Heyo! My name is Celest and my pronouns are she/her. I'm 20 and I might not post often as I am busy doing other stuff.
I plan on using this blog to write scenarios and share my bots for Character.AI! My posts may contain NSFW content so if you don't like that or aren't comfortable, you can ignore those posts~
If you want me to write anything or make a bot, you can ask in my inbox! :3
Please keep in mind that I am only doing this for fun, so my posts may have mistakes or something-
“how to recognize AI in fanfic” — hey so this is another not-gentle reminder that AI stole from us. it’s using OUR words and OUR sentences and OUR styles.
writing “long” paragraphs is not a sign of AI — it’s a common narrative choice many writers make both in fanfiction and in traditionally published novels, and AI stole it from us.
using an em dash is not a sign of AI. it’s a stylistic sentence choice that’s been an option in place of commas and semicolons for a very long time, and AI stole it from us.
long sentence structures are not a sign of AI, but are yet another stylistic choice writers often make to create a cadence and tone that mimics the flow of poetry, and AI stole it from us.
“YA narrative breaks”? i don’t even know what the fuck this means, but i can guarantee that AI stole it from us.
italics are once again a stylistic choice that many writers love to use to create emphasis, and it’s a more stylistically acceptable and traditional form of emphasis than bold or underline text. oh, and just to be extra clear: AI STOLE IT FROM US.
stop creating fandom witch hunts over AI when you know fuck all about what it means to sit and write a story, and to spend hours fiddling with sentence structure and dialogue to get the exact right tone. writers will stop writing out of fear that their work “sounds like AI” — IT DOESNT! AI STOLE FROM US! AI SOUNDS LIKE US! — and after a while, all that will be available on AO3 is shitty AI-generated fanfiction.
because yeah, people are going to continue to use AI to write fanfiction whether you “call them out” or not. but making a laughable thread on X that uses asinine criteria is not going to fix that problem. it will just push the real writers out because people will accuse them of using AI when they haven’t, and they will (rightfully) stop writing for spaces that attack them.
thinking about fem!caleb, the most notorious manhater alive, who melts the second her meimei starts sulking.
she’s got you cradled against her chest, arms locked around you so tight you can barely squirm, your cheek smushed right into the soft swell of her boobs while you huff and pout, eyes already glassy because “jiejie’s are bigger” and it’s apparently a crime against the universe.
Caleb just giggles—soft, low, that dangerous velvet sound she saves only for you—chin resting on top of your head as she squeezes you even closer.
“awww, listen to that little attitude,” she murmurs, voice dripping syrup. “all teary-eyed and pouty because your boobs aren’t as big as jiejie’s? so cute when you’re jealous, meimei.”
you make an indignant noise, trying to glare up at her, but it comes out pathetic—wet lashes, trembling lip, fingers knotting harder into the thin strap of her camisole like it personally offended you.
she tilts her head, looking down with those dark amused eyes, thumb brushing the curve of your cheek. “look at this face,” she coos, almost singsong. “all shiny and sad, pouty little mouth… do you want jiejie to kiss it better, hmm? make it all soft and happy again?”
you scoff—weak, barely-there—but immediately burrow deeper into her cleavage like it’s the only safe place left on earth.
Caleb chuckles, the sound vibrating through her chest straight into your face. “but yours are cuter, meimei,” she whispers, suddenly wicked. “they fit so perfectly in my hands~”
before you can even process, her palms are there—warm, possessive—cupping your breasts completely under the fabric, fingers finding your nipples and rolling them slow and deliberate.
you gasp sharp, whole body jerking. “and these cute little nipples,” she purrs, pinching lightly, then tugging, “so sensitive~ awww, you’re trembling already~”
your thighs press together instinctively, a tiny broken sound slipping out. she leans down until her lips brush the shell of your ear.
“do you want to suck on jiejie’s boobs to feel better, hmm? would that make my pouty meimei stop crying?”
you can’t even answer properly—just a desperate little whimper, fingers yanking her camisole down in one frantic tug. the moment your mouth closes around one stiff, flushed peak, Caleb’s head tips back with a breathy, ragged moan.
“fuck—such a needy little thing,” she gasps, cradling the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair to keep you right there. “sucking so hard… how cute~ my greedy meimei.”
she rocks you gently in her lap while you suck, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing, tears still clinging to your lashes—but now they’re a different kind of wet.
“that’s it,” she breathes, voice wrecked and fond all at once. “take what you need, baby. jiejie’s got you.”
A/N : you can never have enough fem!caleb. this was supposed to be a silly little yapping but my brain did a backflip and here we're—between her boobs :3
cw. soft yandere at the end if you squint, dog-coded!reader (cat-coded!reader here)
thinking of flins with a dog-coded reader’s dynamics today. the way you bounce up to him every time you spot him, eyes sparkling, smile prominent, imaginary tail wagging behind you vigorously? it tugs at his heartstrings, really.
having said that, your optimism and trust in people makes him worry almost constantly. like a puppy who’d happily take up the hand of anyone who’d give you delicious treats, you’re often oblivious to others’ malicious intent hidden beneath a pleasant facade. he’s had to shield you from such encounters, lectures you on the importance of being more wary and suspicious of people, yet still you persist in seeing the good in humanity. he’s unsure if he admires or loathes this trait.
either way, you’re so adorable he wishes he could just gobble you up carry you in his lantern everywhere. lock you up so your light only shines for him to admire and bask in. soak in your healing presence, smell the sun in your hair, watch your eyes twinkle under the moonlight, listen to your mind-fogging laughter, kiss your breath away…..
..... oh dear, here he goes again, getting ahead of himself and letting his fae nature daydream of what the future holds. this won’t do.
he has an essential errand to run — such as taking out some trash.
ive never been an anime person but ive had a change of heart recently so ive started watching death note and kamisama kiss since they seemed pretty popular and why did nobody tell me theyre peak??? i only started jjk bc my friend was shoving it down my throat so thanks to him but anyway the point of this message was to say that this came from watching death note, how? idk but it did so enjoy!
As of rn, this series isn’t finished yet BUTTTT I JUST HAD TO REBLOG IT CUZ THE IDEA IS SO UNIQUE??? Imagine just seeing a character from game (that you just saw from a phone like a few moments ago or smth) just suddenly appearing in your workplace and seemingly happy to see you 😭✌️
nahh cuz i would SCREAMMM. i’d willingly go to a mental hospital CUZ WDYM HE’S IN FRONT OF ME??
ok i gotta shut up now. in conclusion… IM ALREADY LOVING THIS BAHAHAHA
Synopsis: A story of glitch-torn meetings and fleeting moments, of timelines unraveling and hearts pulling closer. A journey through loss, fear, and breaking—but also through hope, recognition, and belonging. Toward something that finally feels like home.
A/N: Hi again. :) If you're coming from Part 1: welcome back. If not: please go read part 1 first!
This is the second half. The breaking, the tenderness, the aching, the resolution. All of it. Picking up exactly where we left off. Writing these parts made me giggle and cry in equal measure. :) Enjoy. :)
Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending. Glitch AU/Crossworlds AU. Spoilers for Phainon’s Lore/3.4. Anomaly!Phainon. Emotional Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Flirting. Mutual Pining. So Much Yearning. Slow Burn. Canon Divergence (with Canon References). Emotional Catharsis. Metaphysical Shenanigans. Character Study. Symbolism and References. Love is a Cosmic Event. Kissing. Fix-It of Everything Eventually.
Word count: 14783
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7 — NIGHTMARE
The nightmare starts with fragments. Khaslana’s face. Tired, worn, but still holding warmth. “I have to keep going.” Then it shifts. The warmth bleeds away. Gold eyes burning. A figure in black, hooded, masked. A village on fire. A blade drawn.
“End. Reset. Again. Again.”
The images fracture, overlapping. Khaslana reaching for you. The black-robed figure turning away. Both versions bleeding into each other until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Your chest tightens. You can’t breathe. The blade draws closer. Gold eyes stare through you. Empty. Burning. Gone.
“Y/N…”
The name echoes. Broken, desperate, testing.
Your heart hammers.
The figure in black reaches for you. Then another dream glitches in. Wheat fields. Blue sky. And Phainon, standing in the middle of the field, looking around like he’s lost. “Where—”
He sees you, breath catching. “You.”
Relief floods his expression.
But you’re still trapped between dreams. Fire bleeding through the wheat. The blade flickering in and out of existence. Gold eyes overlapping with blue ones.
“No—” you gasp. “No, no, no. I don’t want—”
Phainon’s eyes widen. He takes a step forward. “What’s wrong?”
The desperation floods you. The ache. The accumulated weight of every fractured appearance, every version, every loss.
Every time you’ve watched him disappear. Every time you’ve been left alone.
It crashes through you like a tidal wave and you’re drowning.
Phainon stumbles like he’s been struck. His hand flies to his chest, eyes going unfocused. “I feel…” His voice shakes. “Something’s wrong. Something’s—” He looks at you and sees it. The terror. The pain. The breaking.
His face goes pale. “No.” It’s barely a whisper.
The dream fractures violently. You’re being pulled under. Darkness closing in. The blade raising. The gold eyes empty and burning and wrong.
You wake gasping, shaking so hard you can’t control it. Tears streaming down your face. Your chest heaving like you’ve been running for miles. And a hand on your shoulder.
You freeze, turn slowly, terrified of what you’ll see.
Phainon is kneeling beside your bed. Actually there. Breathing hard, eyes wide with panic and relief and something raw you can’t name.
“You’re awake,” he gasps. “Thank Kephale, you’re awake.”
You stare at him. At his hand on your shoulder. At the way he’s physically here. At the way his fingers are trembling. “How—”
“I don’t know.” His voice shakes. “I felt you. In the dream. And then I felt—I felt wrong. Like you were drowning and I couldn’t reach you and I—” He stops, swallows hard. “I couldn’t leave you there.”
Your breath hitches.
Phainon's hand is still on your shoulder. You can feel the weight of it. The warmth. The realness.
He follows your gaze and realizes, starts to pull back.
“No.” Your hand shoots out, catching his wrist.
He freezes.
You’re both trembling.
You let go of his wrist, quickly wondering how you managed to touch him. “Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t apologize. Don’t pull away.”
His eyes search yours. “I—”
“Please.”
He nods slowly, settles more firmly on the edge of your bed. His hand stays on your shoulder. Grounding. Real.
You can’t stop shaking.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly.
You laugh. Broken, breathless, slightly hysterical. “I don’t know.”
He watches you with such open concern it makes your chest ache.
You take a shuddering breath. “I’ve been dreaming about all of you,” you admit. “Khaslana. The other one. The one in black who drew a blade. And you. And I can’t—”
Your voice breaks. “I don‘t know what’s real. If any of this is—”
“I’m real,” Phainon says quietly. “Right now. In this moment. I’m here.”
You meet his eyes. They’re so clear. So present. So him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For all of it. For the fractures. For the pain. For—”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It feels like it should be.”
You shake your head. “Can you…” You hesitate.
He waits, patient.
“Can you sit here? Beside me? Not on the edge. Just here.” You gesture to the space next to you on the bed.
His breath catches. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He moves carefully, settles beside you, back against the headboard. You can feel the warmth of him despite the distance.
“Talk to me,” you whisper. “About anything. Not about coreflames or tasks or Titans. Just normal things.”
A small smile touches his lips. “Something mundane.” The word echoes. Khaslana said that once.
Your chest tightens.
“What do you usually do?” Phainon asks softly. “When you feel sad or anxious or angry?”
You blink at the question. “That depends,” you say. “I might run through the rain. Or scream into the void.”
He laughs.
“Or just sob into my pillow. Or in the shower.”
You look away, slightly embarrassed. “Or listen to a lot of wild and sappy and loud music. Or eat ice cream. Or read.”
He’s quiet for a moment, processing. “I will file away music and ice cream for another day,” he says thoughtfully. “Not necessarily restricted to pain, if I may emphasize that.”
He grins, trying to lighten the mood. “Both sound daring and tempting.”
You smile despite everything.
He looks around your bedroom and seems to suddenly realize where he is. His cheeks flush slightly, then his eyes land on your nightstand where approximately ten books are piled haphazardly.
Phainon laughs. “Are you reading all these at once?”
You can’t help but grin. “I’m just using them for decoration. It’s a trend on social media these days.”
You pause, realize he wouldn’t know what that is. “I mean—it’s fashionable. Common among the crowds.”
He tilts his head and considers this seriously, looks between you and the books. Then he reaches for one.
The Count of Monte Cristo. He inspects it, reads the title and the blurb. His eyes narrow playfully. “Hey. You’re playing with me.” He laughs, shaking his head. He sets the book down and picks up another.
Les Misérables.
“This one is…” Phainon weighs it in his hands. “Impressive.”
“It’s about revolution,” you say softly. “And redemption. One person trying to save others through sacrifice.”
He goes very still. “Oh.”
“And standing by your beliefs,” you continue. “Even when the cost is high. Even when you’re alone. Even when—” You stop.
He’s staring at the book. Something vulnerable in his expression.
“I was hoping to show you these someday,” you admit quietly. “Some of them. I thought maybe you’d like them.”
His eyes snap to yours. “You chose these for me?”
“Not all of them. But some.” You gesture to the pile. “Books about people who stand by their beliefs. Who sacrifice for others. Who find redemption. Who—” Your voice catches. “Who keep going even when it’s hard.”
Phainon sets Les Misérables down carefully and picks up another. Great Expectations.
“And this one?”
“It’s about carving your own life,” you say. “Despite early trauma. Despite expectations placed on you by others.”
He listens, completely focused.
“About how loyalty and compassion matter more than destiny. More than what others expect you to be. More than the role you’re supposed to play.”
His breath catches.
“And standing by your beliefs,” you finish quietly. “Even when you doubt yourself. Even when you stumble.”
He looks at the book, then at you. “You see me in these stories,” he says softly.
You don’t deny it. Can’t. “I see someone,” you whisper, “who’s trying so hard to be good. To do the right thing. Despite everything.”
His eyes sting. “That’s…” He stops and swallows hard. “No one’s ever—” He can’t finish. He just looks at the books, then back at you.
“May I?” he asks, voice rough. “May I read to you? From these?”
Your throat tightens. “Please.”
He opens The Count of Monte Cristo first. For whatever reason he settles on one of the last pages. Maybe because it’s one of the many passages you marked, maybe because he just wants to see how the story ends. He clears his throat. ”‘All human wisdom is contained in these two words—Wait and Hope.’”
His voice is soft and reverent. He looks up. “That’s… that’s what we’ve been doing, isn’t it?”
You nod. You can’t speak.
He continues reading. From the beginning this time. Eventually, he switches to Les Misérables. He finds a passage about revolution and sacrifice. His voice shifts. He sounds more passionate now.
“I needed to hear that.”
“I know.”
He opens Great Expectations and reads about finding your own path. About loyalty. About choosing who you become. Then he picks up an adventure title. Something with romance and swashbuckling.
“This one—” Phainon grins. ”—sounds promising.”
You laugh. “You can try Dorian Gray next. Or Casanova.”
His eyebrows rise. “Who are they?”
You explain briefly. Casanova: charming, romantic, scandalous. Dorian Gray: beautiful, vain, corrupted by his own reflection.
You clear your throat. “I’m not seeing you in them. I just wanted to make a joke,” you clarify. ”And see how you might portray them.” Now you’re blushing too.
His blush deepens. “I see. I will do that...once I’ve read these books.” He clears his throat and opens the adventure book. He reads a passage about daring escapes and stolen kisses and gets theatrical with the voices.
You find yourself smiling, actually smiling, the nightmare fading. Replaced by this. Him reading books to you, understanding why you chose them.
After several passages, he closes the last book gently and sets it back on the pile.
You laugh. “You don’t say.” You laugh again because he looks so indignant.
“I can’t even borrow books from you.” He holds up the adventure romance. “Because this sounds so promising. And Les Misérables. I want to know what happens to Jean Valjean. And Great Expectations...does he find his path?”
His expression is so earnest.
“Well, just continue next time,” you say, still smiling.
Phainon softens. “Next time.” A pause. “I like the sound of that. And anything, really.”
“Much to learn, right?”
“Exactly.” He grins. “The list is endless.”
“You have a list?”
“Of course.” He laughs. “Both in my notebook at home and here.” He taps his temple.
You stare at him, heart full. “You made a list. Of things to learn. About Earth.”
“Well, yes.” Phainon shrugs, slightly sheepish.
“Movies sound like an interesting concept. I want to learn about the music variety you seem to have here. Ice cream. Books to read...especially these ones now.“ He gestures to your nightstand. “Or favorites you may have.”
His smile turns soft. “Things you like. Things that comfort you. Things that—” He stops and looks at you. “Things that show me who you are.”
Your throat tightens. “Phainon—”
“I want to know,” he says simply. “Everything.” His voice drops. “Thank you. For choosing these books. For wanting to share them with me.”
He touches the spine of one book gently. “For seeing me in their stories.”
You can’t speak, so you nod. He settles back beside you, closer now. A small smile touches his lips. “Did I ever tell you about the bathhouses in Okhema?”
You blink.
He’s smiling now, soft, almost shy. “They’re quite something. The architecture alone is worth seeing. Tribbie could talk for hours about the engineering. And the water—heated by geothermal vents, if you ask me. Or simply by the Titans.”
You find yourself smiling despite everything. “Tribbie?”
“One of the Chrysos Heirs. Very insightful about many things.”
He continues. About Okhema, about markets, about appraisal, about sparring with Mydei.
His voice falls into that soft, eloquent cadence. Whimsical. Warm. Nothing about prophecies or burdens or endings. Just life.
You lean back slowly.
He keeps talking, hands gesturing gently.
At some point, you realize you’ve shifted, turned toward him. Lying on your side, facing him.
Phainon mirrors the position without stopping his story. Now you’re face to face. Close enough to see the way his eyes soften when he talks about his friends. Close enough to feel his breath.
Your hand has slipped from his wrist to rest between you on the blanket. His hand is there too. Not touching. But close. So close.
“And Mydei,” he’s saying, and there’s a smile tugging at his lips that makes something warm bloom in your chest, “insisted that my form was wrong. We spent an entire afternoon arguing about sword stances.”
“Who won?”
“Neither of us.” His eyes crinkle with genuine amusement, and the sight of it—him relaxed and happy and here—makes your heart skip. “We were both too stubborn to concede.”
You smile, and find yourself watching his face instead of listening to his words. Really watching. Cataloging details you want to remember forever.
The gentle curve of his mouth when he talks about his friends. The way his white hair falls across his forehead in soft waves, catching the dim light from your bedside lamp and turning almost silver. His beautiful eyes that haven’t left yours for what feels like hours now, bright and clear and so present it makes your chest ache with the reality of him.
You notice the way his chest rises and falls beneath the fabric of his clothes. Steady and calm, a rhythm you find yourself unconsciously matching. The faint scent of him reaches you—something clean and warm and indefinable. Like sun-warmed wheat fields stretching to the horizon. Like safety. Like home.
Your gaze drops to his lips without your permission. Just for a moment, but it’s enough. Enough for your breath to catch. Enough for heat to flood your face. Enough for him to notice.
“You’re staring,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice that makes your pulse stutter.
You flush, embarrassment washing over you. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His voice drops lower, rougher, intimate in a way that makes your skin prickle with awareness. “I like it.”
His eyes trace your face too, you realize. Moving slowly, deliberately, like he’s memorizing every detail. The curve of your jaw. The slope of your nose. Lingering on your mouth long enough that you stop breathing entirely.
“I do it too,” Phainon admits quietly, and there’s something vulnerable in the confession. “Stare. I can’t seem to help myself.”
“I’ve noticed,” you whisper.
A small smile curves his lips. “Good.”
The air between you shifts. Becomes heavier, charged with electricity, warm and thick like honey. Something unspoken pulling tighter and tighter like a wire about to snap.
Your hand twitches against the blanket, wanting desperately to reach out. To touch his face, to trace the line of his jaw, to confirm he’s real and solid and here. But hesitation holds you frozen. What if your hand passes through him like smoke? What if touching him makes him flicker and fade? What if this is the thing that breaks the spell and sends him back to wherever he comes from?
“I’ve noticed something,” Phainon says quietly, breaking the silence. “I’m staying longer. Much longer than I ever have before.”
You blink, pulling yourself back from the edge of reaching for him. “You are.”
“I don’t know why.” His brow furrows slightly, confusion and wonder mixing in his expression. “Early on the glitch pulled me after a few minutes. But now—” He looks at you, and there’s something raw in his eyes. “Now I stay for hours. I think it’s because of you.”
Your heart hammers so hard you’re certain he can hear it. “What do you mean?”
“You ground me,” he whispers, and the words feel like a secret. A confession. “Somehow. When I’m with you, the fracturing slows. The pull weakens. Like you’re an anchor keeping me here.”
He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one arm so he’s looking down at you, and the tenderness in his gaze steals the breath from your lungs.
“I’ve wondered about this,” Phainon admits, his voice barely above a whisper.
“About what?”
“Lying next to each other. Like we do in the wheat field. In the dreams.” Color rises in his cheeks and he looks away, suddenly shy. “Being close to you calms my mind. Even when it’s just dreams. Even when I know you’ll disappear when I wake.”
His voice drops even lower, becoming something intimate and vulnerable that makes your chest tight.
“At first it was just comfort. The sense of not being alone in the darkness. But then—” He looks back at you, and his eyes are so blue you could drown in them. “Then we started talking. And I learned more about you. How you think. What makes you laugh. The way you see the world with such curiosity and kindness.”
His breath catches audibly.
“And it became more than comfort.”
“What did it become?” you whisper, barely able to form the words.
He swallows hard. You can see his throat work. “A wish.”
Your heart stops. “For what?”
“For this to be real.” His eyes search yours desperately, like he’s looking for something he’s afraid he won’t find. “For you to be real. For the closeness to last beyond dreams. For mornings where I wake up and you’re still there. For—”
He stops abruptly. Like he’s said too much. Revealed too much. But you understand. You understand so completely it hurts.
“I feel it too,” you whisper into the charged silence.
His breath shudders out of him like you’ve punched all the air from his lungs. “You do?”
“Yes.”
“The comfort?” His voice is so hopeful it breaks your heart.
“That. And—” You stop. It’s too vulnerable. Too much to say out loud. But his eyes are so soft and so hopeful and so full of longing that you can’t hold it back. “And the wishing.”
You finish quietly, the words barely audible.
His hand twitches toward yours across the blanket. Stops. Trembles in the space between you. “What do you wish for?” he breathes.
“This,” you answer, and your voice cracks on the word. “Exactly this. You here. Real. Solid. Staying.”
Silence falls between you. Thick and heavy and charged with everything you’re not saying. Everything you want and can’t have. Everything that feels impossible but is somehow happening anyway.
“We’re ridiculous,” he says finally, and his voice is rough with emotion.
“We are.”
“Lying here wishing for impossible things.”
“Yearning,” you correct softly, and the word feels right. Perfect. Exactly what this is.
He laughs. Breathless and broken and beautiful. “Yes. That.”
The word hangs in the air between you.
Yearning.
Your chest tightens painfully. “What did you do?” you whisper, needing to know. Needing to understand. “After the dreams? When you woke up and I was gone?”
Phainon laughs. Soft and embarrassed. His flush deepens. “It’s a little silly.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He looks at you. Then he reaches over, grabbing one of your pillows. “When I wake up,” he admits quietly, “and you’re gone… I always end up…”
He pulls the pillow against his chest and curls around it. “Spooning the pillow. Pretending it’s—” He stops, too embarrassed to finish. But you understand. Pretending it’s you.
“It isn’t silly,“ you say softly.
You reach for your other pillow, pull it close, mirror his position.
Both of you lying there, facing each other, holding pillows.
He smiles. “This feels right,” he murmurs.
“It does.” Your eyes are heavy now. The nightmare fading, replaced by warmth, by safety, by him.
“I think the glitch will take me soon,” Phainon whispers.
You try to respond, but sleep is pulling you under. Gentle this time. Your eyes close.
Phainon watches you fall asleep. Breath evening out, face relaxing, the terror finally leaving your expression.
“You should know,” he whispers, “that I’ve never done this with anyone before.”
You don’t respond. Already asleep.
“Neither in dreams nor…” He trails off, adjusts his position slightly, still holding the pillow, but watching you. “I don’t know what this means,” he continues softly. “This connection. These fractures. The way I feel drawn to you across worlds.”
You shift in your sleep. Your hand reaches out, finds his arm, curls around it gently.
His breath catches. “But I know,” he whispers, “that I’ve never felt safer than I do right here.”
The glitch pulls at him. He has maybe minutes left. He should pull away, should let you sleep. But your hand is warm on his arm. He can feel you. Finally. And you look so peaceful.
So he stays. Just a little longer. Watching over you until the glitch finally takes him.
You wake to sunlight. Alone but warm, the pillow still tucked against your chest. And the faintest impression on the blanket beside you.
Where Phainon was. Where he stayed. As long as he could.
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8 — HANDS
Phainon appears in the library again one day later. “Hi,” he says.
You grin. “Hi.”
He sits across from you without hesitation this time. Closer than last time. Comfortable. “What are you reading?”
You show him the cover.
He tilts his head, reading the title, then laughs softly. “That sounds demanding.”
“It is,” you admit. “But I can’t stop.”
He shakes his head, amused.
“Tell me about Okhema. Really. What’s it like?”
His eyes light up. “Bustling,” he says immediately. “Always moving. The markets are—” He gestures expansively. “Overwhelming in the best way. Colors and sounds and people everywhere.”
He leans forward slightly, warming to the subject. “The bathhouses I mentioned? They’re actually remarkable. The architecture, the details—You’d love it, I think.”
“What do you love about the city?”
He pauses, thinking. “The people,” he says finally. “The debates. Sparring with Mydei—he’s insufferably competitive but it keeps me sharp.” A small smile. “The energy. The life.”
His voice falls into that soft, eloquent cadence. “There’s this plaza where people gather. I used to join them when I had time. We’d argue about everything—very eloquently, of course.” He laughs. “I miss that.”
Your chest tightens. “You don’t have time for it now,” you say quietly.
His smile fades. “No.” He looks away. “We’re running out of time.” A pause. “Professor Anaxa—he…” Phainon stops, jaw tightening. “He had theories. About souls transferring. About Chrysos Heirs being reborn as Titans in the next life. About lasting identity, basically.”
He shakes his head. “It was confusing. I didn’t understand most of it. But I understand that this is what defines us. And it made me wonder if this can partly explain what has been happening to me. The memories I got. Everything. I wish I could ask Professor Anaxa about it. I…actually I intended to tell him about you. He wouldn't have called me crazy, I think.”
He looks down at his hands. “He’s gone now. Castorice too.”
Your throat tightens. “I’m so sorry.”
“I just…” Phainon exhales. “I just wish I could stop thinking about it for a while.”
You nod.
Then—suddenly—he straightens. “I did deliver a speech though.”
You blink. “A speech?”
He grins. Boyish, almost embarrassed.
“One of my better moments, actually. Very rousing. Very… deliverer-like.”
He says it with such self-deprecating humor you can’t help but laugh.
“Deliverer?”
“That’s what they call me.” He shrugs, but he’s smiling. “The Deliverer. Very dramatic.”
You laugh harder. Not because you find the name particularly funny, but because he looks so liberated.
He joins you, and for a moment the weight lifts entirely.
Phainon glitches slightly, then stabilizes. Still there. Still smiling.
You stare at him. “You’re still here.”
He blinks, surprised. “I am.”
“Want to go for a walk?”
His eyes widen, then soften. “Yes.” You walk side by side through the quiet streets. Snow is falling gently, settling on your coats and your hair. The world is hushed and soft. Neither of you speaks for a while. Just walking. Existing together.
