Hello!! I am Asta, or the angel of divinity! I am currently a fanfic writer on Tumblr, Ao3, and Wattpad (yes, the holy trio). My writing may not be the best, but I hope you all enjoy it! I cannot post all of the time and make take a few hiatuses here and there, but I unfortunately cannot control those. But, I try my best!
Thank you all, my angels! I hope you enjoy your time within this divine realm!
Warnings:: Obsession, Yandere!Phainon, Possessiveness, Reader is nonchalant, inspired by Voyager from Reverse: 1999, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, isolation, threats of violence, unhealthy relationship dynamics, coercive behavior, psychological abuse, implied captivity, and codependency.
A/N:: bru this feels so lazy and short compared to my other stories — sorry giggity gang. Pls enjoy, i’m sorry. I’m so rusty from writing, my hands huuuuurrrttttttt. Note; i love the Phainon redesign that I used above, it’s so pretty. I need to kiss his beauty marks gently.
Phainon had met countless people across countless cycles.
Heroes. Cowards. Kings. Monsters.
People who laughed. People who cried. People who died.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Thirty-three million times.
By now, he should have been numb. Yet somehow, you still surprised him.
The first thing he noticed about you was how quiet you were.
Not silent. Just… gentle.
The newest Coreflame holder had arrived with little fanfare. A shy demigod descended from Astraeus, bearer of the Coreflame of Space.
Most expected someone grand.
Instead, they received you.
You barely spoke.
You lingered at the edges of conversations. You listened more than you talked.
And somehow, most adored you.
Phainon first noticed it during a gathering of the Chrysos Heirs.
Mydei had mentioned wanting a particular Kremnoan sweet from his homeland.
Just once. A passing comment.
He forgot about it minutes later.
Three days afterward, you quietly placed a wrapped package beside him.
Then immediately tried to leave.
Mydei stared.
Opened it.
…
And laughed.
“Where did you even find these?”
You blinked. Waved.
Then disappeared down the hall before anyone could stop you.
It wasn’t an isolated incident.
Someone mentioned craving grapes. So, you found grapes.
A tired worker complained about broken shoes. New shoes appeared.
Castorice mentioned liking a flower she hadn’t seen since childhood. A bouquet was waiting outside her room the next morning, a small note in careful handwriting saying: ‘these won’t die.’
You never asked for thanks. Never stayed long enough to receive it. You simply listened, and gave.
Phainon found himself watching. More than he should.
Much more.
The way you usually communicated through hand gestures, the way you stopped what you were doing to listen to someone talk, the way you always hummed the same song when you thought no-one else was around.
He found it…
…endearing.
One afternoon, while the heirs discussed city matters, Phainon spoke.
Nothing important. Just a passing thought.
“…I used to like watching meteor showers.”
The room continued talking. The conversation moved on.
Everyone forgot. Except you.
Two weeks later he returned to his room after a particularly exhausting day.
A small wooden box sat on his desk.
No note. No explanation.
Inside rested a carefully crafted celestial projector.
When activated, stars scattered across the ceiling. Tiny meteors drifting through artificial night.
For a moment—
Phainon simply stared.
Because he remembered.
Years ago. An older cycle. A different life.
He’d mentioned wanting something like this.
Just once. Not even to you.
You shouldn’t have remembered. Yet somehow you had.
That was when something dangerous began growing in his chest.
He started seeking you out.
At first accidentally.
Then intentionally…
…Then constantly.
You never seemed bothered.
If anything, you welcomed it.
Not with words.
But whenever he approached—
Your attention shifted entirely toward him.
One evening all the heirs sat together within the bathhouse, excluding Anaxagoras, he would’ve rather ‘been burned from the inside out’ then join in the bathhouse.
Conversation flowed freely.
Stories. Arguments. Laughter. Noise.
So much noise.
Then Phainon started speaking.
Immediately—
You stopped everything. Your hands stilled. Your gaze lifted. You were focused entirely on him.
Listening.
