#train crash mention

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

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The valentine on Jon’s desk had Martin written all over it, in every way but literal. It was done in an elaborate old-fashioned style, fitting with that retro aesthetic he liked, huge and dark red and trimmed in a delicate white lace shot through with silver. Across the front in gold ink was a syrupy love poem praising Jon’s eyes, hair, voice, and general sense of style, using a few rather forced rhymes and clearly patterned on Keats, and written in a delicate, ornate script. It was signed “Your Secret Admirer”, but the I had been replaced with a drawing of an actual eye, winking flirtatiously. It had also been taped to a tin of chocolate-covered biscuits specially manufactured for Valentine’s Day. In short, it was a grand, over-the-top gesture designed to either make Jon swoon or die of embarrassment, with the additional risk that he might explode with rage.

Jon set it on the edge of his desk and tried to ignore it, waiting for the person who’d put it there to come back and see how he was taking it.

Soon enough, the door creaked open. “Hey, I—what the fuck is that?”

“A llama,” Jon said, as calmly and dryly as he could, without looking up from the tapes scattered over his desk.

“You’re an ass.” There was no real heat in Melanie’s voice, though, as she shut the door and pulled up the chair opposite him, then reached for the valentine. “Oh, God, did you make this?”

“No, it was on my desk when I came in this morning.” Jon glanced at the clock on his laptop. “Bit surprised nobody’s come in to ask about it.”

Melanie’s face screwed up into something indescribable as she read the poem. It was like she wasn’t sure if she should laugh or throw up. “Why did you let me see this?”

Jon raised an eyebrow at her. “In the first place, I didn’t know you were coming. But now you have, I’m hoping you can help me come up with a suitable way to get back at Tim for this, since I can’t fire him.”

Melanie burst out laughing, setting down the valentine. “Oh, thank God, I was afraid I was going to have to shove Martin into the Thames.”

“Yes, well, Tim obviously meant for me to think this was from Martin, but the handwriting slants in the wrong direction,” Jon pointed out. “This was clearly done with a fountain pen. Martin couldn’t have written like this without dragging his hand or sleeve through the wet ink and smearing the whole thing. Also, he knows I’m not overly fond of this brand of biscuits.”

“You should bring it to the bookshop after work today. Get the rest to go with you. Give it to G—to the proprietor in front of everyone and tell him Tim was too shy to deliver it himself. Then do me a favor and take a picture of his face so I can see it later.”

At that, Jon couldn’t help but start laughing too. “You won’t be coming?”

Instantly, Melanie sobered. “That’s what I came to talk to you about, actually. I, um—I think the time has come for me to make a statement about…you know. Our research.”

Jon became serious as well and reached for the tape recorder. He knew Melanie wasn’t talking about the Unknowing.

In the time between Melanie getting off the phone with Martin and Jon being discharged from the hospital up Sheffield way, they’d come to a mutual understanding regarding what had happened at the scrap yard. Namely, that despite the fact that both of them knew the risks—Melanie perhaps more than Jon, although he’d always been a quick study—they were going to keep investigating. At first they’d said, or maybe just pretended, it was because of the possibility that the Slaughter was preparing for a ritual, but since Gerry said they didn’t have to worry about it, it was harder to admit they really believed that. The trouble was that they were both…fascinated. Curious. It might have been the Eye, it might have been the Slaughter trying to lure them both in, it might just have been that they were drawn to a challenge and a good mystery, but whatever it was, they hadn’t been able to leave it alone.

“Hypothetically speaking, how much trouble am I going to get in if Martin gets hold of this tape?” he asked as he hit RECORD. No sense in even making a pretense at using the laptop.

Melanie snorted. “Not nearly as much as I am. I mean, you’re still relatively new to all this. I’ve been dealing with this bullshit since I was eight. I should know better. And here I led you right into it.”

“It didn’t take all that much leading, to be honest,” Jon admitted. “Right, let’s—let’s get this started. Statement of Melanie King, regarding her further researches into war ghosts. Recorded direct from subject, fourteenth February, 2017.” He nodded at her. “Statement begins.”

Melanie took a deep breath. “Ghost Hunt UK struggled after Aldershot. I was honestly not in the best place in the world at the time to begin with—I’d just lost my oldest brother a couple months before, and I was ‘dealing’ with that by bottling it up and ignoring it, but I was distracted more than I wanted to admit. Sarah Baldwin disappeared. I spent a while trying to track her down, but nothing led anywhere, and I was afraid to push too hard. I think I knew there was something…off about her, and I had a guess as to what it was, so I was admittedly a lot more fixated on the ghost. It wouldn’t go on the recording, that’s what hit me. Things that won’t record properly are always dangerous. I didn’t dig into it too much at the time either, because a part of me wondered if Sarah was what made it go wonky, but it stuck with me.

“The others were dealing with their own stuff. We struggled along for another year, but it wasn’t the same. Toni was the worst. She just got harder and harder to pin down, and when she moved to Bristol in the end, she didn’t even tell me. I had to hear it from Pete, who told me at the same time that he was thinking of leaving, too. That’s about when I came to make my statement, and truthfully…I didn’t actually intend to make it about the incident at the CMH. I was going to…I don’t know, give you something you could have proved was false? It was just an excuse, really. I wanted—needed—to talk to Martin, and I had to say something to get past the harridan at the front desk, so I said I was coming to make a statement. But after it came out…I realized how it sounded, and I just couldn’t let it go. That helped when Andy decided to take what he called ‘a bit of a holiday’ and moved out of the house. As far as Ghost Hunt UK is concerned, he’s still on holiday, and it’s just me.”

She kept going, detailing the paths she’d followed, the research she’d poked into, the way she’d been subtly or not-so-subtly warned off by the few contacts she’d had left in the ghost-hunting world. Jon had heard most of this before, on the trip north to visit her family, but he listened intently anyway, especially when she got into how she’d found out about the scrap yard and made arrangements to stay with her great-aunt.

“That’s when I brought you in,” she said. “When I first got started with Ghost Hunt UK, I promised my brothers that if I ever ran into anything like that, I’d tell them right away, that I wouldn’t go into situations like that without backup. But Martin was still recovering from the attack on the Institute—maybe not physically, but mentally. If he gets too close to this sort of thing too soon after a major incident, he’s more…vulnerable to it, and I was scared to death of losing him. And I trusted you—not just to have my back if things went south, but to, you know, understand what we were doing. Maybe there was also a little bit of knowing you wouldn’t stop me from investigating further. Martin would have gone into big brother mode, and honestly he would have been right to, but I just…I had to know.”

“I know what that’s like,” Jon admitted.

“I know you do.” Melanie gave him a quick smile. “I don’t think I need to go into detail about what we went through at that scrap yard, since you were with me. And thank God you were, because I was…I was fascinated by that ghost we saw, the one with the scalpel. I wouldn’t have gotten away in time if you hadn’t pushed me out of the way, and I almost certainly would have been caught by security. I didn’t want you to get hurt in my place, but…I’m glad you were there.” She took a deep breath. “Anyway. Once we got back to London and…things settled down a bit, I took that serial number you found on the car and looked it up. It was from World War II, you were right. The Eleventh US Army Hospital train, operating in the European theater from August 1944. The train crew was even commended for their service.”

“But…” Jon prompted.

“It crashed in April 1945. Derailed, killed five crew and seriously injured fourteen more. There weren’t any patients on board at the time—at least, not officially. We both know how that goes,” Melanie added, her eyes darkening slightly. Jon winced in sympathy. “There was only one steel car that avoided derailment.”

“The one in Rotherham.”

“Exactly. There’s not a lot of information on it, though, and I’ve no idea how it ended up there. So that’s when I asked you to get me into the library.”

Jon blinked. “I—I didn’t think of that, actually. Our library is extensive, but it’s hardly focused on the Second World War.”

Melanie grinned. “No, but the most detailed description of the crash came from a man named William W. Hay. And later in life, William Hay…”

“Became a noted occultist,” Jon completed, feeling a grin split his own face, “whose memoirs and researches were only ever published in a heavily edited form. And we have original copies.”

“Exactly.”

“What did you find?”

“Plenty. He served on the Eleventh Hospital Train as an engineer, and there was a lot he had to say about it. They even let me make a photocopy.” Melanie handed Jon a sheet of paper that felt far too flimsy for the weight it undoubtedly bore.

He read it out loud, slowly and distinctly. It wasn’t much, just a brief description of atrocities committed that had left Hay wholly sympathetic to the train’s derailment, but at the end, it also included a cryptic reference to an incident at the infirmary at Amritsar. Jon knew where that was, more or less—he wasn’t intimately familiar with Indian geography, but it was at least the same end of the country that his grandmother’s people had come from, so he’d done some studying of the region. And he certainly knew who the Ghurkhas were. The passage, short as it was, chilled him to the bone.

“I see,” he said, lowering the paper. “So does this mean…?”

“Yes,” Melanie said with a nod. “And I’ve already got my plane ticket to India booked.”

A spike of alarm, mingled with curiosity, shot through Jon. He scanned her face a bit anxiously. “Are you certain that’s wise?”

“Probably not,” Melanie replied honestly. “But I’ve got to go. I can’t let this go. You know that.”

“I know.” Jon shot a glance at his laptop. If he could justify this to Elias…“Perhaps it would be safer if I went with you.”

Melanie winced. “Under any other circumstances, I’d jump on that, honestly, but—no, I don’t think so. Not with that scar on your shoulder. This…whatever it is, it’s made a much deeper impression on you than it has on me. I might get lucky and be able to escape it. Worst-case scenario, I’ll probably just end up with a nasty injury that lays me up for a few days. If you come along, I think it’ll stir up worse and increase the risk that neither of us make it out alive. So, thanks, but no. I’ve got to do this on my own.”

