#what is the in-between there? IS there an in-between there?

[andry-di]

What if we were three girls and we were all bisexual?

[saint-starflicker]

It should be more difficult to argue for mischaracterization in fanfiction, because a fanfiction is divergent from the source material in the first place. The moment The Character is written to say "Hey how's it going" versus "Greetings, allow me to introduce myself" is already some distance from the source material either way, even if one voice is arguably more similar to the canon of That Character than the other. What I think readers can sympathize with is the process between parsing the source material and running the simulation that is the fanfiction version of The Character, but that's largely a mystery. The process is not going to be in the text itself.

unless they specifically asked, you don’t get to tell a fanfic writer you think they mischaracterized the character by the way. because the second someone writes a fanfic about a character, that character becomes the writer’s own version of the character. canon is only a suggestion, but whether or not an author will follow it / how much of canon an author will take is entirely up to them. you don’t get to stick your nose in their world and tell them “hey this is not to my liking therefore I think you’re doing it wrong” when you can simply leave quietly and move on to something else you may enjoy

[tonycries]

KilIin' It Girl!

Synopsis. He’s a 10 but when he says “just” the tip - it’s never just the tip.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, “just the tip”, they go feraI, manhandling, spítting, chokíng, rough s, PÚSSYDRÚNK MEN, they’re big, tummy buIges, pressing down on it, Gojo’s powers, creampíes, cúmplay, implied marathons, true form Sukuna, dp, matíng presses, p talking, p sIapping, trying to hold himself back (failing), pet names, swéaring.

A/N. This song is saur good omg-

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - The pull-out game

Oh- Toji doesn’t think he’ll make it out of this alive. 

He’s clawing desperately onto the sides of your thighs, toned hips crashing against your shivering front with a grunt—“Just the tip now…atta girl, just- just take the tip.” 

So hot and raw. 

Because truthfully, Toji’s never let himself slip inside you without that stupid lil’ piece of rubber- and now that he wasn’t wearing one, it’s not like he couldn’t handle it - he swears! He’s just taking it nice n’ slow for your sake, watching just how your eyes roll cutely back at the curve of his mushroom head burrowing between your swollen folds. 

Your mouth waters at the way his veiny tip was filling up your gooey walls, and you find yourself bucking up with a whine. “But why j-just the tip, Toji?”

His tone is rough. Rugged. “‘Just’ the tip if you want to be walking out of this bedroom, mama.”

He was ready to ruin you. 

And that really doesn’t help because it only makes you arch your back with a carnal craving for more, more, more. Clenching-

“Fuh-fuck.” He’s spitting between clenched canines, nose crinkling with something that sounded like a growl before Toji’s teeth sink deeply into the junction at your neck. He’s muffling out his gravelly lil’ whimper at the way your walls were tuggin’ him even deeper inside. 

Repeating to himself- his head was spinning. “Just- just the fuckin’ tip- ngh- s’all you get. Just the tip-”

Jittery legs wrapping around his slender hips, you dig your heels into the base of his spine to hold him hostage. “But I want more than jus’ the tip—”

Gasping, “Oh. Yer killing me, doll-” With a hiss, he’s shoving two bulbous ends of his fingers past your drooling maw to shut you up. And then stuffing your other pair of lips with just a few more solid inches of his ravaging cock, so big.

So thick that the pure circumference makes you want to scream. His fat, strawberry-colored crown wedging sloppily against one of your sweetest spots, “K-killing me- fucking killin’ me-” 

Cockdrunken smile on your face, you’re bowing upwards with your lewd pussy to let his veiny shaft pry your walls apart even deeper-

And that makes something inside of him burst. “N-no–”

CRACK!

Toji’s slamming his open palm down on your wooden headboard enough to make it splinter - dark brows furrowed in restraint, temple beading with sweat, he digs his capped knees into the mattress and drills out a solid, feral thrust. 

“Oh god-” A mistake. Because just one taste of your hot, saccharine pussy and he’s shuddering viscerally, beefy biceps flexing above you as Toji holds onto the bedframe for dear life and attempts to pull back. “No- no no I-”

Toji snakes his other calloused hand down like he means to guide his bulky hilt back- before thinking better of it and giving your saturated cunt a good spank. Gruffly grouching out, “Any deeper and I won’t be able ta- haaah- pull out.”

As if to prove what he’s babbling out, Toji’s rolling his v-line back expertly. And your cunt’s rubbed all raw with the ravenous drag of his hips, the way his dark happy trail was massaging your clit.

It’s just so mean- but if you asked him, he’d have prattled out that you were being meaner with your sopping wet pussy. The way you have the audacity to pout as he’s shallowly driving his fleshy tip inside you, swiping teasingly down your outer cunt with his vein-covered underside. 

Gritting his teeth, shuddering, trying for all the world not to let a voice crack seep into his meaningful words, “Any deeper and yer getting pregnant, mama.”

“N-nghhh fuck—” You’re swervin’ your hips restlessly at each clammy slap after slap of his swole pelvis. The way he was just so lengthy, he’s easily probing a good bruise into each of your favorite spots and you can feel your poor body twitch- “Maybe I don’t mind.”

“Easy. E-easy there, girl. No talkin’ out of that ngh- pretty pussy, m’kay?” Toji’s trying to curl his scarred lips up into something that looks like his usual sleazy smirk but you can see through your bleary pupils just how much his maw quivers.

The buttony curve of his thumb glissades down your wet slit, “You just hafta take it-” Breathless, he’s stuffin’ you like a madman with just his bulging tip. Swabbing your pussylips so-very-open, “Hafta take- take it all.”

Oh.

And the big, bad Toji Fushiguro almost falters - almost gasps. That pussydrunk little slip-up making his weepy cock jolt in interest, n’ he’s seeing that hungry look in your eyes and oh-

Sputtering, the repeated thrashes of his length only grow harder as if to fuck the prior few seconds right out of you. A tendon in his neck popping at the swirling circles he was pounding your eyes into, “I mean- fuck…I meant take all of my tip, doll, don’t-”

“Mhm…” You’re batting your lashes in subtle victory, a primal shrill ripping from your throat at the way Toji then plunges his slick-glazed fingers out of your mouth. “All of it?”

Rovering straightly down to push on the puffy cylindrical outline of his cock rummaging inside of you, “Sh-shut up.” Resting his weight just on your hips to let his bawling tip pinpoint your g-spot, feeling you squeeze-squeeze-squeeze. And fuck- he presses down on that tummy bulge, already knowing he was in trouble. “This…this is still just the hah- tip.”

“It is?”

Thumbing apart your puffy lips, smearin’ them with a lecherous sluuurp. Toji can’t stop the drawling groan that escapes his mouth as he watches your bawling hole take in even more of him.

“Fuck yeah, just the tip. Just- just four…” And then he’s swiping across your treacly cunt so that he can shove his thick thumb in, fingering your elastic entrance enough to slurp up more of his plumpened cock. “No- five inches past the tip.”

You’re thrashing your limp body, “P-please-” His size felt simply heavy between your sheeny thighs, reaching a hand of yours up. “Hck! Toji, oh my god you’re-”

Oh, before you know it, before you can even register, he’s lugging up his rude right knee to pin down your wrist onto the dampened mattress. Pulling you to him- “Don’t you fucking-” Hard. “-run now.”

And you can hardly even flinch when Toji’s got you manhandled into such a pliant position, throwing your legs on top of his shoulders to bend doooown as the cherry on top.

A mating press. 

A mating press that renders your brain stupidly mushy, a throaty hiccup leaving your mouth when you swear you’re feeling the dull thud! of his red, split-ended tip scrape all the way to your cervix. His heavy balls meeting the target of your pussy with a stinging smack, Toji finds himself grinning. 

Fuck- he doesn’t even know how he got here.

Your rickety headboard already shattered, meaty thighs twitching against yours, cock buried balls-deep. 

And now Toji’s no longer holding himself back, drawing out a cute lil’ cross on the area just above your womb. Just where his thick, heated cock was throbbing as he’s bottomed-out and still rutting himself deeper and deeper. 

“X marks the spot now, mama.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - The overstimulator

“Fuck- ngh, fuuuuck, Kento.” Your body thrashes where Nanami’s fucking his thick, lengthy fingers into your core. 

Swabbing straight down the textured insides of your pussy, he’s nudgin’ your g-spot with his cold, cold wedding ring just to hear your cute moans pitch even higher. Panting, “You’ve got this- haaah- you’ve got it. Cum f’me, my love.”

And you can only babble out a few broken sobs in response, bucking through your nth high of the night and feeling your pussy still ache for his cock.

It’d been a few hours since your husband had come back from a long day at work - stern, rugged. And times like this, you knew it meant that he’d had a stressful day, times like this it meant you were casually slithering your hands to caress the fat, throbbing length between his sculpted legs. 

Mumbling out needily, “Want- hck! want this, Kento.”

And he’s gasping, he’s heady. 

Rubbing vertically down the line of your slit with his geysering tip, so wet that it’s letting off such a loud squelch. “But what if I’m too…” Rough. After all, he did have such a looong day today.

“Please?”

The thin lines of his lips part, “Oh, how can I ever say ‘no’ to my wife?” Pecking you softly near your temple, but the way that Nanami’s tannish-red crown twitches where it lay across your thighs told you a wholly different story.

Flipping you over to ride him, he’s easily letting gravity sink in the nub of his cockhead just past your folds, feeling his exerted breath hitch at the way your sappy walls were clenching. “Come on-” Muttering, you blink your hazy vision down just in time for him to hold up a strong, veiny forearm for you. “Come on come on- bite on it, darlin’ let me-”

Fit.

Even if it was just the tip, it was such a tight fit - and Nanami’s fingerpads drift down to your waist to squeeeeze. Bruising. Ravaging.

The only thing you can do is muffle your whimpers into the heated skin of his arm and take it. 

He’s fucking himself into you with a strangled moan, in short, rapid half-thrusts like he’s torturously holding himself back. “J-just a bit more-” The fatness of his tip squeezes past your hole with a wet plop! and he hisses, “There…there we go.”

The circumference of his girth lodges between the first ring of your entrance and makes you keen—“N-ngh- You can put in some more.” 

And Nanami groans like he’s geering up for a thorough thrust - before hunching his heavy body over and waiting. And letting the slippery globe of his cockhead slide-slide-slide across the roof of your pussy, “Do you…know what that would hah-” His cock throbs. “-mean, darling?”

Tantalizingly, you’re wriggling your pretty waist further down, trying to get his glazing tip to scope your deepest innards. “Please, Kento?”

“Fuh-fine…”

“Oh?”

“Fine- Why don’t we ask hah- her first, my love…” And you swear you’re seeing his lips flap away a thin line of drool, swivelling his blond head up to face your glistening pussy. Lovingly, Nanami glissades his damp thumb down your slope and coos—“How about it- think you can take-” Another coo, another rut- “-it all?”

“Fuh-fuck! Yes-”

But it’s not you he’s answering to - it’s the lecherous, loud slurp that emanates straight from your cunt. 

Nose crinkling in amusement, “Don’t talk to me in ngh- that tone. S’gonna make me want to…”

And you don’t have to beg for the tail end of that sentence - because Nanami’s planting his feet firmly flat on the surface of your bed and giving you a solid drilling. 

“Fuck.” Lengthy shaft grazing your insides, Nanami feels the way your gushing pussy clamps down on him and it’s enough to make him shudder. To make him furrow his brows, breath evaporating, tensing his core- “To…more…” Deep baritone now so airy that you can barely even make out what he’s prattling-

“Yes-” Your head spins at the complete n’ utter stretch of having him sensually probe your cunt open, hips turning in a lewd figure-eight. “Yes yes yes yes- just like that-”

“If you want it all then you fucking beg for it.”

Was this really your gentle, endearing husband? 

You can’t even fathom the sensual man that’s clinging onto a good chunk of your left ass cheek, using his practised strength to tug you right down onto his cock.

To take control after each spank of his hips- “Better learn how to ask n-nicely-” He’s spitting at your cunt now, tone reaching octaves higher. Shattering. “Couldn’t stop thinking about this pussy all fucking day and- ngh! and I tried to be nice. Tried to make it easy, my love, but you make me sooo…”

“S-so wh- fuck!”

You’re cut off with a sudden, slamming crash of his v-line against your thighs- so sudden, so rough that it makes him gasp, too. 

Eyeing the way he’d left his own clammy skin all red and raw with friction, the way the melty insides of your pussy felt bruised all ‘round his size. “Fuck- didn’t mean to-” And he’s motioning himself to pull out, but the only thing he’s doing is sloppily draaagging his cock down the lining of your pussy and making himself buck.

Battling against his senses. 

Pounding up and up and up-

“W-wasn’t supposed to go in this deep- oh-” Groaning at the sight of your slick-glazed folds slipping n’ sliding down his pulsating length. “Was supposed to be just- just the tip-” Nanami pushes his foggy glasses further up his handsome nose bridge for a much better look. Scrambling, “Was supposed to hold back and…”

At his trailing off, you’re forcing your voice out evenly. Gripping purchase onto his broad shoulders, “Are you okay, Ken–?”

“Of course, my love, I’m fine- I’m-” And yet, the only thing he can do is let his mouth hang filthily ajar as he perks his hips off the mattress to give your cunt one good pummel. 

All the way from tip to base this time. Until he’s buried oh-so-deeply inside of your wet pussy that it’s making you drool, that it’s making you whine, making the back of your throat sting with sobs at the sheer raw stretch. 

And he groans, “M’soooo not fucking okay, my love.” Molted gaze dead locked on you- “And you won’t be either after this.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - The mean.

The silver, studded circle of Geto’s tongue piercing draaaags sloppily down your cheek. Lapping up every salty bead of tears you were cryin’ out, “Why- please. Want more, Suguru—”

“More?” His raven lashes flutter in faux shock, and it’s so-very-agonizing once he’s tugging his teasing cock out of your hole even further. 

Just enough that he’s stirrin’ your entrance with the line of his slit, pumping in a lazy back and forth. “You want more here, gorgeous?” He’s panting, licking up the glittering ribbons of saliva that fall out of you with each scrape across the roof of your pussy. “Or here? Orrr—” Each lecherous motion. Making such a big show of twisting his free thumb down to press on your clit, “-here?”

“N-nooo–” Mewling, your mouth drops into the cutest pout as you’re bucking your hips up. Trying to close your trembly legs over his muscular hips, “I want you here.”

“Where?”

You’re damn near sobbing, “Here- oh, fuck!”

“Oh no, I lost track-” The rosy fringes of his mouth quirk up into such a mean smile- and before you know it, Geto’s pushing you into a pliable mating press n’ fucking you with just the pretty, red-hot crown of his tip.

Over and over. 

Grabbing onto your tits with one hand, pinning your hips down with the other. Grumbling, “Seems this ngh- cute cunt had me a little…distracted, gorgeous. Where? Say that alllll over again where you want me?”

You feel your ragged throat rip out with a desperate cry - a plea. 

His steaming hot cock was only twitching with each cockdrunken blabber you could let out. Rovering your insides with direct hits just below where your sweet spots were, Geto leaves you wanting more without even trying.

And the only thing you can do is tug on his broad shoulders with the heels of your feet, just begging for him to go deeper than just drilling into you with his thick, mushroomy tip.

“Hm? ‘Thick’, is it?” Fuck- only too-late are you realizing that you’ve babbled that out loud. Driven crazy by the mouth-watering gyration of his cockhead burrowing between your folds. Stirrin’ you all over. 

Geto leans over until his inky hair forms a curtain around you two, mouth prattling away with the smuggest smirk permanently plastered across his maw. “If it’s soooo thick I wonder how you’re gonna- hah- take it then.” 

“I-I will-”

“Not you, gorgeous.” He wasn’t even talking to you. He’s talking to your puffy, pert pussy - letting your cunt paint such a mess of slick drivelling all over his length. “Wonder if she would- hah- fit- let me see-” Making an even bigger mess just by snaking down one hand to smear open your folds with his ringed fingers. “Open up wide, say ‘ah’—”

Almost on cue, your oversaturated cunt lets out the most filthy squeeelch by the time he’s fitting in his lengthy middle finger, the chilling band of his ring pushin’ deftly against your walls. 

“Hmpf- tha’s more than an ‘ah’.” Geto titters from above you, and the way he’s stroking your elastic entrance open is just so mean. Deliberately scouring for where his plummy tip was hitting you in hard strikes, swabbing you into each n’ every spot to open you wiiiide open for his cock.

“Sh-shit-” You’re gasping, eyesight shattering with a few more of your pearly tears. “You’re actually going past the- ngh- tip, Sugu?”

Gruffly, “Wan’ me to pull out, gorgeous–?”

“N-no!”

“Thought it was about time to reward my hah- good girl.” He’s spitting out smoothly - but you can feel the way that Geto’s heavy cock was flinching with each rovering inch you’re swallowing up.

The way his high cheekbones flushed with a stain of rouge, the way he’s gritting his ivory white teeth and rutting. Like he can’t even hold himself back the way he wanted to. 

Like he can’t stop himself from gluing a thigh to the side of your hips and lifting his weight to push down on top of yours.

To pin you down. To make sure that his prolonged, throbbing length reaches spots oh-so-deep. Geto’s plunging the weepy divot of his shaft straight into your g-spot and there’s nothing you can do about it but sing out a few whines–“There- there- s’what you were begging for, right?”

And he’s doing this because your needy pussy had been asking for it. He’s doing this because of you - and not because of the way his cock ached every split-second he wasn’t inside you. 

No- definitely not because he’s shuddering. Panting. 

Dampened voice almost breaking with a whimper once your gooey wet walls clamp down ‘round him, “Riiight?” He drawls out, sounding almost maddened, way past ‘just the tip��� right now. 

“Y-yes- ngh, yes.” You hiccup out after every slash of his swabbing cockhead splitting your insides, he was just so long that the rigid length of his cock damn near reaches your lungs. Tugging him close with a hand on Geto’s firm chest. “B-but I want…”

“What?”

You blink your teary lashes up at him in a way that’s devastating, “Want it inside inside, too, Sugu.”

Oh.

Oh.

Inside inside - you wanted him to stuff you so full your poor hole couldn’t even remember what it felt like without him dripping out of you. 

You were going to be the fucking death of him. Geto could feel it.

Geto knew it - ‘just’ the tip his ass - he’s hunching over your restless body with an animalistic growl. Bottomed-out so deeply that the nub of his shaft digs into your cervix, his balls thwacking against your cunt, pre pouring out in a froth.

So hot n’ wet- it’s making his amethyst irises flash with the carnal desire for your sopping wet pussy to be filled up with something else. 

“Oh.” Pumping his ringed index inside with a wettened noise, Geto fills the corners of his lips twitch in sensual amusement as he watches the glaze drip off of him. Snaking it up to lick off every ounce of your beaded sheen of slick, “Say ‘ah’ then, gorgeous.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - “P-pussydrunk-”

It’s the first thing that’s slipping out of Choso’s mouth the very second he finds his red, bulging tip poking through your puffy pussylips. 

Dark chocolate eyes flashing with a thin sheen of tears, “I-I’m so pussydrunk-” He’s admitting to you out loud, head throwing backwards once he’s softly bucking his toned hips back n’ forth. “How am I- nghhh- pussydrunk already, baby?”

“Mm– I dunno, Cho.” A rhetorical question, but you’re answering anyway - mainly because the mere sound of your voice is enough to make your boyfriend’s aching cock twitch deliciously inside of you. “S’just the tip, too, right?”

Panting breathlessly, “Yeah- yeah, just the…”

“Tip—?”

“Fuck! But just don’t say it like that-” Keening out in a ragged voice that makes him sound devastated. Ruined. “It makes it so, so hard to keep my hah- promise.”

Ah, yes - the promise that it would be just the tip.

You’d already found it so cute when he’d admitted that for his first time, all the way up to the tip was the only thing that he’d be able to handle. And you were more than happy to let Choso’s blushin’ cockhead shyly scrape past your hole, just tasting the saccharine feeling of your pussy. 

But right now he was thumping his hips up into yours like he was anything but shy.

Like he was trying to mold himself to the rubbery texture of your sweet, sweet cunt. Over n’ over n’ over in stirring motions that slip his crowned shaft further past your fluttering entrance. 

You’re gasping out a few slurring slews of swears at the fleshy rub of his flared ridge, scouring in easily even deeper- “Cho! Baby, what happened to just the tip?”

“O-oh right.” Dark brows furrowing in concentration, he pokes his tongue between his teeth and tries to get his hips back into his steady, rhythmic cadence. Back to “just” the tip bein’ swallowed up by you whole- “There. There, is that-”

And it was just as he promised - for all of six strokes before Choso’s plumped tip finds itself wedging back down your walls. “Choso.”

“S’not my ngh- fault, baby.” He’s whining out, grabbing onto one side of your ass cheeks to pin you close to him. And Choso was just so inhumanly strong that he was treatin’ you like his own personal doll, “Not when you say my name like that…”

Meaningfully, the apples of Choso’s cheeks scorch with a bright blush. Continuing to whisper out like his life depended on it, “And not when you’re just so, so preeetty.” Arching his slender hips in a slooow, aching swivel to reach a spot deepest inside of you, he’s feeling the way your gushing walls clench and it’s making his mahogany irises well up with tears. “A-and when you’re this- ngh- wet-”

“Are you blaming me, Cho?” You’re teasing- only to have your big, strong boyfriend whimper. 

“No-” And the precise moment your hips buck into his, he’s grabbing ahold of you - clawing down the sides of your restless body, crushing your front to his washboard abs. “No no no-” 

Choso’s stopping your non-existent escape in an instant, pulling you back with an uncharacteristically mean hand at your throat. Just so pretty when he’s needy like this - temple trailing with a thin line of sweat, vision narrowed at you, rosy mouth babbling. “Never blaming you- never- fuck- I actually-” The tips of his ears flame oh-so-red, “-like it…wet.”

“O-oh.”

And he’s fucking into you like an animal - like he can’t even remember that pretty pink line of his tip he was supposed to stop at. 

Honestly- if you asked Choso right now, his fuzzy mind genuinely wouldn’t have been able to remember.

“M’going in past the tip.” Your boyfriend puffs out, eyes widening cutely once his stupidly melted brain realizes. “I’m going in past it- ngh- a-actually reaching your pretty womb, baby—”

The only thing on his mind right now being the way your squelching cunt kissed his tender cock, the way he’s able to pry apart your walls and glue his bawling crown somewhere near the back of your cunt. “Y-you feel this, baby?”

And you don’t know whether he means the squeeze of his ringed fingers claiming your throat, or the feeling of his damn cock. “What do you—”

Or the way he nuzzles his tight, aching balls up against your sheeny inner-thighs, “Feel how badly I want you-” Strangling out a few moans, Choso thwacks his ridged cockhead against your g-spot and watches you squirm. “How hard I am, ngh-” And watches your velvety walls gush out in pearly beads of slick to surround his hilt, to make it easier for him to hike up a thigh and push himself even more, more, more. “How deep m’stuck inside? You hafta take hah- responsibility, okay?”

“R-responsibility?”

And Choso’s just so pussydrunk that he’s slobbering all down into the crook of your neck, manhandling your knees up until they’re striking your tits.

Ears oh-so-popped that he’s barely even registering your question - only the deep, dull thud! of his plump mushroom tip being lodged into the base of your cunt And then Choso sees white-

“Oh, s’dripping out of you.” He’s muttering to himself, all that dripping hot mess of his cum. Cumming - just from bottoming out. Line of sight sparking with ivory-hot pleasure, Choso’s voice shatters. “O-oh, m’cumming inside. Really, really inside?”

As if to make sure, you can only watch in sinful awe once he’s scooping up a generous layer of the frothy sap covering your cunt. Seemingly about to stuff his seed back in- before thinking better of it and thumbing out a swoopy ‘C’ between your swollen folds. 

He’s tittering to himself as the creamy layer smears across and perfectly outlines his initial. 

You can’t help but gasp, boneless thighs quaking with each splattering wad of cum that knotted up your insides. “‘C’? What does…” 

Oh, but it wasn’t just a ‘C.’

With a dopey grin, Choso draws out a lingering ‘H’ then an ‘O’, ‘S’- before firmly pushin’ down on the button of your clit as he finishes off the final ‘O.’

“S’mine now, baby. And m’fuh-fucking pussydrunk.” There’s something so dark seeping into his tone that makes goosebumps skitter across your spent body. 

And Choso Kamo stares at you dead-on, mouth salivating with each speckle of cum he feels spill out of you until he looked feral. Looked ruined once his hips are pulling back for a mean thrust, “So don’t blame me for whatever happens.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - The biiig stretch(es)

All three realms would quake the day that Ryomen Sukuna was caught off-guard by something - anything. As if there was a single person in existence that could- oh, fuck, he can feel his hands tremble where they’re sliding down the insides of your sheeny thighs.

Laying you out across his chiselled front in a full nelson, it felt like the room itself was spinning.

And the way you’re grindin’ yourself back down cutely onto his matching, bulbous tips makes the king bite back a gruff snicker. “Aww, look at those pretty human thighs shaking so much. Heh- think yer gonna swallow me whole before ya even know it.”

You’re whimpering, feeling the points of his dark black nails dig against the flesh of your legs. He’s stuffed you so full that it takes you a second to catch your breath from the sheer stretch, “I- I can-”

THWACK!

The only thing you’re getting is the mean swat of one of his hands slamming down onto your teary slope. Sukuna’s voice booming, “Nooo ya fucking can’t. You’re getting just the tips tonight, mama.”

“B-but Kuna-”

“B-b-but-” Another spank, and another teasing glide of his veiny lengths. Just enough past his swabbing cockheads to give you a mere taste of his veiny shafts, but not enough to satiate your drivelling, needy core. 

There was something so addictive about the way that Sukuna could doubly pry your walls open, and the idea of his thick veins massaging your insides made your mouth water. 

Something his multiple crimson eyes takes lecherous note of, a brow raising priggishly. “See?” And you don’t know what he even meant until a second of Sukuna’s clammy palms knocks your ajar mouth closed, holding back the slippery wads of spit from escaping. “Tch- can’t even keep spit inside- how are ya gonna take both my cocks, brat?”

“I can.” Perking your back into a perfect curve, Sukuna himself has to bite back a groooan once he’s bucking up into you. The mouth on his stomach salivating at the way your ass cheeks jiggle against his pelvis-

Deeper.

“Wan’ more-”

“You think you deserve more?”

And it’s not that he thinks you can’t handle it - well, maybe he didn’t want to split your poor pussy open so early in the night - but it was just so fun teasing you. 

To watch the way your hazy eyes fluttered with tears, mouth falling into a cutesy pout. “But I want it…”

So irresistible that Sukuna can’t help but lurch his monstrous head over and plant a wad of spit straight between your kiss-swollen lips. “There.” Then finally your cunt. “There. See if you can keep that inside, mama.”

And before you can complain, he’s pumping out every remaining gust of air left in your lungs with a loooong drag of his twin cocks. Just once. Before meanly keeping it there, letting the fat circumferences of his tips throb-throb-throb against your cervix. “Happy—?”

With a stubborn mewl, you’re trekking your hands up to clasp onto his tattooed thighs below you. Nails digging into his clammy flesh as you’re trying to bounce your exerted hips backwards- “More.”

“Spoiled brat.”

And if this was anyone else - for anything else - the king would have made a fresh example for all to see what happens when one doesn’t follow his orders. 

But this was you. And the more you’re trying to suck his solid, swollen inches up, the more he’s feeling a restless sort of instinct take over him. The more he’s feeling…feral. 

Pre spurting out enough to drench your weepy slope, “Fine. Fuck.” One of his hands wraps around your throat, the other latches onto one side of your hips. Two more spread your trembly thighs widely agape- and before you can register a thing, before you can even breathe, Sukuna has his bulging cocks sinking inside your hole in one, fluid motion. “Fine.”