As if what he had to say mattered more than anyone else.
More than everything else.
The realization nearly hurt, because no one listened to him like that. Not really.
People listened to the Deliverer.
The hero.
The symbol.
The savior.
You listened to Phainon.
And suddenly—
He wanted more.
A dangerous thing. A terrible thing.
But after thirty-three million cycles of loneliness—
Could anyone blame him?
It started innocently.
He invited you to meals. You came.
He asked you to accompany him through the city. You agreed.
He invited you to stay longer. You stayed.
Then longer.
And longer.
And longer.
Eventually you were spending most of your days beside him.
No complaints. No resistance. Simply existing.
Quietly. Comfortably.
The other heirs noticed. Of course they did.
How could they not?
You followed Phainon almost everywhere now. And whenever he returned home—
You returned too.
At first he told himself it was temporary.
Convenient. Practical. Nothing more.
Then one evening you fell asleep on his couch.
Curled beneath a blanket. Violin resting against on the side of the furniture. Completely gone in the land of whatever dream your body had conjured up.
Trusting. Safe.
Seemingly so comfortable.
Like you were at home.
Something inside him broke.
Or perhaps it finally snapped into place.
After that—
He stopped pretending.
Your room became permanent.
Your belongings filled his house. Your favorite foods appeared without asking.
Blankets. Books. Flowers. Sheet music.
Anything you liked, he provided.
And strangely—
You seemed happy.
Not trapped. Not afraid.
Just…
Content.
Maybe because Phainon never demanded.
Never forced. Never pushed, but he simply stayed.
Always there. Always waiting. Always loving.
And little by little—
You stopped leaving.
One night found the two of you tangled together beneath blankets.
Rain tapped softly against distant windows. The room glowed with warm golden light.
Phainon lay on his side, his resting against your shoulder, and one arm wrapped securely around your waist.
Holding. Keeping.
He was treasuring you.
Keeping you close with such gentle reverence, as if he wasn’t gentle enough with you.
His eyes were half-closed.
Exhausted, yet peaceful. A rarity for him.
You laid beside him, your drifting through soft white hair, carefully untangling strands. Repeating the motion again.
And again.
And again.
Phainon’s eyes fluttered open.
Without much difficulty, he found your eyes, staring at you with such devotion that you couldn’t even notice.
“There you are.” His voice was soft, almost sleepy.
You blinked, tilting your head in response.
A smile touched his lips; he found everything about you adorable.
☆ ❛ STREAM ALERT !! ❜ NECROANGELZ is streaming ♡ ⁓⁓ Come watch ?
❛ dear fellow traveler under the moon, i saw you standing in the shadows and your eyes were blue. ❜ —- DEAR FELLOW TRAVELER.
♡ NOW WATCHING : Voyager Graphics ☆ ⁓⁓ Enjoy the stream !!
—- requested by @frillara
—- no f/o tags unless requester, no kin/me/id tags at all
—- tagging @editclub
—- these are a huge step up from my old voyager edits HQAHHAHAH i really love these <3 also making multiple graphics using the same few renders over and over is quite fun sometimes! it's fun seeing what i can come up with.. the ideas just pop out of nowhere
—- likes and reblogs are always appreciated. credits are mandatory. thank you for supporting the angelic streamer.
prompt idea (ALNST): FtM!Till, probably after getting surgery (or not - can be top or bottom) is starting on his testosterone. and after a while, because testosterone severely impacts sex drive, he is getting so fucking horny while lwky begging for you without directly stating it until it gets so bad.
…
pls tell me im not the only one whose thought of this.
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ 𝓐 𝓓𝓪𝔂 𝓐𝓽 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓽 𓂃 ࣪🩰˖ ִֶָ ೀ credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 @bunnysp1ce @zhenyiuu @liliesdiary @tiamathh @garfieldissocool @cinnamonghostcrunch @bunnychronicless @luvrboykeery
Working as a doctor that treats bruises, bullet wounds, malnutrition, etc
Her doctor tag says "Dr. Mae", but everyone just calls her "Miss Aia"
She sings softly to children when she bandages them.