Jon wasn’t entirely sure he agreed with that last part, but he did have to admit she was probably right about not taking him. “One more question, then. Have you told…ah…anyone other than me that you’re going?” They were careful not to mention Gerry anywhere Elias might overhear, at least not by name, but the specter of Melanie’s brothers hung between them as though they were right there.

“I told my boss at the bookstore,” Melanie said with the briefest of flickers in her eyes. “Or at least I told him I was going out of town. Didn’t tell him the specifics. And…well, Martin was at lunch when I got here, but I’ve got time before I need to get to Gatwick, especially since I’m not bringing any luggage, so I figure I’ll wait a bit and say goodbye before I go. Uh, I���m—not going to tell him what I’m heading to research, either.”

Jon shouldn’t be encouraging that level of concealment, but, he rationalized, Martin likely wouldn’t be able to go with her if he did know, and he’d just worry excessively. Maybe he would let him listen to the tape once Melanie was well on her way.

He would undoubtedly kill both of them, but at the same time, they had to know.

“I understand,” he said finally. “Thank you, Melanie.”

“Yeah,” Melanie said softly. She stood up and held out her arms.

Jon got up as well and hugged her fiercely. He didn’t need any kind of supernatural ability to know that she was more afraid than she was letting on. The thrill of the research, the curiosity about what they had seen and felt and discovered, may have driven her to this point, but she had a healthy respect for, if not fear of, death, and she knew what she was risking. He knew it, too, but he also knew that wasn’t going to stop either of them. His warnings were on the record, and he had to admit that if their positions were reversed, he wouldn’t have hesitated in going either, frightened or not.

“Please be careful,” he implored her. “You know what it would do to Martin if he lost you.” He tried for a laugh. “And I’ve grown to rather like having you around myself.”

Melanie managed a laugh, too. “I’ll be as careful as I can, mate.” She squeezed him extra hard for a moment, then eased back—reluctantly, it seemed to Jon. He, too, let go slowly. “Shouldn’t be more than a couple weeks. Three at the most. I’ve got the automatic feeder set up, but if you could maybe pop in and make sure there’s water if you get the chance…”

“Of course.”

“Thanks.” Melanie smiled. “And, uh, I’ll turn in that library pass on my way out. Do I have to go back and leave it with Diana?”

“No, you can leave it with Rosie. She honestly handles most of the paperwork for the Institute.”

“Which one’s Rosie?” Melanie flushed slightly under Jon’s raised eyebrows. “I, uh, don’t talk to a lot of people Upstairs if I can help it. I only know Diana because you introduced me, really. It’s not like everyone else walks around with name tags or anything.”

“True,” Jon admitted. “Rosie is Elias’ personal assistant-cum-secretary. She’s also the, ah, front of house, I suppose, for the Institute. Normally when we have people come to give us statements, she’s the one who calls down to tell us.” He paused. “In point of fact, she called to tell me you were coming, the first time you came to give your statement.”

“Oh, yeah, her, okay.” Melanie pursed her lips slightly. “I haven’t seen her around since then, actually. Where does she sit?”

“More or less right in front as you walk in. She’s just outside Elias’ office.” Which made sense, if she was Elias’ personal assistant, but also gave her way too much knowledge about the comings and goings of the Institute. Jon had long ago told Melanie to use the side door when she came in, so it wasn’t unreasonable that she’d found one of the back stairs to avoid having to go past Rosie’s desk on her way to the library. Frankly, Jon avoided her as much as he could, which wasn’t much, since he was constantly in and out of Elias’ office for meetings and whatnot. She was sweet enough, but…

“Huh.” Melanie’s frown deepened. “Is she out sick?”

“What?” Jon blinked at Melanie. “No, she—she should be in. I saw her this morning.”

“Who covers her breaks, then?”

“I—I don’t know that she takes them, actually. Why?”

Melanie shrugged. “Didn’t recognize the woman at the desk, that’s all.”

Jon thought back to the last time Melanie had been in. “Ah. Maybe she had her back to you? She’s dyed her hair again. I swear she does it at least once a month. It was, um, chestnut last time, wasn’t it? Last week she went to a kind of blue-black.”

It was Melanie’s turn to blink at him. “Yeah, that’s the woman I saw today. Didn’t have her back to me, though, we talked—she was as sweet as anything. Who was that?”

“Rosie,” Jon said, a bit exasperated.

“Then who the hell called me down the first time I was here?” Melanie said, sounding equally exasperated. “That woman was at least a foot taller, thin face, long pointed nose, straight grey hair. Seemed offended by my existence, which is why I had to think so fast to give her an excuse to get down to the Archives. I watched her make the call—you’re telling me that wasn’t Rosie?”

“I—what?” Jon’s stomach churned with unease, and he couldn’t really say why.

Melanie started to answer, then cocked her head towards the door. “I hear Martin. I should probably go say goodbye before I lose my chance and then get going.” She gave Jon another quick hug. “Be careful while I’m gone, yeah? Martin won’t want to lose you either.”

Jon hugged her back and resolved to sort through the conflicting roil of emotions he was currently feeling once she was gone. “I will. Safe travels, Melanie. Call if you need anything.”

“Sure.” Melanie gave him a wavering smile, then turned and stepped out of the office. “Martin, hey!”

The door closed behind her, and Jon sank into his chair, then glanced at the tape, which he belated realized was still running. “Uh. End recording.” He pressed the STOP button, and the tape shut off with a sharp snap.

If he was being honest, and he was trying very hard to be, the only part of Melanie’s statement that had actually shaken him was that last bit. He knew Rosie. Of course he knew Rosie. She’d been a fixture at the Institute since long before he’d come to work there—probably since before Martin had come to work there. She was always cheery and kind to everyone, but seemed to have a special smile for Martin. Always greeted Jon warmly when he came in, asked after his health when he came back from physical therapy, warned him if the reason he was being called to Elias’ office was a transgression or a praise. He knew her almost better than he knew anyone else outside the Archives.

Right?

What was it Michael—no, not Michael, the Distortion—what had it said after he got done calling up to Rosie when Helen Richardson finished her statement? Do you even know they’re lying to you? He hadn’t thought anything of it at the time, hadn’t been able to focus on the words over his sudden surge of fear, and afterwards, back in his flat with Martin fussing over him and time to think clearly, he’d just assumed it was calculated to make him paranoid. After all, the Distortion hadn’t specified who “they” were.

But now…

Jon looked back at the tapes on his desk. Basira had brought them just that Friday, really to Martin, but they had all sort of communally agreed to store them in Jon’s office. He’d been sifting through them, looking for where to start. And now…he had an idea.

He skimmed the labels, looking for the one he’d noticed earlier. Like most of Gertrude’s tapes, the labels made little sense until you actually listened to them, and not all of them had corresponding file numbers written on the fronts. The one Jon was looking for had, but what had caught his attention was the title written above it…

Ah. There it was. Jon reached over and plucked up the tape with a single word written across its front: Changeling.

Before he could change his mind, he took the tape he’d used to record Melanie out and put Gertrude’s in, then hit PLAY.

The details of the statement may not have been what he expected, insofar as he’d expected anything at all, but the sum and substance was exactly what he’d feared. A woman had gone to her parents’ home only to find a woman everyone else seemed to believe was her mother, but the woman she remembered had been vastly different, in appearance and personality. Only the woman who’d given the statement seemed to remember her real mother. In her summing-up, Gertrude noted that the being—she called it a Not-Them—had left for good after the father’s death two days after the statement was given. She seemed remarkably blasé about the whole thing, really, and Jon wanted to be annoyed with her about that. What caught his attention, though, was her casual statement: Personally, I suspect it to be an aspect of the Stranger, though that’s entirely conjecture at this point.

The tape clicked off. Jon barely noticed it.

He thought back to the morning after the attack on the Institute, the conversation they’d had, first around Melanie’s kitchen table and then in her living room, about the statements they’d researched and the Fears they related to. Amy Patel’s statement, and the thing that was obviously not her friend Graham. The thing that isn’t Graham is the Stranger. Martin, at least, had sounded so sure…

Well. Jon trusted Martin far more than he trusted Gertrude Robinson. If the thing that had pretended to be Graham Folger and the thing that had pretended to be Rose Cooper were the same thing, then they were both of the Stranger. And…oh, God. The table. Was it tied to the table somehow? Lucy Cooper hadn’t mentioned one in her statement, but—it had to be, it just had to.

There was one more clue. Gertrude had mentioned a previous statement from this Adelard Dekker character—maybe Martin would know that name as well, although he seemed older, so who knew—and if Jon could find that, if he could read it…he wouldn’t trust the tapes, so few of them were correctly labeled, but the nineties were a bit more organized than they had been. He ought to be able to find it. And then…and then he would know.

No, he was stalling. He knew now. Breekon and Hope had delivered that damned table to the Institute. Rosie had signed for it—cheerfully, wanting to help, not wanting to bother him—or, no, was that just the Rosie he remembered? The Rosie whose memories had replaced the real ones? From Melanie’s description, maybe she had been annoyed, maybe she’d signed for it because she thought it would be easier—that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Rosie had signed for it. It was in Artifact Storage. Rosie must have gone to have another look at it, sometime after the attack…

Jon took a deep, steadying breath and got up. A plan was beginning to form in his mind. It was about time for his lunch break anyway. He would go out and—and get the supplies he would need, and then he would come back and find that statement, just to confirm what he already knew. And then…and then he would do what he could.

He suspected he wouldn’t be able to bring Rosie back. But he could make the thing that had taken her place pay for it.

[bluebellowl]

Cross may be a terrible person, but he is also an excellent businessman. He and Emmet meet regularly to restore the NY subway after the two tragic train accidents. One caused by Emmet, one Emmet was framed for. The accidents are based on real New York railroad crashes in 1950, the Rockvile Collision and the Kew Garden Crash. In this AU Emmet was convicted for both train crashes and would've gone to prison, if not for a certain investor who knew the subway would make even greater losses with its most capable conductor.