Hard. 

Rough.

Repeatedly. 

It’s so much. Enough to make you throw your lolling head back into his collarbones and squeal as you cum- mouth blabbing constantly, “I’m cumming- c-cumming? Ngh- Kuna-”

“Don’t even know when you’re cumming.” He’s rolling his eyes. All the while you’re just bucking and whining at the peaks of your high. “Training first…h-heh. Can’t blame me fer biiig stretch when ya asked for it- can you even say it? ‘Biiig stretch?’” 

“B-big–” You’re seeing an utter white flash behind your closed eyelids, thighs twitching each time the lines of his veins aligned with your g-spot. “Big- nghhh stretch-”

“Hm, close enough, heh.”

Slow. Agonizing.

If you wanted more than just his tips, then you were going to get it. 

But at his pace first - one that left your eyes pathetically criss-crossing with each lazy intrusion. That left your waist squirming for more, and Sukuna’s teeth gritting with the utter sensation of your velvety walls tuggin’ down on him.

Trying to milk him dry-

“M-milk you–?” You’re blinking up at him with those pretty, pretty eyes, and he swears he can feel your saccharinely wet pussy only grow wetter at those words slipping out. 

So gone on the feeling of your cunt that he didn’t realize they were slipping out. Sukuna’s eyes widen, breath hitched n’ raw—“Well…”

If anyone else could see the soundless, almost shy Ryomen Sukuna right now then they’d simply drop into a faint. 

Because you swear the pointed tips of his ears were slowly staining red, the slimy edges of his second mouth sleazily grinning behind you. Rovering the tip of his massive tongue down to glissade down your slit. 

And somewhere near the base of your treacly cunt, the curve of his heavy balls twitch-

Sukuna’s picking up the speed of his vulgar strokes, just so your fuzzy mind won’t hear the crack in his deep baritone. “If ya don’t milk me dry then m’banishing you, mama.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - The ruined

“F-fuck- mmm, Taku-”

“What was that?” The breathy tone of Ino’s voice fans across your features - right where he’s keeping his forehead plastered to yours, lips pulled back into a feral grin. Voice octaves higher- “What was thaaat?”

And he’s rubbin’ the roughened end of one thumb between your pussy folds, trying to get you to let off those pretty noises once more.

But fuck- 

Fuck. 

The only thing he’s managing to do is make you throw your head back and clench your sloppy cunt ‘round his pinkish girth. “Fuck- oh.” The dewy wet walls of your channel are squeezing him so tight that he’s the one who whimpers out in need—“F-feels so good.”

Rovering the globular crown of his shaft to knock against your pussy repeatedly, Ino swipes a buttery line of pre down the sides of your walls and moans once he feels you overspilling with slick.

The measurement of his puffy length so long that your folds struggle to take him all in, “Awww, sweetness, look at you.” Grinning, “Look so pretty takin’ just my hah- tip.”

He squeezes the pulpy top of your clit, tawny bangs falling over those greedy eyes of his. He’s locked his dilated pupils on you, and the way that Ino was pounding you into the mattress was restless.

Short, jerky thrusts of his hips - he’s so messy with it, just barely teasing your hole with the fatness of his girth on one stroke, pushing all the way past his tip in the next-

“Just the tip, remember?” Huffing out a slight cloud of laughter at the crestfallen look on his face, you’re echoing his own words from just before. 

And Ino feels his cock twitch animalistically inside of you at the mention of those very words, “F-fine.” Grumbling, as if he wasn’t the one that decided he wanted to agonize your poor pussy tonight. With aching, shallow strokes that rub the flare of his ridge against your hole. “Just the tip- just the- oh, fuck.”

“Didn’t do anything—” You’re keening out, knowing fully that the slight grinding gyrations of your hips were enough to drive Ino mad. 

His half-lidded eyes follow the movements of your waist in circles. “S-stop squirming.” And before you know it, he’s got a hand clinging to your neck. Blocking off your breezy airway, he holds you still and wedges the plumpness of his tip inside your cunt, sensually. “You know what you’re doing, pretty.”

“Fuck- nghhh-” You find yourself bawling out, lips twitching into a smile despite yourself at just how hypnotized your beloved boyfriend was. “But you’re the one putting it- ngh- even more.”

“Th-that’s not…” Ino flushes, and instead of answering directly he’s planting a wet thwack! of his cockhead to glue against the tender insides near your g-spot.

You’re feeling the calloused end of his thumb smear apart your bloated folds and the friction was incredible. As if to confirm for himself, he swipes away the mess on top of your slope to watch how your hole quivers with each slip n’ slide of his tip.

Torturing himself just as much as he planned to torture you. 

Just about to prattle something pussydrunken - maybe how it was actually your pussy that’s making him stuff in even more of his cock. Maybe how you were actually begging him-

But no. Oh, Ino sees the pornographic struggle of your tight rim aching to swallow him all up and gasps. 

Instantly jolting his head up as if he’d just been electrocuted, instantly clawing at the matted strands of his hair before realizing that he didn’t have his ski mask on to hide away. 

To stop himself from looking down again n’ again. To stop himself from replaying that exact scene inside his melted mind as he’s mindlessly pushing you into a mating press, “O-oh…just let me-” Swallowing, Ino’s words ring hollow even to his own ears. “Let me just…”

Trailing off, the only thing you can do is yelp at the complete n’ utter stretch.

The way he was ruining you on his sopping wet cock, mazing in the point of his tip until he presses a firm smooch to your g-spot. Your cervix. “Oh my god- mm-” You tilt your head up in amusement, squeezing his throbbing cock on purpose. “Wha’s that about just the ngh- tip, Taku?”

“Yeah, about that—” With a slight pout, Ino stares you dead in the eyes as he’s scouring his mushy cockhead past your hole. Letting that circular lil’ divot press deep, deep, deep- “Forget I ever said that, sweetness.”

You’re cracking a smug grin, mouth opening to gloat-

SMACK!

Before weak, trembling fingerpads harshly slap the side of your waist, “T-tch you’ve already got me- ngh- ruined- what more could you want?” Sleek brows furrowed, he’s looking at you like he’s begging. “And m’not losing it- I’m just…just—”

Just wrenching off the hand holding your throat to guide your own hand, of course - right up to squeeze his own neck. To make you choke him. 

Ino gnaws down on his plump lower lip to keep himself from whimpering once he’s letting his cock wreak havoc on your cute innards. Scouring and scouring deeply, just smushing the velvety end of his pre-glazed tip on your cervix.

Safe n’ sound. All snugly inside.

He babbles, “D’you want me to beg, pretty?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - The Strongest.

“C’mon- again.” Gojo’s raspy tone trembles, gnawing down sensually on the shell of your ear from behind. “Again. Promise it’ll be just the tip this time. Just the- haaah-”

And he can’t even finish his sentence - doesn’t have the ability to. The sanity.

The patience to just sit there and fuck you with the curve of his mushroomy tip- to not just pump n’ pump out masterful strokes that have your silvery slit splattering out in ribbons of white. 

To him, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

His large, bulbous tip twitches where he’s taking you in a mean doggy position - throwing his fuzzy head back with a moan the very second he feels sappy ivory cum slip down into a frothy ring ‘round his hilt, “I said m’sorry, sweetheart. This time I ngh- promise s’just the tip.”

“B-but you said that ngh- four rounds ago.” You’re whimpering into your splotchy pillow, saliva seeping from your maw like an open faucet. 

Gojo rounds his lengthy fingertips down past your soaked panties and feels the leaky line of your slit, “But my sweetheart.” Cooing, every tiny pummel of his cockhead had your toes curling in pleasure, hands fisting at your damp sheets. “My girl. My wife-”

The cum-glazed fingers of his fingerpads break off from your pussy with a squelch, instantly being pushed between his plump lips. 

And Gojo doesn’t feel even an ounce of hesitation as he suuuucks—tasting himself, tasting you. The wet pants of his breath are sweltering down your arched back, “Mm– the love of my life.”

He was just gone.

Six Eyes working overtime without him even realizing- he’s seeing the sparks of arousal that light your veins and lets himself grin. Giving your treacly cunt another easy slide of his shaft, “Does that mean I can stuff ya nghh- full again, my girl?”

Your husband swabs the rubbery insides of your pussy with his probing cock, and he was just so thickly swollen that the circumference of his tip leaves your walls damn near indented. 

Knees shaking weakly on top of your creaky bedsprings- “I-I didn’t say that, Satoru-” He almost flinches at your words, before the mere sound of your voice makes the bawling orifice on top of his length splurge out pre. Bucking your hips gingerly backwards, “You won’t ngh- keep it just the tip I know it.”

“But sweetheart—” Your cunt was still so sensitive, and just the slightest graze of his prominent veins leaves your lips all wobbly. “This pretty pussy’s just haaah- beeegging f’me. Look at her-” Your head perks up in shock at the sound of Gojo Satoru giggling, “Look-”

At the sound of him smiling dopily, letting his ravenous cock fuck your hole open until you were stupid. 

He’s relentless - just lingering, sloppy slashes of his hot tip protruding your wet insides. And juuuust when he could see your brows furrowing, mouth falling into a cute pout at the realization that he was way past the tip- he’s pulling back.

“Wh-whoops.” Gojo flicks his dexterous index down to toy with your poor clit, tutting. “Naughty girl, oh- you’re sucking me in past the tip.”

You’re grumbling, “M-me?”

“Not you, my sweetheart…” The way his thumb rubs your pussylips open is enough to make you see stars, and Gojo pushes his fleshy thighs up against yours. “-m’talking to her.” The perfect excuse- he’s lecturing your dripping wet pussy, reeling your cute hips back until the slope of his cockhead nuzzles allll the way near your g-spot. “Tch, how daaaare you take in more than the- ngh- tip, h-heh.”

And you swear you’re feeling Gojo’s reddened skin buzz with slight cursed energy as he laughs at his own joke. 

“You’re doing it, sweetheart, y-you…” Trailing off, your entire body feels like it’s been shocked in the most sinful way as Gojo thumps his strawberry divot on the target of your favorite spot.

And soon enough, he can’t even bring himself to tease you.

Soon enough, he’s incredibly past the pinkish line of his slit marking the end of his tip. With the veiny underside of Gojo’s shaft stuffed deeply between your folds, again n’ again he spanks your g-spot wetly. 

You’re shivering, mentally counting that he’s now nearly bottomed-out—so fully that the cobwebs of his cum from hours prior splosh around inside of you. “T-Toru– oh!”

Only for your plea to be cut off, for your entire body to hit back against his toned pelvis with a resounding pap! He’d hauled you backwards by the flimsy fabric of your panties and it was making you moan, “Say that again-”

“Wh-what?”

“Say it.” Repeating, Gojo’s now fucking you like he hated you. Like he couldn’t stand a single split-second that your perfect pussy wasn’t filled up by him. Licking up the droplets of tears that trickle down your cheeks, “Say it again- ngh- say- fuck.”

The bottom of your stomach stinging with that familar twitch, you find yourself shrilling out- “Toru- fuck fuck fuck- Toru, I’m…”

Close.

But he could already tell.

His Six Eyes already knew- and he wasn’t even trying to activate that gift of his. Barely even has to to feel the squelching squeeze of your sappy pussy, the way you’re jolting after each forceful thwack! of his cock pummeling into your ready cunt.

Gojo’s fingertips pinch ‘round your cutely swollen clit, and he finds himself drawing his fucking name right on top. A nice, neat S-A-T-O-R-U that makes your head spin, “Y’know who my- faaaaat- fuckin’ cock belongs to, sweetheart?”

You babble–“Wh-what?”

But Gojo doesn’t mind that you didn’t answer, he doesn’t mind - he barely even registers it. So far gone that he’s nodding along to the lewd slurps and squelches given off by your treacly cunt, “You.” Chuckling, hitching, rutting—“You you you- all yours.” 

The sculptured lines of the strongests’ hip bones pull back ever-so-slightly- only to come pressurizing back with a final, hard drilling thrust. “So it only makes sense that you’re gonna take it allll, right~?”

Every inch, and every splattering wad of cum he’s emptying out.

You’re hit with the waves of your own high, legs giving out underneath you until Gojo wraps an arm underneath your front and pulls you up. Plastering you against the slick, glissading curves of his abs- “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck- nghhh- m’cumming.”

“I know.”

Clawing down the clammy flesh of his forearms, your head lolls back against Gojo’s collarbone with every squirt of frothy white cum he was stuffin’ into you. Eyeing down those cute lil’ beads of sap that glue your inner thighs together, “A-and you’re in so deep- fuck, Toru!”

“I know- heh.”

Gojo made sure to pound you through every single peak of your high, right where it made your body erupt in the most bliss- as if he had a sixth sense.

And he’s making sure to let the sticky ring of slick n’ seed drench his happy trail, cock fucking those thick dollops of cum inside until you’re seeing white. Until you can feel nothing but the way his bulging tip reaches up to your cervix and throbs—“Promise it’ll be heh- just the tip this time, my girl.”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - The lawyer?!

“Just the tip hck! remember?”

“You say just the tip but…” Your husband tilts his head down at you with the most lecherous grin, fat thumb lazing between your pussylips to spread your hole wiiide open for him. His other hand was busy still tugging off his work tie, barely home from the office and hungry. “-this pretty pussy’s saying otherwise, angel—”

And oh- he was right. 

But Higuruma had been working overtime for months just for an upcoming trial early tomorrow, and you knew if you let him slip in anything past the tip then it would end in another type of all-nighter.

You’re softly smacking his broad deltoid, and he’s only lifting your flimsy nightgown with a chuckle. “Ah ah- don’t shoot the messenger now. M’just hear to do as my wife asks, sugar.”

Easily slap-slap-slapping his red, bulbous tip to slip n’ slide past your first ring of muscle. Higuruma croons at the way your legs fall instantly open for him once his throbbing cock siiinks in, enveloping his bulged tip. 

The sensation is enough to make his stern lips fall open with a sigh–“And right now- fuck- she’s telling me she wants a lil’ more.”

Filling you up with just a few inches up to his ridged crown, the line of his slit scrapes the roof of your pussy and you have to force yourself to speak over the loud sluuurp. “I-I’m not falling for that- ngh, Hiromi.”

And oh- that makes him pant.

That makes him shudder, that makes his jaw tick with a slightly feral twitch. Squeezing in the slimy end of his hot cock until you’re seeing stars, “Oh- say that again, angel.”

“Hiro-”

“Louder.”

“Hiromi.”

And that makes him dig his knees deeper into the springy mattress and rut-

“Fuh-fuck.” Like some fucking animal. He’s gritting through snarled teeth, that bitter sting the only thing keeping him from fully plunging his rotund crown inside of you and fucking you stupid already.

Higuruma throws his head back, usually-groomed raven locks falling over his line of sight. He’s as unruly as he can be and fucking you just as much, letting the curve of his tip thump and thump your walls repeatedly. 

“Yeah- yeahhh there we go.” You’re flinching once you feel the knobbly pads of his fingers reach for your pulsing clit and pinch. Mean. Tugging. Letting you scream yourself hoarse every time his pre-glazed tip juuust skids down your walls, “Better say my name hah- louder, sugar- can’t hear you over that cute cunt begging for more.”

You’re whining, “Ngh- f-fuck you—”

“You are, my wife.”

And it’s just agonizing - Higuruma knew how to time his jackhammers just right so that he’s never fully scraping your textured g-spot. Never fully past his drooling slit - and it was driving you wild. 

Driving your hips upwards with two hands thrown ‘round his clammy neck, your fingers disappear into the depths of his dark tresses and make him sigh. With you mewling, “N’ what if I hck-” Fuck, he’s swervin’ his creamy cock over to slash oh-so-close against your g-spot. Making your lips wobble prettily, “-what if I said I wanted more now?”

Fuck.

A killshot - enough to make the bottom of your pussy seep through with a gooey pool of his precum. 

And Higuruma likes to think he’s all sensible, he likes to think he can handle it- until his damn baritone voice cracks just as soon as he’s trying to sound stern for you. “M-maybe I won’t listen then- since you haaaah- wanted just the tip so badly. Won’t give you the rest of my cock until you’re acting proper, angel.”

“Really, Hiro–?”

“N-no.”

So gone on your pussy that the lawyer can’t help but tell you the truth. 

Oh, you’ve broken him.

And the only thing that tough, uptight Higuruma Hiromi can do is wedge his feet into your ancient bedsprings and slam a mean kiss against your cervix. 

The spheroid of his cockhead slaps the base of your pussy, and his palm slaps the top. “You-” Talking to your fucking pussy, “-just like her, sweet thing. Gonna make me fucking—lose it.” You’re speechless with utter cockdrunken need whilst Higuruma pounds away his honed inches.

No rhythm. No method. Maddened. 

Targeting the thrumming area of your g-spot, slipping in a zig-zagging line straight down to strike the door to your womb.

Feeling so good that his flinching orifice splurts out a few beads of heated white- cumming early, just from how long you’d been teasing him with that damned ‘just the tip.’

“Fuck-” Your hips buck upwards to chase what you’ve been yearning for for so long, thighs shaky with every needy web of seed slithering between your pussylips. “Yes- right there mm, feels so fucking full, Hiro–”

“Yeah? This what you wanted for so long, sugar—?” Cooing, Higuruma gives your slick-glossed cunt another sweet spank to get you squelching from between your legs once more. Just flooding the sticky sheets with all your sap every time he’s planting such sloppy drags of his cock, just so hot. So stuffed. The creamy knots of his cum stick to your thighs like adhesive, “If you wanted me to fuck you stupid so- hah- so badly then you should’ve just asked, y’know?”

Blubbering through your tears of bliss, you whimper once he’s catching your lips in a ravenous kiss. “B-but you have that trail so early in the morning tomorrow n’ you need ngh- sleep.”

“Well then-” Ah, his grin answering is feral– and you suddenly get the feeling that you won’t be making it to tomorrow walking - or alive. “-better cum f’me eight times before tomorrow morning, angel.”

A/N. CUZ YA KILLIN’ IT GIRL-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[wilwheaton]

The Trump administration’s decision to publicize something like Alligator Alcatraz is not just a useful weapon that they can now threaten their enemies — and Elon Musk — with. It’s also a distinctly new form of propaganda. Something they seem to have picked up from the video tours of Centro de Confinamiento del Terrorismo (CECOT) in El Salvador. The concentration camp reimagined as a hype house. A place to make content, both real and AI-generated, that glorifies the power of the state. What Democratic super-poster Will Stancil described this week as “pornography for Trump's sadistic base.” But also content that desensitizes you. That normalizes state violence and, most importantly, turns it into a meme. Trump’s administration knows that most effective propaganda of the 21st century is viral, ephemeral, and, crucially, stupid. Something CNN hosts can joke about on air, distracted by how idiotic the name is. How goofy the T-shirts are. Completely removed from the human misery happening behind closed doors.

Trump's big, beautiful gulag

This is what Republicans voted for. This is what they wanted. 

Don’t let anyone tell you they didn’t vote for this, they actually voted for [low taxes | strong defense | the party | the price of eggs| some other bullshit], and now they are horrified. They never wanted masked thugs to terrorize and kidnap an innocent mother while her children watch. They never wanted masked vigilantes to terrorize entire communities and beat fathers bloody in front of their families. 

They never wanted any of this, they tell us, and maybe they didn’t want it, but he promised it, and his base held up signs celebrating it. He promised to inflict this terror and this sadistic cruelty on as many people as he could, and that even if they say they didn’t want this to happen, his repeated promises to do exactly this certainly weren’t enough to stop them from voting for him.

So many people who voted for him like to pretend that they aren’t Nazis; it’s the MAGA extremists who are the Nazis. It’s not this guy who lives in the middle-class suburb! This guy goes to church and takes his kids to soccer practice! He was appalled by January 6 (though he’s rewritten almost all of it in his head into something less violent). He doesn’t support those MAGA people; in fact, he’s embarrassed by them!

Deep breath. Okay. Hey, buddy, I have some news: there is no difference between you and them. You’re just as deplorable, and you do not get to pretend you didn’t vote for this like they did. You may dress nice and check all the “good neighbor” boxes, just like a lot of Germans did in the 1930s, but you don’t fool me.

Whatever justification you invented to feel good about what you did, doesn’t matter. It’s the result of your vote that matters, and you voted for terror, suffering, and incompetent malevolence aimed at the heart of our Constitution.

I will never forget this. I will never forgive you for the suffering you enabled. 

[aamircoeur]

older — nam-gyu, squid game.

during keys and knives, nam-gyu takes the opportunity to chase after his noona to show her just how much he missed her, using the magic word to get everything he wants. cws: nsfuu, yandere!nam-gyu, dubcon smut with plot, high nam-gyu (mention of drugs), fingering, oral sex (fem receiving), auralism, begging knk, mentions of knives and murder. proceed with warning! a/n: one dirty little secret of mine is that i'm so in love with obsessive little freaks :-P yandere lovers rise!! !11!! 1!

your lungs and thighs burned as you sprinted down a corridor, your side hitting against yet another wall as you took a sharp turn, stumbling over your feet momentarily before bolting once more. "keep running!" you heard him shout from behind you, making the hairs of your arm stand in utter fear. the feeling of being preyed on pushed your adrenaline to exceed your physical limits.

you were on the unfortunate side of the game, a blue ball deciding and sealing your fate of inevitable death after many members of the red team refused your pleads and reasons to switch. not even half an hour later, you were now facing what you liked to think was your karma—being chased by none other than nam-gyu, a person who you foolishly considered to be your teammate just three days ago.

looking back, you saw him still in pursuit within a lengthy distance, his cackles of amusement making you curse under your breath in a high-pitched, disconcerted tone. you saw the very end of the corridor giving you the option to turn left or right, as if mocking you by giving you the choices with the unknown chances of one leading to another continuous corridor, or a dead end: life or death.

before you got to decide, a body rammed against yours half-way through the corridor through a green door that opened. you both crashed against the wall before falling to the ground on your back with a grunt. you cursed loudly, taken aback at the sudden break of momentum. you turned to see a red-vested body on top of yours, making your eyes widen and a shiver go down your spine. you pushed yourself up, attempting to kicking the man in the process.

"shit, shit!" you exclaimed. "get off, fuck!" you kicked at his knee, but his hand found its way to grip at your ankle, pulling you to lay flat on the ground underneath him.

player 296 stood and hovered over your figure, a sinister grin forming on his sweaty face. "finally." your widened eyes stared up at him, chest rising and falling too quickly. furrowing your eyebrows, you lifted your leg to kick him in between the legs with a grunt.

the man bent over in pain, his hands covering his crotch. you scrambled backwards, attempting to lift yourself up once more before making eye contact with him until he let out a shout and jabbed his knife towards your head, which you avoided by a few inches with a gasp.

you made a fist with your hand and immediately jabbed at his jaw, making him stumble to the side upon impact. he reached for your neck using his knife, which you blocked using your forearm, the contact of the knife against it making you scream.

"you fucking shit!" you then heard nam-gyu shout behind the man in front of you. he turned to look, giving you the opportunity to take another punch at the side of his face, making his body hit the other wall of the corridor.

player 296 was pulled from on top of you, nam-gyu's bloodied face scrunched up in anger as he stabbed his abdomen in one swift motion. "she's mine!" he shouted, pulling the knife out before plunging it deep once more.

you crawled backwards in fear, your injury scraping against the hard floor making you groan out in pain. as he twisted the knife in player 296, nam-gyu turned his head to you, his ears perking up at the sound. "noona, hi," he breathed out, letting go of the murdered man and making him go down with a harsh thud. he took a careful step forward, approaching you with fear of scaring you off, as he would with a cat.

nam-gyu dropped to one knee, the palm holding his sharp knife pressed down, a clanging sound echoed as it hit the ground while he creeped towards you. you moved backwards slowly, your eyes never leaving his blown-out pupils. the contact of the open wound on your forearms against the rough floor made your eyebrows knit as you whined loudly. nam-gyu gazed at your injury before stilling at your sweaty, bloodied face, a fevered expression on his face.

his face darkened, the grip on his knife tightening as he gulped at the noises you made. his heartbeat quickened, eyelashes batting at you. "please, noona—" he called, his free hand reaching for you.

you pushed yourself up from the ground and sprinted to the end of the corridor, taking a sharp left. "noona!" nam-gyu whined from behind you, his calls falling on deaf ears as you ran to make distance from him.

he thought back to when your group was complete—with you and se-mi teaming up to banter with thanos and gyeong-su, and him finding out that the deceased girl wasn't really older than them, but you were, as minsu said. nam-gyu grinned to himself, using his free hand to run through his hair as he recalled your conversation with him.

nam-gyu stared at your retreating figure, kneeling fully with an amused, frenzied look on his face. a grin found its way to settle on his lips as he panted from the rush that he felt from killing, running after you, and from hearing you moan in pain while you kept eye contact with him.

he took a sharp breath in, nerves shaking at the excitement he felt, and how great it was to hear you.

"are you really older than me?" he asked, taking a bite of the food given to the players for the evening.

you glanced at nam-gyu, his expression seemingly bored, before focusing on your food, "does it matter if i am? we're all going to die anyways." you said, making him look at you for a moment before laughing out loud.

"this is great!" said him, inching closer to where you sat. you raised an eyebrow at his suddenly excitement. "i like my women older. so sexy," he added, making you roll your eyes with a groan, muttering as if before moving seats to sit beside se-mi and minsu. nam-gyu stared at your back, grinning to himself. "you can't run from me, noona!"

he had stuck himself in between you and thanos in the following games, pulling you towards him during the mingle game in each round, and passing you a portion of his food with him being a picky eater as an excuse.

you found his attachment quite endearing, and found yourself looking at him in a certain way, too. he called you his pretty noona and bickered with se-mi whenever she mimicked his nickname for you, to which you roll your eyes at his fake and playful possession of you.

that was until the drugs and thanos' death took a major toll on his mental state, scaring you off. but he was always there for you, looking out, staring.

despite being high out of his mind, nam-gyu sat by your bed at the corner of the room before as the lights flickered, easing your verbal worries towards the nearing lights out, telling you to stay put and wait for him to come back and leaving your side with a hand to your thigh and a kiss to your forehead, to which you responded with a swift kiss to his lips.

your relationship with nam-gyu was blurred in between the lines of acquaintances, and friends, and enemies, and partners, and lustful touches. it confused you, considering the situation with the games, and you didn't want to stick around to wait for him to betray you for an increase of a couple million won to his name.

nam-gyu went back to your bunk without you there, and the next day saw you on the other end of the big room, furthest away from him.

nam-gyu looked down to the knife on his hand, gripping it tighter before throwing it up in the air and catching it with ease as it fell. he whooped as he stood, his voice echoing in the corridors while he rose to run after you yet again, a wicked grin wide on his face.

you had your back against the bloodied door, hiding inside an empty, dim-lit room to rest momentarily from the chase. you held your forearms, your blood staining against your thick, green uniform. a gasped left your lips as you felt another sharp pain from your wound, a curse leaving your parted mouth in pain.

you panted, wiping the sweat off your forehead using your shaking, bloodied hands. you took shallow breaths, groaning softly in utter exhaustion. you blinked away the forming tears, clenching your hands into fists to remain focused.

then, your body jolted at the sudden impact pushed on the door you were leaning on, making you squeal in surprise. "there you are," nam-gyu's voice was low from the other side of the door. your expression turned hectic, grounding your feet against the floor to angle yourself to keep the door from opening. a few loud knocks thudded against the wood, making it shake. "noona, can you open this for me, please?"

you took deep breaths, thinking of ways to run past him once more when he gets inside. you felt overwhelmed at the thought of nam-gyu using his strength to push his way past. his strength was undeniable, and it was horribly unfortunate for you.

nam-gyu hissed at your silence his hands running from his face to the locks of his bloodied hair. "noona!" he shouted, using the back of the knife to bang against the door. "noona, please, come on," he groaned at your lack of compliance. "noona, noona! open up!" he called over and over again.