It’s peaceful in a way you haven’t felt in a long time.
“I needed this,” you say finally.
Phainon glances at you. “Needed what?”
“This. Walking. Talking about normal things. Not about—” You gesture vaguely. “Everything else.”
He nods. “I understand.” He sighs. “I needed it too.”
You walk a bit further. “Can I ask you something?”
His reply comes immediately. “Anything.”
“Do you think…” You hesitate. “Do you think the fact that there are multiple versions of you has something to do with the fracturing in the first place?”
He slows and considers this. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But it would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, piecing it together. “If souls can transfer. If memories can carry across lifetimes. And if—like you’re saying—there’s another version of me carrying out a task that was never supposed to happen…”
His brow furrows. “Something to deceive everyone. To defy all the rules set by whatever entities have a say in this—”
He stops and looks at you. “Maybe that’s what’s causing the glitches.”
Your breath catches. “Like you’re being pulled in multiple directions at once,” you say quietly. “By forces that shouldn’t exist. By timelines that shouldn’t exist like this. Shouldn‘t cross. Until you can’t control it anymore.”
“So I ended up here,” he finishes. “Maybe.” He shrugs.
“Exactly.”
You both stop walking and turn to face each other. Snow is falling between you.
Neither of you says it aloud, but you both think it: The glitching kept happening. Got more intense. Because your connection did too. The more you reached for each other. The more reality fractured. The more the anomaly grew.
Phainon’s eyes search yours. “If that’s true,” he says slowly, “then we’re the anomaly. Not just me. Both of us.”
Your heart pounds.
“A connection that shouldn’t exist,” you whisper. “Between worlds that shouldn’t touch.”
“Defying whatever rules were set.” He smiles. Small. Sad. Beautiful. “Anomalies,” he murmurs. “Both of us.” A pause. “I still think they are beautiful.”
His eyes haven’t left yours.
Your throat tightens. “Even if they break reality?”
“Especially then.”
“The other night. You touched me.”
He glances at you. “Yes. I suppose I did.”
“Do you think you can do it again?”
He stops walking. “I don’t know.”
You turn to face him. “Why do you think you were able to?”
“I let my emotions flood,” he says slowly. “I rarely do that. But when I felt you drowning in that dream, I just—” He stops. “I didn’t think. I just needed to reach you.”
You nod thoughtfully. “I think it was a combination. Both our emotions.”
He tilts his head. “That would make sense.”
You start walking again. Then you hear music. Faint at first, then clearer as you round the corner. A bar with its door propped open despite the cold. Blues pouring out into the street. Slow. Soulful. Aching.
Phainon stops. His head tilts toward the sound.
“You like it?” you ask softly.
“Yes.” He’s smiling. “I do.”
The saxophone curls through the air. A voice follows. Warm and yearning.
You make a decision. “Let’s dance.”
He blinks and looks at you. “Here?”
“Here.”
“But we—” Phainon glances down at the space between you. “We can’t touch.”
“Then we’ll dance without touching.”
His eyes light up. Delighted. Wondering. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.”
You step into the street where the music reaches clearest and hold out your hand. An invitation. A promise.
Phainon steps forward to mirror you. His hand lifts to hover beside yours.
“Old-fashioned,” you say. “Like a dance from centuries ago. When propriety meant keeping distance.”
“But wanting to be close anyway,” Phainon murmurs.
“Exactly.”
The music swells. You begin to move. Not modern dancing. Something slower. More formal. Like ballroom steps learned from period dramas and imagination.
A step forward. He steps back.
You circle each other. Hands raised but never touching. Hovering inches apart. Your palm traces the air where his palm would be. His fingers mirror the curve of your waist without contact.
The space between you hums.
“You’re good at this,” he says softly.
“So are you.”
“I’m improvising.”
“Me too.”
You turn, he follows.
The music guides you. Blues mixing with something that feels older. Timeless.
Your eyes meet as you move. His are so blue, even in the dim street light.
“This is…” He trails off, searching for words as you step closer.
The space between your raised hands barely an inch now.
“Nice,” he finishes. Inadequate but true.
“It is.”
The music slows. You move with it. Closer now. Turning in a small circle. His hand hovers near your back. Yours near his shoulder.
If either of you moved just slightly… just barely… you’d touch.
“I wish I could,” he whispers.
“I know.”
“Not being able to hold you is—” He stops and swallows hard.
The music aches on.
“I know,” you repeat gently.
The song ends. Another begins. Slower still.
You don’t stop dancing. You just move together in the snow. In the street. With music and moonlight and everything between you.
When you finally stop, you’re both breathing harder.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“For dancing with me.” He smiles. “Even like this.”
“Especially like this,” you correct.
He smiles. “We should—” He glances around. “We should keep walking.”
You nod, but neither of you moves immediately.
You just stand there, in the space between one moment and the next. Hands still hovering. Almost touching. Then you lower your hand. He lowers his. And you walk on. Slowly. Side by side.
Then—tentatively—you both lift your hands. Not quite reaching. Just hovering in the space between you again.
You’re both smiling now.
Nervous. Hopeful. Slightly ridiculous.
“This is absurd,” you murmur.
“Completely,” he agrees.
But neither of you lowers your hand. You keep walking. Hands suspended. Inches apart.
“What if it doesn’t work?” you whisper.
“Then we keep trying.”
“What if it never works?”
He looks at you. “Then I’ll still be here. As much as I can be.”
Your throat tightens. “Phainon—”
“I mean it,” he says softly. “Even if I can never really touch you. Not how I want to. Even if I’m always half here and half gone. I’ll keep coming back. I‘ll try. My will has always kept me together, and so it will stay.”
Your eyes sting. You move your hand slightly closer. He mirrors the movement. Your fingertips are almost brushing. Almost. And then, for just a fleeting moment, your fingers touch.
The sensation is overwhelming. Warm. Real. You both gasp softly. Then he flickers.
“No—” you breathe.
“It’s alright,” Phainon says quickly, even as he fades. “I felt it. Did you?”
“Yes.”
He’s smiling even as he disappears. “Then we’re getting closer. I’ll come back.”
And he’s gone.
──────── ✧ ────────
9 — WARMTH
It’s raining when he appears. Not snow this time. Rain, soft and steady against your kitchen window.
You’re holding a mug of tea when the air behind you flickers gently, like a candle guttering before it steadies.
You turn.
He’s there. Solid today. Breathing evenly. No trembling, no flickering gold.
Just Phainon standing in your kitchen as if he belongs in the warm light. But something’s different. There’s a tension in his shoulders you haven’t seen before. A heaviness in his eyes.
“Hi,” you whisper.
His eyes soften. “Hi.”
You gesture toward the kettle. “Tea?”
He hesitates longer than usual. Then he nods.
You pour it for him. Steam curls into the air. Jasmine and quiet comfort. You hand him the mug. He doesn’t take it at first, just looks at it with something close to longing. Then, very slowly, he wraps both hands around it. Like he’s trying to hold onto something more than porcelain and warmth.
“I don’t want to spill it by accident,” he murmurs.
“You won’t.”
He lifts it carefully, inhales the steam, closes his eyes. The tension in his shoulders begins to loosen. Just a little. But not enough.
You speak quietly. “Do you still have moments like this? In Amphoreus?”
He opens his eyes. “Not anymore.”
The words are simple. The weight behind them isn’t.
“Why not?”
He looks down at the mug. “Because there’s no time.” A pause. “Because if I stop—even for a moment—people die.”
He continues, voice low: “They look at me and see the Deliverer. The one who will save them. The one who has to succeed.” His hands tighten around the mug. “And I can’t—” He stops. Breathes. “I can’t let them down.”
“Phainon—”
“They’ve lost so much already.” His voice cracks slightly. “Their homes. Their families. Everything they’ve ever known is being consumed by the Black Tide and I’m supposed to—” He stops, jaw clenching. “I’m supposed to be enough.”
The silence that follows is heavy. You sit at the small kitchen table. After a moment, Phainon joins you. Not across from you. Beside you. Close. Not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.
“What if you’re not?” you ask softly.
He goes very still. “What?”
“What if you’re not enough? What happens then?”
He stares at you. “Then I’ve failed.”
“Or,” you say carefully, “maybe the expectation was impossible from the start.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter if it’s impossible. It’s still my responsibility.”
“Says who?”
“Says—” He stops. “Everyone. The prophecy. The Chrysos Heirs. My—”
He cuts himself off, but you hear it anyway. “Yourself,” you finish quietly.
Phainon doesn’t deny it, just looks down at the tea, jaw tight. “I don’t know how to be anything else.”
Your heart aches. You reach out, placing your hand on the table between you.
He looks at your hand for a long moment. Then, very slowly, he sets his free hand beside it. Still not touching, but close enough that you feel the trembling warmth of him.
“Here,” you say softly, “you don’t have to be the Deliverer.” His breath catches. “Here, you can just be Phainon.”
Something in his expression cracks. “Most of the time I don’t remember what that feels like,” he whispers.
“Then let me remind you.”
You shift your hand slightly. Your fingers brush his. Just the slightest touch.
Phainon inhales sharply. Like you’ve burned him. But he doesn’t pull away. “It feels…” He searches for a word. “Safe.”
Your heart stutters. “You are safe here.”
He looks at you with something like desperation. “Am I?” His voice drops. “Because every time I come here, it gets harder to leave.”
The air between you shifts. Charged. Heavy.
“Every time I touch you—even just this—” His fingers press slightly against yours. “I feel like I’m betraying them. Like I’m choosing this over my duty.”
“You’re allowed to want both.”
“Am I?” He laughs, bitter, broken. “Because it doesn’t feel like it. It feels like I’m being torn in half.”
His hand trembles against yours. “I think about you when I should be thinking about strategy. I feel your warmth when I should feel nothing but purpose.”
He turns to face you fully now, eyes burning with something intense. “And the worst part?” His voice drops to almost a whisper. “I don’t want to stop.”
Your breath leaves you. He shifts closer. Not touching more than your hand but close enough that you could.
“The pendant,” Phainon murmurs. “The warmth it carried. It felt like this.”
Heat blooms behind your eyes.
“So I kept it,” he continues. “Because it reminded me of something I thought I’d lost. Something I didn’t even know I was searching for.”
“What?” you breathe.
He looks at your hand against his. “Home,” he whispers. “Not a place. Not a memory. Just… this feeling. That I belong. That someone sees me.”
Your throat closes. “I see you,” you whisper.
His eyes snap to yours. Bright and desperate. “I know.”
The moment stretches.
“That’s why it’s so hard,” Phainon breathes. “Because you see me. And I don’t know if I can carry that and still do what I have to do.”
“You don’t have to choose—”
“Don’t I?”
The question hangs between you, heavy and unanswerable. Then he says: “But this feeling—when I’m with you—that’s mine. It‘s consuming.” He lifts his head. “And it terrifies me.”
“Why?”
“Because if I let myself want this—” His voice breaks. “If I let myself want you—what happens when I can’t stay?”
Your chest aches.
“Then we have now,” you whisper.
His eyes search yours. “Is that enough?”
“I don’t know.”
The honesty sits between you. He shifts even closer. His knee brushes yours. You both freeze. The touch—so small—feels enormous. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispers.
“You won’t.”
“I might not have a choice.”
“Then we’ll deal with it when it happens.”
He stares at you. Then he lifts his free hand. Hesitates. His fingers hover near your face. “May I?” he breathes.
You nod. His fingers brush your cheek. Feather-light and trembling. You lean into the touch.
His breath catches. “You’re real,” he whispers like he still can’t quite believe it.
“So are you.”
He cups your face gently. His thumb traces your cheekbone. “I don’t want this to end,” he breathes.
“Then don’t let it.”
He leans closer, his forehead almost touching yours. “I’m trying,” he whispers. “I’m trying so hard to hold on.”
Your hand lifts to cover his. “Then hold on to me.”
His eyes close. He exhales shakily—a sound torn from deep inside.
“I think that’s the only thing keeping me together.”
The moment suspends. Fragile but perfect. Then the glitch hits him. His body jerks. Static cracks across his skin. “No—” you gasp, hands reaching for him.
He reaches back desperately. “I don’t—want—to—go—” His fingers brush yours. Almost catch, almost hold. Then he tears out of existence. Gone.
You sit alone in your kitchen. Hand still lifted, cheek still warm where he touched you. And the echo of his voice. I think that’s the only thing keeping me together.
You press your hand to your heart. It’s racing. Aching.
Hours later, you’ve given up on sleep. Settled on the sofa instead, wrapped in your softest blanket.
A movie is playing on low volume. Something classic. Familiar. Comforting. You’re not really watching. Just letting the images wash over you, trying not to think about...
The air shifts. You pause the movie and look up.
Phainon is standing in your living room, taking you in. The cozy blanket. The soft lighting. The comfortable clothes. His cheeks flush. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “You’re even more—I didn’t mean to—” He stops and swallows. “I should go.”
“No.” Your voice is firm. “I’m glad you came back.”
He blinks. “Yes?”
You smile softly. “You know this.”
His shoulders lower, relief flooding his expression. “Ironically,” he says, moving closer, “I was just going to sleep. But I couldn’t. After we parted.” His voice trembles slightly. “I guess that brought me back? I don’t know.”
Your heart clenches, but you keep your tone light. “Well, I’m watching a movie now.” You grin. “It seems you’re telepathic too. Can you read my mind?”
His eyes light up, that playful spark returning. “No. Not yet.” He grins back. “But I intend to know you so well that I can read you perfectly.” His smile softens. “Eventually.” He approaches the sofa.
You pat the space beside you. “Sit down next to me.”
He does and settles in with surprising ease. And then—naturally, almost unconsciously—he drapes his arm over the back of the sofa.
Your breath catches.
He doesn’t seem to notice, just looks at the paused screen with curiosity. “What is this?”
You explain the movie and press play. Try to focus on the screen. Try not to think about his arm. About how easy it would be to lean back. To rest against him.
The movie continues. Phainon watches with genuine interest, commenting occasionally.
“Why would he go back?”
“Is that a common custom?”
“The scenery is remarkable.”
You answer, laugh at his observations, find yourself relaxing, leaning back slightly. Your shoulder brushes his side.
“Oh—”
You both freeze. The air charges. Phainon flickers. Static crackling across his form.
“No—” you start.
But he settles, solidifies. He's still there. You both exhale and try to refocus on the movie. But then your arm shifts and touches his. Again.
He flickers more violently this time. Almost disappears. Then, with visible effort, he stays.
It happens twice more. Each touch sending ripples through his form. Each time he fights to remain solid.
Finally, you lean into him slightly. Testing. His breath catches. Very carefully he lowers his arm around your shoulders, drawing you closer. Not quite an embrace. But almost.
His voice is rough when he speaks. Yearning threaded through every word. “For a couple of minutes maybe? I want to try.” A pause follows. Vulnerable. Hopeful. Desperate. “Am I doing this right? Watching a movie?” he asks quietly.
You smile against his shoulder. “Right? There is no right or wrong.” You pause and correct yourself. “Yes. It’s perfect. You’re good at this.”
He’s quiet for a moment. You can feel his heartbeat.
“So…” His voice carries that nervous edge again. “When people watch a movie, do they—” He stops, scratches the back of his neck with his free hand. “Do they just—is this normal for them?”
He gestures vaguely at the screen, but you know what he means. The tension. The closeness. The forgetting to actually watch.
You laugh. “They do a lot.” You grin up at him.
His eyes widen slightly, understanding dawning. “Oh.” A beat. “Oh.”
His cheeks flush, but he’s smiling. “I see. Hmm.” He considers this. “There really is a lot to learn.”
He looks down at you and pulls you closer. Until you’re practically against his chest. You can feel the warmth of him. The solid muscle beneath the soft fabric. The steady rise and fall of his breathing.
“I want to learn,” he murmurs, his voice going whimsical and even softer. “I told you that, right?” His arm tightens slightly. “This counts too.”
Your throat closes. You nod against his shoulder, your throat dry. The movie plays on. Neither of you watches.
Phainon hums. “Can you explain it a bit more? What do people typically do during movies?”
You try not to smile at how earnest he sounds. “Well, they watch. Obviously.”
“Obviously.”
“And sometimes eat snacks.”
“I see.”
“And…” You pause. “Sometimes they sit close. If they’re comfortable with each other.”
His eyes flicker to you. “Are you? Comfortable?”
“Very much so.”
“Good.”
He shifts even closer.
“What else?” he asks quietly.
“What else what?”
“What else do people do? During movies?”
Your heart skips. “They… talk. Comment on what’s happening. Like you've been doing. You're actual a natural at this.”
“I can do better. I will practice,"
“Or they don’t talk at all. Just—” You stop.
“Just?”
You flush. “Just enjoy being close.”
“I’d like that,” he says softly. “Either option. Both. Now and every time.”
You’re both hyperaware of each other. The warmth radiating between you.
The movie continues but you’re barely watching. Too aware of the way he smells. The way his chest rises and falls. The way his thumb traces absent patterns on your shoulder.
“In the dreams,” he says suddenly, quietly, “we’re often close like this.”
“We are.”
“But this is—” He stops. “Is so much better.”
“Because it’s real?”
“Because you’re warm. And solid. And here.”
Your chest tightens. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Neither am I. At least for now.”
The movie ends, the credits roll, but neither of you move.
“That was nice,” he says.
“It was.”
“I’m still here.”
You blink. Look up at him. He’s staring at the screen. Slightly amazed. Slightly nervous. “You are.”
“I didn’t expect to stay this long.” He flushes. “Usually by now the glitch would have—” He stops. Looks at you. “Do you want to sleep? I should probably—”
“Don’t you dare,” you say firmly.
He blinks. “What?”
“Don’t you dare suggest leaving through the door now.”
You put on the adventure film. Swashbuckling heroes and daring escapes, sword fights on cliffsides and impossible odds. It seems harmless enough. Safe. Just entertainment.
You settle beside him, leaving a careful space between you. He shifts immediately, closing that distance with an easy confidence that makes your breath catch. His arm stretches along the back of the couch. Not quite around you again, not yet, but the invitation is clear. The promise of it hovering in the air between you.
The movie starts. For the first few minutes, you’re both genuinely focused on the screen. Phainon comments on the sword work with the critical eye of someone who actually knows what he’s talking about.
“That form is terrible,” he mutters, almost to himself.
You glance up at him, fighting a smile. “Oh really?”
“Mydei would have an absolute fit watching this.” He shakes his head, but there’s warmth in his eyes. Amusement. “The footwork is all wrong. And that guard position—”
“Could you do better?” you tease.
“Naturally.”
He grins at you, playful and confident, and something in your chest flips. He’s trying so hard to seem casual, to keep his tone light, but you can feel the tension thrumming beneath the surface. The awareness crackling between you like static electricity before a storm.
Your body is hyperconscious of every point of near-contact. The warmth radiating from him, the clean scent of him that reminds you of sun-warmed wheat and open skies. The way his breath catches—just barely, but you notice—when you shift slightly closer. The way your heart hammers so hard you’re certain he can hear it when his fingers accidentally brush your shoulder.
“This is nice,” Phainon murmurs, and his voice has gone soft. Wondering.
“It is,” you manage.
“Your couch is very comfortable.”
“Mmhm.”
“And you—” He stops, clears his throat. You can feel him gathering courage. “You fit here perfectly.”
Heat floods your face. “Here?”
“Against me.” His voice drops to something low and rough and achingly tender. “Even better than I imagined.”
Your breath catches in your chest. “You imagined this?”
“Maybe.” He’s blushing now too, you can see it from the corner of your eye. “Only sometimes.”
“How often is sometimes?”
“Every night since we met in reality.”
You laugh. Breathless, flustered, completely undone by the honesty in his admission. “Oh.”
“Is that—” He sounds nervous now, uncertain. “Is that alright?”
“More than alright.”
The silence that follows feels heavy with everything you’re not saying. The movie continues, sword clashing against sword, but neither of you are really watching anymore.
Then suddenly the tone shifts. The two characters on screen—who’ve been bantering and fighting their way through the adventure—crash together in a kiss that steals the air from your lungs. It’s passionate and unexpected and so intense it makes something tighten low in your stomach. Hungry and desperate and tender all at once, like they’ve been waiting forever for this moment and can’t hold back another second.
You freeze. Phainon goes very still beside you.
Neither of you are watching the movie anymore—but you can’t look away from the screen. Can’t tear your eyes from the way the characters move together like they’re two halves of the same whole, hands tangling in hair, bodies pressed so close there’s no space left between them. The kiss deepens and your breathing quickens without permission.
Phainon’s breathing quickens too. You can feel his chest rising and falling against your side, faster now, matching your rhythm. His arm tightens around your shoulders—just slightly, almost unconsciously, like his body is responding without consulting his mind—and pulls you closer.
You let him. Melt into his side like you belong there. Your hand comes to rest on his chest without you quite deciding to put it there, and you can feel his heartbeat racing beneath your palm. Wild and unsteady.
The kiss on screen softens. Becomes reverent instead of desperate. A promise instead of a plea.
“Should I—” Your voice comes out rough and you have to clear your throat. “Should I pause this?”
“No.” His voice is strained, tight with some emotion you can’t name. He pulls you even closer, and you can feel him trembling. “Don’t.”
“Phainon—”
“Sometimes I wish my brain would be less active,” he says suddenly, words tumbling out. “That I could feel less. Process less. But not—” He stops, swallows hard enough that you can see his throat move. “Not today. Not right now.”
You look up at him and find him staring at the screen with his jaw tight and his eyes dark and his whole body coiled with tension.
“The choreography of that scene was actually quite good,” he says abruptly, and you can hear the desperate attempt to redirect his thoughts. “The way they moved together. The blocking. Very—”
He’s rambling now. You can hear it clearly. The nervous edge underneath the words, the longing he’s trying so hard to bury beneath analysis and observation.
“Very what?” you whisper.
“Believable.” His voice cracks slightly. “The actors have good chemistry. The way they—the way they look at each other is—”
He stops mid-sentence. Looks at you instead of the screen with an intensity that makes your breath stop in your chest.
Your faces are so close.
“The way they look at each other,” he continues quietly, and all the false lightness has drained from his voice. “Like they are each other’s everything. Like nothing else matters in any world.”
His eyes drop to your lips. “Right here, right now, I understand that,” he breathes.
Your heart stops. Restarts. Stumbles over itself. “Phainon—”
He tears his gaze away, back to the screen where the kiss is finally ending. The characters pull apart, breathless and smiling and transformed.
“You know,” Phainon says, forcing his voice back to something carefully light, “with your interest in these adventure stories, you’d probably enjoy sparring.”
You blink at the sudden shift. “Sparring?”
“The choreography. The movement.” He’s looking at you again, and there’s something heated in his gaze that has nothing to do with sword fighting. “It’s like dancing. All grace and power and reading your partner’s intentions.”
He pauses. “I think you’d be good at it.”
“I don’t know how to fight.”
“I could teach you.” The offer hangs in the air between you, weighted with implications. “Would you want that? Want me to teach you?”
“I’d love that,” you whisper.
His thumb brushes your shoulder—absent and reverent, like he can’t help himself. “I’d love to see you move like that. All that grace and power you already have, but channeled into something physical. Something beautiful.”
He smiles, soft and wondering.
“Though you are always beautiful.”
Heat floods your face. “I think you’d fit perfectly in a scene like that,” you manage. “With your expertise. Your sword work. I’d love to watch you spar for real.”
“Anytime.” His voice goes warm. Intimate. “Or better yet—spar with me.”
“I just said I don’t know how.”
“I’ll teach you.” He grins, and there’s something playful and heated in it. “We’d start slow. Basic forms. Footwork. Balance.” His hand slides from your shoulder to your arm, gentle and deliberate. “Then when you’re ready, we could—”
He stops. Realizes what he’s saying. What he’s imagining.
You and him, moving together. Close. Touching. Learning each other’s bodies through motion and response.
“We could spar for real,” he finishes quietly.
“I’d like that.”
“So would I.”
He shifts, and suddenly his hand is on your chin, gently turning you to face him fully. The movie forgotten. Everything forgotten except the way he’s looking at you.
“You could have told me,” he says softly, “that movies are so lifelike. They make me feel as if I’m there too.” His thumb brushes your jaw. “Making me want to do daring things.”
Your breath catches. “Phainon—”
He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away, his eyes dropping to your cheek. Testing. Trying. His lips are almost there, almost touching your skin—
He flickers.
Glitches.
He tries another time, slower now, but he flickers again.
“No—” The word tears from him, frustrated and aching. He stabilizes but he’s trembling now, breathing hard. You’re still so close. Close enough to feel his breath on your skin. Close enough to see the frustration and longing warring in his eyes.
“So much for that,” Phainon breathes.
The air between you is charged with everything that almost happened.
You‘re trying to collect yourself, but your throat feels dry. “At least you‘re still here.“
Phainon looks at you for at least half a minute, his eyes never leaving your lips. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.“
He takes a deep breath. “You know, I always figured fulfilling others’ wishes was enough,” he says quietly, roughly. “It made me happy. Gave me purpose. But this wish I told you about—” His breath shudders. “The wish for this to be real. To last. It makes me so full, so—”
He can’t finish. Too much emotion flooding through him.
“That we’re able to watch a movie like this is already amazing,” you whisper, trying to ease the ache you can see in his expression.
He’s still staring at you like you’re the only thing in existence. “Yes." His voice is raw. “I was thinking you’d prepare a list for that. Movies to watch together in the future. And I‘d like to see additional commentary too." He grins. “Not only can I immerse myself in your handwriting and thoughts then, that‘s a given."
He shifts a bit, his arms tightening around you in a way that feels almost possessive.
Your mind is spinning. You don’t know if this is the result of his stress easing or if the tension in the room is still affecting him.
Either way, you lick your lips involuntarily.
He makes a low sound in his throat, but apparently he’s still in rambling mode since he continues talking. “Watching these movies today made me realize that my mind is full of ideas now. Things we could do. Things I want to try with you."
He grins at you, and the gleam in his eyes tell you he's still not finished. “I think commentary and snacks and enjoying each other’s company are just the beginning. I will enhance the movie experience. I’ll make it perfect. For us.” He's smiling now. “And since I have yet to become an expert on movies, you‘ll prepare an extensive list that we‘ll work through.”
You‘re realizing he‘s flirting more now that he feels comfortable and it makes you smile. “Were you now? Who would’ve thought you’d be so bossy about this?"
"Bossy?" He tilts his head, confused. "I don’t know what that means." Then softer, more vulnerable: “But yes. With you, I’m feeling greedy."
His eyes are too intense. Too honest. Emotions running wild across his face. Wanting and frustration and tenderness and desperate longing all tangled together.
“You mentioned letting your emotions run wild,” you say carefully. “Is that what you’re doing?”
“To an extent.” He sighs, and it sounds exhausted. “It’s like the glitch restrains me in other ways now. When I want something too much, when I feel too intensely, it pulls. Reminds me I’m not fully here.”
He closes his eyes briefly. When he opens them, there’s something like resignation there.
“I think,” he says quietly, “we should watch the movie again.”
The movie continues, back to adventure and less charged territory, but neither of you are really watching anymore. You’re too aware of each other. The weight of his arm around you. The warmth of his chest beneath your palm. The way he’s holding you like you’re precious. Like he never wants to let go but knows he’ll have to.
Eventually your eyes grow heavy. The adrenaline from all that tension finally fading, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion. The comfort of being held. The safety of being wanted.
You shift, settling more comfortably against him.
“Tired?” he murmurs against your hair.
“A little.”
“Sleep, then.”
“But the movie—”
“I’ll watch.” His lips brush your temple—so soft you almost miss it. “I’ll tell you what happens.”