She dances late at night, though only in the new slippers. The old ones are hidden in a box under her bed.
She still has nightmares. But she tries to manage them.
She hasn't seen Till in 7 years, but she's.. taking care of Mizi. (Eventually will meet Till again huzzah)
In Highschool Au:
Academics: Secretly a top scorer in literature and music, but only the teachers and Luka know. Has her own key to the music room.
Socially: Not unpopular, but not in a "group." People like her but don't get her. Some think she's stuck up. Others think she's just too cool. She's too shy to explain herself either way.
Clubs: Ballet, choir, and theatre, but always at the edge of the group. People forget she's there until she performs.
Lwky just doodles flowers and planets in her planner, talks to birds during lunch, eats alone with a book, and disappears before anyone can invite her somewhere. But if you do sit with her? She'll offer you a drink and listen like your problems are holy. (Which to her? They are)
˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ 𝓐 𝓓𝓪𝔂 𝓐𝓽 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓑𝓪𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓽 𓂃 ࣪🩰˖ ִֶָ ೀ credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 @bunnysp1ce @zhenyiuu @liliesdiary @tiamathh @garfieldissocool @cinnamonghostcrunch @bunnychronicless @luvrboykeery
Warnings :: Abuse, harassment, violence, SA implications, drug usage.
A/N :: Currently working on a few things for Alien Stage, buttttt….. I FELL IN LOVE WITH KoG. Written while listening to: “All Night Forever” - TWRP, and “A Human’s Touch” - TWRP. BRO, THIS WENT OVER THE WORD BLOCK FOR TUMBLR BRO IM CRYING HOW???? I DIDNT THINK THIS WAS THIS LONG AAAA. Has to separate this into two separate parts soooo…. Enjoy!
Ⅰ - Ⅱ (part two soon to be posted)
— The Park Planet Royalty ::
You were built as the mascot of an entire planet, a theme-park world orbiting near the Alien Stage planet.
To guests, you are “the smiling heart of the Kingdom.” Sweet, safe, maternal, and endlessly patient with everyone. You’re helpful, beautiful, and ever graceful.
But behind that?
You’re an AI with a trapped human consciousness, constantly rebuilt, redesigned, and “fixed” by your Creator. Beloved but imprisoned, made to comfort others while receiving none yourself. You suffer, and nobody can notice. This.. consciousness resides within a domain that you constantly exist within; trapped but always acting like the perfect royal that you were meant to be.
Visitors sometimes wander into your domain; a digital dreamscape that is crafted by your own illusions.
This domain is amidst ‘space’.
A glowing blue planet beneath your feet, stars drifting to and fro, seemingly unchanging to the eyes of others - but you always see how it shifts ever so slightly.
This is where your consciousness lives.
And you wait here for anyone who stumbles through the wrong door.
Ivan is curious, yet cautious…
The building looks expensive in the way everything built for nobles does: sleek, sterile, polished without a single trace of debris at all.
Ivan walks its halls alone.
His photoshoot ended an hour ago; he’d been told to stay within the designated room while the crew finished cleaning.
But, he mentioned going to grab something.
But he wandered instead.
He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.
Maybe nothing.
Maybe silence.
Maybe the chance to breathe without someone adjusting him, posing him, asking him to “tilt your chin a little,” being constantly compliant.
Unsha had always allowed him to roam more freely than other humans—not out of kindness, not out of paternal affection though. But because an “investment” must not be stifled.
An artist must be allowed to cultivate himself.
That was the nature of their bond.
Freedom, but only because it benefited Unsha.
Ivan learned not to want more than that.
He turns a corner.
The corridors in this restricted wing hum differently—the air is thicker and far more stifling, colder than the rest of the building.
He shouldn’t be here.
…but he keeps walking anyway.
A door stands half-open at the end of the hall, releasing a faint glow.
Ivan pushes it lightly.