"nam-gyu," you whined, body jolting at the impact of the thuds.

"noona!" he exclaimed, eyes widening as his palms pressed against the wood, excited to hear your voice. "there you are, i knew you were there." he said, trying to push the door open but frowning upon the feeling of weight against it. "hey, let me in, please?"

"n-nam-gyu, stay," you ordered, fear laced into your words.

nam-gyu's frown deepened, his head fuzzy from the drugs and honestly confused to why you're resisting. "stay?" he echoed, "what, here outside? noona, come on, just let me in already. i miss you," you heard him say.

"no, you need to stay outside, nam-gyu." you said, attempting to using his fucked-up state to your advantage.

despite not seeing him, nam-gyu shook his head as he pouted. "come on, let's play. i really, really missed you," he said, pushing his shoulder against the door to use force, successfully opening it a few inches wide before you slammed your body to close it.

he dragged out a whine before shouting. "fucking open this door already!" a bang came, then another, until its frequency got too much for your body weight and exhausted state alone to fend off. nam-gyu pushed using his shoulder, nearly opening the door halfway.

you turned and pushed your forearms against the rough material of the door, making you cry out in pain at the contact with your wound. nam-gyu's breath hitched, his pupils widening at the sound. "please, please—please! let me in, please, pl-please," he whined, "i need you, noona."

a tear fell from your eyes, whether from fear or the ache you felt in your chest at his voice, you didn't know. with one final bang, nam-gyu kicked the door open, making you stumble backwards and allowing the door to open just enough for his tall, slim figure to slip in. before you had the chance to compose yourself, you heard the door slam shut. you looked up in fear as nam-gyu now stood in front of you, his stance sluggish.

splashes of blood scattered around his entire body, the color crimson nearly covering his face in dots. the lack of words exchanged between the two of you as you maintained eye contact with him made the atmosphere feel heavy and clouded.

nam-gyu took a step closer, making you mirror his actions by taking a step back. he then took another, and another, all in silence until you felt the painted stone wall press against your back. your eyes never left his, both of you eyeing each other's panting figures, careful to make a move.

"noona." nam-gyu finally said, stray hair covering the corners of his eyes. he took a deep breath, as if sobering himself up. "why'd you leave me, noona?" he asked.

your eyebrows furrowed as you shook your head slightly, eyes looking down at your blood-stained shoes. "i-i don't—"

"you left me!" he shouted, the hand holding his knife shaking at his words. "i came back for you, and you left me. why?"

your eyes glossed, the feeling of hopelessness heavy on your chest. "nam-gyu," you called out, hesitantly holding a hand out in front of you to keep a distance.

nam-gyu looked at your outreached hand and held it in his rough ones. "don't you like me, noona? didn't we have fun playing?" he asked, interlacing his fingers with yours. "i liked you."

tears streamed down your eyes, your voice getting caught up in your throat in a hic. nam-gyu reached his hand holding the knife, turning it safely to wipe your tears with his knuckles. "you're so pretty, noona." a sob left your lips as you turned your face away from him in fear. nam-gyu frowned, before a lazy smile found its way to his lips, "hey, play with me again, noona."

you looked up at him. "play?" you echoed in question. nam-gyu nodded his head eagerly, taking another step towards you.

"play," he repeated, using the tip of his knife to press against the waistband of your uniform. you shook your head in response. "c'mon, just once, please?" nam-gyu then held his knife by his side, a drop of blood falling against the brightly-colored floor of the room.

you looked back at him with widened eyes, a flush creeping up your face at his dark expression. you shook your head once more as he let go of your hand and took a few steps forward, finally closing the gap between the two of you. he hung his head low, eyes focused on how his free hand played with the strings of your pants, with the other holding the tip of the knife against the side of your arms.

"noona, i'm gonna make you feel so good, you won't believe it," he said, hand slithering down your stomach to make its way under your outer layer of clothing. "i'll make you say my name again with your eyes behind its sockets, noona, i know you like that," he added.

his eyes bore into yours as his bottom lip settled under his teeth with a grin on his face. your trembling hands found its way to hold the wrist holding his knife, your eyes looking up at him in desperation. "won't you hurt me, nam-gyu?" you asked.

nam-gyu shook his head frantically, eager to please you with his answer. "no, i'd never hurt my noona," he said. "remember how i ate your pussy out before? i'll do just that, noona, please let me," he groaned at the feeling of dampness as he pressed his middle finger against your underwear.

his mouth gaped, feeling his saliva slowly pool in his mouth. "please, please, noona, i'll make you feel so, so good, please," he begged, eyes big in desperation.

you looked up at him in uncertainty, opening your mouth to say no but found your cheeks squished up as he squeezed it with his hand, the knife pressed flat tightly against your cheek.

nam-gyu closed his eyes and leaned in to kiss your lips hungrily, sucking on your bottom lip as a way to convince you to agree. he turned his head, the edge of his knife cutting his skin slightly as he continued to kiss you deeper. you held his bright red vest in your hands as a way to ground yourself.

pulling away, nam-gyu suddenly felt the slight sting from the new cut on his cheek. he giggled, muttering a curse under his breath. he threw the knife behind him without looking, making it land at a distance with a high-pitched clang.

"noona, please," nam-gyu held your face again, making your eyes look into his as his finger found its way in between your clothed folds. "i'll make you feel so good, noona," he added.

you panted at the press of his fingers, your hands finding their way to hold on to his arms like how you did before. "i'll make you squirm and moan, and cum so much," he lowered himself to whisper into your ear, tongue licking against your lobe before nipping at it.

his fingers were now pressed against your bare flesh, his nails scraping lightly as they slithered down in between your pussy. "you're wet, noona." he stated, a grin visible on his face.

"please let me—you'll let me, right, noona? please?" he pleaded, eyes deep and lost into the colors of your eyes, awaiting for permission. you nodded, and nam-gyu's expression immediately lightened up. he leaned in again to kiss your lips with hunger and relief. "thank you, thank you," he repeated, lips trailing down your neck as his finger circled your clit in a slow pace. "thank you. you won't regret this, i promise, we'll have so much fun like before."

you squirmed and closed your eyes shut as nam-gyu roamed your body with his mouth, light pleasure blooming from the touches. he then inserted his fingers inside you, making you gasp in response. nam-gyu straightened his posture to meet your eyes with a smile before kissing you again. his hand rocked against your crotch in a rhythm, in contrast to the hunger he had while kissing you.

"nam-g-gyu," you moaned in between your kiss, making him pull away to look into your eyes again. his pupils were blown-out once more, his mouth swollen at the desperation of the kiss.

"oh, yes, noona," he said, halting the movements of his hand and pulling them out of your pants.

"nam-gyu," you whined at the loss of contact. nam-gyu groaned at your calls before giggling to himself, feeling the hardening of his cock at every breath you take.

his hands found their way around your clothes, stripping away your bloodied vest and hoodie, revealing a sweat-soaked, nearly-transparent white shirt that displayed your number in green letters that stuck to every curve of your body. licking his lips, nam-gyu fiddled with the hem of your shirt before pulling it up and off of you in a rushed manner, throwing it in the same direction of his knife from behind him.

"you're so pretty, noona," he whispers, mouth kissing sloppily at your breasts and making his way to your stomach, eyes nearly heart-shaped as they looked up at you.

nam-gyu knelt, your pants being lowered to your ankles by him as well. nam-gyu leaned to press his face against your clothed cunt, breathing in your arousal with a deep moan as his hands held firmly on your thighs. "oh, noona, i—" he cut himself off, taking a kitten lick at your underwear and kissing the skin of your lower stomach after. "noona, please, please," he pleaded.

your hands found their way to his hair, pushing them back from his face as he looked up at you with gleaming eyes and a small pout. "noona, let me, please? i need," he gulped, "i need to taste you. please let me. won't you let me, noona? please," he pleaded.

you tucked his hair behind his ears, every inch of your body burning at the sight before you. "do you think you deserve it, nam-su?" you teased.

nam-gyu stuttered over his words, rising and falling as he bounced lightly from his feet. "gyu, nam-gyu! yes, i do, i deserve it, noona, nam-gyu deserves it, i do," he answered immediately, a feverish expression all over his features. "please, please, fucking let me already," he whined in impatience, fingers hooking at the hem of your underwear and sliding it down without permission.

"just see, you'll feel really, really good on my tongue, noona," he said, as if it was a promise for him to keep.

nam-gyu's hands gripped on your ass to pull you closer by the hips, his mouth latching on to your cunt and immediately got to work in finding your clit in between the wet slick of your folds. he moaned loudly against you at your taste, eyes closing as his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure.

your fingers intertwined with his hair as he poked and pressed his tongue against your pussy skillfully, hums from his throat heard. you moaned when he sucked on your clit before moving his tongue in circular motions against it, his eyes opening wide to stare up at you with your mouth gaped and cheeks flushed. "you feel, ah, good, noona? am i making you feel good?" his voice was slightly muffled.

you whined and nodded lightly at his question, pulling on his hair. nam-gyu felt his cock twitch at your whine, continuing to lap at your folds. his hand made its way to settle on the plush of your thigh, while the other slithered in between your legs to tease you entrance as he continued gasping for breaths and diving back into you. "please, please," he pleaded once more, his fingers poking you. "please let me, noona," he added.

you groaned, eyes shutting in pleasure. "can i please, noona? let me? please, fuck, i just need to," he paused his words and pressed his tongue against your clit as he pushed his fingers in with ease.

you let out a high-pitched gasp, a moan dragging immediately after as he kept a pace. nam-gyu got another moan to leave your lips as he pressed his fingers against the walls of your cunt, rubbing at them. "haah, nam-gyu!" you exclaimed, head pressed against the wall as your fingers scratched on his scalp. he let out a moan, head moving from left to right while his fingers buried inside of you.

you bit your lip in an attempt to stop your moans. "noona?" nam-gyu called, eyes staring up at you before frowning, "no, no, please, noona," he pleaded. "don't—no, please, let me hear you, pretty noona, please." he said, tongue moving quicker in an attempt to make you moan louder. "fuck."

nam-gyu's ear perked at the slipped whine from you, adding to his eagerness to make you moan more. "yes, yes, there it is." he sucked harshly, "that's right, noona, all for me," he said, adding another finger inside you, making your face scrunch up in pleasure.

his drool mixed with your slick surrounded his mouth, a few streaks dripping down to his neck. "i missed this cunny, i missed you, thank you, noona, don't leave me, okay?" he babbled, squelches loud as he ate you out, his other hand palming at his erection as he looked up at you.

"i missed you, noona."

[sundropmyosotis]

This!!!!! have people never experienced the beauty and variety of love? true love and appreciation and respect between parents and child or friends? Reducing love to only partners is such a sad thing when loves comes in all shapes.

Love doesn't equal to only romantic love and I wish more people knew and respected and shared this!!!!

"friends don't look at each other like that" well okay you coward you do whatever you want however i WILL look at my friends like they're the most important thing in the world. i love them with my whole heart and i will hold their hand and stare at the stars not because i wanna fuck them but because they mean the world to me and i care about them. fuck you

[icarusignite]

he leaves you out like a penny in the rain (p.3)

Pairing: Zayne Li x Non MC Reader

Summary: You spent years orbiting Dr. Zayne Li, but when a careless comment shatters the fragile bond you thought you’d built, you walk away. Only then does Zayne realize what he's lost.

Warnings: FLUFFFF. Zayne being a simp. A man who yearns is a man who EARNS!

Word Count: 5.7k

Disclaimer: Also, to all the lovely folks in medicine finding this, I am not a medical professional yall, so plz ignore any errors lmao.

A/N: Huzzah, last part! I just want to thank everyone who interacted with the last two parts. I loved reading every comment and reaction. I hope you liked how I wrapped it up. 

I will be doing lads x non-mc reader fics for all the boys, so lemme know if you wanna be tagged for those, and who you'd like next <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

It had been months since the fallout with Zayne. Months of cold silences gradually warming, and old wounds scabbing over with routine kindnesses. He had chipped away at your anger with persistent thoughtfulness, but you were no fool. Whatever had cracked between you had re-formed into something more… professional. Friendly, at best.

And that was fine. You weren’t delusional enough to believe in fairytales. You took his gestures for what they were: The generosity of a colleague. Nothing more, nothing less. 

Regardless, the cardiology interns didn’t deserve to suffer the effects of your grudge any longer. You hadn’t stepped foot on their floor in months, and poor Dr. Greyson had taken to dramatically moping around in your office every other morning, as if his soul were leaving his body due to “muffin deprivation.”

So today, in a rare act of mercy, you stopped by the bakery across the street and picked up a basket of assorted treats, carefully chosen according to the spreadsheet you kept tucked away in your phone, listing every known allergy, aversion, and guilty pleasure of the hospital staff. Maybe it was ridiculous, but it mattered to you. People should be known and remembered.

You arrived at the cardiology nurses' station just as the lunch lull set in, and Nurse Yvonne spotted you first, her entire face lighting up. 

“Guess who’s back?” she announced, looking at you like you were some benevolent snack deity.

You were nearly tackled by a flurry of white coats and clipboard-toting chaos as all nearby interns surged toward you. You waved them off and laid out the spread carefully. 

“Oh my god—!”

“No way—!”

“Dr. Muffin! You live!”

“She returns!”

You grin at their greetings, feeling warmth spread through you. “Plenty available, worry not. Everyone gets one. Except Brian. You get half until you finish your progress notes." 

The intern, Brian, groaned. “I would’ve stayed home today if I knew I was going to be picked on.”

“Then you would’ve missed lemon poppy seed,” you remarked, handing him his with a raised brow. “And I know for a fact you love lemon poppy seed. Don’t lie to me, I have the receipts.”

“Okay, stalker,” he muttered fondly. “Thanks, Doc.”

“Maple walnut for Freya, blueberry crumble for Theo,” you continued, handing them out like a fairy godmother in scrubs. “No nuts for Amara. And yes, Liz, I remembered the vegan chocolate one for you.”

You looked up to see wide eyes, crinkled noses from grinning too hard, and a chorus of thank-yous that made your chest ache familiarly.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the sugar fairy.” Dr. Greyson was watching the spectacle with great interest. “Took you long enough. We’ve been surviving on vending machine despair and broken dreams.”

You snorted. “Sounds like your interns could’ve used a better attending.”

“I tried feeding them,” he promised solemnly. “But someone replaced my protein bars with ketchup packets and a single stick of gum.”

“Brian,” three interns chorused in unison.

Brian held up his hands. “Not me!”

Greyson shook his head in mock sadness. “Anyway. I’m filing a formal complaint with HR. You vanished for months, and morale plummeted. You owe us seven months’ worth of baked goods and emotional support.”

“Oh, please, you just missed having someone to complain to.”

“That too.”

The mood was buzzing with laughter and stolen bites, and even though you’d told yourself you were done chasing after external validation, you realized you enjoyed this feeling of being welcome and a part of something.

You were so engrossed with the enthusiasm around you, you didn’t even notice the subtle glance one intern threw toward the glass corridor behind you.

Zayne wasn’t expecting the commotion outside his office. Such sporadic bursts of conversation weren’t exactly uncommon at this hour, but what made him pause wasn’t the noise. It was the scent.

Vanilla, with just the faintest hint of cinnamon and sugar. It tugged a thread in his memory.

He stepped out of his office, expression impassive as always, until he saw you standing at the nurses' station, laughing. 

Actually laughing.

Your head was tilted back, your hair catching the light as your lips curved in a grin he hadn’t seen in months. You were flanked by your two interns, Clara and Nam, both helping you manage the leftover baked goods, but all Zayne could see was you. Your smile settled something in his chest, and completely upended something else. Something that somersaulted in the hollow beneath his ribs.

He cleared his throat, and the sound was enough to make everyone freeze like they’d been caught stealing vials from the laboratory.

"Do I get one?" he asked, deadpan.

A sudden shift fell over the group. Interns brushed crumbs off their coats, straightened their backs like soldiers standing to attention. But you just looked at him with a teasing grin. 

“Of course." You held up a brown paper bag. "Can’t have our head surgeon deprived of his sugar fix.”

Zayne stepped forward as you handed it over, and when your fingers inevitably brushed his, he swore his heart skipped a beat. Perhaps he ought to get himself checked for arrhythmia. 

“What is it?” he asked, busying himself with his treat to avoid looking at you.

“Something new. Thought you might want to try.”

Before he could respond, one of the cardiology interns—Brian, if he remembered correctly—let out a wistful sigh and groaned through a mouthful of muffin.

“I’d marry you for these,” he mumbled, eyes rolling skyward. “Just say the word, Doc.”

The entire station burst into raucous laughter. Except Zayne.

Clara and Nam stepped in front of you like bodyguards, crossing their arms with theatrical flair.

“As if you could keep up with our magnificent doctor,” Clara jeered. 

“Yeah,” Nam chimed in. “She wouldn't marry a guy who still confuses systole and diastole.”

“It was one time!” Brian protested.

The bickering rose in volume, but Zayne’s eyes stayed on you. He didn’t miss the way you humoured their teasing, or how your eyes flickered toward him briefly, unreadable. If it were anyone else, they would have shut down the jibes already, but the interns were comfortable enough to joke around with you because you treated them like friends, not your underlings. 

“C’mon, Doc,” someone teased. “You are married, right?”

“Ha,” Clara cut in with a smirk. “She’s practically married to her job, so the rest of you better get in line. Her attention is already spoken for.”

“Oh,” Brian piped up. “So like Dr. Li.”

A hush fell over the group—half amused, half awkward. 

Zayne didn’t move, but he raised a brow, appraising the young man carefully. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Brian flushed. “Uh—no, I just meant like you know. She's dedicated. Married to the work. Like you.”

You snickered, diffusing the tension by tossing Brian a napkin. “Relax, you’re not the first person to make that comparison.”

Not knowing what else to do, Zayne took a small bite from the pastry you’d given him. A mild citrus glaze hit his tongue. It was not something he would’ve chosen, but it was surprisingly pleasant, and he wondered how many more things he didn’t even know he liked until you handed them to him.

Brian, likely in a desperate attempt to redeem himself, addressed you again. “I mean, it makes sense, right? You and Dr. Li. Two of the most overworked doctors in this hospital. Same brutal hours. Same merciless expressions when someone makes a dumb mistake—”

“—same self-destructive perfectionism,” Clara added, looking between you and Zayne like she was connecting yarn on a conspiracy board.

Nam grinned. “Same tendency to pretend they don’t need sleep.”

“Same inability to remember where they left their coffee, or who took it.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “That was one time, Clara.”

Zayne shook his head. “Twice, actually.”

You turned your glare to him, but then, right on cue, Dr. Greyson interrupted. 

“I must say, it's awfully nice of you to rejoin us, Doc. I was starting to think Dr. Li scared you off for good.”

Zayne’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not—”

“Don’t worry,” Greyson cut in again. “We all know his effect on most people. It’s a miracle you still visit our floor at all.”

“Pretty sure it’s the interns she visits,” Nam pointed out.

“Obviously,” Brian agreed. “We’re the fun ones.”

Just then, Nam leaned in conspiratorially. “Alright, alright, before we let you get back to work, we need to know some important stats. How well do you know each other? You know, good colleagues who work together must know each other's habits to function cohesively.”

You frowned. "Nam, what are you even saying?"

Clara clapped her hands together. “Yes, excellent idea! Rapid-fire round. Dr. Li, what's her favourite late-night snack? Go.”

You opened your mouth to tell her that there was no way he'd know that, but Zayne responded before you could. “Subpar takeout from the establishment down the street.”

You pursed your lips sullenly. “You don't have to emphasize the word subpar.”

He gave you a blank look. “You get the same thing every time you're on-call. Even when you should be prioritizing nutrition over price.”

"I am supporting a small business! That is significantly more important."

Meanwhile, Brian pointed between the two of you with a dramatic gasp. “You watch what she eats?”

Zayne didn’t respond, but the twitch in his jaw suggested he realized he’d walked right into that one.

“You never notice what the rest of us eat, Dr. Li.” 

“I’m not responsible for your questionable caffeine intake, Brian,” Zayne replied.

“Okay, okay,” Clara said, grinning. “Next one. Worst habit?”

You smirked. “Dr. Li hoards pens. A concerning��number of them. Once I borrowed one and he acted like I’d stolen a kidney.”

“They were organized,” the man grimaced. “You put them back in the wrong slot.”

Brian sniggered. “So you’re saying he’s a pen goblin. That’s fine. What about you, Doc?”

Zayne answered for you this time. “She volunteers for too many shifts. Even when she’s dead on her feet.”

The teasing paused for a beat. You glanced at him, surprised by the concern in his voice.

“That’s not technically a bad habit, Dr. Li,” Clara argued.

“It is, if it means she runs herself into the ground.”

Brian cleared his throat loudly before it could get awkward again. “So… you both don’t sleep. Great foundation. Now, last one. Dream vacation spot. Go.”

You both hesitated, then, spoke at the same time. “Somewhere quiet.”

Clara leaned into Nam and whispered audibly, “Okay, but if they don’t already live together, I’ll eat my stethoscope.”

Greyson, who had been observing everything with the satisfaction of a man watching a very slow car crash, finally interjected. “God, you two really are like a divorced couple who never filed the paperwork.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Alright, Dr. Greyson, if you're done assembling your case file for imaginary conspiracy theories, I'm going to go steal some gloves from your supply closet.”

Zayne glanced at you. “Out of gloves again?”

"You know how it is." You shrugged. "Kids love getting things sticky. Paint, glitter, jam, bodily fluids. It’s a fun surprise every time I enter a room.”

Nam made a face. “Why would you say jam and bodily fluids in the same sentence?”

“Because it’s true." Clara nodded sagely. “We’ve seen things. Sticky things.”

“And suddenly, I’m not hungry anymore.” Brian set his muffin down.

“You’ll get over it,” you said dryly. “It’s your favourite.”

Zayne, meanwhile, looked faintly amused in that imperceptible way of his. His eyes softened, and the edge of his mouth twitched. “I’ll have a box sent over this afternoon. You don't have to raid Greyson's supply.”

That earned a round of wiggling eyebrows and mischievous looks, but the two of you chose to ignore them. 

“I’m going back to work, as should the rest of you,” Zayne said curtly, turning on his heel and walking off, but you swore the tips of his ears had turned an endearing shade of crimson.

After that day, the interns of your two departments formed a coalition of sorts, although you weren't sure what their end goal was. 

It started subtly at first.

Whenever a shared consult with cardiology came up, Nam would look at the patient chart, let out a theatrical sigh, and say, “Oh no, I’ve just remembered I’m needed in the NICU,” before fleeing with such urgency you didn’t have the heart to stop him.

“Guess I’ll have to deliver the updates myself,” you’d declare, trudging reluctantly toward Zayne's office. Enough time had passed that you weren't avoiding him like the plague anymore, and you had fallen back into a friendly routine of bringing him his favourite macarons while he brought you whatever stationery you were currently in short supply of. 

The good doctor himself never looked surprised to see you, but then again, he never looked anything. Except when your hand accidentally brushed his while handing over a file, and he watched you like he was trying to solve a complex equation. One he didn’t yet have the formula for.

After that, the interns got bolder.

You once spotted Clara scribbling something into a notebook, and when you asked what she was doing, she yelped and slammed the book shut, claiming it was just her clinical notes. But you could have sworn you saw the words accidental hand touch: 2 points?

It only escalated from there.

Your coffee order was mysteriously doubled every morning as well. Whenever you’d go to pick up your usual, you'd find two drinks waiting, one marked with your name, the other with Zayne’s initials, forcing you to drop by his office. 

On rare free afternoons, when you went to the cafeteria to grab a quick bite between shifts, you would often find your regular table occupied by whichever interns were available at the time, and most surprising of all, Zayne. And every time, there was only ever one empty seat between him and the wall. 

You could have probably just taken lunch in your office, but you were curious as to what the interns were trying to accomplish, so you played along. Besides, if it got Zayne out of his office and actually eating on time, who were you to complain? 

One evening, you and Zayne were reviewing overlapping patient files in the cardiology break room when a slow song suddenly started playing from someone’s phone left on the table. The music was loud and awkward, and you promptly burst out laughing. 

“Is that… is that Careless Whisper?”

Zayne looked irritated, especially when a chorus of muffled giggles could be heard from the hallway beyond the slightly ajar door. 

You sighed. “We should probably put a stop to their antics soon?”

"Probably," Zayne agreed, pointing to the whiteboard behind him. "Have you seen Brian's latest artistic endeavour?"

You had to choke back another undignified sound when you saw the exceptionally detailed doodle of a heart monitor graph with exaggerated spikes. The words underneath spelled out your name along with Zayne's. 

"There's a spreadsheet too, apparently."

You nearly fell out of your chair. "There's a what?"

Zayne slid his laptop over to you, showing you an elaborately set-up document titled Dr. Li's Compatibility Study: Ongoing Observational Data, with columns labelled “Shared Preferences,” “Mutual Glances,” and “Chemistry–Debatable.”

"Why do you have access to it?"

"It was shared accidentally, I am told."

Your mouth dropped open as you examined it further. “They’ve graphed it.”

"The Pearson correlation coefficient is impressive.”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to kill them.”

“You’ll have to take a number."

However, he didn’t seem as annoyed as you’d expected. In fact, someone with his disposition would have shut down the little project a long time ago, and it was almost as if he was letting it continue on purpose. You told yourself not to read into it too much. Perhaps he, too, was amused by their antics and wanted to see what their end goal was. 

And the next day, you caught him deliberately slowing his steps when he saw you walking into the hospital courtyard, matching your stride like it was muscle memory. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. Not when Nam, Clara, and Brian were watching from the second-story windows with binoculars and wildly jotting into their notebook.

It all came to a startling conclusion the following week.

It began innocently enough, almost too innocently, in retrospect.

First, Clara asked to borrow your pager in the morning, drumming her fingers on your desk with a perfectly casual smile. “Mine’s been glitching all day. I want to compare the alerts side by side.”

You barely looked up from the patient charts you were reviewing. “Sure,” you allowed, sliding it toward her. “Just bring it back in a few minutes.”

She chirped an “Of course!” and breezed out the door.

You didn’t think much of it after that. You had rounds, consults, a half-eaten granola bar and a cold coffee to finish before midnight. A typical day.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that Nam groaned from the nurse’s station, holding his lower back like an actor in a bad soap opera. “I think I’ve aged three decades today,” he groaned. “Doc, could you grab more bandages from the supply closet? I’ll owe you my life.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Wasn’t that your assignment?”

“Alas, I am but a shell of a man,” he moaned. "I can barely move, let alone brave through that maze of dust bunnies."

“Fine,” you muttered, taking pity. “But only because I don’t want you fainting from sheer dramatics.”

That was mistake number two.

You made your way to the old supply closet near your office, the one you loathed. It was narrow like a crawl space, shelves stacked dangerously high, and perpetually dim because no one ever fixed the overhead bulb. You’d sent several maintenance requests, but never received a response.

You pulled out your phone, switched on the flashlight, and carefully picked your way through the tunnel of medical chaos. And there it was, balanced idiotically on the top shelf like it was mocking you. You glowered up at the box of bandages, already placing your foot on the bottom-most shelf to use it as a stepping stool, dignity be damned. You were not in the mood to hunt down a ladder. 

Just as you had hoisted yourself up a considerable distance, you heard footsteps outside. You turned your head sharply, opening your mouth to warn whoever was approaching. “Careful! Don’t let the—”

But your warning came too late.

The door swung open, and Zayne Li stepped inside. His shoe landed squarely against the cardboard box you’d wedged in the frame to keep the old door ajar, kicking it clean out of place. You watched in dismay as the door swung shut behind him with finality. 