You smile, eyes already closing. "Promise?"
“Promise.”
You drift off to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, to his soft voice as he whispers commentary about sword forms and impossible stunts. To the impossible comfort of being held. Of being wanted. Of being home.
Phainon doesn’t move, doesn’t want to disturb you. He just holds you. Something he might lose.
The movie ends, credits rolling in silence.
The glitch pulls at him. Stronger now. Insistent. He has minutes, maybe less. He looks down at you. At your peaceful expression. At the way you’re curled against him.
His voice is barely a whisper. Choked, almost breaking. “I wish it could stay like this.” His eyes sting. “I wish—”
He can’t finish. The glitch tears at him. He holds on. Just a moment longer. He presses a kiss to your hair, so light you don’t stir.
“I’m sorry,” Phainon whispers. Then, he’s gone.
You wake to dawn light. Alone on the sofa. The blanket tucked around you, more carefully than you remember. The TV is dark. The room quiet. But you can still feel it. The warmth where he held you. The impression of his arm.
The ghost of his presence. And something else. A sadness you don’t understand.
Like he was saying goodbye.
──────── ✧ ────────
10 — TORN
He appears wrong. This time he arrives mid-collapse, knees hitting your living room floor as if he’s been dropped from a height.
“Phainon?” you gasp, rushing toward him.
“Stay back.” His voice is raw, scraping the edges of something feral. He clutches his head, breath ragged.
You don’t listen. You drop to your knees beside him. “Look at me—look at me—”
He does. And the look in his eyes destroys you. He is terrified. Not of you. Of what happened. Of what he’s lost. “You shouldn’t—” he grits out. “—be near me.”
“You’re hurt.”
“I’m breaking.”
The air around him distorts. His outline trembles in and out of focus. You reach for him, but he jerks away. “Don’t.”
Your hand falls uselessly to your lap.
Silence stretches. Then he looks up at you, eyes wild and searching. “When was I here last?”
You blink. “What?”
“For you,” Phainon clarifies desperately. “When was I here last? What day?”
You swallow. “Last night.”
He goes absolutely still. “Last night,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“It’s been days for me.”
Your breath catches. “Days?” you whisper.
“I think.” He presses both hands to his temples. “Maybe longer. Time—time doesn’t make sense anymore. I can’t—”
He stops. Looks at you with something close to horror. “Why does time not add up?”
You stare at him. Your stomach drops. “Phainon—”
“They’re gone,” he says suddenly, voice breaking. “Aglaea. Mydei. Tribbie.”
Your heart stops.
“They’re gone and I couldn’t—I was supposed to protect everyone. I’m the one who’s supposed to lead and I—”
His voice cracks completely. “Hyacine is trying to protect everyone with her powers but we’re failing. We’re failing and I don’t know—” He gasps for air. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
Tears burn your eyes.
“Phainon—”
“And I keep coming here.” He looks at you desperately. “I keep ending up here when I should be—” He breathes like someone drowning. “You mentioned something,” he says suddenly. “About Khaslana. About him gathering Coreflames too but not following the Flame-Chase Journey like we do.”
Your throat tightens.
“Yes.”
“That’s been haunting me.” He looks up. “Because if he was doing the same thing we’re doing—if he was gathering the same Coreflames over and over, being the only thing that remains while people get reborn—”
He stops.
You see the realization hit him in real time. “Maybe we don’t see reality like it is,” he whispers.
The air leaves your lungs.
“Maybe it’s not linear. Maybe it’s—” He looks at you.
You can’t speak. Can’t move.
“Oh.” His expression collapses. “You already suspected.”
“I—” Your voice cracks. “I didn’t have the heart to destroy your hope.”
“Or you were hoping it would turn out differently,” he says quietly.
Tears slip down your cheeks. “Yes.”
He laughs. Broken, bitter. “So nothing is of consequence.”
“That’s not—”
“Or is it?” He stands suddenly, unsteady. “I don’t know anymore. I don’t know what’s real. What matters. If any of this—” He gestures between you. “—means anything in the end.”
“It means something to me,” you whisper.
“Does it? When I might not even be? When I—” He stops, presses a hand to his chest. “When I don’t even know if I’m real.”
The silence is absolute. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. “I still have to go on. I have to finish this. The Era Nova will come. It has to.”
His voice breaks on the last word.
You stand. “Phainon, talk to me,” you plead.
“I can’t.”
“You can. You just won’t.”
His jaw tenses. His breathing sharpens. The room buzzes with unstable light.
You push again, louder this time: “Tell me what you’re feeling.”
He lifts his head and the pain in his expression is enough to make your chest seize. “You want honesty?” His voice cracks into something too sharp to be gentle. “Fine.”
He takes a shuddering breath. “I am not supposed to be here,” he says through clenched teeth. “I keep slipping out of my world, leaving people who need me. Ending up in yours when I least can afford to.”
You stare at him, feeling something inside you twist.
“So you being here… is a problem?”
“Yes.” His lips tremble. “No.”
You swallow. “Then what are you saying?”
He shakes his head once, violently, as if fighting something inside him. “I…” He stops, shaking. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
Your throat tightens.
He presses a hand to his chest. “Maybe...maybe there is something wrong with me. I don't know. I feel things I shouldn’t. Not in my position.” He looks at you and the look is both a confession and a wound. “I feel too much when I’m with you.”
You freeze. The room tilts.
He continues, voice fraying: “When I’m here, everything inside me quiets. The sorrow, the guilt, the noise, the duty…” He shudders. “It all goes silent. And that silence terrifies me.”
“Why?” you whisper.
He laughs, broken and bitter. “Because I can’t afford to want something real.”
Your eyes sting. “And you think I don’t?” Your voice rises. “You think this is easy for me? Watching you break apart every time you appear? Never knowing if you‘ll even be able to stay like this? If I‘ll ever see you again?”
His expression tightens. Guilt, pain, longing all tangled.
You push harder. “You don’t get to treat me like I’m the one who doesn’t understand what you‘re going through.” Your breath trembles. “I’m trying—Phainon, I’m trying—”
“No.” His voice cuts like a blade. “You’re trying to keep a shell. Because for all we know I am not real.”
The silence after that line is absolute. Something inside you shatters. “That’s not true,” you whisper.
“It is.”
“No.” Your voice cracks. “It’s what you tell yourself so you don’t have to admit you’re scared.”
His breath catches—because you’re right.
You lean in, tears gathering. “You’re real to me. That should count for something.”
“It does.” Soft. Defeated. “As long as I’m here.” His eyes are glistening. “Not in my world.”
“Well this isn’t Amphoreus,” you snap. “Right now, this is yours too.”
His eyes widen. Hurt, longing, astonishment. Then he shakes his head. “No. It can’t be.”
“Why not?”
He explodes. “Because I don’t stay!” The room shakes with the force of it. “I come back wrong. I come back fractured. Never whole. Every time. And you—” He swallows hard. “You look at me like you expect something good.”
You do. You always have.
Phainon sees it, and it breaks him. “I can’t give you that,” he whispers. “I’m not enough of a person to give you anything.”
You reach out a final time.
His fingers twitch toward yours, then recoil. “Don’t wait for me,” he whispers. A tear slips down his cheek. “It will only hurt you.”
“Phainon—”
He flickers violently. “Don’t care for me.”
The last thing you see is his eyes—ruined with longing. And then his face crumples completely.
“I’m sorry,” Phainon chokes out. “I’m so sorry—” A sob breaks from him. Raw. Desperate. “I didn’t mean it—I want—”
His voice breaks. “I want you to care—I just—” Another sob. “I’m so scared—” His hand reaches. Desperate. “I’m sorry—please don’t—please—”
The glitch rips him away. Mid-plea.
Then he‘s gone, and the room collapses into silence.
You’re alone.
More alone than ever before.
──────── ✧ ────────
11 — CLASH
You wake up screaming. Not from a nightmare. From something else. Something real.
Your chest heaves, sweat soaking through your shirt. Your hands shake as you press them to your face. You saw something. You don’t know what, but you felt it.
You can’t fall back asleep. Every time you close your eyes, you see flashes. Gold. Black. White. Blue.
A pool of water. And Phainon standing at the edge. He is trembling, fists clenched, head still high.
You can’t hear what he’s saying, can barely see him, but you feel it. Grief. Rage. Desperation.
He’s breaking apart.
You reach for him. The vision shatters.
You spend the day in a daze. Going through motions. Coffee tastes like nothing. Everything blurs. People talk to you. You respond. You don’t remember what you say. All you feel is wrongness.
Something is happening. Something terrible. But you can’t see it. Can’t reach it. Just this constant, gnawing ache in your chest. Like something is being torn away from you.
The pain hits without warning.
You’re sitting on the couch when it crashes through you. Not physical. Deeper. You gasp, doubling over. “No—” But there’s no one to hear you.
The world fractures. Your vision glitches. Gold edges bleeding into reality. Static crackling across your sight.
You try to breathe. Can’t. The pain intensifies. Confusion. Fear. Loss. Not yours. Someone else’s. Bleeding into you.
“Phainon—” His name rips from your throat. Then everything shifts.
You’re not in your apartment anymore. You’re somewhere else.
The air is wrong. Thick. Heavy. Everything above you and around you is fractured. And in front of you… Two figures.
One in white. One in black. Phainon. And the black-robed swordmaster. (Khaslana, part of your mind keeps repeating.)
Your breath stops.
They’re fighting. No. Not fighting. Ending. The black-robed swordmaster is swaying. Mask cracked. Gold eyes flickering like dying embers.
Phainon stands before him. Blade drawn. Shaking.
Khaslana doesn’t respond. Just stares at him. Through him. At something beyond. Then his eyes find yours. Even across the impossible distance. Even dying. He sees you.
Your heart shatters. “No—” you breathe.
Phainon moves. The blade strikes. Clean. Final. Inevitable.
Khaslana gasps. Not in pain. In something else. Relief? Recognition?
His body begins to fracture, cracks of light spreading, but his eyes stay on you. His mouth moves. You can’t hear him, but you feel what he says.
“Y/N.”
There’s a smile in his voice. Even now. Even at the end.
His final smile.
Then he shatters. Like glass. Like light. Like every version of himself breaking apart at once.
Phainon staggers, drops to his knees.
Head bowed, shoulders shaking.
And then light explodes from where Khaslana stood. Overwhelming. Gold. And something else. Many colors at once. Flickering. Shifting. Like a thousand faces turning toward you.
You hear voices. Not words. Not language. A melody. Many voices singing as one. Harmonizing. Beautiful and terrible and incomprehensible.
Phainon’s head snaps up. He’s staring at the light. At something you can’t see.
Then he screams in something you have no name for.
The light consumes him, wraps around him, into him.
His body arches, hands clutching his head.
You feel memories pouring into him. Millions of cycles. Millions of lives. Millions of deaths.
An eternity of rage, sorrow and hope. All at once. All collapsing into this single moment.
He’s breaking. No. He’s becoming?
The light intensifies. The voices crescendo. Everything glitches.
Your vision fractures, and the ground beneath you dissolves. You’re being pulled back. “No—” you gasp.
You reach for him, but the glitch tears you away.
The last thing you see are Phainon’s eyes, finding yours across the impossible distance. Wide. Shocked. Aware.
He sees you. He feels you. “Wait—” he chokes out.
But you’re already gone.
You slam back into your body. Your apartment. Your couch. Gasping. Sobbing. Shaking so hard you can barely stay upright.
Your chest hurts. Like you’ve lost something you can’t name.
Or...you can.
“Phainon—”
His name breaks on your lips. But there’s no answer. Just silence. And the terrible, crushing certainty that something has ended. Something has changed.
And you don’t know if it’s for better or worse.
You curl into yourself.
And you wait.
Because what else can you do?
──────── ✧ ────────
12 — STAY
You don’t know how long you sit there.
Hours.
Days.
Time doesn’t mean anything anymore.
You go through the motions. Shower. Coffee. Tasks. Calls.
You answer. You don’t remember what you say. All you feel is empty.
Like something’s been carved out of your chest and nothing will ever fill it again.
You don’t know if what you saw was good or bad.
If Phainon is unharmed If he’s okay. If he’s even—
You can’t finish the thought. Can’t bear it.
So you just exist. And wait. For what, you don’t know.
The doorbell chimes on a quiet afternoon.
You’re on the couch, staring at nothing. You almost don’t answer it, but something—some instinct, some pull—makes you stand. Makes you walk to the door. Makes you open it.
And there he is.
Phainon.
Standing on your doorstep. Solid. Real. Here.
He’s wearing clothes that don’t quite fit this world. Simple, slightly formal, like he tried to blend in but didn’t quite manage it.
His white hair catches the afternoon light, and his impossibly blue eyes are looking at you with a smile that takes your breath away. Boyish. Charming. The same smile you remember.
“Hi,” Phainon says softly. He scratches the back of his neck with a slightly embarrassed laugh. “Sorry I’m late.”
You can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stare.
He shifts slightly, pulling something from behind his back. Flowers. A slightly messy but beautiful bouquet, like he picked them himself without really knowing how.
“You once told me about flowers,” he says, rambling now, nervous energy pouring out of him. “How they mean different things and people give them to—to people they care about. And I thought you might like them. I wasn’t sure which ones, so I just—I got several kinds and hoped—I had to charm the vendor to give them to me for free, I hope you can forgive me—”
“Am I dreaming?” you whisper.
He stops, looks at you with such tenderness it hurts.
“No,” Phainon says gently. “You’re not dreaming.” A pause. Then, with that same charming smile: “Though I’ve been told I have that effect on certain people. Making them wonder if their dreams are real.”
You break. The sob rips out of you before you can stop it. Then another. Then you’re crying—ugly, gasping, overwhelming sobs that shake your entire body.
Phainon’s eyes widen. “Oh—I—” He reaches for you, hesitates, then settles for awkwardly patting your shoulder while looking slightly panicked. “This is different than what I planned out in my head,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
You laugh through the tears. Can’t help it.
“Can I—” He gestures vaguely at your apartment. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” you manage, stepping aside.
He moves past you. His shoulder brushes yours. Just barely. The lightest touch.
But you feel it.
You freeze. Did you just touch? Or did you imagine that?
But he’s already inside, looking around your apartment with open curiosity.
“It’s different seeing it when I’m actually here,” he says, walking slowly through the space. “The colors are brighter. And the—what did you call them—photographs? They’re everywhere.”
He picks up a book from your coffee table, reads the title, sets it down carefully.
“And you have so many books everywhere. I didn’t expect that. Well, I did, I knew, but seeing them is different from—”
“Phainon.”
He turns and ooks at you.
“What are you doing here?”
He blinks. Then laughs—nervous, slightly breathless.
“I need to tell you something,” Phainon says quietly.
You wait.
“That last time. When I—” His voice catches. “When I said those things. Told you not to wait. Not to care.”
Your chest tightens.
“I didn’t mean any of it,” he whispers. “I was breaking. Everything was falling apart and I was so terrified and I—”
He swallows hard. “I pushed you away because I was scared. Not because I wanted you to stop caring.”
He looks at you, eyes aching with regret.
“I wanted the opposite,” he admits. “I wanted—I needed—you to care. But I was so afraid that—” He stops and breathes. “That I don‘t deserve it.”
Your throat tightens.
“Phainon—”
“I know,” he says quickly. “I know you think differently. And I—” He touches his chest. “I will cherish it. Never make you regret it.” A pause. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For what I said. For how I left. For making you think I didn’t want—”
“I know,” you interrupt gently.
He blinks.
“You apologized,” you say softly. “Before you disappeared. I heard you.”
His breath catches. “You did?”
“Yes. You were crying. You said you didn’t mean it. That you wanted me to care. That you were scared.”
Relief floods his expression. Mixed with shame. “I thought—I was so afraid you didn’t hear—that you believed—”
“I heard you,” you repeat. “And I knew you were just breaking. Not being cruel.”
He exhales shakily. “Thank you,” he whispers. “For knowing. For waiting anyway. For—” His voice cracks.
“Always. I mean, I was hoping you‘d come back. So maybe the more pressing question: What happened?“
“Oh. Right. I forgot that time works differently here. For you this must have happened just recently. My bad.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to explain this for—well, for what feels like weeks. But for you it’s only been… a day?”
“Two,” you whisper.
“Two.” He nods. “Right. Okay.”
He takes a breath. “The Trailblazer and Dan Heng—they helped me understand what was happening. What I am.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “Amphoreus… it used to be a simulation. Or maybe it still is, in a way. I don’t fully understand it. But the cycles, the resets, the Titans, the people—it was all contained. Locked in a loop.”
He looks at you. “But then the Aeons noticed. Two of them. Fuli saw Khaslana. Saw the anomaly early on. The way he carried all those memories across millions of cycles.” His voice drops. “And Xipe…THEY saw… hope. The way we kept trying. Kept wishing for something better. For harmony. For everyone.”
He steps closer. “Honestly, the way my friends talked about them makes me think those Aeons were just curious. But it doesn't matter. They intervened. Their powers clashed. And it created something new. A bridge. A portal between worlds.”
Your breath catches.
“Amphoreus exists differently now. It’s not just a simulation anymore. It’s—” He struggles for words. “It’s real. But also connected. To your world. To other worlds. On the threshold of the universes, so to speak.”
He meets your eyes. “And I… because I’m an anomaly. Because I carried Khaslana’s memories. Because I was touched by both Aeons—” A pause. “I could cross over for good. I can be here. With you.”
His hand lifts, hovering near yours. “I’m real here. Not a glitch. Not a fracture. Actually, physically real.”
You stare at him, processing.
“So Amphoreus still exists?” you whisper.
“Yes. But it’s different. The cycles stopped. Time reset, but not to the beginning. To… something new.”
He smiles slightly.
“Madam Herta and Mister Screwllum explained it better than I can. Something about quantum states and overlapping realities and—” He shakes his head. “I stopped listening once I knew Amphoreus was safe. All I cared about was whether I could reach you.” A beat. “And I can. I did.”
He looks around your apartment again, then back at you with a small, almost shy smile. “I was here before, and yet I’m seeing everything with different eyes now.” His voice softens.
“The night we talked after that nightmare is one of my fondest memories. Leaving got harder with every time.”
He steps toward your bookshelf, trails his fingers along the spines. “But now I can finally inspect all your books properly. And...the rest.”
Your throat tightens.
He turns back to you. “Is that—” He hesitates. “Is that enough? For now? I can explain more, but—”
“It’s enough,” you whisper.
Relief floods his expression. “Good. Because honestly, half of it still doesn’t make sense to me either. For me...it was simply what we discussed before. Magic.” He laughs. Soft, almost embarrassed. “I just know that I’m here. And I can stay. And that’s all that matters.”
You stare at him. Think of all the research you did. All the spiraling. All the desperate searches for answers. All the theories and philosophies and attempts to understand.
Even though what you felt was always real. And then you just… feel him.
Here. In your apartment. Real. Solid. Alive.
Phainon steps closer. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” He smiles.
Your heart hammers.
“I didn’t come here because of Khaslana’s memories,” he says quietly. “I mean—yes, I originally felt drawn to you because of them. I won’t lie about that. I‘m actually grateful because without that fracture all of this would never happened. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Another step.
“I’m here because of the talks we had. The moments we shared. The way you looked at me. Because it's so easy to laugh with you.” His voice drops. “I’m here because when I was with you, I felt like I could just… be. Without the weight of everything else. I could be fully myself.”
Your eyes sting.
“I’m here because I love you.”
The tears spill over.
“Phainon—”
“I know I’m asking a lot,” he continues, words tumbling out now. “I know this is strange and complicated and probably terrifying and I don’t even know if you—”
“I love you too,” you sob.
He stops and stares. “What?”
“I love you,” you repeat, louder now, voice breaking. “I love you. I’ve loved you through every emotion, every fracture, every impossible moment. I love you.”
His breath leaves him all at once. Then he’s moving, closing the distance, pulling you into his arms.
You feel his heart pounding against yours. Feel his breath shuddering. Feel his hands gripping you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
“I missed you,” he whispers into your hair, voice breaking. “I missed you so much.”
You sob harder. He holds you tighter. Neither of you lets go.
After what feels like forever—and not long enough—he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His eyes are beautiful and bright with unshed tears.
“Can I—” he starts.
You don’t let him finish. You kiss him. And he responds. Immediately. Desperately.
His hand flies to your face, cupping your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The other slides to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.
The kiss is deep, consuming, overwhelming. Everything you’ve wanted.
He tastes like hope and desperation and finally.
Like every moment of yearning, every almost-touch, every desperate reach across impossible distances…
All of it crashes into this single point of contact.
His fingers thread into your hair.
You grab the front of his shirt, pulling him closer even though there’s no space left between you. Your other hand moves toward his neck, his sun mark, and stays there.
He makes a sound—low, broken, relieved—against your mouth.
You gasp and he deepens the kiss.
His hand at your back presses harder, holding you to him like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.
That this is real.
Your other hand finds his chest. You can feel his heart hammering beneath your palm, racing as fast as yours.
He breaks away just long enough to breathe. “I’ve wanted—” His voice is wrecked. “So long—” Then he’s kissing you again. Harder this time. More desperate.
You make a sound that might be his name. He swallows it with another kiss. Deeper. Hungrier. Your hands find his shoulders, then his neck, fingers threading into his hair.
He makes a low sound in his throat and starts walking you backward, never breaking the kiss. His hand at your waist guides you. The other still cups your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone even as his mouth moves against yours.
Your back hits the wall. He presses closer immediately. One hand braced against the wall beside your head. The other sliding down to your hip.
He kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every moment he couldn’t.
Every time he glitched away mid-reach. Everything that kept you apart. Every almost-touch that never quite connected. Every moment where you touched but you both wanted more.
You gasp for air and he moves to your jaw. Your neck. Pressing kisses there that make your knees weak.
“Phainon—” His name comes out breathless. Shaky.
He pauses. Forehead pressed against your temple.
Both of you breathing hard.
“Too much?” he whispers against your skin.
“No.” Your hands tighten in his hair. “Not enough.”
He makes that sound again. Low and undone. Then his mouth finds yours once more.
“Tell me this is real,” he whispers against your lips.
“It’s real.”
“Tell me again.”
“It’s real, Phainon. You’re real. This is—”
He kisses you again before you can finish. Slower this time but no less intense.
His hand trembles where it cups your face. Like he still can’t quite believe it.
His thumb traces your cheekbone. “I can touch you,” he whispers, wonder in his voice.
“Yes.”
“I can stay.“
“Yes.”
His eyes open. Bright with unshed tears. “I don’t have to leave.”
Your throat tightens. “No,” you whisper, voice trembling. “You don’t.”
He kisses you again. Softer now. Slower. But still overwhelming in its tenderness. When he pulls back, he’s smiling. That boyish smile. “I’ve been wanting to do that for so long. You have no idea,” he murmurs.
You laugh. Breathless, joyful. “Me too.”
His smile deepens. “Good,” he says softly. Then he kisses you again.
When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless. Foreheads pressed together. Hearts racing.
“I’ll explain everything,” he whispers. “I promise. But please—” His voice breaks. “So much has happened. And I just—”
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. There are tears on his cheeks, but he’s smiling. “I missed you,” he says again. Softer. “I missed you…”
You touch his face and wipe away the tears. “I’m here,” you whisper, tearing up too. “You’re here. That’s all that matters right now.”
He nods and kisses you again. Softer this time. Slower.
When he pulls back, he reaches into his pocket. Your breath catches.
The pendant.
Your pendant.
He holds it carefully, reverently, in his palm.
“I still have it,” he says quietly. “I’ve kept it with me through everything. Every moment. Every—” His voice catches. “It kept me going. Reminded me what I was fighting for.”
His fingers close around it gently.
“I’ll cherish it forever,” he murmurs. “Almost as much as I cherish you.” A pause. His eyes lift to yours. “If you’ll let me.”
Your throat tightens. You nod, unable to speak.
He exhales. Relief and joy and overwhelming emotion all at once. Then he carefully fastens the pendant around your neck again. His fingers linger at your nape.
“There,” Phainon whispers. “Where it belongs.”
You touch the pendant, then his hand.
He catches your fingers, brings them to his lips.
“I have so many things I want to tell you,” he says, voice warming with excitement now. “So many stories. I want to stay up all night talking. And—” His smile turns slightly mischievous. “—more.”
You laugh breathlessly.
“We could do so much together now,” Phainon continues, words tumbling out faster. “Go on adventures. Explore. But also—” He squeezes your hand.
“Also just… normal things. Quiet mornings. Walks. Reading together. More movies. Oh, and you have to take me to one of those auctions you mentioned. I want to learn this world with and through you. Everything.”
His eyes are bright now. Hopeful. Alive in a way that takes your breath away. “But foremost,” he says, voice dropping to something quieter, more certain, “I want to stay. Here. With you.”
The words settle between you.
Heavy. Perfect. Stay.
You kiss him again because you can’t help it. When you pull back, you’re both smiling.
“You're the best thing that's ever happened to me,” you whisper.
His entire face lights up. “Oh,” he breathes. “Oh, that makes everything even better.”
You laugh. “Better?”
“Much better.” He grins, boyish and charming and utterly delighted. “Naturally, it's the same for me." His grin turns even wider. "The rest is secondary. I mean, we still have to figure out the details. Logistics. How this works. But—”
He leans in, eyes sparkling.
“Can you imagine? Maybe we can even figure out how I can show you Amphoreus too. Finally. Introduce you to my friends. The Chrysos Heirs—you’ll love them.”
He’s rambling now, excited. “And our customs. The festivals. Okhema. The city is beautiful, you have to see it. At least on pictures. The architecture alone—”
He stops. His expression shifts. Something sad flickering across his face.
“It’s nice that I can go back,” he says quietly. “That I have that choice now.” A pause. “But after everything. With all the memories I carry—”
He looks down. “It’s good for me to have something new. Something that isn’t… weighed down by millions of cycles.”
Your chest tightens.
“Phainon,” you say softly. “What about the memories?”
He looks up. Meets your eyes.
For a moment, you see the weight.
The burden. Everything Khaslana suffered through. Everything he made possible. Everything that now lives in Phainon.
Then he smiles. Softer this time. Smaller but genuine.
“It will take time,” he says honestly. “But I’ll manage.”
“You don’t have to manage alone.”
His breath catches. “No,” he agrees quietly. “I suppose I don’t. Not anymore.”
He touches your cheek. “This world helps,” he murmurs. “Being here. With you. It’s… clearer. Quieter.” A pause. “I can think here. Feel things that I‘ve never felt before. It’s—”
He stops and searches for words. “It’s healing me,” he finishes softly.
You lean into his touch. “Then stay as long as want.”
“I plan to stay for good,” Phainon murmurs, kissing you again.
When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours.
“All night,” he whispers. “I want to talk all night. Tell you everything. And touch you, finally hold you and carress you not only with words. And then—” His smile turns warmer. “And then countless mornings after. And afternoons. And evenings. And—”
You laugh, kissing him while he‘s still talking. He kisses you back eagerly.
Phainon laughs against your lips, mumbling more promises. Another kiss. Softer this time.
Slower. Like you have all the time in the world.
And finally you have.
⋆✧✦✧⋆
A/N: Thank you so much for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. :) Here, their journey of finding each other comes to an end, while a new one begins. This story was also a kind of Flame-Chase journey. That‘s why it’s structured in 12 parts. They’re chasing the flame of love across different timelines and worlds. :)
I cried and laughed while writing this. Almost abandoned it a few times. But now I’m happy it’s finally out in the world. I wanted to show that Phainon is beautiful in every way. Everything that makes him him. I hope that came through.
Ending this year (the same year in which the Amphoreus arc has followed me since January) with this fic felt right.