[dallasgallant]

The whole “going soc” thing is taken from a few small lines of the musical, and I agree, I think we’ve really gotten away from the context of class divide. I’d loooove to hear your thoughts on the difference between “the only thing keeping him from being a soc is us” and “going soc”

It makes it seem like they’re in middle school treating it like a ‘cool kids club’ or a more formal thing than they are and it weirds me out a little bit.

It sort of diminishes Soc’s too to just being “popular” when they’re particularly socialites! They’re young but of the super rich variety, being popular doesn’t make you a Soc. Just as getting jumped or looked down on doesn’t make you a Greaser. It’s more than that!

Darry was popular in high school, he was well liked and had a bunch of friends. Even Paul. That was sort of the thing about him was he was really that guy™️ everyone liked, he got good grades, behaved and got along. That’s not soc behavior if anything that’s “middle class” behavior… that’s being some guy.

I can understand the context for “going soc” is likely emotionally charged but it feels like something that’d be easier for a soc to say someone’s “going greaser” or “slumming it” by dressing out or the norm or having a emotional outburst. And it makes sense as there’s a superficiality to them and the friend groups they form are conditional (not status asXYZ)

In contrast “the only thing keeping him from being a soc” is something that’s in reference to Darry’s nebulous future. That the gang— at least two bit— on some level all think they’re holding Darry back from getting out of poverty. Getting an education. A while collar job etc.

Now that isn’t exactly the case either, in the book and movie Collage is only ever a “could have”… something they couldn’t afford to send him to even with scholarships and if he found a way he’d still have to work through. It’s more the idea that he could have than a genuine actual chance of getting out. They don’t literally mean him being a Soc.

He’ll always be a greaser just like he’s always been a part of the gang/the leader. He’s a part of their friend group and a poor kid from the east/north side. (In that even if he hypothetically made it $ wise he’d still be a friend/family)

[vicmillen]

You know what, I decided that in Lost Days when Jason puts his head in his hand mumbles 'I'm fine, why wouldn't I?' after staring at pictures of the new Robin pinned on the walls, he is thinking that this is the fifth Robin.

The third one disappeared without a trace (like him), then the fourth one, the blond girl, did too (later he learned she died, like him), and now there's yet another one besides Batman.

How messed up would that be?

[corellianhounds]

Me writing what should have been at most a bullet point one-shot comedic romance adventure: “hee hee hoo I’ll knock this out in no time”

Me, four months later and 112k+ words in: “Hmm I think I need to look at the practical engineering reference guide again so we can really assess the recycler issue on this cistern in the compound because I don’t know that they could have it on the lower level if the mountain rock is going to have a level 9 on the Mohs hardness scale—”

[mayadoesfandomstuff]

Seeing ppl liveblog in my dash abt the stream and like... isn't it like 1 AM/2AM over there????? Why is he streaming this late to talk abt "his side"???? Is he in a different country rn that he's actually streaming at a reasonable time or could he just not sleep because he wanted to defend himself from using a slur????

[size-two-shrimp]

I loooooove trying to find a picture of a certain fish's fins because they're so hard to see and multiple images are both AI generated and completely fucking wrong!

[gaybd1]

The earthquake was 6 days ago and they just today were able to free (and find) the remains of a young family under meters and meters of rock, unable to even be IDed from appearance. Two of the bodies were still embracing. It’s A Lot…

Edit: I guess a week ago now damn

[lunaetis]

eden is okay with the idea of being hurt by the one she loves.

this is a mentality that eden has which goes in line with how i used to mention that eden is the type to be content with being killed by the one she loves or asking the one she loves to end her should she no longer be able to control the stellaron or no longer is herself. this is, however, not a healthy mentality to have. i am aware of that. but when it comes to the concept of pain and hurt, eden is used to being injured. she's used to both physical and emotional pain, and when she had entrusted her heart to someone, that means she had placed her trust in that person as well as her entirety.

her lover could wrap their hand around her neck and try to choke the life out of her and she wouldn't flinch. eden had long gotten used to the feeling of being upon the border of life and death, she's used to the feeling of treading so close to the edge that she could almost tip over, or the feeling of being bruised and battered to the point that normal human would've blacked out. she had been in impossible battles where she shouldn't have survived, her body is littered with numerous scars — and one thing that remained as her core was that she wouldn't mind being hurt by her beloved.

it's not even something along the line of ' i trust you enough to not hurt me. ' ( even though she does trust them, of course ) but it's more on the line of ' even if you hurt me to the point that i cannot heal, it's okay if it's you. ' mentality, which is destructive to a fault. this stems from the fact that eden still does not view herself as HUMAN. she is a vessel, a weapon. nothing anyone could do to change that or how she views herself. it isn't self-depreciative, either, at least not to her. she just views it as a fact.

that's why she doesn't know how to respond when her lover treats her so gently. because she could take much more. she could take the hurt, the ache, the pain. she had suffered worse. and if it's from the hands of the one she loves, why would she ever resist ?

[talkfastcal]

Nobody wants me to eat fish and chips I swear

[lauralot89]

Actual things that happen in the 1897 Dracula novel, without context:

A character has ominous nightmares and attributes them to eating too much paprika

Dracula first appears wearing a fake beard

The person he was trying to fool with the fake beard immediately realizes Dracula and Beard Guy are the same man, due to both having really firm handshakes

We are told parrots are immortal unless fatally wounded

A Texan cowboy opens fire on a bat flitting around a window, and lodges a bullet in the wall of an occupied room

A woman is called a polyandrist for receiving blood transfusions from multiple men

An incorrectly addressed telegram leads to two deaths, multiple druggings, and several children being assaulted

Dracula, while trying to maintain a low profile, takes a lovely trip to the zoo and freaks out the animals so badly that he gets mentioned in a newspaper article

The one character who knows anything about vampires spends a good two-thirds of the book refusing to talk about vampires

Dracula went to Satan's Witchcraft Academy and somehow this is only brought up in two throwaway lines

A character gets stuck inside a circle of communion wafer crumbs

A major plot point of the book is Dracula (who was said to be a brilliant scholar and has the strength of twenty mortal men) realizing he can move boxes without human help

Someone is referred to as "manifestly a prig of the first water"

Two characters have a hobby of reading train schedules

A hospital lets a mental patient escape to see what will happen

A character starts vomiting up feathers from eating whole birds

A doctor refuses to give a medical diagnosis and instead makes a speech about growing corn

Dracula impersonates another character just by wearing the same clothes, despite being taller and visibly much older. This deception is successful.

A character "cleans" a room by eating all the insects in it

Suddenly: rats. Thousands of them.

The heroes progress in their efforts through "the wonderful power of money," i.e., bribery

Dracula has three other vampires in his castle. Their relation to him is never explained, nor are any of them named.

A character insists his salvation depends on having a pet cat

Dracula is thwarted by flowers on more than one occasion

A group of vampires stand in the hall outside a man's bedroom, talking loudly about their plans to eat him. When he comes to the door to confront them, they run away laughing

Dracula wears an unfashionable hat and gets roasted for it

A group of Romanians encounter a disheveled, shouting man and, "seeing from his violent demeanour that he was English, they [give] him a ticket for the furthest station on the way thither that the train reached."

A boat crashes due to Dracula having the munchies

A wolf is thrown through a window and immediately runs off, confused and covered in glass

Dracula makes a bed

[salmonmakiii]

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 (◞‸◟), pssst here's the side stories!

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.

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDs Men Getting "She's busy bro" Text

Request: Hi!! I waited patiently (and eagerly) for your requests to open again, I'm so happy!! I love your writing!! I laughed so hard at the previous request where you mentioned Tara. I have another "Tara is on thin ice" idea, lol. Tara and Mc are having a girls night at Mc's place. Mc is cooking or just doing something, mc's receives a message from the lads men (something random like "hi, how are you, I'm off work"). Tara tells Mc she got a message (since Mc is doing something and she can't answer), and mc tells Tara to reply for her. All good and sweet, what does Tara reply with? "Hi, all good, she's busy now, she will talk to you later!" (Basically, the "she's busy bro" prank but with an oblivious Tara that didn't mean to prank them, lol)

AN: Hey anon, I am sorry for how last I am posting this. But thank you for requesting such a fun scenario. I hope you enjoy this!! Might be ooc at times but I am woman of dramatics so excuse me.

Ingredients: 75% fluff , 25% drama

My Fav: Zayne 🥺

Genre: She's busy bro, prank

Pairing: LaDS boys x fem reader

You’re in the kitchen, half-focused on stirring the pasta and half-listening to Tara rant about her latest training match when your phone buzzes on the counter.

“Hey, your phone just lit up,” Tara says, leaning over to check the screen. “It’s one of the guys. Something about ‘how are you?’ and ‘off work.’”

“Just reply for me,” you say, tossing a handful of garlic into the pan. “Tell him I’ll get back to him later.”

Tara shrugs, picking up your phone and squinting at the message. Her thumbs fly over the screen as she replies, “Hi, all good, she’s busy right now, she’ll talk to you later!”

She hits send with a satisfied nod, setting the phone back down without a second thought

Rafayel:

You lunge to catch Tara as she collapses, her hands flying to her throat, her breaths coming out in sharp, choking gasps.

“Tara!” you gasp, your watch buzzing with frantic alerts, the tiny screen flashing red with proximity warnings.

And then you see it. The curving, sinuous tendrils creeping from the edges of the painting on your wall. The one Rafayel gifted you not long ago. The inky black swirls ripple like living shadows, curling toward you.