“Noooo—”

Zayne blinked. “What’s wrong?”

You groaned, smacking your forehead lightly against the metal shelf. “That door is always getting jammed. And you just kicked away our only means of escape.”

Your intruder regarded the discarded cardboard box with an expression of mild guilt. “Oh… I am sorry.”

The space was dim and dusty, lit only by your phone on a nearby shelf, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Zayne’s face, half-illuminated, looked too serene for someone who had just ruined your day.

“Why are you even here, Dr. Li?”

The man held up his pager. “Weren’t you the one who called for me?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Why would I ask to meet you in a closet?”

“Who am I to question your cryptic summons? You said it was urgent.”

“I don’t even have my pager on me—" you interrupted yourself with a grunt, "—CLARA!”

“...Ah.”

You groaned again, your head thunking against the shelf with more feeling this time. “I knew something was off when she asked to borrow it. I should’ve known she was up to something. I can’t believe I’ve been outwitted by an intern.”

“They’ve grown bold. Greyson found a tally sheet on one of their clipboards last week. I believe there are betting brackets involved.”

“Of course, there are.”

Then Zayne squinted up at you, as if just realizing your precarious position. “Why are you climbing the shelves?”

“Because I hate my life, obviously."

“That’s an occupational hazard. You should probably get down.”

You cast a look down at the narrow space between you. You would definitely have to descend directly into his personal space. Like… very personal. Chest-to-chest proximity.

You gave a forced little laugh. “Maybe, uh… maybe I’ll just stay up here and call for help. Pass me my phone, please.”

Zayne rolled his eyes. “You are being dramatic. You can’t possibly make a coherent phone call while perched up there."

"It is surprisingly comfortable up here, actually," you countered.

"Let me help. I can't simply stand by and watch a colleague twist an ankle.” He moved toward you, standing in front of the shelf with his hands raised like he was expecting you to faint into his arms. 

“Are you seriously going to spot me like I’m a toddler on monkey bars, Dr. Li?”

“You’re the one climbing a shelf. The metaphor makes itself.”

You glared down at him. “Do not drop me.”

“I never drop the things I value.”

His voice was too serious, and your pulse quickened at the insinuation behind it. But you shook the delusional notion out of your head as soon as it entered. No, he was simply just being a helpful coworker. 

“That was almost too poetic," you teased. "Are you sure Dr. Greyson didn’t write that line for you?”

He let out a huff. “Come down, Doctor. Please.”

With a sigh, you acquiesced, placing your foot on the shelf below the one you were on. Then, for one distressing second, you slipped, but Zayne was at your side instantly, one hand at your waist, and the other catching your flailing one as you stumbled.

Your heart stuttered.

“See? I told you it was a hazard." Zayne's voice was hoarse despite the forced levity. 

You swallowed thickly as he helped you all the way down, hyper aware of the minimal space between you now. His hand hadn’t moved from your waist, even after both your feet were firmly on the ground, and your faces were far too close. 

You wondered if you imagined the subtle shift in his chest, the faintest hitch in his breathing. His jaw was clenched, his brows furrowed, and his usually unreadable expression seemed almost unsettled.

Was it discomfort? Frustration? You couldn't be sure, and that uncertainty made you uneasy.

You took a slow, calming breath and offered a placid smile, the kind you wore when trying to diffuse tense parents or scared patients. But strangely, it seemed to make matters worse. Zayne’s gaze only darkened, his mouth tightening like he’d eaten something sour. Yet he still didn’t move, or let you go.

You cleared your throat. “I’ll just go ahead and make that call now.”

When you reached toward your phone, his hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist before you could touch it.

You froze. "…Dr. Li?”

His name came out quieter than you meant, the intensity of his grip startling you. It wasn't painful, just firm. You couldn't decide if he was trying to anchor you or himself. 

You watched his throat bob, his eyes darting across your face like he was searching for something.

“Is it really…” he faltered. “Does it not bother you?”

His breath ghosted over your cheek, and you instinctively craned your head backward, trying to give him space, unwilling to make him uncomfortable. It took you a moment to register what he meant, but then, realization flickered behind your eyes.

“Ah… The interns and their jokes? No… it doesn’t really bother me. I mean, medicine is a gruelling field. If they find little ways to have fun, even if it’s at my expense, well…” You shrugged. “I suppose it doesn’t really mean anything, does it? All in good fun.”

You tried to keep your tone light, like none of it affected you. Like the implication that you and Zayne could be anything beyond colleagues didn’t sit heavy and half-formed in your heart each time someone said it aloud. If you turned it into a joke, then it wouldn't hurt as much when everyone else did too. If you pretended it didn't matter, then it didn't. 

When Zayne didn't respond, you winced at your own thoughtlessness. Of course, it irritated him. He wasn't the type to put up with such jokes. Maybe he loathed the idea of being with you in any capacity beyond a fellow staff member. Maybe he was just waiting for you to put a stop to it. 

“I'm sorry," you apologized. “I didn’t realize it bothered you so much. I’ll tell them to stop if you like. I’m sure I can convince them to set their sights on Dr. Greyson and that radiologist he’s been pining after all year instead.” 

You chuckled nervously at the end. A peace offering.

But Zayne didn’t return the gesture. He didn’t even blink. His fingers were still curled around your wrist, and the look in his eyes wasn’t one of amusement.

It was something else entirely.

 "All in good fun," you’d said.

Zayne nearly laughed aloud, except nothing about this felt remotely funny. Not when the only thing separating the two of you was his own desperate willpower. Not when he could feel the heat of your skin beneath his ice-cold palm, and your pulse fluttering wildly under his fingers.

Good fun—was that truly all it had been to you?

Because to him, it had been torment. Every single joke the interns cracked, every knowing glance and coincidental moment engineered to bring the two of you closer had driven Zayne to the edge. At first, he thought he could ignore it, like he did every other distraction in life. He was good at ignoring things and bottling up what shouldn't be felt.

But then came the little things. The way you brought him his morning coffee and favourite macarons every week. The way he had begun to anticipate your presence in his department. And worst of all, you'd laughed through it all. Every ridiculous setup, offhand comment about your compatibility, or synchronized schedules, or some other nonsense—you laughed. 

You smiled as though none of it mattered. As though he didn’t matter.

Meanwhile, he’d spent the past week like a man walking a tightrope over a fire, the heat rising, the air thinning, and the fall inevitable. All while you watched from the sidelines, unaware that his heart was blistering.

And now, here you stood, telling him it didn’t mean anything.

Zayne’s hand tightened slightly on your waist, grounding himself. Your flashlight, perched a few feet away, cast the softest glow upward, catching on your lips, your lashes, and the curve of your cheek.

It was unbearable.

He wanted—no, he needed—to kiss you. To cup your cheek, press his forehead to yours, and tell you how maddeningly bright you made his life. How much he thought about you when you weren’t there. How much he missed your stupid stickers and the smell of your shampoo when you leaned over his desk. And your eyes—gods, your eyes. He could drown in them.

Zayne had always prided himself on control. His life was a sequence of precision and calculation. He had no room for chaos.

But you were chaos. Beautiful, compassionate, infuriating chaos. 

You were the only variable he hadn’t planned for. The only person who could walk into a room and make his carefully built world tilt on its axis. And now you were looking at him with that sheepish expression and apologizing for a joke he would spend the rest of his life chasing the hope of.

How could you stand here, just inches from his mouth, and smile, and ask if he was the one who was bothered? How could you say none of it mattered when he was unravelling, just trying not to tell you he’d been in love with you longer than he’d even allowed himself to realize?

“Because of you, everything is spiralling out of control…” he managed to utter. “How can you pretend you’re not affected?”

Your heart thundered against your ribs, but your eyes were resolutely focused on some point behind his head. “I’m not sure what you mean, Dr. Li.”

Zayne let out a strangled noise of frustration. “I don’t know how much clearer I can make it for you.”

You scowled then, irritation lacing your words. “I suppose you’ll have to spell it out for me. I’m not in the practice of assuming other people’s feelings for them. You can imagine how messy it could get if I infer wrong.”

The silence between you was razor-sharp. Then, Zayne leaned impossibly closer, one hand braced on the shelf behind your head, the other still on your waist.

“Then perhaps I will spell it out for you."

"Best that you do."

He scoffed at that. You were aggravating as always. 

“I think about you constantly," he confessed. "When you’re not there, I look for you. I find myself listening for your voice in every room you do not occupy. I have the sound of your footsteps memorized. Every time someone mentions your name, I can’t help turning my head like a fool. And when you stopped coming around… it felt like someone had taken a scalpel to my lungs.”

He met your stunned gaze head-on, eyes so raw with sincerity you forgot how to breathe.

"You were brilliant back in medical school. You are brilliant now. And I’ve been in awe of you from the moment I met you."

Your mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled out of the water, and all you could give him was a hushed, "Oh."

"You do not need to give me a response, or even return the sentiment," he added hesitantly. "I just needed you to know. I didn’t think I had the right to want someone as exceptional as you, but I do care for you. Deeply. More than I’ve ever known how to say."

Your response was not what he expected. “…Are you feeling alright, Dr. Li?”

He scrutinized you, trying to assess whether you'd gone mad or were mocking him. “Why would I say all of that if I wasn’t?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’ve come down with a fever. Or had a lapse in judgment. I just—” You paused, your throat tight. “Zayne… are you being serious right now?”

He didn’t flinch when you dropped the formalities. If anything, it made him soften, and he reached up to brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek. “I have never been more serious about anything in my life.”

"Oh."

“I know I said terrible things," he continued, almost desperately. "I know I hurt you. And I will regret it for the rest of my life. But none of that was a reflection of your abilities. It was my own incompetence talking, and my inability to handle things."

You stared at him, wide-eyed, and all the pieces of the past few months—his clumsy efforts, the apologies, the devout offerings—slotted into place with a painful clarity.

But still, your heart throbbed with old bruises. “You made me think I meant nothing to you.”

“I know.” Shame rippled across his face. “And I hate that I did. But you’ve meant something to me for a long time. I just never had the courage to say it, and for that, I will always be sorry.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to cry, but your ribs ached with the effort.

“I missed you,” you finally whispered. “So much. I thought we were at least friends, and then you went and...”

That was all it took for the tension between you to shift, something tender taking its place. His hand was still resting lightly against your cheek, and his thumb brushed beneath your eye, as if prepared to catch a tear before it could fall. 

“You don’t have to forgive me. I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

You looked at him for a long moment before dropping your forehead to rest against his shoulder, avoiding his gaze. “I’m still mad at you.”

“I’d be worried if you weren’t,” he murmured, a wry smile tugging at his lips.

You closed your eyes, enveloped in the scent of him—clean and sharp, like antiseptic and pine and something vaguely citrus. You inhaled it like it might tether you to reality, though part of you wasn’t entirely sure you wanted to stay grounded. This couldn’t possibly be real.

It felt too surreal. His hands steady at your waist, the hushed heat of his breath against your skin, the look in his eyes like you were something precious he was finally allowing himself to reach for. You weren’t sure what to think.

Maybe you were dreaming. After all, how many times had you imagined something like this during med school? Embarrassing little daydreams you'd never dared to speak aloud. You were just a giddy, overworked student back then, half in awe, half in love with the smartest boy in your class. The boy who let you sit beside him during study sessions, and always remembered your coffee order. 

So what were the odds that you’d end up here? In a tiny supply closet, no less. Whispered confessions. Flushed cheeks. Breathless tension. This was either your most vivid delusion yet or...

You pinched his arm

Zayne hummed in response, sounding offended. “Why’d you do that?”

“I’m checking to see if you’re real.” You blinked up at him, dazed. “If this is all real.”

“Don’t people usually pinch themselves in those situations?”

“I suppose… but this seemed more reasonable.”

A fond chuckle escaped him, and it warmed the air between you like sunlight bleeding through storm clouds. “Feel free to report me to HR after all this, if you wish," he stated eventually. 

There was a beat of silence before, to his surprise, you giggled. 

“Is that truly what you think I would do?"

"Wouldn't you?"

You shook your head, your lips twitching. "You're wrong, by the way."

"About what?"

"When you said I wasn't affected. You were wrong."

"Oh."

It was Zayne's turn to look bewildered at your revelation, the realization dawning that maybe you had been teetering close to the very same edge he'd been trying to rein himself back from. 

“You’re staring again,” you pointed out after several moments, half-teasing, but far too gentle for the joke to land.

Zayne didn’t waver. “I’ve wasted enough time not doing it.”

That made your mind fuzzy again, and you felt your throat grow dry. It was suddenly too hot in this cramped space, and there was only enough light for you to see the tension in his jaw. Then he shifted, close enough for his nose to brush yours, but still giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You didn’t.

When he uttered your name, it was a confession on his tongue. 

“Would it be… completely inappropriate if I kissed you now?”

The question nearly broke you, because in all your aching, sleepless nights of imagining this moment, you hadn’t once pictured him asking so gently.

You didn’t answer with words, instead closing the sliver of distance and kissing him.

It was tentative at first. Your fingers found the front of his coat, and his trembled where they cradled your jaw. But then he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. 

He kissed you like he was making up for every second he hadn’t, like he, too, couldn’t quite believe this wasn’t a dream.

When he reluctantly pulled back, his voice was a low rasp. “…Was that alright?”

“You’re about several years late, Dr. Li.”

His lips twitched. “I’ll work on my timing.”

Hope I didn't miss anyone ❤️

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[yogirl-willow]

The Crimson Pact | Part 4

Characterizations | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5

SoulBond!AU

Pairings: Yandere!Saja Boys x F!Reader

Synopsis: You were never supposed to remember them.

Four hundred years ago, a pact was made—a blood-soaked bond tying five demons to one human soul: yours.

They’ve waited lifetimes for your reincarnation, cursed with obsession, tethered by fate.

And now that you’ve returned?

They’ll burn the world before they let you go again.

Warnings: Soul bond with the Saja Boys, Yandere themes!, obsessive behavior / possessiveness, romantic psychological tension, mentions of implied past death / reincarnation, intense emotional fixation, yearning, dark romance, hurt/comfort

A/N: Another chapter for my lovely readers! Thank you for the support! I hope you enjoy this one. <3 I'll also be cross-posting to AO3 now that this chapter is written.

───────── ༺🜃༻ ─────────

The Saja boys are all demons.

They are wrath and ruin. Jealousy and death.

And yet, before her, they kneel.

Because she is the Heart. Because her soul is what keeps them from unraveling into true monsters. Because they were bound by her love and her curse.

They don’t just crave her—they depend on her. Without her presence, their minds deteriorate. Their bodies decay. Their hunger becomes unbearable.

Only Y/N’s touch tames the demon inside.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Part 4:

What They Would Give

The dream was silk and shadow.

Gold candlelight flickered across paper walls. A bipa hummed in the distance, low and mournful, each note a whisper from another life. Your bare feet pressed against cold stone floors, hem of your hanbok brushing the ground as you moved silently through the eastern wing of the palace. You knew this place. Knew every turn, every tile, every secret door the nobles thought you were too stupid to notice.

But you weren’t stupid. And he always knew that.

“Yeobo,” a voice breathed behind you—low, reverent, broken. You turned.

Jinu stood beneath the moonlight, hair tied back, royal silks stained with dirt. His face was young—so achingly young—but those eyes held lifetimes. They always had.

He reached for you, and when you didn’t flinch, his hand cupped your cheek like you were something made of music and prayers. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You smiled, teasing, like always. “Neither should you.”

He laughed softly. God, that sound.

“Did they find out?” you asked, voice quieter now. “About us?”

His silence was answer enough.

The dream shifted. You were in his private room now, tucked between scrolls and incense and the scent of him. He knelt beside you, watching as you dabbed the scrape on his hand.

“I’m not worth the blood you spill,” you whispered once. And he had looked at you like you’d torn open the sky. “Don’t say that.”

“Then don’t let them hurt you for me.”

Another shift. Rain pounded against palace tiles. The smell of smoke. The wail of women in the distance. He held you against his chest—his heartbeat frantic as yours slowed.

“Stay awake,” he begged.

But the poison was already in your lungs. You tried to speak, to tell him you weren’t afraid. That it wasn’t his fault. But all that came out was blood. And he had screamed your name like it would call your soul back.

The dream cracked.

You stood in the palace courtyard now. Alone. Wind howling. Your breath fogged before you. A mirror rippled in the dark—a still pool once used by concubines for beauty rituals.

You stepped forward. Looked in. And saw him.

Not Jinu.

Not exactly.

His face was his, but darker. Skin a cold hue of purple or blue- you couldn’t tell. Patterns twisted across his neck and flawless face like vines. They glowed a faint violet. His eyes—black and gold, molten and endless. Clawed hands. No blood on them—but you knew there had been. His silks were gone, replaced by flowing black garments that moved like smoke.

He looked up at you. And he smiled.

You screamed.

And woke up. Gasping, drenched in sweat, your sheets tangled around you like vines. Your breath came in sharp bursts. Faint morning light filtered through the blinds, soft against the sheen on your skin.

What the hell was that?

The memories weren’t yours. Couldn’t be yours. You’d never worn a hanbok. At least, not since you were a little girl. Never kissed Jinu beneath the stars or held his trembling hands in a candlelit room. So why did it feel more real than anything else in your life?

You sat up, pressing a shaking hand to your chest. Then—

Knock, knock. Your head snapped toward the door. A voice. Gentle. Familiar. 

“Y/N?” Jinu.

You swallowed, heart still pounding. “I… I’m fine,” you said. Too fast. Too high.

Silence.

Then, “Alright. If you need anything… I’m right outside.”

You exhaled. Slowly. A beat passed. Your hand stayed pressed over your chest. But your thoughts drifted back—not to the kiss, or the palace, or even the blood.

No.

They stayed on that reflection. The patterns. The eyes.

Was that Jinu?

And more terrifying—

Why aren’t you scared of him?

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You padded into the kitchen wrapped in silence and Jinu’s hoodie.

The boys were already there—some seated, some standing—bathed in morning sunlight and the smell of eggs and something sweet. Pancakes maybe? Abby was at the stove, flipping something with surprising delicacy. Baby lounged in the corner seat, head resting lazily against the glass. Mystery sat curled up in his seat like a housecat, eating fruit with his fingers. Romance leaned against the counter, cradling a mug like it was a stage prop he was dramatically rehearsing with.

And Jinu—

Jinu sat at the head of the table, reading a folded newspaper like he hadn’t held you for hours last night, lips pressed against your forehead while your body trembled in remembrance. Before sleep had taken you into that haunting dream.

His eyes flicked up when you entered. “Morning,” he said softly.

You nodded. “Morning.”

You could feel it—the heat of their gazes, the air shifting around you like invisible fingers brushing your skin. There was a gentleness in their posture. A quietness. But also… something else.

Caution.

They were being careful with you. Too careful.

You sat down in the seat Mystery scooted out for you. His cheek brushed your arm and he inhaled like he was starved for it. Your heart did a small, weird flutter. You avoided Jinu’s eyes.

Did they know? Did they see? They were demons. They probably felt it. The bond. The kiss.

Your face burned as you accepted a plate from Abby, who set it down with too much force. His eyes flicked to your neck for half a second before looking away. You could feel the tension rippling through his shoulders.

Oh god. They did know.

Romance was the first to speak. Of course he was. “Sleep well, sweetheart?” he purred, voice warm and slippery. “You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” you mumbled, stabbing your pancake with unnecessary aggression. “Just hot.”

“Hmm,” he said with a smirk, “I bet you are.”

You flinched. They definitely knew.

Your thoughts spiraled. One kiss. Just one. You didn’t even mean for it to happen. But now— Were you supposed to kiss them all? Were they expecting that? Were they mad?

A clatter drew your eyes—Baby had dropped his fork. He didn’t pick it up. Just stared at you, elbow on the table, jaw resting against his hand. His black eyes flicked down to your mouth.

You quickly looked away.

“I didn’t mean—” you blurted, then froze. “I mean. I… I don’t know what I’m doing. With any of this. With you. With the bond.”

A pause. And then Jinu spoke—gentle, but unshakeable. “You don’t have to do anything.”

You blinked.

“You don’t owe us anything,” he added, folding his paper. “The bond… it’s not a leash. It’s a thread. You pull when you’re ready.”

Mystery leaned against your side, nuzzling your shoulder. “We’ll wait,” he whispered, voice soft. “We always do.”

Romance tilted his head, smiling faintly—but there was something sharper beneath it. “We’ll be patient. But not passive. We still want you to choose us.”

Abby sat beside you, jaw tense. “You don’t have to split yourself up,” he muttered. “You don’t have to kiss anyone until you want to. Really want to.”

You stared down at your plate. Your hands shook. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” you whispered. “It’s just… too much. Too fast.”

“No one’s hurt,” Jinu said. “We’ve waited four hundred years. We can wait a little longer.”

“You’re not gonna disappear again,” Mystery whispered, holding the edge of your sleeve like he was afraid you might.

“And when you do come to us,” Romance added with a sly glint, “we’d prefer it if it’s because you’re burning for us. Not because you feel guilty.”

You swallowed. Baby’s voice was last to join, quiet but absolute. “We’ve already had your soul. We want your heart now. The rest… can come later.”

You stared at them. Five monsters. Five men. All of them impossibly patient. All of them aching. And still willing to wait for you to fall in love again.

Your throat tightened. You nodded. “Thank you.”

Romance lifted his mug. “Anytime, darling.”

Baby smiled faintly. Abby grunted. Mystery purred. And Jinu just watched you with the softest expression you’d ever seen. 

You took a bite of the pancakes Abby had stacked on your plate and paused. Your eyes widened. “Wait… these are actually good.”

Abby raised a brow. “What do you mean actually?”

Sheepishly, you stabbed another forkful. “I just didn’t expect a demon to know how to make pancakes.”

He scoffed, flicking batter from the spatula. “I’ve been alive for centuries. You think I wouldn’t know how to scramble an egg or flip a damn pancake?”

Romance leaned in, chin on his palm. “He’s particularly good with his hands, if you’re wondering.”

You choked. “I’m not—”

“I have a very diverse skillset,” Abby interrupted smugly. You rolled your eyes—but your smile faltered. Because just then, the warmth of the kitchen, the golden sunlight on the tile, the smell of syrup and coffee—it all fell away.

You remembered silk. And blood. And a flicker of something with glowing eyes staring back at you in a polished palace floor. Your fork paused halfway to your lips. “Hey… can I ask you something?”

All of them stilled. Jinu looked up from his mug. “Of course.”

Your voice dropped, uncertain. “Last night. I saw something. In my dream. It was… dark. I think it was you. But not you.”

Jinu’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup. The others were still. Tense. “I think… I saw your demon form,” you said softly.

Romance’s smile vanished. Mystery immediately tucked himself tighter against your side. Baby stared at you, silent and unmoving, his gaze like ice.

You looked around the table. “I just… What are you? What do you look like?”

For a long moment, no one spoke. Then Jinu sighed. “We’re not hiding anything from you.”

“We just…” Abby scratched the back of his neck. “We’re not exactly cuddly in those forms.”

“She’d still like me,” Mystery mumbled into his fruit.

“You don’t know that,” Abby grunted.

“I do.”

“We literally glow purple and get creepy marks all over our face—”

“She thinks they’re cool!”

“Your eyes turn gold like a cursed cat, bro.”

“She likes cats!”

“Boys,” Jinu said firmly, not looking up from his tea. They went quiet instantly. He turned back to you. “We will show you. In time.”

Romance’s voice was softer than usual. “You’ve already seen us in your dreams. But dreams are hazy. Romantic. We’re… not.”

“We don’t want to scare you,” Jinu said.

“I’m not scared,” you said too quickly.

Five sets of eyes landed on you at once. You shrank a little in your seat. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

Romance smiled sadly. “We’d rather you see us when you’re ready. When the bond is strong enough that you feel what we are before you ever have to see it.”

Jinu reached for your hand gently. “When you’re ready,” he said again. “And when you are… we’ll show you. All of us.”

You swallowed. Nodded. And returned to your pancakes, even though they didn’t taste quite as sweet anymore.

After breakfast, you’re slipping on your coat when a warm hand wraps gently around your wrist. You turn—and Jinu’s already pulling you into the hallway beside the kitchen, just out of view of the others.

“Jinu?” you ask, heartbeat stuttering. His touch isn’t rough. But it isn’t something you can ignore either. He says nothing for a moment. Just watches you in the soft light. His gaze flickers to your lips, then to your throat, then back to your eyes.

“I heard you wake up around five,” he says, voice low. “Your breathing changed.”

You blink. “You… heard me?”

“I always hear you.” His thumb brushes over your wrist, tender. Like he’s memorizing the pulse there. “Even in my sleep.”

Your cheeks flush, and for a second you look down—but Jinu lifts your chin with two fingers. “You didn’t come out of the room,” he says. “Did the dream scare you?”

You hesitate.

“It’s okay,” he adds, gentler now. “You don’t have to tell me. I just… wanted to see you before you left.”

“I’m fine,” you whisper. “Really.”

His eyes narrow like he doesn’t quite believe you—but he lets it go. For now. “I just needed to know,” he murmurs, stepping closer, “that you didn’t regret last night.”

Your breath catches.

Jinu’s face is barely an inch from yours now. His voice is like velvet wrapped in steel. “Because if you did… I’d find a way to make you forget the regret. I’d replace it with something else.”

You don’t move. Can’t.

His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin like it’s sacred. “I know I said I’d go slow,” he says, head tilting, “and I will. But when you kissed me—Y/N, I’ve waited four hundred years to feel that again. If you ever change your mind… just know I won’t stop you next time.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. And then—he leans forward. But he doesn’t kiss your lips. His lips graze your forehead, soft, reverent.

A mark. A brand. A promise. When he pulls back, his smile is small—but there’s fire behind it.

“Be careful out there,” Jinu says, brushing a loose hair from your face. “Don’t talk to anyone who looks at you too long.”

You raise a brow. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” he says softly. “It’s a warning. For their sake.” And then he lets you go.

But as you step out the front door, you feel it: his gaze burning into your back like a tether. Like he’s already counting the seconds until you return.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The morning air nipped at your cheeks as you walked beside Abby down the sleepy Seoul street. The hem of your coat brushed your knees, and your fingers were wrapped tight around the coffee Abby insisted you hold—even if you were about to clock into a café that sold twenty variations of the same drink.

“I still don’t get why you have to work here,” Abby muttered for the third time this morning, tugging the strap of your bag higher on your shoulder like it offended him. “You should be sleeping in. Eating fruit someone peeled for you. Or being worshipped. Like a normal girl.”

You glanced up at him. “A normal girl?”

“Well, a normal soulbound girl. Obviously.”

You snorted. “Not helping your argument.”

He didn’t laugh. Just walked closer, his frame blocking the wind like a personal fortress.

At the café, he waited until you stepped safely inside before crossing his arms and glaring through the glass like the windows were one sneeze away from shattering. You pretended not to notice.

By midmorning, the scent of caramel and burnt espresso clung to your skin, and the line was a manageable trickle. Mystery had popped in an hour ago to leave a pack of honey biscuits on the counter (“In case you didn’t eat enough.”) and Baby had passed by too—not entering, just lingering outside like a ghost in the reflection of the glass. You couldn’t be sure, but you thought he was watching your manager. You tried not to think about it.

Then, of course, there was Romance.

He swept in at 11:47, in sunglasses and smugness, murmuring something about how coffee tastes better when you're watching the love of your life make it. You’d rolled your eyes and told him to sit in the corner and stop causing a scene. He winked and obeyed.

Everything was going smoothly.

Until it wasn’t.

The bell above the café door jingled sharply—and something inside you prickled. The new customer wasn’t odd at first glance: young, tall, dressed like a college student. But there was something off. Something in the way he looked around the café, not like a customer, but like he was searching.