Writing for Phainon has been healing for me, too. He helped me a lot, and I learned many things about myself through him. I’m grateful… also because he gave me the courage to share my works here. :)
This is the ending I imagined when I first started writing this in July. And for anyone who needs something soft after all this intensity—a gentle breath after the storm—I intend to share a follow-up oneshot. :) Just them learning how to be together. Little adventures. The aftermath of choosing each other. :)
This story means a lot to me, but Phainon as a character means so much more.
pairing — college AU, Bff!Katuski x Bff!Fem!Reader
summary — You entered college hoping for a fresh, peaceful start, ready to leave your tumultuous past behind. But fate has other plans as it brings back Katsuki Bakugou, the childhood friend you thought you’d outgrown. The moment he comes back, chaos ensures, turning your life upside down and stirring up emotions you never expected. No matter how far you run, no matter how distant you grow, the two of you seem to always gravitate towards each other. The question is — are you ready for the collision?
warnings — Katsuki himself is a warning, lmao; childhood friends trope, reader is a bit of a pushover, flirting, sexual tension, inexperienced reader, mention of ex-relationships, jealousy, smut, 18+ content, dirty talk, tit play, fingering, p in v, MDNI!!
word count — 14k
a/n — woow! this is my longest fic ever. it took me 2 months to write it since i have lots of ideas. hopefully i kept the best ones! reblogs, comments & likes are very much appreciated!
“You and Bakugou are friends, right?”
Yura asks, clinging to your arm as she flashes that bright white grin of hers. In the short time you’ve known her, you’ve realized she always does this when she wants something.
Still calling you and Bakugou “friends” is a stretch. Honestly, even “acquaintances” feels generous now, since you haven’t been in contact for years. Sure, you played together as kids because your parents were close back then. You were also too shy to make other friends, so you stuck to him by default, even if it didn’t always make you happy being by his side. You let him boss you around a lot (like he did to everybody), desperate to keep him from dropping you entirely.
The two of you were constantly around each other, not out of affection, but circumstance. Once you entered middle school too, the distance formed naturally. He was a year older, made new friends, and stopped hanging out with you. You also began talking to more people, trying not to be alone again.
After years of being pushed around by Bakugou, you barely reacted when other “friends” treated you the same. Sometimes they realized it, sometimes not. Over time, you grew out of that version of yourself… though some traces still lingered. And you could feel them creep up again.
Like now.
“Ah, no… we’re not close anymore, sorry,” you say with a nervous laugh. The moment your words leave your mouth, worrying thoughts came to your mind. You’d always expect people to have a big change in their demeanor when the word no left your mouth.
“I see! Then I guess I misunderstood.” She smiles, still glued to your side, resting her head on your shoulder. “It’s just… I really like his friend, Kirishima, but I have no idea how to approach him. I’m only a freshman, and I don’t know anyone in his circle… I thought that if you knew Bakugou, maybe I could get closer to Kirishima.” She pouts softly.
You get where she’s coming from. Being a college freshman is a whole damn challenge. You have to figure out the unwritten hierarchy, avoid stepping on the wrong toes, and accept that some people are simply out of reach because of their status and popularity. Bakugou’s group had both. Kirishima, Denki, and Sero were all part of the sports team, just like him. Basically a squad of jocks everyone assumed only cared about sports and girls.
You hadn’t been a freshman for long, but it was already obvious who you needed to avoid if you didn’t want trouble and which lines you should never cross. You learned very fast all those details. And this party? It was the perfect reminder that one wrong move could put you in the spotlight for all the wrong reasons.
“Kirishima seems really nice, though. I think he’d be easy to talk to,” you say, glancing at the group from your spot on the couch.
They all sat across the room, surrounded by other bunch of sophomores, all cracking up at something Denki said. Well, almost all of them. Your attention was now on Bakugou, as he was hunched over his phone, typing furiously like he was about to snap it in half. Watching him through the dim, colored lights you realize just how much he’s changed. As a kid, he was loud, attention-hungry, always trying to be the best. Now he barely acknowledged the chaos around him, barely said a word to the ones surrounding him, like he didn’t want any attention.
What really threw you off was his appearance. You always knew he’d grow up handsome, but damn, he was on another level. Sharp features, messy hair, those red, intense eyes, a strong jawline, broad shoulders, arms that looked like they could tear the seams of his designer t-shirt… and the height difference now was ridiculous. You used to be taller than him when you were kids, but now, even from his sitting form you could just tell how tall he got. How hot he got—
“Yeah, but… I don’t even know how to start a conversation with Kirishima,” Yura says, pouting again. You feel genuinely bad for her. You’ve known her for only a month, since the first year started, but she’s always been cheerful; this is the first time you’ve seen her look discouraged.
“I—I can try talking to him. Maybe he remembers me,” you suggest, turning to her. Her head snaps up, though her expression is uncertain.
“I don’t want you to put yourself in an awkward spot. I’ll find a way, really.” She gives you a small, grateful smile, and you return it.
“Hm… I should at least try, you know? And I’ll wait until he’s alone or something,” you explain gently.
“I don’t know…” she sighs, fidgeting with her hands, her eyes moving from your figure to the group.
“It’s gonna be okay. Trust me.” you reassure her with an honest smile.
⸻
It turned out to be much harder than you expected.
That man was never alone. He didn’t even go to the bathroom. For the past hour he’d been glued to his phone, texting nonstop, biting his lip like he was on the verge of snapping. Or at least that’s how it looked. You were dying to know who he kept messaging so eagerly that nothing else mattered.
You also noticed something else: every time a sophomore tried approaching him, one of his friends would cut them off without hesitation. It was like Kirishima, Denki, and Sero were guarding him. They were the only ones who knew what he was dealing with and determined not to let anyone interfere.
You recognized Kirishima from middle school; him and Bakugou were always a pair back then. The other two were strangers to you, as maybe he had meet them later in college, but you couldn’t help smiling at the thought of Bakugou having more good friends now. Even if you weren’t close anymore, at some point he was a big part of your life, and you still wanted him surrounded by people who cared about him.
Your thoughts shattered when Yura shifted beside you.
“Look! He’s getting up,” she whispered excitedly, tugging your arm.
This was it. Now or never.
You turned to her with a hushed “wish me luck,” then pushed yourself off the couch, only to practically sprint after Bakugou shortly after. He moved like the floor was on fire, forcing you to weave through drunk dancers and dodging flailing limbs just to keep him in sight. You also felt someone touch you ass while trying to move past them, but that was not important right now.
Once you escaped the main crowd, you realized he was gone. Panic stabbed your chest for a few good seconds, until you caught a flash of familiar spiky hair disappearing around a corner. Your body reacted before your brain did. It felt ridiculous, chasing him again after all these years… just like you did when you were kids. Funny how some things never change.
Soon after you see him push open a door that seemed to lead to the backyard. That part of the frat house was practically empty; most people were crammed in the living room or hooking up upstairs.
Why would he leave the party to—
Your answer came right away, as you froze near the exit when a voice reached you: a girl’s voice, sharp and furious, spilling out from the cracked door.
“Grow the fuck up, Katsuki!” she screamed, heels slamming against the concrete. “I don’t want you anymore. Get that through your skull!”
“You can’t dump me—I dump you! Got it?” he yelled, stomping after her.
“Whatever helps you sleep at night! I don’t care anymore!” she spat.
She shoved the door open and stormed inside, completely missing you pressed against the wall, wide-eyed and paralyzed.
You barely had a second to breathe before the door burst open again, this time revealing an enraged Katsuki who nearly bumped into with you.
“Who the hell—” he started, but stopped mid sentence. His eyes grow wide, shock written all over his face, but he recovers quickly, realizing you might have been eavesdropping to a very private conversation.
“Heard any of that shit?” His voice snapped, sharp as a whip. He stepped closer and you staggered back.
“N-no!” you blurted, hands raised. “I just got here!”
A lie. You prayed it sounded believable.
“You fuckin’ better,” he muttered, frowning as he studied your flushed face. After a tense moment, he exhaled roughly. “Fuckin’ hell…” he muttered, grinding his teeth and raking a hand through his blond hair.
And just like that, he stormed past you, leaving you trembling and struggling to catch your breath. Your hand rested on your chest, feeling how your heartbeat races like crazy. You turn your head to look back at his figure getting away from you. Shoulders tensed, hands balled into fists, veins popping out his foresrms and grave steps as he walks like he owns the place.
You stood there for some time, even after he got out of your sight. You were still trying to register what just happend: you and Bakugou met again, he didn’t seem to know who you are and you have even angered him since you eavesdropped a conversation that was none of your business.
You couldn’t lie: his reaction towards you saddened you a bit, making you realize just how forgettable you were to him. You didn’t expect him to get all smiley and happy after seeing you, that was not like him at all, but you expected… something. Anything really. Even a fraction of his attention. And it frustrated you in a way. He was a big part of your childhood, yet you seemed to be just another faceless person he’d encounter sometime in the past.
Maybe it was an exagerating, maybe not, but you wouldn’t know because you will most likely never get an answer.
You let out a deep sigh as you pushed yourself off the wall, walking back towards the living room. You had to go again through the sea of drunk people and this time you actually punched the guy who gropped your ass earlier, since he tried to to it again, but this time you weren’t so focused on Bakugou to not have time to react.
Well, at least one good thing came out of tonight.
You made justice for yourself, even though it didn’t help you that much. You just couldn’t shake off the feeling Bakugou gave you, nor the image of him standing just a few feet away from you after not seeing him for eight years. The way he looked, the way he acted, the way he spoke with such confidance… you’ve never seen him like this and it makes you wonder; when did he become so… intense?
You are pulled out of your thoughts as Yura called you through the loud music, waving hapily from the couch. You force a smile and wave back, trying to look less tensed.
“How did it go?” she asked as you sat down.
“I said hi and he didn’t seem to recognize… so I dropped it,” you laugh nervosuly, hand scratching the back of your head. You felt bad lying to her, but you couldn’t tell how you came to that conclusion.
“Thank you for trying,” she smiles caringly. “Don’t worry about it, this isn’t the only way,” she added, hand squizzing your shoulder. “But are you okay? You seem… shaken up,” her words made you flinch slightly.
“Oh… I just feel weird seeing someone from the past change so much,” you sigh, not exactly lying.
“Man, fuck the past, focus on the present and let’s drink!” She suddenly gets up, wanting to cheer you up. She quickly takes some drinks from the nearest table and comes back with them, offering you one.
“For the present!” she grins, holding the red cup up.
“For the present,” you repeat, eyes involuntarily darting towards Bakugou’s direction, finding him seated on the same couch.
For a second, you could swear his eyes were also on you.
⸻
The dawn of a new day came faster than you’d liked, bringing back the responsabilities you tried avoiding while partying. Last night was a total mess: you didn’t have any fun, drinks weren’t even that good, some weirdo had the audacity to grope you and all you could think about was Bakugou.
You barely got any sleep, mostly because you kept dreaming of him, but still had to drag yourself to attend the morning classes, alone, looking like zombie. As expected, Yura was completely defeated by the hangover you’d warned her about, yet she never listened, and today she paid the price.
Luckily for you, the morning lectures passed by very fast, probably because you couldn’t even pay attention.
Now, you were sitting cross-legged on a random campus bench, sunlight slipping through the branches and the warm breeze messing your hair strands slightly. But you didn’t notice, because you were too focused on your phone, talking to Yura, typing out every detail she’d missed. Your little gossip session flowed easily, your fingers gliding across the screen…
Until a single word cut through the quiet around you like a blade.
“Oi.”
Your thumbs froze mid-sentence. A chill climbed up your spine, eyes widening as your pulse thundered in your ears. You didn’t need to turn around. You knew that voice, too rough, too intense, too unmistakably him.
Fear prickled under your skin, not of him but of the attention that followed the moment he stepped too close to you. Curiosity rippled through the courtyard like a shockwave, pulling every gaze towards you before anyone realized they were staring. He carried gravity like a curse; people turned, stared, whispered without even realizing they were doing it all because he was there.
And Katsuki Bakugou, being exactly who he is, doesn’t even care. Subtlety doesn’t exist in his vocabulary. If he wants something, he will come for it loudly, unapologetically, dragging you straight into the spotlight with him even if you want it or not.
“I’m talkin’ to ya,” he barked, almost annoyed he had to repeat himself.
With a slow, reluctant turn, you shifted your body towards him, bracing yourself for what was about to follow.
He stood in front of you, just a few steps away, with that unbothered stance of his, making it seem like he owned whatever ground he stepped on. His hair was a chaotic explosion of blond spikes, even messier than usual, like he’d run his hands through it a dozen times and given up trying to tame it.
He wore a grey pair of sweats hanging low on his hips, some white sneakers and a T-shirt, probabily designer, that fit him so well. The material streched across his chest, showcasing his muscles. And over it all, he wore a black and red jacket, the classic varsity-style jock jacket that only made him look more like trouble.
“How may I help you?” The words left your mouth too polished, too formal, and you instantly cringed.
Bakugou’s frown was immediate. “The hell? You sound stupid. Talk normal.”
You let out a strangled laugh at his remark. “Right. Yeah. Sorry. I just— if this is about last night, I swear I didn’t hear or see anything, and even if I did, I’m not the type to talk, so—”
“How long’s it been? Seven years?”
His interruption sliced clean through your rambling. You blinked a few times, lips parting in pure shock as you came to the undeniable realization: Katsuki Bakugou actually remembered you. And not only he remembered, but he’d deliberately came to you with zero concern for the spectators he dragged along with him.
You didn’t know why, but a sudden wave of happiness and relief came over you the moment you realized you weren’t that forgettable after all. Maybe you mattered enough for him to come and talk to you.
“Eight, actually,” you managed, scoffing at yourself. “But who’s counting.”
“Obviously you,” he snickered, smug as ever.
Your bit your lip, trying to stay composed and not smile like an idiot. “Whatever… Why are you here?” You asked, curiosity creeping up.
He lifted a shoulder, bored and arrogant. “Felt like it.”
You scoffed.
“Oh, so you missed me?” you teased, fingers fidgeting with your bag strap to hide your nerves.
“Hah. You wish.” His smirk was wicked.
“Didn’t think I’d see you again, since you didn’t recognize me last night.”
“I did,” he said. “Just too pissed off to say somethin’.”
His gaze flickered behind you, so quick most people would’ve missed it, but you didn’t. You turned your head as well, and a laugh almost slipped from you when you caught sight of her.
The girl from last night stood a few meters away, blatantly watching the two of you talk.
“Oh my god,” you muttered, facing him again. “Don’t tell me you came over here to make your ex jealous.”
“No,” he snapped, utterly bothered. “Don’t care about her anymore. She’s just pathetic, that’s all.”
You couldn’t help the exasperated noise you made. His snark was sharp enough to cut, but it was so painfully, unapologetically Bakugou that it almost grounded you.
“Tch.” He shifted his weight, hands shoved deep into his pockets, sensing you don’t believe him. “Like hell I’d come here for her.”
His voice dropped, rougher, the edge softened just barely, just enough for you to notice.
“Saw you sittin’ here lookin’… I dunno,” he sucked his teeth, eyes dragging over your face before darting away again.
“…Different.”
Your heart thudded once, hard.
“Different?” you echoed, trying to decipher what he was trying to say.
“Don’t make it weird.”
“You’re the one making it weird,” you shot back instantly.
His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp and assessing. He was kind of surprised you had the courage to talk back.
“You weren’t like this as a kid,” he muttered all of a sudden. “Used to stay in your corner and hope to not bother anyone. Now you’re sittin’ here all mature ’n —”
“Outspoken?” you offered.
He glared. “Annoyin’. That’s what you are.”
You laughed under your breath, shaking your head at his words.
“You really came all the way over here just to insult me?”
“If I wanted to do that, I’d have said more,” he shot back without missing a beat. Then his gaze softened, not much, barely a shift, but enough for you to notice.
Beside the happiness that came over you, you also felt tensed around him, so afraid to not make a fool of yourself. For some reason you wanted him to see you, really see you. But it was so hard to talk or breath or think. Everything felt so surreal: to talk to him again, to see him all grown up.
“Uh… so how have you been?” You smiled, heart thumping in your chest.
“How the hell do you think?” he muttered. “Classes. Training. People pissin’ me off. Same shit.”
“But…” His gaze lingered on you for a second longer than you expected. “College ain’t terrible.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Wow. Are you actually saying something nice for once?”
“I’m not,” he snapped, crossing his arms. “Don’t twist my words.”
“So you’re still… y’know. You.” You gestured vaguely at him, and he frowned.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you haven’t changed that much,” you teased. “Still loud. Still grumpy. Still acting like everyone’s personal inconvenience.”
Bakugou scoffed, stepping a little closer, close enough that his shadow brushed against your knees where you sat.
“I changed plenty,” he grumbled. “Just not for stupid reasons.”
Your smile faltered, not in a bad way, but because something warm tugged low in your chest. He’d really grown up. Sill sharp and still explosive… but steadier and more self-controlled. And a lot more intense.
“I mean,” you shrugged lightly, “I didn’t expect you to suddenly become friendly.”
“Good,” he muttered. “Cuz I’m not,” he added. “But it was a damn surprise to see you after all these years, I’mma tell you that. I didn’t expect you to look so—”
He cut himself off sharply, realizing what he was about to say.
“Look so… what?” You asked and he glared at you like it was your fault he almost slipped.
“Forget it.”
Before you could even respond to Bakugou’s half-slip, a familiar voice called out your name. The both of you turned around to see Yura standing a few feet away, looking confused. She didn’t really know what to make of the sight.
“Ah, I have to.. umm, go,” you say quickly, gathering you things. “It was nice seeing you. We should catch up when you have time or something.”
“Whatever, I don’t care,” he shrugged. You weren’t sure if you should still push the idea of you two meeting up again, but then…
“Still got my number, right?” he added, one of his hands stroking the back of his neck.
“Yeah, still have it. I will text you,” you reply, offering him a smile as you pass by him, running towards Yura. By the look on her face, you’ve got a lot of explaning to do.
⸻
You and Bakugou had soon fallen into this strange rhythm of back and forth texting. Sure, his replies were short, sometimes dry, yet they always arrived within few minutes. It almost baffled you. You’d walked away from that encounter convinced he’d never bother texting back, but here you were, chatting nearly every day as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“I still can’t believe this,” Yura whispered as she scooted closer.
“Trust me, me neither,” you breathed out, slipping your phone into your lap. “But hey, I did land you that date with Kirishima, didn’t I?” You nudged her elbow with yours, and her cheeks bloomed pink instantly.
“Don’t remind me! I’m so nervous. God…” She dragged her hands over her face. “What if he doesn’t like me?”
“He’s going to adore you,” you said, giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze.
She hesitated only a second before leaning in. “Can I look at Bakugou’s text again?”
You sighed but relented. Your fingers brushed over the phone as you handed it to her, and she dove into your messages with barely contained excitement. Her eyes skimmed through the thread, searching, hunting, until she finally landed on the messages.
And her breath hitched as her eyes followed the conversation.
Friday, 6 pm
You: Random question
Katsuki: what.
You: Yura… kinda likes Kirishima. Think you could show him a pic of her? Just so he knows who she is?
You: Please?
Katsuki: tch. fine.
You: *picture sent*
Katsuki: he said she aight.
You: That doesn’t sound like him at all😭
Katsuki: 🙄
Katsuki: he likes her.
“Ugh… thanks,” I calmed down a bit, she smiles at you, giving you the phone back. “What are you gonna do when I’m out? I feel bad leaving you alone…”
“It’s okay, me and Katsuki are gonna meet as well,” you assure her, then glance at the time. “You should get ready!”
⸻
The park was quieter than you remembered.
Maybe it was the season, or the late afternoon light dripping through the old trees, casting long gold shadows across the fading playground. The swing sets creaked gently in the breeze, the same ones you and Bakugou used to fight over when you were kids. You smiled at the thought. Back then, you’d push each other around without a second thought. Now… things felt very different.
You let your body sway, just slightly, toe skimming the dirt, the rhythmic motion pulling loose memories to the surface. You could almost see two little kids racing toward the blue slide, his tiny scowl and your triumphant laugh echoing faintly in your ears. He was so upset that he kicked the slide right after you’ve won the race. He really didn’t know how to loose.
Your gaze shifts onto the swing next to you, the blue faded platisc all chipped, the chain dirty and rusty. You remembered how he always pushed too hard on these, sending you flying higher than you wanted, your squeals ringing out while he laughed from behind you, shouting,
“Quit screaming, you big baby! You’re fine!”
You remembered the day you fell and scraped your knee. He stood there, frozen, eyes wide, then stomped over with that tiny scowl he had even back then.
“Stop crying. It’s just a stupid scratch.”
But he sat beside you the whole time until your sniffles stopped. He even tore off a piece of his shirt to wrap around your knee like a makeshift bandage, muttering that your “dumb blood was getting everywhere.”
You remembered him, sunlit and wild, a little storm of a boy whose presence always took over the whole playground.
You remembered how you’d wait for him everyday to come out and play with you, even if he made you cry.
And now here you were again. Waiting. Chasing.
You let the swing move beneath you, slow and rhythmic, as your fingers wrapped around the cold metal links, and your eyes drifted half-shut as your mind wandered deeper into the past.
And then, a breath, warm and low, brushed the shell of your ear.
“Oi.”
You jerked, heart leaping into your throat as you nearly slipped off the swing. A startled gasp tore from you, but before gravity could have its say, strong arms caught your waist, firm and steady.
Your back landed against a familiar chest.
“Seriously?” Bakugou muttered, though there was a rough, amused edge to it. “You’re gonna fall off a damn swing?”
You were frozen for a second, breath trapped in embarrassment. His fingers stayed on your waist, not gripping, just… resting, making sure you won’t fall.
“You scared me,” you breathed out.
“Tch. Didn’t think you’d jump like that,” He didn’t pull away. His voice was close, too close. “You were zoned out.”
“I was remembering,” you whispered, glancing at the slide you used to race down together. “We used to play here all the time.”
His gaze followed yours, frowning as he let go of you. He made a low sound in his throat, almost a scoff, almost a hum.
“Yeah. I remember.”
Then he dropped onto the swing next to you, the chains rattling loud under his weight. Legs spread, elbows on his thighs, giving you a sidelong look.
“You drag me out here just to get all sappy about some stupid old memories?” he grumbled, making your eyes roll.
“Oh, shut up. You’re still bitter I beat you everytime we raced to the slide,” you laughed, sitting down as well.
He barked a short laugh.
“Oh yeah? Wanna fuckin’ try that again?” He smirked. “I’ll smoke your ass this time.”
“You’re kidding,” you scoff at him.
“Dead serious,” he shot back, leaning forward. “Come on. Try me.”
“You’re impossible,” you muttered, but you were already standing, brushing dirt off your jeans.
Bakugou rose too, cracking his neck like he was about to enter a professional match instead of a stupid dash to an old slide.
“First one to touch the slide wins,” he said, stepping closer, eyes glinting with challenge. “No whining when you lose.”
“It’s literally a children’s slide race,” you scoff.
“Then quit actin’ scared and run.”
Your jaw dropped. “I am NOT scared—”
“Three,” he said, ignoring you completely.
“Katsuki—”
“Two.”
You barely had time to inhale.
“One.”
He took off like an explosion waiting to happen, and you cursed, sprinting after him.
“CHEATER!” you yelled behind him.
“MOVE YOUR DAMN LEGS!” he shot back without even looking behind him.
You pumped your arms, feet stomping the dirt path as laughter burst out of you, breathless, wild, dragged straight from childhood. The slide gleamed at the end of the park and for a second, it felt like old times: just two kids running, racing, fighting to be first, as this was their only worry.
You gained on him, somehow. He glanced back, eyes widening just a fraction.
“Oh, hell no,” he growled, pushing himself faster.
“Get back here!” you shouted, lunging forward, then, your foot clipped something.
A root? A rock?
You didn’t get the time to analyze it, as your body pitched forward violently.
“Shit—!” you gasped, scared of what was about to happen. Your instinct took over in an instant, as you grabbed the closest thing: Bakugou’s shirt.
“Oi—WHAT THE—?!” he barked as your weight yanked him backward, your grip catching him by surprise.
You crashed into him, and the momentum took you both down. Bakugou twisted mid-fall, trying to catch you, trying not to faceplant.
You landed on top of him with a jolt, your palms pressed to his strong chest, his hands clamped around your waist in pure reflex, legs tangled. His breath punched out of him under your weight.
For a second, neither of you moved.
You blinked slowly, still hovering over him, your chest rising and falling against his. Heat radiated off him like a furnace.
“I…I tripped,” you whispered, voice barely there.
“No shit you tripped,” he snapped, though it lacked bite. His eyes flickered over your features, down to your lips, then away so fast you almost doubted it.
Almost.
“And you took me down with you, dumbass.”
“You caught me,” you murmured.
His jaw clenched.
“I was tryin’ not to let you smash your face into the dirt.”
“Well… thank you,” you whispered, embrrassed that you ended up in such a compromising position.
A heavy silence dropped between you.
The kind that made the air warm and sticky. You realized just how close you were to his face, how your knees framed his hips, how your hands still rested on the strong rise of his chest, how his fingers flexed once against your waist as if debating whether to push you off or pull you closer.
Bakugou exhaled, short and sharp.
“Get off,” he muttered, voice low and rough.
Your lips parted, ready to speak, then your gaze slightly shifted towards the slide, which was only inches away from you, so close you could reached it if you moved a bit forward. You tried to surpress the smile creeping up on your lips, his words echoing in your mind before you started the race.
“Katsuki, wait,” you said with urgency, hand slowly raising up.
“What?” he snapped, still pinned under you and completely oblivious.
Your fingers curled around the cool, hardened plastic of the slide, as your body leaned in, chest brushing his, your breath ghosting over the edge of his jaw.
“I won,” you whispered, right against his ear.
Bakugou froze.
His head jerked to the side, and he saw it: your hand wrapped around the slide. His eyes widened just a fraction.
“You’re—” his voice broke off into a disbelieving scoff, “…fuckin’ serious?”
For a heartbeat he just stared at you, stunned.
Then it hit him.
A sharp huff burst out of his chest, almost like he tried to choke it down, but it escaped anyway. Then another. And another. Before he could stop himself, Bakugou let out a low, raw and unfiltered, laugh. Not loud, not dramatic.
Just real.
A rumbling, reluctant, can’t-believe-you-just-did-that kind of laugh that shook subtly beneath you.
“Unbelievable,” he muttered, laughter still caught in his throat as he dragged a hand down his face. You can’t yourself but smile widely, heart hummering in your chest as you look at him, listen to him.
“You fall on top of me, drag me into the dirt and you still manage to pull that shit?” He asks, eyes, flicking up to meet yours.
“A win is a win,” you announced proudly as you finally pushed yourself up off of him.
The moment his hands left your waist, a chill rushed over your skin, sharp enough to make you miss the heat immediately.
“Whatever,” he muttered, tryig to hide his smile as he got to his feet, dusting dirt off his palms. “It’s stupid anyway.”
“It’s only stupid ’cause you didn’t win,” you shot back, brushing off your clothes with a smug little smile.
He clicked his tongue, glaring at you with that familiar, irritated fondness he refused to acknowledge.
“We should go get cleaned up, since someone decided to drag us in dirt.” He said, turning towards you and throwling you a nasty, but playful look.
“I already said sorry,” you rolled your eyes.
“Whatever, my dorm is close by, let’s just go there,” he added casually, hands in his pockets.
⸻
You reached his dorm in no time. The place was quiet, Kirishima still out with Yura. A small wave of relief hit you; the last thing you needed was him walking in and getting the wrong idea about you and Bakugou showing up together this late at night.