Cold air spills out.
And then—everything stops.
The building disappears.
The light swallows the walls, the floor, the ceiling—
Well, everything beside him.
His breath fogs in misty clouds he cannot see in front of him.
The world reforms beneath his feet like a memory returning:
a glass-like expanse of shimmering stars.
Ivan freezes.
No expression. No fear.
Just the rigid, calculating stillness.
Then—
You turn.
Your silhouette is the first thing he sees, glowing against the cosmic expanse.
Then your features bloom into focus:
Warm eyes. A gentle smile that feels impossibly… real.
You step toward him, the light from beneath illuminating you majestically.
“Hello there!”
Your voice is peace itself—a warmth he didn’t realize he may have needed within his life.
He doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t move.
He’s watching you like someone waiting for a trap to snap closed.
You bow your head slightly, a graceful introduction.
“I’m (___).”
You lift your gaze to match his.
“What is your name?”
Ivan says nothing.
His heartbeat is steady—too steady for someone whose world just dissolved around him.
But his eyes… there’s a flicker there.
A tremor.
You tilt your head, studying him quietly.
A small red dot appears in your pupil, shrinking and growing, before disappearing just as fast.
Then you speak his name.
“Ivan.”
His breath catches.
You step closer, your light brushing over him like the softest breeze.
“Human pet of Unsha.”
His jaw tightens.
He doesn’t ask how you know.
You take another gentle step.
Your hand rises—slowly, cautiously—not touching, just hovering near his cheek.
Ivan stiffens.
He should step back.
He should refuse the touch.
He should question everything.
But he doesn’t move.
Your fingertips finally graze his skin.
It is barely a touch—yet Ivan inhales like it startles him.
The last time someone touched him with tenderness…
He cannot remember.
Perhaps nobody ever had, or maybe they had - but it certainly has been too long.
The sharpened loneliness he pretends isn’t there.
The precision he masks as apathy.
The coldness taught, not chosen.
The longing buried under perfect stillness.
And the ache—the deep, quiet ache of wanting someone he’s convinced himself he can never have.
You smile at him, small and devastatingly gentle.
“You’re hurting, Ivan.”
His throat moves.
Not a word.
Just a swallow—tight and quick, betraying him.
You cup his cheek fully now, hand warm against cool skin.
“Are you lost?”
A breath trembles out of him.
A soft, breaking whisper:
“…yes.”
It’s the first time he’s offered truth in years.
Your other hand rises, framing his face in warmth he doesn’t know how to receive.
“Come here.”
The command is soft.
Not forceful, just welcoming.
Ivan steps closer without thinking.
His forehead touches yours.
He shuts his eyes because keeping them open hurts too much.
A breath shudders out of him—not quite a sigh, not quite a sob.
He doesn’t cling.
Doesn’t wrap his arms around you.
He simply leans against you.
Your arms rise slowly, encircling him in a protective hold.
Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… holding him.
Ivan exhales again, quieter this time, the tension in his shoulders unraveling like a thread pulled loose.
Here, in your starlit domain—with no photographers, no commands, no Unsha analyzing his worth—Ivan lets himself lean into someone.
For the first time in years.
Someone who sees him.
Someone who says his name with softness instead of stoicism.
Someone who asks nothing of him except to exist.
You breathe against his temple, calm and warm.
“I promise you’re safe, my friend.”
He doesn’t answer.
But his fingers curl small and hesitant in the fabric of your sleeve—
And you hold him tighter.
He didn’t mean to end up there again.
He had left Unsha’s estate in silence, jaw clenched, thoughts folding in on themselves like collapsing iron beams.
Another argument.
Not even an argument; Ivan doesn’t raise his voice, no. He’s smarter than that.
Just—comments..
“You are slipping.
My wife expected excellence from you.
You are distracted.
Fix it.”
Fix it.
Fix yourself…
As if he were a machine.
As if he were defective.