You stiffened. Then he looked directly at you—and smiled. Your stomach dropped.

He walked to the counter, but didn’t order. Just leaned in a little too close. “Y/N, right?” he asked.

You blinked. “Do… do I know you?”

“Nah,” he said. “But I know you. Been seeing your name around. Cute face, too. You’ve got fans, you know.”

Something about his voice scraped at your nerves. You took a small step back. “Sorry, you’ll have to order something if you’re not here to—”

“You smell different than I expected,” he said suddenly, nostrils flaring. “Sweeter. Almost... too sweet.”

Your blood ran cold. He wasn’t human. Before you could say another word, a deep growl split the air. And then Abby was there.

You didn’t see the door open. Didn’t hear him enter.

But suddenly, your coworker was shoved behind the counter, Romance was standing from his corner seat with eyes glowing faintly gold—and Abby had the stranger by the collar, slammed against the nearest wall with a crash that rattled the syrup bottles.

“You have five seconds,” Abby snarled, voice low and rumbling, “to explain why a low-tier, trashborn demon thought it was smart to walk within ten feet of her.”

The stranger choked on his breath, writhing under the hold. “I didn’t—I was just curious—! The scent—she’s—”

“You looked at her,” Abby snapped. “You spoke to her.”

“She doesn’t even know what she is—!” The air changed. Abby’s eyes darkened. Not just with anger. With promise. He leaned in, and his voice was a whisper made of knives.

“Then let me teach you what I am.”

The café was silent. Your coworkers frozen. Romance stepped between you and the others like a shield, hand on your lower back.

“Close your eyes, baby,” he murmured.

“Abby,” you called—panicked now. “Abby, stop.”

And maybe it was your voice that pulled him back. Or maybe it was the fact that the stranger was already whimpering, nose bloodied, eyes wide with terror.

Abby let him go. The demon crashed to the floor, wheezing. “Leave,” Abby said. “Before I finish what I started.”

The demon scrambled, vanished out the door with supernatural speed. And still Abby stood there, fists clenched, chest heaving. His eyes scanned your face. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, throat tight. “Yeah. I think so.”

Romance brushed your hair back, but didn’t smile. “You’re not supposed to be seen. Not like that. Word’s spreading.”

“I’m… sorry,” you mumbled.

Abby looked like he wanted to punch something else. “Not your fault.”

Romance’s jaw tightened. “We’ll talk later.”

But something was clear now. Crystal clear. You weren’t safe. Even here.

And the boys? They’d burn the world to make sure you were.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The boys don’t notice them, but Huntrix watches.

Perched across the street from the café, tucked behind a rusted bus stop, Zoey chews on her gum like it’s the last sin in Seoul. 

They see it all. Abby bursting into the café without a sound. Romance standing from his seat like a prince with knives in his mouth. Y/N, frozen in confusion and fear, wide-eyed behind the counter.

And then it happens. Abby slams another demon against the wall so hard the menu board rattles. Mira’s hand twitches toward her weapon on instinct—but she doesn’t move.

“She’s… still with them,” Mira says tightly, eyes fixed on the scene.

“Not just with them,” Zoey mutters. “They’re protecting her.”

“No,” Mira says, trying to convince herself. “They’re using her. Shielding their asset.”

Zoey shakes her head, frowning. “Then why did he just attack another demon? That guy wasn’t even hostile. Just sniffing around.”

“She’s human,” Rumi says softly, still watching. “I’ve scanned her three times. She’s not cursed. Not altered. No patterns. She’s… just a girl.”

“So why are five demons orbiting her like she’s the goddamn sun?” Zoey exclaims.

None of them answer.

Inside the café, the tension breaks. The intruder flees. Abby stays between Y/N and the rest of the world like her bodyguard—or her beast. They watch Romance reach for her shoulder. 

They’re not acting. They’re not pretending. This isn’t manipulation. It’s something far more dangerous.

“They care about her,” Rumi says finally. “Or… they think they do.”

Mira scoffs. “Demons don’t care. They hunger. They cling to whatever they’re trying to own.”

Rumi stays silent. But her hands are white-knuckled inside her sleeves, fists clenched so tight they tremble. Because she’s seen something the others haven’t. A memory she wasn’t supposed to find.

Tucked deep in the bottom of a chest meant to stay locked—a yellowed letter, written in ink faded with age and smudged by something darker. She found it years ago, back when she was still trying to piece together who her mother really was. A letter written in a language she’d never been taught, yet somehow… understood.

A demon’s handwriting. The words bled longing. Grief. Worship. She remembered reading the last line over and over: “If I burn for you, let me burn.”

Celine never talked about it. When Rumi asked about her mother, Celine only told her the same thing every time: “She was a hunter. A good one. Until she got too close to what we kill.”

Back then, Rumi believed her. She had to. Celine saved her. Raised her. Trained her. Taught her to never trust a demon’s smile or a monster’s promise. But now…

Now she watches Abby hover by Y/N’s side, tension rippling under his skin every time a customer raises their voice at her. She watches Romance hover near like he’s her loyal shadow. She saw Jinu the other day—calm, regal, protective—glance at the girl like she’s a prayer he’s still waiting to be answered.

It doesn’t make sense. Demons don’t protect humans. Demons don’t get soft eyes and careful hands. Demons don’t love.

Except… maybe they do.

Jinu once told her—in one of their secret meetings, just the two of them, when she let her guard slip for one second—“Demons feel. Some of us wish we didn’t.”

She thought it was a line. Another ploy. But watching him now… watching them… She wonders if it was the truth. And if it is—if demons can really feel like this—then maybe her mother hadn’t been weak. Maybe she hadn’t been tricked. Maybe she’d been in love.

And maybe what terrifies Rumi the most is the look on Y/N’s face when the boys are near. Because it looks like recognition. It looks like longing. It looks… mutual.

And for the first time in her life, Rumi is unsure of everything she was taught to fight for.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Back at the apartment, the mood was sharp—too sharp.

The moment the front door closed behind you, the air thickened like static before a lightning strike. The boys didn’t say anything at first. They just stared. Watched you kick off your shoes, shrug off your coat. Watched the way your hands shook slightly when you went to pour water into a glass.

Then Romance stepped forward. “You need to quit,” he said.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Your job,” Jinu added, arms crossed. “It’s too dangerous now.”

You laughed, but it came out awkward and dry. “You’re all being dramatic. It wasn’t that serious—Abby handled it. I was fine.”

Abby stiffened beside you, jaw clenched. Jinu’s expression didn’t move.

“It’s the second time,” Mystery said quietly from the corner, curled on the windowsill. Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“Two days ago,” Baby murmured, arms folded and expression unreadable. “There was demon scent on the café’s back door. We didn't tell you. We thought it was just a scout.”

“I confirmed it,” Jinu said. “He was watching you. You never saw him.”

Romance’s eyes darkened, gold flickering like candlelight. “And now one tries to make contact in broad daylight. You think that’s nothing?”

You looked between them, suddenly very, very aware of how much you hadn’t been told.

“You’re not safe there,” Jinu said firmly. “Not when we can’t be around every second.”

You bristled. “Okay, but you are around. Literally all the time. I feel like I’ve got an army shadowing me every shift—”

“Because you do,” Baby said bluntly. “And it’s still not enough.”

You blink at him. “So I just… give up my life?”

Romance softens instantly, like he’s pulling back on a leash. “What he means is—we don’t want to see anything happen to you. That café’s a risk. You’re vulnerable there. You don’t need to be.”

You hesitate. And then—click—your mind makes a connection. Their protectiveness. Their control. And something that never quite sat right with you.

You lift your eyes. “...What happened to Jae?”

The question silences the room. Romance doesn’t miss a beat. He smiles gently. “Ah. The guy from the club?”

“Yeah,” you say. “He was weird, but you didn’t have to—what did you even do to him?”

“Nothing permanent,” Romance says smoothly.

Your gaze sharpens. “Romance.”

He smiles too easily, all charm and warmth stretched over something colder. “I offered him a very friendly warning. Abby may have been more… direct.”

You narrow your eyes. “Is he okay?”

Romance tilts his head, fake-thinking. “He probably won’t remember anything. A touch of glamour and a sprained wrist. Maybe a dislocated ego.”

You stare harder. “That’s not funny.”

“But it’s true,” he counters, smile curling. “And effective. He won’t bother you again.”

There’s a glint in his eye—something too smooth, too polished. Manipulation wrapped in silk.

“You’re lying,” you murmur. The air shifts.

“I told you,” Abby growls, stepping forward. “He touched you.” 

You glance at his clenched fists. “What did you do to him?”

“He doesn’t matter,” Abby says flatly. “He was going to hurt you. I saw it. I felt it.”

“That’s not your call to make!”

“Everything about you is my call,” he growls. “Because I’ll do what you won’t. I’ll cross the lines. So you don’t have to.”

Your breath catches. You suddenly realize how close Abby is and the intensity of his stare.

“Okay,” Jinu says tightly. “Enough.”

Romance straightens his collar. “Let Abby calm her down. She’s overwhelmed.”

Jinu doesn’t argue. He just nods once at Abby and you sigh, letting Abby’s large frame usher you to your room. You wanted to have a word with him in private anyways.

Once the door was firmly shut, the four shared a knowing look with each other in the livingroom. 

“She won’t quit on her own,” Romance says.

Jinu doesn’t respond. He’s staring out the window, pensive.

“She thinks it’s her choice. That’s adorable,” Romance continues with a bitter smile. “But this situation—it’s pulling demons to her like flies. They’ve always been curious, but now that they know where she is and that she’s real.” Romance sneers. “Their curiosity is going to kill them. And every one of them is a threat.”

Mystery’s eyes narrow. “You want to scare her.”

“No,” Romance says smoothly. “I want to guide her. Nudge her toward the life she deserves. One where she’s surrounded by people who love her more than air.”

“And you’ll decide how that looks?” Jinu’s voice is quiet. Dangerous.

Romance’s expression darkens just slightly. “You saw her a minute ago. She’s already cracking. All I’m doing is accelerating the inevitable.”

Baby finally speaks, voice a low echo: “What do you want us to do?”

Romance’s smile returns—cold and wicked. “Nothing direct. Just… let the pieces fall. Let the café fall apart.”

Jinu sighs and turns. “No fire.”

“No blood,” Mystery adds. “She wouldn’t like that.”

Romance raises a hand, smug. “Of course not. I’m not stupid. She’ll leave on her own. And when she does…” His gaze sharpens. “She’ll see that we’re the only constant.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

Abby shuts the bedroom door behind him. Not with a slam—but with finality. 

You don’t resist when he gently guides you toward the bed. He doesn’t say much at first. Just pulls you into his arms, into the warmth of his chest like it’s instinct. You don’t know if he means to, but his grip is tight. Fierce. His hand curls around the back of your head, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he blinks too long.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he mutters.

“I know,” you whisper. You gaze at his arms that were wrapped tightly around you- the ones he’d use to inflict whatever violence necessary for your sake. Your eyes trail up his muscled limbs to his broad shoulders. There was a moment of silence before you spoke. 

“I don’t get it,” you whisper. “Why are you like this?”

“Like what?”

“This…” You wave your hand vaguely. “Overprotective. Overbearing. Intense. It’s like you can’t breathe unless I’m under lock and key.”

“I can’t,” he says. Your heart skips. His voice is quiet. No teasing. No growl. Just truth. “I can’t breathe when you’re not safe.”

You stare at him.

“I don’t know how to do this slow,” Abby says. “I try, I swear I do. Jinu says wait. Mystery whines when I get too close. Baby glares like he’ll gut me if I scare you. But I see you, and all I wanna do is keep you close. Wrap you in my arms and keep every bad thing away. Rip this world apart if it even thinks of touching you.”

You don’t know what to say, so he keeps going. 

“I wasn't always like this. Wasn’t always... this thing you see now.”

You shift slightly in his arms, but his hold keeps you anchored. He exhales sharply and looks away. Not because he’s ashamed—because the memory still burns. Your heart tugs at the expression on his beautiful face. Tortured. Pained.

“Two hundred fifty years ago,” he begins, “I was a general. Loyal to the court. Feared on the battlefield. A war dog for men in silk robes who never dirtied their hands.” You feel his fingers twitch against your back, like he’s gripping a blade only he can see.

“I bled for them. Killed for them. And the moment I became inconvenient, they left me to die in the mud. A spear through my gut. My men gone. My name forgotten.” His jaw tightens. You can hear the snarl he’s holding back.

“I would’ve died. But I begged. Not to the heavens—because the heavens never answered me. I begged whatever thing was listening in the dark.” He turns his face, voice like ash. “And Gwi Ma answered.” He’s silent for a beat. Your breath catches.

“I didn’t die,” he says bitterly. “But I wasn’t human anymore either.” You feel his body tense beneath you as he continues, slower this time. “I wandered. Fed on pain. Destroyed anything that looked like mercy. Until I collapsed outside a village. Thought maybe I’d die for real.”

He goes still. “And then you found me.”

Your heart stutters. His voice goes softer. Fragile, like something made of glass. “You were a healer. Young. Too good. Too gentle. You knew I wasn’t right. You saw the glow in my eyes, felt the heat in my skin—but you stayed anyway.”

Your throat tightens. “You stitched my wounds. You made me soup. You made me laugh. And I didn’t even remember how.”

His voice breaks. “You reminded me I used to be human. I think… you made me want to be one again.”

You say nothing. Just hold onto him tighter and let him tell you the story of how he came to be this way. You wished you remembered- like last night with Jinu. You wished you could share his pain.

“When bandits came, I snapped. I didn’t even think. I just—protected you. The village. Everyone.” A pause. “But I lost control. The fire… it spread.”

Your blood goes cold.

“You died in my arms, Y/N. Crying. You told me you weren’t afraid. That you knew I tried to protect you.” He swallows. “But that doesn’t matter. Because I still killed you.”

You feel his hand press flat against your back like he could memorize the shape of you all over again. He tilts his forehead to yours, voice raw and trembling. 

“I’d die a thousand times before I ever let that happen again.” Abby’s voice is barely a whisper. “And so I’m sorry… if you think I’m too much. I just—” He swallows hard, jaw trembling. “I can’t bear the thought of failing you again. Of standing by while the world takes you from me a second time.”

His hand moves to your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye like he’s memorizing every freckle, every blink. “I’ve spent centuries reliving that moment,” he murmurs. “Centuries regretting every second I didn’t hold you tighter. Protect you harder. Love you more.”

You feel the weight in his touch—the devotion that borders on madness. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the world.

And maybe you are.

His arms are still wrapped around you. His heartbeat loud against your ear. You feel his chest rise and fall—deep, like he’s trying to calm a storm. There’s a long silence before he speaks again, voice low against your hair.

“…There’s something I want you to know,” he murmurs. “My name. My real one. From before.”

You lift your head, eyes searching his. He looks almost… shy. No—vulnerable. Like this is the final part of himself he’s never dared to offer.

“I wasn’t always ‘Abby.’ That’s just a stage name. I find it kind of funny actually” He chuckles lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. 

You nod gently, your hand resting against his bare chest. “So tell me,” you whisper.

He swallows. “It was Haneul,” he says. “That was my name, when I was still human.”

Haneul. The sound lingers on your tongue like silk and smoke. You let it roll in your mouth before saying it aloud:

“…Haneul.”

He shudders.

It’s so soft, the reaction—so raw. His grip tightens around you instinctively. His lips part like you just breathed life into him. “Say it again,” he whispers. “Please. Say it again.”

You lean in, brushing your lips to his cheek. “Haneul.”

A sharp breath escapes him. His eyes flutter shut, lashes trembling. You kiss the corner of his eye, your voice barely audible.

“Haneul.”

He exhales like he’s unraveling, hands fisting into your waist to keep himself steady. To keep you close. Like the name is both breaking him and putting him back together.

You kiss the other cheek, so softly he nearly flinches from how much it hurts. “Haneul.”

And then—just before your lips meet his—you say it again. For him. Only him.  

“Haneul.”

He snaps.

Abby—Haneul—surges forward and devours you in a kiss. It’s not gentle. It’s not tame. It’s a claiming, centuries in the making. His mouth slants over yours with aching hunger, hands pulling you into his lap like you belong there, like you’ve always belonged there.

You do.

And he kisses you like your voice saying his name was the only salvation left in the world. And maybe… maybe it was. He groans against your mouth, like the feel of you hurts.

His hands tremble as they cradle your face, your neck, your back—as if he still doesn’t believe you’re real. You feel his restraint—barely holding himself back, like if he slips for even a second, he’ll ruin everything. But it’s all so gentle. Worshipful. Like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he loves you too hard.

His shirt comes off in a rush of movement, as if it was the last thing keeping him distant. You press your palms to his bare chest—warm, solid, steady—and he shudders beneath your touch.

He lowers you both to the bed again, but this time you’re tangled together. Your legs brush. His skin grazes yours and he gasps like it burns in the best way.

He leans in, lips brushing your throat. He murmurs your name there like a prayer. Like a curse. Like a lifeline.

“I’ll never let anyone touch you,” he whispers, breath hot. “I don’t care who I have to kill. I don’t care if the world calls me a monster. If it means keeping you safe, I’ll be all of it.”

You feel your heart trip over itself. It should scare you. But it doesn’t. Because when he looks at you, when he touches you like this… it doesn’t feel like obsession. It feels like truth.

Your fingers slide into his hair, clutching like he’s the only thing holding you together. He leans into your touch like he’s starving for it.

“Say you forgive me,” he chokes. “Say I’m not too late.”

You meet his gaze—and it’s everything. Burning. Desperate. Holy. And so full of ruinous love it steals the air from your lungs.

“You’re not too late,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I’m here.”

And Abby—no, Haneul.

Haneul lets out a sound you’ve never heard from him before. A small, broken thing. A sob and a breath all at once. Then he kisses you again—deeper, slower, like the world’s ending and this is the only moment that matters. His hands press into your waist like he’s grounding himself there. Like you are his redemption. His punishment. His salvation. And for the first time in centuries… Haneul lets himself believe he might deserve to hold you again.

Your fingers ghost over his chest, and he shivers. The planes of his body are carved like stone beneath your hands, warm and trembling under your touch—as if you’re something sacred, something he never thought he’d feel again.

Your lips part from his only to trail down the sharp line of his jaw, to the tense muscle of his neck. You kiss him softly there, and he lets out a hiss through his teeth. It’s the kind of sound that curls heat through your spine. You don’t stop. You kiss lower, slow and reverent, letting your lips brush the warm skin of his throat. He tips his head back, helpless.

“Haneul,” you murmur, pressing your lips to his collarbone.

He groans. His entire body bows toward you like he’s being pulled by gravity. Like your voice is the only anchor in a world he no longer trusts. You trail your hands down the ridges of his chest, the faint scars of old wounds hidden beneath his skin. He watches you, eyes wild with devotion. 

“I dreamed of your hands,” he whispers hoarsely. “I used to wake up clawing at my own skin because I missed the way you touched me.”

You kiss the center of his chest and feel his heart stutter beneath your lips. His hands slide beneath your shirt now, palms warm, reverent as they explore your waist like he’s memorizing the shape of you. He ducks his head to your neck, brushes his lips down the slope of it—and then kisses the spot where your pulse flutters.

You gasp. And that’s all it takes.

A low growl tears from his throat and he bites—not hard, but enough to claim. Enough to make you gasp again, and this time his name spills from your lips like it’s the only thing you know.

His breath is ragged now, and his control is slipping. “Say it again,” he begs, lips against your throat. “Just once more.”

“Haneul,” you moan, and the way he shudders beneath you is almost violent. You feel the darkness curling at the edge of him—the demon just beneath the surface, the possessive, desperate thing that would burn kingdoms for you. But he holds it back.

His forehead presses to yours. Your breath mingles. Your chests rise and fall in perfect sync. His thumb brushes along your cheek as he cradles you like you’re made of glass and starlight.

His voice is low. Gravel and longing. “I’ll wait,” he breathes, fingers curling possessively around your waist. “As long as you need. But don’t think for a second I won’t claim you. One way or another, you’re mine.”

You stare at him. At the burn in his eyes. The way his body shakes beneath your touch—not from fear, but from restraint. Centuries of guilt. Of hunger. Of aching to be close and never having the right.

“I do want you,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “Just… not all at once.”

His eyes flutter shut. His jaw clenches like he’s holding back something feral. “Then I’ll take what you give,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “And I’ll make you crave the rest.”

He kisses your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth. Then rests his forehead to yours—your breath, your warmth, your heartbeat the only thing grounding him. And in that silence, in the hush of your skin against his, you feel the bond ignite again—hotter now, needier. A thread wrapped around your ribs, pulling tighter. Claiming.

No more running. Not from him. Not from this.

Just you. In his lap. In his arms.

Exactly where he’s always known you belong.

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N: Huahh Abby or (Haneul) got his turn! I wanted to give them each real names and not just stage names. I chose Haneul for Abby because it means “sky” or “heaven.” It’s poetic, gentle, and deeply symbolic. It's meant to tie into Abby’s protector nature — someone who once soared high as a general but fell and now claws his way back for the one he loves. His love is vast, all-encompassing, eternal — like the sky. And there’s an irony too: he fell from grace (heaven to hell), yet his name remains a tether to what he once was.

Let me know if you guys enjoyed this one! Comments, Likes, Reposts, I see them all and really appreciate all the support! Till Next Time!

Willa x.

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[mooningningg]

After You - Satoru G.

about. after a devastating accident pulls you back to tokyo, the last person you expect to see again is gojo satoru — the man who shattered your heart a year ago. You swore you'd never forgive him. But he’s showing up in quiet mornings and rainy afternoons, offering everything you used to love. And no matter how hard you try… you still notice him.

pairings. Gojo x Fem!Reader

words. 12.69k

content. angst, exes to lovers (maybe), slow burn, heavy emotions, crying gojo, yelling reader, emotional breakdowns, single tulip at your door, “don’t touch me”, “oh, toru”, soft flashbacks, hospital scenes, self-sabotage, character growth, gojo on his knees, regret-filled apologies, comfort scenes, pacing in a hotel room, rainy confessions, “i miss you”, sleepless nights, soft touches, holding back tears, emotional tension, love that still lingers

notes. stay up for part two??? winkwink, yll deserve a treat after this.

They say when something awful happens, time slows down.

But for you, it didn’t.

It struck fast and cruel, like the sharp snap of a branch underfoot.

One moment you were rinsing toothpaste from your mouth, scrolling mindlessly through notifications, and the next, your phone was shaking in your hand, someone on the other end barely holding their voice together.

You don’t even remember what they said exactly — only that he was in surgery, and it didn’t sound good.

That was enough.

You were already grabbing whatever clothes you could find, already booking the next flight to Tokyo, already letting your vacation days burn for something that didn’t feel like a break at all.

It had been a while since you heard his voice. Longer since you’d seen his face. But the second you heard the words accident and critical, something inside you collapsed without permission.

You hadn’t cried yet.

Not really.

There wasn’t time for it — only motion, only urgency, only movement that felt like survival.

The grief hadn’t hit.

Not fully. But something close to it was blooming beneath your skin, a cold, buzzing panic that had followed you all the way from your apartment to the terminal to the cab ride now speeding toward the hospital.

You try not to think about who else might be at the hospital.

You haven’t asked.

You couldn’t bring yourself to.

The name lingers at the back of your throat like smoke — like a wound you’ve trained yourself not to touch. Even now, even after all this time, even after all the healing you’ve faked in Kyoto, you can’t say it.

Not even in your head.

Not without feeling your jaw clench, your pulse kick up, your entire body remembering the sting of something you were never supposed to feel.

You wish you could say you’ve moved on.

That the distance between then and now had softened the memory.

That you don’t still flinch when certain songs come on, or when someone with white hair brushes past you too fast on the street.

You wish you could say it doesn’t still live in you — that night, that voice, the sound of betrayal dressed in a whisper.

But it does, and it haunts you every damn time.

And that’s why you don’t let yourself say the name.

Not here.

Not yet.

Not when you’re this close to the hospital, this close to seeing him — the one who didn’t hurt you. The one who never left, even when you did.

Suguru.

His name doesn’t sting.

His name doesn’t tremble when you think it.

He was steady, kind. Always there in the background, holding pieces no one else noticed you’d dropped.

The thought of him lying still in a hospital bed makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t have words for. You’ve known him since your first year of high school — back when the world felt too big and the future felt too far. He was the calm between louder voices, the one who made space for you when everything else felt like too much.

You owe him everything. So when the hospital comes into view — tall, gray, humming under fluorescent lights — you square your shoulders and remind yourself why you’re here. Not for ghosts. Not for memories. Not for names you can’t bring yourself to say.

You’re here for the boy who never let you fall alone.

You’re here for Suguru.

And if something else is waiting for you inside those walls?

You’ll deal with it when it finds you.

The hospital lobby is too bright. That’s the first thing you notice. Too white, too sterile, too cold. The kind of place where time moves weird — where minutes drag and hours vanish and the people sitting around you are all waiting for answers they’re scared to hear.

Your bag hangs heavy off your shoulder as you step through the sliding glass doors. The air smells like bleach and something metallic beneath it. You don’t look around. You just head to the front desk, voice barely steady as you say Suguru’s name.

The nurse gives you a room number and tells you gently, “The surgery ended half an hour ago. He’s stable for now.”

You nod, but your chest doesn’t unclench.

They tell you you’ll have to wait until the doctor clears visitors. So you’re directed to the family waiting room — tucked in a quiet hallway at the end of the cardiology wing. You’re almost afraid to open the door.

But you do.

And the second you step in, you see her.

Shoko sits in the corner of the room, hunched forward with her elbows on her knees, a tissue clutched loosely in one hand. Her eyes are red, but her face is still. Blank. The kind of blank that only comes after hours of holding it in.

She looks up when she hears you enter.

And for a moment, she doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just cross the room and kneel in front of her, the lump in your throat rising the second your eyes meet.

She was the one who called you.

Shoko hadn’t always been part of your circle. She came halfway through high school — quiet at first, almost cold, until she wasn’t. You didn’t expect to grow close to her, but she stuck. A sharp tongue, a good heart. You shared notes, lighter moments, hungover mornings. Somehow, she became someone you trusted. And now she’s here, holding herself like she’ll fall apart if she breathes too hard.

You reach for her hand, and her fingers curl tightly around yours.

“I got the call at 2AM,” she says. Her voice is hoarse. “They said it was bad. That there was… blood. And broken ribs. And—” She stops. Her mouth opens, then closes again. “They didn’t tell me if he was going to make it.”

You squeeze her hand. “He will.”

She lets out a breath, shaky and half-laugh, half-sob. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” you say, even though your voice cracks. “Because he’s Suguru. He’s stubborn as hell. He doesn’t know how to leave.”

Shoko nods, but her lips are trembling now, and when her eyes meet yours again, whatever strength she was holding onto snaps.

The tears fall quietly. No sound at first — just her face crumpling as she leans forward and buries herself in your arms.

You hold her. Tight. The way you wish someone would hold you. Your hand finds the back of her head, and your other arm wraps around her shoulders as she finally breaks. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just broken.

You try to whisper something — It’s okay. You’re not alone. I’m here. But your own voice wavers, and before you can stop it, your cheeks are wet too.

You don’t even know who you’re crying for.

For Suguru, who didn’t deserve this.

For Shoko, who held everything together alone for hours.

For yourself, for everything you left behind and everything you’re being forced to feel all over again.

You cry quietly, tucked into each other like the world outside the waiting room doesn’t exist. You’re not ready to face anything beyond these walls — not the doctors, not the machines, not the possibility of seeing him.

But for now, you don’t have to.

You have Shoko. And she has you.

And maybe that’s enough, just for this moment.