You snatch your phone from the counter, one arm still braced around Tara’s trembling form, your body blocking her from the painting as the tendrils inch closer. You hit Rafayel’s contact, your finger jabbing the call button with a fury you can barely contain.

He picks up on the first ring, and you don’t give him a chance to speak.

“Stop it. Now.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end, the sound of crashing waves and distant seagulls crackling through the line, but you don’t flinch.

“I swear to the fucking seas,” you snarl, your voice low and dangerous, “I will never talk to you again if you hurt her.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath on the other end, a flicker of hesitation, and then the tendrils retreat, coiling back into the frame like startled serpents, the air around you cooling as the painting slowly still.

Tara collapses against you, her breathing evening out, her death grip on your arm loosening as she gasps for air. You meet her wide, dazed eyes, your own heart still hammering in your chest.

She gives you a shaky, crooked grin. “That was kinda hot,” she croaks, her lips twitching into a weak, mischievous smile, and your heart melts on the spot.

It takes Rafayel three weeks of pleading, apologizing, and bribing (both you and Tara) to be forgiven for 'the incident'. He sends flowers, chocolates, and a rare pearl necklace that you suspect he made with his anguished cries.

But the painting stays. “For protection,” he insists, his tone defensive, his eyes shifting away from yours when you bring it up. “You’ll thank me one day.”

You roll your eyes, but don’t push it.

Xavier:

He just shows up at your door. Because, of course, he does.

However busy you were, he could stop it. He is a victim to the sunk cost fallacy. If he has to pull you out of some other guy’s orbit, he’ll do it, no hesitation.

He knocks once, twice, each rap firm but patient, the ripped delivery package dangling from one hand, his other tucked casually into his jacket pocket.

The door swings open, and he inhales to deliver his practiced excuse." “Delivered to wr....” He blinks, momentarily thrown off as Tara opens the door, her hair a chaotic mess, pasta sauce smeared up to her cheeks like she’s just face-planted in a pot of marinara.

Behind her, you’re hunched over a massive dish of pasta, a noodle dangling from your lips, your eyes going wide as you choke at the sight of him, your face turning a lovely shade of tomato red.

“Oh, he—uhgh!” you splutter, breaking into a fit of coughing, nearly dropping the fork in your hand.

Xavier’s eyebrow twitches, his frown slowly morphing into a wide grin as his shoulders relax, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he takes in the chaotic scene.

There’s a long, painful beat of silence.

Then Tara, completely unfazed, just wipes her cheek with the back of her hand, shrugs, and steps aside. “You coming in or what, dude?” she says, like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Somehow, Xavier ends up joining your girls’ night, plopping down on the couch, grabbing a fork and helping himself to the monstrous bowl of pasta, because why not?

He makes a few snarky comments about your terrible math skills, but shuts up when you threaten to make him eat his own disastrous cooking as punishment.

Predictably, he’s the first to fall asleep. Conveniently, on your shoulder, his head tucked against your neck, his soft breathing mixing with the faint sound of the movie still playing in the background.

Zayne:

Zayne, of course, doesn’t take the bait.

He’s the only one who doesn’t react to the “She’s busy, bro” text like it’s a declaration of war, because he’s seen this sort of thing before.

As a surgeon, he’s often out of reach, his pager passed off to a resident while he’s deep in the OR, his hands steady, his mind clear as he cuts through flesh and bone. He knows what it’s like to be unavailable, to be occupied with things that demand his full focus.

So when he gets the text, he just blinks at his phone, smiles a little, and sets it down without a second thought, already mentally filing away a dessert he can bring you later, something to help you relax after your busy day.

And he does. He shows up that night, a paper bag in one hand, his coat still smelling faintly of antiseptic and coffee, his sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal the faint lines of old scars.

“Hey,” he says, his voice soft, a little shy, like he’s not sure if he’s intruding. “I brought tiramisu. Thought you could use a break.”

He’s literally the most precious bby, and you have to resist the urge to hug him right there in the doorway.

Sylus:

He’s in the middle of a deal, lounging back in his leather chair.

He checks his phone on a whim, his fingers flicking over the screen, and sees your text. His lips curl into a slow, arrogant smile as he types out a quick, casual, “Hey, what are you up to, sweetie?”

When the "She's busy, she'll call you later," text comes back, the smile freezes on his lips.

Busy? Busy?

His mood sours instantly. His fingers curl around the edge of his desk. He flicks his gaze back to the fumbling dealer in front of him, and his generosity reserves run dry.

“Out.”

The dealer stumbles back, wide-eyed, sweat beading on his forehead as he stammers out a “Y-Yes, sir!” before practically tripping over his own feet to escape the room.

Sylus leans back in his chair, teeth gritted, jaw tight, the soft click of his metal-tipped fingers against the desk the only sound in the now-silent room.

But just as he’s about to mentally spiral, his phone buzzes again.

“Made a pretty big batch of pasta, would you like some?”

He blinks, eyes flicking to the photo you’ve attached. A literal tub of way too much pasta, the noodles piled high, the sauce thick and steaming, a chaotic heap of carbs that only you and Tara could possibly miscalculate into existence.

He huffs, a quiet, exasperated chuckle slipping past his lips, the tension in his shoulders melting away. He leans back, his head tipping against the cool leather of his chair, a small, fond smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll be there in 20. Don’t start without me.”

And just like that, his mood is ruined in a completely different way, his dark, dangerous aura slipping into something much softer as he straightens his tie and stands, already picturing you waiting with a bright grin and a mismatched fork.

Caleb:

“Why does she get to use your phone and I don’t?” Caleb storms around your apartment, his boots clomping against the hardwood floor, his uniform still perfectly pressed.

It’s been an hour of this. A Fleet Colonel throwing a full-on tantrum in your tiny studio, pacing like a caged animal, his jaw clenched, his fingers flexing at his sides as if he’s debating strangling the nearest pillow. You did put your plushies away at the first given chance.

Pouting. Whining. Sharp, accusing glances thrown your way every time you so much as move.

You’re honestly grateful that Tara had left before this. She’d probably just laugh and egg him on, and you don’t need two chaotic messes in your living room right now.

“Caleb, I was busy,” you try to reason, leaning against the kitchen counter as he paces. “I didn’t want to leave you hanging.”

He whirls to face you, his eyes dark, his jaw ticking, his hair somehow still perfectly in place, untouched by the cap he’d clearly ripped off the second he stormed through your door. Your mind unhelpfully drifts to the way that uniform clings to his shoulders, the way his collar hugs his throat, and nope, now is not the time for that.

“Busy?” he spits, his voice a low, irritated rumble. “Busy with what? And why with her, exactly?”

You sigh, pressing a hand to your forehead, already exhausted from the emotional hurricane that is Caleb. “I was cooking, Caleb. With Tara. I didn’t want to leave you hanging, so I asked her to text you back.”

He scoffs, his shoulders tense, his eyes narrowing like he’s daring you to try that excuse again.

Rage bait Tara is Colonel Caleb’s worst nightmare come to life. Given how you never seem to care how close she gets to you, how easily she invades your space, how unapologetically she teases you.

Much to Caleb’s dismay, you never seem to mind.

[starpens]

CRASH COURSE ﾉ xia caleb x female reader ៹ explicit content, unprotected sex, virginity loss, mentions of cheating (none actually happens), pet names (pipsqueak (sorry but i have to be accurate) gege, good girl), instructional sex, blowjobs, creampie, idk what this is i wrote it in 5 seconds i just needed an excuse to write caleb, not proofread :( ˓˓ WORD COUNT ᨀ 4.9k !

asking the boy you’ve known nearly your entire life to teach you how to have sex isn’t weird, right...? right?

caleb has taught you a lot of things over the years.

he taught you how to drive a car in the shopping mall’s parking lot, how to cheat at card games, how to avoid burning the house down by letting him cook for you instead, how to sneak underneath the turnstiles on the subway to avoid fees.

he’s reliable and sturdy and a little reckless, but also patient and nonjudgmental— creating the idea in your idea that he’s kind of all-knowing, that whenever you don’t know something caleb does, that whenever you need help, you turn to no one else but him. which is precisely why you’re standing outside the door of his bedroom right now, hand lifted to knock on it.

because surely, asking caleb to teach you how to give a blowjob falls somewhere underneath that category too, right?

it’s one of those rare moments when the two of you are off work at the same time. caleb, on annual leave for the next two weeks and you, taking out a handful of unused vacation days to spend time with your favorite person in the world. it’s like old times again, when you can simply walk down the hall and hear his laugh drifting from underneath the door as he plays some stupid video game with college buddies.

thinking of the old days is exactly why you’re hesitating at the door. there’s too much shared history between the two of you, too much to lose if this goes badly, if you’ve been reading him wrong all along and he doesn’t want the same thing. there’s no way you can march in there and ask the boy you were raised with teach you how to—

“door’s open, pipsqueak,” caleb calls, somehow knowing you’re there because of course he does. you used to complain that he must’ve secretly implanted a tracker in your arm because he always knows your whereabouts, which made games like hide and seek with him impossible.

knowing it’s too late to play it off, you walk inside his room, greeted by his devastatingly gorgeous grin. “hey, you. lemme guess— the fridge is empty? no? lightbulb in your room need changing again? huh… or did you just miss me?”

“uh,” you mumble, shifting your toes in the soft carpet of the rug in the middle of his room. “not exactly. i was just wondering if you had time to talk and— … you’re not wearing a shirt.”

you realize how dumb you sound as you point it out, it’s just that your brain short-circuits, turning into a syrupy mess at the sight of caleb without a shirt on, his dog tags resting against bare skin. you’ve seen him like this before, of course— but not since he up and left, gallivanting off into the world to become a hotshot military pilot.

he’s always been nice to look at when you think he isn’t paying attention, but god he’s pretty. your eyes blink almost in disbelief as you take in his broad, muscular form that did not exist while he was a cadet in basic training. your gaze can’t help but snag on the ripple of his abs, or the thatch of brown hair trailing from his navel to disappear beneath his gray sweats. he swivels in his stupid gaming chair, smiling at you with his stupid face—

“uh, yeah?” caleb laughs, forehead creasing in confusion like you shouldn’t be surprised and really, you shouldn’t. caleb is like a furnace, blood running hot even in the middle of winter. “gran’s got the heat turned up to max again. it’s like she wants to kill me.”