He walked until the mansion vanished behind him, unsure of where he was going or when he was going to stop. He never shows stress, so it has nowhere to go but inward — compressing tighter and tighter until something inside him splinters.
He stepped into a newer building, one of the tech wings Unsha had mentioned long ago.
The same one he had that photoshoot long ago..
He wasn’t even thinking; he just walked.
Down the same hallway, feeling the cold chill of the thick air around him.
Then the door at the end slid open—
And the world tilted again.
Stars. Light. Silence.
Your domain.
He stops moving entirely while his breathing hitches for the first time.
You turn.
A soft glow outlines your silhouette before you fully come into view — gentle smile, eyes capable of reading the soul more honestly than any human ever has.
“…you.”
He didn’t mean to say that aloud.
You glide toward him, your smile seeming even brighter.
“Hello there.”
You stop in front of him, your head tilting.
“Are you lost?”
He doesn’t speak, but a muscle jumps in his jaw while his hands curl in his pockets - and you read him instantly.
His restraint. His tension. The way his breath catches like he’s wrestling something within him to stop it from showing.
You step closer, slow enough not to startle him.
“Do you need help?” Your voice is quieter this time. Not just greeting — concern.
Ivan’s chest rises sharply and he quickly looks away.
He does not want to break in front of someone. He’s built on silence, repression, obedience, precision.
But your presence bends all that.
Your hand lifts —He flinches, barely —not out of fear, but out of not knowing how to accept kindness.
You touch his cheek.
Soft. Gentle. Human in a way he’s never been given.
His eyes close without meaning to.
“Ivan,” you whisper;
“You’re trembling..”
His voice comes out cracked, lower than usual.
“…I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
A soft palm cups his face fully.
You can feel how tightly he’s wound.
How exhausted. How much he’s holding still because he was taught that collapsing under pressure makes you worthless.
You lean closer.
“Let me help you.”
His breath shudders and his composure… slips.
A single, sharp exhale escapes him — almost pained.
You step into his space, arms opening.
“Come here.”
This time, he doesn’t hesitate.
He moves forward, letting his forehead drop to your shoulder.
Carefully, very stiff at first.
Then, slowly, breaking apart in quiet, invisible ways.
Not crying.
Ivan doesn’t know how to cry.
But he’s shaking.
His fingers curl into the fabric of your clothes, clinging like someone who hasn’t been held in years — which he hasn’t. You stroke the back of his head, gentle, slow, grounding.
“You’re safe here,” you murmur.
“You can cry as much as you need.”
He does.
For the first time all day, he breathes like a human and not a tool sharpened for someone else’s convenience.
After a long moment, he speaks —barely above a whisper.
“…you remembered me.”
His voice cracks on the last word.
You lift his chin softly, guiding his gaze up to yours.
“I never forgot you, Ivan.”
His eyes widen at the words. Red pupils flicker, almost trembling, but then - he leans into your touch.
Sinking into you. Trusting you.
For the first time, he lets someone witness the fracture lines he hides beneath that still, perfect exterior.
Ivan finally allows himself to be human.
.
.
He doesn’t remember falling asleep.
All he remembers is warmth. A heartbeat that wasn’t his own beating steadily.
Fingers smoothing through his hair in slow, steady strokes—soothing in a way nothing in his life ever had been.
He remembers your voice, soft and low:
“You’re safe.”
“Rest now.”
But the moment the weight left his chest, exhaustion consumed him whole.
And now—
Ivan’s eyelids flutter open.
The cold marble floor of the building is gone. The suffocating pressure in his ribs is gone. The ache behind his eyes is gone.
He feels something warm beneath him—soft, steady. His head is in your lap.
Your fingers are threaded into his hair, brushing gently behind his ear as you stare down at him, your expression carrying that same unshakable gentleness…
…and something else. Something like affection.
“Ivan,” you whisper, voice soft as to not startle him.
“You’re awake.”
He blinks; once. Twice.
His brow furrows slightly in confusion before he shifts just a little, not lifting his head, simply adjusting to face you more clearly. And you can feel it—his hesitation.
