside him. “Will they be…worthwhile?”

“You should partake,” the king responds. He barely even looks at Xavier as he speaks with one of the captains in his army, “unwind. Get to know your wife. Be a prince.”

“Be a prince?” Xavier repeats the words with a slight scoff. “Am I not the man you molded me to be?”

“Tonight,” Xavier’s father sighs and dismisses his man. From over his son’s shoulder, he watches as you and Rafayel disappear up the stairs with a governess close behind, a role that you will soon grow used to once you reach Philos. “Drop thy sword and shed yourself of thine armor. Indulge yourself. Be ready to leave it behind as soon as the sun rises.”

“Yes, sir,” Xavier mutters to himself.

He bows his head to his father and turns away, one of the servants beckoning for him to follow to his temporary bed chambers. The prince allows himself to relax on the journey up through stairs, the metal armor on his body finally beginning to weigh him down. He reaches the top of the stairs. The sound of your laughter stops him in his path. He abandons the servant and walks down the hallway, the clicks of his metal boots echoing down the corridor.

You sit in a room with Rafayel, along with a handful of other nobles who reside in the seaside village, and hold a glass of wine in your hand, swirling around the dark liquid before bringing it up to your lips. The language has changed from the one from Philos to a picture between Nabiran and Lemurian. Neither you nor Rafayel could stick with just one. You watch Rafayel from over the rim of the gold chalice, his drunken friends lounged on the couch as they twiddle with the strings of a lute, the dull notes filling the calmed atmosphere.

“Tell me, domina,” Rafayel begins. He takes a sip from his chalice before lowering it to the table, crossing the distance, and placing himself in the open space beside you, “what do you think of life outside of Nabira’s castle walls?”

“Tis different,” you cooly respond. You place your goblet beside his. “I never thought I would have left so soon.”

“Right,” Rafayel leans down, his eyes fixated on yours, “one did not think your father would ever let you leave the palace. He barely let anyone in for that matter.”

“And yet here I am,” you muse, slightly narrowing your eyes at the purple haired man, “outside of the walls, about to set sail on your ship towards my new fate.”

“I knew I would have the honor of sailing with you,” the prince begins. He slowly leans in some more, your noses a dangerous distance from one another. He tilts his head to the side, taking in the floral scent of your perfume, the way you hold yourself strong against his sudden closeness. Rafayel lowers his voice, his eyes slightly darkening. “I always thought the destination would be Lemuria rather than...Philos.”

You hesitate to respond. You watch Rafayel carefully, observing the way his eyes are all over your face, taking you in from a short distance. He smells like the sea, the hint of salty water and his sweat, his musk, mixes in with the scent. His eyes are vibrant and yet you can see the overprotective nature of your friend begin to seep out.

When Rafayel and his aunt, the Princess Talia, visited Nabira when he was just a boy, he would refuse to let you leave his sight. The two of you would always sit next to each other during meals and he would make you show him all of your favorite places in the Nabiran palace. You showed him the statues of your ancestors, the painted images that you quietly prayed to. He watched as you shot your arrows and in turn you watched him as he fought your brother with wooden swords — although you remember him favoring a trident instead.

“Are you disappointed in the outcome, my prince?” you quietly ask.

“Do not call me that,” Rafayel whispers. “I know the game thou dost engage in.”

“Call thou what?” you play the role of an innocent damsel much to his dismay.

“My prince.”

“Why not?” you tilt your head to the side, eyes never leaving his. It feels as if you can barely breathe with him so close to you, the tension bubbling in the air. “It is thy’s title, is it not?”

“Yes but,” Rafayel sucks in a breath, his voice neither rising nor falling, “I am no longer yours.”

“Thou art my friend,” you whisper, “art thou not?”

“I should be glad that you are his vixen to deal with,” Rafayel pulls away. With the distance, you are able to breathe again. “You are his princess—”

“Domina,” you sharply correct him, your gaze narrowing, “I am not married to him yet.”

“You aren’t,” Rafayel shifts his weight to his back foot, watching you closely, “but thou will be soon enough.”

Your body runs cold. There is truth to his words, you know it to be true. Denial runs through your thoughts. You have accepted your fate and yet here you are, spiraling over someone else pointing out the less than ideal circumstances you find yourself in.

A small smile breaks Rafayel’s serious demeanor. He reaches for your chalice, taking it from its place, and brings it to his lips, sipping the dark red wine that sits inside the cup. You tear your gaze away from him, clearing your throat, and notice a silver figure move into the darkness of the hallway, the wooden door closing shut.