The waiting room stays quiet after that. Just soft footsteps from nurses in the hallway, the buzz of an old TV on low volume, and the occasional sniffle from Shoko as she tries to get her breathing under control. You don’t say much. Neither of you need to. You just sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, hands wrapped around bad vending machine coffee that tastes like burnt water and anxiety.

You checked your phone a few times, but there’s no point. No missed calls. No new updates. Just time dragging its feet, and your knee bouncing without rhythm. At some point, you both gave up and wandered down the hall to the little hospital kiosk — bought crackers you never opened, a bottle of tea, a rice ball you didn’t touch. The cashier didn’t ask questions. You looked too tired for small talk.

The hours stretched thin after that.

Shoko eventually closed her eyes for a bit, curled up awkwardly in one of the waiting chairs, her lab coat draped around her like a blanket. You didn’t sleep. You couldn’t. You just sat there, chewing your lip raw and staring at the hallway.

And then — finally — the door opens.

You shoot up before your brain catches up. Shoko’s eyes snap open too, and you both stand at once when the doctor walks in.

He looks tired, like he’s been on his feet for hours, but there’s a calm in his posture. A professionalism in his voice that makes you cling to every word.

“He made it through surgery,” he says. “There was a lot of internal bruising, several fractured ribs, and a ruptured spleen. The bleeding was significant, but we got to it in time. He’s stable now. Still unconscious, but responsive to touch. We’re keeping him under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”

You nod too quickly, almost like it’ll make the information easier to digest. Shoko’s breath hitches beside you.

“You can see him,” the doctor adds. “But keep it short, please. He needs rest.”

You thank him, voice barely audible, then follow the quiet sound of his footsteps down the hall. The fluorescent lights feel too bright again. The tiles echo under your shoes.

When he stops at the room, something in your chest twists.

The doctor opens the door, gives a polite nod, and leaves.

You step in.

The beeping is the first thing you hear — soft and steady. Machines monitoring a rhythm that, hours ago, almost stopped entirely. The lights are dimmed low, and the smell of antiseptic clings to everything.

Suguru looks... small.

Not physically. He’s still tall, still long-limbed, still very much the person you remember. But there’s something in the way he’s lying there — skin pale, an oxygen line resting under his nose, his arm bandaged and strapped with IV lines — that makes your heart lurch into your throat.

You take slow steps to the side of his bed. Shoko hovers beside you, her hand covering her mouth like she’s trying not to break again.

There’s a chair near the headboard, and you take it.

“Hey,” you whisper. Your voice feels too loud, even though it barely comes out.

His eyes are shut. There’s a bruise just beneath his cheekbone, faint yellow mixed with violet. You wonder if he even knows you’re here.

Shoko steps closer, brushing a hand over his hair, like maybe that’ll wake him. She doesn’t say anything either. Just stares down at him like she still can’t believe it’s real.

You swallow thickly and rest your hand near his — not touching, but close enough that he’d feel it if he shifted.

“You scared the shit out of us,” you murmur.

Still nothing.

But he’s breathing. That’s enough. For now, that’s enough.

You lean back in the chair and press your palm to your chest, trying to quiet the chaos inside you.

He’s here. He’s alive.

And as long as he is — you can keep going.

You’re not sure how long you sit there in silence, just watching the slow rise and fall of Suguru’s chest. His skin looks pale against the sheets. His lips are chapped. There’s a machine next to him that lets out a soft hiss every few seconds, and the sound digs under your skin like a pin.

Shoko stands near the window, arms crossed, eyes unfocused. She hasn’t cried again, but you can still see the weight in her face — like something’s pressing down hard on her shoulders and she’s too stubborn to fall under it.

You speak first, voice low. “Do they know what happened?”

She blinks, like the question had to filter through layers of static. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, the cops called me after I got here.”

You wait.

“They said it was a truck. Some delivery driver lost control—snow slicked road, poor brakes. It was too fast. Hit Suguru on the driver’s side.” She swallows. “They said he probably didn’t even see it coming.”

Your fingers tighten in your lap. The thought of Suguru alone in a car, unaware, unable to stop what was coming—something about it twists in your stomach and won’t let go.

“They said if the ambulance came two minutes later…” Shoko doesn’t finish.

You don’t ask her to.

The silence after is full. Not empty — just packed with things neither of you want to name. So you stare at the beeping monitor instead, and try to focus on the rhythm. It helps. A little.

Then Shoko’s phone rings.

She looks down, already irritated before she even sees the screen. But when she does, her lips press into a thin line. Her jaw flexes.

You don’t need to ask.

You already know.

It’s like your whole body freezes. Like your bones remember something your mind worked so hard to forget. You feel your pulse spike, chest tightening, the cold creeping in from somewhere deep inside.

“I should get this,” she mutters, eyes flicking toward you.

You don’t move. You can’t even nod. But she’s already turning away, already answering.

“Where are you, Satoru?” she snaps, low and sharp, the words like glass.

And just like that, it’s back.

His name.

Said out loud for the first time in a year. Like it never left the earth. Like it hasn’t been rotting quietly in the dark corners of your memory. It lands heavy, sharp — like someone carved it straight into your skin without asking.

You inhale too fast. Look away. Pretend to focus on Suguru’s hand.

Shoko paces a little, voice hushed now but tense. “No—don’t pull that. Don’t—Satoru, you should’ve been here hours ago. He could’ve died.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard.

Not now. This isn’t about him. This isn’t why you’re here. You came for Suguru — because he’s your friend. Because he’s family. Because he never broke you.

But you can hear Shoko’s voice still, even as she walks toward the hallway, trying not to disturb you.

“Yeah. She’s here. What the hell do you expect me to say to her?”

It’s too much.

Your chest tightens, and the room suddenly feels smaller — like the walls are pressing in, like the air’s been sucked out. You stare at Suguru harder, like maybe he’ll wake up and give you something to cling to. A joke. A complaint. A tired smirk.

But he’s asleep. And he is coming.

You push your chair back, quietly. The scrape of the legs on the tile is soft but enough to break Shoko’s focus for a second. She glances back, still holding the phone against her ear, and your eyes meet.

You don’t say anything.

You just need to leave before you fall apart.

You need air. You need to walk. You need to remember how to exist without his name ringing in your ears.

Because four years ended on a Tuesday.

Just like that.

And now he’s coming back into your life like the silence he left behind wasn’t loud enough.

You won’t break.

Not for him.

Not again.

You don’t wait for her to come back in fully.

You’ve already grabbed your bag from the floor, fingers fumbling for the zipper, pretending you’re not moving too fast, pretending your heart isn’t crashing against your ribs like a trapped thing.

Shoko steps into the room slowly, her phone still in her hand, like she’s trying to approach you without startling you.

“Y/N—” she starts, but doesn’t get the whole sentence out.

You’re already swinging your bag over your shoulder. “I need to check in. I haven’t… I haven’t rented anything yet. I need to figure that out.”

She frowns. “What?”

“I mean, I was thinking of staying somewhere for a few weeks. Like that Mimaru place in Ueno East. The one with the little kitchen. I think I saw a listing still open. I need to book it now—while I still can.”

You’re not making sense. You both know it. But your voice keeps pushing forward, carrying you through the panic, through the fog, like if you just keep talking, none of this will catch up to you.

Shoko steps in front of you before you can reach the door. “Y/N.”

You won’t look at her.

She exhales hard, trying again. “He’s coming. Satoru’s on his way.”

Your eyes snap up. The name, again. Spoken like it doesn’t hurt. But it does. It cracks something inside you, sharp and instant.

“I know,” you say flatly. “That’s why I need to go.”

“Y/N, wait—”

“I came here for Suguru,” you say, louder now, your voice starting to shake. “Not for him. I didn’t ask to see him. I didn’t want to see him. I can’t.”

Shoko’s expression tightens. Her eyes soften, but her jaw sets with a kind of stubborn kindness only she could pull off.

“This isn’t about you and him right now.”

Your laugh is bitter, short. “No? It feels pretty damn close.”

“I’m still mad about it,” she snaps. “Do you think I forgave him? I haven’t. I still want to punch him every time I remember what he did to you. But this isn’t about him. Or about you. This is about Suguru. He needs both of you here. Whether you like it or not.”

You shake your head. “I can’t be in the same room as him, Shoko.”

“Then don’t talk to him.” Her voice is quieter now, but firmer. “Don’t look at him. Just stay. For Suguru. That’s all I’m asking.”

You stare at her, trying to find something to fight with — a reason, an excuse, anything that doesn’t sound like I’m scared, because that’s what it really is. You’re scared. Of how he’ll look at you. Of how your voice might betray you. Of the way your heart is already acting like it remembers him — and it shouldn’t.

Shoko sees it. All of it. You don’t say a word, but your silence screams.

She takes a step closer.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you in a year,” she says quietly. “A whole year, Y/N.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

“I missed you.”

Her voice is so soft, it lands right where your defenses are thinnest. You look at her — really look — and you see it in her face: everything she’s carried, everything she’s held together without you. You weren’t the only one who lost something when you left.

The room stays still for a long beat.

And you?

You just hold your bag a little tighter. Because you’re not sure what else you can hold onto right now.

You’ve been staring at your phone for the last twenty minutes, screen dim, thumb barely scrolling. You’re not reading anything. Not really. You just need something to look at that isn’t the door. Something to occupy the space inside your chest that’s been on high alert ever since Shoko stood up and said, “I’ll go get him.”

You didn’t ask her to.

But you didn’t stop her either.

Suguru hasn’t moved. His breathing stays slow, steady, the beeping of the monitors calm like he’s just napping after a long night. Every few minutes, your gaze drifts from your phone back to him. You wonder what he’d say if he were awake. You wonder if he’d be pissed or grateful. Maybe both. He was always better at reading people than you were.

You check the time again. The hallway outside is too quiet.

And then — footsteps.

Two pairs. Light, but unhurried. The sound of them makes something cold unfurl in your stomach.

You don’t lift your head. You don’t need to.

He’s here.

You knew he was. You felt it before Shoko even said she was going to meet him at the entrance — probably so the nurses wouldn’t assume he was some random six-foot-two man barging into the ICU like he owned the place. Because that’s what he looked like. Always did.

Even now, when Shoko opens the door and walks in first, your spine goes stiff.

And then he enters.

You don’t raise your eyes at first. You feel it instead — the way the air in the room shifts like it always used to. The weight of him. The gravity. It always demanded your attention.

And slowly, inevitably, you look up.

The same white hair. Tousled, like he ran his hand through it on the way here. No blindfold. No sunglasses. Just those eyes — the ones that used to soften when they looked at you, like you were something holy.

They’re just blue now. Plain and clear and impossible to forget.

You don’t mean to stare.

But in that second, you remember everything.

The way he used to walk you home, flicking your forehead and laughing at how dramatic you were. The way he used to kiss the top of your head like it was second nature. The night you fell asleep in his lap while he crammed for a test he never studied for. The four years of being so stupidly, completely his.

And then — the night you weren’t enough.

The night he told you everything and cried while you sat there, feeling like something hollow and discarded. The night you walked out of his apartment with a suitcase in your hand and everything else in pieces.

Your eyes drop back to Suguru, and you don’t look again.

He almost says something. You hear the breath catch in his throat, like he’s reaching for your name.

But Shoko is faster.

“Don’t talk to her,” she says under her breath, cutting her eyes toward him like a warning. “Give her space.”

A beat. And then he exhales — long and quiet, like it knocked something loose in his chest.

You keep your eyes on Suguru.

Because you came for him. Not for this. Not for him.

Satoru bites it back. Sighs, low and tired. Rubs the back of his neck.

Because she’s right.

You don’t owe him a damn thing. Not a word. Not a look.

He hurt you — ruined everything — in one night.

And now?

Now you’re sitting there like the four years he loved you never happened at all.

But you’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.

And he’s still the one who destroyed it.

You hadn’t meant to remember.

But sometimes, when the room gets too still — when the hum of the fridge starts to sound like silence, when the chair beneath you feels too familiar — it creeps back in. All of it.

The mornings first.

You used to wake up in a sun-drenched room that wasn’t yours, pressed beneath heavy sheets and even heavier limbs. Satoru always slept like he was trying to pin you to the mattress. A leg flung over yours. Arms around your waist. Sometimes his face buried in your shoulder, breath warm on your skin as he mumbled nonsense in his sleep.

He was terrible at waking up.

Always five alarms deep, groaning, dragging himself out of bed like gravity only worked on him. But for you? He made coffee. Every time. Milk and one sugar. Sometimes he forgot the sugar and tried to kiss it back into your mouth later, laughing when you told him he tasted like regret and half-burnt toast.

You used to study together — or at least, you tried to. Satoru got bored easily. You’d be neck-deep in notes while he stacked highlighters into towers or played with your hair, asking what you thought you’d name your future dog. Somehow, you always let him distract you.

Some nights you sat in the tiny ramen shop near the corner of your dorms, sharing pork broth and teasing him about getting extra noodles when he was already full. He never listened. Always said, “If I die, at least it’s with miso in my veins.”

He was loud in crowds, but soft with you. Always softer with you.

Fingers brushing yours under tables. A kiss to the side of your head as you walked. His hand resting on the back of your neck when you leaned forward — like he needed the contact, even in silence.

He took pictures of you when you weren’t looking.

And then laughed when you caught him.

You fought sometimes. Of course you did. Over nothing and everything — who forgot to text, who didn’t show up on time, what he said that came out too sharp. But he always came back. Always found you.

The rooftop of the engineering building. The lawn under the cherry blossom trees in spring. That 24-hour diner you hated but he loved, with neon lights that made your skin look like paper.

He made you laugh until your ribs hurt.

He danced with you in the hallway once, music playing from his phone speaker, swaying clumsily in socked feet on polished floor. Told you, “This is what people mean when they say forever.”

And you believed him.

God, you really did.

You memorized the shape of him — the curve of his grin, the dip of his collarbone, the little mole near his jaw he always forgot about.

He was your first home that wasn’t a place.

And for a while... it felt like enough.

It felt like always.

You didn’t just love him.

You chose him.

Again and again, even when it didn’t make sense. Even when everything else told you not to.

It wasn’t just coffee in the mornings and laughter under cherry blossoms. It wasn’t just the warm way he’d look at you when he thought you weren’t watching.

It was the night he drank too much after bombing a midterm he swore he didn’t care about. You were halfway through your own exam — thirty minutes in, pen moving furiously — when your phone started buzzing in your lap. Over and over. Shoko. Then Nanami. Then finally, a stranger.

The bar manager’s voice was sharp. Impatient. “Is this Y/N? You need to get down here now. He’s making a scene.”

You didn’t finish the test.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t even grab your jacket.

You just ran.

All the way to the cheap bar two blocks off campus where Satoru was slumped in a booth, laughing too loud, eyes glassy, one arm hanging off the edge like he was too big for the world. People were staring. A manager was yelling. Telling you they should call the cops. That he wasn’t your problem.

But he was.

He always was.

You apologized until your voice went hoarse. Helped him up even though he was twice your size. Held his hand like it could shield you both from the embarrassment burning up your cheeks. Got him home, into his room, into bed, and stayed by his side the whole night while he muttered half-coherent regrets into the pillow.

You missed the exam.

Your professor didn’t let you retake it.

Your parents didn’t understand either.

“You're throwing your future away for some boy?” “He can take care of himself, Y/N — why is it always you picking him up?” “He’s not your responsibility.”

But you loved him.

And that made it worth it.

At least back then, it did.

He had this way of holding your face when you cried. Like nothing else existed. Like your sadness deserved reverence. His thumbs would brush under your eyes, soft and steady, and he’d whisper things like, “If it hurts, I’ll make it stop. You just tell me how.”

He made you believe he could fix anything.

That nothing could go wrong as long as you had him.

He’d show up to your apartment with cheap takeout and a new playlist, saying, “You looked tired in your texts. This is recovery food and sonic healing.”

He’d kiss your knuckles in the middle of arguments, just to calm you down.

He’d carry your backpack after class even when you said it was fine. “It’s not about weight,” he said once, “it’s about letting you know I’m here.”

And God, you let him be there.

Even when it cost you sleep.

Even when it cost you grades.

Even when it started to cost you you.

Because being with Satoru made you feel like you were bulletproof — like nothing could touch you, not the world, not failure, not loneliness. He filled your days with so much light, you didn’t realize how dim you were becoming just to keep him shining.

You gave him everything.

Even the ugly parts. The selfish parts. The ones you’d never shown anyone else.

You gave him the parts of you that you now wish you’d saved.

Because at the time, you thought he’d keep them safe.

And for a while… He did.

It had been raining that week too.

Not softly. Not romantic or warm. Just endless, grey, and cold — the kind of weather that felt like it was leaking through the cracks in your life.

Things had been rocky for a while. A month, maybe more. Missed calls. Short replies. Less eye contact. More space between your bodies in bed.

You told yourself it was stress. Finals. His internship. The late nights, the shift in his tone when you asked where he’d been. You told yourself not to spiral.

Until the night he came home at one in the morning.

The dorm was dark. Just the little desk lamp you kept on while studying, your notes spread out in front of you, highlighter ink staining your fingertips. You were barely awake. Shoulders tense, eyes sore.

You didn’t even hear the door unlock.

You only noticed when the floor creaked — and then there he was, dripping rainwater on the hardwood, wiping his shoes half-heartedly on the mat.

He looked exhausted.

But not in the way you did.

You stared at him for a second.

Then said quietly, “You didn’t text.”

He ran a hand through his hair, didn’t look at you. “I figured you were busy.”

“I was. Still am.”

And when he finally turned his head, you saw it.

Just a flicker of it. Half-hidden beneath the line of his jaw, peeking out from the collar of his hoodie.

A kiss mark.

Faint. But real.

You froze.

He didn’t notice — or maybe he did. Maybe he thought you wouldn’t say anything.

But you did.

“…What’s on your neck?”

His mouth twitched.

“What?”

“Your neck,” you repeated, voice thin. “What is that?”

He didn’t answer.

And you knew.

You knew.

You pushed back your chair. Stood. Let the question fall again, louder, uglier, something in your throat already cracking:

“Who was it?”

He scoffed.

Like it was ridiculous.

Like you were.

“Seriously?” he said. “You’re going to start this now?”

“Start—? Are you fucking kidding me—?”

“It’s not a big deal,” he muttered, already walking past you toward the kitchen. “God, I was drunk.”

Your chest burned.

“Drunk?” You followed him. “You let someone put their mouth on you and you’re calling it not a big deal?”

“It wasn’t. I didn’t mean for it to happen, alright?”

Your voice splintered.

“So it did happen.”

That made him pause.

And when he turned around, something in his face was wrong. Not defensive. Not even sorry.

Just tired.

Like this conversation bored him.

“Look,” he said, “I was overwhelmed. You don’t— You don’t understand what it’s been like lately. Everything’s too fucking much, alright? I can’t breathe around you anymore.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

“You’re always hovering,” he snapped. “Always checking in. Always making things heavy. You act like I’m your responsibility or something. I didn’t ask you to give up your classes for me. I didn’t ask you to pick me up from every shitty bar or cover for me with your parents—”

“I did that because I loved you,” you choked.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t feel like love. It feels like guilt. Like pressure. Like I can’t mess up without you holding it over my head.”

You stared at him.

And you realized something, in that moment.

He didn’t just betray you.

He resented you.

Everything you did — the nights you skipped sleep, the classes you missed, the way you fought for him harder than you ever fought for yourself — he hated it. He hated being held up like that. He hated the version of you that refused to leave, even when he gave you reasons to.

And he hated how small it made him feel.

“Then why didn’t you just say it?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you just tell me you didn’t want me anymore?”

Satoru looked away.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t apologize.

You waited for him to say something that could undo it. Even now, even bleeding — you waited.

But all he said was:

“I didn’t think it would get this far.”

That was the moment something inside you died.

The part that still believed in him.

The part that thought maybe you were different. That the four years, the late-night confessions, the mornings wrapped in each other — that it all meant something solid. Something real.

Instead, you stood there in a room full of shattered promises, rain pounding against the windows like it was trying to drown out the silence between you.

You grabbed your coat.

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t reach for your hand.

Didn’t chase you down the hallway or beg you to stay.

Because you weren’t his anymore.

Not after that.

Not ever again.

The hotel room is too quiet.

You’re curled into the corner of the couch, knees drawn up, a cup of coffee resting warm between your palms. The city outside your window is buzzing — lights flashing, cars passing — but in here, it’s still.

Still enough for old ghosts to come knocking.

Your laptop sits forgotten in your lap, the screen dimmed out minutes ago, maybe longer. You don’t remember what you were typing. You barely remember what you were thinking. All you know is that your brain hasn’t stopped spinning since the hospital.

Since you saw him.

It wasn’t the face that undid you — though even now, you can see it in the reflection of the black screen. White hair. Blue eyes. The shadow of a man you used to love more than you loved your own future.

No — it was the memory.

It came back fast. Uninvited.

One minute you were standing in that sterile room next to Shoko, pretending you didn’t feel him looking at you. The next, you were back in that tiny dorm, the rain against the window, his voice in your ears again like a curse.

"I didn’t think it would get this far."

That.

That was the part that still makes your throat close.

Not the cheating.

Not even the kiss mark on his neck.

But the way he made your love feel like an accident.

Like some burden he didn’t ask for. Something you did wrong.

And you hate him for that.

You fucking hate him.

You hate how those words still live in your chest like splinters. How even now, a year later, after therapy and silence and pretending you’re healed, the memory still makes your coffee taste bitter.

You stare down into the mug.

It’s lukewarm now. You should get up. Reheat it. Do anything other than sit here and replay what broke you.

But your body won’t move.

Because there’s a part of you — the part you thought you buried — that still wonders what you did to deserve it.

That part is quieter now, sure. Duller. But it’s there.

It whispers things you don’t want to hear.

That maybe you were too much. That maybe loving someone that hard was suffocating. That maybe if you had just—

You stop yourself.

You swallow it down.

Because no. No — fuck that.

You didn’t break the promise. You didn’t kiss someone else. You didn’t turn four years into a footnote just because things got hard.

He did that.

He chose that.

And no amount of blue eyes or half-hearted apologies will ever change it.

You press the coffee to your lips, even though it’s cold.

Even though it tastes like memory.

And somewhere in your chest, the hate sits quietly — not burning, not loud. Just there.

Heavy, unmovable and earned.

The hotel room was too still.

Too quiet without Shoko's tired sighs or your footsteps moving from the kitchen to the bathroom. No clinking mugs, no charger cords stretched across the bed, no rustling of your oversized hoodie as you curled up with your laptop. Just... silence. And the heavy hum of the air conditioner that sounded too much like guilt.

Satoru leaned back against the headboard, still fully dressed. Jacket unzipped, shoes on, fingers twitching at his sides like they were looking for something to hold onto. But there was nothing left to hold.

You were gone.

And he felt it — finally, in full.

He stared at the bedside lamp, too dim. The walls, too blank. His chest, too fucking empty.

It had taken him a long time to realize what your absence meant. Months, maybe. At first, he called it space. Told himself he was giving you room to “cool off,” to “think.” As if you were the one who needed to apologize.

But then a week passed.

And another.

And then… it hit him.

Not in a dramatic way. No thunderstrike. No collapse.

Just little things.

Like how no one reminded him to eat before heading out to meetings.

How his keys were always missing now, and you weren’t there to laugh and say “Left side coat pocket, dumbass.”

How his apartment stayed cold all the time. How the bathroom floor was always wet. How the playlist in his car kept skipping over the songs you used to sing quietly along to — not because he removed them, but because he couldn’t bring himself to listen anymore.

And then it hit harder.

The way his laundry piled up. The way his calendar never got updated. The way he showed up late to everything, forgot birthdays, left unread emails for days.

You used to handle those things. Not because you had to.

But because you wanted to.

Because you loved him.

And Satoru hadn’t even realized.

He hadn’t seen how much of his life you filled — how much of his chaos you softened with a simple glance, a kiss to the shoulder, a quiet, “Hey, it’s okay, I’ve got this.”

He took it all for granted.

Your steadiness. Your small routines. The way you made his favorite tea when he was too exhausted to lift a finger. How you made to-do lists for him and stuck them to the mirror in neon pink sticky notes that always ended with “♥ please don’t forget.”

He remembered the time he was sick for three days and you stayed up, head foggy from your own fever, just to make sure he drank water. The time he failed a certification test and you said nothing — just let him lay in your lap and cry, fingers stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

You never asked for thanks.

You never asked for anything.

And he gave you everything but loyalty.

Now, sitting in this goddamn hotel room with the overpriced minibar and the empty second pillow, he finally saw it.

He would’ve given his blood, his name, his stupid pride — anything — just to hear you laugh again.

That soft, slightly breathless laugh when he said something dumb. The kind that made your nose scrunch and your eyes soften like he was the only boy in the world.

And now it was gone.

You were gone.

And he’d never hated himself more than in this moment — not when you cried, not even when he walked out of your apartment for the last time.

It was now, in the silence.

In the knowing.

That he let something extraordinary slip through his hands — and he did it thinking he’d still have time.

He thought he could fuck up and still be loved.

He thought you’d always come back.

And he was wrong.

So devastatingly, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

There’s a knock at the door.

Sharp. Twice.

Satoru doesn’t move at first. He doesn’t want to deal with anyone, let alone a hotel staff member asking if he wants fresh towels. But then the door handle turns, and only one person on earth would be both ballsy and polite enough to knock before breaking in.

Nanami.

“You look like shit,” he says bluntly, stepping inside.

Satoru doesn’t respond. Just stares ahead at nothing, still slouched against the headboard, still in yesterday’s clothes, still silent.

Nanami doesn’t expect a hello. He just sets down the takeout bag in his hand and walks over to the chair by the window, shrugging off his coat.

“You haven’t left this room in two days,” he says. “Shoko told me.”

Satoru exhales. A bitter, tired sound.

“I’ve had worse.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Nanami says, crossing one leg over the other. “But this is pathetic. Even for you.”

Satoru finally shifts — just enough to glance over.

“You came here to insult me?”

“No,” Nanami says coolly. “I came here so you’d stop marinating in your own regret like a dying poet.”

Satoru snorts.

Then falls quiet again.

A beat passes. The air is thick.

Then, without looking over, Satoru mutters:

“…You think she’ll take me back?”

Nanami doesn’t answer right away.

He leans back in the chair. Eyes him for a long, quiet second.

“No,” he says, flatly.

Satoru flinches. Just a little. Like he was hoping for something softer, even from him.

But Nanami’s never been one to sugarcoat truth.

“Not now. Maybe not ever.”

Satoru rubs a hand down his face. His fingers twitch in his lap.

“She won’t even look at me,” he says, voice low. “At the hospital, she just sat there. Like I was invisible.”

Nanami nods.

“She should.”

Satoru glances at him, brows drawn.

And Nanami continues, tone calm but cutting.

“She loved you like you hung the stars. Gave you her time, her future, her energy — all without asking for anything back. And you... what? You broke her. Because what — you got scared? Bored? Tempted?”

“I fucked up,” Satoru says, almost choking on the words. “I know that.”

“Do you?”

“Don’t do that,” he snaps. “Don’t act like I don’t care—”

“I’m not saying you don’t,” Nanami cuts in. “I’m saying caring doesn’t undo what you did.”

Satoru looks away.

Silence again.

Until finally—

“I miss her so much, Nanami.”

And this time it’s not snark. Not deflection. It’s raw. Soft. A wound speaking directly.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, eyes glossing over. “I keep checking my phone like she’s going to message. I keep thinking I’ll bump into her at that stupid bento shop she likes. I—”

He breaks off. Exhales shakily.

“I remember everything. The way she’d wake me up by pulling the blanket off. The way she’d tie her hair in a lazy bun and still look prettier than anyone else. She used to hum when she studied. I used to hate that sound but now it’s the only thing I want to hear.”