You stand awkwardly in the middle of the room while he pulls open a drawer, digging through it for spare clothes for both of you.
He grumbled, finally finding something suitable for you, since all his shirts were pretty big.
“Oi, is this—“ he started talking, but stopped once he saw the way you stood. Your legs were pressed together, fingers twisting nervously, your whole stance saying more than you ever could out loud.
“What the hell? Quit standin’ there lookin’ stupid and sit down,” he muttered, brows pulling tight. “What, never been in a guy’s room before?” he added with a dry snort.
But when you didn’t answer, when you turned your head just enough to avoid his eyes, that told him everything.
An awkward silence settled between you, thick enough to feel, stretching across the room as if the air itself was holding its breath.
“C-can you give me the shirt?” You stuttered, hand forward as you waited for him to comply.
He rolled his eyes, but a smile tugged at his lips as he handed you the shirt. You took it, but made the mistake of looking up at him just in time to catch Bakugou pulling off his own shirt. His broad shoulders, defined chest, and sharp abs made your stomach twist in a mix of awe and embarrassment. His arms flexed effortlessly as he moved, and heat rose to your cheeks, leaving you suddenly flustered and unsure where to look.
“Hah, like what you see?” He smirked, catching the way your gaze lingered over his form.
You bit your lip at his question, cheeks turning a faint shade of red as you played with the fabric of the cloth he gave you.
“Shut up,” you replied, looking to the side.
His smirk got bigger as he tossed another piece of clothing at you, this time, a pair of shorts. You stumbled trying to catch them, letting out a small huff as you shot him a glare, half annoyed, half flustered.
“Do you always have to throw stuff?” you shot back offended, but he already turned his back on you, giving you time to change.
You sighed at the lack of reply and also turned around. Your hands trembled slightly as you reached for the hem of your shirt, heartbeat increasing. You had no idea why you were suddenly so flustered, or why Bakugou’s presence felt different all of a sudden. The easy, friendly air from moments ago had shifted, charged with something heavy.
“You done yet?” He muttered, body tensed, palms balled into fists.
“Just a moment,” you reply while taking off your dirty pants. You take a look at the new pair he gave you, realizing it way too large for you to wear.
“Uh, Katsuki?”
“What now?” He asked, turning around. His eyes instantly fell on your exposed legs. The way his shirt looked like a dress on you almost made him crack a smile, but he soon came to his sense, ignoring the weird feeling in his chest.
“These ones don’t fit me, don’t you have anything else?”
“Hold on,” you see him going back to his drawer, rummaging again. “I have somethin’ that might fit ya’, but..”
“But?”
“It’s from a girl,” he explained further, avoiding to give other details.
“Ah, I see…” you shifted.
His ex.
“I’ll use the pants you gave me then,” you added.
“Or just stay under the covers ‘till the clothes are dry,” he suggested.
“Good idea,” you nodded.
“I’m gonna- y’know,” he added, waving the dirty clothes in the air.
“Of course,” you forced a smile, watching him leave to go to the laundry room.
You decided to go to his bed, following his advice as you waited for him.
He returned after a few minutes.
“Hey…. why… do you still have her clothes?” You asked all of a sudden, curiosity getting the best of you.
He froze.
“Dunno.”
“Katsuki,” you pushed. “Do you miss her?”
He remained quiet while closing the door.
“Talk to me. That’s what friends are for, right?” you smile up at him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. “I know we haven’t been in touch all these years, but we can always catch up. I have a lot of things I want to share with you too,”
There was a heavy silence for a few moments.
Then…
“I just…” he started, as he came to sit at the end of the bed. “Feel empty when I think about her.”
“Was she your first?”
“Yeah… and I’m not sayin’ I want her back or any crap like that,” he muttered, clicking his tongue. “But… y’know, the start wasn’t bad. We actually got along. Then everything went to shit. She kept callin’ me some kinda fuckboy, actin’ like I was out sleepin’ around, when I can’t even stand most people. Seriously.” He let out a short, dry laugh and shook his head.
“I think she didn’t see the real you,” you say as you put one hand on his shoulder. “Maybe she had this idea of you based on rumors…” you add.
“Guess so…” he closed his eyes briefly.
You shifted closer, hand squizzing his shoulder lightly.
“It will get better if you try talking about what’s on your mind,” you smile.
“I don’t like talkin’ about feelings. It’s a fuckin’ hassle,” he groaned, dragging his palms over his face.
“You’re just not used to, that’s all,” you assured him.
“Hey.” He suddenly turned towards you. “Leave her aside and tell me about you. You said you had a bunch of stuff to share, right?”
You smiled at his question, a warming feeling tugging at your chest.
“I do.”
⸻
Over the following 3 months, you and Bakugou have actually grown closer than you ever were. Your texting and hanging out became more frequent, as you would go out, visit his dorm room or he’d visit yours to study, watch a movie, or just talk. You were happy you could see another side of him, a more human side since he always put on that mask and hid how he felt.
You’d also hang out with Yura and Kirishima, and Yura would often tease you that it felt like a double date, even if only her and Kirishima were an actual couple. You’d of course brush off her teasing, but a heavy feeling would settle in your chest everytime you thought more about this. You couldn’t even describe exactly how it made you feel. Maybe the closest would be weird? It would definately weird you out since Bakugo was just a friend. A close friend. Nothing more.
You were now in his and Kirishima’s dorm, waiting for Bakugo to finish writing some “stupid ass-essay” which he didn’t accept help with, so you just had to stay and watch. Denki was also present since they got paired to do it, but Bakugo did not seem happy about it, as he did all the work.
“Come on, I can at least try to write something,” Denki complained, leaning in his chair.
“Shut up, idiot, you want to get a 10 or what?” Bakugou spat back and Denki pouted.
“Alright…”
You offered Denki a encouraging smile as you turn towards the redhead.
“I’m so happy you and Yura get along well!”
“Yeah, she charms me everytime we are together,” He replied and you grinned.
“You talk like an old man,” Bakugou scoffs without looking up, his pen still moving across the page.
“Shut up! I think it’s lovely,” you defended Kirishima. “What would you even know about a relationship?”
“The fuck? I was in one!” He reminded you, frowning, back still turned.
“Yeah, that ended!” You snickered and Kirishima laughed.
“Thank God,” Bakugo exhaled. “She is everything I don’t want,” he added, making you curious.
“Then what do you want?” you find yourself asking and he suddenly stopped his writing silence falling over the room.
You frowned more at his lack of answer, but as you were ready to ask again, Kirishima started talking.
“Hey, would you make me a favor?” He asked, your attention now on him.
“What is it?”
“You know Yura doesn’t have to work tonight, right?” He asked and you nodded. “And I also have free time…”
“Okay…?” You narrowed your eyes at him.
“And it’s also our 3 month anniversary…”
“I see…”
“They want to fuck, dude,” Denki laughed at how clueless you were, making Kirishima sigh deeply.
Your eyes grew wide.
“Oooh, I see…” you laughed nervously, a bit embarrased that you didn’t catch on faster.
“If it’s not too much to ask, can we have the room for ourselves tonight? Yura told me she would talk to you when she comes back from classes but since you’re here…” he explained, scratching the back of his head.
“It’s okay, don’t worry. I can switch rooms, you can go to Yura and I’ll sleep with Katsuki,” you say.
The room fell silent again. Bakugou stopped in his tracks, again, pen still in his hand, gripping it harshly.
Then, you hear Denki let out a high picthed laugh.
“Did I say something funny?” You asked confused.
“Nah, he’s just a fuckin’ idiot,” Bakugou snaps, turning around and whipping his pen at Denki. Denki tries to dodge it, completely misses, and ends up falling off his chair.
“Man down! Man down,” he cries in pain, rubbing his back.
“You think you Rihanna or somethin’?” Bakugo snickers, making you giggle at his comment.
His eyes flicker to yours for a moment, going up and down your figure, before moving his attention back to his essay.
You pretended you did not see that.
⸻
“Don’t you have a boyfriend to stay with while those two fuck?” Bakugou asks flatly, though his voice comes out almost… off, like he’s checking for something.
He doesn’t look at you as he drops onto his bed beside you. He sets the laptop between you both, since you’d decided to watch his choice of movie, of course.
“You don’t like it that I’m in here? Am I interrupting your gooning session or something?” You tease him and he rolles his eyes at your comment.
“The fuck? I don’t goon,” he scrunches his nose in disgust.
“Everyone does that,” you reply. “It’s okay to admit.”
“Only if you say it first,” he smirks and your face turns red at his words.
“Whatever,” you roll your eyes and turn towards the screen. “What movie did you choose again?”
“Batman,” he replied.
“I see, your taste hasn’t changed since you were little,” you smile and he shrugged.
The movie started, both of you falling quiet as you followed the action.
“Do you think we’d have reconnected again if it weren’t for that night at the party?” You asked suddenly, eyes still fixed to the screen.
He shifted beside you.
“Yes,” he replied after a few seconds of silence.
Your head turned towards him, the screen’s glow tracing gentle lights across his face. He looked different like this. So calm, so unguarded. No frown, no bite, nothing sharp. And you found yourself wishing you could see him like this more often… maybe even wishing you were the reason he looked that way—
“Why so sure?”
“It’s— we’ve always gravitated towards each other. Since kids. Would only be natural,” his tone was rough, yet soft.
“I wouldn’t have come to you.”
“I know,” he scoffed.
“I would have tried my best to avoid you.”
“Yet you always end up chasing me,” he snickers.
You sigh.
“Yeah… I guess some things remain the same.”
“I don’t really… mind it though,” he added casually, taking you by surprise.
“You mean you like my company?”
“You could say that,” he finally turned towards you.
“I like your company too,” you smile a bit too wide.
For a few seconds, you stay in silence, just looking at each other, taking in every detail, memorizing the person in front of you. It’s strange how people change… how they become new versions of themselves that feel different, yet so familiar.
A loud explosion came from the movie, reminding you both it wasn’t over. You forced yourself to focus, trying to ignore the heavy, fleeting awkwardness that had just passed between you.
During your last few hangouts, moments like this happened, when the air seemed to shift, and you became painfully aware of everything: what you said, how you moved, how you looked. You knew it was silly. It was just Bakugou… but somehow, that was exactly the problem.
At some point you lost the plot of the movie, as your attention shifted more towards Bakugou, stealing glances of him here and there.
Soon enough, you felt your eyes becoming heavier and heavier with each minute that passed. Your head slipped as your cheek landed against something firm and unexpectedly warm. Bakugou instantly stiffened under you. For a second, two, or maybe three, he forgot how to breathe.
“The hell…?” he muttered under his breath.
But he didn’t move.
His shoulders tensed first, then his jaw, then his entire chest. He glanced down and found you curled against him, eyelashes brushing your cheeks, lips parted slightly as your breathing softened into a slow rhythm. You were so close that he could smell your shampoo.
A quiet thud echoed in his ribcage.
He ignored it.
“Tch…” He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “You’re killin’ me…”
You stirred slightly, enough to make him tense all over again.
He hesitated, just a heartbeat, before leaning closer.
“Oi…”
This time the word came out lower, gentler, the rough edges softened even if he’d never admit it.
“Hey. Wake up.”
Your name followed, quiet, warm, deep… a voice that wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear.
Your eyes fluttered open as you heard you name called, head raising up, nose almost bumping into his. You looked at him surprised, not expecting to be this close to you. Your heartbeat increased as you studied his flushed face, just like he did to yours.
“S-sorry,” you mutter embarrassed, moving back to put some distance between you.
“Whatever, idiot,” he grumbled as he stopped the movie and close the laptop, realizing neither of you actually watched any of it.
“Let’s sleep,” he added while sitting up and taking the device to put it back in his desk. All this time he refused to look at you.
“Umm, yeah,” you nod awkarwdly.
You see him turn towards Kirishima’s bed, a faint reddness covering his cheeks but you were too afraid to bring it up and tease him, since you were in the same situation.
“Night,” he mumbled as was about to turn off the light stamp beside him.
“Wait!”
“What?” he snapped.
“Can’t you let it on?” you asked on a quiet voice.
“Why the hell would I do that?” He frowns.
You stay quiet, looking to the side, until you hear him sigh.
“Still scared of the dark or somethin’?” He asks on a slightly softer voice, making you flinch.
“Yeah,” you admit.
He stays quiet for a moment, thinking. After rummaging through his thoughts, he stands up and you suddenly see him push his bed closer to yours in one swift motion, as it the bed had the weight of a feather.
“What are you—?”
“Shut up,” he rolls his eyes as he turns off the light.
“Katsuki?” You asked confused, seeing his figure moving in the dark. He sat down in his bed, which was now only an inch or two away from you. He said nothing as he grabbed your hand, holding it in his palm.
You felt your face heating up at his gesture, heart hammering in your chest with full force.
“Sleep,” he mumbled, squizzing your hand slightly.
You nodded slowly and moved down on the bed, your head resting on the pillow as you were facing him. His eyes were closed, his hair was messy, frown still on his face but softer.
You took un a deep breath, trying to calm dowm as he held you close.
Just like when you were little.
You two would often have sleepovers and he’d hold your hand just like this, knowing your fear of the dark. And maybe he was scared too back then, that’s why he’d agree so easily to hold you. But he wasn’t afraid of it anymore, and yet you wondered if something still scared him.
“Thank you,” you wishpered, lips tugging into a smile, as you finally close you eyes to sleep.
⸻
The study room is unusually quiet.
Everybody seems to be minding their business, studying hard for the upcoming exams, finishing projects… and then, there’s you: unable to focus at all while Bakugou leans over your shoulder. His proximity is close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him as he explains the formula you’ve been struggling with.
His voice is low, rough-edged, and undeniably distracting. Every word makes your heart beat a little faster, but it isn’t just the sound of him, it’s the weight of his body so near, the warmth of his chest brushing yours through the fabric of his black shirt.
He seems calm, but you notice the tiny signs he tries to hide: his leg jittering rapidly under the table, fingers flexing as if restless, jaw tightening and loosening like he’s trying as well to focus. Either way, he’s doing a better job than you.
Your breath catches when his shoulder brushes against yours, almost deliberately. You sense his fingertips ghosting near your lower back as he props his arm on the chair, small movements that send impossible little shocks through you. The subtle scent of his cologne, the soft exhalations of breath that occasionally drift over your skin; it’s all overwhelming.
“Oi, pay attention,” he mutters, frowning like the distraction is your fault, not the tension crackling between you.
You try. You really do.
But before your thoughts can settle, a voice slices through the charged quiet.
“Guuuys!”
Yura barrels towards the table, tossing her bag down with a thump that shakes the books slightly. Relief floods you. You exhale, finally able to breathe properly.
“How’s the study going?” she chirps, sliding into the chair across from you.
“Bad. Horrible,” Bakugou grumbles, glaring at the notebook like it personally insulted him. Yet, beneath the surface, there’s a subtle shift, shoulders stiffening the moment Yura’s presence makes him more aware how close you’d been sitting together.
Yura smirks knowingly, her gaze flicking between you and him. She notices the tiny space between you, the rigid line of his jaw, the twitch of his leg. Bakugou catches her glance, and in an instant, he recoils as if your warmth had scorched him. His hand pulls back, creating a safe margin, eyes darting away to avoid meeting yours.
“So…” Yura begins, voice slow and deliberate, a mischievous tilt to her smile, like she just needed to test something. “Did you see that guy staring at you?”
Bakugou freezes entirely, every muscle in his body stiffening. His pulse seems to hit his throat, jaw locked so tightly it twitches visibly. He looked like a bomb ready to explode in any second.
“Guy?” you echo, blinking, confused.
“Oh, he left when I came, but he was totally staring at you,” Yura continues, each word drawn out, teasing, eyes darting towards Bakugou who was still tense.
“I don’t—”
“He was so good looking. And tall,” she adds, steamrolling over you, clearly savoring the effect.
Bakugou shifts slightly in his seat, shoulders locked, fingers pressing against the table edge like he’s holding himself together. His demeanor and posture betray his frustration and perhaps, something else entirely.
“I can set you two up,” Yura presses on, leaning forward slightly, eyes dancing between you both. “We have a course together. What do you say?”
She pauses, letting her words hang in the air, then pushes further. “Maybe even a date today. You said you were free, right?”
Bakugou’s reaction is immediate and visceral the moment Yura’s proposal leaves her mouth. The chair screeches against the wooden floor as he springs to his feet, papers scattering like confetti. His backpack swings over his shoulder with precision, every motion sharp and abrupt.
“I’ll go first,” he mutters, voice tight, still avoiding both your eyes. He did not want to hear the rest of your conversation.
“What? But the study—” you start, frowning.
“Finished for today. You’re not even listenin’,” he snaps, each word precise, but heavy with unspoken tension.
“And I have training,” he adds.
In a swift motion, he turns aroun and strides towards the exit, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched. His every movement radiating a mix of irritation, embarrassment, and the faint trace of something he refuses to name.
Without looking back, he leaves the building.
You sink into your chair, heart still racing, dust motes shimmering in the golden light like tiny witnesses to what just happened.
“What the hell was that?” you breathe.
“Jealousy,” Yura says with a shrug.
“Over what?”
“Over you going on a date, duh.”
“That’s ridiculous,” you argue, though the sting in your chest says otherwise. “And what was your deal? There was no guy staring at me.”
“Actually, there was. But he only glanced at you once when I walked in.” She shrugs again, casual. “I exaggerated.”
“Why would you do that?”
“To see Bakugou’s reaction.”
“Yura…” You sigh, rubbing your forehead. “Stop messing with him. It’s not what you think,” you defended him.
“Then what is it? No one reacts like that unless they’re jealous.”
“We’re just friends. Nothing more.”
“I’ve seen the way you two look at each other,” she says, scoffing, like she doesn’t buy it for a second. “That’s how I look at Kirishima.”
Your heart thumps painfully. Your eyes widen when she adds:
“And I caught you staring at him.”
“I wasn’t— It’s not— I don’t like him like that,” you stammer, though your chest feels hot, tight.
“Oh, okay,” she hums. “So if the roles were reversed… if a girl was staring at him, and I offered to set him up with her, you’d be totally cool with it.”
“Yes,” you answer too quickly, too stiffly. Your body betrays you: brows furrowed, lips pressed thin, fingers strangling the pen in your hand.
“Sure,” Yura murmurs with a knowing smile.
Silence settles.
You try to write again, pretending your pulse isn’t pounding in your ears, pretending her words didn’t hit exactly where you were vulnerable. Pretending Bakugou’s reaction wasn’t because of jealousy, but some other reason unknown to you.
“By the way…” Yura says lightly. “I saw Bakugou with his ex this morning.”
Your pen stills.
“They were walking together. Talking,” she adds, watching you closely, as she leans in her chair.
“Just that?” you ask, staring hard at your notebook even though the words don’t make any sense.
“Yes,” she nods, resting her head in her palm. “What’s going on with them anyway?”
“I don’t know… he didn’t tell me,” you whisper, frowning as something sharp turns in your chest, something you don’t want to name.
“Yeah, because it didn’t happen,” Yura adds and your eye snap up at her.
“What the hell?” You almost scream at her, heat raising in your body, face flushed, fingers tugging at your pen.
“Just admit it, for God’s sake,” she rolled her eyes, exasperated.
“No, fuck— it’s weird,” you shake your head, frowning.
“Okay, yeah, it might be weird, but is it that bad?” she crosses her arms over her chest.
You have no answer to her question.
You don’t really know why you try so hard to lie to yourself, to push those feelings away. You don’t know why you bury them under excuses and ignorance, as if your heart isn’t jumping out of your chest when you see him, when you are with him.
You can’t deny it any more.
⸻
By the time you and Yura finally wrap up the extra two hours of studying, in which you couldn’t even pay attention properly, the sky outside the building has shifted to a cool lavender dusk. Students spill out onto campus paths, their laughter and chatter floating through the air.
You and Yura wave your goodbyes, as she heads towards her evening classes, leaving you alone with the weight of everything that just happend.
The quiet feels heavy, pressing against your ears and shoulders. You let out a shaky breath, trying to calm yourself, but the tension hasn’t left your body. Your mind is a storm of its own, Bakugou leaving like that, slamming out of the study room, you finally accepting how you feel towards him… it all spins around your head. You can’t tell if your chest hurts because you’re hurt, frustrated, or scared.
Now that you’d finally found the courage to admit those feelings to yourself, you also realized what came next: saying them out loud. Giving them shape. Letting them exist outside the safety of your own mind.
You’d never been the type to bottle things up. Holding emotions inside felt like holding the worlds on your shoulders. You needed release, clarity, something to ground the chaos swirling through you.
And the brutal, terrifying truth was that only Bakugou could give you that relief. Only he could stop the pain in your chest, the loop of thoughts tormenting you. Because these feelings weren’t small or passing, they were sharp and loud and impossible to ignore. Just like he was.
Your phone buzzes, breaking the silence, pulling you out of your thoughts.
When you look at the screen, Kirishima’s name pops out. You answer, immediately, hearing his voice:
“Hey, have you seen Bakubro?” you heard his concerned voice through the speaker. “I can’t reach him. I’m gonna be late tonight since I have a project to finish.” He explains and you frown.
“Don’t you guys have training tonight?” You ask confused.
“Uh no, trainings are only on mondays and tuesdays. Why?”
Your stomach twists.
The reason he left the study session was to go to training, but there is no training? That was a clear sign that he actually lied to you only to get out of there; only to not hear about you going out on a date.
Yura was right.
“Just asking. I’ll look for Katsuki. I might know where he is,” you murmur, breathing heavily, as you prepared yourself for what was about to happen.
⸻
The park is quiet when you arrive, usually empty at this hour. Streetlamps flicker on, throwing pools of warm light across the swing set. The wooden boards creak faintly as the wind nudges them. It’s peaceful in a way that contrasts sharply with the storm inside you.
And there he is.
Bakugou. Sitting on one of the old swings, head lowered, elbows resting on his knees. The chains creak under his weight, as a breeze of wind ruffles his hair. The sharp lines of his jaw are softened by the fading light, shadows stretching across his face. He looks… untouchable, angry, and maybe even lonely.
Your chest tightens.
The thought of him sitting here like this, alone, avoiding everyone, makes your stomach twist. You hate how worried you feel, how helpless you feel. But more than that, you hate how much your heart jumps at the sight of him.
You approach him with careful steps and a loud thumping in your chest. He doesn’t look at you when you take a seat next to him on the empty swing.
You place your hands in your pockets, biting your lip as you look down to your shoes.
“Yura lied about that guy,” you say quietly.
The swing shifts as he straightens slightly. “I don’t care.” His voice is sharp, defensive, and it makes your chest ache. You can hear the tension coiled in it.
“You seemed upset by it,” you press, trying to find some foothold, some way to reach him through whatever wall he’s built.
“Check your eyes then. I could care less.”
Bakugou’s words sting, but your mind is screaming louder to push him. Force him to admit.
“Why are you here?” he mumbles, fingers grazing his knuckles.
Your chest twists.
Because I can’t not be.
You want to be anywhere he is right now, to understand him, to fix whatever’s tangled inside him and inside you.
“I was worried. Kirishima too.”
“He’ll live.” He kicks at the dirt lightly, brushing off your concern with words that sound far colder than his posture does.
“What’s up with you? You are acting weird,” you ask, frustration and longing mixing together.
“You make it weird,” he retores.
“No, you make it weird.”
“Just leave,” he snaps, head finally turning to you.
“No.” Your chest tightens painfully as you also turn around, seeing his eyes that overflowed with anger, frustration and something else…
“You need me here.”
“I don’t,” he scoffs back instantly.
“Then you leave.”
Silence.
Finally, your voice cracks despite your effort to stay calm.
“Are you confused when you’re around me?” you ask, a nod tugging at your throat, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your shirt.
“I’m confused when you are around… and jealous when I see your ex on campus.” Each word is an admission you weren’t sure you had the courage to make. “Is this what a friendship is supposed to make you feel?”
He swallows, jaw tight. His fingers curl around the chain of the swing, knuckles white.
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” he growls, but the uncertainty in his voice makes your chest ache.
“So… you feel it too?” you whisper, daring to hope.
“I don’t fucking know, goddamnit…” His voice cracks, frustration and something raw bleeding through.
You sit up and step closer, drawn forward by something you can’t fight.
“Are you scared?” you ask softly. “Because I’m scared too. I’m scared of these feelings.”
“Shut the hell up,” he mutters, voice low, but you can hear the tension in his chest.
“We can sort it out,” you insist, stopping right in front of him.
You reach down, hands trembling slightly, and place them on his face. As he was still seated on the swing. His warmth seeps into your palms. His muscles lock at your touch.
His breath hitches, shallow, uneven, as he swallows. You notice the subtle trembling in his hands gripping the chains of the swing. He’s tense… he’s holding back something… And it terrifies and excites you in the same time.
“Katsuki…” Your voice is softer now, almost pleading as you call him again. You tilt your head slightly, studying him, memorizing the way light touches his face. Every movement of his eyes, every twitch of his jaw feels like a signal you’re desperate to decode.
“I… I think I like you… more than a friend…” you admit, voice trembling but fierce.
He flinches, sharp, like your words hit him physically. And suddenly your stomach drops, half in fear, half in anticipation. Did you push too far? Did you make him uncomfortable?
But then his eyes soften ever so slightly, and for the briefest second, the tension in his body seems to flicker. The way he swallows, his jaw flexing, the faint tremble in his hands… it’s all a confession without words. But you still needed answers. Actions.
“Well?” You push, feeling impatient at his lack of reply, hands balling into fists.
Silence.
“Say something, for God’s sake! I just poured my heart out and you are just—“
You stop talking and quickly take step back when you see him suddenly stand up. He moves just in time to catch you, his arms quicky wrapping around your waist to make sure you do not run away from him.
“You talk too fuckin’ much,” he mutters, low and rough, his breath brushing your lips.
Your pulse stops.
And then he kisses you.
Not a soft kiss. Not hesitant. It’s a collision, raw, hungry, months of frustration and unspoken feelings igniting all at once as his mouth claims yours.
You gasp against his mouth, and the sound seems to break something in him. His fingers tighten at your hips, dragging you even closer, his chest rising sharply as if he’s been holding this in for far too long.
Your hands tangle themselves in his blond locks, pulling him closer, shruddering against his strong body.
“Katsuki—” you whisper into his mouth, breathless.
He groans at the sound of his name, the vibration low and dangerous against your lips. One hand lifts to cradle the back of your neck, thumb sweeping your jaw with a tenderness that contradicts the heat of the kiss. The other remains tight at your waist, anchoring you to him.
When he finally pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, breaths mingling uneven.
“I tried…” he rasps, voice raw, “…I tried so damn hard to not feel like this.”
Your fingers curl into the front of his shirt, tugging him closer, refusing to let the space between you widen even a millimeter.
“You don’t have to,” you breathe, chest lifting against his.
He shudders, like your words hit somewhere deep and unbearably tender.
His eyes darken, fixed on your mouth, and the tension between you snaps again, this time even hotter.
He kisses you again, slower now but deeper, a press of lips and breath that feels like surrender. His nose brushes your cheek, his fingers sliding into your hair, holding you with a kind of reverence that makes your entire body melt. The world dissolves around you, until all that remains is the heat of him, the taste of him, the way he kisses you like he’s been starving.
You break for air only to feel him trail his lips along your cheek, your jaw, barely-there touches that make your knees threaten to buckle. His breath is warm against your skin, each exhale shaky.
You take his face in your hands again, lifting it so he meets your gaze.
“I like you, Katsuki,” you whisper.
His jaw clenches.
And then he’s kissing you again, for the third time, deeper, slower, like the world might end if he doesn’t memorize every second of this. His hands roam your back, fingers trembling with restraint. He kisses you like he’s finally claiming something he’s been denying himself for too long.