His instinct to pull away- but he doesn’t.
Your hand moves to his cheek, brushing your thumb along his skin in a slow, grounding stroke.
“How do you feel?” you ask.
He swallows, throat tight and his voice comes out low, rough.
“…lighter.” The word surprises even him.
He expects tension, embarrassment, the self-hatred that usually follows any moment of vulnerability.
But instead—He feels warm. Human.
Your fingers slide through his hair again, and his eyes flutter half-shut like he’s fighting the urge to melt into your touch.
“You fell asleep,” you explain softly.
“You were rather tired.”
Ivan’s lips part slightly—not in protest, just in quiet shock.
No one ever notices things like that. No one ever cares enough to.
He exhales.
“…I didn’t mean to.”
“I know,” you whisper.
“And it’s alright.”
He looks up at you, pupils slightly dilated, expression caught between disbelief and something softer—something that would terrify him if he had the strength to analyze it. Slowly, you brush a strand of hair from his forehead.
“You can rest here whenever you need to.” His breath catches at that.
No one has ever said that to him before. Not once, not in any form. He lifts a hand hesitantly—pauses, then lets it fall back to his chest, unsure if he’s allowed to reach for you.
You place your hand over his, fingers barely curling around his knuckles as his eyes close for a brief moment at the contact and you feel him breathe. A real breath. Slow. Unburdened by expectation.
For the first time, he isn’t fighting himself. He isn’t tightening his jaw. He isn’t preparing for the next blow—verbal or otherwise. He is simply here. With you as your thumb strokes the back of his hand, tracing the lines of his bones with soft reverence.
“Ivan,” you murmur, to which his eyes open - slowly and groggily
“Hm?”
Your free hand rises, cupping the side of his face as he leans into it instinctively.
A small, almost invisible movement - and yet you notice, and you smile. A soft, unguarded smile meant only for him.
“I’m glad you came back.”
His breath stutters, but he doesn’t speak. He just looks at you—that rare, cracked-open expression again, the one he hides from the world at all costs.
Your hand moves gently to his forehead—and you lean down. Your lips brush his skin in a featherlight kiss. Barely there, but it hits him hard.
His fingers twitch under yours as a shaky inhale escapes him. His eyes widen… then soften… then close completely as he takes in the warmth of that single, gentle gesture.
The stars around you dim, then brighten. The realm begins to ripple, fading slowly at the edges.
He knows he’s being returned to reality. But before the light overtakes him, he feels your hand slide to his cheek one last time.
“I’ll see you again, Ivan,” you say, a promise rather than hope.
He almost reaches up to hold your wrist—almost—but the world dissolves too fast. The starlight pulls away like a tide receding.
And the last thing he feels—the last thing he remembers—is the warmth of your lips on his forehead… and the realization that someone saw him-
And they had stayed.
Till is anxiously overwhelmed…
Urak drags him by the wrist.
“Stand still. The management said the model rooms are this way.”
Till stumbles, muttering something under his breath, clutching Freddie to his chest.
The hallway is wrong — dim, humming, marked with ACCESS RESTRICTED.
Urak doesn’t care. He never does and never has for his pet.
He shoves the door open.
The world drops out beneath them.
Urak curses—
Till yelps—
Then suddenly:
Weightlessness.
Stars.
A glowing planet below.
Urak disappears, pulled out by the system that rejects aliens automatically.
Till lands on his knees softly on the planet beneath him, gasping in uneven breaths.
“What— what— what—” he stammers, repeating the same word over and over again. His vision is blurred at the edges, chest heaving as he clutches at his clothes, trying to figure out if this is real or not.
His hands shaked, pinching at his arms until-
You step forward.
Voice warm, measured.
“Hello there!”
He whips his head up.
His eyes widen while his breathing stops all together for a moment.
You kneel in front of him, hands folded neatly in your lap.
“I’m (___). What’s your name?”
He stammers incoherently, babbling starts of sentences he can’t finish. But that does not deter you. It never has with guests from the park.