“That prince of yours is trouble,” the Lemurian says from behind you. You do not turn to look at him, simply wishing that you will see Xavier soon. “I do not trust him.”

“Is that so?” you hum, finally turning to look at Rafayel. He simply nods in response.

You look back to the door, pushing off of the table you stand beside, and walk towards it, pushing the wooden panel open. You take a step out. The corridor is much more dark than the inside of the parlor room. Lit candles hang from chandeliers, the wax spilling over the dark metal. The light is warm, a deep orange to cut through the darkness of the night, and you look at Rafayel from over your shoulder.

“Fetch me when you are ready to embark,” you offer him a small smile. Rafayel simply nods in response, turning away from you and to the nobles inside of the parlor.

You disappear down the corridor, following the sound of footsteps up the next flight of stairs. The figure escapes you as soon as you reach the top and you let out an annoyed huff of air. You take a glance around and let out a quiet sigh, walking down the stone hallway. The sounds of your sandals swiping against the floor fills in the silent hallway. You can hear the faint crashing of distant waves, the ocean restless as ever, while you navigate your way towards your bedchambers. As soon as the door comes into sight, you disappear behind it.

Your leather bag and bow sit on your bed, a welcome sight for sore eyes. You approach the bed and sit on the edge, a small frown forming on your face. Rafayel’s words of warning sit with you. They leave you no comfort nor do they make you feel secure in your silent alliance with him. Xavier has given you no signal that he wishes to betray you — quite the opposite, actually, with his sudden posessiveness over you — nor has there been any signs from his father that he wishes to make you a martyr to the people of Nabira.

The sudden competition between Xavier and Rafayel is nothing you could have ever expected for yourself. You always thought that the other men in your life would respect the choices made for you. You are forced to remain passive when it comes to your marital status while the men around you are actively dictating who you will fall asleep beside for the rest of your days. This is, unless your husband were to die. Then you would be forced off to wed yet another man in power whose only mission in life is to secure his throne and provide his kingdom with an heir.

The leather bound diary stares at you. It sits beside the leather bag, its gold accents and jewels beckoning you towards it. You reach out and grasp the small book, bringing it towards your chest. Perhaps your ancestor’s words will bring you some semblance of peace. The pages welcome you as soon as you open the diary, her handwriting already calming down your rapidly beating heart.

Caleb was the sun. Gideon is the moon.

How could she have had the same predicament as you? Feeling affection towards two men. Your familiarity with Rafayel, the bright spirited man whom you have held affection towards for so long.

Then there is Xavier. A man whom you have been forced to share horseback with, forever tied to his reins, unable to make an escape from his intense eyes and wandering hands. In the time you have spent together, little has been said. You originally thought that silence was the best way to show your rebellion towards him and the arranged marriage.

You move to the next passage of the diary entry.

He speaks little, but in his silence, I find refuge. I see the burden he carries. The way his eyes linger too long when he thinks I do not notice. The protection he offers in more ways than one.

Could you too find refuge in his silence? You know he watches you every chance he gets. You are sure that he will never be too far from you if he is to attend the Lemurian festivities tonight. He is sure to drown in the crowd, to fade into the background while you take center stage with your would have been husband, the man you always imagined standing beside instead of the fair headed man your father sold you off to.

Will this be a test for him to show his worth to you? A way to win your heart over in the political game of intrigue that you have found yourself in? He has been in it for his entire life, surely he knows how to win the heart of his chosen princess…your heart.

I should be ashamed, but I am only tired. Tired of pretending the ache in my chest is loyalty alone… If the gods hear me, let them judge gently. My heart is torn between crown comfort and love. Let this ink keep my secret.

You never believed in the gods. Sure, your mother held an expectation of religion upon you, but you knew the truth. You knew that the gods abandoned the earth a long time ago, around the fall of Rome, when magic and Evols have left world. They took all of the splendor with them. The magic that you wished so desperately to see.

Tales told during the fall of Rome have left the world wondering what happened to people who held magic. Did they die with the Emperor and his bloodline? Were they hunted for sport and killed in gladiator battles like martyrs? Or has the magic the world once held in its people slowly vanish throughout the years?

Your mother always liked to joke that you hold the same power like your ancestor, arguably one of the greatest Emperors that Rome has had, but more in the way of him being able to connect and unite his empire together. You have always had the charm of an angel and people naturally gravitated towards you. According to your mother, you also hold a special connection to the past, something that nobody has ever seen before.