Nanami stays quiet.

Lets him spill.

“I didn’t think she’d really leave,” Satoru says, quieter now. “I thought… no matter how bad it got, she’d still—”

“But she did,” Nanami interrupts. “She did leave. Because she had to.”

Satoru clenches his jaw. Stares at the floor.

And Nanami softens — just a little.

“She loved you,” he says. “Maybe still does. But don’t confuse love with forgiveness.”

Satoru doesn’t reply.

Nanami leans forward. Folds his hands together.

“If you want her back,” he says slowly, “then fix yourself. And not for her — for you. Because the man she loved wouldn’t have done what you did. And right now, she’s mourning him.”

Satoru’s throat tightens.

And in the quiet that follows, he finally understands—

You didn’t just walk away.

You grieved him.

The version of him that held you up when the world got too loud. The boy who remembered your drink order, who studied your face like scripture, who promised you forever and meant it — once.

And now, if he ever wants you back...

He has to become him again, or lose you forever.

It started small.

The morning after Nanami’s visit, Satoru was out of bed before nine for the first time in a month.

No excuses. No dragging. He just got up.

He shaved. Trimmed the chaos that had started taking root under his jaw. Cleaned out his inbox. Replied to four different emails that had been blinking red for a week. Caught up on overdue reports. Folded the wrinkled laundry that had been thrown over the back of his couch since god-knows-when.

Old Satoru wouldn’t have done any of that.

Old Satoru would’ve rolled over, groaned, and told the world to wait.

But the old Satoru didn’t have to see you in the hallway every morning with your clipboard and your unreadable face, your footsteps quick and careful, your eyes never lingering for long.

The old Satoru didn’t know what it felt like to be invisible to the only person he still cared about.

The first few days passed slow.

Suguru still didn’t wake up. Shoko said it was normal — healing was complicated. But Satoru started showing up every evening, sitting quietly by the window, watching you from across the room as you read or dozed or just… stared.

You never acknowledged him.

He didn’t expect you to.

But that didn’t stop him from hoping.

On the third day, he brought coffee.

Two cups.

He walked into the room like it was casual, like it didn’t mean anything, even though his heart was fucking racing. He held out the one you liked — same brand, same custom syrup pump you always asked for — and waited.

You didn’t even look at it.

Just reached into your bag, pulled out your own drink, and set it next to you without a word.

Satoru stood there for a second, awkwardly holding two coffees like a dumbass.

“…Yeah, okay,” he muttered, forcing a smile. “I mean, I’ll take both. That’s fine. I’m kind of sleepy anyway.”

You didn’t respond.

Didn’t even blink.

He sat down in the corner and drank both.

It was bitter. It stung. But he drank every drop.

Later that night, he got back to his apartment and opened up his calendar for the first time in ages. Started color-coding deadlines. Deleted all the mindless things that used to fill his days — the parties, the after-work bar crawls, the late-night games that ended in blurry mornings and hangovers.

He started doing things differently.

Up early.

Work first.

Texting Nanami back on time. Saying thank you to the admin assistants. Actually sitting in team meetings without slouching and zoning out.

He didn’t tell anyone why.

Didn’t say your name.

But they all noticed.

Even the higher-ups. The ones who used to roll their eyes when he sauntered in late with sunglasses and a grin.

“About time you cleaned up,” one of them muttered when he handed in a project two days early.

Satoru didn’t react.

He just nodded.

And went back to work.

Then came the rain.

The kind that turned the city into a blur of umbrellas and blurry headlights.

He was already waiting near the hospital entrance, standing under the awning, sipping a warm can of coffee from the vending machine when he saw you coming from the crosswalk — no umbrella, shoulders hunched, phone pressed to your ear.

Instinct moved him before logic could stop it.

He jogged forward, umbrella open, arm already outstretched as he stepped into your path.

“Here,” he said gently. “Let me—”

You looked at him.

And then walked faster.

No words.

No hesitation.

Just a sharp, desperate speed-walk that ended with you darting under the building overhang, water dripping from your sleeves.

He stood there in the rain like a statue, still holding the umbrella, watching your back disappear into the building.

And he swallowed it.

Didn’t chase. Didn’t speak.

He just walked back to the vending machine.

And bought another can of coffee.

Because even if you didn’t want his help, even if you didn’t want to be near him — he did want to be better.

Not just for you.

But because he hated the version of himself you had to leave.

Back at work, things changed more.

He started showing up to staff meetings early. Left detailed notes for people who missed presentations. Picked up projects he usually would’ve pawned off. He even reached out to Suguru’s old team — offered to help cover while they waited for him to recover.

He said it was out of obligation.

But everyone knew.

It was guilt. It was hope.

It was you.

A week passed like that.

With silent coffees. Awkward hallway glances. You ignoring him in every room. And Satoru not asking for more than that.

He didn’t deserve it yet.

But he was trying.

God, he was trying.

He was halfway through a meeting when his phone buzzed.

He didn’t even glance at the caller ID. Just grabbed it, eyes still on the spreadsheet his coworker was rambling about — until he heard her voice.

“Hey,” Shoko said. She sounded… different. Lighter. Like something huge had just cracked open.

“He’s awake.”

That was all she needed to say.

Satoru didn’t respond — didn’t even bother with a “thanks” — just stood up mid-meeting, shoved his laptop shut, and practically ran out of the office with his blazer flapping behind him and a half-apology to Nanami trailing off in his wake.

The drive felt like a blur. Like time didn’t matter. The whole world melted around the edges, and all he could think about was Suguru. Awake. Breathing. Alive.

By the time he pushed through the hospital doors, his pulse was racing.

And when he reached the room—

He stopped.

You were already there.

And for the first time in a year, he saw it.

Your smile.

Not polite. Not forced. Real.

It was soft, crooked, slightly teary — the kind of smile people only made when they thought they’d lost something for good and finally got it back.

You were leaning over Suguru’s bed, whispering something that made him grin, bandaged and groggy but alive, eyes warm even through the haze of meds. Your hand was resting near his — not touching, but close enough to feel like home.

And then—

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Suguru muttered with a hoarse laugh.

Satoru blinked.

And then that grin — the old one, the bright, obnoxious, Satoru fucking Gojo grin — stretched across his face.

“Well, well, well,” he said, stepping inside like he hadn’t just been holding back tears in the hallway. “Took you long enough, Sleeping Beauty.”

Suguru snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Where’s my kiss, then?”

“Oh, don’t tempt me.”

“You’re not my type.”

Satoru laughed. It came out louder than he meant, unfiltered and boyish and almost too much — but Suguru chuckled too, and suddenly, it felt like college again. Like rooftops and vending machine snacks and stupid inside jokes that never really left them.

They bantered for a while — something about Suguru's gross hospital food, how Shoko would definitely milk this for free drinks, how Nanami probably scolded the surgeon about punctuality. You giggled under your breath once or twice.

And then—

He looked at you.

And this time, you didn’t look away.

Your eyes found his.

And you smiled.

Small. Hesitant. But bright.

Like maybe… maybe this didn’t have to be permanent.

Like maybe, just maybe, there was still something left.

Something worth rebuilding.

Satoru’s breath caught in his throat — just for a second. Just long enough for his chest to swell, full of something warm and familiar and just a little bit fragile.

Because after all the silence, all the avoidance, all the cold hallway glances and slammed doors in the rain —

You were looking at him again.

And smiling.

And for the first time in over a year, Satoru felt alive.

Shoko and you had already gone.

Just one visitor at a time, per the doctor’s rules — the earlier exception was rare and temporary. So now, it was just Satoru and Suguru. Quiet between them. The hospital room had dimmed, the sun finally starting to fall behind the skyline, painting the walls soft orange and grey.

Satoru sat by the window, legs stretched out, fingers loosely linked in his lap.

Suguru cleared his throat, careful of the soreness still in his ribs.

“She smiled at you.”

Satoru blinked. Looked up. “Huh?”

Suguru smirked faintly. “Just now. You didn’t notice?”

He had.

Of course he had. He’d been thinking about it since the moment it happened.

“I noticed,” Satoru murmured.

Suguru looked at him for a moment longer. Then, without preamble, he asked, “You’ve talked to her at all?”

Satoru sighed. Shook his head.

“She won’t speak to me,” he said, voice low. “Barely looks at me. I’ve tried. Not with words, not yet. But... I’ve tried.”

Suguru raised a brow. “Tried how?”

That’s when Satoru leaned back in the chair, ran a hand through his hair, and really spoke — for the first time in what felt like years.

“I stopped waiting for her to forgive me,” he said. “Started working on being someone who deserves it. Even if I never get it.”

He paused. Swallowed thickly.

“I started showing up to work early. Got ahead of deadlines. I picked up your old assignments, handled team rotations, replied to every message Nanami ever complained I ignored. I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol since the day she ran in the rain to avoid standing under my umbrella.”

Suguru blinked.

“She what?”

“Yeah,” Satoru laughed once, bitter. “I waited at the hospital entrance like some fool with an umbrella, and she just looked at me… and ran. Didn’t say a word.”

Suguru tried not to smile, but it tugged at his lips anyway.

“I’ve been bringing her coffee sometimes,” Satoru added. “Doesn’t take it. She brings her own now. Same order, but not from our place.”

Another pause.

“I know I don’t deserve her,” he said. “And I know what I did was—” He stopped. Breathed. “It was more than a mistake. It was selfish. Cowardly. I broke something that took four years to build just because I didn’t know how to sit with my own fear. She gave me everything. Even when she was tired. Even when I didn’t thank her. And I...”

He trailed off again. This time, when he looked up, his voice cracked a little.

“I’d give anything to hear her call me Toru again.”

Suguru looked at him for a long time. The kind of look only someone who’s known you your whole life can give — layered with exhaustion, history, love, and disappointment.

“I hated what you did,” he said plainly. “Still do.”

Satoru nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”

“But,” Suguru added, “I’ve also never seen you like this.”

Satoru blinked.

“I mean it,” he continued. “You’ve always had your charm, your talent, your big talk. But this... this quiet version of you, the one who's finally earning things instead of expecting them handed over with a smile — she would’ve loved to see this.”

“I’m too late,” Satoru said, rubbing his thumb against the corner of his lip. “She’s moved on. Or worse — she’s numb to me.”

“I don’t think she’s numb.”

Satoru looked at him.

“I think she’s scared,” Suguru said. “You broke her, Satoru. And people don’t just bounce back from that. But I also think... if she didn’t still feel something, she wouldn’t have come back to see me.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Another beat.

“You want her back?” Suguru asked.

“With everything I have.”

“Then don’t rush it. Don’t corner her. And don’t try to be the man you were before. Be the man she should’ve had all along.”

Satoru exhaled shakily. “What if I don’t know how?”

“You do,” Suguru said, with a tired, certain smile. “You’ve already started.”

And for the first time in months, Satoru didn’t feel like he was drowning in regret.

He felt like maybe — just maybe — he was finally learning how to swim.

You just needed five minutes.

Five minutes away from the machines and the disinfectant, the humming lights, the weight of watching Suguru sleep like if you looked away, he’d disappear again.

So you stepped outside. Coffee in hand. Hoodie pulled up. The sky above Tokyo already dimming into something slate grey, the kind of quiet that warns you rain’s on its way.

You were halfway down the path to the little hospital garden when it happened.

A stranger — tall, in a rush, barely looking — bumped into you shoulder-first. Your hand jolted. Coffee sloshed over your sweater, hot and bitter and ruining the one piece of comfort you had on your body.

“Oh— shit, I’m sorry,” the guy muttered, already walking backward, not even waiting for you to respond.

You stood there, stunned. Chest heaving just slightly. Coffee dripping down your sleeves. Fingers clenched. And not because of the spill — not really.

It was everything else. It was the year that gutted you. The ache that didn’t leave. The fact that you still woke up thinking about someone who ripped you in half like it was an accident.

And then, of course—

“You okay?”

You froze.

Your heart didn’t. It stuttered like it remembered something you didn’t ask it to.

He jogged the last few steps toward you, eyes flicking to your shirt, the wet stain already starting to cool against your skin.

“I’ve got clothes in my car,” he said, breath a little rushed. “I can grab you something, a hoodie or—”

“No. Forget it.”

He blinked.

You didn’t mean to sound so sharp, but it just came out. Too fast, too raw.

“I was just—trying to help—”

“Well, don’t.”

Silence.

You hated this. Hated how his face fell just slightly, like he thought this was going to be the moment. Like he thought a fucking coffee stain was his chance.

You looked at the ground. Then at your hand. Then at him.

“Stay away from me. Okay?”

He didn’t move.

You clenched your jaw.

“I mean it.”

The wind picked up then — brushing past both of you, pulling your sleeves tighter against your arms. A low grumble of thunder rolled in the distance.

He looked like he wanted to say something.

But he didn’t.

Just stood there, watching you like you were the last thing in the world he had left.

You turned around.

And walked back toward the hospital doors.

And behind you, the rain started to fall.

You’d been back and forth from the hospital so often the nurses started to smile at you with tired recognition. Suguru was awake now — groggy, healing, but talking. That alone gave you something to hold onto.

But not enough to block him out.

Because lately, Satoru didn’t hide anymore.

He used to linger. Hang back. Leave a coffee on the bench like it was some apology in disguise.

Now?

Now he waited.

Held doors open for you. Walked behind you in the hallway — not too close, not enough to make you speak, but just there.

The day after the coffee spill, he showed up to the hospital with a bag of clothes.

Not from his car. Not his oversized hoodies or a stupid t-shirt you used to wear to sleep.

New. Folded. In your size. With a little tag still clipped to the collar.

“I didn’t know what color you liked anymore,” he said, holding the bag out. “So I got black. That was always safe, right?”

You didn’t take it.

Not then.

But when you left for the day, it wasn’t in the trash. It was sitting beside the hospital chair, and somehow — somehow — it made its way back with you.

Two days later, it was raining again.

You forgot your umbrella that time. Too distracted. Rushed out.

He didn’t speak when he met you at the exit, already holding his over your head.

Didn’t smile either.

Just walked beside you.

Both of you quiet under the small circle of plastic shelter, boots splashing through puddles. You didn’t say thank you. He didn’t ask for it.

That night, you sat at your hotel desk and stared at the wet umbrella in the corner like it was some kind of ghost.

By the third day, he started showing up with food.

He remembered your old orders — which you hated him for. Because it meant he remembered everything else too. Where you used to sit in cafés. How you hated olives. That weird way you always had to drink something cold with something hot.

He knew all of it.

And he used it.

Not to manipulate you. Not to beg.

Just to be there.

You tried to ignore it. You did.

You’d leave the food untouched sometimes, let the hospital staff take it, or give it to Shoko. You acted like it didn’t bother you.

But it did.

Because it meant he still knew how to take care of you.

And part of you hated how much you noticed.

The dark circles under his eyes. The way he didn’t laugh like he used to. The way he looked at Suguru — with real warmth, like he was scared to blink and lose him — and the way his gaze would flick to you after, like he was already bracing for heartbreak.

He didn’t flirt. Didn’t joke.

He just… showed up.

Every time.

And it was getting harder and harder to pretend you didn’t feel it too.

Not forgiveness.

But the ache.

The memory of what he used to be — what you used to be — before it all shattered.

And the quiet, unspoken truth that he was trying now, when it might already be too late.

You weren’t expecting anyone to be there.

Not outside your door. Not after a long, emotionally draining day at the hospital, not after hours of trying to convince yourself that you were fine. That ignoring him was working. That time was doing what it always promised to do — make things easier.

But there he was.

Leaning against the wall outside your hotel room, like he had nowhere else to go.

A single tulip in his hand.

Your favorite. The kind you used to tell him reminded you of quiet mornings and fresh starts. Of spring.

He looked up the second your footsteps approached — like he’d been listening for them. Waiting.

You froze.

He straightened up. Didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.

Just held out the flower.

You blinked at him. Your fingers tightened around your hotel key.

“Who told you I lived here?” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

You stepped closer to your door, ignoring the way your heart slammed in your chest. You tried to brush past him, to get your key in the lock, but—

“It’s just a flower,” he said quietly. “It’s not a promise. Not a trap. Just something you used to like.”

You stilled.

Just for a second.

And then, slowly, without looking at him, you took the flower.

Walked inside.

And tossed it to the floor.

Didn’t even look to see where it landed — just stepped over it, like it didn’t mean anything. Like he didn’t.

You didn’t expect him to follow.

But he did.

The second you turned around, he shut the door behind him, slow and careful like he knew you were ready to kick him out the second you had the breath to do it.

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“The fuck are you doing here?” you snapped, voice sharp, brittle.

He didn’t flinch. “I just— I needed to see you.”

“You have been seeing me, Satoru,” you said, stepping back like his presence alone was suffocating. “Hospitals. Hallways. Coffee stands. I told you not to talk to me.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’ve been everywhere.”

Your voice cracked. Just barely. But enough to make you hate the way your throat tightened.

You looked away.

He stepped forward once. Hesitant. Like he was moving through water.

“You deserved more than a quiet apology. More than coffee cups and umbrellas. You deserved—”

“I didn’t ask for anything from you,” you snapped, eyes burning. “I didn’t want flowers. I didn’t want closure. I wanted distance.”

He looked like he was holding himself together with thread.

“You think showing up with my favorite flower is going to fix anything?” you laughed — bitter, breathless. “You think being visible makes up for what you did?”

His mouth parted like he wanted to argue.

But he didn’t.

Because you weren’t done.

“I came here to forget. I came here to make sure I never softened again— and all you’ve done since Suguru opened his eyes is push yourself back into places you don’t belong.”

“I never stopped belonging to you,” he said.

The room went still.

You stared at him. Heart thudding. Eyes hot. Rage swallowing you whole.

But somewhere, under all of it — you noticed the way he looked at you like this was the last time.

Like every second he stood in that room hurt, nd you hated it.

Because no matter how hard you tried — You still noticed, and that was the worst part.

You didn’t mean to scream.

But it ripped out of you like it had been clawing at your chest for months, desperate for air.

“Get out of my fucking life, Satoru!”

His eyes widened — but he didn’t move.

“I don’t fucking need you,” you yelled, your voice breaking, fists shaking at your sides. “I never will again.”

He didn’t believe it. You knew he didn’t. Not with the way your throat closed mid-sentence, not when your eyes were already stinging.

And that only made it worse.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” you spat, pacing the small room, barely able to breathe. “Why can’t you just—just stay away? Why can’t you let me go?”

Your hands shot up to your forehead, wrists pressed to your skin like you could hold the emotions in if you squeezed hard enough. But it didn’t help.

Nothing did.

Because you were crumbling.

“I don’t want to feel like this again,” you gasped, pacing tighter circles now, stumbling through your own grief. “I don’t want to be soft again, Satoru—don’t you get it?”

You turned to him, eyes wide, heart pounding, tears now streaming down your cheeks.

“I didn’t want to notice anymore. I didn’t want to see you and remember how good it used to be. I didn’t want to feel that pull again. Because I know myself—”

You sobbed. A sharp, guttural sound that broke through your teeth.

“I know I’ll always have something for you. Even after everything.”

He stepped forward — slowly, carefully, like he wasn’t sure if you’d let him.

But when his hand reached out toward you—

“Don’t fucking touch me!” you shrieked, jerking back like he’d burned you.

He froze.

“You don’t get to do this,” you cried. “Not after what you said. Not after what you did to me.”

Your voice cracked again, trembling, wet, filled with everything you swore you’d never let him hear.

“You can’t just fucking bring me coffee and expect I’ll forgive you,” you hissed. “You don’t get to barge into my life again with your sad fucking eyes and think I’ll forget what it felt like to be nothing to you.”

The yelling stopped, but your sobbing didn’t. Your arms wrapped around yourself as you stumbled back against the wall, as if holding your own body together was the only thing keeping you standing.

“You know how hard I love,” you whispered, voice shaking like glass. “You know it’s hard for me to say no to you.”

Your head fell forward. Shoulders trembling. “Why are you doing this to me?”

He didn’t answer.

“Why are you still coming back into my life,” you choked, “when you already tore it apart?”

You looked up at him, vision blurred, throat aching.

“You weren’t the one who gave everything only to realize our relationship was a fucking accident.”

He flinched at that.

“You weren’t the one who carried that.”

You shook your head, tears slipping down your chin. “You knew how to get me. You always knew. One sorry. One fucking flower. One ‘please,’ and suddenly I’m right back where I started.”

You laughed through the tears — bitter, hopeless.

“The resentment. The hatred. It just—goes quiet. Like my whole world starts spinning again, just because you showed up.”

Your hands dropped to your sides. Exhausted. Done.

“You’re a fucking jerk, Satoru.”

And he just stood there.

Soaking in the wreckage.

Because for the first time—

You weren’t holding back.

You didn’t expect him to move.

Not at first.

He stood there, staring at you like you’d just ripped open his chest and finally saw what was left inside. His jaw clenched. His lips parted, then shut again — like he didn’t know where to start. Like he knew anything he said might make it worse.

But then—

His voice.

Soft. So soft it barely made it past the space between you.

“I didn’t know how empty I was until you left.”

Your stomach twisted.

He took a step forward. One foot, then the other — careful. Heavy.

“I thought I could handle it. That if I gave you time, maybe I’d stop missing you. That maybe it would hurt less.”

He shook his head.

“But it never did.”

You stayed still.

He looked down. Fingers twitching at his sides, knuckles pale.

“I tried to be better. I tried to become the kind of man you’d be proud of. Not because I thought it would fix things—” His voice broke, barely audible. “—but because I needed to believe I could still be someone good… someone worth the way you loved me.”

Your chest tightened.

He looked up again, blue eyes shining under the weight of his own shame.

“I used to think I was the strongest man alive,” he whispered. “And then I lost you. And I’ve never felt weaker.”

The first tear rolled down.

He didn’t wipe it.

Didn’t flinch.

His lips just pulled into that soft, pouty line you’d seen so many times — when he was tired, or sad, or trying not to cry. His mouth trembled.

“I miss you.”

He said it like a prayer.

“I fucking miss you.”

And then — slowly, quietly — he sank to his knees.

Like his body couldn’t carry the weight of it anymore.

He knelt in front of you, looking up with eyes red and full of longing. His hands limp in his lap. His head tilted up, lips trembling, tears streaming down now — silent, steady, shameless.

Your heart cracked in half.

He was beautiful like this. Broken, yearning, soft in a way only you ever got to see. No bravado. No charm. Just the real Satoru — the boy who used to cling to your pinky finger in public like it made him braver. The man who used to fall asleep with his head on your lap, mumbling how he didn’t know how to love right, but he was trying for you.

You didn’t realize you were reaching for him until your thumb wiped the tear from his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly — like he couldn’t believe you touched him.

And still, he kept talking. Barely holding his breath between words.

“I think about you every morning I wake up. Every time I order coffee. Every time I hear someone laugh the way you used to in the car when I played stupid songs.”

He shook his head, more tears slipping out.

“I don’t want anyone else. I never did. Even when I fucked up—god, even then—there wasn’t a second I didn’t regret it.”

You stayed standing.

But your hand… lingered.

Fingertips brushing against the skin beneath his eye, now damp and warm.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for you.

Just knelt there.

Crying for you.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please, Y/N. I know I don’t deserve it. But just… don’t hate me anymore.”

And you could see it in him — every single piece of him cracked wide open, still loving you, still begging you to love him back.

You didn’t speak right away.

You just stared down at him — knees on your hotel floor, eyes wet, face flushed, holding back nothing for once.

It would’ve been easier if he stayed the Satoru you hated. The one you left behind. The one who shattered you.

But he wasn’t.

He was this Satoru. The one crying at your feet like his entire world was on pause, waiting for your voice to bring it back to life.

And suddenly, the fear that had kept you cold for so long — the armor you wore so well — began to crack.

You opened your mouth.

It didn’t come out strong.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

His head lifted — just enough to meet your eyes. His bottom lip quivered. The quietest breath left his mouth.

“I know.”

You let your hand drop from his cheek. Watched it hang at your side, useless.

“I’m scared of losing myself again,” you murmured. “Of giving everything and watching it fall apart like it never mattered.”

He shook his head quickly, kneeling taller, hands still trembling in his lap.

“I swear to you,” he said, voice hoarse, “I’m not that man anymore. I don’t want anything else. I don’t care about perfect or easy or clean. I just—”

He looked up at you like you were oxygen. Like he was afraid to blink.

“I’m half a heart without you.”

You exhaled — sharp, shaky, gut-deep.

“And I’ve been walking around like I’m fine, like I’m whole,” he went on, voice trembling, “but I’m not. I’m fucking not, Y/N. I haven’t been since the night I left your doorstep.”

You bit down on your lip, eyes stinging.

“I think about it every day,” he whispered. “How cold you looked. How strong you were for letting me go. And I’d give everything just to go back and make you feel safe again.”

Silence.

You let it linger between you.

And then, with the gentlest breath — a thread of sound caught between sorrow and love — you said it.

“Oh, Toru…”

The moment it left your lips, his hands found your waist.

His arms wrapped around you like muscle memory, like prayer.

And he pressed his face to your stomach, forehead resting against the fabric of your shirt as he sobbed — not loudly, not violently, just finally.

Your hands trembled as they threaded into his hair.

You held him.

You held him like you used to — with everything you were. With love and hurt and history all tangled in your fingers. Your thumb stroked the nape of his neck. Your other hand stayed pressed gently to his crown.

Neither of you spoke.

You didn’t need to.

Because something heavy — something unspoken and unbearable — lifted from both your shoulders.

It didn’t make it simple.

It didn’t make it right.

But it made it real.

And in that moment — knees to floor, arms wrapped tight, breath stuttering between you — love didn’t feel like weakness anymore.

dividers by, @cafekitsune

[reunitedinterlude]

seven days of dan and phil - some fave gay moments [4/7]

phan service / giving the people what they want

[rawme-price]

tell us more about abused wolf hybrid reader please (your writing is so good!!! <3)

You got it, boss!🫡👍

So, wolf!reader isnt acclimating to the team well, in soaps opinion. Ur constantly tense, eyes darting around any room you enter. Ur ears are never pinned back, but they are so still in a neutral position on Ur head that its obviously a forced facade of calm. You just seem....scared. scared, definitely. But of what soap has no idea.

Hes cant help you, everytime he tries to you seem to withdraw further. Hes tries to do anything he can think of, barking and snuffling and play-fighting, but nothing works. The others try too. Gaz gives you treats all the time, though you never seem to eat them. Ghost gives you awkward head pats and warm praise, but it just makes ur tail tuck. Price tries to talk to you, but anytime he enters a room ur already out the other exit. You seem to dislike him the most.

It all comes to a head when you take a bad fall during training and get a nasty cut on ur back. Price tries to send u to medical, but you outright refuse. He cant just let you fucking bleed without at least getting someone to look, though. So he tells you to either go to medical or choose on of the guys to check it.

...you choose gaz. Hes about your body weight, you feel decently confident in being able to fight him off. Either way, he insists on going to ur den bc it will be the most calming place for an obviously stressed wolf. Gaz expects a small den, sure, but he doesnt expect to see the mattress intended for the den completely barren. Instead you have a small, mangy pile of fabric in the far corner of the room, sandwiched between the wall and where you pushed the dresser out.

He doesnt say anything, just let's you lead him to the empty mattress. He talks you through what he plans to do before starting, then warns you before each action. Ur tense and jumpy, ears pinned flat and tail tucked openly. You dont try to hide ur discomfort, though you nod when gaz asks if he can continue. Still, you jolt and whine when scissors press against ur back, cutting open the shirt. Gaz has to hold his breath for a moment at what he sees.

In stark, puffy and raised keloids, 'MUTT' is carved across ur shoulder blades. Right below it, hardly noticeable compared to the bold letters is another word carved into ur skin, this one seemingly alot neater. You old teams code name, clear as day.