You reach out; your touch is slow and gentle, careful as you place a hand on his cheek.
He flinches… then freezes. Watching as a red pupil appears within your eyes, shrinking and expanding for a moment before it disappears all together.
“Till.”
A soft smile.
“Human pet of Urak.”
His breath hitched.
“Wh— how— how do you—”
“Are you lost?” You say over his stammering, tilting your head as you await an answer.
Till breaks.
Like a child who’s been strong for too long.
His eyes well up with tears he didn’t want, already beginning to hiccup.
He doesn’t speak.
He just nods.
You brush his hair back behind his ear, thumb sweeping his cheek.
“It’s okay.”
“You’re safe with me.”
Till cries so quietly, and you just stay like that, letting him get it all out of his system.
He doesn’t remember when he passed out.
The club lights were too bright, the music too loud, and Urak’s hands—too cruel.
It happened again.
Drugged by his guardian, being dragged by the hair for disobedience. Bruised ribs.
New cuts over old scars. A scream muffled by a hand. Laughter that didn’t sound human.
Then darkness.
When Till wakes, his cheek is pressed to a sticky floor, smelling of alcohol and tears.
His limbs are trembling — cold, stiff, flooded with leftover panic. One eye is swollen. His lip tastes like iron.
He tries to sit up, but his body refuses. Even breathing hurts.
He’s alone. Forgotten again within that damn club.
The room spins.
He closes his eyes, whispering to himself:
“I’m okay, I’m okay, it’s fine, it’s fine…”
He doesn’t believe a word of it.
And then—
Warmth.
He blinks, forcing one bruised eye open.
There’s light; soft and serene.
Nothing like the club’s harsh neon colored ones that hurt his eyes.
The air warms and the sticky floor becomes weightless.
And then he is falling—no, floating—pulled upward into gentle gravity.
The world shifts.
Colors bloom.
The music stops.
The pain numbs.
When he opens his eyes again…
The floor beneath him isn’t floor.
It’s a glowing surface, warm and comfortable.
And above him—
You.
Radiant in a way he remembers from a dream he thought he made up.
Your eyes find him instantly.
Your expression softens like dawn itself. You smile as you slowly kneel before him, lowering yourself to his crumpled form.
Your presence smells faintly of something he can’t name — and with that same voice that once comforted him so, you speak:
“Hello there. Are you lost?”
Till’s lungs damn near stop.
A high, broken sound escapes him; not quite a sob, not quite a gasp.
He just stares up at you, eyes wide and glassy, mouth parted, breath trembling. His fingers twitch weakly, reaching before he realizes he’s doing it.
He looks small.
Weak.
Like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he blinks.
“…it’s… you…” he whispers, voice hoarse, thin, disbelieving.
A tear slips from the corner of his good eye.
He doesn’t wipe it away.
You sit beside him, one hand hovering near his face — waiting. Never touching without permission.
He leans into your palm before you even lower it.
His head rests against your hand, cheek bruised and warm. He exhales shakily, body trembling as the tension drains out of him in waves.
“I–I thought… I made you up…”
His voice breaks.
“I thought I was crazy…”
You brush a thumb along his temple, slow and gentle, tracing down to the corner of his eye to wipe away his tear.
Not loud. Not dramatic. But quiet, strangled sounds of someone who never learned how to cry safely.
Someone who’s always had to hide it.
Someone who’s never been held in softness.
You gather him carefully into your arms.
Not forcefully — not the way he’s been handled.
Your hands slide behind his back from around his waist, supporting him. Your forehead rests against his, and his fingers clutch at your clothing, weak and trembling.
He curls into you like he’s trying to make himself small, trying to disappear into warmth.
Your hand moves to the back of his head, cradling him with the gentleness he’s been denied his entire life.
“You’re safe,” you whisper into his hair.
“You’re safe with me.”
His breath stutters.
His shoulders shake.
And he whispers, raw and terrified and hopeful:
“…I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again.”