His lips part against yours, his tongue invading your mouth this time, warm and intoxicating, drawing you in until you’re breathless and burning all at once.
And in that moment, pressed against him, surrounded by the quiet park and the taste of his desperation, you know neither of you will ever be the same.
⸻
Being with him surprises you.
You hadn’t expected this relationship to feel so safe, so… easy. The doubts, the jealousy, the fear of ruining something… they all faded somehow when you were around him. Being with Katsuki felt natural, familiar, maybe because you’d known him forever, maybe because he was finally letting you see a side of him that wasn’t fire and sharp edges.
Your romantic relationship had only begun a month ago, but being friends first made everything feel easier, even when it came to intimate things. Of course, you hadn’t gone that far yet, but you were doing other things. Kissing. Holding hands. Hugging. Sleeping together. Going on dates—
“Be careful, dumbass,” he growls, catching your waist just in time and pressing you close against his chest.
“I am!” you protest, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“Doesn’t seem like it,” he snickers.
You smirk, holding his gaze. “Check your eyes then.”
He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t get smart with me. And change your heels if ya wanna make it to the restaurant on time. Reservation’s at eight.”
“I don’t want to change the heels,” you pout. “I look good with them.”
“You look good either way,” he mutters, looking away, like it’s no big deal.
You can’t help the smile creeping onto your lips. You plant a quick kiss on his cheek, and his head snaps towards you, eyes darkening with something you can’t quite name.
His cheeks are faintly red, jaw tight, and his gaze drifts lower, tracking the curve of your neck, the swell of your chest pressed against him, almost spilling out of your dress.
“Where are you looking?” you tease, nudging him.
“You’re imagining things, dumbass,” he snaps, finally letting go. “Sit on the bed,” he adds, voice clipped, and you frown, but obey.
You walk over and sit, watching as he rummages through a drawer and pulls out some band-aids.
“I don’t need them.”
“You said they’re new, right?” He rolls his eyes, crouching in front of you on one knee.
Carefully, he takes your leg, removing your shoe, and presses the band-aid onto your skin. From his position, he can see how your dress shifts with the movement, offering a teasing glance at the black lacy underwear you had on. His eyes flick up at you, smirk tugging at his lips.
“Got big plans tonight?” he murmurs, tone loaded.
You frown at the teasing edge in his voice, realization hitting. “So what if I have?” you reply, holding his gaze steady.
His lips press into a thin line, body tensing. His grip on your ankle tightens slightly, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how close you are. The way he studies you makes your stomach flutter and your chest ache in anticipation.
“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, though his voice is softer now, rough with something. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
You bite your lip, leaning forward just slightly, letting the subtle shift of your dress brush against his hand. His gaze flickers to your mouth for a brief second, then back up to your eyes.
“I didn’t do anything,” you tease, tilting your head.
“You’re… impossible sometimes.”
You reach out instinctively, letting your fingers graze his jaw, tracing the sharp line of his cheek, feeling the warmth beneath your touch. His breath hitches just slightly, and you can feel the way his chest rises unevenly.
“Mm… impossible,” he echoes, voice low, and leans in just a fraction.
You press your palm against his shoulder, leaning closer, letting your lips brush the corner of his mouth, not quite a kiss, but close enough to make him tense even more. His hand slides up from your ankle to your calf, then creeps up your exposed leg.
“Katsuki…” you murmur, breath trembling just slightly.
His gaze drops to your lips, and the control he’s trying to maintain cracks. The line of his jaw flexes, lips parting, fingers pressing into your skin. The room feels smaller, warmer, charged with the unspoken desire simmering between you.
“You know you can’t just sit there and tease me,” he mutters, voice low.
You smirk softly.
The air is thick with anticipation, every small movement loaded with desire. Every brush of his fingers, every lingering look, every shallow inhale between you both screams what you’re both thinking, but neither says aloud.
And then, finally, his lips are on yours, a slow, smoldering press that leaves your heart hammering.
He tilts his head, lips brushing yours, slow and deliberate, letting the kiss linger long enough to make you melt. His tongue licks your bottom lip as his hands move from your waist to your sides, fingers sliding along your ribs, tracing the curve of your body.
Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, and he groans softly, pressing into your touch, leaning closer as if he can’t get enough. His lips move on yours, more insistent this time, the kiss deeper.
He roses up from his crouching position, pushing you slightly against the bed, one hand resting firmly on your hip to keep you close, the other resting near your head to keep his balance. Every touch ignites a fire along your skin, the sensation of him against you making your heart hammer and your breath come in shallow gasps.
“Katsuki…” you murmur, voice trembling, legs pushing together to ease the feeling.
He tilts your chin up with one finger, capturing your gaze. “You feel it too, huh?” he murmurs, voice rough and thick with desire. His leg parts your thighs, forcing them open and pressing his knee against your cunt.
You nod, breath hitching. “Yeah… I… want it.”
“You sure?” he breathes out, jaw tight, pants getting more uncomfortable with every second.
“Yes,” you nod, looking up at him with pleading eyes.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. Then another, trailing down your cheek, your jaw, leaving slow kisses behind. Your hands roam his back, fingers digging into him, feeling the tension beneath his shirt, the way he keeps himself restrained, barely holding back.
His hips start moving, grinding down just enough for you to feel him. His hardness brushes your thigh, and you moan before you can stop yourself. He grips you tighter instantly, kiss turning deeper, rougher, kicking the air from your lungs.
“Katsuki…” you whimper as his mouth moves to your neck, lips warm, leaving wet kisses behind.
“Gonna take my time with you,” he murmurs against your skin. “Shh.”
His mouth travels lower, sucking the soft skin above your breasts. Your lips part at the sensation, fingers clutching at his shoulders. You feel impatient, needy. You two have always stopped before things went too far, but not tonight. Weeks of frustration and wanting finally break through.
He pulls back just enough to unbutton his shirt, movements messy, hurried. Your gaze drops immediately. The outline of his hard cock strains against his black slacks, obvious and intimidating. He looks big. The thought scares you and makes your stomach flutter at the same time.
Your hand moves before you can think. You trace his defined abs, now fully exposed. His hands clench into fists at your touch, breath hitching. You keep going, fingers sliding down until they reach the waistband of his pants. Your eyes follow the veins disappearing beneath the fabric.
“Can I…?” you ask quietly, tugging at him.
“Don’t worry about me,” he says, catching your hand gently. “You’re more important right now.” His voice softens. “It’s your first time, right?”
“Y-yeah.”
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says. “Alright?”
You nod. He releases your hand and moves to the straps of your dress, sliding them down slowly. The fabric falls, exposing your breasts to him. Your heart races at he the way he stares: intense, unblinking. He takes you in completely, every curve, every detail, watching your nipples harden in the cool air.
“Touch me already…” you mutter, reaching for him.
He blinks like he snaps out of it, then complies. His hands cup your breasts, squeezing the soft flesh firmly. His fingers pinch your nipples, and you squirm beneath him.
“Mhm!”
He leans down, blond hair brushing your chin as his tongue swirls around your nipple. His teeth graze the sensitive skin, making you gasp under his touch. Your hands find his hair again, fingers tangling as your hips roll up towards him.
“Katsuki,” you moan.
His mouth switches to the other breast, making you throw your head back. His free hand slides down your stomach, slowly, until it reaches your aching core. He presses his palm there through the fabric, then nudges your panties aside, fingers brushing your folds.
“Want me to keep going?” he asks, eyes on your face.
You nod. “Please.”
He quickly nods as he tugs your panties down your legs. You feel his intanse stare again, heat rushing to your face.
“Tell me if it feels weird,” he says after a few moments.
Before you can answer, he moves off the bed and kneels between your legs. His head settles there, hands gripping your thighs firmly, his breath sending shivers up your spine. He kisses you slowly, from top to bottom, then drags his tongue between your folds, making you shudder.
He then finds your clit and sucks, eyes lifting to watch your reaction. Your eyes squeeze shut, brows drawn together, chest rising and falling fast.
One hand leaves your thigh, coming towards your cunt. One of his fingers presses at your entrance, teasing, while his mouth keeps working. When his finger finally slides inside, the stretch makes you arch, a sharp sting mixing with pleasure. Tears prick your eyes but his tongue on your clit keeps you grounded.
“That okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, half-lidded eyes meeting his. He looks wrecked, hair messy, chin wet, eyes dark with desire.
He moves slow at first, making sure you adjust to the intrusion, then his rythm becomes steady. Your hands grab at everything: the sheets, his hair, his shoulders.
“Another one?” he asks after a few more pumps, voice rough.
You nod again. He slowly adds a second finger, stretching you more, making you pant, body trembling. When he curls his fingers just right, you cry out, head falling back.
“Ah—!”
He keeps hitting that spot, faster now, making your thighs shake, heat building low in your belly.
“Mhm—!” you moan as your walls tighten around his fingers. He groans softly at the sensation of your walls tightening, and pushes in and out a few more times before you fall apart, pleasure washing over you completely. Your body goes slack, breath coming in heavy pulls.
“You okay?” he asks after a few seconds, watching you carefully.
“Okay doesn’t even cover it,” you breathe, laughing weakly.
He smiles, thumb brushing your cheek. “Wanna keep goin’?”
“Yes. Please.”
He exhales deeply and stands, undoing his pants slowly, giving you time to stop him. You don’t. You just watch as he frees himself, boxers tight around him. When he climbs back onto the bed and pulls them down, your eyes widen.
“That’s… big,” you whisper.
He snorts. “Thanks.”
“I don’t know if it’ll fit.”
“It will,” he says calmly, reaching for a condom.
It seemed he also had big plans for tonight, since he came prepared.
He rolls it on his lenght, movements controlled. “I’ll be gentle.”
You pull him closer, arms around his neck. He lines himself up, the tip brushing your sensitive entrance. You whimper in his ear as he pushes in slowly, stopping every time you tense or grip him too hard.
“Katsuki—!”
When he finally fills you completely, the stretch burns. It is unfamiliar, intense, painful, yet you want more of it.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
He stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to the feeling of him inside you. Your body feels ao full and stretched. You can hear your own shaky breath mingling with his quiet grunts.
“You good?” he asks, voice low, rough at the edges but gentle.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, encouraging you without pressuring. “Relax… don’t fight it.”
You wrap your arms tighter around him, needing his support. Your mind spins with the feeling of him inside you, every slight movement of his hips pressing into you sending new sensations all over your body.
He doesn’t rush. He lets you feel every inch of him, giving your body time to adjust. You feel the heat building between you, warmth pooling and mixing with your nerves. You tremble slightly, and he catches it instantly, holding you closer, his thumb stroking small circles over your side.
“You feel amazing,” he praises in your ear.
Finally, when he begins to move more steadily, it’s slow and rhythmic. You feel the friction, the pressure, the pull and release. Your breath catches with each thrust, your nails digging into him, and yet he never pushes too far.
“Look at me.” he breathes out, his own voice strained now.
You obey instantly, eyes meeting his intense gaze. You feel like you are about to melt under him.
Your lips part, and a soft moan escapes as he thrusts inside you. He grins, teeth grazing your ear. “Still as obedient as ever, huh princess?”
“Katsuki…” you whine at his teasing, and he snaps his hips again.
You arch against him, moaning softly, and he responds immediately, steadying your hips firmly with one hand, letting you feel the full length of him slowly moving inside you.
Your fingers grip his shoulders tightly, nails digging into his skin, and your breath comes in ragged.
“Faster…” you whisper, voice barely audible, but desperate. “Please… faster.”
He freezes for a second, eyes snapping to yours, pupils dark and intense. “You sure?” he murmurs, tone low and teasing.
“Yes,” you gasp. “I want it… please…”
You feel how his hips begin to move with more force, deliberate but still controlled. The slow teasing rhythm transforms into a steady, firm motion, each thrust filling you completely. You cry out, louder this time, breath catching in your throat as he picks up the pace.
“Oh… oh God…” you moan, gripping him tighter, letting your nails drag across his back. “Katsuki… harder… faster…”
He groans, lips brushing your shoulder, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “You’re driving me insane,” he huffs, but complies again.
Heat coils low in your belly, building with every motion, spreading through your thighs, stomach, and chest. You can feel it rising, a tight knot of pleasure about to snap. Your breaths come faster, your body arching, pressing into him, needing more, wanting to release.
“You… you feel so good,” he groans, voice rough, almost strangled, thrusts relentless now. “So tight… so perfect…”
You cry out, words breaking into incoherent gasps. “I… I’m… gonna—”
He catches your moan in a kiss, lips crushing yours for a heartbeat before he pulls back just enough to watch you fall apart. His thrusts stay firm, hitting just the right angle, and your body can’t hold it back any longer.
A hot wave of pleasure crashes through you, tearing your breath away. Your back arches, legs shake, nails digging into him as your body shudders violently.
You cry out his name again, your voice raw and breathless, and your whole body trembles as your second orgasm rips through you. This one was more intense and consuming.
He holds you through it, hips moving in a sloppy manner, thrusting a few more times before his own release washes over him. He falls on you, breath heavy, grunts and low moans leaving his mouth as his chest heaves against your own.
A few minutes of silence pass, neither of you saying a word. Then, his voice breaks the silence:
“You okay?” he asks softly, his head raising up slightly.
You nod weakly, a breathless laugh escaping. “Okay… yes… I… wow…”
He smirks, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest, thumb coming up to brush your cheek.
You smile weakly at him, eyes slowly darting towards the electric clock on his nightstand. Your face changes slightly and he notices.
“What’s wrong?” he frowns.
”Katsuki…” you breath out, head falling back on the mattress.
Synopsis: Khaslana has been going through endless cycles, isolated by everyone, carrying a weight no one else can see. Then the world glitches—and he keeps finding his way to your world. To you.
A/N: Hi everyone. :) This is the first part of an arc I started working on after finishing 3.4 in July. It began as a way to process the emotions the story evoked in me… and with Christmas approaching, I ended up reworking and expanding huge parts of my original draft. Now I’m genuinely happy with how this arc unfolds.
It’s both a character study and the emotional foundation for something bigger: a story about the original Khaslana, “our” Phainon, the cycles, memory, and the one impossible anomaly that brings him peace… and, eventually, love and happiness.
This fic follows Khaslana as he begins glitching into our world. It lays the groundwork for a slow-burn connection that will matter later.
This story is part of my Christmas season fics. And yes, it is a Christmas story, I promise.
NOTE: This story plays with metaphysics, glitches, cycle mechanics, and the blurred lines between simulation and reality. I’ll offer an internal logic for the AU in Part 2—but it won’t be a strictly scientific explanation. This arc uses that ambiguity intentionally: a mix of lore-consistency, narrative symbolism, and a little Christmas magic. The emotional truth matters more than the physics. :)
This story means a lot to me. Enjoy. :)
Tags: Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Some Fluff. Slow Burn. Glitch AU/Crossworlds AU. Canon divergence (starting 3.4). Set during 3.4 (Fix-It Adjacent). Time Travel (sort of). Yearning. Khaslana Centric. Character Study. Soft Moments. Interdimensional Romance. Winter/Christmas Themes.
Warnings: Existential Grief. Identity Issues. Mentions of Violence (Very Vague). Mentions of Trauma.
Word count: 5983
⋆ ✦ ⋆
Khaslana feels the fire eating through him long before he sees the coreflame settle in his hand.
Another cycle. Another victory that tastes like ash.
The light burrows beneath his skin, threading itself through old scars and new fractures, burning away whatever softness once lived inside him. He stands alone, heat rising from within his body, breath ragged, the world around him already beginning to dissolve.
His world will reset again soon.
It always does.
He always remembers.
(He is so tired of remembering.)
But this time—just as the light swells behind his eyes—the world glitches.
The heat vanishes.
Cold air bites his skin. Sharp. Clean. Gentle in a way nothing has been gentle in—
How long? How many cycles? He’s lost count. Not of the number of cycles. Never that. But the rest. He’s lost everything except the mission and the burning and the endless, endless weight of—
When he inhales, it is not smoke but something unfamiliar. Something like wood and sweetness and winter air. Something forgotten. Something he doesn’t have a name for.
(Pine, he will learn later. Cinnamon. Snow.)
(He will learn so many soft things, later.)
Then the cycle snaps him back.
He is standing on doomed ground again. The burn returns. The weight returns. The rage resurfaces. The endless mission stretches before him like a road with no end.
But for the first time in this eternal misery, Khaslana wonders:
Was that real?
Or has he finally begun to break completely?
It keeps happening.
Every few cycles—after slaughter, after death, after gathering another coreflame that tears another piece of sanity from him—he slips again.
Cold air.
Not the cold of death. The cold of winter. Sharp and clean and alive.
Snow.
Falling gently, not in ash but in white.
Soft. Silent. Beautiful.
Color.
Not the red of fire or the black of char—but gold and green and silver. Twinkling. Warm.
Something like warmth that isn’t burning.
He doesn’t have a word for it yet.
(Later, he will learn: comfort. Peace. Home.)
He tells himself it’s hallucination. An artifact of the fire eating his nerves.
But it keeps happening.
And the vision becomes clearer each time:
A street dusted with snow. Shops glowing with soft light. Garlands. Bells. People with warm faces and full hands.
Happiness.
Peace.
Then—always—the faint outline of someone he cannot quite see.
A shape. A presence. Close. Warm. Looking in his direction.
Khaslana starts waiting for the glitch.
Longing for it.
Clinging to it.
It’s the first dangerous hope he’s felt in forever.
And so he continues his never ending journey, waiting for something that might never happen again. He reminds himself that hope, hope for himself, is futile. And goes on.
But then…
The world splits wrong.
Khaslana doesn’t mean to cross—he never means to—but his body staggers forward instead of back, and suddenly he is… here.
Whole enough to have a voice. Broken enough to tremble from the effort of holding himself together.
You’re walking under a canopy of string lights when he appears—flickering into existence like a misfired star. His knees buckle. His breath catches on something like pain.
And you turn.
You see him.
Your eyes widen, not with fear but with startled concern.
He hadn’t prepared for that. He hadn’t expected to be perceived.
“Don’t touch me,” His voice is raw—but there’s something beneath the desperation. Something cold. Controlled. A warning delivered with the precision of someone who has given it many times before. “I could hurt you.”
Could. Not will.
Even now—even breaking, even barely holding himself together—he’s choosing his words carefully.
You should run.
Every instinct screams at you to run.
But you don’t.
Instead, you freeze—but not with fear. With worry. With concern.
He doesn’t understand.
He is a weapon. A vessel. A thing that kills.
He’s nothing more than the destruction.
Why aren’t you running?
“Are you hurt?” you ask.
The question hits him in places he deemed lost for good.
Are you hurt?
He’s been hurt for so long he’s forgotten what not hurting feels like. He’s been burning for so many cycles that pain has become his baseline, his constant, his only companion apart from the rage.
And here you are—a stranger, standing in the snow, looking at him with soft eyes, asking if he’s hurt.
Khaslana opens his mouth.
He doesn’t know how to answer.
Then light fractures through him—and he’s gone.
You stand there for a long moment, staring at the empty air where he’d been.
Your heart is pounding.
You should be scared. You should be calling someone. You should be questioning your sanity.
But all you can think is:
He looked so tired.
He looked so alone.
He looked like someone who hasn’t been gentle with himself in a very, very long time.
You don’t know who he is.
But you hope—desperately, irrationally—that you’ll see him again.
This man with the white fluffy hair, the blue eyes that carry a golden sun within.
The next day, he appears exactly six times.
Short. Fleeting. Fragments of a man caught between worlds.
But you notice everything.
The first time, he looks out of air. Like he’s either been running or fighting for too long. His chest heaves. His hands tremble. He doesn’t see you. He’s somewhere else entirely, eyes fixed on a horror you can’t perceive.
Then he’s gone.
The second time, he staggers forward, barely holding onto his own weight. His knees nearly buckle. You reach out instinctively, but your hand passes through empty air.
He’s already gone.
The third time, he almost crashes into you.
Not from weakness. From fury.
His eyes are blazing—blue and gold and terrible—and the heat rolling off him makes your skin prickle. He looks wild. Dangerous. Like a firestorm given human form.
You freeze.
But he’s gone before you can even flinch.
The fourth time, he’s clenching his teeth so hard you can see the muscles in his jaw strain.
And you see it: blood. Dirt. Something else you can’t name.
His hands are shaking, but his expression is carved from stone. His eyes are hollow. Empty. Like he’s removed everything soft just to keep moving.
You swallow.
He tilts his head—confused, almost—like he’s only just noticed you’re there. The fury flickers. That mask slides back into place.
Then he’s gone.
The fifth time, he storms toward you.
“Why,” he says. Not a question. An accusation. A desperate, broken demand.
“Why—”
He’s gone before you can even open your mouth.
You stand there, shaking, heart pounding, with no idea what he was asking.
Or who he was asking it to.
The sixth time, he’s calm.
Too calm.
He stands perfectly still, watching you with an expression you can’t read. There’s no fury now. No desperation. Just… stillness.
He looks like someone who’s done something terrible and chose to do it anyway.
This is the first time he holds your gaze long enough for your knees to shake.
You see his beauty.
You see that he could tear everything apart if he wanted to.
You take a step back.
Then—before you can think about it—a step toward him.
He watches you. Uncertain. His stance firms, like he’s bracing for attack.
But you don’t run.
And something flickers in his expression. Confusion, maybe. Or wonder.
Then he’s gone.
It keeps happening.
But after that day—after the fury and the blood and the terrible calm—something shifts.
The next time he appears, near a shop window one evening, he’s… quieter. Steadier.
And you’re there, sipping something warm from a paper cup.
“You again,” you breathe, half-relieved.
He stares, stunned, because he hadn’t realized someone might wait for him.
“You’re… here,” he manages.
“So are you.” You smile, small and tentative. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t know how to answer that. He’s not sure he remembers what okay feels like.
Before he can try, the light fractures—and he’s gone.
The next time, he appears by a Christmas market stall. The smell of cinnamon and roasted nuts fills the air. Children laugh somewhere nearby.
You gasp softly when you see him.
He looks better. Firmer. But something is different. His eyes are harder. More distant. Like shutters have been drawn behind them.
Why are his eyes different?
You have so many questions. But you know there’s no time. So you settle on the most pressing one.
“You look less hurt this time. Is that… normal?”
He blinks. Looks down at his hands.
“It doesn’t matter.” His voice is flat. Distant. Like he’s reading from a script he’s recited a thousand times. “Only my task does.”
He looks at you, and his gaze is colder than before. No—not cold. Detached. Like he’s looking through you rather than at you.
“I don’t belong here. I belong nowhere.”
He doesn’t know why he’s telling you this. Only that he needs to speak before he forgets how to. It’s one of those days. He’s clutching to this like the last straw.
“Tell me about your task,” you offer. You’re not sure why you keep talking to a man who doesn’t seem to know whether he wants to talk to you or not.
“An endless journey to feed the blaze.”
He takes another look at you, and the intensity in his eyes undoes you. There’s something ancient there. Something terrible.
“I’m the person nobody knows, yet everyone fears. Nameless, in a way, but with a title.”
You squeeze your eyes shut for a moment, because he is both frustrating and fascinating. In a way you can’t explain.
“You talk in riddles,” you murmur, keeping the conversation going despite yourself.
“Sometimes I wonder why I’m still able to talk at all.” He huffs. Humorless. Self-deprecating.
“What do you mean?”
You keep pressing because every time you say something, he seems… more alive, somehow. His eyes are bluer. You see a spark—faint, barely there—that makes your breath hitch.
“You ask many questions.”
He pauses. Something flickers in his gaze. Not warmth, but curiosity. Like he’s studying something he doesn’t understand.
“Normally, people only ask me why they are still breathing.”
The words land like ice in your chest.
You stare at him, trying to reconcile the exhausted man before you with what he just implied.
What has he done? What has he been forced to do?
“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Good.” His voice is flat again. Closed off. “It’s better that way.”
“It doesn’t matter what I say,” he continues. “Not even my actions matter. Only the final outcome.”
“But you want them to matter,” you say quietly.
You don’t know why you said that. You don’t know this man. You don’t know what he’s done, what he’s capable of, what darkness lives behind those burning eyes.
But you see the crack in his armor.
And you can’t look away from it.
For the first time, he has no answer prepared.
The clinical mask falters.
“I….” His voice takes on a different note. Softer. So human. “In the past, yes. A long, long time ago.”
He sounds surprised by his own honesty.
You furrow your brows. He doesn’t look that old. How old could he be?
He huffs again, and it’s lighter this time. Somehow, the sound makes your heart ache.
“I can’t remember. I remember everything, I carry all those memories, but this… I can‘t remember.”
You want to comment, but his gaze tells you that it‘s something he has to deal with on his own first. Maybe never.
“You’re staying longer this time,” you say. “I wonder why. Then again, I don’t even know why you’re here at all.”
“This is not my world.”
He says it out of context. As if he’s so used to silence—so used to talking only in his head, if at all—so used to pushing forward without pause—that he skips the part of conversation where people approach each other gently.
“Mine is… fractured. Doomed.”
Like me, he doesn’t say.
But you hear it anyway.
The light flickers around him.
“So how did you get here?” you ask, just to hear his softer voice again.
“I don’t know,” he admits. “Nothing about this is normal.”
You laugh. Soft. Surprised.
He stares at you like he’s never heard that sound before.
Maybe he hasn’t. Not in a long, long time.
Another huff—and this time, impossibly, it’s a laugh.
Not happy. Not whole. But real.
The sound is rusty, like something dredged up from a place that forgot how to make it.
Your heart cracks open.
And then he’s gone.
The next time, he appears in front of a bakery, its windows fogged with warmth. You’re walking past, arms full of bags.
“Oh—” you nearly drop them. “You’re here.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“No, it’s okay.” You shift the bags, smiling. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”
Hoping.
The word lodges somewhere beneath his ribs.
Once more, you realize that you still don’t know his name. In your mind, you call him Wanderer sometimes. But most of the time, it’s just he.
You want to ask him. With every meeting, the urge grows stronger.
But you’re afraid. Maybe it will destroy this mystique. This… magic.
So you don’t ask.
Not yet.
Khaslana vanishes before he can respond.
The next time—in front of a tree glowing with warm light—you ask:
“Is it painful? When you disappear?”
He swallows. Looks away. Trembles.
“…Yes.” Your expression crumbles. “But coming here isn’t,” he adds quickly, quietly. “This part…“ His voice cracks a little. “…this doesn’t hurt.”
You look at him with something unbearable in your eyes.
He has to look away.
One afternoon, you’re sitting on a bench in a small park. Fairy lights are strung through the trees above you. Snow falls gently.
The air shimmers, and he’s there. Beside you.
You don’t startle this time. Just shift slightly, making room.
“You can sit,” you say softly. “If you want.”
He hesitates. Then, slowly, carefully—like he might break something precious—he sits.
Neither of you speak.
But for the first time in four million cycles, Khaslana feels something like peace.
“I’m Y/N,” you say softly. “In case you wondered.”
He looks at you. Something flickers in his expression. Surprise, maybe. Or gratitude.
“I know,” he says.
You blink. “You… know?”
“I heard someone call for you once. In the market.” He pauses. “I remembered.”
Your chest tightens.
He remembered.
Later that day, he appears in your apartment.
You drop your mug. Tea splatters across the floor.
“I—I’m sorry—” His voice is raspy, lower than you’ve ever heard it. He steps back, alarmed. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t control where—”
“It’s okay.” You’re breathing hard, hand over your heart. “It’s okay. You just… surprised me.”
He looks around. At the small space. The warm lighting. The blanket on your couch. The half-finished book on the table. The photos on your shelf. The candle flickering on the windowsill.