You like to call it empathy but your mother thinks your ancestors have chosen you to be their voice.

You close the diary and let out a slow exhale. The pads of your fingers run along the cover, feeling the warm metal against your touch. It grounds you as your mind wanders away from itself. You stand from the bed and take a quick peek into a nearby trunk, pulling out a blue silk dress, one made in a Lemurian fashion. You hold the dress in your hands. It feels devastatingly heavy despite the thinness to it. Your thoughts turn into the future, what it holds for you. You have accepted the fact that you are stuck between two men.

Both of whom wish to see you by their side, whether they have said it aloud or not is neither here nor there. Both men wish to see you thrive but to thrive under their control, a queen that will serve them the best for them and their reign. You do not know if you should feel flattered by this revelation or if you should pack your things, steal a horse, and run back to the safety of the Nabiran border.

A knock at the door. Your posture straightens. You wipe away a tear that you did not know even fell. The door pushes open and you narrow your eyes in the darkness, seeing a pale head of hair enter your chambers. You quickly stand, hands folded in front of your stomach. Xavier is quick to close the door, making sure that it does not make too much noise to alert any of the guards who stand down the hall. He wears a white cotton shirt, the small strings of fabric remaining untied, exposing the top part of his muscular build. The sleeves are slightly puffy. One glance down shows that he wears leather pants and matching boots. He is a prime example of what a peasant in Philos would look like. Well, that is what the books you have read told you. He turns around, his eyes finally landing on yours.

He is silent. He slowly takes in your appearance, his sword remaining attached to his side. His blue eyes drop from your face and to your body. Suddenly you feel small under his gaze. You swallow the lump that forms in your throat, hands growing clammy. You fidget with your fingers as Xavier takes slow and calculated steps towards you. The air thins with every step. You tilt your head to look up at him, the silk gentle against your skin, moving with your body. You take a step backwards. The back of your knees hit the bed frame, the slightly splintered wood pushing into your flesh.

“You look…beautiful,” Xavier breathes out.

His hand moves towards your face, gently cupping your cheek. You do not move. His touch sends chills down your spine and your mouth goes dry. Xavier’s eyes drop from your face, the tips of his fingers grazing against your skin. You suck in a sharp breath. The tips of his fingers move from your cheek to the exposed skin on your shoulder. There is a strip of blue and white silk with a layer of sheer and pearls covering it. It hangs from your shoulder, acting like a loose sleeve. Xavier’s calloused finger hooks around the sleeve, giving it a gentle tug.

“Thou is silent again,” Xavier quietly remarks.

“I have nothing to say,” you murmur. His eyes flit to yours. Your heart skips a beat, cheeks slowly heating. He leans in, trapping you against the bed

“Is it polite to not give thanks?” Xavier matches your volume. You try to look away but he tilts his head to meet your eyes once again. “Answer me.”

“Pray tell, why dost thou concern himself?” you whisper. The candle flickers in the background. You try to use it to steady yourself but Xavier’s proximity makes you feel uneasy.

“Thou is my wife,” Xavier murmurs. He reaches up and pushes the dark hair out of your face, his eyes focusing on yours once again. “My bride’s concerns shall be mine.”

“I am not thy bride,” you breathe the words out and close your eyes just as he leans in.

Your foreheads meet and his hands find themselves on your waist. He pulls you close to him, your body flush against his. Your hands rest on his chest, pushing against his defined muscles through the thin fabric of his shirt. He keeps you close, though, his breathing mixing in with yours, growing heavier by the second. His hand moves from your waist to the back of your head, his lips now hovering beside your ear.

“Why must you deny me the pleasure that is you?” Xavier sighs. “Must thou remain difficult?”

“I am not a heart to be won, just to be forgotten,” you respond. You unconsciously move your hands from his chest and place them around his neck, hooking around him. He pulls you closer. “I am not won through chivalrous gestures nor will I be swayed with grand romance.”

“Then tell me,” the prince pulls away. His hand slips from the back of your head and to your cheek. His touch is fire against your skin. It burns. Your stomach flips in on itself. You catch yourself before you can lean into it. “Tell me how I shall win thy heart.”

“Tis not my heart to be won,” you loosen your grip on him, “tis respect and honor. Duty.”

“Duty?” his face flickers with confusion. You slip away from him but the tips of his fingers graze along the bare skin of your arm. He captures your hand, not allowing you to escape him quite yet.