“yeah, right,” you shake your head, laughing skittishly. “sorry. i’ve got a fan you can borrow, if you want.”

“thanks,” he says, magenta eyes dragging over your form suspiciously, taking in the way you’re standing in the middle of his room fidgeting like a leaf in the wind, hands white-knuckling the hem of the oversized shirt you’re wearing, knees knocking together all nervous and cute. he frowns, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to give you his full attention in that heart-stuttering way he often does.

“what’s with you? not that i’m not glad to see you, but… did something happen? did someone do something to you?”

“no, no— nothing like that,” you hurry to reassure, voice cracking on the last word as your cheeks begin to burn in embarrassment, trying to find the words to say what you need to without crashing and burning. swallowing around a lump in your throat, you glance at the paused screen of caleb’s game before blurting out—

“can you teach me how to give a blowjob?”

caleb immediately chokes.

a lesson on what not to do.

the overclocked fans on caleb’s gaming rig whirs in a soft hum, the neon lights in his room flickering crimson streaks over his handsome face in the dark. he wonders if it’s post traumatic stress or prolonged exposure to cosmic radiation in the sky forcing him to hallucinate. obviously, he’s got too many marbles in one jar and not enough in the other because there is no way he’s heard you correctly.

slowly, he removes his headset. “come again?”

“i’m awful at it, ge,” you exclaim, throwing your hands up in exasperation. in fact, you don’t know if you’re awful at it or not because you’ve never tried. you’ve been too busy waiting on the man in front of you to stop torturing you both, but caleb doesn’t need to know that. “you see, i’m dating this guy, right? and we’ve been hitting it off well. i can tell he wants to take it to the next level, but i’ve never… and you— you’re good at everything, so i just thought…”

“thought i would give you lessons,” he finishes for you, his voice deepening to a rougher edge that makes you shiver. “so you can suck your boyfriend better. do i have it right?”

“y-yeah…”

“since when do you even have a boyfriend? you didn’t tell me anything,” he says, doing nothing to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“uh, we’ve… been seeing each other for a couple of weeks?” you fumble, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. “i didn’t want to say anything yet. in case it didn’t work out.”

“so you want to learn how to suck dick for a guy you’ve known for a couple of weeks?” he counters, a muscle in his jaw twitching. he’s got no right to feel jealousy, not when he’s wasted so much time attempting to be one thing in your life when you clearly wanted something else. he’s got no right, but the thought of you on your knees for someone else, someone that isn’t him, makes his blood boil enough that he already knows what his answer will be.

however, you’re already backing up towards the door, about to make a quick retreat. your plan was horrible, shame burning your skin like a brand. “what am i saying? oh my god, you’re right it’s stupid and wrong and gross. can we please just forget i even came in here—”

he lets you ramble for an excruciatingly long time, then he pushes out of his gaming chair and grins down at you like you just asked him to make a quick run to the convenience store. he stretches his arms above his head. “let’s do it.”

“w-what?”

you didn’t expect to get this far, honestly. you expected caleb to laugh at you, ruffle your hair, and call you ridiculous. but instead, he’s already striding to his door, thumb flicking the lock with a decisive click. when he turns, his expression makes your breath hitch— those unusual purple eyes molten, staring straight through you.

“first thing’s first, we need to lay down some ground rules, soldier,” caleb tells you playfully, stepping closer until your breasts brush against his midsection. his hand lifts, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “if you need to back out at any moment, you say so. no guy’s pleasure is worth your discomfort. and if i hear his name, whatever it is…” he pauses, eyes narrowing. “this stops. understood?”

you nod eagerly, fighting your smile as his scent envelopes you. he smells like spearmint gum, your shampoo that he’s been stealing since the two of you have been back at the house, and a hint of sweat from the stifling air in the room.

“use your words, pipsqueak.”

“y-yeah, i get it.”

his smirk is all teeth. “good girl.”

caleb guides you over to his bed, sitting down on the edge. his big hands reach for you, circling your hips and pulling you towards him until you’re standing in between his spread thighs.

“alright, my little student,” he jokes. “you wanna get him all riled up before the main event so start with something small like… a kiss,” he murmurs, eyes lifting to glance at your mouth as his finger traces the hinge of your jaw. “you do know how to kiss, don’t you?”

“of course i know how to kiss,” you grumble.

caleb nods and then curls his hand around the nape of your neck, pulling you down to his level. you lean with the pressure, slotting your hands in the junction between his neck and shoulder, sliding them up until you cup the underside of his jaw. then, you’re kissing him— kissing caleb, the boy who used to patch up your scraped knees with cute band-aids, who let you crawl into his bed after nightmares, who pretends he hasn’t thought about kissing you, about making you his, for years.

the kiss is messy, desperate and hungry, decades of pent up feelings behind it. a string of saliva keeps your mouths linked together whenever you pull back for air and when caleb’s tongue swipes across your bottom lip, you whimper and part your lips to let him in, body melting against his front until your weight’s toppling him back onto his elbows, hitching your leg over his waist to crawl on top of him.

his grip on your waist tightens, gently pushing you to stand once more. “this is feeling less like a lesson, and more like you just wanting to do this with me,” he teases, making heat flare across your cheeks.

caleb guides your hand to the waistband of his sweatpants, the heat radiating through the fabric searing your palm. breath hitching, you begin to sink to the floor in front of him but his hand shoots out to stop your descent with a breathy laugh. “no no no, c’mere. you’re gonna hurt your knees down there.”

backing up, he moves until he’s lounging against the headboard, impossibly long legs stretched out on either side of your sweet figure.

“still wanna do this?” he asks, lifting a brow. when you nod, he continues to speak, voice gravelly, “take it out then.”

your fingers fumble with the drawstring a bit, struggling to undo the military knot caleb’s tied there, but you manage eventually. peeling back the waistband of his sweatpants to free his cock.

you should’ve known it would be just as pretty as the rest of him— it’s the biggest one (the only one) you’ve seen in person. he’s thicker than he is long, flushed dusky pink with veins that make your cunt clench with the desperate need to feel them dragging along your inner walls. his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, watching you reach for it, nearly sobbing when your hand wraps around him.

“fuck—!” his hips jerk and stutter in shock, hand shoving yours away with a quickness. you frown and bite your lip, retracting your grip as if you’ve been burned.

“oh no,” you rush out, moving back to sit on top of your hands like a scolded kindergartener. “did i do something bad? did i hurt you, cal?”

caleb’s chest heaves, breath punching out of his lungs rapidly, eyes squeezed shut as he tries to slow the speed of his heart down. he’s dreamt about you touching him like this for ages, and the image of your dainty hand nervously wrapping around his cock will be seared into his brain for the rest of his life. you crawl back towards him slowly, seriously worried. “caleb?”

“i’m fine, pip,” he sucks in another breath, then opens his eyes to look at you. “didn’t mean to scare you. you didn’t do anything bad, you just surprised me. go ahead, touch me again.”

“if you’re sure,” you mumble, then hesitantly circle your fingers around caleb’s shaft again. he’s ready for it this time, hot against your palm when you give him an experimental squeeze, making caleb hiss through clenched teeth. “how’s that?”

“a bit tighter,” he instructs, palm closing over yours to adjust your grip. you squeeze him tight, and the hitch of his breath makes you squirm, stickiness gathering between your thighs at the sound. “don’t just squeeze, guys like it when you stroke. base to tip— no, don’t yank it like a fucking joystick, pip. god.”

his protest makes you burst out in giggles before caleb is shushing you with a severe look, his purple eyes narrowed. sucking your plump lower lip in between your teeth to keep from smiling, you nod at him with an exaggeratedly focused look.

“wet your palm,” he tells you, rolling his eyes at your wrinkled nose. “getting a handjob from a dry hand hurts, it’s like sandpaper.”

“are you saying i have dry hands, caleb? i moisturize daily, unlike you,” you whine out, but you listen to him anyway— you’re a good student, after all, and you don’t want to do anything that’ll make caleb want to stop. you lick your palm a few times, eyes on caleb the entire time.

the next time you touch him is with a spit-slicked grip, dragging your hand up and down his cock in an inexperienced, sloppy rub that should feel uncomfortable, but caleb eats it up— hips jerking involuntarily, pearls of watery precum already beginning to leak from the slit of his cock. your gaze is transfixed on it, a little greedy too, watching it stain your knuckles with each stroke.

it’s that same greediness that makes you lean down and brush your lips against the head of his cock, cherry tongue lolling out to tentatively taste the salt-bitter precum beading there. caleb’s hips immediately kick upward in a desperate twitch, but he forces them still, knuckles ashen where they reach down to grip the sheets.

“easy,” he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. his thumb strokes your cheek briefly. “just the tip first, okay? don’t go trying to swallow me down or anything.”

you do what he’s taught you so far; flatten your tongue, swirl it around the head— like that, fuck— press it hard against the thick, sensitive vein running along caleb’s underside, then repeat. every time, you’re rewarded with caleb brushing your hair back, murmuring soft praises, or your personal favorite— his deep, almost nasal groan, the hard planes of his abdomen flexing underneath the heady heat of your tongue.

it’s intoxicating, watching him fall apart like this— exactly what you wanted when you walked into his room. you want to pass his class with honors, please him even more, so you drop your mouth open a little more and suck him in deeper.

too deep.

the thick ridge of his head nudges against your uvula, tears springing to your eyes almost immediately. little startled chokes cough from your throat as you pull off caleb’s cock, bands of saliva stringing from his tip to your mouth in a way that should be gross, but you don’t care one bit, too busy trying to catch your breath.