This is your home.
Something aches in him. Something old and hollow.
“It’s warm here,” he mumbles.
“Yeah.” You’re still catching your breath. “Do you… want to stay? For a bit?”
He shouldn’t.
He should pull himself back before the glitch ends.
But he stays.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to memorize the warmth.
“Do you read all these?” he asks suddenly, touching nothing but staring at the spines on your shelf.
“Most of them.”
“Why?”
You blink. “Because… stories feel like company.”
He looks at you sharply, something raw flickering in his gaze.
“Company,” he echoes. Soft. Like you taught him something.
No—like he remembered something.
The next time, he appears at night.
You’re in bed, half-asleep, and suddenly there’s golden light at the edge of your room.
He’s sitting on the floor, back against your wall, head bowed. Shaking.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t—I can’t control—”
“Hey.” You slide out of bed, kneeling in front of him. “Hey. It’s okay.”
“I keep coming here.” His voice breaks. “To you. I don’t understand why.”
You reach out—stop yourself—remember don’t touch me, I could hurt you.
“Maybe you’re supposed to,” you say instead.
He looks up at you. His eyes are wet. Expression shattered. They’re almost golden now, you notice. Burning from within.
“Maybe,” he breathes.
“Do you want to talk?” you ask him.
“Talk,” he mumbles, his voice softer again. Distant. “People used to praise me for my eloquence. I won many debates in the past.”
You make a sound at that. Not surprised—happy. He’s sharing something with you.
And somewhere beneath the ruin, you can see it. The orator. The man he used to be.
He looks at you. “Fighting with words can change the course of worlds. Can move crowds.” His jaw tightens. “Battles, however, are an endless loop.”
He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding a breath for a lifetime.
“Tell me… something else.”
He presses his lips together. When he looks at you again, a smile is tugging at his lips.
It’s almost boyish, you realize. Light. Young.
It’s gone immediately.
But you store it away. Keep it safe. For later.
“About what?”
“About anything. About your world.” He swallows. “Make it mundane.”
Normal, he says.
About you, he means.
“Or…” He hesitates, like he’s debating with himself. Fighting something internal. Then, quieter, he mumbles, “Tell me about small adventures where the everyday hero does something good and saves people.”
His voice cracks on the last words.
You know he didn’t mean to say that. You know it cost him something.
So you don’t ask why.
You just tell him.
You tell him about how you grew up. The neighborhood. The little rituals. Your favorite corner of the city and the coffee shop that knows your order.
You tell him about your favorite things. The books. The songs. The way rain sounds on your window when you’re falling asleep.
You tell him how you start your days. The quiet moments before the world wakes up. The small routines that make you feel like yourself.
And then—because he asked for heroes—you tell him about those, too.
The old man at the bookshop nearby who brings tea and paperbacks to the homeless regulars every Thursday. Who knows their names. Who never asks for anything back.
The woman at the small supermarket who works overtime every weekend—quietly, without complaint—to cover for the young cashier who got pregnant and is too scared to tell anyone. Who leaves little care packages in her locker with a note that just says You’re not alone.
The teenager on your street who shovels snow from the elderly neighbors’ driveways before school. Who waves off thanks like it’s nothing. Who doesn’t know how much it means.
The teacher who stayed late every day for a student everyone else had given up on. Who believed in him until he believed in himself.
Small things. Ordinary things.
But real.
Khaslana listens.
At first, he’s silent. Still. His eyes fixed on you like you’re telling him something sacred.
Then—later, much later, when it’s already the middle of the night—he starts to react. Small sounds. A huff that’s almost a laugh. A murmured question. A comment, here and there, that tells you he’s not just listening.
He’s living it.
Both of you notice how long he’s been here.
Neither of you talks about it.
He doesn’t talk much, but you feel him opening up to you. A little. In between your anecdotes, he mentions things out of context again. How odd time feels here. How his body tells him lifetimes have passed already. That his body is pulling at him.
You don’t understand what he’s talking about. None of it.
And the small trust that’s somehow—surprisingly—been building between you is still too fragile. So you stay silent. You change the topic without commenting on his unrelated remarks.
He’s been here for hours. And yet, the glitch doesn’t happen.
Instead, his posture—usually so controlled, even beneath the hurt—relaxes a little.
He mentions more. That this is the first time he’s felt more at ease since his childhood.
He winces at that. You see it come and go.
You ask him about his childhood, and he flinches. Actually flinches.
He catches himself immediately. Inhales sharply. Shifts to the side.
“It was peaceful,” he says eventually. His voice is quieter now. Softer. “An idyll too miraculous to last. To remain my reality.”
He gives you a side glance. “Do you have wheat fields here?” he asks without preamble.
You huff, then realize he means it.
“Yes,” you say.
You tell him about wheat fields, about trees and lakes and mountains and deserts and the oceans. And he stares at you as if you’re simultaneously the best storyteller and the most important person who could enlighten him.
You have to swallow.
“Do you wish to see it?” you ask quietly.
He looks at you, confused. “See? Like in a painting?”
You laugh, still wondering about his world.
You show him pictures then—actual physical photos, because you suspect he might get overwhelmed by electronics, the internet… although you wonder what he might think of all this. You want to tell him. A lot, you realize.
He stares at the photos for what feels like an hour. Fields. Trees. Water stretching to the horizon.
You let him, without saying a word.
When he looks at you again, he seems… lost and found at once.
You keep talking, but your body is betraying you. Sleep pulls at you, heavy and warm.
“Not everyone has a body that lasts eternities,” he offers, and you laugh when you realize it’s a genuine joke.
He made a joke.
“You should sleep,” he says. “You were… in bed when I arrived.”
He seems self-conscious now—and that is nothing you’ve ever experienced with him.
You’re already falling asleep.
Khaslana feels that he’ll leave soon, back to his eternal journey. He has nowhere else to go here.
So he stays.
He puts a blanket over you. Gently, carefully, like he’s afraid you might break. Or like he’s afraid he might.
And then he watches you. Lost in thought. His mind quieter than it’s been in four million cycles.
He doesn’t know what this feeling is.
He thinks it might be called peace.
Or maybe something more dangerous.
He vanishes before the new dawn.
But when you wake up, the space where he sat still feels warm.
The next crossing lasts longer again.
Long enough for him to breathe without shaking. Long enough to walk beside you through the market. Long enough to watch you stop at stalls, examining ornaments, smiling at vendors.
Khaslana watches everything.
But mostly, he watches you.
How you move. How fascinated you seem to be by every item, every smell, every taste, every sound. You laugh, and he leans closer as if to catch it. He still keeps a distance. And yet. You feel him closer to you now. You look at him, catch a small glimpse of something in his eyes.
Wonder.
You blink when you recognize it. Because you’ve seen it before. Friends, strangers, photos, movies. He‘s absorbed in beauty.
You laugh quietly, almost giddy. Because of the atmosphere. Because of this little miracle. And in this moment, you see the man he must have been. And you see it. His beauty. In his past self, and now, in his ruin.
“What… is this celebration?” Khaslana finally asks.
“Christmas,” you say softly. “It’s a holiday.”
He repeats the word like it’s sacred. Like it might break if he holds it too tightly.
“Christmas.” He repeats it five more times, his voice growing softer with each syllable.
He used to be gentle, you realize.
“Yeah,“ you reply, your voice hoarse, your eyes moist. You turn to him, something warm in your heart. “People come together. Give gifts. Spend time with people they love. It’s about connection, I guess. Warmth. Even when everything’s cold.”
Love. Connection. Warmth.
Words Khaslana knows. Distantly. Like something he read about once, in a life that belonged to someone else.
“Why are there lights everywhere?”
You look up at the strings of gold and white woven through the market stalls.
“To bring warmth,” you explain. “To make the dark feel less heavy. When the nights get long, people need reminders that light still exists.”
Khaslana goes very still.
The dark has been heavy for so long.
So, so long.
He didn’t know there was another way.
“…I see,” he whispers.
But his voice cracks on the words.
You glance at him. “Do you have anything like this? Where you’re from?”
Where I’m from.
Doomed earth. Endless cycles. Fire and death and the same tragedy on repeat.
For a moment, Khaslana thinks about his home. Aedes Elysiae. Then, he remembers the flames. The people he had to kill. Again and again. The Black Tide. And shakes his head.
“No,” he says quietly. “We have… festivals. Celebrations. But they always end the same way.”
“How?”
In flames. In forgetting or remembering, depending on whom you ask. In dying. In starting over.
“…Badly,” he manages.
You’re quiet for a moment. Then, you murmur, “Well. You’re here now. And this one won’t end badly. I promise.”
He looks at you.
You can’t promise that. You don’t know who…no…. what he is. What he carries. What waits for him on the other side.
But you’re looking at him like you mean it.
Like he matters.
For a fleeting moment, he wants to talk about it. But what would he even tell you? Part of him wants to say that his entire existence is meaningless, and yet, he is the only one who can do this. Because somebody has to.
He is not used to this anymore.
The feelings. The old ache.
It’s crushing him.
He has to look away before he breaks entirely.
“Do you like it?“ you ask him quietly because you don’t want him to slip away, both metaphorically and literally, before you get a chance to ask. You don’t know what you mean exactly. The market. The atmosphere. This moment. That he keeps coming back here.
When he looks at you again, his expression has softened. He‘s as beautiful as before but the fractures from within that always want to jump at you are hiding now.
“Very much so,” he says, his voice hoarse. But this time you notice the difference. He’s touched. He clears his throat. “In the past, I liked this. Old items. It was something I was good at.”
It’s one of those rare moments where he keeps your gaze for longer than a heartbeat. “This kind of beauty that is nothing but pure and time-descending doesn‘t belong to my life anymore. To my being.“ He looks away as if he‘s said too much.
You haven‘t heard him talk like this often. Only a couple of times. On the bench, in an abandoned garden once and back in your apartment. Your heart hurts at the softness and yearning in his voice that is so much and nothing like him. You smile at him, and he still doesn‘t look away.
“I‘m still here,“ he says, more to himself. He could be talking about his existence. Or about the fact the glitch hasn‘t happened yet.
“Good,“ you say. “It would be a shame if you missed all this.”
You buy him roasted almonds and a cocoa, and he stares at those things as if handed something dangerous.
When he tastes it, he makes a small sound. Not his usual huff, more like a sigh. He watches people in quiet, taking another sip. You catch him staring at two couples, exchanging their drinks in regular intervals.
After what feels like an eternity but is not longer than two minutes, he hands you the cocoa in offering. His expression is careful. Almost uncertain.
And you realize: he thinks this is intended to be shared.
Your cheeks redden. You want to tell him how unusual it is for people who are not together. But you can‘t bring yourself to do it. So you drink, smiling at him even broader. “This is good.“
He nods, and you think he will leave it at that. “It tastes like a drink the Titans would approve of,“ he says, then his face contracts as if his words are wrong. Not fitting.
You watch his silhouette in silence. His fluffy hair, handsome face, his broad shoulders, his arms that seem so muscular and remind you that he, above all, is a man who fights, at least according to his short explanations.
You wonder if he fought many battles. But this is not something he should be talking about now. He finishes the drink and mutters a quiet “Thank you”.
You walk beside him a little longer. Your footsteps crunch softly in the snow.
He looks down. Watches the prints you leave behind.
Then looks at his own.
Side by side. Overlapping.
Evidence that he was here. That he existed, in this moment, beside you.
Something tightens in his chest.
“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” he asks.
You stop walking. Turn to face him.
“Should I be?”
“Yes.” The word comes out harsh. Desperate. “I’m not—I’m not safe. I’m burning from the inside. I’ve done things—You don’t understand—I’m not—”
“Hey.”
Your voice cuts through his spiral. Soft but firm.
“Look at me.”
He does.
He can’t help it.
Foolish, he thinks.
“You don’t look like someone I should be afraid of,” you say quietly. “You look like someone who’s been carrying too much for too long. You look like someone who needs rest.”
His breath shudders.
“You look like someone who deserves softness,” you continue. “Even if you don’t believe it.”
Something ancient in him—something scorched and bone-tired—cracks open.
He feels wetness on his face.
He’s crying.
He can’t remember the last time he cried.
He’s not even sure he still could.
Apparently, he can.
“What’s your name?” you ask gently. “I keep seeing you. I want to know what to call you. Who you are.”
He’s quiet for a long moment.
No one has asked him that in four million cycles. Or rather: No one has done it without contempt.
“Khaslana,” he says finally. Raspily. Like a secret that needs to be buried. “My name is Khaslana.”
You repeat it. “Khaslana.”
Something in his expression breaks open.
“No one has said my name so softly in…” He stops. Swallows. “In a very long time.”
You smile at him.
“Then I’ll say it as many times as you need.”
He vanishes mid-exhale.
But this time, for the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s disappearing.
He feels like he’s being remembered.
The final time Khaslana appears, he is barely standing.
His knees buckle as soon as he touches your world. Heat radiates from him in painful waves. Not human warmth, but the burn of a sun running out of fuel.
You rush forward instinctively.
“Khaslana—”
He lifts his head. And you see it. He’s breaking. Inside and out. Holding himself together by pure will alone.
His voice cracks as he speaks.
“Whenever I cross into your world…” His breath stutters, fogging the winter air. “The burning quiets.”
Your chest aches.
He looks at you like you are a miracle he was not meant to find.
“Who are you to me?” Khaslana whispers.
You don’t have an answer.
You don’t know what you are to him. This impossible, burning, beautiful man who keeps appearing in your December like a ghost made of starlight and sorrow.
“Khaslana,” you say softly.
He shudders at the sound of his own name. Like no one has said it kindly in eternity. Like hearing it from you is both salvation and wound.
“I need you to remember it,” he whispers. Urgent now. Desperate. “My name. Keep it safe. You’re the only one who will.”
“I will. I promise. But don’t—”
“I need to leave. I will not…exist…“
You want to ask him what he means. Want to ask him about everything. Finally.
Light fractures. Air ripples. His body turns translucent—golden and breaking and reaching for you.
“Wait—!” You surge forward.
He reaches back.
His fingers stretch toward yours, trembling, desperate.
But they pass through light.
And he’s gone.
The snow falls softly, silently, into the space where he stood.
You stand there, hand still outstretched, heart cracking open.
“Khaslana,” you whisper into the empty air.
The wind carries your words into the winter night.
Nothing answers.
Two days pass.
You keep looking.
At every flicker of light. Every shimmer in the corner of your eye. Every reflection that seems too golden, too warm.
Nothing.
Khaslana is gone.
You start to wonder if you imagined all of it. If the grief has finally made you see things that were never real.
But then—
On the fourth night, standing beneath the same string lights where you first saw him—
The air splits.
Light fractures.
And someone appears.
He looks like him.
But something is… different.
His posture is steadier. His edges less frayed. His eyes clearer. Bluer. Still pained, still burning, but not crumbling.
Not dying.
“Where am I?“ he asks, confused. “I was just…He was there. And when he fell on the floor, I…it was too much. The memories. And I couldn‘t see…And then…“ He seems to have forgotten you‘re present too.
“Khaslana—?” you breathe, stepping closer.
He freezes.
His eyes widen.
“That name…” he murmurs. Confused. Lost. “It‘s mine… It was…” He presses a hand to his temple. “I’m Phainon. My name is Phainon.”
Your heart stutters.
“Phainon?”
“Yes. I—” He looks at you. Really looks. And something fractures in his expression. “Do I… do I know you?”
You stare at him. At this man who looks like Khaslana but isn’t. Who carries his face but not his fractures.
“You…” Your voice trembles. “You don’t remember me?”
He opens his mouth—
And then gasps.
His hand flies to his head. His body shudders. His knees buckle—
“What—” he chokes out. “What is this—”
You reach for him. “Phainon—!”
He’s shaking now. Violently. His eyes screw shut as something crashes through him. Memories, maybe. Too many at once. Too much.
“I see—” he gasps. “The coreflames. Khaslana. I know he’s… I’m… we’re…”
His voice breaks.
“And you.” He looks up at you with something like wonder. Something like agony. “I see you. Over and over. In the snow. In the lights. But it’s hazy. Fractured.”
Tears sting your eyes.
“You remember?”
“I don’t—I don’t know—it’s not my memory but it IS—”
He cries out.
“No—” you grab for him— “No, don’t go, not again—”
“I’ll come back,” he manages, voice cracking, desperate, certain. “I don’t know how I know but I WILL—”
His hand reaches for your face.
Almost touches.
And then light swallows him whole.
You stand alone in the snow.
Shaking.
Tears streaming down your face.
He’s gone.
Again.
But this time—
This time he made a promise.
And somewhere, across worlds and time and dimensions…
A man named Phainon opens his eyes in a place called Amphoreus again, gasping for air, with the inexplicable image of snow and string lights and you burning behind his eyes.
Beside him lies the man who fell here. Khaslana. Who gave him his memories. All of them.
And Phainon doesn’t understand what all of this means. Not yet.
But he knows, with absolute certainty:
He has to find you again.
___
A/N: Thanks for reading. :) Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :)
This arc will continue on December 24. :) Until then, you can check out my other works for Phainon or my fics for my December event (there might be some easter eggs in the Phainon ones for this arc...who knows). :)
THIS. THISSSSSSSSS. omfg yall dont understand how much i love this man. ALL THE STUFF HE WENT THROUGH IS SO HEARTBREAKING BUT THIS FIC. it slowly healed me 🥹🥹
— Onychinus Leader!Sylus Qin X Mother!Female Reader
She Ran To Protect Their Child. He Built A Kingdom To Bring Them Home.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊
*.✧ SYNOPSIS : She was the daughter of his enemy. He was the king of a criminal empire. They fell in love, but when she found out she was pregnant, she vanished-fearing the life their child would inherit. Seven years later, Sylus finds her. And he's not here for revenge. He's here to take back what's his.
*.✧ WARNINGS & TAGS : Dad!Sylus, mom!reader, mafia, rivalry, second chance, secret baby, exes, time skip, past lovers, alternate universe, break in, angst, fluff, romance, love, mature language, stalking, threats, run away!y/n, mentions of pregnancy, blood, gore, dark romance, lovers to strangers, enemies to lovers, their daughter Elea, ....
➥ Word Count : 86K+
➥ NAVIGATION // LOVE & DEEPSPACE MASERLIST
➥ Heart Divider's By @/cafekitsune
DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT COMFORTABLE. MINORS DNI, IF YOU DO THEN IT'S YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.
Listen, so bitter and sweet (Caleb x Non MC oneshot)
Caleb fluff. Inspired by this post by @fromthebeehives , although i went off track about halfway in lol
Tags: Caleb x NonMC!Reader, Fluff, Cuteness/affection aggression, slight bits of angst but not really. Caleb feeling unworthy, NonMC is just a sweet gal, MC mentioned but not really involved. Not proofread explode like Caleb boom pow
An: Caleb is actually the farthest from being my main, but the concept was too sweet for me to resist. This was supposed to be way shorter, but it got so out of hand.
"If you need anything, just tell me!", that's Caleb's catchphrase.
But what now?
So maybe he spoils MC once in a while, or all the time. But, if anyone knew their past, the horrors she was unknowingly subjected to, they'd agree she deserves it. Even if she doesn't remember it- the cycle of death and rebirth having been both cruel and kind in the way it lets her live without the pain and suffering haunting her nightmares- he remembers.
He remembers Those pained cries, those hollow reassurances followed by the inevitable outcome again, and again and again and again.
No, if anyone deserves to feel happy, to live freely and without a care in the world, it was her. it was always MC, and from the moment they escaped, he knew he must be that person for her.
From saving every penny off odd jobs and chores to get her treats and toys as children, to learning how to cook, knit, do her hair, makeup, to picking up part time jobs so she never has to worry about money and then ensuring its the last thing on her mind when she finally pursues her dream of becoming a hunter, he would do it all. He would be her dependable rock. Her safe place. And when he saw her, he was so unbelievably proud of her- a strong, fearless hunter who stood against all danger, who vowed to make sure the suffering she witnessed during that catastrophe years ago wouldn't touch anyone ever again, he was prouder than he could ever possibly express.
He chose this role in her life. The idea of letting her do anything in turn was absolutely unacceptable. No, these were his weights and his alone to bear.
She insisted she would always need him, but he knew that meant something different now. He was proud to be sure, seeing her become independent; but now, even though he knew he would continue to worry and fret and dote on her, a different weight took on his shoulders. One constantly put off, finally taking its rightful place as the thing to haunt him.
Is this what empty nest syndrome feels like? Or maybe…this is an inevitability he was avoiding, busying himself with building a life that wasn't his; now that it had taken its own roots, he felt listless. A child lost once more among debris and blood that stained his hands forever. MC understood him best, knowing her, she would do whatever she could to return the favor of the life he had sacrificed for her if she knew, and he could never have that.
She deserves to live this life without the darkness of a past long gone, to have the strength to face the monsters of the future that loomed over her, ones he would inevitably help her beat as well.
this is his burden.
..Ouch. A whirlwind to be sure, your first meeting had been crashing into the colonel at a coffee shop, spilling a piping hot takeaway cup across his pristine uniform. He still remembers the anxiety in your face as clear as day, the way it turned quickly into fear as you registered the man standing in front of you, not knowing his status, but there's no way that outfit was of someone to be reckoned with!
He knew he should have gone back home and changed into civilian clothing first, but the weight of a long day of work demanded a caffeine hit immediately or he'd risk passing out on the wheel. Though now its at the expense, he wore a scowl on his face that clearly did not help your view of him.
He would know of those reactions to embarrassing memories thanks to you, of course.
You apologized, profusely, like a waterfall that refused to stop from your mouth even after his tired reassurances that its fine. Eventually he had to resort to cupping a hand over your mouth to make you quiet. Now that he thinks back to it, that stunned, slightly flustered look of yours with the stain of collateral damage hot chocolate on your cheek was one he wishes so dearly to see again.
When you insisted to at least pay for his drink he meant to refuse, he really did, but seeing your eagerness made him realize its either this, or letting a poor civilian live in the agony of eternal embarrassment, the kind that haunts you when youre idle, makes you punch your pillow at night, or smack your own cheek in the middle of the street to the awkward stares of passerbys, so he obliges.
The second time you bumped at the same shop (thankfully with no drink this time, and him in civillian clothing) you talked.
You asked questions about him, his work, where hes from, and he answered them all with polite but reserved responses. Caleb didn't earn the title of heartthrob for nothing. He knew how to smile friendly and warm, to ask the questions he knew people like to answer about themselves, to listen to the responses and joke where appropriate, follow up where available- or well, thats what he would usually do.
He knew she didn't mean it, that she actually hung onto each word and tried her best to remember everything he said, but this was more than that, this was more than just being listened to and heard, it was pure, real interest. You were genuinely interested in what he had to say, it wasn't a polite response to a friendly stranger, it was an insistence to hear him keep talking, and if he weren't convinced of the genuinety now, he would be the next time you met, and even more so the one after that.
What he didn't expect was the fucking battlefield that was talking to you. Every time he tried, you would turn the conversation back to him, asking about his life, hobbies, what he enjoys about them, asking detailed questions that left he himself stumped for answers. How often was he truly speechless? He tried over and over, but you seemed far more interested in what he has to say.
Its not that he hadn't talked about himself with people and friends before, however theyre shallow, surface level conversations. MC had been subjected to more than a few of his in-depth geek out sessions about model airplanes, often ending with her playfully declaring him a nerd loser and plugging her ears.
Why did you look so..squishable in that moment?!
You would remember throwaway comments hed make and excitedly mention them when you met again (often at your own invitation) Clearly you both liked the coffee here so whats the harm youd insist.
You would follow up on the shallow little things hed mention about his life, yet if your eyes were to be believed, they were the most interesting things in the world. You even remembered the complicated codename of his favorite airplane model. Sort of. You stuttered through it the first time, but when you did, he swears, for a second he felt his heart squeeze in a way he can only describe as a natural response to seeing a puppy.
It earnt the first, genuine laugh from him when you tried your best to recite the string of letters and numbers, and when he saw the awe in your eyes, your lips parting like you were seeing a rainbow, he couldn't stop the flush that travelled up his neck. He knew his laughter was contagious at times, but when you started giggling as well, it felt like his heart forgot how to function for a second.
He wanted- no, NEEDED to hear that sound again, dissect it, find the sugar and honey, the sunlight and lychees that were in there, mixed with the hot chocolate on your lips. They must be there, hes positive, stirred into your being, coating your vocal cords and the insides of your lungs. How else, he asserts, could that sound be so sweet?
It was the beginning of a friendship. At first, at least. Life after joining the fleet had not been kind to Caleb's personal relationships. Other than MC and Gideon, nobody he was close to knew his true role as the colonel, and he intended to keep it that way. the role had changed him, birthed ugliness from survival (or was it there the whole time?) had distanced him from everyone he called his comrades. For the longest time, MC was enough to fill that void, but slowly, he found himself realizing just what he had been missing out on.
You remembered things. You, the klutz as you sometimes were, forgetful as you could be, remembered things about him to an extent that stunned him, over and over. At the arcade, you would take him to play the games he used to play with MC in their childhood. At the coffee shop, you would have his order ready before he'd even get off work, waiting in a steaming cup in that corner booth with a seat saved for him.
Hes had people notice when hes weak before. MC could read the exhaustion in his eyes when the weight of the world got a little too much, and he appreciated her efforts to extend help. But you wouldnt even bother asking. Constantly. There would be an extra energy bar in his pocket out of nowhere, youd be more silent sitting together in the way that let him unwind. And one time, boldly, youd made him go to a massage spa with you, claiming you wanted to check it out anyway.
You always came packaged with that bright smile, those eyes that seemed like they regarded him as the most fascinating person on the planet, and that sweetness that could rival any confection his doctor childhood friend could concoct.
At the arcade when he went to recharge their game card at the counter, the cashier told him that it was already at its max top up. His eyebrows raised in confusion and surprise, wallet in hand hovering midair, but when hed turn to glance at you it clicked. He saw you covering your giggling mouth and refusing to meet his gaze, showing faux surprise at the topped up card. He saw that glimmer of mischief in your eyes when he protested, the reassurances that its fine, that you invited him after all, all with a seeming sense of triumph at having sidestepped him once more.
The biggest adjustment for him was having you pay for things. As far as he knew, you were earning about the average of any middle class worker in Skyhaven, so even more of a reason he should pay. That hefty colonel's salary isn't going anywhere after all. Still, at first he let you get a coffee or two, for the sake of your pride; but somehow every time you went out for anything, the bill would be taken care of if he so much as blinked.
He wanted to pinch your cheeks, stretch them out like the mochi you two had earlier, til you felt the print of his fingertips last on your skin. He wanted to bite and gnaw your arm like a rib. He wanted to- Ugh!
But then your gaze softened, in a way that saw through the way he was, the duty he demanded of himself, and you told him that this was something you believe he deserved, once in a while, a treat, a reminder that he's cared for. Money had nothing to do with it.
It terrified him
To Caleb, reliable, dependable Caleb, what does an arcade card, a coffee, a lunch, a dinner, a bracelet, an ear, a voice, a seat, a smile..what does it mean?
what does you bringing an extra umbrella to a park walk when the forecast says rain (the two of you walked with four umbrellas that day) mean?
What does you happening to know Gideon, a friend of a friend, and gently reintroducing him into his life mean?
Encouraging him to talk about his hobbies, helping him catch up to parts of his interests that he let go of long ago, asking to understand his music taste, his favorite food, not just what he liked, but why he liked it, the stories behind the little things in his life that he had deemed were no longer significant, no longer parts of him anymore, not a part of the colonel who demanded discipline nor Caleb with survival on his mind..
Bringing them to the spotlight, gently coaxing and demanding an identity of him as him. As just Caleb.
what did it all mean?