“Love will grace thine hearts in time. Tis a truth we must embrace. I seek a noble soul, a steadfast protector, who shall remain at my side, undaunted by the whispers and tales woven by thy’s court,” your whisper grows louder. Xavier loosens his grip on your hand, allowing it to fall back to your side. “Thus shall you win my favor and heart’s desire.”

The village streets are as lively as Rafayel described to you as a child. Tonight’s celebration is one from Lemurian tradition, a Festival of the Sea. It is a way for the Lemurians, who originated in coastal towns in the early days of the Roman Empire, to give back to the sea, to give the oceans their thanks and praises for providing them with the means necessary to survive. Lemruians are servants to the sea and they bow to no man.

You consider yourself lucky to have an alliance with them, especially with their prince. An alliance with a Lemurian is almost always a guaranteed victory, especially when the battles take place on the sea or in royal courts across the continent.

Your arm is wrapped with Rafayel’s, his long purple hair getting caught with the wind. The two of you laugh as you reach the center of the seaside village, smiles plastered on your faces as Xavier plays the role of chaperone, remaining just a few seconds behind.

The three of you are a couple drinks in. You have passed through the stalls passing out desserts from your home kingdom and Rafayel’s as well. At one point in time, you passed off your favorite treats for Xavier to try. He finished them all with no questions or refusals, the loose crumbs from the sweet bread seasoned with saffron remains along the outline of his lips. You fought the urge to reach out and wipe the specks away.

Temptation is a slippery slope, though.

The sun has finally lowered below the horizon. Candle light and torches illuminate the night as people pass by each other with practiced ease. You miss the mixture of blues and oranges but appreciate the sight of the stars in the sky, their light and twinkling appearance putting you at ease.

You turn and look at Xavier from over your shoulder. He trails behind you and Rafayel, having remained silent for the majority of the night. You had hoped that tonight would have brought him out of his shell but you learned to appreciate his respect and openness to new traditions and cultures that are laid before him.

Xavier watches as the mixture of Lemruains and Nabrians flows throughout the village. It is unusual for him to see. The only time that Xavier has such two kingdoms get along so well — tried to, at least — was at his cousin’s wedding. One of Philos’ daughters was wed off to a king to the northwest of them, located on a smaller island.

Xavier’s mind wanders to his cousin’s wedding. He wonders what it felt like to be married to a stranger. Did her husband feel as intoxicated with her like he feels with you? Did his cousin’s husband fall in love the moment she tried to put him in his place?

He remembers his cousin’s tears the morning of her wedding. She did not get in a choice in the matter, much like you, but unlike your circumstance with Xavier, the first time she met her king was at the wedding altar. She did not have the liberty of meeting him beforehand, they did not receive the chance to get to know each other like Xavier has with you. It is not like you talked much, though. You have remained silent while you rode across the small stretch of desert.

“What does he think of?” you turn back around, looking towards the tile ground. Rafayel looks down at you, barely sparing the fair headed prince a glance before he stops walking, stopping you with him.

“Your Highness,” Rafayel waves his hand in front of Xavier’s face. He wears a smug smirk on his face, his arm still linked with yours. He stands slightly in front of you, his face not in your eye line. “Your domina asked a question of you.”

“You did?” Xavier turns his attention to you, his once hardened expression softening.

“Twas wondering what you think of,” you state, looking straight into his eyes. You can still feel the burning sensation of his skin against yours, the way the fire and spark lingers on your body, gifting you no release. The corners of Xavier’s lips perk up in a moment of happiness but it disappears as soon as he opens his mouth to speak.

“The future,” he responds, beginning to use your own words against you.

“The future?” you tilt your head to the side, feeling seen with the way he speaks.

“Tis what I stated.”

Rafayel’s eyes flicker between the two of you. The purple haired prince does not particularly enjoy the sudden familiarity between you and your prince. He slips your hand free from his arm, catching your attention, but he quickly laces your fingers with his. You look up at him just as the heart of the village, the city square whose floor is covered in beautiful and vibrant tiles that are laid in a design of a lotus flower, begins to play its next song.

“Dance with me, domina,” Rafayel requests of you. You begin to shake your head, not remembering the last time you have danced was, especially in the carefree and energetic Lemurian fashion.

“I do not know if it is a good idea!” you laugh. From the corner of your eye, you watch as Xavier slips free from your vision.

“As long as it is a choice we make,” Rafayel draws you close to him, your hands resting upon his chest, as your combined laughter floats into the air.