“shh, shh— breathe,” caleb soothes, eyes darkening with something perilously close to reverence and pride. “through your nose, slowly. you can’t force it, that’s why you keep choking. when you’re ready, try again.”

you let caleb thumb away your tears like he’s done countless times before and when you’re ready, when you’ve had enough air to breathe, you let him guide you back onto his damp cock. eager, swollen lips bringing him in against your cheeks in a hot, branding suction that twists his insides up.

he’s supposed to be teaching you, showing you the ropes so you can please your stupid boyfriend, but you barely even need it— god, you’re so good at this without even trying. how can he focus on teaching when he’s got all of his focus pointed towards trying not to shoot his load down the back of your throat like some inconsiderate asshole?

he can barely look down at you because every time he does, your teary eyes glance up at him through thick lashes with an expression that begs for praise. he knows if you didn’t have a mouth stuffed full of his cock, you’d be asking him am i doing it right, ge?

his thighs tremble, eyes lidded as you finally find a steady pace— mouth bobbing up and down, spit bubbling at the base of his cock where you’re starting to make a mess on him.

and when your hands dip down into his sweatpants, cupping his balls in your soft hand, caleb’s vision whites out, his climax rushing to the front at a rapid pace. before he can cum, though, he takes two fingers and pushes at your forehead, hauling you off his cock with a wet slurp. his chest heaves, dripping beads of sweat that glow in the haze of the neon lighting in his room.

he looks wrecked, and you fight your triumphant smile, schooling it into something unsure and pliant, batting your eyelashes. “did i… did i do it wrong?”

“fuck, no,” his chuckle is hoarse and ruined, calloused thumbs swiping spit from your chin as he gazes up at you meaningfully with those hooded eyes. “just don’t wanna cum down your throat.”

“o-oh.”

the implication makes arousal bubble low in your belly, thighs squeezing together in need. caleb tracks the movement, nostrils flaring as he grins knowingly. “yeah, you don’t want that either, do you, pipsqueak?”

for a while, the two of you just stare at each other in disbelief. you don’t know how to tell caleb that you’d take him in any form he’s offering himself in, pining after him long enough that it’s painful. nothing you ever did got his attention, not in the way you truly wanted. he’s protective and possessive in all the right ways, but he’d never make the first move.

he’ll never come out and admit that he wants to spread you out on his bed and fuck you dumb, mark you as his so nobody else can have you. it took you coming to him to even get this far, so you might as well take matters into your own hands once more.

“teach me the rest, ge?”

the rest.

caleb releases a pained groan at your words and you think he’s going to refuse you, but then he’s flipping your positions, pushing you down onto the mattress with ease. he makes quick work of his sweatpants, shoving them down the rest of the way. then, he wrestles your panties off your hips and tosses them somewhere across the room.

“look at you,” he whispers, pushing your shirt up— his cock leaking a bead of precum at the sight of your pretty tits. he reaches forward, toying with your puffy nipples, grinning at the sound of your soft whimper.

“c-caleb.”

“you drive me fuckin’ crazy, you get that?” the confession comes out sounding suspiciously like a whine. he gazes down at you like you’re water and he’s a man lost deep in the desert, dying of thirst. “you’re the prettiest girl in the whole wide world. look at these cute tits, just begging for me to touch them. and—”

his big hands sink into the fleshy part of your upper thighs, opening them to get his first exclusive look at your pussy. his thumb parts your folds, spreading one side apart to watch the way your entrance twitches. caleb dips one finger into your cunt and could fucking cry at how warm and tight you feel. “fuck, you’re so wet. is this all ’cause of me?”

“d-don’t look at it so shamelessly, you pervert,” you scold him, squirming back and forth in his hold as you try to snap your thighs shut. “stop teasing me or i’ll hit you. this is embarrassing!”

“why not?” he tilts his head, giving you that boyish grin that makes your heart stop. “after i’m done with you, it’ll be mine anyway. my pretty pussy. my girl.”

you huff and drive your fist into his shoulder before folding your arms over your breasts, lower lip stuck out in an unhappy pout. caleb winces, though mirth still shines amongst the nebulas in his eyes. he leans down to kiss your pout away, chuckling in amusement. “okay, okay, don’t hurt me. i’ll give you what you want.”

and then, he’s wrapping a hand around the base of himself, kissing your clit with the leaking tip of his cock before rubbing it up and down your slit. he coats himself in your wetness before he finally notches against your entrance and slowly pushes.

the pressure makes air stutter out of your chest, blunt and unyielding. he immediately notices your struggle and drops forward on his elbows, caging you safely in his embrace. he kisses the corners of your eyelids, licking away stray tears.

“i hate hurting you like this,” he whispers in your ear, hips drawing back and crawling forward again. you gasp, eyes falling shut, and he shushes you once more. slides a hand down to play with your clit to distract you, which only makes you clench up around him. his jaw is clenched tight enough to shatter the bone, hand fisted in the sheets next to your head. “shh— relax and let me in. it’ll feel good in a second.”

“i-i don’t know if i can,” you say, trying to force your body to accept him, but when he sinks in those first few inches, you whimper and dig your nails into his biceps. “y-you’re so big, gege.”

“f-fuck, don’t—” caleb grunts and his fingers grip the soft sides of your belly, holding your body to his like a lifeline. “don’t call me that right now. i might cum. i’m gonna put the rest in, okay? be a good girl for me and take it. i-i can’t wait any longer.”

he draws out and presses forward all the way in, burying himself to the hilt inside your sweet pussy. his gaze drops to where you’re split obscenely around him, cunt fluttering in protest at the stretch and a ragged groan tears from his throat. it takes every ounce of willpower the military beat into him not to cream himself right then and there.

“c-caleb!”

you whine as caleb retreats slightly, only to surge back in, fucking a little deeper this time. the weight of his cock stretching you out borders on cruel, but you would die before you ask him to stop, your walls squeezing him in a vice grip. it takes a few trials and errors (“keep your hips down, pipsqueak” and “i don't know, maybe a little to the l— fuck, right there oh my god”) but eventually, caleb builds up a good rhythm, the cool metal of his dog tags pooling in the valley of your breasts as he fucks you with deep, steady strokes; bottoming out each time with a guttural groan.

“fuck— stop clenching so much i’m gonna lose my mind,” his breath scalds your neck, teeth grazing your pulse as he fucks a little faster. “so fucking good. that’s it, baby. you’re doing so good. taking every inch of me like this.”

he’s right, it is so fucking good— no, it’s better. your nails scrape against caleb’s back. shivering at the hot pleasure singeing your nerve endings each time he fucks into you. it doesn’t take long for pressure to gather in your lower belly, a band waiting to snap.

you can’t help but wriggle a hand between the two of your bodies and circle a trembling middle finger around your swollen clit. “nngh, you feel so fucking good, cal.”

“a-are you- god, that’s so hot,” he grunts, glancing down at the way you’re toying with your clit and it turns him on so much he’s speeding up, cock pistoning in and out of you, his thrusts deepening until he’s nearly kissing your cervix, he’s in so deep, your thighs slamming against his hips as you try to close your legs when the head of his cock brushes right up against your sweet spot, creating starbursts behind your eyelids.

“oh god, cal— i-i can’t!”

caleb’s grin is feral, grinding deep to press into that swollen spot inside you relentlessly. “knew i’d find it,” then his fingers joining yours and it’s so much better than your own, two digits rubbing quick circles into your sensitive clit. you’re a babbling mess at this point, the pleasure too much to keep up with. “can you cum for me? can you let me feel it? please? i’ll never ask you for another thing if you give me one right here, right now.”

what are you supposed to do, deny him? you couldn’t even if you tried, not with the heat in your belly full to bursting, needing an escape.

“’m gonna c-cum for you, ge, just for you,” you sob.

caleb has seen many versions of you over the years— grumpy and pillow-marked in the morning with syrup stains on your shirt at the breakfast table, covered in sand and sun-kissed at the beach, screaming at him to do something about the jellyfish sting on your leg, in sleek black dresses at the military balls you attended as his plus one that made all his comrades stop and stare. but you’ve never looked prettier than you do right now. his dog tags between your breasts, your creamy pussy fluttering around his cock, and your pretty face twisted in pleasure as you’re about to cum for him.

he hopes that when he dies, he’ll go out with this image in his brain.

those big doe eyes of yours roll back into your head, hands frantically pushing at his abdomen as if he’s trying to escape the overwhelming friction of his cock. you cum hard, thighs trembling, vision winking out. wet droplets of tears stream down your cheeks as white heat washes over your body, the pleasure bleeding through your limbs like wildfire.

seeing you like this, what is caleb supposed to do? not follow you? he’s been holding his own orgasm back since you barged into his room in one of his shirts, begging to be taught how to suck a cock. there’s no way he can last through seeing— through feeling— you cum around him. his rhythm fractures almost immediately and he knows he’s on thin ice, fraying at the edges.

“gonna cum,” he grits out, voice mangled. “fuck, i’m gonna cum. where do you want it?”

you don’t waste a second, babbling out the answer desperately, “i-inside, ge, cum inside me. give it to me please i want it so bad i’ll do anything!”

that’s all it takes.

one more sloppy thrust and he cums right after you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you still. he breathes choppy, ruined moans into your neck as he pumps his release deep inside your cunt before he collapses against you, damp chest heaving against yours, giving a few more weak thrusts of his hips as his climax ebbs.

you don’t know how long the two of you lay there, struggling to catch your breaths. you’re satisfied and pliant as putty underneath caleb, unable to move from his heavy embrace. he’s a wall of solid muscle, one that is pressing you into the mattress. “caleb, you’re heavy.”