He couldn't handle it. It felt like he was being bared. Why should he receive this kind of treatment? Every time you do these things, he feels a weight on his chest, a disbalance, like the mere existence of you in his life was against the laws of nature.
He wanted to do something for you in turn, wanted to make you smile in that way that made his chest clench and his brain melt, but you were too good, you left little opportunities. Or maybe he was losing his edge, because that's the only way he can explain the inexplicable, unacceptable desire to melt into your offerings, to..accept them, like his entire being doesnt protest at the thought that all this is because he is Caleb.
One day, he finally mentioned it.
You were sitting together at a lunch- his uncommon initiation. His expression had been grim the entire time, weighed by thoughts of doubt, of hesitation. and if you noticed, you didn't say anything- another stab to his conscious- the room you were making for him to speak. You always left room for him to speak, like his words deserved their own seat at the table- at any table. So he asked you, unloaded on you all the questions on his mind, all the mysteries that plagued him, all circling back to you, and unknowingly, laced it all with the unworthiness he felt marrow deep, practically begging for an answer that could put his mind at rest.
Of course you would think like that! Its in line with everything hes learnt about you over the past few months! But thats not the question! Why him? Theres no need for it to be for him! You barely knew each other a few months ago, he was a mistake encounter. So…why do you look so confused? Hey, why do you suddenly look like you understand something he doesn't? and why are you giggling again? what is WITH that adorable sound? You haven't even eaten anything sweet yet! But you, cruel you, dont even give him a chance to collect his thoughts, to catch his heart, because youre already responding:
But you. Oh, sweet, beautiful you. You just laughed, a sound he had come to associate with the warmth of tea and the comfort of understanding, now leaving him confused and pleading for something unknown. You explained it like it was the most simple thing in the world, and to you it truly was.
You knew what he did for MC, off the stories he told, the tidbits of conversations she could hear in their phone calls (god you paid attention to those too, didn't you?), and she saw the warmth of someone who would offer his everything, over and over, for someone he cared for, with no desire for anything in return.
It was..inspiring. So why not try and be that person too?
You like him, and he deserves it. So why wouldn't you?
So, he just laughed, a defeated laugh, because thats the only way he can explain it, and unlike most defeats, this one tasted so sweet on his tongue.
He has to take a moment to soak your words in, and then something broke in him- or rather fixed. His heart left his body- or did it reconnect? Ah forget it.
He cant tell anymore. He doesn't want to. Whats the point of metaphors? whats the point of equating this -equating you- to a phenomena in life, trying to explain you with more and more extravagant, but ultimately pre-existing analogies, when this, when you were unto yourself, something entirely unique? Something so..you?
When your face warms and your eyes glint, and your voice squeaks with giggles in mock protest as he reaches across the table and pinches your cheek, all he can think is he would quite like to see that expression on your face, hear that sound, more and more, every day. If that meant letting you take care of him, if it meant pretending this feeling of belonging, of worth and value that you stamped on him was deserved, then maybe he can acknowledge that.
And maybe someday, from the depths of his heart, he can believe it too.
synopsis. bound by a soul-tie to someone who will never truly be his, rafayel hides behind charm and pretense while drowning in unrequited love. but when a collector’s lemurian artifacts awaken a tune he knows too well, he’s forced to face the voice of the one he always left behind — you, the friend and constant through every lifetime, whose heart he betrayed for another.
pairing. rafayel qi x lemurian! non-mc! reader
content. fem!reader, non-mc!reader, lemurian!reader, captive!reader, injured!reader reincarnation!au, unrequited love (both rafayel and reader), two soul-marks, a ton of angst, VERY SLOW slowburn (reader will appear later), a dash of FLUFF, a bit suggestive, hurt/no comfort (TWO ENDINGS), maybe ooc!rafayel, manipulative!emcee, emcee knows about the bond but doesn’t care, implied zayne x emcee, rafayel x non-mc!reader bond, canon divergent, TW: SUICIDE (side and main characters), TW: DEATH and MURDER, TW: DETACHED BODY PARTS, ever, emcee is a bitch, we hate the bond, rafayel cries a lot, GRIEF, trauma, pain.
word count. 34k
one.
in the glow of a ruined painting, whispers of lemuria stir, and rafayel’s mark burns with a truth he refuses to name.
two.
behind masks and velvet light, a painted shell sings — it's not beauty, but a voice that should not exist.
three.
alone with drowning canvases, rafayel recalls it all: the haunting voice of a friend he abandoned across lifetimes.
four.
in the fog of a bloodied lab, chains and fury collide — voices rise, bullets freeze, and a long-lost soul finally appears before rafayel.
five.
between the ache of fate and the pull of something forbidden, rafayel chooses to guard the one who should never have mattered.
six.
when love begins to bloom beneath bloodied sheets, a visitor’s cruel truth threatens to shatter everything they’ve started to heal.
seven.
amid moonlight and shattered truths, love and madness blur as two souls finally recognize — and nearly destroy — the bond that was always meant to burn.
Mydei takes you being a picky eater as a challenge.
Don't like fruits? Tomatoes, onion and chives are chopped up so finely that they blend in seamlessly with the most delicious breakfast omelette.
Oh, you say lettuce tastes like grass and you're no hamster? But you like fried foods, yes? He's asked what you like about it, the saltiness or the crunchy-ness? He then brings you a salad- you tell him if you wanted one you'd go to phainon and he gives you a deadpan look- but it has an interesting looking dressing.... It's got a delightful saltiness to it and... Is that chicken? It's grilled, and has a wonderful crunch.
Do you only enjoy sandwiches? He asks if it's the texture of bread you like, and so you find he brings you all different kinds- sourdough, brioche, banana bread (lucky you, he put chocolate chips in too).
Again with the fruits.... You're no bird, you tell him. And so he brings you pastries, it's a little suspicious considering how nutrition conscious he is. They're filled with sweet fruit jam, and taste like a dream. On days where he can bring himself to use so much sugar you get tanghulu. The candied strawberries and blueberries are presented to you on the skewer, it's so sweet and crunchy that your face lights up as you eat. You try to give Mydei a bite while you chew, still beaming, and he didn't even think to protest, too charmed by your contented smile. If you fed him poison with that grin he'd be helplessly letting you feed it to him, he thought.
Bonus:
He's also got a personal vendetta against margarine. The one time he sees you toss a tablespoon of it into a pan he almost screamed. How did that thing get into your home?! You get a passionate lecture about how it's not real butter and it could never compare, you both have butter in the fridge, so why are you using it?! All the while he's shaking you back and forth before tossing the tub into the trash with disdain.
You’re saying something — usually in that normal, not-too-loud tone you use with everyone — and Katsuki Bakugo is across from you, arms crossed, scowl half-baked, like he’s listening but not really listening. Then, inevitably, his brow furrows, and you see the moment he catches the tail end of your words but realizes he didn’t catch enough.
Instead of saying What? like a normal human being, he does this thing.
The lean.
He steps into your space — not enough to be inappropriate, but enough that you can smell the faint burn of nitroglycerin and that sharp, clean soap he pretends he doesn’t use. He tilts his head slightly down, chin angling toward you, eyes locked on your mouth like your words are something to catch before they slip away.
“What was that?” His voice is low, not because he’s trying to be gentle, but because he’s listening. It’s rough around the edges, like the sound has to be dragged over gravel before it leaves him.
You repeat yourself, a little slower this time, and his eyes don’t leave you.
“Mhm,” he says — and it’s not just a sound, it’s Bakugo’s mhm. Short, deep, approving in that rare way, like he’s filing away what you said because it matters now.
One time, you were sitting at your desk in class, mumbling something about how the weather was nice, and he crouched slightly beside you to catch it, forearms resting on his knees, the sunlight streaking through the window and catching in his messy hair.
“You talk like a damn mouse,” he muttered, smirking faintly, “and then get pissed when people don’t hear you.”
“I wasn’t pissed,” you protested, looking anywhere but at him.
“Tch. Yeah, you were.” He leaned even closer, your elbows almost brushing. “Say it again.”
“…The weather’s nice,” you said, barely above a whisper.
He smirked wider, like he’d just won something. “Yeah. Guess it is.” And then he straightened up and walked away like he hadn’t just been that close for no reason.
It became a habit. Group conversations? He’d bend down slightly when you spoke, eyes narrowing in focus. Crowded hallways? He’d drop his head toward yours so you didn’t have to shout. Even during training debriefs, when you muttered something under your breath, he’d be there, leaning in with a sharp, “Say that again?” as if you were the only voice worth catching.
The worst part? You were starting to get used to it — to the way his attention made you feel like your words were worth hearing, worth leaning in for.
And he knew it.
You could see it in the small, knowing quirk of his mouth every time he straightened back up.
Phainon with an s/o that once said 'Whenever you feels frustrated and wants to cry but you can't, I will cry in your stead' and when they faced with Flame Reaver, their tears subconsciously flows down their face
I will weep for you if you couldn’t
Summary: You told Phainon that you can cry in his stead if he couldn’t and he promised that he would wipe your tears if you do.
Pairing: Phainon x reader
tw: character death(reader), angst.
a/n: honestly, who hurt you anon? and did you kiss the brick before throwing it at me? /j thank you for the idea, now please enjoy the suffering with me. ( ◜‿◝ )♡
You and Phainon shared a special connection. One that even the two of you couldn't explain with logic nor alchemy. It’s as if Phainon had secretly given you a piece of him and you tucked it close to your heart since.
Whenever the destined hero is too frustrated, heart burden by grief, mind heavy with emotion. He would seek you out, searching for you even if you are nowhere to be found, his feet would bring him to you. No matter the distance. He will find you because you have a piece of him with you.
Seeing your silhouette in the distance, alone by yourself. His steady stride quicken into a sprint as he rush toward you, crashing into you without warning as his arms embrace your form. His face bury in the crook of your neck, his rigid shoulders relaxing as you ruffled his white hair.
Silent comfortably settle between the two of you until you decide to cradle his face into your hands. Observing his feature, the usual cheerful smile is replace with a frown, his bright gaze dimming into a restless gaze. You could tell that he wanted to cry but you’re not sure what’s holding him back.
“You know it’s okay for you to cry, right?” Your finger brushing over his cheekbone while he’s leaning over your warm hands, eyes close as if concentrating.
“I can’t.” He replied, eyes still shut. His hands holding your hands as he nuzzle into your palm. “I can’t falter at times like this.” He reason, “If I falter, everyone will loss the little faith they had left.”
You did not said anything and neither did he. Instead you let the silent settle while you plant a kiss over each of his cheek, “Then, when you can’t. Let me cry in your stead.” You whisper, enough for him to hear. Phainon look at you, confusion took over his tired feature. Before he could raise a question, you peck his lips, surprising him. When you pull away, his brows almost knitted together, lips pursing into a pout.
His hands let go of yours as each of them rest on your cheeks, his forehead resting on yours. “I don’t like that.” Phainon muttered in a hush tone. “I don’t want you to cry.” He added.
Your hands that was cupping his face then rest on top of his, “If you don’t like it, wipe my tears for me.” You close your eyes, your cheeks already wet with tears, “I will cry in your stead and you will wipe it in my stead. Romantic, isn’t it?”
Phainon could only let out a small chuckle. Not to mock but he’s at loss for words. He couldn’t possibly win against you despite the fact he’s one of Anaxa’s student who had won over 10 yearly debate. It feels as though his debating experience are nothing in front of you as he wipe your tears. “Don’t cry, my dear.” He coax.
A soft laugh left your lips, “I will cry until your frustrations fade.”
With a grin, Phainon spoke with confident. “Then, I will keep wiping your tears until it dry out.”
It's a promise between the two of you. An exchange, Phainon once again gave you a part of him and you did the same.
Whenever he’s frustrated or overwhelmed but couldn’t— can not let himself shed tears, he will seek you out and you will cry in his stead while he wipe the tears in your stead. Until your tears dried, he will stay by your side. Whispering sweet nothing, kissing you and cradling you in his arms.
It’s a connection only the two of you have. Something sacred only you and him shared. It’s so sacred that it could transit time and space even the reset of the cycle won’t be able to break it.
The darken sky have cause the masses to panic. Flame swallowing the holy city, the dawn device has fell apart as horrified scream filled your ears and the smell of iron sting your nose. Your gaze locked onto the black cloak swordmaster, frozen in fear as you could feels death grazing at your ankles.
He took a small step forward as if daring you to run but your feet stay in place, not daring to move, trembling in horror of the looming death he’s bringing with each step.
However, your gaze remind on him. Engraving the image of the cloak person into your mind, burning his silhouette into your retina. Not minding how your nails digging into the palm of your flesh as long as your gaze remind fixed on him.
As you’re ready to face your death, a cold armored hand caresses your cheek instead. Wiping away the tears you didn't realized had stream down your face. “Cry... No more...” A voice you don’t recognize but feel familiar with enter your ears. The Flame Reaver repeat those three word like a broken record.
Through your blurry vision, you could see and feels the frustration, exhaustion and burning rage from how the Flame Reaver look at you. Yet his touch is gentle. The way he’s caressing you is careful.
You knew who’s person behind that mask because only one person could make you cry like this in his stead. You clutch to his hand with your hands, tears streaming down your face as you cry his frustration, exhaustion and rage out for him.
While he repeat the same three word over and over again. His thumb brushing the tears you shed in his stead.
The sword stab into the ground as he pull you into a tight embrace, one that is warm. Yet you knew it was mean to lull you gently into the embrace of death.
May be OOC. Reader is isekai'd into L&Ds, following her heart, she studies medicine to get closer to Zayne. MDNI. 18+ just in case. Not proofread >.<
A/N: Thank you for your supportive comments <3 I did add a taglist at the bottom, not sure if I'm doing it right?
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
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Part 3
The first week of the month of break that Zayne insisted on was business as usual. It really put into perspective how the two of you wouldn't see each other at all despite working at the same hospital. Everytime you wanted to see him, you had to specially plan for it. Even then Zayne tended to be called in due to emergencies and it was the same for you, though to a lesser degree.
Your most common pattern of behaviour at lunchtime was heading down the corridor and taking a left, following the hallway down two doors before taking a right to reach the cardiac surgery office.
This time, however, you take your feet in the opposite direction. You wouldn't be looking for Zayne in his office anymore. The nurse at the front of the psych ward greets you, “Good afternoon, Dr. L/N. Heading out for lunch?”
You nod and return his smile, “Yes.”
He hesitates for a few seconds before speaking again, “Is it true you're getting transferred to Skyhaven’s hospital?”
You look at him in surprise. “Has it been announced?”
“Yes, on our hospital bulletin. It says you'll be leaving in 2 weeks.”
“2 weeks?” You ask in confusion, pulling out your phone to check the bulletin. Sure enough, it says you'll be leaving after 2 weeks. “That's strange, I'd been told I still had 3 months. I better contact HR.”
The nurse nods. “And have a good lunch, Dr. L/N.”
“Thank you.” You quickly fire off an email to HR and head to the staff cafeteria for lunch.
As you're eating, a familiar figure appears before you, putting their tray down and pulling out the chair.
“I thought we'd agreed we wouldn't see each other for a month.”
“A month that's apparently going to turn into an indefinite amount of time,” Zayne sits down as he comments. “Were you just going to leave without telling me?”
“I had planned to tell you when I asked you to break up,” He flinched at the words, “but since you wanted to drag it on for another month, I thought I'd tell you when the month was over because I was told I had 3 more months. But then I found out today that it's apparently only 2 weeks before I transfer.” You'd gotten a reply from HR and they confirmed you are leaving in 2 weeks.
“So now that plans have changed, when were you planning to tell me? The day before you leave?” Zayne asks.
You wave your hand, “You know, show up at your doorstep with your stuff on the day I'm leaving for the airport. I'd tell you I'm transferring to Skyhaven and then you'd take your stuff and I'd leave.”
“That's not funny.”
You know. You were surprised at yourself for making that joke. “I would've contacted you today so we can break it off completely.”
“Is this why you wanted to break up?” Zayne’s voice is rather cold as he says this.
“Partially,” You shrug. “We're busy enough as it is. Add long distance on top of that? It's not going to work out. But it is true that I seem to be losing feelings for you. Let's just break up. We can continue to be friends if you'd like. I don't mind.”
Zayne chews his food aggressively. You'd never expected him to be this affected by your break up. Or maybe he's just got other stuff on his mind. Perhaps this is around when MC decided to be a Hunter, finding that out is bound to worry Zayne. There is actually still 2 years before Dr. Noah retires and transfers his cases over to Zayne. Meaning there's still 2 years until Zayne starts to work at Akso Hospital and meets MC again. But you know he receives case files and updates about her condition from Dr. Noah.
You'd tried bringing it up once after noticing the email pop up from Dr. Noah while you were borrowing his computer.
“Are you working on a case with Dr. Noah? He just sent you some case files.”
Zayne had replied with, “It's just one of his patient's files. Nothing special.” He didn't elaborate. You'd waited but he said nothing else. He hadn't hesitated to share about other patients before, just making sure he didn't give away any identifying details because of confidentiality. Though MC does have a rare type of protocore syndrome that might make it easy to identify her… But to not mention anything about the case at all and to even say it's ‘nothing special'?
His face is always the most expressive when he's reading one of these ‘nothing special’ files. There are other cases Dr. Noah sends, but he usually talks about them and his face would be stoic as usual. The only one you haven't heard about is MC’s. So good chance that when he's reading a file and he doesn't tell you about it, it's MC's. You never pointed it out, but the concern when there's bad news and the happiness when there's good news, is always very prominent on his face. Way more obvious than whenever he showed any concern and happiness towards you.
So, you thought this was a good time to break it off. To date for another 2 years just to break it off once MC comes into the picture seemed too long. 2 years of dating is already quite long. At 4? That would be enough time for a couple to get engaged and married already. 2 years also seemed like a good enough amount of time for you to get over your feelings and accept MC’s pending relationship with Zayne.
During the 3 years you knew Zayne, you avoided everything that had to do with the MC, you had held back calling him your snowman. Not that he was your snowman. You had him make you your favourite animals, not MC’s seals or the kitty she will eventually compliment in a bond story. You wanted to separate yourself as much as possible from MC. Which wasn't hard because, to put it bluntly, you weren't her. And you never will be.
MC is the one with the Resonance EVOL and her grandma had even said that MC could help Zayne. It did seem like there's backlash on the MC when she tries to help him control his EVOL though. So, you're not really sure if that's much help. But it's more than you can do. You have an EVOL too, you can control electricity, and knowing a bit about biology as you do, you thought you could control someone's body with it. However, that was just your wishful thinking. In practice, you were too scared to hurt someone to actually try it.
“Once I start packing, I'll bring anything of yours I find to your house and I'll return your keys then too.” Zayne had given you his house keys earlier this year and you'd accepted them. It would've been a bit suspicious if you'd refused, and in return, you'd handed him your spare keys. “I'll need my keys back too so I can return them to the landlord.”
“I don't have them with me right now. I'll give them back later.” He sighs.
You knew Zayne wouldn't continue to cling onto this relationship. He respected boundaries and that made it easier for you to leave. MC and Zayne had fate on their side, as much as you hate to admit it. Based on his myths, everytime, they're drawn to each other. He never mentioned her to you, but MC was probably constantly on his mind. His world revolved around her. The desserts, his occupation, his nightmares. Rationally, you also knew that is just the way otomes are written. But irrationally, this world is real for you now. You're living in it. So you feel you deserve this bit of pettiness over his lore.
Halfway through the week, your friend sends you a message. “We need to talk.”
“?” You send a question mark.
“I'll see you after work today.”
“Ok.” You reply.
At the restaurant where your friend arranged to meet, you could see the frustration on her face. Her first words to you after you sat down were, “Has all the studying burned out your brain? Why are you writing your own melodrama?”
“Huh?”
“Zayne messaged me. That in itself is already strange. The only place we interact is in the group chat or when you're around. Then he tells me you're breaking up with him? You!?” Your friend exclaims incredulously. “You were secretly pining for him since forever! Now you're saying you're breaking up with him?? After all that turmoil when you finally asked him out?!”
You calmly shuffle your tissue and utensils to where you wanted them on the table. You couldn't believe Zayne went to your friend either. “Maybe I was just disillusioned. You know, living in my head with all these fantasies of him since I had a crush.”
“Hah! Disillusioned!” Your friend almost slams the table. “Girl, you've been dating for 2 years! You'd think you'd have found that out in, I don't know, the first month?? What's the real reason?”
You want to explain, but how were you supposed to explain that there was never supposed to be a you next to Zayne? That you were not even supposed to exist? That in a few years, Zayne might not even remember who you are because there's someone he actually needs who'll be next to him?
Your friend sighs. “I don't know what to say.”
Another week passes without you seeing Zayne, which is probably for the better. You already felt too attached to him, and each second longer you were here made it harder for you to leave. You have the next week off to pack and get ready to move. You'd somehow managed to find an apartment in Skyhaven within the week and prepared to have all your furniture and boxes of things shipped there. All that's left is to start packing things in boxes, starting with Zayne's things. You labelled the box with his name and put the spare clothes he'd left at your home in it. His robe, towel, little trinkets like his watches and pens all go in, except for the pjs you had gotten for him. You decided to take those with you. There was no point leaving them with him. Why should he keep something his ex got him? That would just be awkward for his new girlfriend.
You bring the pjs up to your nose, it smelt faintly of his fabric softener because you'd opted to buy the same one he uses. You'd commented once on how nice his clothes smelled when you borrowed a sweater and he'd let you know it was the fabric softener.
“You think so?” He'd taken your arm and sniffed his sweater, the sudden action had caused your heart to skip a beat. “It must be the fabric softener. Do you want to get the same one? I can show you the bottle.”
You'd nodded eagerly. “Yes, please.”
“Alright.” He'd moved to pull out the bottle from his broom closet and showed you the brand. “It's this one.”
“Thanks.” You’d noted it down on your phone and bought it when you were out getting groceries.
Later on, he had smelt it on your clothes, “You smell good.”
“Complimenting yourself?” You had raised an eyebrow.
“Of course.” He had answered, pulling you closer. You'd chuckled.
You finally finished packing 2 days before you were set to depart, for the last two days you planned to stay in a hotel because your bed will be shipped off today. Making sure the moving company's trucks had all your furniture and boxes, you hitch the one last box higher on your hip, carrying it to your car. This last box is the one with Zayne's things.
It was Saturday afternoon, so Zayne should be home. Even if he wasn't, you could just let yourself in. Zayne hasn't taken back his keys yet even though he'd returned yours. You drive over to his house and text him that you're stopping by to drop off his things. He quickly replies and tells you to wait in your car.
He appears in the driveway a few minutes later, clad in casual clothes. You had somehow convinced him to stock some hoodies and sweatpants in his closet, and he'd been making good use of them. He'd wear them a lot when lounging at home.
“Let me take that.” He held out his arms for the box and you gladly handed it to him. It was surprisingly heavy. You hadn't expected that he'd left that many things in your apartment.
He glanced at your car and noticed the suitcases, “Are you heading to the airport already?”
You shake your head, “No, I shipped all my things so I thought I'd stay at a hotel for the next two days.”
“You can stay with me for the next two days, you know there's plenty of room. You also have some spare clothes left at my place, I'd forgotten to give them to you when I gave you back your keys.”
You contemplate his offer. You weren't exactly broke, but you were still paying off student loans so saving money on a hotel stay would be nice. Especially since you didn't want to stay at cheaper hotels. You were kind of worried about the hygiene in those places. With Zayne, you wouldn't have to worry. And there was also a selfish part of yourself that wanted to spend just a little bit more time with him.
“Just think of it as your friend offering you help because you've got no place to stay for the night,” Zayne casually alludes to wanting to stay friends.
“I'll take you up on that offer then,” You turn to pull out one of your suitcases and miss his relieved look.
Together, you two head towards his house. Once inside, you move around his place with ease. Finding random things that belonged to you right where you left them as well as some things you'd thought you lost. As you pack, you can see how these 3 years have slightly dyed Zayne in your colours. Wearing sweats at home, a small container of hair ties near the door so he can easily take some to carry with him because you usually forget, having closet space dedicated to your clothes, carrying cough drops that you like in his pockets because you frequently needed them to soothe your throat, and his demeanour being not as strictly controlled as you felt it was in the game before he opened up to MC.
Maybe you should be more worried about how these changes would affect the game story, but you also had this dreadful feeling that it wouldn't. You can easily think about stories with an isekai’d protagonist that tried to change the story but were unable to because the characters were forced by the writing to act the way they're supposed to. Maybe once the story set in the game starts, you'll become a forgotten existence. But you're okay with that…
Right?
Your thoughts are interrupted by Zayne clearing his throat. “Anything you want for dinner? I'm cooking.”
“Oh. Uh, I'll just have whatever you were planning to cook.”
“Okay,” he nods and ducks into the kitchen, getting to work on preparing dinner.
You head into his bedroom to finish up packing your things. At some point in your relationship, you had of course stopped using the guest room and shared his room with him. You smile fondly at the plushie pig you'd bought. It was reminiscent of one you’d had before you isekai'd into the game. Your family had influenced you to be on the frugal side so you had refrained from playing claw machines, but you couldn't resist buying plushies. So you had bought the pig and placed it in his room.
“Zayne!” You called out the door.
“Yes?” He yells back from presumably the kitchen.
“Can I take the pig plushie with me?”
“Take whatever you want!”
“What if I take your wallet too?!”
“Go ahead.” He appears in the doorway with a smile.
“I really will take it.” You walk around him slowly, eyeing him as you make your way towards his jacket.
He nods, “Okay.”
You grab his jacket and feel around in his inner jacket pocket for the wallet. However, instead of the leather of his wallet, your hand closes around something hard that is smaller than the size of your palm. You pull it out in confusion and immediately gasp as you see the small box.
Zayne walks over slowly as if approaching an easily frightened animal. His eyes study your expression. You can feel a deep, intense shock shake you to your bones. You're sure your eyes looked very conflicted, a mixture of happiness, sadness, pain, and, finally, helplessness. You flip open the box. A simple silver ring sits inside with a diamond in the centre and small crystals embedded around the band. The crystals were coloured in your favourite colour. You quickly snap shut the box and put it back in the jacket, stepping away from his jacket entirely.
“Sorry. I didn't mean to see that.” You stiffly turn around to go back to finish packing.
“Why do you say that?” Zayne softly asks.
“I'm breaking up with you. I shouldn't have seen that.” You keep your back turned.
You hear Zayne's steps behind you, “What if… I wanted you to see it?”
You suck in a breath. The tension in the air is thick as he waits for your response. How were you supposed to respond to that?
He walks around to stand in front of you, gently taking your hands in his. You stare at the ground. This only forces him to use a hand to lift your chin. But you refuse to look at him.
“Look at me,” He continues to speak in a soft tone, “We can do long distance. We have experienced having to be apart for days, and that's never shaken our relationship. I don't think long distance will stop us.” You can practically hear your resolve crumbling as you lift your eyes to meet his. “Don’t be scared. I… I do notice, you know? You constantly put this wall up whenever we get more intimate. It always felt like one day you'd just disappear… Stay with me, please." Your eyes widen as he kneels down, "I know this isn't the best place to ask," he chuckles deprecatingly, "and I promise that I'll ask again properly. So, please marry me.” You can see the sincerity in his eyes.
“Okay.” You whisper with tears in your eyes. His eyes light up with his smile as he gets up and slips the ring on your finger.
Maybe you are being too cynical, but deep down, you didn't believe this would end well for you. Especially when you get transferred to Akso Hospital 3 years later...
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A/N: I don't know how to write the next part @.@
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
User tag list: @syluslittlecrows, @seris-the-amious, @celestialzdiviner