The city square is flooded with people. You and Rafayel take to the center of the dance floor, assuming your beginning position together, his hand massive in comparison to yours. There are a few other couples lined up around you, their smiles as big as yours. Xavier remains in the background. One of Rafayel’s soldiers places a chalice filled with wine into his hand. He immediately begins to drink as the music swells, the string instruments and makeshift drums filling the night air.

Rafayel remains in place as you circle around him once you listen for the note to move. Your body is loose as you step around the Lemurian. Your eyes meet his blue and pink ones, feeling as the man’s hands attach themselves to yours. You memorize the sharpness of the gold and red lines on his face, admiring the way they make him look more mature. He spins you around with ease. The crowd that surrounds the dance floor is a blur.

You do not catch the scowl on Xavier’s face as he passes off the chalice to the Lemurian soldier. The wine burns down his throat. His body tingles and feels so light yet so heavy at the same time. His blue eyes remain on you and you alone. The blue silk of your dress catches in the wind while Rafayel spins you around. He wishes it was him in the Lemruian’s place.

“Thou remembers the steps,” Rafayel speaks once he brings your body back to his. The two of you dance with ease, the steps to the routine coming back to you through muscle memory.

“Tis back like a faded memory!” your laugh is breathless, the wine from before finally taking an effect on your body. You close your eyes, your smile big across your face, Rafayel’s hands guiding you through the moves. His hands attach to your waist and he lifts you up in the air, your silk dress flowing in the wind, before your feet connect with the ground again. You look up at him from over your shoulder once the music comes to an end, slightly out of breath. “I need wine!”

“Aye!” Rafayel cheers from over the sound of applause. He claps his hands together before taking your hand into his, leading you away from the dance floor.

Xavier’s head perks up as soon as he catches a glimpse of your blue dress leaving the dance floor. He pushes through the crowd as people file onto the mosaic tiled floor. He bumps into a few peasants, offering a quiet apology as his vision blurs. He spots your skirt and follows it like it is his North Star. The prince does not lose sight of it, watching as you sit at a nearby table where Rafayel takes the spot by your side. The man stumbles up to the table and sits on the wooden bench, making for sure that he is in front of you.

“Xavier,” there is a hint of concern in your voice. You lean forward just as a woman places glasses of wine and mead onto the table. “Art thou—”

“The prince will be okay, my domina,” Rafayel interrupts. He reaches over you and places the glass of mead in front of Xavier, placing one of wine front of you. You turn and look at him, beginning to shake your head. “Aye, calm, domina. He can take care of himself.”

“Tis not why I worry,” you mutter under your breath.

You look at Xavier. His cheeks are light pink in color, his eyes disoriented as he looks directly at you. It sends chills down your spine. you look him up and down, noticing the beads of sweat that roll down his neck. The man is clearly not used to the heat, thankfully, he will be back in his kingdom and you with him. There is enough space for him on the bench beside you. You gesture to it and the man’s eyes grow wide. He stands and rounds the table, taking the place by your side.

“Necessary?” Rafayel asks in his mother tongue. The sound is sweet on your ears. You welcome it with open arms.

“His men are watching,” you return your words in his language while covering your action with an excuse, nodding your head to the Philos dressed soldiers who stand not too far away. “Does thou wish for my image to be tainted?”

“If it means I get to thou mine, it would have been worth it,” Rafayel’s voice is genuine.

You pause in your moment, feeling Xavier lean into your side. You meet Rafayel’s gaze but he is quick to look away. A frown forms across your face, your stomach erupting with butterflies. Rafayel finally turns to look back at you, his face void of his charade, one that he kept on to ensure that your prince felt safe in enemy territory.

“Might I take a quick leave? The night is not over and I wish to break bread with thou one last time before we sail the sea,” Rafayel stands from the bench and leaves before you can even respond.

You face forward, staring at the group of people who dance and sing in the Lemurian tongue. The chalice of wine in your hand grows lighter as you sip on the alcohol, your body slipping into a more relaxed state. Xavier groans from beside you, his blue eyes desperately wanting to meet yours but you are too to notice him. He sits up, holding all of his weight to himself now, and stares at the lively scene before him.

Philos is not like this. Their celebrations are much more tame in comparison to the Lemurians. They dance in organized rows and their desserts are are frivolous as their clothes. Many woman in Philos dress their best every single day. Their fashion is to catch the eyes of possible suitors — or perhaps the eye of a prince — and to show off their wealth. It is materialistic now that he thinks about it. Xavier never paid too much attention to it, his head always in a book or sparring with other soldiers at the base of the mountain. His time, much like yours, has been dedicated to the betterment of his kingdom, not to learn dances for celebrations or worry if he wears the most expensive fabrics.