“gimme a minute here, pipsqueak,” caleb chuckles breathlessly against your sweaty skin, pressing a wet kiss to your neck. “i just had the best sex of my life and can’t catch my breath.”

you begin to smile in pride, but then your eyes narrow as his words register through the fucked out haze clouding your brain. “wait, you were having sex before this?” you ask, jealousy bubbling up in your chest. “was it that one sergeant? the one who kept giving you lovey dovey eyes at the DAA gala?”

“mmm, nope,” he answers almost immediately, kissing your lips quickly to placate you, making your heart swell big and bright for the boy on top of you. “chill. saved myself all this time for you.”

your heart begins racing stupidly fast at that. “sap,” you tease, before an idea pops in your head and you reach for your phone tossed haphazardly on caleb’s bedside table.

caleb’s grip on you tightens as he notices you reach for it, a dark cloud shuttering his loving expression. “what are you doing?” he demands, the venom in his tone startling you a bit. “texting him already? that eager to try out what i just taught you?”

you frown in confusion until you remember the excuse you used upon coming into caleb’s room. wow, the boy you’re in love with is an idiot. giggling, you lean up and press a sweet kiss to his cheek before opening the camera on your phone and snapping a quick selfie of the two of you.

“no, you big dummy, i’m taking a pic of us losing our virginities together so i can add it to our photo album,” you explain simply, grinning. “and there was never any boyfriend, i made him up.”

[b0kevi]

saying “let’s make out” every time they(house warden + jamil) do something hot

summary: whenever they do something attractive you blurt out ‘let’s make out’ to see what they’ll do

trope: established relationship, suggestive themes

info: making out obv, they/them pronouns, gender neutral reader, not proofread

character: riddle, leona, azul, kalim, jamil, vil, idia, malleus (epel, jade, floyd, lilia, ortho mentioned)

w/c: riddle: 465 leona: 456 azul: 499 kalim: 532 jamil: 424 vil: 435 idia: 527 malleus: 493

riddle

no.

red as his hair

will scream no until he caves

only in private

gentle make out sessions

riddle was currently scolding at his dorm mates for failing to listen and interrupting your guys time together in the garden.

you didn’t mind but the way riddle was so assertive and how he looked in his house warden uniform, you couldn’t help but stare.

once they left, he turned towards you to apologize but before he could say anything you said,

“we should make out.”

he’s so red you don’t know where his hairline starts.

“w-where did that come from?! w-we are in public! that’s against rule 565! absolutely not!”

“hm does that mean we can in private? is that against the queens rules?”

he thought for a moment before grabbing your hand, he pulled you towards the dorm as he walked in front of you to hide his flushed face.

“I.. suppose it isn’t. come on now.”

°˖➴

“this is inappropriate my rose…”

you currently pulled riddle into the nearest empty room you could find.

he was helping out his fellow dorm mates study, you were there to study as well but you were way too distracted by riddles voice.

the way he was assertive yet soft spoken with them. he wanted to make sure the information was getting to them but didn’t want to sound too strict or rude.

that made you snap as you pulled him away from the group.

“is it against the queens rules to want to make out with your very attractive partner?”

riddle placed his hands on your shoulders to keep some distance between you two but he wasn’t doing a good job, he made no effort to push you away

“we have to get back now.” you frowned as you placed a small peck on the edge of his lips.

“no, we can do this later.”

“…no…”

riddle made a frustrated sound before crashing his lips towards yours.

“you’re a bad influence my rose.”

°˖➴

riddle has been cooped up in his room all day. you came over to check on him, reminding him to take breaks but when he’s studying— old habits die hard.

words were not getting through him so you had to resort to actions.

you landed a kiss on his jawline which made him freeze and flare up.

“h-huh?!”

you place more kisses on his jaw and cheek

“w-what are you doing??”

the more kisses you place the redder he gets. he knew what you were doing, he so badly wanted to push you away but he could never do that to you.

he cups your face before boldly pulling your face to his.

roughly kissing you at first but later eases up, gently kissing you, letting all his tension flow away as he kisses you silly.

leona

100% ego boost

cocky

will make out with you right then and there no matter where you are

lazy make out sessions

makes you take the lead until he gets in the mood and takes over

Leona wasn’t doing anything fancy, all he was doing was tidying his hair up in a high ponytail, getting ready for spell drive training.

you were watching him get ready. you love when he puts his hair up, makes him look even more handsome, and leona is already extremely handsome. you’re practically memorized

“we should totally make out.”

he froze a second- caught off guard by your words then smirked at you, you could practically see his ego inflating

“getting bold now herbivore?”

he doesn’t hesitate to give it to you. he crawls towards you, grabbing your waist and attaching his lips to yours roughly.

he might be a little late to practice, but it’s worth it since he’s spending his time with you and getting a reward of seeing the aftermath of your messy face.

°˖➴

it was your first time seeing leona in his official spell drive uniform and

oh my sevens.

he was with his team going over the plan for the game and you couldn’t help but admire how well the uniform looks on him. once he finished, you couldn’t help but say

“let’s make out.”

he chuckles, “what? is that supposed to motivate me?”

his teammates heard— scoffing and snickering.

“i really don’t need to see that before a game..” you could hear epel muttering afar.

leona smirked wide, loving when you get bold enough to say that in public, he’s not afraid to show everyone who you belong to. he pulled you in, devouring your lips right in front of everyone which made everyone gagged— leaving to do something else.

°˖➴

Leona was taking a nap per usual but something about the way the sunlight casted down on his face, enhancing his features made you giddy.

"we should make out."

leona opened one eye to look at you, questioning what you just said. after seeing your determine face, he knew he heard right and you were serious

"then you better get over here herbivore, before I change my mind."

you smiled wide as you jumped on top of him, his hands immediately found your hips to balance you. you kissed him slowly first as he lazily replied.

slow and lazy yet you could feel his love pouring out while running his hands up and down your sides until he started to feel more awake. He’ll never say it out loud but through his actions that’s when it started getting more heated, you had your turn now it’s time for him to show you who’s the king.

azul

flustered everytime

never say that in public, if the twins heard that.. he will hide in his octopod

will only do it if you’re alone

sweet make sessions, not too rough not too gentle

secretly loves when you want to make out

you were waiting for azul to finish up some business at mostro lounge when someone approached you, clearly flirting with you.

you kept reminding them you have a boyfriend and are not interested but they were persistent.

“come on, just one date? then you’ll see if you still want to be with this ‘boyfriend’” you looked disgusted but before you could say anything a voice came behind them.

“that will not be happening. as you can see we are going out on our own date right now, they made it clear they are not interested so please get out or do I need to show you where the door is?” azul was by your side as you saw the twins looming over the person. they got the message and headed out.

“are you alright my pearl?”

“we should make out.” you blurted out as you found that attractive, the twins were snickering as azul turned pink.

“w-what?! what are you- let’s just go.”

°˖➴

azul was scheming up contracts while you were keeping him company. this gave you the opportunity to get a good look at him, the way his glasses sat at the bridge of his nose, beauty mark looking so kissable right now..

you walked behind his chair looking over his shoulder pretending to be interested before casually saying,

“we should make out right now.”

his pen stopped abruptly, messing up what he was writing. you could see his ears turning pink

“w-well, ahem. I guess I do need a break…” he looked around the room even though it was just the two of you, he pulled you onto his lap still looking flustered and guiding himself to your lips.

°˖➴

“my pearl… i’ve told you about this.” you once again announce that you wanted to make out instead of the twins again. he can only take so much of their teasing.

he will gladly do it with no cost but please stop saying it in front of them.

“sorry zul… but… can we?” you had the hopeful glint in your eyes that he couldn’t resist, your lucky he pulled you in his vip room because he really did wanted to kiss you silly.

he sighs, “I should make you pay… but i’ll let it slide just this once.” he cradled your face as he kisses you shyly.

kissing azul was always so sweet, you could tell he was nervous but he put on a front of being confident. azul always sets a steady pace, making it enjoyable for you two.

*knock knock*

“quit sucking each others faces! bleh”

“there are quite a lot of people out here.”

the tips of azuls ears were pink as he groaned. getting one last kiss before he had to leave.

kalim

giggly

loves kissing you, will do it, you don’t even need to ask

will laugh and smile throughout the session

he’s so happy, he can’t keep his hands off you

doesn’t matter where you are but he doesn’t want jamil yelling at him so will prefer private

you and kalim were outside enjoying the sun as he was talking about his day and anything that came to him. he was so bright that your face always hurts when you’re around him from smiling so much.

he was currently making a flower crown as he continued to talk, you were supposed to be making one as well for him but you got distracted as you stared at kalim.

his eyes were like ruby’s as you got lost in them, suddenly remembering how sweet he is. he always saw the good in everything which you loved and admired, it was a nice change considering everyone else at nrc.

“we should make out.” you muttered as you were thinking about all the sweet moments with kalim.

“okay!” kalim didn’t hesitate to lean over to peck your lips then diving back in to leave longer and loving kisses, giggling every once in a while through your lips. he never questions you, always willing or finding excuses(or just straight up) to kiss you.

one hand was running through your hair while the other was playing with your fingers.

°˖➴

kalim invited you to watch him practice at his club and you gladly accepted.

kalim was so talented at the drums it blew you away. they sounded so good and you were having a great time enjoying the music.

kalims outfit was so casual, he was so cute with his beanie you wanted to smooch his face so bad. you were trying so hard to not interrupt him.

practice was finally over and kalim rushed over to you giggling.

“what did you think?”

“you were amazing baby! you were so cool, we should make out.” kalim eyes widened before laughing loudly

“my, young love…” lilia commented as he exited.