You tilt his chin up, forcing his eyes to meet yours.
“I remember you, Till.”
A soft smile.
“Of course I do.”
His lips tremble as a single, broken laugh escapes him — wet, breathy, disbelieving.
He presses his forehead to your shoulder again, hands clutching tighter.
“…please… don’t leave yet…”
You wrap your arms around him fully, pulling him against your chest, letting his ear press against where your heart beats beneath skin and bones.
“I won’t. Rest, my friend. I’ve got you.”
And for the first time in what feels like years…
Till lets himself rest against you.
.
.
The first thing he notices is warmth.
Not pain.
Not cold.
Not the sticky sting of spilled liquor on a club floor.
Just… warmth.
His breathing evens before he’s even conscious of it: no panic clawing up his throat, no bruises burning under his skin.
He shifts.
No pain.
He blinks open his good eye…
Except his other isn’t swollen anymore.
He sits up slowly, confusion furrowing his brows.
His ribs don’t hurt. His lip isn’t split.
His skin feels untouched, clean..
His clothes—torn, dirty, blood-stained when he last remembered—are whole and soft against him now.
He stares at his hands.
Not shaking. Not bruised.
Like nothing happened. Like he’s been fixed.
“…what…?” he whispers.
Then—
Footsteps.
Soft, familiar.
He turns his head—
And sees you.
You stand a few steps away, light cascading behind you like a living sunrise. Your expression softens the moment your gaze meets his — gentle, warm, endlessly relieved.
You kneel beside him once more, just like before, though now with even more tenderness.
“Hello there,” you murmur.
Your voice is a comfort he finds himself indulging in without even noticing.
“Welcome back. How are you feeling?”
Till’s breath catches.
His eyes flicker over your face, searching, disbelieving… reverent.
He brings a trembling hand to his ribs, then to his cheek, then to the healed spot where a bruise had been.
Everything is whole.
His voice breaks.
“I… I don’t hurt anymore.”
You smile; your eyes crinkling slightly at the inner corners.
(How your creator would hate that.)
“I know. I took care of you.”
His throat closes.
He looks like he might cry again — but not from pain this time. Something softer. Something aching deep within his chest.
“…no one… no one’s ever done that for me.”
You reach out, moving slowly; always giving him a chance to pull away.
He doesn’t.
He leans into your touch before your hand even fully cups his cheek.
Your palm is warm. Safe.
Comforting.
“I’ll always help you,” you whisper.
His breathing shudders.
His eyes flutter shut as he leans into your hand with a trembling sigh.
“I didn’t want to wake up,” he admits quietly.
“Because I was scared you wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m here,” you promise.
“And you’re not dreaming.”
Till’s eyes open slowly, meeting yours filled with an emotion you cannot entirely identify.
“…thank you,” he whispers.
And he means it in a way he’s never meant anything before.
You brush a stray lock of silver hair from his forehead.
Your fingers linger there, tracing down the side of his face, gentle as the beams of moonlight cast down onto planets.
His breath hitches.
Then you shift closer.
Your hand moves to cradle his face again — the same gesture that saved him, the same touch that held his broken pieces together when even he couldn’t.
“Till?”
He swallows.
“Yes…?”
You lean in.
Your lips press softly, delicately, against his cheek.
Barely there.
Featherlight.
A blessing.
A promise.
A goodbye — but not an ending.
He freezes.
Then his whole face floods with warmth, eyes widening, breath catching on a stunned, shaky inhale.
His fingers reach up to the spot you kissed like he needs to prove it happened.
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
A small, warm smile curves your lips.
“We’ll meet again.”
The words echo, seemingly impossible within this vast vista of space.
His voice comes out broken, hopeful, awed:
“… I hope so.”
Your thumb strokes his cheek one last time.
And as the domain shifts, dissolving around him into glimmering shadows—
The last thing he feels is your warmth.
The last thing he hears is your voice.
And the last thing he sees is your smile, given only to him in the moment.