Although, Xavier will spend the kingdom’s treasury if you asked him to. He will buy you all of the silks and jewels that you could ever ask for. He will hand you gold coins for exotic animals and perfumes if it meant he got to see the same smile you wore on your face while dancing.

“Princess,” Xavier slightly slurs the word, his rationality finally catching up to him.

“Prince,” you return his greeting, turning your head to look at the man.

“I wish to leave this place,” he informs you. You raise your eyebrows, slight dejection morphing across your face. “I wish to leave while thou wishes to remain. Pray tell, when I depart, dost thou intend to spend the eve with Prince Rafayel?”

“What hath befallen thee?” your voice is loud enough to listen to over the sound of the string and wind instruments. The banging of the drum is noticeably absent as a slower song plays. “Why worry oneself with trivial matters?”

“It matters,” Xavier reassures you. His eyes move away and he spots Rafayel approaching with a plate of desserts and Lemurian delicacies. He notices, though, that the plate lacks any food from Nabira. He scoffs and turns back to you. “I do not wish to see thee with a man of his stature.”

“He is an Admiral,” you comment, a small smile tugging the corners of your lips up.

“And I a prince. One who commands his own vassal!”

“You are both princes,” you correct him, “and yet you are the one who wishes to conquer.”

“I do not wish to conquer,” Xavier shakes his head, “I follow my King’s command but he? That vile villain, wishes to conquer.”

“Lemuria holds no dream of conquest,” it is your turn to scoff and look away. Xavier quickly cups your cheek and brings your gaze back to him. There is desperation and anger in his eyes, a hunger that slowly begins to overtake him.

“Lemuria may not,” Xavier whispers, “but he does. He doth desire to conquer thee as his own.”

Silence falls upon you. Your posture straightens and you turn away from Xavier, a chill running down your spine despite it being a hot night. Rafayel approaches the table and sits across from you, placing the plate in the center. His blue and pink eyes focus on Xavier, who remains effortlessly devoted to you, while you stare at the party that unfolds from afar, a look of confusion and calculation written all over your face.

“What? What concerns thee?” Rafayel asks with a quiet snort. He glares at Xavier before his expression softens as soon as you turn to face him.

“I wish to take my leave back to my chambers,” you stand and Xavier follows suit. “My betrothed will ensure I am safe.”

“No,” Rafayel stands and is quick to walk around the table. He takes your hands in his own before you even realize it, a quiet gasp escaping your lips. “Allow me, my lady.”

Xavier reaches to the connected hands, breaking them apart. He gently pushes you behind him, his tired and reddened eyes narrowed at the sailor. Rafayel clenches his jaw, his hands returning to his sides, before his eyes flicker back to you. He lets out a stiff chuckle. He bows his head and steps to the side. His eyes remain tied to Xavier’s, blissfully unaware as you reach for the sweet saffron bread from the plate, tucking it behind your back and out of sight.

“Fair night be unto thee, my domina,” Rafayel bows his head as Xavier guides you away, “we shall meet upon morrow’s dawn to take you home.”

You pause. Xavier looks down at you, noticing the strain that flashes across your face.

Home. Is that not the place you were plucked from? It is now a two day ride away from Nabira’s borders and after your journey across the sea, you will be months away, years if you travel by foot.

Xavier places his hand on the low of your back. He glares at Rafayel and gently pushes you forward. You walk through the crowd, bowing your head back at people who pay you the respect first.

Tonight, you were barely seen as a domina, as a political and heavenly figure that must have respect gifted towards. You were as normal as the servants who passed you by, their smiles as big as yours as you danced with Rafayel. Your feet hurt. Xavier remains close to your side, waving away any of his soldiers that step forward to help. The two of you find yourselves walking along the dock where the Abysswalker floats which sits beside your inn for the night.

Xavier remains a small distance from you, watching as you walk the line along the dock where the ocean water sprays you whenever a wave comes crashing in. There are no more lanterns around to guide you through the night. The only light now comes from the bright and full moon. You look down into the waves, the water as black as night. You look back up at Xavier, whose back straightens as soon as your eyes land on him. You hold out the piece of bread.

“Eat this,” you speak. He takes the bread and rips it apart, your mind still dizzy from the glasses of wine you have drank throughout the night. “It will save thee a headache.”

“Will it?” Xavier quietly hums to himself. He brings the spiced bread up to his lips, slowly chewing as he watches you. “Why take leave with me?”