[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 (◞‸◟)

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.

[danysdaughter]

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 4.2k words

summary | after a hot date night, you decide it’s time to introduce bucky to the world of sex toys. but as he watches you come undone under a vibrator and dildo, curiosity quickly gives way to jealousy—and before you know it, the lesson turns into a possessive, desperate claim with his cock buried deep inside you where, as he puts it, you belong.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, sex toys, vibrator use, dildo use, edging, orgasm denial, reader gets absolutely railed, jealous!bucky, possessive!bucky, rough sex, desperate sex, “That Should Be Me” energy, mutual orgasms, praise kink, clingy post-sex bucky

a/n | based on thissss request. said I'd post on tues and here it is. enjoy, you little freaks <3 you don't need to read the previous chapters to read this one

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ - ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ - ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

The door slammed shut behind you, a little louder than it needed to, the echo sharp against the dim hallway light of your apartment.

Your laughter was still spilling out into the room, low and breathless, caught halfway between amusement and anticipation.

You barely got two steps in before Bucky was on you.

His hands found your waist first—fingers slipping beneath the hem of your jacket like he needed skin contact now—and his lips were on your neck, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive curve just below your ear.

You let out a soft gasp, the sound immediately turning into a laugh as you stumbled backward into the wall, your shoulder hitting it with a dull thud.

“Jesus, Barnes,” you teased, tilting your head to give him better access, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair. “At least let me take off my shoes before you start undressing me.”

He didn’t answer. Not with words.

His mouth trailed lower, teeth grazing along your throat as his hands slid down, over the curve of your ass, gripping like he already forgot how to be patient.

You could still taste the wine on his breath—rich, red, something expensive you pretended to know about during dinner. He’d been charming, quietly smug, his hand on your knee beneath the table the entire time. But now, that cool confidence had turned into something hotter, something needier.

“Couldn’t stop looking at you all night,” he murmured into your skin. “Every time you smiled at me like that, I wanted to take you home and—”

You cut him off with a slow, satisfied hum. “And what?”

He groaned. “Don’t make me say it.”

You leaned forward, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You’ve already got your hands on my ass, Barnes. The hard part’s over.”

He laughed—soft and low—but it came out like a growl against your neck.

You pulled back slightly to look at him. His pupils were blown, his cheeks flushed, hair slightly messy from your fingers. He looked like someone undone by want—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

You gave him that smile—that one. The cheeky, up-to-something smirk that always made his brows furrow and his jaw tighten.

The one that meant you were about to make him feel something he wasn’t prepared for.

“Down, Sergeant,” you said sweetly, placing your palms flat on his chest and gently easing him back.

He groaned—more out of protest than pain—his grip tightening on your hips as he let you push him away, but just barely. His fingers didn’t leave you, still clutching your waist like he wasn’t sure if this was a tease or the start of something serious.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, suspicious, eyes narrowing as you started to backpedal toward the bedroom.

You shrugged, still grinning. “Nowhere dangerous.”

“See, it’s the smile that says otherwise.”

You took a few more steps back, tugging him with you by the belt loops. He followed, slow but curious, letting you lead him through the doorway. His fingers skimmed under your dress again, thumbs brushing skin like he was trying to anchor himself.

You stopped at the edge of your bed, then stepped aside, letting him take in the view behind you.

That’s when he saw it.

His eyes widened slightly. You caught the flash of confusion as he looked down at your mattress—lined neatly with a few very intentional things: a sleek vibrator, a wand, a slim, curved dildo, a bottle of lube, and your favorite black satin restraints.

He stared for a second.

Blinking.

Then blinked again.

“What…” he started, voice lower now. Rough. “What is all this?”

You leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“A surprise.”

He turned to look at you, brow raised. “Is this a setup?”

You smirked. “Have you met me?”

Bucky stood still, eyes sweeping over the bed again—over the glossy black wand, the lube glinting under the soft light, the silicone toy shaped far too perfectly for your body.

Then he looked at you, expression stuck between scandalized and turned on.

“Did you rob a sex store?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer to him. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I mean, that’s a lot of equipment.”

“It’s two toys, a bottle of lube, and a wand, Barnes. Not an armory.”

He didn’t move when you tugged him forward by the waistband of his jeans, but his jaw flexed—very slightly—as his knees bumped the edge of the bed.

You raised a brow, smirking. “What? Don’t tell me you didn’t see toys when you were on your little porn discovery mission.”

He coughed, averting his eyes for a split second. “Yeah, well—maybe. But I’m more of a, y’know… hands-on kind of guy.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear as your hands slid up under his shirt. “Old fashioned, huh?”

His fingers twitched against your hips again, not quite meeting your teasing with a response.

You pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes, grinning.

“Funny. That 69 we did with your hands tied says very otherwise.”

His breath hitched. You weren’t wrong.

And from the way his cock was already hardening beneath his jeans, he knew it too.

You rose onto your toes, hands sliding up his chest, nails dragging lightly through the fabric of his shirt. He was still tense—not resistant, but processing. Curious. Hesitant. Turned on out of his goddamn mind.

So you leaned in slowly, brushing your lips against his.

Just a light kiss. Then another.

And another.

Tiny pecks that softened him, unraveled that edge of caution from his shoulders.

“You can still be hands-on,” you murmured between kisses. “Just… with toys in your hands.”

Another kiss, slow and lingering this time. You felt him exhale through his nose, felt his lips finally part and press back into yours.

You smiled against his mouth, coaxing.

“You don’t even have to do anything complicated. Just…” You let your fingers trail down his arms, tugging his hands to your waist. “Use them. Use me. Learn what works.”

He groaned, barely audible, as his hands settled firmly on your hips again—like just the permission alone was undoing him.

You pulled back, just a breath away.

“C’mon, Sarge. Let’s see what those old-fashioned hands can do with some new tools.”

His jaw clenched again.

You stepped back from him slowly, feeling the heat of his hands lingering on your hips as your fingers curled around the hem of your dress.

Bucky’s eyes followed every movement—glued to your hands, to the slow shift of fabric, to the smug little grin on your lips that told him you knew exactly what you were doing.

And then?

You pulled.

The dress slipped over your hips and down your thighs in one fluid motion, pooling around your ankles like water.

Bucky’s breath caught.

You stood there, spine straight, head tilted just slightly to the side, watching his reaction as your body was revealed—deliberately chosen lingerie in inky black lace, sheer in all the right places, hugging every curve.

The bra pushed your breasts up just enough to tease, the fabric a whisper against your skin, while the panties sat low on your hips, lacy edges framing your stomach and dipping between your legs like an invitation.

The sheer mesh left little to the imagination.

Your stomach was bare.

Your thighs.

The delicate rise of your hips.

It was… artful, really.

And you knew it.

“You wore that to dinner?” Bucky asked, voice low and wrecked already.

You grinned. “Technically, I wore it for dessert.”

His eyes dragged over you, slow and reverent and hungry.

And then you stepped back again, toward the bed.

“Pick one,” you said, nodding toward the toys. “Whichever you want. Try it on me.”

He didn’t move right away. Just looked at you.

Like you were the most dangerous, beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

And the most willing.

You climbed onto the bed with slow, fluid confidence, the mattress dipping under your knees as you crawled back into position. Leaning on your elbows, you propped yourself up, legs spreading easily, openly, like it was second nature to put your body on display for him.

And maybe it was. For him, it always had been.

Bucky followed like a man in a trance.

His eyes roamed over you—down your torso, between your thighs, lingering at the edge of the lace still clinging to your hips. He was silent, almost hesitant. Until his gaze flicked toward the toys spread across the sheets.

You watched as he reached out and picked up the vibrator.

The sleek little device looked almost comical in his broad, calloused hand—lightweight, pastel-colored, clearly not made with 1940s masculinity in mind.

He turned it over slowly, brow furrowing, mouth slightly parted like he was reading a tactical blueprint.

“There are settings,” you murmured, voice soft and teasing. “Low, medium, high.”

He looked at you, and something about the way his mouth twitched made you narrow your eyes.

“Start on low, Bucky.”

He didn’t answer. Just clicked it on.

The low hum vibrated between his fingers.

And then?

He clicked it again.

High.

Before you could stop him, he pressed the tip of the vibrator directly onto your clit—still covered by your lace panties.

The jolt that tore through your body was instant and violent.

Your back arched, a yelp escaped your throat, and your leg snapped out so fast you nearly kicked him in the face.

“Jesus—BUCKY!”

He dodged your foot, arms up in surrender, laughing as he dropped the toy onto the sheets.

“What? You said there were settings, I was just—testing.”

You shoved at his shoulder, breathless, glaring as you tried to catch your breath.

“You tested high?! Right on my clit?! What the hell kind of logic—”

“I didn’t think it’d be that strong.”

You gave him a look that could’ve curdled milk, still panting, your thighs trembling slightly from the aftershock.

He was still laughing.

And blushing.

“You’re gonna kill me,” you muttered, reaching down to adjust your panties like your clit hadn’t just been sniped by Stark-level technology.

He raised his hands. “Okay, okay. Let’s try that again. Gently this time.”

You laid back again, eyeing him warily.

“Try it again,” you said. “And if you blast me like that a second time, I’m switching to the dildo and you can just sit there and watch.”

His grin vanished.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Once your breathing evened out—once your pulse stopped thundering in your ears—you gave him a small, warning nod. Not exactly forgiving him yet, but willing to let him try again.

Bucky reached for the vibrator, a little more cautious now.

“Low,” you said again, firmly.

He smirked but obeyed, clicking it on to the lowest setting. The hum was soft this time, barely more than a buzz, and you could already see the change in him—his shoulders relaxed, his gaze sharpened. He wasn’t playing anymore.

He moved closer, crawling between your spread thighs, settling onto his elbows like he was preparing for something delicate. His metal hand slid over your thigh, holding you open with care as he brought the toy down, brushing it gently—so gently—against the lace over your clit.

You inhaled sharply. A good sharp.

His eyes flicked up, watching your face.

“How’s that feel?” he asked, voice low and steady.

You let your eyes close, lips parting on a slow, breathy exhale. Your body relaxed this time, no violent kicks—just heat curling low in your belly, spreading like fire.

“Nice,” you murmured, a small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “That’s… really nice.”

He made a quiet, pleased sound.

Then did it again.

Slower this time, moving the toy in gentle circles over the fabric. Not rushing, not pushing. Just watching—the rise and fall of your breath, the subtle twitch of your thighs, the way your fingers curled in the sheets when he hit just the right angle.

Your hips arched, just slightly, chasing the motion.

He smiled. Almost smug. But underneath it—something tender, too.

Like he couldn’t believe he was the one doing this to you.

Making you feel like this.

Your breath hitched as he moved lower, eyes flicking to your panties.

“Let me see you,” he murmured.

His fingers hooked the edge of the lace and drew it aside with care—so slowly, like he was unwrapping something sacred. His gaze dropped to your bare, glistening core, and the little sound he made in his throat—half growl, half groan—sent a fresh rush of heat through you.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “You’re so wet already.”

You smirked, lazy and indulgent. “Well, you did almost blow my clit off.”

He shot you a look, one brow raised, mouth twitching with that cocky little smirk you were quickly learning to associate with danger.

“Yeah,” he said. “About that…”

He brought the toy back down—still on low—and touched it directly to your clit.

Your whole body jolted.

But this time, there was no kicking. Just a soft gasp, your hips lifting off the bed, thighs twitching as pleasure rippled through you like heat lightning.

He moved it in tight, slow circles.

You whimpered.

He leaned in close, voice low and full of intent.

“You remember edging me?” he asked.

Your eyes blinked open, hazy with heat. “…Bucky—”

He clicked the toy off.

You whined.

Your hips bucked, searching for friction, desperate and denied.

His grin widened.

“Yeah,” he said, almost to himself. “That’s exactly what it felt like.”

You reached for him—maybe to swat him, maybe to drag him down onto you—but he dodged easily, clicking the toy back on and touching it just to the side of your clit this time, not giving you the full pressure you craved.

You moaned, head falling back onto the sheets.

He was toying with you.

Teasing, circling, pulling you to the brink and pulling back just before it broke.

“Feel that?” he asked softly. “How close you are?”

You nodded frantically, thighs trembling.

He lifted the toy away again.

Your whole body arched, a strangled noise escaping your throat.

“Good,” he said, smug and composed and ruthless. “Now let’s do that a few more times.”

He edged you once.

Then again.

And again.

Each time pulling the toy away just as your body reached that shattering precipice, just as your thighs began to shake and your moans turned to pleas. Your voice cracked somewhere between curses and whimpers—rage and lust and raw need colliding in your chest.

“Fucking—Bucky! I swear to God—”

He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, smile far too calm for someone committing such heinous crimes against your orgasm.

“You’re doing great,” he said, maddeningly sweet. “Almost as pretty as when you edged me.”

“Bucky, I will end you.”

“Oh, I know,” he said, clicking the toy off again. “But first—”

You whined. Actually whined. Fisting the sheets as your entire body trembled with pent-up release.

Then you saw him reach for the next item on the bed.

The dildo.

Smooth, curved, a little thicker than average—his choice.

He looked at it, looked at you.

Then leaned forward again, eyes gleaming. “Can I try this?”

You couldn’t even speak.

Just nodded, gasping, your whole body tight and twitching with denial.

He ran the toy through your folds first, slicking it with your arousal. Then, slowly, he pressed it in—inch by inch—watching your body stretch around it, his lips parted, his breath caught in his throat.

The groan that left you was wrecked.

He pulled it back.

Then slid it in again.

And again.

His strokes were smooth, unhurried, his gaze fixed where your body took it, sucking it in with every glide.

You felt his focus—too much of it.

“Stop looking at my cunt like a science experiment,” you muttered, voice wrecked and trembling.

He didn’t even blink. “You’re fascinating.”

You let out something between a sob and a laugh, hips canting up, thighs trembling as he thrust the toy deeper, angling just right and watching as your mouth dropped open in a silent moan.

“God, you’re so fucking wet,” he whispered, almost to himself.

And you? You were seconds from detonating.

Bucky’s focus sharpened to a point—you, spread out and glistening, shaking under his touch as the toy slid in and out of you with steady, unrelenting rhythm.

His hand never faltered, wrist rotating just enough to give the dildo that subtle curve each time it pushed deep, brushing against the spot that made your back arch off the mattress.

His other hand was braced on your thigh, holding it open, thumb stroking gently as your moans got louder, less controlled.

He was breathing harder now, jaw tense, the veins in his forearm visible as he picked up the pace.

Not just faster—deeper.

And every time he drove it in, you let out a sound that made his own hips twitch, his cock straining against the fabric of his jeans.

You were writhing, hands tangled in the sheets, eyes barely able to stay open as you looked down your body at him—watching him watch you.

“Oh my god,” you gasped, head dropping back as the pleasure built and built again. “Bucky—fuck—”

He bit his lip.

His strokes grew faster, rougher, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet room, your arousal coating the toy, your thighs trembling as your moans rose in pitch.

“You hear yourself?” he rasped, voice dark now, tight. “So fucking loud. So good.”

Your hands clawed at the sheets, your mouth falling open in a gasp as the toy slid in hard, again and again, your body so close to the edge you could taste it.

And still—he didn’t stop.

“Say my name,” he said, fucking you harder now, jaw clenched as he watched your hips lift to meet every thrust. “Say it.”

“Bucky—please—”

His rhythm stuttered for a second.

Then he leaned in closer, eyes burning.

The sounds coming from between your legs were obscene—slick, wet, relentless. The dildo slid in and out of you, faster now, your thighs twitching with every thrust, your moans ragged, needy, broken.

And Bucky? Bucky was watching.

Watching you come apart, shaking on the edge, and all he could think about was how it wasn’t him.

His jaw clenched as his hand moved, wrist flicking with practiced rhythm now, and still it wasn’t enough. Not for him.

He stared at where the toy disappeared into your body, at how easily you took it, at how you moaned his name—and something just… snapped.

The moment you let out a wrecked little gasp, your legs clamping around nothing as your orgasm finally hit—your whole body clenching around that silicone?

He yanked it out of you, fast.

You whimpered, high and startled, your hips chasing after it instinctively. “Bucky—what the fuck—”

But he was already tossing it across the room like it had personally offended him.

“That should be me,” he growled, low and tight. “That should be my cock inside you.”

Before you could say anything else, he was on you—mouth crushing yours, fingers dragging your panties down your thighs, then ripping them the rest of the way off with one impatient pull.

“Hey—!” you yelped against his lips. “That was new!”

“Don’t care,” he muttered, his voice gravel and heat. “I couldn’t fucking stand it. Watching you fall apart like that—on that—”

You were still gasping when he shoved his jeans down just enough, cock springing free, thick and flushed and angry, and then—

He thrust into you in one long, rough slide.

You cried out, your head falling back, the stretch sudden and perfect.

“Fucking hell, Bucky—”

He groaned, forehead pressing to yours, voice breaking.

“Better,” he breathed. “So much fucking better.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your laugh half-moan, half-disbelief as he started to move.

“You’re ridiculous,” you panted.

He thrust deeper, harder.

“You’re mine.”

You didn’t argue.

Because fuck, it felt right.

Bucky didn’t hold back.

His thrusts were deep, fast, frantic—his cock slamming into you like it was the only thing grounding him to reality. Every drive of his hips sent you upward on the bed, your hands scrabbling for purchase, your thighs locked tight around his waist as he rutted into you like a man starved.

You were both sweat-slicked and gasping, your mouths clashing in messy kisses between moans and curses, teeth grazing lips, breath mingling.

His hands gripped your thighs, pulling you impossibly closer, angling you just right—and fuck, he knew what he was doing. He angled every thrust to drag against that spot that made your vision blur, made your nails dig into his back, made your cries rise to screams.

“Mine,” he snarled, over and over, like a mantra. “You’re mine.”

“Yours,” you gasped back, helpless under the weight of him, your whole body coiled tight, heat building fast again after the cruel cycle of edging. “Fuck, Bucky—don’t stop—please—”

He groaned against your neck, his voice almost breaking from how good it felt, from how tightly you squeezed around him, from the way your body arched into him like you couldn’t get close enough.

You weren’t just taking it.

You were meeting him—rocking your hips up into every thrust, nails dragging down his back, your voice a breathless chant of his name.

You whined, the sound pure filth, your orgasm charging through you like lightning, your body clamping down around him as your eyes rolled back.

Your whole body was already a live wire—trembling, hypersensitive, soaked from everything he’d done to you. So when he finally drove into you with that punishing, possessive rhythm, it didn’t take long.

Not after being edged so many times you forgot what release felt like.

His cock filled you perfectly, every brutal thrust driving you closer to the edge you’d been denied again and again.

Then he said it.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled into your skin, teeth grazing your jaw. “So deep—fuck—wanna keep you like this. Full of me.”

The growl in his voice. The strain. The desperation.

And that was what did it.

You came hard—violently—your orgasm tearing through you like your body had been waiting for permission to shatter.

You screamed his name, your back arched off the mattress, thighs locked around him as your walls clenched down on his cock in rhythmic waves, dragging him deeper, holding him there.

Bucky groaned, choked on the sound, hips stuttering as he tried to keep fucking you through it—but your body was relentless, milking him, coaxing him to the brink with you.

And then he lost it.

He slammed in one last time, cock twitching deep as he came with a raw, broken sound, burying his face in your neck like he could hide from how wrecked he felt.

His cum flooded you—hot, thick, and so much, mixing with yours, seeping down your thighs as you both stayed locked together, trembling, undone.

You were shaking under him, breathless, mind blank.

And still—he didn’t move.

Just held you.

Because he couldn’t let go. Because he didn’t want to.

Your breaths tangled into each other—harsh, broken, shared between barely-parted mouths.

You couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.

Bucky was still inside you, still buried to the hilt, his chest pressed to yours, his forehead against your temple as the sweat cooled on both your bodies. The only sounds were the deep, ragged inhales, the soft exhales, the occasional, stunned fuck whispered against your skin.

Neither of you spoke.

There was nothing to say—not yet.

Just the feeling of him—warm, solid, trembling slightly as he held you like if he let go, the world might pull you away.

Your fingers curled into the damp strands at the back of his neck. His hand slid down your thigh, possessive even now, thumb stroking the inside like he still needed to touch you everywhere.

You breathed into his mouth.

He breathed into yours.

And it was perfect.

But then, slowly, your body relaxed.

And your hand drifted from his hair to his shoulder, giving him a light shove—not really pushing, more like reminding.

He groaned, still reluctant to move.

You gave him another nudge. “You owe me new lingerie.”

His head lifted slightly, enough for you to see the lazy smile that spread across his flushed, post-orgasm face.

“As long as I get to pick it out too,” he murmured.

You snorted. “If you pick something crotchless, I’m setting you on fire.”

His grin widened.

“You really are the most dangerous woman alive,” he muttered against your lips.

Just when you thought he might finally pull out, Bucky shifted—

Not away.

But closer.

Suddenly, you were bombarded.

Soft kisses.

All over your face.

Your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, your lips—smothering, insistent, rapid-fire pecks between breathless murmurs, like he couldn’t kiss you fast enough to keep up with what he was feeling.

“Beautiful—”

Kiss.

“My girl—”

Kiss.

“So perfect—mine—mine—”

Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.

You burst out laughing, squirming under him as he grinned like an idiot and kept going, hands bracketing your head like he had no plans of letting you escape.

“Bucky—stop—get the fuck out of my face—!”

Your voice was sharp but your smile was wide, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, lit from the inside.

He didn’t stop.

“Never,” he whispered against your cheek. “You’re mine. I’m keeping you forever.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing breathlessly as your arms curled around his back, pulling him in anyway.

“God, you’re such a menace.”

He just kissed your nose again.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But I’m your menace.”

And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bucky Barnes Taglist:

@princeescalus @s-sh-ne @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @lilac13 @fayeatheart @Leathynn @solana-jpeg @person-005 @muchwita @ruexj283 @jarnesbames108 @iheartfictionalmen1 @daddyslilbrat962 @bucky-baby-barnes @bonnietate26 @1lorenzo-lover1 @heymydearheart @peanutbutt3rcup @doilooklikeagiveafrack @loganficsonly @taylorann2013

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[hadesse1ch]

i had about 2 chapters of a BB fic written in past tense when i spend 99% of the time in present tense and i spent those chapters confused about whatever the hell past tense i was supposed to use. because is this part simple past? past perfect? whatever the english equivalent of imparfait is, idk, i only know english grammar through french grammar

You should only write in present tense with extreme caution.

not because it's bad or anything but because if you do it even once you're going to be editing the bits where you shifted tenses out of your writing for the rest of your life

[hencheri]

— ENHYPEN & what they’re into !

▸ 18+ mdni.

| pairing. bfs!enhypen x fem!reader

| warnings. daddy kink, allusions to sub/dom dynamics, rough sex (nothing intense but still), squirting, idk very cute stuff overall ngl lol.

| a.n.: in my normie era pls i love it. let me know if i should do more <3 (i probably will anyway)

HEESEUNG — dry humping

having you close to him, still in your clothes, desperately humping each other turns him on to another level. he loves the friction it creates, especially how your clothed pussy rubs over his hard cock back and forth. the extra layers of clothes might be a bother to other people, but to heeseung, it's what makes everything ten times better. it makes you needier, so eager to reach your high and he's happy to help you, grinding his bulge harder against your cunt until you cum. you're always so frail in his arms after, shaking like a leaf, holding tight onto him. then comes his favourite part where he looks at the state of your panties, all soaked in your wetness, pulling them down your legs and revealing your sticky folds that he doesn't wait to push himself in between.

JAY — fingering

if there's one thing that jay loves more than making you cum around his cock, it's making you cum on his fingers. he has you in his lap, legs spread open for him, freely moaning into his ear to go harder, faster, and to please, let you cum. he doesn't let it happen until he's certain you're completely ruined, drunk on his fingers thrusting inside of you and repeatedly hitting your sweet spot. "were you a good girl to daddy, today?" he asks, wanting you to comply to all of his demands, to say yes just because you need to cum so badly. you dumbly nod your head, promise jay that, yes, you were good to him today and he makes sure to reward you, letting you cum around his fingers while he kisses down your neck.

JAKE — hair pulling

it goes both ways; you gripping his locks tightly as he eats you out or him holding your hair as he pounds into you from behind. he thrills on the feeling of your fingers pulling on his hair when the pleasure is too much. you have to grip something, anything, and the first thing you reach is his head of black hair. he always hisses through his teeth when you accidentally pull a little too roughly, but he doesn't mind it at all, he loves it. it's the same thing when he has his cock into you, his hips slamming into your ass, having a fistful of your hair and shoving your head into the pillow to muffle down your moans or bring you in for a messy kiss.

SUNGHOON — anal

he's really obsessed with anal since always. if his porn search history isn't enough to tell, sleeping with him is. the first time he's with you, he's already talking about it; "what do you think about it?", "would you like to try?", "is it something you think you could enjoy?", and because you're as perverted as your boyfriend, of course you like it. he knows it's a process, but he's willing to do all that it takes to finally be able to fuck your ass. it doesn't stop there, though—sunghoon wants to eat your ass, too. there's just something about your moans, how melodic they sound, and your legs thrown over his shoulders, licking your rim while he circles your clit with his thumb. or the sight of your ass dripping from his cum, your poor cunt neglected as it clenches at the pace of your heartbeat. saying he's obsessed is an understatement—he's in love with it.

SUNOO — head

oral sex is simply sunoo's thing—you could even say he's an expert at it. making you feel good with his tongue is what he loves the most, really. there's nothing better than the sweet taste of your pussy in his mouth, licking and sucking like he would when kissing you. he doesn't use his fingers a lot, he prefers to make you cum solely with his mouth, but when he does, it always ends in a big, big mess. so that's why when he brings out a towel and places it underneath you, you know you're in for something intense. he loves to make you feel good, almost euphoric, because you praise him so much and you're so grateful to him after. sunoo's surely not against receiving either—after all the love he gives to your pussy, it's only fair you do the same for him.

JUNGWON — hickeys

he's a biter, and what's his favourite thing to bite? you. you always feel so soft against him, so small and perfect, he just has to bite you and leave his mark behind. your thighs, your breasts, your neck, your arms... he needs to suck on every patch of skin he sees on you. you're his girlfriend and he loves you—it's his way of cherishing you. but as much as he likes to mark you in love bites, he literally melts under your touch. jungwon's so whiny when you kiss him down his neck, so needy as your kisses turn into bites. they're sweet and soft like you, it tickles, and you're so cute trying to leave hickeys on him. he always pushes your hips down when you're straddling him, making you feel his hard cock through his clothes, tilting his head to the side to expose more of his neck to you.

NIKI — making-out

it may sound boring or simple, but to niki, making-out is the total opposite of that... it's hot, wet, desperate and his favourite thing ever to do with you. he loves foreplay before anything, he could honestly only do that instead of sex and he'd be just as satisfied. you get so grabby when you're kissing; your fingers passing through his long hair or clenching around his t-shirt. niki gets as equally touchy, if not more. he's bold enough to sneak his hands under your top, even into your pants. you don't mind it—on the contrary, you like it so much. when his fingers ghost over your clothed pussy, you inevitably whine into his mouth, pressing your body closer to his if it's even possible at this point. niki loves to feel the heat of your cunt against him, and it's even better when he has his tongue in your mouth, his teeth biting your lips. he wants to be in charge, be the dominant one and guide you, but he quickly loses track of his thoughts once you start grinding your hips against his.

—-

a.n.: i still don't write for sunoo but i wanted to include him in this anyway <3 pls let me know what you think about these, should i make more for other groups?? again, i'd appreciate it so much if you could reblog/comment or send an ask, wtv you're the most comfortable with. it might seem short but it really took me a lot of time to write lol!! ty <33