“you’re so silly habibi!” he gives you the biggest kiss with the loudest ‘MWAH’ sound. he’s smiling through your kisses while cupping your face between his hands.

will not stop until someone kicks you two out.

°˖➴

“UGH I’ve missed you so much habibi…” jamil didn’t leave kalims side at all today, making sure he gets stuff done and doesn’t do anything crazy which left no time for you two.

kalim has been dying for your affection all day. he plopped down on his bed, pulling you into his grasp

“can we make out… pleaseee?” kalim asked as he’s already placing sweet kisses on your neck and cheek.

you giggle, “i was just about to ask you that.”

kalim lights up as he makes his way to your lips.

laughing through your kisses, always pulling away a bit to kiss the other parts of your face as his hands roam over your body.

he always enjoys moments like this where he can fully love you without anyone interfering or jamil pulling them away. he can let his love overflow through his kisses and touches so you get the message.

jamil

hides behind his hood

you’re crazy

savory make out sessions, loves taking his time with you

he’s very busy so will have to wait until he gets a break

if he could he would do it anywhere anytime

Jamil was making food for yet another party kalim was throwing. you were accompanying him, helping out here and then.

you love watching him cook, how he moves so effortlessly through the kitchen, you couldn't help but blurt out what was on your mind.

"we should totally make out right now.."

jamil paused his cutting. his face heated up but he could just blame the boiling water. he swiftly put his hood up so you couldn’t see his face, trying to play it off

"what are you talking about? help me get these in the water." he changed the subject but he would definitely love to make out with you, maybe he will later.

°˖➴

jamil invited you to watch him play basketball since you’ve been asking him. he moves so agile, making baskets mostly every time. he looks so fine with his hair up, sweat dripping down his face.

they were taking a break and you handed jamil his water bottle,

“you looked so cool out there jamil! we should make out.”

he almost spat out his water. so caught off guard because of your compliment then your statement.

he couldn’t hide his face with his hood so he just used his hand to hide his blush.

“you’re crazy.”

he tried to play it off but then he looked around to make sure no one was listening to them before mumbling

“as much as I would love to right now… we can later, promise.”

°˖➴

jamil finally got time to himself but it was nighttime. that didn’t matter to you, you were just happy to spend time with him. he was currently taking out his braids as you laid in his bed.

before you could get the words out, jamil was already on top of you, devouring your lips.

“i’ve been waiting all day to do that.” he muttered against your lips, leaving kisses all over your face as he continues to speak, “you don’t know how badly I wanted to kiss you every time you asked to make out.” he kisses your jaw, “you drive me insane.”

he basically is sucking the air out of you, savoring the taste of your lips since it’s so rare for him to spend time with you, he loves to take advantage of the time he has to himself.

vil

you’ll ruin his makeup, no

admires your forwardness

either elegant and soft make out sessions or messy sessions depending on what he’s doing later

doesn’t mind messing up his makeup if you’re alone and he doesn’t have to go anywhere later

if he has a shoot, no he will not kiss you, don’t think about it

Vil was trying new makeup products and invited you over to his room to try them out. you love when he does your makeup you get to shamelessly admire him up close. he was putting blush on you, one hand holding your chin up as he applied it to your cheek.

“we should make out…”

his eyes widen then soften as he laughed, you can be so forward when you wanted to.

“that will ruin our makeup dear.” he saw you pout and he couldn’t help himself. he sighs and pulled you closer to him

“you’re lucky my schedule is free today. i’m all yours~” he attacked your lips, he can’t wait to see the finish result of your guys ruined faces.

°˖➴

Vil was at a photo shoot and you were accompanying him, he looked so radiant you couldn’t take your eyes off him.

the photographer told him to take five as he reviewed the photos, vil made his way to you who smiled brightly,

“we should totally make out.. right now..”

vil pinched your cheeks, he could feel your stares and knew you were up to something, “absolutely not. we’re not done here and you’ll ruin my makeup. I know how you get.”

“pleaseee..”

“no.”

“one kiss?”

“no. you can wait after.”

there’s no convincing him when his mind is made up.

°˖➴

“my love, I have a meeting with the director in ten minutes no.” Vil stated as he was touching up, making sure he looked presentable.

you whined at vil saying you guys should make out but of course vil wouldn’t allow it.

“that’s enough time for a couple of kisses…”

vil glared at you through his mirror as to give you a warning to behave but you never listen. you needed to kiss him now.

“fine. just a few. don’t go crazy, I don’t want to test to see if this lipstick is smudge proof.” he finally broke after your constant begging.

he gently took your chin and pulled you in, he kissed you softly, not going too deep or rough to ruin anything.

when vil kisses you like this he’s always so poise, trying to restrain himself from breaking and giving in since he has somewhere to be soon.

“you’re something else my love.”

idia

you break him every time you say it

hairs fully pink

wants to but will NOT make the first move you have to take initiative

awkward make out sessions, he has to warm up before he gets comfortable

only ever in private, he doesn’t leave his room

“we should make out.”

idia.exe has stopped working. crashing out. reboot reboot.

“H-HUHHHH?!”

idia was in a boss fight, so focused on it that it made you smile while you were sitting on his bed watching him play, you didn’t want to bother him since you know how he gets during game but you just had to say what was on your mind.

“y-you’re joking right? is this a prank? where’s the camera?” the tips of his hair is pink as he hides his face, trying to shrink.

“i’m serious idia! we should!”

he still doesn’t believe you, still trying to hide from you but can’t really go anywhere since you’re in his safe haven.

“n-no way! i haven’t even unlocked that yet! we’re only on affinity level 50… making out is totally a level 100 thing…”

he will keep rambling saying this isn’t real, making excuses until you make the first move.

°˖➴

you watched idia work on new equipment for ortho, he was telling you about all the technical stuff and how it will improve ortho which you love when he gets passionate and is willing to talk to you before he gets shy and thinks you don’t care.

“I really think this will improve his speed which could make him go at least-“

“we should make out.”

you watched his hair go from blue to pink in an instant.

he dropped to the floor, hiding himself. “w-what is wrong with you? you can’t just drop that crazy one liner! when did I get into an otome game…”

“maybe when you started dating me.”

“I-I wasn’t ready for that!”

°˖➴

“I can do it… I can do it…” idia is currently hyping himself to kiss you.

you had asked him to make out five minutes ago but he got flustered and is hiding over his sheet. don’t get him wrong, he absolutely wants to make out with you! it’s just hard for him since he’s not use to this, he needs a minute… or two… or five.

“idia, baby, we don’t have to.”

“NO! uh, I-I do I just uhm…” you smiled at him fondly as you removed the sheet over his head, you placed you hand on his cheek before slowly moving in still giving him time to pull away.

“I’m going to kiss you now okay?”

idia appreciates you so much, he nodded, sweating from the proximity as you finally kissed him.

it was slow and gentle. never rushing him, letting him have room to pull away if he wants, but he takes this time to get more comfortable

a few more kisses in, idia is more relaxed as he decided to go deeper and rougher, he needs to take a chance before he regrets it.

when he’s with you he gets a spring of confidence. hes always comfortable with you. you’re his player two, his healer.

malleus

how bold of you to say that to him

will gladly accept no matter where he is

you can text him and he will be at your door as soon as you send it

assertive make out sessions, kisses you like there’s no tomorrow

LOVES it

“we should make ou-“

“I agree.”

you didn’t even get the full sentence out before malleus is already on you gripping your waist.

you couldn’t help but laugh, he’s so lovesick it’s adorable.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, “i’m glad we’re on the same page.”

he’s already savoring your mouth, everytime you share a kiss it leaves you breathless. malleus will always show you how much he loves you, you can feel it through his kisses.

malleus is never an inch away from your face, he sometimes forgets you need to breathe so when you pull away he’s right there following you, waiting to dive back in again.

when you block him to catch your breathe he moves down to your neck and collarbone.

very clingy dragon, once you two start making out he will not let you go anywhere for the rest of the day.

°˖➴

malleus was out at his gargoyle club, you couldn’t join him since you were busy studying. He still called you through to talk about gargoyles, his voice is quite nice to listen to so you didn’t mind.

you’ve been at it nonstop so you took a little break to pay attention to malleus.

he has been going at it, spitting out facts about gargoyles and the history about them.

he’s so passionate you wish you could have joined him so you could see his outfit. the way the wind blows though his hair, you can slightly see his scales on his forehead, oh you miss him.

“we should make out.”

he stopped talking.

*knock knock*

“huh? hold on mal someone’s here.”

it was malleus who still had his phone to his ear at your doorstep.

…

“you are quite the bold one, child of man.”

malleus was visiting late at night like he usually does when you so happen to blurt out about wanting to make out with him

“not many would dare to say that to me.”

“well I would hope not.”

you stated as you pulled him closer by his shirt

“you’re mine and you better only make out with him.”

malleus widened his eyes then let out a real genuine laugh. he absolutely loves how bold you are with him, it shows that you’re not afraid of him and feel comfortable around him.

“I would never be with another. for you will be the only one I spend the rest of my life with, until the end.”

he says into your neck before leaving pecks, trailing his way up to your lips, sucking the air out of your lungs. kissing you like there’s no tomorrow, really showing you that you’re the only one for him.

______๑♡⁠๑______

habibi = my love/beloved (I used google translate I don’t speak arabic)

a/n: THIS IS ASS UGH most of these are the same omg.. idk why riddle was so hard to think of.. writers block or smth.

a/n: whenever I play games n the li does something hot or anything i’m like ‘omggg let’s make out rn’ idk i’ve been playing lads and that one scene where zanye was jealous.. i was like okayy let’s make out RN anyways have a good night/day <3

[pika-blur]

also maybe i should finish a playthrough of rainworld