“Why fill my head with thoughts of conquering and worry? Hm?” you are quick to counter. You slow your steps and so does Xavier. He finishes the bread with a few more bites, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What mission did thine accomplish?”

“Truth,” Xavier states.

The moonlight shines along your dark hair, the light reflecting off the strands. It brings Xavier comfort to know that the moon adorns you with its beauty, that the silver colors of the night suit you as much as the golden colors of a day in the desert do.

“Truth? Is that you speak of?” you step closer to Xavier. He simply nods in response. You do not know if he speaks of truth in an objective or subjective manner.

The problem with truth and so called honesty, as you have come to learn from many moments in your life, is that there is always motive behind it. People do not willingly expose their worries or sorrows, they do not put their cards on full display for their enemies to see because, well, that is what you and Xavier are, no? The truths that originate from men in power, from soldiers and nobles, are always attached with a hidden context, something that you know to look out for.

So…what is Xavier’s motive for showing you his cards?

“I do not wish to be thine enemy,” Xavier fills in the silence. The lights of the noble-run inn flicker. You focus on the yellow flames instead of the blue in Xavier’s irises. “I wish for us to unite as one.”

“The why speak of campaigns for my heart?” you ask, feeling vulnerability slip into your voice.

“Duty’s embrace is cruel, domina,” Xavier slips into your mother tongue. You hold back a gasp, shock written all over your face. “I do not wish to see us succumb to the cruelty and coldness that come with it.”

“Why does thou work hand in hand with it? Duty forced thee across the world! You are an accomplice to duty,” you speak, closing the distance between you and him. Perhaps it is the wine that has given you the courage to speak up. Maybe it is the way you have finally realized that you are now doomed and will be imprisoned in a place that does not want you.

“You are as much of an accomplice as I am,” Xavier counters.

“Duty did not force me to set honor to the side and traverse the realms to slay innocent people,” your breathing grows heavy, “it did not force me to smite those who oppose my rule.”

“You speak of thine brother?” Xavier switches back to his tongue. It frustrates you.

“Of course I speak of him,” tears fill your eyes, “he was taken from me. It was your doing.”

“He was well aware of his intent,” Xavier groans, “he knew the rules of combat as did I.”

“A battle to the death,” you laugh and push past him. The silk of your dress sends chills down his spine. “How pitiful.”

“What course of action would thou have taken, then?” Xavier grabs your hand, pulling you back to him.

“Terms,” you spit the word out, “terms for peace.”

“The battle between thine brother and I was the terms,” Xavier’s voice drops. “His fate hath been tied to him since birth as was yours. Be grateful that you are alive.”

“Grateful for a life of servitude and political games?” your anger begins to boil deep inside of your chest. “A life with a man who does not care for me? Who chose thee on a whim? Ah, yes, your Highness, I am eternally grateful for the life fate hath laid for me.”

You rip your hand free from Xavier’s. You turn around and rush towards the tall stone building, the wooden doors opening as soon as the soldiers spot you. Xavier is hot on your tail. You move with precision, the layout of the building already memorized in the back of your mind, as you traverse the stairwells and long corridors. Xavier has kept a decent distance, following you down the dark corridor that leads to your bedroom.

“Who said I do not care?” Xavier steps forward, closing the distance with a few easy strides while you hold the fabric of your dress skirt in your hands.

“Thou dost not care by forcing his betrothed to leave everything behind,” you approach your door and grab the black handle.

You pull on it but Xavier’s hand pushes the wooden panel back into its place, trapping it and you in the process. You can feel the heat from his body on your back. You close your eyes, fists balled at your sides, feeling as Xavier leans down, his lips grazing the fragrant skin of your neck. His hand leaves the door, wrapping itself around your body, keeping you in place. You do not fight back. You lean into his chest, your back fully pressed against him.

You remain near him despite all of the warning bells in your head ringing all at once. You ignore your mind’s plea for freedom, following your innate desire to remain close to the man you will call your husband.

Xavier slowly inhales, taking in the floral scent of your perfume. His free hand reaches around your body and plants itself on your chest. The heat from his hands seeps through the thin material and you shudder, a pool of warmth forming in the pits of your stomach. You let out a breathy sigh, tilting your head to the side to give Xavier more room.

“Duty’s embrace is cruel and cold,” Xavier murmurs against your skin. Your body heats up, your face flushed as you lay your hand on top of the one that rests on your chest. “Let us endure this trail as one.”

“As one?” you breathe out.

Xavier slowly kisses your neck. He starts at the base and works his way up, pressing a feathery kiss where your pulse is the most prominent. You gasp and push your body back into his. The candlelight is dark enough for the two of you to get away with this scene, your quiet breaths and the sounds of Xavier pressing his lips over and over along your skin the only things that will give you away.

“Why me, Xavier?” you ask.

Xavier turns you around, pressing your back up against the door, hands pressed against the wood on either side of your head. He towers over you, his breath smelling like mead and wine, a sweetness stained on his mouth. You reach out and place your fingertips upon his lips, dragging them across the leftover wine stains. Xavier kisses your fingers, his blue eyes locked onto yours. You shudder. The man frees his hand from the door and cups the side of your head, his fingers tangling themselves into your hair.

“Say it again,” Xavier whispers in your native language. He avoids the question. “Say my name.”

“Xavier,” you follow his command like the obedient wife you think he wishes you to be.

A low grunt vibrates in the back of his throat. Without wasting another second, Xavier pushes forward, connecting his lips with yours. His grip on your hair slightly tightens as you accept his tongue into your mouth. He leans into you, the door creaking from the weight. Neither of you care. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his closer to yours if it is even possible. Your breaths mix in as one, quiet words of praise coming from Xavier’s mouth, muffled between your colliding lips.

He finally tastes the wine you allowed upon your lips. You taste the saffron from the bread on his tongue. The bitter mixes in with the sweet, intoxicating you deeper into the kiss. He reaches down and lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his torso. The prince pushes you into the door, the tan stone acting as a barrier between you and the rest of the world.

Xavier pulls his lips away from your swollen ones, traveling down the side of your face to your neck. He targets your pulse point, biting down on your skin. You let out a gasp, eyes flying open from the sensation. Your legs tighten around him. You feel something press into your core. It shocks you. The sound of guards stirring near the stairs makes you dig your nails into his nape.

“Xavier,” you breathe out, head rolling back into the wood of the door. Your voice remains low, matching the quiet of the night. “We shall be discovered.”

“I do not wish to leave,” Xavier’s breath is hot against your skin. His hands travel from your waist to the fabric of your dress His fingers slip under the dress and graze along the back of your leg, leaving chills in his wake. “Do not make me leave.”

“My honor—”

“Shall remain intact,” Xavier sighs and pulls away from your neck. His eyes look at your skin, a small smirk forming across his lips as dark red and purple spots littler one side of your neck. He keeps you in his arms, using one hand to hold you while he opens your chamber doors. “Duty is cruel indeed,” he mutters under his breath.

He walks you inside your room, roaming towards the bed. You feel his defined muscles from under his cloth shirt, your cheeks heating up all over again. Xavier lowers you onto your bed, quickly gathering the scattered belongings and setting them on the trunk at the foot of your bed.

He stops at the bow. He picks it up, inspecting the golden accents that are molded into the dark wood. His blue eyes flicker to you, the prince setting the weapon down atop your weapons.

“I wish to see you shoot,” he comments, remaining in place.

“Thou will,” you whisper, “in time.”

Xavier nods. His eyes flit to the empty space in bed beside you, his body wanting to move to lay beside you. He slowly steps towards the door, the candlelight just bright enough to show him his way. He pushes it open and looks back at you, a soft sigh leaving his lips.

“Until tomorrow, domina,” Xavier calls to you.

“Will you get me before we leave?” you quietly ask, sinking into the blankets below you.

“Of course,” Xavier nods.

The prince silently leaves the room, closing the bed chamber door to be as quiet as he can. Xavier quietly walks down the hall, finding himself at the stairwell. Just as he is about to set foot on the stones, he spots the Lemurian prince staring at him from below. He does not speak, simply glaring at the Philos Prince.

“Say it,” Xavier barks the command.

“Thou’s greed will ruin her,” Rafayel’s voice is low and dangerous. The muscles of his arms flex, his blue and pink eyes narrowing on the prince who stands at the entrance of the stairwell. “I refuse to see it happen.”

“Need not worry,” Xavier tilts his head to the side. He licks his lips, tasting the floral notes of the oil you graced your skin with. “She will be safe with me.”

“Is that so?” the Lemurian prince asks. He moves up the stairs, the men now at eye level with each other. “Do not make me sink a boat to be rid of you.”

“If I did not know any better, one would think thou has issued a threat,” Xavier’s eyes sharpen.

“Not a threat,” Rafayel’s eyes darken, “a promise.”

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